I took a sip of my tea and averted my eyes. The tea was bitter now, and I put it down again.
“Ah, the taste of regret,” Magda said softly. “You wish you had not come. But you did, and you must let me finish the tale I have begun. After her son left her, Mariah Young would not dance, could not tell fortunes. Her gift failed her, and in its place came headaches, blinding ones. She took laudanum to ease them, and one day, when her little green bottle was as empty as her pockets, she stole a bottle from the chemist. She was discovered and put into gaol. Do you know what it means to a Gypsy to be locked up, lady? It means death to us. If we cannot breathe freely, we cannot breathe at all. And Mariah Young had no wish to live. She turned her face to the wall and died, but before she did, she cursed her gaolers. She cursed the chemist and the judge and anyone who could hear the sound of her voice. And before she died, she cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.”
Magda’s voice trailed off, a menacing, unearthly whisper.
There was a scream of laughter from outside the caravan—one of the children, I think—and I jumped. I picked up my glove and yanked it on.
“That is a faery story for children. I wanted the truth.”
Magda shrugged. “What is the truth? Mariah Young was Brisbane’s mother. He ran away and she died in gaol for stealing a bottle of laudanum. Those are facts. Are they the truth? No, for they do not tell you of the heart, and that is where truth lives, lady.”
“And I suppose it is the truth when you moan on about death in his shadow?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.
“Did someone not die at the Abbey?” Her tone was even, but I saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Come, lady, let us be friends. We have known each other too long to keep bad feelings between us. Give me your cup and I will tell you what I see.”
Reluctantly I swallowed the rest of the tea and handed her the cup, the same Jubilee cup she always used for tasseomancy. She upended it on the saucer and turned it thrice, then picked it up and peered inside. After a moment she gave it to me. “There is an eye. You must be watchful.”
I looked into the cup. Near the bottom was an oval shape, pointed at the ends with the sinister suggestion of a pupil. I thrust the cup back at her.
“Is that all? I must be watchful? Watchful of what?”
Magda shrugged again. “Sometimes the tea leaves do not have much to say. But I will tell you this—he fights with himself, he struggles, and to be with such a man, you will struggle as well.”
“Did the tea leaves say that too? They’ve grown chatty.”
She smiled, but this time there was no hint of the theatrics of the fortune-teller. It was a genuine smile, warm and sincere. “No, I say it as a woman who has lived a hundred lifetimes. He is a man beset by devils, and to be with him is to fight them too. But, oh, what a battle!” she finished with a wink.
“You have always warned me off of him. Why do you encourage me now?”
“Because I am growing old and sentimental.” She waved a hand, imperious as a queen. “I see only a little, lady, but I know that your fortune is as twined with his as the ivy to the oak. Be happy. And do not forget to cross my palm,” she admonished with a chuckle. She opened her hand for a coin.
I rose and reached into my pocket. “I have no silver, but I hope these will do.”
I laid the Grey Pearls across her palm, spilling them into her lap.
“Lady,” she began, her eyes round with wonder. I shook my head.
“They are real, and they are yours. Father can help you sell them for a fair price, if you like. Have Jasper arrange it.”
I left her then, and we did not exchange another word. She did not thank me; I did not expect it. I had little doubt our paths would cross again some day.
THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?
—Antony and Cleopatra
Twelfth Night marked the beginning of the end of that fateful house party. My brothers and sisters collected their children and returned to their homes, most of them on speaking terms for once. Plum had written to say he had been invited to stay in Florence for Alessandro’s betrothal celebrations and would be leaving for Ireland as soon as the nuptials were concluded in the summer. Portia looked closely at me when she related the news, but I merely smiled and went on feeding Grim his sugared plums. Much to Father’s delight, Lysander and Violante had decided to remain in England for the birth of their child, and Hortense—by now fast friends with Violante—had agreed to play companion to her. And in a small piece in theTimesI learned that Scotland Yard was very pleased to report the apprehension of a jewel thief of some notoriety. Brisbane’s name was not mentioned, nor was the Tear of Jaipur, though I knew they meant Charlotte King. But as closely as I read the columns, there was no word of letters patent or the viscountcy of Wargrave. There was, however, the smallest mention of an estate in Yorkshire changing hands into the possession of Nicholas Brisbane. It was no great estate, and no lofty title, but I was happy for him.
As for me, I went to London with Portia and Jane, accompanied by Florence and Grim, and of course Morag, grumbling as usual about the extra work. I had much shopping to do to outfit the Rookery, and I felt the need for the diversions of city life and the comforts of steam heat. Portia’s house, a vast, modern place, was impossibly warm even in the dreariest months. We settled in companionably, and the dark days of January passed quickly away.
One wet afternoon late in January, Jane and I lolled by the fire, talking desultorily of things we might do once the weather improved. The butler entered with the tea things, and Portia followed him, flipping through the post. She had already opened one letter, and I caught the quickest glimpse of a bold black scrawl before she shoved it to the bottom of the stack.
“Jane, dearest, won’t you pour? And Julia, you can hand round the cakes. Mind you take some of that sponge. Cook is quite proud of it.”
Jane poured as Portia handed out the letters. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw her slip the opened one behind the cushion of her chair as she sorted through the rest. She lit on one from Aunt Hermia, and exclaimed, reading it out to us as we sipped our tea and nibbled at sandwiches.
“Aunt Hermia says Hortense is well, and Violante is feeling quite strong now. She has put Father on a diet,” she said with a smothered laugh. “Apparently he was a bit bilious, and she has decided he must not eat butter, gravy, or pastry. Poor Father!” We exchanged smiles. Father was the most powerful man of our acquaintance, but he was also the most susceptible to being fussed over. They might have begun rockily, but Violante was very likely in a fair way to becoming his favourite daughter-in-law.