The spoke to us in English—Romany was not a gift they shared with outsiders—but I heard a thread of it carried on the wind as an elderly woman scolded her granddaughter for dropping a basket of washing. I flicked a glance at Brisbane. He gave every appearance of not hearing or understanding, but I knew he was drinking in every word and, moreover, that he knew I was watching. Romany had been his first language, taken with mother’s milk, although he rarely spoke it, and few knew he was a half-blood. With his faint burr—a souvenir of his boyhood in Edinburgh—he passed as a Scot among Englishmen, although rumours still abounded that he was a Bonaparte, a bastard prince perhaps, who would look well in an emperor’s robes. Others said he was a Spanish adventurer; still others claimed he was Turkish or Greek, with the blood of sultans or minor gods running in his veins.
But one only had to see him with his own kind to realise how absurd those stories were. No one could match the Roma for their proud carriage, the elegance of their walk. In Brisbane, the line of his profile, the smoothness of his gait, even the way he held his head, all betrayed him for what he was, and I was astonished the rest of our party did not see it at once.
I had not realised I was staring so long, but he turned his head then, just enough to catch my gaze. I knew he was thinking of the other time we had visited a Gypsy camp together—the first time I had seen him with his own people, the first time I had heard him speak the language, the musical syllables spilling from his tongue like the sweetest wine, the first time he had kissed me.
First and most likely the last, I thought. A thick little lump of regret rose in my throat and I swallowed hard against it as he turned away, striking off from the camp on the path to the river. My fingers went to the pendant at my throat, warm even through the soft leather of my glove. It was useless to pine for what was not to be, I told myself severely, and I made up my mind to put the pendant aside once and for all when I returned to Bellmont Abbey.
At that moment, a woman unfolded herself from where she had been squatting, stirring her cooking pot. The smell of spices and savoury meat filled the air, clinging to her skirts and shawls and even her plaited hair as she came to us, but it was not the fragrance of her supper that startled me.
“Magda,” I said, more loudly than I intended.
She gave me a sly smile. “Yes, lady. I am with my people again.”
Magda had been my laundress for a time, taken in when her own family had banished her for breaking one of their taboos. I had sheltered her and given her work, and she had betrayed me. An understandable betrayal, given the circumstances, and I had forgiven her. But I had not thought to see her so soon. The sight of her had taken me a little aback.
“I am glad. I hope you are in good health.”
It was a foolish little speech, and pompous as well, but Magda merely nodded. “And also you, my lady.” She glanced around at the rest of our party. “The gentlemen will wish to see the horses. My brother, Jasper, has few to sell now, but for the right price he might be persuaded.”
The gentlemen, manipulated by her sly insinuation, hurried to where the small herd was staked, all except Plum, who made for a convenient outcropping to sit and sketch. Only the five ladies remained, and Magda turned to us with a knowing smile. “You wish to have your fortunes told. Cross my palm with silver, ladies, and I will reveal all to you.”
She put out her hand and I stepped back sharply. “No, thank you.” I turned to the others. “The rest of you do go ahead. Magda is quite good at that sort of thing. I am sure you will find it most interesting.”
I turned and left them, chattering like magpies as they quarrelled genteelly over who should go first. Plum was already consumed with his sketching, and I knew he hated to be disturbed. I made instead for a little clump of trees some distance away where I spied a familiar figure. I waited until I was near to hail him.
“Not interested in horseflesh, Mr. Ludlow?”
Like Plum, Mr. Ludlow was attempting to sketch the scene, but his talents fell far short of my brother’s.
“Say rather the situation puts me in mind of a child with his face pressed against the window of the candy shop without a tuppence in his pocket,” he said with a rueful smile.
I motioned to his sketchbook. “I hope I am not interrupting you?”
He laughed, showing lovely, even white teeth. “I am but a dilettante, a hobbyist. It is an act of mercy to prevent me from putting pencil to paper.”
He tucked the sketchbook and stub of pencil into his pocket. “And you? No liking for the prognostications of Gypsy witches?”
I shuddered. “I have had quite enough of those to last a lifetime, thank you. In any event, they always say the same things, don’t they? Tall strangers, unexpected legacies, shipboard journeys. None of it ever comes true.”
He dusted off a bit of fallen tree with his handkerchief and we sat. We were silent a moment, comfortably so, to my surprise. His posture was relaxed, but lightly, as if he were accustomed to holding himself in readiness. He had the bearing of an athlete, and it occurred to me he had probably taken a number of prizes at school.
“This is a peaceful spot,” he said finally. “I can understand why they come back here every year.”
“It is also very near St. Leonard’s Wood, which is of course an attraction to them.”
He turned to me with a puzzled expression. “St. Leonard’s Wood?”
“Do not tell me you have not heard of it!” I cried. “You have been here some days, and no one has told you the tale? There is an enchanted wood, just the other side of that coppice. It is said that centuries ago a French hermit by the name of St. Leonard battled a dragon there, and slew it. But he was injured in the fight, and wherever his blood fell, there God raised white lilies to bloom every year. And in return for his bravery, God banished all snakes from the wood, and hushed the nightingales so that St. Leonard could meditate in peace.”
Ludlow was smiling. “A charming story, but it seems a bit harsh on the nightingales.”
“I thought so, too,” I confided, “but you can well understand why the Roma would wish to camp where they would not be troubled by snakes.”
“Indeed I can,” he agreed. We fell silent again. It was a pleasant afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the scene, burnishing the Roma camp in its gentle light. It was a scene fit for a Romantic painter, and I wondered if Plum would be able to capture it. The ladies were apparently taking it in turns to enter Magda’s tent and have their fortunes told. I knew the nuances of her performance, for I had seen it often enough.
First she would offer them a choice: cards, palms or leaves. Once they had chosen, she would compose herself, drawing inward as though straining to hear a voice from another world. After a long moment, when one’s nerves were stretched and the hairs on one’s neck were prickling, she would open her eyes and put out her hands. No matter the medium, her hands were always deft and warm. They moved through the cards quick as a conjurer’s, or stroked one’s palm with the same gentle firmness one would use on a cat.
The leaves were different. She kept a kettle of water hissing away by the fire outside, and when a visitor approached, she brewed the tea in a battered pot and poured it carefully into a chipped china Jubilee cup painted with the face of the queen. The tea was thick with leaves and never sweetened. It was quite a trick to strain the tea between the teeth as Russians do to keep the leaves in the cup. When the cup was empty, Magda tapped and swirled and inverted it, then turned it right again to scry the depths. Her expression never varied, nor did her tone. She spoke flatly of what she saw, relating the future as calmly as one might speak of the weather or the state of the roads. For her, nothing was yet fixed in stone. Choice and free will had as much to do with one’s future as any fortune-teller’s tricks. She told only of what might come to pass, not of what must be, and I had long suspected her of embellishing her fortunes slightly to suit her audience.