Curse of the Gypsy (29 page)

Darkefell stood and looked down at the old man, who passed his hand over his watery eyes. He needed time alone to come to terms with losing his beloved daughter to a northern marauder. “I’ll look after Anne, sir,” he said, just barely keeping his voice from breaking. “I love her deeply.”

“I would not say yes to your suit otherwise, you can be sure.”

He turned his face away and Darkefell slipped from the room, sending the butler up to aid his master.

***

Preparing for such a swift and unexpected departure left Anne breathless and fretful. First, she rose at dawn and visited Farfield Farm, where Mrs. Jackson was recovering apace and Dorcas had become Jamey’s new favorite person. He followed her around, asking questions and getting in her way.

Anne was a little concerned and pulled Dorcas aside near the kitchen hearth. “I’m not quite sure how to phrase this, Dorcas,” she said, watching the young woman’s pale blue eyes in a stream of morning sunlight that flooded the room through the tiny window. “If Jamey’s attentions should ever become a nuisance … that is, if he …” She trailed off, feeling the color flood her cheeks. She glanced around, but Mr. Jackson was off valeting Jamey. “If he ever touches you inappropriately, you have my permission to do whatever you need to do to protect your modesty,” Anne muttered. “He doesn’t understand a maiden’s right of refusal of a man’s advances, Dorcas, and though he would never force himself upon you, if you ever feel threatened or unhappy, please ask Sanderson to deal with him. Jamey knows him and respects him.”

Anne was not taking Sanderson with her this time. He was driving her to Hawk Park, but if the marchioness was there, then Anne would continue on in the woman’s carriage. Given how anxious the marchioness was to be reunited with her lost son, she was sure to be at Hawk Park by now.

Dorcas didn’t blush, nor did she quail at speaking her mind. “Milady, I already tolt him to keep his hands to hisself, and since then we’ve had little trouble. I hope I done right?”

Relieved, Anne put one hand on the girl’s powerful shoulder, grateful she had chosen the right young woman for the position. “Dorcas, you have confirmed my belief in you. That was exactly right.” Relieved that the difficult part of her visit was over, Anne asked, “Now, have you and your sweetheart set a wedding date?” She had made enquiries, checking into the suitability of Dorcas’s prospective husband, for she would not allow a bad influence too close to Jamey. But the young man was well thought of in the village and Sanderson, whose judgment Anne implicitly trusted, pronounced him “a right ’un,” generous praise from the taciturn coachman.

“Vicar Wadley is reading the banns startin’ this Sunday next, milady,” she said.
Now
Dorcas was blushing; she looked softer and radiantly happy.

“Very good. My wedding present to you will be fitting the unused stable up properly to be another cottage for you and your husband to live in, if that’s suitable. I’ll have Mr. Destry order the work done, beginning immediately, and it should be ready for you and your husband once you are wed.”

“Thank you, milady,” the young woman said with a curtsey.

“Good luck in your marriage, Dorcas. I wish you well.” That done, Anne headed back across the fallow fields toward Harecross Hall, but changed her mind and took a detour, to go by way of the gypsy camp. If she was going to be confined to a carriage for several days on their way north, she may as well take her exercise now and walk.

It was brilliant June, Midsummer was two days past, and meadowlarks swooped overhead. A cuckoo in the wood nearby gave its cheery greeting, and for one moment Anne was ready to break into a run, following the wild urges of youth. A favorite maid, one who had come from Devonshire originally, claimed that if you began to run when you heard the cuckoo cry and ran until you could hear it no more, you would add as many years to your life as the number of cuckoo’s calls you heard.

Foolish superstition. She smiled to herself, longing for one moment to go back to a simpler life before there were such complications as an ailing father, a distant and angry mother, and the prospect of marriage taking her away from her beloved Kent. She stopped and closed her eyes, memorizing the sounds, the swish of the wind over the long grass, the hum of bees in the blooming purple clover. Who knew how long she would be gone this time? When she opened her eyes the tears welled and trickled down her cheeks. She dashed them away, irritated by her foolish emotions, and began walking again. She was fortunate indeed to have health, family, and a man who loved her.

And Yorkshire! How could she bemoan her fate when every aspect in Yorkshire enthralled her, the wild rocky hills, the tumbling waterfalls, the wind sweeping over the high fells? Life there, if she married Tony, would be exciting even in the daytime. Kent was her calm past, Yorkshire her exciting future.

If she so wished. Her stomach twisted in anxiety at the thought of the momentous decision she had yet to make. If the London odds makers caught wind of her second visit to Darkefell they would be laying wagers on Darkefell’s removal from his perennial position near the top of the list of eligible men. That thought was enough to make her smile. The hateful cats who had disparaged her appearance and prospects during her season would be forced to admit she had bested them all in marriage prospects.

The gypsy camp was a maelstrom of activity, and Anne stood for a moment by the edge of the wood, watching, bemused by what appeared to be them packing up to move on. She had expected they would stay until hops-picking season at least, for Wroth Farm and Harecross Hall would need workers. There were not nearly enough available from the village or surrounding tenant farms.

She grabbed Florrie’s arm as that young woman sped past her. “What is going on? Why are you leaving? I thought we settled our little problem.”

But the woman just shrugged and pointed to the gypsy mother’s wagon. The old woman sat on the step of it and stared steadily at Anne. She had a pipe in her mouth and was smoking.

“Madam Kizzy, why are you leaving?” Anne asked as she walked toward her.

“You are going away,” she said, taking the pipe from her mouth. The coins sewed to her colorful scarf jingled as she shook her head. “How can I trust the others will respect us?”

“How did you know I was going away?”

“I see it in your eyes. You love the man and will follow him. Women, we always follow our man.”

“But … what does that matter? I don’t understand.”

“The villagers … they still say we bring bad. Even now, when the bad man has been caught and those boys from your house confessed to their tricks, they still say we are bad.”

“Your ‘curse’ in action?” Anne asked tartly.

The woman nodded. Her expression was grim as she said, “I was sick, I was tired. Why they want to spit on me like that? I cursed them for the fools they are.”

Anne knelt by the step and said gently, gazing up at the old woman, “Why, though? Why, knowing that people fear the gypsy curse so much? It ultimately wouldn’t help you; it just puts more distance between you and the people of Hareham.”

“I will not be injured by those gajos,” she cried, a flare of anger lighting her dark eyes from within. She rapped her pipe on the step and a smoking hank of tobacco fell to the ground. She heeled it into the dirt until the ember was gone. “I curse them again and again. Then, when they get sick, or their sheep die, they will be polite to Madam Kizzy again,” she cried, shaking her pipe. “They will come to me for healing potions and to remove curse.”

“But you only bring trouble down on yourselves that way,” Anne said, trying to make her see reason. “You must think ahead! Plan and work hard, and you would have the villagers back on your side quickly enough without any of this curse nonsense. How can you expect to be treated any differently when you insist on frightening people that way?”

But it was no good. It was as if she spoke a foreign language, for the woman frowned and shook her head. “It don’t matter,” she said, her dark eyes lackluster. “We go somewhere else. Lots of places to go.”

Anne looked down at the dirt for a long minute. “Drina just had a baby. Surely she shouldn’t move just yet?”

“She is strong. She will be all right soon.”

“Madam Kizzy,” Anne said, gazing up at the woman and taking her gnarled hand in her own. “You and your people … I don’t know a lot, but over the years we have had you here often. You need to learn to turn the other cheek when the villagers give you trouble,” she said, still trying to appeal to the woman’s intelligence, which was sharp enough when she applied it instead of falling back on superstition and revenge. “It is the only way this cycle of animosity will end.”

“You speak of this who admit you know nothing. After hundreds of years, how long you think we should wait? How long you think your man’s black servant will wait until people do not see his dark skin?” She shook her head. “So long and longer it will be, before people do not spit on the Rom. We will go.” She smiled slyly and cocked her head in an oddly youthful manner. “The gypsy curse, it keeps people from hurting us women and the fear of it keeps the village men from fighting with our men. It is what we have, the curse; it is our weapon.”

There was nothing Anne could say. Kizzy’s words were a tacit admission that the gypsy curse was used by a people who felt powerless to control others. It was their defense from harassment, and a powerful tool to gull the unwary. Perhaps if superstition was all
she
had, Anne would use it, too.

Anne paused on her way out of the encampment and looked it over one last time. The earth was trampled where the tents had been erected and there was a refuse heap drawing flies, though it was quite a ways away from the encampment. The women, from long practice, worked together, folding blankets, packing carts, all while carrying babies on their backs. So the gypsies would go and Mr. Destry and her father would need to find other help with the hops harvest in August.

If there was one thing Anne had learned, she couldn’t solve everything. This was not her problem. It would be taken care of, especially since Mr. Destry’s eager son was arriving later that week, brimming with excitement over working for the earl and the land upon which he had been raised. It was an ideal solution, and everyone was happy. His letter had arrived by return post; Anne had been relieved when she read the younger Mr. Destry’s acquiescence.

So Anne could leave Kent with no regrets. Or almost no regrets. Kent was a soft place of gentle breezes and long lazy summers that drifted into temperate winters. Yorkshire, like Lord Anthony Darkefell, was, by reputation, harsh and moody. If she married Tony, which would irritate her more, his mercurial temperament or the enforced solitude of Darkefell Castle in winter?

But there would indubitably be enticing rewards to make up for any irritations. A little spurt of excitement ran through the pit of her stomach at the thought of what she and the marquess could do to wile away the long winter nights. She hastened her pace, striding over the clover-filled hills and along the cart trail through the arboretum. The next few days would answer any lingering questions she had about marriage and the moody marquess.

***

It was late afternoon; Darkefell leaned into the window of Anne’s carriage and told her they were almost to Hawk Park, then rejoined Julius, leading the way. She was alone in her carriage with only Irusan as company, and she still didn’t know if she would be going on to Darkefell’s estate. It depended completely on Lady Darkefell. If all went well and the marchioness didn’t raise a demur to Anne accompanying her, then Sanderson would go back to Harecross Hall and pick up Mary, then take her to meet Anne along the road to Yorkshire at the first night’s lodging.

If it went badly … then Anne would face that when it occurred. She had to make peace with the marquess’s mother somehow, sometime, but they had not parted in Yorkshire on good terms.

Anne petted Irusan, who rested half on her lap and half on the carriage seat, purring contentedly. Darkefell and his brother could have gone ahead to Hawk Park on their speedier mounts, but Tony had said no, they were content to keep pace with her carriage. Anne suspected he just didn’t want to have to explain to his mother that she was coming. If they arrived at Hawk Park all together, in the joy of the mother and son reunion Darkefell could announce that Anne was traveling back to Yorkshire with them.

Of course he had another valid reason to stay close to the carriage. Grover was secured up top with Sanderson, and it didn’t hurt to have two armed riders along, given how slippery Grover had turned out to be. For an old gouty man accustomed to good food, wine, and a soft bed, he had done remarkably well to survive for two months, stealing food, staying in abandoned huts and plotting his odd vengeance. And even now, a prisoner, he kept up a constant stream of vituperative expletives at every opportunity. He even called out to passersby that he was being kidnapped for ransom. Darkefell’s glowering look at any who stopped made them scurry on without offering to help Grover.

Finally, they turned from the highway onto a private drive and wound through a mile or two of wooded splendor, birds flitting in and out of shadows and small animals scurrying away at the unexpected intrusion into their bucolic peace. They startled a beautiful doe with a gangly fawn at the edge of the woods along the lane and the pair bounded away. She caught glimpses of a stream through the woods, and a thorny hedge of creamy pink dogroses in an open sun-bathed patch. Dreamily, she wondered if she and Darkefell would have a few minutes alone to stroll through the wood and explore. Anne had not been to such a place, a lodge house settled in a thicket of forest. It was so peaceful, so leafy and shaded. Perhaps they would come to this secluded place alone if …

If
. Her heart pounded.
If
she married him. What was she so afraid of? Every time she thought of marriage and the marquess she was overcome with alarm, though judging by the enthusiasm with which she participated in her deflowering, it evidently was not the physical aspects of marriage that frightened her.