Elizabeth Mansfield (17 page)

“Broken off?” Julie asked, puzzled and somewhat frightened.

“Yah. Broken ‘ere. But starts up again ‘ere, see?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t—”

The gypsy shook her head impatiently. “Better we look at crystal ball, eh?”

“Crystal ball?”

“Yah. There.” And she pointed to a large globe on the table before her.

Julie had not noticed it before, but now it began to glow with an eerie, flickering light. “Oh!” she exclaimed, staring at it in fascination. “Can you read my fortune in there?”

“Per’aps. For two silver coins.”

“This guinea is all I have,” Julie said, handing her the coin Peter had given her.

The gypsy’s eyes brightened at the sight of the gold coin. She snatched it with her knobby, ring-bedecked fingers and tested it with her teeth. Satisfied, she cocked her head. “Ain’t got no change,” she muttered, pocketing it.

“That’s all right,” Julie assured her.

The gypsy smiled. “You good sort lady. I tell you good fortune,” she said, leaning forward.

“How do you know it will be good if you haven’t read it yet?” Julie asked.

The gypsy was not thrown by the question. “Good because true,” she answered promptly.

The light in the crystal ball brightened, and as the gypsy woman passed her hands over it, the light seemed to move with the motion of the hands. Then clouds of smoke filled the globe, floating and shifting into formless shapes. “I see man ... no, two men... ,” the gypsy said in a low monotone.

“Where?” Julie asked, peering into the glowing orb but seeing nothing. “There in the ball?”

The gypsy ignored the interruption. “Men both dark. One tall.”

“Yes?” Julie urged eagerly, nevertheless feeling quite foolish.

“They argue.”

“Argue?”

The old woman peered closer into the light. “Then they fight. Terrible fight. I see blood.” She looked up at Julie with a glittering, piercing gleam. “They fight for you.”

“Oh, no, I hardly think—”

“Yes. They fight for you. Terrible fight.”

“Not with... pistols!” Despite her skepticism Julie was completely caught up in the tale.

“No, no. With fists. Terrible fight. I see big crowd watching. Oh! The tall one down. Not get up.”

“Oh, dear!”

The gypsy looked at her closely. “You wish other man to win? Tall one?”

“Yes! No! I mean, this is silly.” She tried to think sensibly in a situation that made no sense. “I don’t even know what men you’re speaking of. You’re the one who sees them, not I.”

“Ah, that is so. I see, you not see. But tall man will not win, not ever, unless ...”

She could not help herself. She had to ask. She had to know. “Unless... ?”

“Unless... unless...” The gypsy peered closer into the ball, but the light was quickly fading. “Oh ... is going ... is gone.” She looked up at Julie and shrugged. “Sorry. Is all.”

“All? Is it over? So soon?”

“Sorry. Crystal ball is ruler, not me.”

“Oh.” Julie rose from the chair, unmistakably disappointed, but ashamed of herself for feeling so. The silly tale was scarcely worth a gold guinea. “Well, good-bye,” she said, turning to the flap of the tent. “That was... interesting. Thank you.”

“
Au ‘voir,
”
the gypsy said.

But as Julie reached out to lift the flap, another voice echoed through the tent. “
Unless you untie the knot you knit yourself.
”

She whirled about. “What?” she asked, staring at the gypsy suspiciously. But the voice she’d heard was different from the old woman’s and had had no trace of a foreign accent. Nevertheless she peered at the old woman accusingly. “What did you say?”

Again another voice, speaking in perfect English, reverberated through the tent. “
The tall man will not win unless you untie the knot you knit yourself.
”

The gypsy woman had not spoken. When the strange voice faded, the old woman fixed her glittering eyes on Julie with an expression that was completely unreadable. “
Au ‘voir,
”
she said again.

It was an unmistakable dismissal. Julie knew that those were the last words she’d hear from her.

23

Meanwhile, outside on the green, Peter was passing the time watching the Punch-and-Judy show. The laughter of the children and the slapstick on the small stage so thoroughly amused him that when a hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him round, the smile still remained on his face. But there was no answering smile on Tris’s face. Something about Peter bothered Tris of late. He’d truly liked the fellow when they first met, but now, inexplicably, the very sight of Canfield raised his ire. “Where’s Julie?” he demanded rudely. “Don’t tell me you were so buffleheaded as to let her go off by herself!”

“Cut line, man, she’s perfectly safe,” Peter assured him. “She’s gone to have her palm read, there in that green-and-pink tent behind the brandy ball booth.”

“You sent her to the
gypsies?
Alone? You must be mad.”

“Don’t be foolish, Tris,” Cleo put in. “Gypsy fortunetellers aren’t a bit dangerous.”

“Nevertheless,” Tris said stubbornly, feeling a sudden prick of annoyance with her for interfering, “I’d better go and fetch her.”

Peter realized that, in Tris’s present mood, the time was ripe for the act that would propel him into Julie’s arms. “No, you wait here with Cleo,” he said, grasping Tris’s arm to stop him from walking off. “I’ll go.” And before Tris could object, he ran off round the brandy ball booth to the gypsy tent.

“Wait, damn you!” Tris shouted and started to follow him. This time, Cleo caught his arm and held him back.

“Peter can find her easily enough,” she said, taking his arm. “You needn’t go chasing after him.”

The little prick of annoyance Tris had felt toward her swelled up and became a tidal wave of irritation. “I don’t need a managing female to tell me what to do,” he snapped, abruptly shaking off her hold on him. This caused her to drop her doll. It fell to the ground, its porcelain face striking the sandstone slab with a clunk. The sound was enough to indicate that the porcelain had smashed. “I’m... sorry,” Tris muttered in shamed reluctance.

“The doll needn’t make you sorry,” Cleo said quietly, glancing from the ruined plaything to his face. “It was an accident. But what you just said to me was no accident, and therefore more deserving of apology.”

His expression hardened. “I’m concerned for Julie’s safety. That needs no apology.”

“I think it does. Am I a ‘managing female’ because I don’t believe Julie’s in danger? And because I pointed out that if she were, Peter was capable of seeing to the matter?”

“I don’t agree. And I don’t think this is the time to discuss it. I must go. If you’ll excuse me for a moment—”

She felt a strange tremble at her knees. “If you leave me now, Tris,” she said in a voice she herself did not recognize, “you will not find me waiting when you come back.”

“It seems to me, ma’am,” Tris retorted as conflicting paroxysms of rage, shame and impotence clashed in his breast, “that you gave me a similar ultimatum in London a few weeks ago. It was as unwarranted then as it is now.” He turned on his heel and stalked off in the direction Peter had taken, leaving Cleo staring after him, aghast, her broken doll lying sprawled at her feet.

When Peter arrived at the gypsy tent, Julie was just emerging, looking distracted. But there was no time for him to investigate the cause. “Julie, listen,” he said quickly, grasping her arms at the shoulder. “Tris is about to come storming round that booth. He’s on the verge of falling into your arms. All he needs is a push over the edge. If he’d catch a glimpse of us kissing, I believe that would be enough to do it. So, please, don’t struggle when I—”

Julie, blinking in the light and taken utterly by surprise, took a backward step. She only knew that Peter was completely mistaken in Tris’s motives. “No, Peter, you don’t understand,” she said, deeply troubled. “Tris doesn’t—”

“There’s no time to talk,” he cut in urgently. “He may come at any moment. He must find us embracing, or the moment will be lost.” Without giving her time to respond, he pulled her close. His arms tightened about her, and he put his mouth to hers.

She didn’t struggle. Her mind was too full of confusing impressions to think clearly. She’d not yet recovered from the shock of the mysterious voice in the gypsy tent when Peter had come upon her with this urgent demand. It was all too much to sort out now. She simply melted into his embrace and let herself enjoy the sensation. There would be time later, she thought, to figure things out.

Tris did not immediately appear, but Peter did not let her go. He was certain that Tris would follow him momentarily. Meanwhile, he too surrendered to the pleasure of the embrace. This would be the last time he’d hold this beloved girl in his arms, and he had no difficulty in convincing himself that he might as well savor every sensation while he could. He could not concern himself now about the difficulties he would encounter later, when he’d be trying to forget her. Yes, this would be a difficult memory to erase, but for now it was a taste of heaven to hold her like this. He would take what he could from the present; there would be plenty of time later, when the future was upon him, to pay the price.

In the pure joy of the embrace, Peter almost forgot why he’d done this thing. But as he’d predicted, Tris did appear. And, in Peter’s view, much too soon.

Tris came striding round the brandy ball booth like an avenging knight. When he saw Julie and the dastardly Canfield locked in each other’s arms, he exploded. “Good God!” he swore in fury. “You damnable makebait, unhand that woman!” And he savagely pulled Peter around.

Julie tottered backward and almost fell. “Tris, what’s the
matter
with you?” she cried, startled at his vehemence.

Tris ignored her. “Just
what
do you think you’re
doing?
”
he shouted at Peter.

“That’s obvious, isn’t it?” Peter replied coolly, determined to goad the fellow into action. “And what business is it of yours?”

“I’ll show you what business it is of mine,” Tris said through clenched teeth. And he swung his fist like a madman into Peter’s jaw.

Peter went down like a stone. Julie screamed. A crowd began to gather, their eyes wide with curiosity and ribald delight. “A mill!” someone shouted. “There’s gonna be a mill!”

“Why, it’s young Enders,” said a female voice.

“And that’s the viscount from Wycklands,” cried another in salacious pleasure.

“Get up, you blasted gudgeon,” Tris shouted at the fallen man. “Get up and let me give you another!”

“Right,” yelled a man in the crowd. “Get up, yer lordship, an’ give ‘im yer fives!”

Peter lifted himself on one elbow. A trickle of blood leaked from a split in his underlip. With a cry of alarm, Julie knelt beside him, agitatedly mopping up his blood with her handkerchief.

“Get away from him, Julie,” Tris ordered. “I’m not finished with him yet.”

“I’m not getting up,” Peter said in rueful amusement. “I have no intention of engaging in fisticuffs with you.”

“Get up, I say, or you’re a damned poltroon,” Tris insisted furiously.

But it was Julie who rose. She ran to Tris’s side and clutched his arm. “What on earth’s gotten into you, Tris?” she muttered into his ear in utter perturbation. “Isn’t that kiss just what you
wanted
to happen?”

Tris gaped at her, arrested. What she’d said was true! He blinked at her for a moment like a man just awakening from a dream.
Of course
that was what he’d wanted. What
had
gotten into him? In his struggle to find an answer, the madness that had enveloped him during the last few minutes dissipated. His fists relaxed, his arms dropped to his side, and he shut his eyes in a kind of agony. Then, dazed and confused, he turned away from Julie’s bewildered gaze and saw the mob.
Confound it, what have I done?
he asked himself. Awash in humiliation, he blundered his way through the crowd, ran round the intervening booth and disappeared.

The crowd, realizing that the fun was over, began to disperse. Julie helped Peter to his feet. “What was all that about, Peter?” she asked. “Did you
plan
to let yourself be knocked down?”

He licked his bloody underlip. “Well, I didn’t expect to get a swollen jaw and a split lip, but, yes, I suppose I did. It was the only way I could think of to make him recognize his feelings for you. I think the young idiot knows them now. Go to him, Julie, and let him tell you himself.”

Julie shook her head. “I think you
both
are idiots. But never mind that now. Let’s go back to Larchwood and get your lip tended to.”

“No, thank you, Julie. My wound is trivial. Your purpose now is to find your Tris. As for me, now that our goal has been accomplished, I think I’ll take myself home and rest on my laurels.” He looked down at her with a small smile, bowed briefly and set off for his home.

Julie’s throat tightened in pain. “But Peter,” she called after him, “you don’t—! There’s something I ought—”