Gypsy Heiress (5 page)

I cupped my cheek in my sore palm, and again turned my head sideways on the pillow, dragging my gaze away from his graceful fingers straying in my hair.

“My situation is so distressing,” I said. “How could I eat?”

“It’s easy. You open your mouth, put in the food, and masticate. If you weren’t too distressed to eat, what would it be?”

I thought it over. “A gooey, perhaps.”

“A gooey. Splendid. What is it?”

“There are different ones. Some are like pudding, some are like pie. Grandma’s favorite was oatmeal pounded with goose’s blood and suet.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t laid in a stock of goose blood. Can you think of anything a little less revolting?”

“You may say what you like about the food my people eat.” I turned back indignantly to face Brockhaven. “What of yours, pray? Do you know what I was brought with my supper? Horrible, slimy, slippery things that the maid said are soft cooked eggs!”

My words amused him. “Very well. No eggs. What else did your grandmother make?”

“Stew, with fresh herbs,” I said, “and crisp greens.”

“Thank God for that. I was beginning to fear we’d have to gather eel’s tongues at midnight. I’ll see what they can do belowstairs.” He got up from the bed.

“I… my lord?” I hesitated. “At my wagon there are horses…”

“And you didn’t want to stress that earlier, in hopes you might be able to sneak off and gallop into the sunset? Don’t worry, Stewart’s already had them brought to the stable and fed. Was the stallion your father’s?”

“No. Mine. I trained him myself.”

His eyebrows rose. “You have highly original methods. Stewart says he’s a mankiller. He almost took the arm off one of my stable boys with his teeth.”

I was genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry! Probably, my Kory thought someone was trying to steal him.”

“Don’t let it trouble you. The boy will be fine.” His hand dropped to briefly touch my shoulder, then my cheek. “And don’t try to run off on me, will you, rabbit? I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

I was not sure if it was fear that made me tremble, or his touch. “I’m not the person you think I am! I know that I’m not.”

His expression was enigmatic. “If we discover that’s true, you’re free to go. Content?”

They were the words I had been waiting to hear, and I couldn’t understand why they brought me no joy. “Content,” I answered him, but for some elusive reason there was a certain lack of conviction in my voice.

Apparently Lord Brockhaven had little confidence in my assurance that I wouldn’t try to repeat my escape, for he assigned the dour-faced maidservant to spend the night in the room with me. A truckle bed was set up for the maid, Betty, who arrived at bedtime bearing a branched candlestick surrounded by reflecting globes of a kind to make more light, and a basketful of torn pillow covers to mend. I offered to help, and though she refused, the offer must have softened her as she left off her mending long enough to brew a cup of herbal tea to help me sleep. She even brought me one of her own nightdresses and a pretty cotton cap to put over my hair, but I could not help looking askance at the garments—it was so much warmer to sleep in the petticoats I already had on. Why did gorgios bother with the impractical chore of changing clothes to sleep?

Betty made her own preparations for bed, clucking at my eccentric ways, and then knelt by her truckle bed and pointedly said her prayers aloud, enunciating each word in a clear, ringing tone, hoping, no doubt, that they would have a good effect on my heathen manners.

It was noon, perhaps later, the next day when there came the sound of a tentative knock at the bedroom door. I had spent the morning with Betty at such unexciting occupations as folding table napkins and polishing the spoons of the one hundred and forty-four silver place settings, which afforded me far more time than I liked to ponder my fate.

Since the knock perhaps signaled news, I lifted my head expectantly as Betty crossed the room and pulled open the door. To my surprise, Betty’s reaction to the visitor was one of strong condemnation.

“What,” cried the maid, “in the name of all creation are you doing here?”

On the surface of it, I could see nothing to excite Betty’s disapproval for there didn’t appear to be anything havey-cavey about the young girl waiting to enter. The shapeless woolen cape that swathed her figure had nothing of the disreputable about it; such garments are worn often by women well-moneyed enough to afford something warm, yet too poor to afford something pretty. Looking closer, though, I realized that the colorless cloak was no pair with the elaborate cluster of ringlets dressed into her soft brown hair. It was the kind of hair arrangement that took professional skill. Only if she had the many arms of an octopus could she have done it on herself.

Other than the hair, she was not what the gorgios extol as a beauty. Her mouth was wider than the copperplate ideal, her nose turned up puppy-fashion at the tip, and though her complexion was clear, it was neither dimpled nor white as new snow. Here was no lady who risked her health by taking minute amounts of arsenic daily to pale her skin.

A mediocre portraitist might have portrayed her reposing image as plain. I found her subtly taking and when she looked past Betty to me and smiled warmly, the animation made her lovely. The girl pulled off her cloak in a gesture that announced her intention to stay, and beneath the cloak, in astonishing contrast, was a beautiful and obviously expensive honey-colored muslin gown.

“Don’t fuss and f-fuss, Betty, dearest,” she said in a melodious voice which carried the hint of a stammer. Later I was to learn that this hesitation in her speech had persisted despite (or perhaps because of) her governess’ strenuous and sometimes brutal efforts toward its eradication. For myself, I found the stammer an intriguing and not unattractive accent to the rhythm of her words; in time I grew not to notice it at all.

To return to our first meeting: after her first words and rather to my surprise, the brown-haired girl kissed Betty quickly on the cheek and continued, “Here I am, so what of it? I must talk to the gypsy girl.”

Betty returned the cheerful kiss with a severe look. “Must be talkin’ to the gypsy girl indeed! Have your wits gone beggin’, Lady Ellen? Where’s your maid, Patty? Never let me hear she’s let you come here.”

“Well, she has,” said Lady Ellen with a teasing note. “In fact, she’s h-here with me guarding the backstairs, ready to whisk me off in a moment if someone comes.”

“The backstairs?” exclaimed Betty. “Well, then, who’s watching the main stair, may I ask?”

The brown-haired girl gave Betty a bright smile and encouraging pat on the hand. “You, I hope. You needn’t, of course, if you don’t care to, and if Lord Brockhaven or his brother should happen to come and find me here, then I shall simply…”

I was fated to rest in ignorance of what Lady Ellen
would
have done, for Betty had fairly leaped from the room and whisked the door shut behind her. Evidently Lady Ellen thought the sentence had done its work, for she showed no inclination to finish it. She said to me, “Hello! I’m so happy to meet you! I know you must think my arrival very strange, but you see, I’ve come here to rescue you. Not that I’m at all sure you
want
to b-be rescued. You see, I’m not sure why you’re here, which has a great deal of bearing on things. So, do you need to be rescued?”

I was rather overcome by this astonishing offer, but it had a good effect on my spirits.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to advise me?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Ellen, turning pink from gratification. “I love to give advice, but I’m r-rarely asked for any. Shall we sit together on the floor? Oh, what’s this you’re doing—polishing silver! I shall help you!”

She sat on her knees, lifted a spoon, dunked it in the pot of polish and began to buff it with the soft cloth Betty had abandoned. I sat beside her, tossing my braids to the back so that their length wouldn’t brush on the tarnish-soiled newspaper.

“I beg your pardon…” I began, “but would you mind… that is, do you live in this house?”

“Not today. T-today I snuck in,” she said, looking rather pleased at this accomplishment. “For the month I’ve been staying with Mrs. Perscough, four miles to the north. Five of her sons (all under the age of eight) have been taken with the measles, and as I’ve already had them, I offered to stay and help keep the boys entertained while they recuperated.”

It seemed to me a charitable zeal approaching saintliness for anyone to undertake the prolonged entertainment of five boys under eight,
especially
if those boys were suffering from the peevishness of spirit natural to anyone recovering from serious illness. I began to express my respect, but the lady with the brown ringlets would have none of it.

“I’m not so saintly as you think,” she confessed in a frank way, “because, you s-see, I had an ulterior motive for my offer. I’ve lived at Edgehill for the last two years since my father died, with my stepmother, Lady Gwendolyn. She takes care of the domestic details that Lord Brockhaven doesn’t care a pin about and in r-return, he makes her quite a splendid allowance. Frequently, she goes traveling, now that she has the money, and she’s happier than she’s ever been before in her life. She married Papa when I was ten, after my own mother died, and really she’s been a dear to me, so I’m glad things are better for her. Poor Papa! I don’t wish to defame his memory, but he was so… well, one that never likes to leave the house and his cozy study for
any
purpose. I’m afraid our social life was nearly nil. You, I suppose, have been everywhere…?”

“Oh, no,” I said, distressed by the sadly wistful note in her voice. “Not
everywhere.
Only in Great Britain and—and parts of Europe.” Seeing that my remark had failed in its intended effect, I turned the conversation to its original course. “Was it to do with your stepmother that you went to stay with Mrs. Perscough?”

“Yes, it was. Last month Lady Gwendolyn received an invitation to stay with one of her great friends in Sussex. To tell the truth, I did what I could to get out of going along, b-because her friend has twin boys who are a year older than me and their favorite game is to make fun of my stammer.”

I was incensed. “How wicked!”

“They don’t mean to be unkind,” said Ellen with a forced smile. “I truly believe they don’t. It’s as much my own fault, for I can’t seem to bear for them to see it hurts me, so I laugh along and t-try with all my heart not to let my stammer show. The problem is that the more I don’t want to stammer, the more I
do
stammer. Around men, I’m hopeless. A blithering fool.”

How great was the warmth of my feeling toward this girl who had taken it upon herself to befriend me. Me, a gypsy, despised by most of her race! I hastened to comfort her unhappiness.

“But to stammer is a gift from the God of All Things, Lady Ellen. Surely you must know that? Among my people, it would be said that you are blessed, and therefore loved by the fairies. Somewhere in the world, at every moment, there is a new babe struggling to make his first word. When a fairy sees this, she flies to you, whisks away a word, and gives it to the baby so that he can say his first precious word. What could be more lovely than to have given speech to so many tiny souls?”

It was obviously the first positive thing Ellen had ever heard about her stammer, and she was moved almost to tears. We just smiled at each other for a moment and then I asked, “Why is it that you couldn’t have remained at Edgehill in Lady Gwendolyn’s absence?”

Much later, when I knew more of her world, I wondered how Ellen had kept herself from laughing at my question, for it must have seemed foolish to her, but there was not a trace of condescension in her gray eyes as she said, “My stepmother is an aunt to Brockhaven and Robert, but I’m not related by blood at all. Lord Brockhaven is a much-talked-about man, and if I was to be here unchaperoned, society would treat it as an appalling scandal, I assure you. The Beau Monde is like that. Suspicious. And with Brockhaven being such a rake, he can’t come within ten yards of a woman without being rumored as her lover. That’s why Betty didn’t like me to be here, and I don’t suppose Lord Brockhaven would like it much either.”

“Then I wonder—how did you hear of my situation?”

“Joey Copeil, the third under footman at Edgehill, told the story of your arrival to his brother, Bob, the cobbler. Bob told his wife, who told it to Mr. Bumper, who carves wooden chickens to sell to the travelers that come in the spring and summer to see Edgehill. Mrs. Bumper told my maid, Patty. First I heard that Lord Brockhaven had c-caught a gypsy on his property and intended to send her to jail. I didn’t think it for a minute! The laws against poaching are barbarous, and Lord Brockhaven would
never
give anyone up to them.”

“Has he a reputation for kindness?” I asked, not quite able to believe it.

“Oh, no, no, no—did I say that? He isn’t
kind,
but he’s… good.” From her expression I guessed that certain sinister memories intruded into Lady Ellen’s consciousness. “Well, he’s not precisely g-good either, and if you would ask any of the neighboring landowners, they’ll tell you that he’s the most arrogant man in their acquaintance. You see, that’s how he acts with his peers—but there’s not a man in this county who treats better his dependents. There are occasions when he’s displayed the greatest sensitivity toward his social inferiors.”

“And there are times,” I said, “when he hasn’t.”

Pretty sympathy filled Lady Ellen’s brown eyes. “That’s true as well… have you been cruelly, cruelly used?”

I gave a sudden smile and held up a finger. “Only one ‘cruelly.’ What other rumor did you hear?”

“I heard that you were being held here against your will, harem-style. That I knew was a falsehood, because it would be ridiculous for Brockhaven to force his attentions on anyone when women
attack
him on the streets begging to be his mistresses. Or at least,” she added conscientiously, “one did. Last season a dancer from the ballet whisked her gown to her waist right there at Vauxhall Gardens and made a heartfelt declaration of her affections. I wasn’t there, of course, but people talked of nothing else for days on end.”

I couldn’t forbear not to ask, “What did Brockhaven do?”

“I don’t know, but it must have been very shocking. Even Lucia Perscough, who tells
everything,
would not repeat it to me. One can pretty much assume, though, because Lucia did admit to seeing the dancer riding with Brockhaven in Hyde Park one week later. Of course, that was nearly a year ago and it’s quite blown over. Brockhaven runs through his mistresses at a shocking pace. And his brother Robert is, if anything, worse, but I can’t believe he’d have to lock anyone up either. You see, that’s why I had to see for myself. If there is any way that I can serve you, I will! Tell me
everything.
”

Feeling rather undone by the voluminous request from such a sympathetic listener, I said in a shaky voice, “Thank you, Lady Ellen! May a thousand hedgehogs make their homes in your garden.”

It was then that I learned that gorgios don’t value hedgehogs as they ought, for it was clear from Lady Ellen’s surprised expression that she failed to understand the goodwill intended by my blessing. I taxed her with it and she admitted, to my shock, that she had never made use of a hedgehog and worse, had never met anyone who had! I was astounded, for what could be more succulent than the flesh of the hedgehog cooked in clay? And the fat—why, there is nothing more effective for the treatment of all ailments of the skin, from boils to dandruff to removing calluses of the foot. I changed the subject quickly so I would not show my new friend how appalled I was at her ignorance.

“May I begin by asking you if you have heard of the Marquis of Chadbourne?”

Lady Ellen appeared to be intrigued. “Yes! He owned Chad Hall and his lands march with Lord Brockhaven’s property, or at least they used to. The old marquis is dead and his granddaughter lives on the property now.”

“His granddaughter? Then… did the marquis have sons?”

“Yes, indeed. There were two. Martin was the youngest. He died some years ago of a diseased liver. His daughter, Isabella, married a cousin of Lord Brockhaven’s and they live in Chad Hall.”

“Robert mentioned them, I think! If it is the same people you mean, he said something about not wishing to introduce me to them.”

Lady Ellen puzzled over this while she selected another spoon to polish. “How very odd of him, to be sure, for I can’t imagine why…” She rubbed thoughtfully at a tarnished spot. “Ah, well, where was I? The two sons of the marquis. I know very little about the elder son, who would be Isabella’s uncle. They say he was bored with the deadly respectability of being heir to a great title, and he ran away from home before I was born. Made a dreadful misalliance, if I remember correctly, with a gypsy girl.” She stopped suddenly and stared at me with new-found knowledge exploding in her eyes like Chinese candles. “Are y-you the Marquis of Chadbourne’s granddaughter?”