Aurora Read online

  “I would like to have it,” Marnie said at once. “And the Wedgwood tea service in the—”

  “Oh my dear! Don’t quite strip the place bare on poor little Charles!” Clare laughed.

  Marnie held her tongue, but she thought that future help might bring not only her tea service but even her engagement ring back to her.

  “By the way, Clare, the gypsies are back,” Aurora said before they left. “One came to tell our fortune yesterday. You must make sure Charles is not let out alone.”

  “Are they indeed?” Clare asked, with a frightened look, the first genuine emotion she had shown. “I’ll have them run off.”

  “They are harmless. Bernard never bothered with them,” Marnie said.

  “Harmless? They are thieves and worse. You know the Raiker necklace was stolen by them.”

  This was a piece of family legend that had not arisen till the death of Clare’s husband. When it had come time to turn over the heirlooms, the fabulous Raiker emeralds had been missing, and then it was revealed that it had vanished at the last visit of the gypsies. No public clamour had arisen, as the departure of the gypsies had also seen the departure of Kenelm, and there was just enough doubt in everyone’s mind that it was he and not the gypsies who ­had taken the necklace that it had not been officially reported as missing. Bernard, the heir, was the logical one to raise a fuss, but he had never done so.

  “We don’t know they took it,” Marnie pointed out.

  “We don’t know they didn’t. Still, they are full of mis­chief. One trembles to think what they might do if one treated them harshly. Charles will not be out alone, you may be sure. Indeed, I never let him outside alone; he is too precious to me. He is all I have left.” The wisp of lace was raised to her eyes.

  The ladies took their leave, and as they travelled down the road with the firescreen bobbing precariously behind them, Aurora asked, “Do you think Kenelm stole the necklace?”

  Marnie regarded her shrewdly. “She stole it herself. She knew her husband was dying and her days as a rich woman were numbered. It would make a good nest egg for her.”

  “Why didn’t Bernard do something about it?”

  “How could it be proved? Besides, she intimated in her own sweet way what a pity it would be for her to have to point out to the officials that it had vanished at the same time as Bernard’s brother. Blackmail is what it amounted to. I didn’t bother changing his mind. Emeralds don’t suit me, and it was entailed. I mean, I could only wear it while Bernard was alive. It’s not as though it would ever be really my own.”

  This blatant self-interest did not surprise Aurora. She loved Marnie dearly, and accepted her little flaws with philosophy. Marnie continued, “I wouldn’t be a bit sur­prised if the necklace turned up any day now. She would have the use of it while Charles is still a boy, and while it wouldn’t suit her either; she would like to sport it, I think. The return of the gypsies might make an excellent excuse. She could say she got it back from them somehow. If it reappears, we shall know very well she stole it. Not that we could do a thing about it.”

  “She’s horrid,” Aurora decided.

  “Indeed she is, but at least I got back my firescreen, and she is welcome to the necklace.”

  When they returned home, Malone demanded to know what the summons had been all about, and was told. “She hopes to trod her toe into decent society, does she?” she said, undeceived as to Charles’s being involved in any other capacity than an excuse. “Down dancing with the gypsies is where she belongs. Oh, I must warn you, there was one of them spying around this morning. A handsome rascal he was. Halter ran him off from the chicken coop. Empty-handed. He didn’t steal any. There’s none missing yet. I’ll keep my Mimi tied to my apron strings while they’re about, vicious brutes. At the far end of the woods is where they’re camped, down at the stream. What they’d want with water I can’t imagine, for it’s plain as a pikestaff it never touches their hides, and it’s not water they drink, or I’m a living saint. Heathen creatures.

  “Come on and eat, then,” she continued. “Cook has made you up a mess of potash that he calls ragoot. Well named too—smells like boiled eggs. What a lady would want to be eating such glue for when there’s good ham and mutton in her larder is above and beyond me. I like to know what I’m eating. But the Frenchies are all alike, they don’t know a thing about cooking, but only that old French kweezeen. You made a big mistake to hire that foreigner, missie. Eats his weight in toadstools every day. I never saw such a man for stuffing hisself with toadstools, as though he was a fowl to grace the table. At least they’re free. He tossed some of them into your ragoot, but you just pluck them out. Don’t go sullying your insides with parasites.” She was off to rescue Mimi from her governess, and see that that woman didn’t go feeding the child toadstools.

  Mr. Berrigan came to call in the afternoon. He had been a friend of Bernard’s, and had begun his calls as a friend and business adviser to the widow. By the time the busi­ness was settled, he had grown into a suitor, and before many months it was assumed he would escalate into a husband. Malone had not accepted him as a suitor for her mistress yet. He smoked nasty cigars and occasionally ruined his appearance by a Belcher kerchief, but on the other hand he knuckled under to her very mildly, and called her Mrs. Malone, which she rather liked. She had never had a husband nor wanted one, but liked the dignity of being called Mrs.

  Aurora felt a bit out of place when Mr. Berrigan came. It was quite plain he desired privacy with her sister, and lately she thought Marnie wanted a little privacy with him too. After she had chaperoned them for fifteen minutes, she said, “I think I’ll go for a walk in the meadow.”

  “Remember the gypsies are in the forest,” Marnie re­minded her.

  “They are at the far end, where the stream widens. I might just go in a little and pick some wild flowers. There are some lovely bluebells there.”

  She did as she had mentioned, walking slowly through the grass that was already hip-high, soaking up the sun. She picked a few random flowers as she went, and when she got to the edge of the forest, she stopped, undecided. The gypsy camp was three miles away. She would enter just a little. The gray walls of the Dower House were still visible behind her. The gypsies would not be brazen enough to come this close, and wouldn’t harm her, one of the ladies of the place, in any case. Yet as she glanced down at her plain blue dimity gown, she realized she didn’t look so very like a lady. Malone was supervising a washing that afternoon, and had commanded her into this old frock.

  Peering in at the edge of the forest, there was no sound but the cooing of a pair of doves and the soft stirring of the leaves. She saw the patch of bluebells in the near distance and walked quickly toward them. It was cool and sweet-smelling in here, with the slippery bed of fallen pine needles under her feet. A black squirrel sat on his haunches nibbling at a nut. He was tame enough that he didn’t dart off at her approach. She hoped she might be allowed to touch him, but at the last minute he took fright and scampered to a branch to guard his dropped nut jealously. She went on toward the flowers growing in profusion by the stream’s edge, and suddenly heard some noise—the rattle of a harness and the soft thud of horse hooves in the distance. She was a little alarmed, but thought it was very likely the game warden. Clare would have him out today to keep an eye on the gypsies. As a precaution, she ducked behind a tree to determine who the intruder was before showing herself.

  She was glad she had taken the precaution, for it was no game warden, but one of the gypsies. He sat on a sleek black horse, which seemed the proper mount for him. He too was dark and sleek. He stopped at the edge of the stream and stood up in the saddle, throwing both arms out wide. Aurora became alarmed. She thought he was about to go into some gypsy ritual, possibly religious or mystical, but he only yawned, then hopped down from his mount and advanced to the stream. He walked with a soft, silent stride, like a red Indian. There was something furtive, almost feral, about him. He looked about on all sides before he
bent down to the stream and lifted a handful of water. He wasn’t drinking it. Malone was right about that. He smelled it, it seemed, then let it out of his hand.

  Before Aurora could move, he began to strip off his shirt. He wore a dark shirt and no jacket, nor any hat either. He soon stood revealed before her, naked to the waist, with a broad tanned chest, and golden shoulders, well muscled. A black shock of hair fell across his forehead as he knelt down to splash water on his face, arms and chest. The horse, untethered, came forward and began drinking from the stream.

  “Do you mind, Baron?” the man said, and shooed the animal away. “What do you think this is, the Ganges?”

  She was surprised he was so well-spoken. A gypsy, she thought he would have a strange accent. Her impulse was to run, but her exit would not be silent, and what if he should chase her? No, best to stay concealed and make not a sound.

  The horse nuzzled forward again, apparently thirsty. “You have neither manners nor breeding, commoner,” the gypsy said, looking at the horse askance. “Can’t you let a gentleman bathe in peace? And as to drinking my bathwater, don’t think to impress me with that self-abasement.”

  Undismayed, the horse drank on. The man leaned for­ward and immersed his whole head in the cool water. For a minute it seemed he had run mad and was drowning himself. Aurora stared, wondering what to do, but then he raised his head suddenly and shook it like a dog coming out of the water. He brushed the excess from his face with his hands, then turned swiftly to look behind him. His ears must have been excellent, for Aurora heard nothing, but in a few seconds a girl came forward through the trees. She too was gypsy—black hair held in a red kerchief, with golden earrings and a blouse that didn’t seem much to care whether it stayed on or not, but kept shucking off one shoulder. She was young, strikingly attractive in a jungle sort of way. She said some words to the man, while her bold black eyes wandered over his bare torso. She spoke in low tones, her words indistinguishable, but the sound of them not so English as the man’s.

  Soon she was running her fingers over his chest, looking up at him through her lashes with her head tossed back. Hussy! Aurora thought. What a brazen hussy. But perhaps he was her husband. It would take a marriage between them at least to account for such forward behaviour in the young lady’s opinion. When the man put his two bare arms around the girl’s waist and began embracing her quite passionately, Au­rora felt sure they were man and wife, and was petrified lest they begin further intimacies. He was muttering softly in her ears, kissing her shoulders, his hands caress­ing her sides and, oh dear! She turned her head quickly and calculated the distance to the meadow and safety.

  When she looked back, the man had stopped and was telling the girl to go. She pulled off her kerchief and tossed her black tangle of curls back, running her fingers through them while regarding him with a challenging smile.

  “Go on, before I forget I’m a gentleman,” he said, and gave her a pat on the derrière.

  Gentleman! Some gentleman! The girl tossed her shoul­ders, shaking the blouse loose over one, and left, her hips swaying provocatively. The man looked after her with open admiration at her performance. One last inviting glance was cast over the retreating shoulder. The man took a single pace after her, then stopped and returned to his toilette, shaking his head and muttering something. He fumbled in his pocket for a comb, combed his hair, put on his shirt and began stuffing the shirttails into his trousers. He then grabbed the reins of his mount, and Aurora breathed a great sigh of relief. He was going. Her relief was short-lived. A dog, a mutt of no discernible breed, came trotting from the woods, barking strenuously.

  “Shut up, Rags. Do you want to announce to the world we’re here?” the man said.

  It seemed rather a game the mutt had in mind. He picked up a stick and presented it, tail wagging, to his master. The man took it and tossed it across the stream, where it landed not three yards from Aurora’s feet. The mutt bounded joyfully into the water, out the other side, and retrieved the stick. Then his keen sense of smell sent his ears perking up. He sniffed the ground and spotted her, cowering behind the tree.

  The man on the other side of the stream whistled. “Come on, Rags,” he said.

  The dog stayed where he was, the stick forgotten, his tail wagging wildly. He emitted a sharp yap in the direction of his quarry, dropping his stick in his excitement.

  “What is it? Cornered a rabbit? Too bad I don’t have my guns with me.” This was at least a relief. She wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if death was to be her fate. Her heart was in her throat, and she risked a peep from behind the tree. The gypsy was staring hard at her, and in a flash he was bounding across the stream.

  “Well, well. What have we here?” he asked in a playful way, while his black eyes raked her from head to toe. “My lucky day. Girls popping out at me from all sides.” She didn’t say a word, but stood frozen while the dog yapped delightedly at his find.

  “Lucky I just made my toilette,” he continued, rather enjoying her fright, she thought. He looked around care­fully and shushed the dog. Privacy, concealment, was his wish, and she trembled to consider why this should be. In her dismay the flowers fell on the ground in a heap.

  The gypsy looked at them and laughed. “All your labour wasted. But then you had a free show, so your afternoon was not entirely in vain. I usually charge a fee for performing, you know,” he said, and put his fingers on her chin. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? She couldn’t get a single syllable out of her constricted throat.

  “Before you succumb to an apoplexy, my girl, let me tell you I have just passed up a more appetizing armful than you will ever be, and am not about to ravish you. Where do you come from?”

  She pointed to the west, unable to speak.

  “Where? The Dower House?”

  She nodded. “Do you work there?” he asked.

  “No,” she squeaked out.

  He regarded her dimity frock. “Not Lady Raiker, by any chance?” he asked ironically.

  “Yes!” she said, knowing, or feeling at least, that he would not dare molest Lady Raiker.

  “Isn’t that a coincidence, for I am Lord Raiker,” he said, and threw back his head and laughed. “I was going to let you go free, but for that plumper you will pay a forfeit.” He then pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips. She was too stunned to speak, too frightened to move. She was like a stone statue in his arms.

  After a brief moment he let her go. “I strongly recom­mend you never take up lovemaking as a profession, miss. You haven’t the knack for it,” he said bluntly, and re­leased her. “Now, tell me who you really are, and never mind pretending to be Lady Raiker. Do you live at the Dower House?” It was suddenly business, no more, no less, and her terror lessened.

  “Yes.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  “Lady Raiker.”

  ‘‘Which one?’’

  “The younger one.

  “And Clare, the dowager?” he asked, with a strange smile.

  “At Raiker Hall.”

  “I thought so! Her son—he lives with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do they get on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do they live in a high style? Has she availed herself of the baron’s income?”

  “Certainly. She is the baron’s mother.”

  “I see. You can go now, but I don’t suggest you go gathering flowers while we gypsies are about. They are not all so well behaved as I am.”

  She checked his face for signs of irony, and decided he meant to let her off this easily. She took one step, then he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Before you dash off, who are you? What do you do at the Dower House?”

  “I’m Miss Falkner, Lady Raiker’s sister. I keep her company.”

  “Good God!” he said, and dropped her arm as though it had burned him. “You can’t be! Though there is a resem­blance. . . .” He looked at her face closely, examining it, and appea
red to be convinced

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I mistook you for one of the house girls. So you are Marnie’s sister.”

  “Who are you?” she was emboldened enough to ask, but in a shaking voice.

  “You’ll learn soon enough. I shall be seeing you again. And Miss Falkner—now how shall I phrase it? I would appreciate it if our little meeting could be forgotten, if I could be forgotten for a few days. If you would assume a polite uninterest when next we meet.”

  The dog became impatient with this conversation and began demanding attention. “All right, I’m coming,” the gypsy said.

  Aurora stood staring after his broad, straight back, and was still looking in fascination as he hopped up on his mount and turned it around. With a wave, he nudged the horse with his heels and clattered off into the forest. The woods fell silent again, as man, horse and dog vanished from her view. The doves, she noticed, were still cooing.

  She didn’t wait to gather up her flowers, but dashed quickly from the forest into the broad daylight of the meadow. The whole episode seemed like a dream. She walked home slowly, pondering it all. The gypsy so well-spoken, so curious about the family, so knowledgeable, knowing Clare’s name, and that she had a son. Hadn’t he also used Marnie’s name? “So you are Marnie’s sister.”

  Marnie said they came every year. It was their custom perhaps to discover what they could of the places they stopped. For the fortune-tellers, so they could make their palm reading to the point? If they knew Marnie was a widow, for instance, they might provide her with a hand­some stranger, to please her. That must be it. But why had he said he would see her again? And why asked her to be silent about their meeting? She must tell, of course. Cer­tainly the family must be warned how close the gypsies came to the house.