From Across the Ancient Waters (25 page)

“What is that strange building there,” asked Percy, pointing to his right down a narrow lane, “with the funny roof and purple doors and windows and all the statues about?”

“That’s Madame Fleming’s house—the fortune-teller.”

“A fortune-teller? You must be joking!”

“No, really,” replied Florilyn.

Suddenly her face lit. “Percy!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go get our fortunes told!”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, let’s. Can we, please? I’ve always wanted to. I would be afraid to go alone. But with you, I wouldn’t be. Oh, let’s do!”

Though he had never once spoken with them about such things, somehow Percy knew that his parents would strongly disapprove of his setting foot inside such a place as Madame Fleming’s. His father would also remind him, as the man and the older of the two, that if it lay within his power, he had a responsibility to protect his cousin from harm.

Yet the youthful spirit of adventure proved an irresistible lure. For once Florilyn was being nice. He didn’t want to snub her only request on the first day she had made an effort to have fun with him. He thus found it impossible to deny her.

They turned and made their way down the narrow lane. Suddenly the village grew quiet around them. To their ears, the
clop, clop, clop
of the horses’ hooves echoed louder than Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd’s anvil on Sunday morning. It seemed to announce to everyone within earshot what they were about to do.

Florilyn glanced around nervously. Her father would probably whip her for this, too, if he found out. But she was determined not to back out now.

Slowly they approached the house. Percy shuddered as he looked at the steeply slanted roof with its weird ornaments at the corners and the occult weathervane at the apex. All around the house, the assortment of statues of goblins and dwarfs and trolls silently seemed to shout, “Stay away; there is evil here. Come if you will, but leave the past behind. Here lies your future … and it may fill you with dread.”

They came to a halt and slowly dismounted. Even the two horses seemed ill at ease and moved about with jittery feet. They tied them to a nearby rail.

Percy glanced along the adjacent street. He could just see one wall of Grannie’s cottage a hundred feet away. He thought to himself that he would rather visit her. But it would take a more than moderate-sized miracle to get Florilyn into that house of light. Yet she was eager to visit this house of darkness in front of them and was already halfway from the street to the door. Reluctantly he turned and followed her.

They walked onto the porch. Percy glanced at the sign above the door, ornate with snakes and horrid-looking animals and faces. M
ADAME
F
LEMING
, P
SYCHIC
—F
ORTUNES AND
F
UTURES
F
ORETOLD
, he read.

Florilyn rang the bell. “I hope no one sees us!” she whispered. “My parents would kill me if they knew I was visiting the old hag.”

The door opened. A face appeared, shrouded in darkness from behind. Percy shivered at the ghostly sight. The woman’s countenance was pale and wrinkled. Out of deep, dark sockets, eyes of black shone above lips painted bright red. A purple-orange scarf of silk covered the hair above the face. From the woman’s ears hung gaudy ringlets of gold and silver.

A tingle of terror swept through Florilyn’s body. “We have come to get our fortunes told,” she said, her voice shaky. “May we come in? I don’t want anyone to see us.”

“Come in … come in, my sweets,” said the woman. “Your fortunes told is it you’re wanting? You’ve come to the right place.” She opened the door just wide enough for them to squeeze through then shut it noiselessly behind them.

Peculiar aromas assaulted them, and sights too strange to be told. Candles flickered throughout the room. Burning incense was so thick as to hover over them like a visible cloud. It was not sufficient in itself, however, to completely overwhelm the smell of the old woman herself. The interior of the place was furnished with peculiar ornaments and statues and furniture such as surrounded the exterior. Silks and tapestries covered the windows and hung throughout in the dim light, along with beads and draperies and a few paintings. The only item of immediately recognizable design was a bookshelf that stood against one wall, filled with books of dubious origin and purpose.

“Come, my sweets,” said the woman. “Come through and sit with Madame Fleming.” Her voice was old and scratchy, thick with Bulgarian or Russian accent. That it was fake was a fact lost entirely on the wide-eyed cousins. The good Madame Fleming was as Irish as any self-respecting leprechaun, but she carried off the gypsy charade to convincing effect.

She led them into a small anteroom and waddled around a table that sat in the middle of the floor. A single candle burned in its center. She eased her plump frame into an upright chair on the far side of the table. “Sit … sit down, my sweets,” she said.

As if they had been expected, two empty chairs awaited them. They sat down opposite her.

“So it’s your futures and fortunes told, is it?” she said again.

Florilyn nodded.

“It will be a shilling each, then … in advance.”

Even at the best of times, the good Madame Fleming’s sign would never have read, F
ORTUNES
T
OLD AND
F
ORTUNES
M
ADE
, for there was not great money to be had in her chosen line of endeavor. But she would do well for herself on this day. The quoted price was three times her going rate. Like a spider in her lair, she had seen the two innocents coming through a slit in the curtain hanging over one of her windows and knew well enough who they were. If the inmates from the manor up the hill intended to purchase her wares, she would make them pay as befitted their means.

Percy and Florilyn looked at one another. Neither had considered the practical aspects of the case. Florilyn had not so much as a ha’penny on her. Percy always carried a few coins, but two shillings was unexpectedly steep. Regretting his acquiescence to this questionable enterprise all the more, he dug into his pocket and took out everything he had. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking over his meager resources. “It looks like I’ve only got one shilling sixpence.” He began to rise. “Here, take the shilling. You can tell hers. I don’t need my fortune told.”

“Sit … sit, my sweet,” said the woman. “I am feeling generous today. A shilling sixpence it is. You shall both leave knowing what your futures will bring.”

Percy laid down the coins. Quickly they disappeared across the table away from him in the midst of a large fleshy palm.

Slowly Percy sat back down.

“Give me your hand, young lady,” said Madame Fleming.

Tentatively Florilyn held out her hand. A tingle of electric current surged through her at the touch from the woman’s leathery fingers. The psychic closed her eyes. Her lips began to move but remained silent. Florilyn stared with eyes as wide as saucers. The candle flickered and shadows danced on the walls and ceiling. There was no other movement, no sound.

After what seemed an eternity, the woman’s lips stilled. Her eyelids quivered and slowly opened. She leaned forward and peered intently into Florilyn’s hand. She began mumbling again to herself, running one finger up and down and across the lines of Florilyn’s palm.

“I don’t know who you are, young lady,” she said at length. Her voice was thick from the East and full of exotic mystery. “But I see a great change coming to you. An inheritance that is yours will be taken away. Another will be given you in its place that is greater yet. Evildoers will try to take advantage of you and steal what is yours. But you will find love, and one will be faithful to you, though he is the least in your eyes. He will be your protector, and thus you will gain your inheritance in the end.”

“What does it
mean?”
said Florilyn, trembling with the terrible thrill of mystic unknown.

“I cannot say,” replied Madame Fleming in a voice of hidden wisdom. “The eyes of the oracle only pass on what they see and what secrets the hand divulges.” Keeping Florilyn’s palm clasped in the fingers of her own right hand, she reached toward Percy with her left. “And now you, young man.”

Percy hesitated.

The woman’s open hand stretched toward him.

“No,” said Percy after a moment. “I don’t want you looking at my hand.”

“There is nothing to fear.”

“I am not afraid. But I—”

His father’s face rose before Percy’s mind’s eye. The expression was calm and purposeful. It steadied him. His father was staring into Percy’s soul. Suddenly Percy realized that he
loved
his father and knew that his father was a
good
man and full of truth.

“No,” he repeated. “I do not think my father would be pleased.”

“Your
father?”
chided Madame Fleming. “Are you not your own man?”

“I am my father’s son,” said Percy. He rose. “Let’s go, Florilyn.”

“Wait,” said Madame Fleming. “Even without your hand, I can see that though you are poor, you shall be rich, for you will find love and wealth together where you least expect them. Yet great pain will accompany the journey where you will discover—”

“That’s enough,” said Percy. “I will listen to no more. Florilyn, I am going.” He left the anteroom and walked back through the large dark room toward the door.

Terrified to be left alone, Florilyn pulled her hand away, jumped up, and hurried after him.

Back in the sunshine of the street, Percy drew in a deep breath and exhaled. He felt as if he needed to rid himself of the spell of the place.

“Why did you rush out like that?” said Florilyn. “It was just getting interesting.”

“She gives me the creeps. I didn’t like being there.”

“What about everything she said?”

“It means nothing. They just make that stuff up,” said Percy. “Let’s get out of here,” he added as he took Grey Tide’s reins and hastily mounted.

Inside the strange abode, Madame Fleming chuckled to herself as again she peeped through her window at her jumpy young customers. They would be back. She had given them enough to whet their appetite with all that nonsense about inheritances and evil people and wealth and love. She knew her words would worm their way into their minds, especially the girl’s. The day would come when she would want to know more. Today’s purpose had only been to bait the hook.

Her most lucrative profits were derived from repeat visits.

Below Stairs

A
gentle knock came to the open stable door behind Westbrooke Manor. “I say, Hollin, my auld frien’,” sounded a voice thick with accent from the north, “be ye ben?”

“Ay, is that you, Richard?” replied Radnor. “I’m inside—come in, come in!”

“‘Deed, ‘tis me,” said the visitor, Richard Hawarden, entering the darkened barn. “Ye maun hae kenned my tongue, I’m thinkin’.”

“There’s no mistaking the tongue of a Scot any more than there is that of an old Welshman,” rejoined the viscount’s groom. He walked out of the dark with a smile and a hand extended to his longtime friend from Burrenchobay Hall. “What brings you all this way from the Hall?”

“Jist yer ain stables. ‘Tisna anither finer in all Gwynedd, as a’body kens.”

“Lord Snowdon takes pride in his stock, that’s the truth,” remarked Radnor. “What is it you need?”

“A four-horse harness. Sir Armond has taen it intil’s heid tae hae a jaunt aboot the coontryside the morn’s morn wi’ ane o’ his Lonnen frien’s frae parliament an’ a’ the rest o”em. He wants t’ tak oot twa coaches wi’ four, an’ we haena but the ane harness.”

“I think I have just what you’ll be needing. But it’s nigh eleven. Come inside and join us for tea.”

The groom led his counterpart from the neighboring estate out the door and toward the kitchen. Already the cook was pouring out eleven o’clock refreshment for the rest of the servants.

“You brought a guest, I see, Hollin,” she said. “Welcome to you, Richard.”

“Thank ye—and hoo are ye, Mrs. Drenwydd?”

“Well as can be expected,” replied the woman in her customary fashion.

The two grooms sat down. Presently Broakes, the butler; Stuart Wyckham, the gardener; Mrs. Llewellyn, the housekeeper; and Deaken Trenchard, the viscount’s footman, all entered. Greetings with the Burrenchobay groom were exchanged all around. They had just started on a loaf of sliced bread when Percy came through on his way outside.

“Tea, Master Percival?” asked the cook.

“Oh, that is very nice of you. But no, thank you, Mrs. Drenwydd,” he replied, “I’m off for a ride.” He shook hands with each of those present in turn.

She introduced him to their guest.

Hollin Radnor slowly uncoiled his lanky frame and rose from his chair, thinking to accompany Percy out to the stables.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Radnor,” protested Percy. “I’ll saddle her. I think Grey Tide is used to me now.”

“I’m happy to—”

“Don’t worry. I’ve watched you do it a dozen times. I’d like to try it myself.”

The groom sat back down with a smile. Percy left the kitchen and headed toward the stables. “A muckle daecent chap, it seems tae me,” remarked Sir Armond’s groom.

Nods went around the room.

“A pleasant smile on the lad’s face as weel. An’ he gie me a fine grip o’ his han’.”

“I only wish the lad of the house were as interested in horses as his cousin,” remarked Radnor.

“Or anything else for that matter,” added Stuart Wyckham.

“‘Tis jist hoo things stan’ at oor place,” rejoined Hawarden. “Seems the yoong ones are the wairst o’ it fer manners. I dinna like tae be aroun’ when Master Colville comes wantin’ a mount, though he comes searchin’ fer me if I’m nae there. He’d ne’er dirty
his
fair hands saddlin’ a horse! Luckily he’s tae be off soon.”

“To the continent, I hear,” said Mrs. Drenwydd.

“Ay.”

“The viscount and Sir Armond have spoken of a match between the two, I hear,” now put in Lady Katherine’s housekeeper.

“Master Colville and Lady Florilyn, you’re meaning?” asked Trenchard.