The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (47 page)

T
he party that assembled in the hall an hour later was merry, but somewhat diminished. Violante was still unwell, and Hortense, who was fluent in Italian and not fond of the cold, offered to sit with her. Aunt Dorcas refused again to go, insisting the vibrations were bad and the weather would turn, her beady eye fixed firmly on Aquinas. I had no doubt she would insist on a hot tray for both elevenses and luncheon, and a fire in the library. From what Father had told me, it was apparent her food allowance did not extend to the luxuries one might find in the larders at Bellmont Abbey. No doubt when she left the house her trunks would be stuffed with vintage champagne and tins of caviar and lobster, but it would be rude to search them.

The rest of us made a picturesque group. The gentlemen were in country tweeds, even Plum, although he sported a velvet waistcoat in a particularly virulent shade of cerise. He carried his sketchbook, and his pockets bulged, doubtless with pencils and gums and grubby bits of charcoal. Brisbane too wore country attire, though his arm was confined in a black woollen sling now, and over his dark tweeds he had thrown an enormous black greatcoat. A man of lesser inches would never have carried it off, but he did so quite impressively. As usual, he was hatless, and as usual, his thick black hair was just unruly enough that I had to thrust my hands into my pockets like a schoolboy to keep from organising it.

In contrast, Father was dressed like a pedlar of dubious origin. His tweeds were thirty years out of fashion, and his shirt, though made for him by the finest tailor in London, had been stained with ink and tobacco until the cuffs were quite disreputable. He wore a cape one of the grandchildren must have unearthed from the dressing-up box, all bright red wool and braided gilt trim, like something out of Gilbert and Sullivan. To complete the ensemble, he had clapped a crumpled deerstalker on his head and wrapped a length of sky-blue velvet about his neck.

In comparison, the ladies were a vision of decorum. Lucy and Emma were nearly identical in grey flannel, serviceable as anything a governess might wear. Lucy had attempted to brighten hers with a jaunty green bow, to mildly depressing effect. Mrs. King, in simple black merino, and Portia, in green tweed with a dashing feather in her hat,
were more decorative. My own costume, a delicious purple tweed edged in violet velvet, was not entirely unflattering, I decided, smoothing my cuffs.

“Do stop that,” Portia muttered in my ear. “Yes, the fabric is divine and the cut is perfection. You needn’t
preen.
”

I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane’s gaze on me, his expression thoughtful. It was not the first time he had witnessed such behaviour on my part, and I turned away, my face hot, as Father began ordering us about.

“All right, I make it twelve of us then. Can’t all possibly fit in two carriages, so I have ordered horses for the gentlemen. Not you of course, Brisbane,” he said with a chuckle. “I suppose you had best ride with the ladies.” Brisbane did not smile.

In the end, Alessandro and Plum elected to ride with us as well, and after a short delay a second carriage was brought round. There was a jolly scramble for seats, and I was surprised to find myself sharing a carriage with Brisbane, Alessandro, and Mrs. King. I could not have engineered a more awkward arrangement, but when Portia winked at me as she hoisted herself into her own conveyance, I had little doubt she had had a hand in it.

“Oh, this is cosy!” Mrs. King declared as the footman slammed the door. The horses sprang and she gave a little shriek. Opposite me, Brisbane flinched, and I could not help but prod him a little.

“I do hope the motion of the carriage does not jostle your arm, my lord,” I said. “I know how painful those falls can be. I remember a dozen devilish tosses when I was
learning to ride. I was quite purple with bruises for the whole of that summer.”

“I am perfectly well,” he said blandly.

“I am glad to hear it,” I replied, mimicking his tone. He shot me a black look, but I ignored it and turned to Mrs. King.

“Now, Mrs. King, you must tell me what you think of my home. But I warn you, I am quite partial and will not be swayed from thinking it the most perfect of spots.”

“Oh, I quite agree!” she exclaimed. She proceeded to comment on everything we passed—the symmetry of the maze, the magnificence of the bell tower, the cleverness of the carp ponds.

And then she saw the gates. She went into raptures about the iron hares that topped them, the darling little gatehouse, the pretty shrubbery by the road. Another twenty minutes was spent on the straightness of the linden
allée,
and by the time we reached the village of Blessingstoke, my ears had gone numb with the effort of listening to her. Brisbane had spent the entire journey staring out the window, while Alessandro was fixed upon Mrs. King, regarding her with an expression of bemusement. He handed me out of the carriage on our arrival, and I asked him,
sotto voce,
if he was all right.

“So many words,” he murmured. “I did not think one person could know so many words.”

I patted his arm and made soothing noises at him until Brisbane poked him less than gently. “Terribly sorry, but would you mind?”

Alessandro stepped aside with a flurry of apologies as
Brisbane climbed down from the carriage and extended his good hand to Mrs. King.

“Never mind,” I told Alessandro, tucking my arm through his. “Let me show you Blessingstoke.”

It had been arranged we would take luncheon with Uncle Fly once we had toured the village, and then pay our visit to the Roma camp. This pleased me, if for no other reason than it provided us with an opportunity to escape Mrs. King. Alessandro and I proceeded directly toward the village church of St. Barnabas, an elaborate confection of neo-Gothicism at its worst. It put me in mind of a great cake, frosted with sugar angels and roses and every possible embellishment the masons could imagine. Alessandro declared it was nothing to touch the elegance of the Abbey, and I smiled at him in approbation. I guided him through the tiny churchyard where a gloomy crypt stood watch over Marches who slumbered away the centuries beneath stones green with mould. I showed him the wishing well, just beyond the lych-gate, where legend told that wishes would be granted if two people sipped from the well at the same time. He made to unpin his sleeves to take up the bucket, but I stopped him, pointing out Mrs. King, headed in our direction, chattering as she clung to Brisbane’s good arm. We scurried away in the direction of the baker’s where we met Sir Cedric and Lucy, and Alessandro was introduced to the delights of a Bath bun and a glass of cider. We glimpsed Mrs. King once more, Brisbane in tow, but managed to avoid her by ducking into the linen draper’s. I purchased a quantity of pretty silver ribbon, enough to
trim a gown and Florence’s coat as well, although I was quite certain Morag would charge me treble her fee when she saw it.

I had just concluded my transaction when the bell of St. Barnabas struck one, the appointed hour for luncheon. As we made our way to the vicarage, I noticed Alessandro seemed very quiet. I drummed my fingers lightly on his arm, and he smiled.

“I am not a good companion today,” he said ruefully.

“You are woolgathering,” I teased.

His expression clouded. “Woolgathering? I am no shepherd.”

I laughed, but lightly so as not to hurt his pride. “Woolgathering is a silly expression. It means you are thinking of other matters, like building castles in Spain.”

“Spain?”

I sighed. “Another one of our idioms.”

“But why Spain? It is too hot, too rocky. If I were going to build a castle, it must be in Toscana.”

“Yes, Tuscany is the best place for castles,” I agreed solemnly.

He looked at me, his liquid dark eyes intent with emotion. “You think so? You would like to live in a castle in Toscana?”

Something had shifted between us, faintly, but the change was almost palpable. Our friendship had sat lightly between us, an ephemeral thing, without weight or gravity. Once, in the Boboli Gardens, under the shadow of a cypress tree on an achingly beautiful October afternoon,
he had kissed me, a solemnly sweet and respectful kiss. But weeks had passed and we had not spoken of it. I had attributed it to the sunlight, shimmering gold like Danaë’s shower, and had pressed it into the scrapbook of memory, to be taken out and admired now and then, but not to be dwelled upon too seriously. Perhaps I had been mistaken.

“Who would not?” I countered, a lightness to my voice I did not feel. I tugged at his arm. “Come now. We mustn’t be late or they will begin without us.”

We hurried along, Alessandro trailing a bit behind. He looked a trifle defeated, like a scolded puppy. As I had neither the time nor the inclination to coax him out of his melancholy, I did the next best thing, and seated him next to Portia at luncheon. She could be relied upon to flirt with him outrageously, and hopefully restore his good spirits in the process.

To my dismay, Uncle Fly looked worse than expected. His overindulgence had left him pale and not inclined to eat, although he waved us to the table and encouraged us to heap our plates. His cook was a local woman, very competent, and the food was almost as delicious as anything one could find at the Abbey.

Mr. Snow took the seat next to mine, and I was surprised to find I did not mind. His views on the Roma were simply appalling, but he was still a personable and charming man, and when the subject of the Gypsies was raised again, he merely shrugged and said pleasantly, “I am prepared to be educated.”

This caused me to warm to him considerably, and alto
gether, luncheon was a thoroughly satisfactory affair. When it was concluded and the last plates had been scraped clean of apple cake and cream and the last cups of coffee drunk to the dregs, Uncle Fly waved us along.

“I mean to take to my bed. A bit of rest and I shall be right as rain. Snow can show you through the conservatory—mind you don’t disturb my orchids,” he finished with a severe look at Snow.

Snow’s glossy gold brows drew together. “I am only too happy to guide our guests, but I shall worry for you, sir. Is there anything you require?”

Uncle Fly’s expression was sour. “A glass of bismuth and a hot brick in flannel,” he replied tartly. “Take a length of brown paper and a few buckets for Miss Lucy’s flowers. She will want some for the altar as well.”

Snow nodded and rose to hold my chair. We thanked Uncle Fly and flocked out of the snug vicarage and into the humid warmth of the conservatory. Lucy squealed in delight when she saw the profusion of white heather, a full month before one might expect to see it flowering on the heath. Uncle Fly had even managed to coax a few white violets to appear, and Snow wrapped those as well, careful to pack them in a bit of damp moss. A very polite argument broke out between Father and Snow as to whether the fragile blooms would survive until Saturday, but Lucy had fairly swooned at the sight of them, and Snow promised to look after them personally. In the end, two large buckets were filled with armfuls of heather, and the clumps of violets and a few other dainties were heaped carefully into a trug.

Snow and Mr. Ludlow carried them to the carriages, along with Snow’s small travelling case. He was joining our house party to help with the wedding preparations and share in the festivities. And perhaps to perform the ceremony as well, if Uncle Fly was not better in four days’ time, I thought ruefully. He rode with Emma, Lucy, and Portia to the Gypsy camp. It was a short journey, but long enough to send Mrs. King into raptures about the quaintness of the village, the picturesque beauty of the Gypsies, and the excellence of their site in the river meadow. The gaily painted caravans were particularly enchanting to her with their bowed tops. There were only a few of these. The majority of the Roma still lived in tents, and some of the caravan owners slept out in tents when the weather was holding fine.

We alighted and immediately were surrounded by a flurry of activity. Children ran to us chattering excitedly, while their parents moved more sedately, the men to take the horses, the women to offer us the bitter tea brewed over their cooking fires. Although most strangers were treated with suspicion, we were greeted with affection because of Father. I noticed Snow, watching with a benevolent expression, and I wondered if he was indeed prepared to be of liberal mind. If any group of Roma was likely to change his views, it was this. Comprised of three families, all related in various degrees, they were flamboyant and emotional, but also easygoing and amiable. I had known most of them from childhood, and they greeted me now, embracing me fondly and asking after my health.

The spoke to us in English—Romany was not a gift they shared with outsiders—but I heard a thread of it carried on the wind as an elderly woman scolded her granddaughter for dropping a basket of washing. I flicked a glance at Brisbane. He gave every appearance of not hearing or understanding, but I knew he was drinking in every word and, moreover, that he knew I was watching. Romany had been his first language, taken with mother’s milk, although he rarely spoke it, and few knew he was a half-blood. With his faint burr—a souvenir of his boyhood in Edinburgh—he passed as a Scot among Englishmen, although rumours still abounded that he was a Bonaparte, a bastard prince perhaps, who would look well in an emperor’s robes. Others said he was a Spanish adventurer; still others claimed he was Turkish or Greek, with the blood of sultans or minor gods running in his veins.

But one only had to see him with his own kind to realise how absurd those stories were. No one could match the Roma for their proud carriage, the elegance of their walk. In Brisbane, the line of his profile, the smoothness of his gait, even the way he held his head, all betrayed him for what he was, and I was astonished the rest of our party did not see it at once.

I had not realised I was staring so long, but he turned his head then, just enough to catch my gaze. I knew he was thinking of the other time we had visited a Gypsy camp together—the first time I had seen him with his own people, the first time I had heard him speak the language, the musical syllables spilling from his tongue like the sweetest wine, the first time he had kissed me.