A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

4

“I don’t know how you got me to do this,” Lucy muttered to Bessie, drawing her cloak closer around her body. It was nearly midnight, and they were on their way to Linley Park to see the gypsies. Ever since yesterday at church, when she had heard that the gypsies had encamped nearby, Bessie had insisted she needed to speak with them.

Now they were making their way through gaping shadows and dark fields, against Lucy’s better judgment. Visiting gypsies during Lent seemed a bad idea, let alone in the deep of night.

“I am deathly afraid to go alone,” Bessie had pleaded with her, “but I will, I swear it, if you won’t come with me.”

Try as she might, Lucy could not get Bessie to tell her what question she was seeking to answer. Lucy had frowned, but she knew she could not let her friend go alone.

Thankfully, the moon was bright and full. Moving quickly, they began to warm up. Sporadic shouts and boisterous laughter from late-night revelers reached their ears, but as the girls moved away from the public thoroughfares, the world grew steadily darker and quieter. The sound of an occasional branch breaking behind them would make them whirl around, fearing a wolf or a wild dog at every turn.

Bessie stopped abruptly, gripping Lucy’s arm. “There!” she said, pointing to a hill that loomed before them. Tiny flickers of campfires could be seen in the distance. For a moment, the two girls huddled together, uncertain whether to venture forward or to run home.

A moment later, the decision was out of their hands when a hoarse voice called to them out of the darkness. “Come you to hear your fortune, did you now?”

Lucy could not tell if the voice was of a man or a woman, so rasping and harsh it was. She waited for Bessie to speak, but she seemed struck dumb. A heavily shrouded figure stepped out of the shadows and appeared to be waiting.

Lucy found her tongue. “Yes, we wish to have our fortunes read.” She hesitated. “If you please, ma’am.”

The old woman barked, a rough mirthless sound. She jerked her thumb toward a campfire. “Over there. Maraid, she’s waiting for you.”

Gripping each other’s arms, the girls sat down, warily watching the woman called Maraid. The fire made Maraid’s hair and skin shine, as if the flames dwelled within her deepest being. Frankly, it unnerved Lucy.

Bessie passed her a bit of silver. The woman took Bessie’s hand and held it to the light of the fire. She looked up at Bessie and then at Lucy. She sighed, a long weary breath. “I remember you, child.”

Lucy looked at Bessie in surprise. She wondered when Maraid had read her fortune before.

The gypsy continued. “I remember your hand. ’Tis no new fortune I can tell you, I’m afraid. There is a darkness upon you, but as I told you before, it does not have to be that way.”

Seeing Bessie’s face blanch, she added more gently, “But you have not come all this way to hear the same fortune. You have paid your silver. You may ask me one question.”

Bessie whispered something in the gypsy’s ear. The woman frowned, shadows dancing across her ageless face. She shook her head. “This I cannot see. There is a veil down across that time. From what you have told me, I do not believe it shall pass as you like.”

Seeing Bessie’s crestfallen face, Maraid added, “You have many who love you and will tend to you, including this loyal friend here.”

The gypsy turned to Lucy. Something about Maraid drew Lucy in, almost against her will. The crackling fire added odd sparks, so it looked almost as if there were fire within her eyes.

Lucy looked at her tattered clothes, a hodgepodge of colors, including a brightly embroidered red sash wrapped around her waist. It caught her attention. She pointed at it. “That’s lovely.”

Maraid’s eyes flickered to the beautiful young woman tending the fire. “Yes, it is,” she agreed, “but it comes from a dark place.”

The young woman scowled, and a new tension tightened around them. A shadow passed, scratching a cold place upon Lucy’s neck. Eager to be off, Lucy urged Bessie to stand. “We’d better go.”

As the girls scurried out of the gypsy’s camp, Lucy felt they were being watched, a feeling she could not shake for all the dark journey home. Adding to her unease, although Lucy pressed, Bessie refused to tell her what she had sought from the gypsies.

* * *

Lucy sighed a bit impatiently, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders, watching the sun set. Since their visit to the gypsies the day before, Bessie had grown more jumpy and anxious. To make matters worse, Bessie had been gone for much of today, and Lucy had been covering all her duties. This could work during the day, when Sarah and the mistress did not need to be tended to, but tonight they were dining out and would soon require Bessie’s expert hairdressing skills.

Lucy bit her lip, peering down the dimly lit road to see if she could make out Bessie or her red cape. “Where is she?” The sound of her own voice startled her. Soon someone would surely notice their absence from the house. She had a package holding Adam’s shoes, and she thought they could pretend they’d been at the shoemaker, although there was no good reason that two of them would have been needed to tend to this task.

Even in her head, the story sounded false. She could hear their questions. “Why did you not say you would return when the shoemaker had finished Master Adam’s shoes? Why did you both need to stay?” Most frightening of all, “Where were you? What have you been doing?” If they were caught, surely the mistress would punish them. Most likely, she would refuse to let them attend Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade coming up in a few days’ time.

Lucy sighed. Perhaps no one would ask them to explain their absence. Cook would be easy enough to satisfy, to be sure. But Master Hargrave! She gulped. It would almost be like lying to God. She shivered. Bessie just had to make haste.

Hearing a quick step behind her, she jumped.

“Lucy!” Bessie whispered. “It’s me!”

Lucy faced her. Two red spots stood high in Bessie’s cheeks. Her hair was falling from her cap, and her skirt was rumpled as though she had run a long way. “Fix your skirts!” Lucy whispered fiercely. “We were at the shoemaker’s this long while, understand?”

Lucy’s fears, however, were for naught. The master and mistress had decided to stay in for the evening and had taken a small, quiet supper in their room. The mistress had not needed Bessie to help her dress. Adam and Lucas were out, no doubt at the tavern. Cook accepted their explanation without question and set them to work preparing for tomorrow’s dinner. John, sharpening knives by the fire, glanced at them but said nothing.

Not until they were preparing for bed did Lucy press Bessie about her whereabouts that afternoon. A sudden color rose in Bessie’s cheeks and she half smiled, revealing the little dimple in her cheek and her slightly cracked tooth. With her golden curls loosened about her face, she looked like an angel.

“Were you with Will again?” Lucy demanded.

Bessie looked away. “Lucy, actually, Will and I quarreled. I was—somewhere else.” She stammered, “I, uh, went out, um, to see my sister. Her little boy was, um, sick. I wanted to see if she needed me.”

As if she’d heard how feeble her reply was, Bessie’s next words came out a little strongly, tumbling over one another. “He’s so prone to the sickness, you see, ever since he had the ague.”

“Did he have need of a bleeding?” Lucy asked slowly, climbing into the bed beside Bessie.

Bessie pulled the cover up. “Oh, no, he’s looking to recover soon, the doctor said. And Lucy…”

“Hmmmm?”

“Thank you.”

Lucy felt Bessie roll over to go to sleep. Listening to her friend’s deep breaths, Lucy brooded silently. How, Bessie. How did you know the baby was sick? No messenger had come to the house. Poor Bessie, who could not make up a lie to save her life.

“You weren’t at your sister’s house,” Lucy whispered. “Where were you?”