She smiled, slowly. Her eyelids fluttered and I realised she was staring up at my diamonds. One small hand extended, reaching towards my neck.
‘Not now, Hetta. Your hands are filthy. You can look at my necklace later.’ I swatted her away and glared at the boy. He held his ground, unwholesome urchin that he was. ‘As for you . . . You should not be here. You know it well. This is your last warning.’
Belatedly, he snatched his cap from his head. ‘Please, mistress. I’m only come looking for work.’
‘Gypsies do not work—’ I began, but Hetta tugged at my arm. She gave me one of the signs we have made between us. Horse. ‘He has stolen my horse?’
She shook her head vehemently. Her lips puckered with frustration, as they always do when she cannot make herself understood. Horse. Boy. Horse.
The boy squirmed. He spoke to her in his canting gypsy language. It sounded infernal; all tongues, like something demonic. But she seemed to understand him, for she nodded and grunted.
‘Miss Henrietta Maria . . .’ He looked at me, eyes black as pitch. ‘Miss thinks you’d let me work here. With the horses.’
I wondered how he knew that; how he dared to presume he understood Hetta when I did not. ‘I would not let you within a hundred yards of my horses,’ I scoffed. ‘You would steal them.’
Hetta dropped my hand.
‘Please, mistress. Please. My people are good with horses. Now your steward has cleared us off the common, what will we do? How will I eat?’
I paused. He really did look pitiful, cringing there all ragged. Hetta signed to me again. Nothing.
‘I know they have nothing, Hetta. It is not my fault.’
No, that wasn’t it. Boy. Nothing.
‘We have stolen nothing,’ he said softly. Her eyes lit up and for an instant I begrudged him that. What communion was it he shared with my daughter – my creation? I did not want him near her. ‘In all the years we have lived on this common for the summer, we have stolen nothing from you.’
‘That may be. But I will have the King’s horses in my stable. Do you understand? How can I risk that? What would he say, if a gypsy took his horse? He would hold my husband responsible. It would ruin us.’
Hetta held out her hands.
‘You will need extra hands,’ he said. ‘For the King’s visit. Plenty of stable hands. You will be rushed off your feet.’
‘Then we will employ men. Not a gypsy boy.’
Hetta stamped her foot. To my astonishment, she put her hands to my leg and shoved me.
My temper flared. I was no longer in the gardens of The Bridge but at home, years ago. Mary was dashing for the tray of sweetmeats, pushing me aside. Laughing as I fell. Fury burnt into my hand.
The noise of our skin connecting was louder than any cry. I gasped. My handprint was red on Hetta’s cheek. I have never struck her before.
I shall never forget the hurt – the passion nearly akin to hate – burning in her eyes. ‘Oh Hetta! Pray forgive me. I did not mean to – you should not hit me! You are being so wilful today.’
Furtively, my eyes sought the window. Thank heavens, Josiah was not there. He did not see my daughter act like the hoyden he accused her of being.
‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble, mistress.’ The boy put his cap back on. ‘All I wanted was to work. I’ll be going now. Goodbye, Miss Henrietta Maria.’
A sound tore from Hetta’s lips: an awful noise, like an animal in pain. She ran after him and grabbed his coat. I cannot say what passed between them. He spoke resignedly in that heathen language and she responded with hand signals I have never seen before. At last, she let him go.
Hetta turned to her herb patch and began to clip the thistles. She did not look at me, but I saw her profile. The resentment had drained from her face. Everything vital had gone, leaving naught but sorrow.
My heart squeezed in my chest. She did not even know she was banned from the masque. I watched her bend low over the ground and water the rosemary with her tears. Dark spots appeared on the parched soil, slowly seeping into the roots.
No mother’s heart could withstand that sight. It would be bad enough with an ordinary child, wailing and sobbing. But watching my poor mute girl, so quiet in her misery, snapped my resolve like a tender branch beneath the weight of a wood pigeon.
‘Wait,’ I called out. The gypsy boy stopped still. I risked another look at the window – clear. ‘Wait.’
THE BRIDGE, 1865
‘Mabel? Mabel, may I come in?’ Elsie pushed the door open.
With the garret sealed up and an empty house, the maids had taken to sleeping in the guest bedrooms of the west wing, on the third storey. They were modest chambers, but pleasant. Blue carpet covered the floor. Small prints hung on the walls, giving it a homely feel. A washstand and a hip bath huddled next to the fire. It was a fine, comfortable place for a girl accustomed to the austerity of a workhouse, better than any maid’s quarters, but Mabel sat rigid in bed with the covers pulled to her chin. Her face was drawn, haunted.
‘Mabel?’
‘Oh it’s you, ma’am!’ she exclaimed. Her pupils shrank back to their usual size. ‘Sorry. I got muddled and I thought you was . . . I’d dozed off.’
‘Pardon me. I did not mean to startle you.’ Elsie perched on a corner of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
Mabel grimaced. She ran a hand over her dark, tousled hair. ‘Shook up, ma’am. I don’t mind telling you, it gave me the collywobbles.’
‘I must admit, I felt a little strange myself.’ She looked down. Strange was an understatement. Unravelled, opened up, exposed: they were more accurate words. Fear pushed so much out of a person – she had forgotten that. ‘I think that I will call the physician in. Your cut ankle may have become infected.’
‘Tain’t an infection making me go queer. I saw it.’
‘I do not doubt that you did.’ She paused. A memory flowed back in liquid fire. She saw it again: the red eyes and the parched, gaping lips. ‘My mother, Mabel, had the typhus. Have you heard of it?’
Mabel inclined her head.
‘Poor woman. How she roasted. Once, I felt her head and I thought—’ Her voice caught. ‘I thought she was burning alive. From the inside.’ Mabel’s legs twitched beneath the bedclothes. ‘It was bad enough being so ill in the body. But she was tormented more in the mind, by the things that she saw. I won’t go into detail. The illness painted demons around the room. She saw them clear as day, but they were not there. I sat beside her the whole time. None of it was there. Yet to her it was very, very real.’
‘I ain’t going mad, ma’am. I ain’t got no fever.’
‘No.’ She folded her hands and tried to compose herself. The image of her mother remained burnt on the back of her eyes. ‘But I would like to make quite sure, just in case. Until we are certain, Helen will do your chores and Sarah can assist where necessary.’
‘I can’t sit here doing nothing, ma’am. All alone, thinking of them things.’
Elsie thought for a moment. Mrs Holt’s generosity must be catching, for the first idea she had was so wildly kind that it took her aback.