Midsummer Night Read online

  “Oh, I have much more thorough ways of stilling your tongue,” he promised, his black eyes gleaming.

  I swallowed hard. “Really, Brisbane, that isn’t at all what I meant.”

  He grinned. “I know exactly what you meant. You intend to bedevil me until you are a full partner in my work. And I will never let that happen, so let us understand one another entirely from the beginning.”

  Before I could rouse a protest, he silenced me, this time with a finger laid over my lips. “I know what you want of me, Julia. Believe me when I tell you I will always struggle to give you that. My work is dangerous, more so than I have ever permitted you to know. And the whole of my life must be devoted to protecting you. You are too precious to me to allow any peril to come to you.”

  I looked briefly away. “If you keep talking like that, I shall entirely lose my will and next thing I know, I will be darning your socks as you gallivant about the Continent, apprehending murderers and jewel thieves.”

  He pressed a quick kiss to my brow. “Speaking of jewel thieves, you will be interested to know Charlotte King is abroad. She has been released for lack of proof.”

  Charlotte King was a name I had not thought to hear again. A jewel thief of graceful, golden beauty and some renown, she had been brought to justice by Brisbane the previous winter, although not without incident. I had nearly cost him the apprehension with my impulsive actions, and I did not look upon the incident with any fondness.

  Brisbane went on. “And I have had a letter from Miss Allenby. She has begun teaching her first term and finds she is entirely happy in her new life. She sends her regards and congratulations on our marriage.”

  This was news I could appreciate with no regrets. Miss Allenby had become something of an ally during our last investigation, and I was pleased she had settled so swiftly into a new life, putting murder and mayhem behind her.

  “We shall have to send her a piece of the wedding cake,” I told him. “She can sleep with it under her pillow and dream of the man she will wed.”

  “Speaking of prospective husbands,” Brisbane murmured, “this one can think of something better to do than talk about old cases.”

  “Show me,” I commanded.

  He did, and in the middle of a highly instructive interlude, he broke off, lifting his head with a smothered oath.

  “What?” I demanded. “What on earth could drag your attention away from caressing my—” I broke off.

  “As diverting as this is,” Brisbane said, pressing a kiss to my palm, “I believe that is the vicar.” He nodded over my shoulder and I turned to find Uncle Fly wheezing towards us, his colour high and his long white hair dancing madly in the breeze.

  “Here now! We’ll have none of that,” he called, wagging a finger in mock severity as he panted up.

  “Uncle Fly, are you quite well? You look ready for an apoplexy,” I said, flapping a handkerchief in front of his face.

  He pressed one hand to his side and waved me off with the other. “Nothing wrong with me except too heavy a midday meal. Cook never will learn that pork is too rich for luncheon.” He took my handkerchief and mopped his brow. “That’s better, that is. Now, let’s have no more fornicating in the hedgerows, shall we? Sets a bad example.”

  “Considering the fact that only you and one rather bored cow witnessed the exchange, I hardly think we are in danger of corrupting the morals of the Blessingstoke peasantry,” I returned tartly.

  But although Uncle Fly’s expression was stern, his eyes were twinkling. “What about corrupting me? I am entirely too old to suffer many more such shocks.” He turned to Brisbane. “Come along, lad. My housekeeper has made up your room and you will see Julia soon enough.”“Of course, vicar,” Brisbane replied blandly, following Uncle Fly without so much as a backward glance at me, much less a kiss goodbye. I stalked off, annoyed with the pair of them. Brisbane was forty, and I was a decade younger, and yet Uncle Fly had treated us as if we were no better than children. And Brisbane had complied so easily!

  I stamped down the road, taking my irritation out on a handful of wildflowers I plucked from the wayside. There were foxgloves and poppies and mignonettes in flower, a riot of colour in my hands. I picked the petals from the ox-eye daisies, scattering them behind me like so much confetti as I climbed over a stile. I crossed the river meadow until I came to the edge of the stream itself and removed my slippers. I pulled off my stockings and dabbled my toes in the water, disturbing a damselfly in a flutter of iridescent wings. The rush of cool green river was glorious against my heated skin, and I paddled my feet back and forth, scattering the rest of the petals to the wind.

  “If you’re looking to tell if a man loves you, you’ve made a pig’s breakfast of it,” said a voice at my elbow.

  I jumped, scattering the stems from my lap as I half turned. A Gypsy woman stood there, arms folded under her breasts as she regarded me coolly. She wore the usual layers of ruffled skirts in spite of the heat, and a scarf of flowered scarlet had been tied around her head. She followed the Gypsy custom of wearing one’s wealth, for her neck and arms were heavy with coins dangling from chains and bangles, and I wondered how I had not heard her approach.

  “A Romany woman is as quiet as she wants to be,” she told me before I asked. She nodded sharply to the torn flowers in my hands. “You want your fortune told? I can do better than flowers.”

  I thought of my previous experiences with tasseomancy and Tarot cards and suppressed a shudder. “Thank you, no. I’m afraid I have no silver with which to cross your palm.”

  She shrugged. “No matter. I will tell yours for free.” Before I could speak, she knelt and took my hand in hers. Her palms were warm and her flesh exuded an earthy smell like newly tilled soil or coming rain.

  She stroked my palm gently, following the lines from fingers to wrist, muttering under her breath. She shook her head, her expression mournful, and her voice took on a keening quality.

  “Oh, lady, I see unhappiness here! Such woe and trouble comes to you. Shadows lie in wait for you, the shadows of things that will come to pass if you do not change your course.”

  “How frightful!” I murmured.

  She gave me a sharp look. “You do not believe.”

  I bared my teeth in a smile. “I’ve heard these things before.”

  The Gypsy woman dropped my hand as if she had been scalded. “And yet you mock me, lady? You are arrogant. But you will learn to mend your ways.”

  “How?” I asked.

  She blinked. “How?”

  “Yes, how? You speak of darkness and woe and—shadows, was it? Now, how am I supposed to avoid them? With a hefty payment, I suppose? I’ve already told you I have no silver for you.”

  She rose, wrapping her shawl about her in spite of the warmth of the day. She lifted a finger and pointed it at my heart. “And I told you I did not want your money. If you wish to avoid tragedy, you must give him up.”

  A cold chill struck me then, and I no longer felt flippant.

  “Him?”

  She gave me a sly look then, cutting her eyes sideways at me as she turned to go. “Him. The one who sits in your heart. He walks with death, lady. And if you choose him, death will touch you, too.”

  She was gone, melting away with the same silence with which she had come. The sun still beat down; the breeze still danced in the reeds, bending the wildflowers and teasing the scent of honeysuckle from the throat of the blossoms. But there was a shadow over the afternoon that had not been there before. I rose and dried my feet on my skirts and put on my stockings and slippers and walked slowly back to the Abbey.

  1 Silent on the Moor

  2 Silent in the Sanctuary

  Chapter Two

  Time goes on crutches till Love have all his rites.

  —Much Ado about Nothing, II.i.352

  The encounter with the Gypsy at the river affected me more than I liked to think. I was still preoccupied when I entered the Abbey and made my way upstairs. No sooner had I
turned into the bedchamber gallery than I collided heavily with a maid—at least I presumed it was a maid. The girl had ended up squarely on her backside with an armful of clean linen tossed into the air. I could see nothing of her but an enormous mob cap and a pair of wide eyes peeping through the sheets.

  “Beggar me, I am sorry, my lady.”

  “Do not apologise. I wasn’t looking where I was going. The fault was entirely mine.”

  I put out a hand to help her up, but she shrieked and dove under the linen. I smiled.

  “No, I suppose that is inappropriate. You must be new here. Marches do not do things the same as other folk,” I told her. The bundle of linen shuddered, and I realised the girl must be well and truly confused to be carrying clean linen to the bedchambers at that time of day. Beds were made in the morning, and the linen cupboard was on another floor entirely. But Hoots had been growing more and more feeble in the head, and there was no telling what instructions he had given to the girl. I made a note to suggest to Aunt Hermia that a housekeeper might prove a useful addition if Hoots were terrorising the maids. The last one had quit in rebellion against his tyrannies, and it was proving harder and harder to keep good staff so long as he was in command.

  I gave the girl a friendly smile to put her at her ease. “You must be one of the new girls taken on for the wedding, is that right?”

  The bundle nodded.

  “What is your name?”

  “Bess,” she said, her voice a muffled squeak.

  “Well, Bess. Welcome to Bellmont Abbey.”

  The wide eyes blinked furiously, and I left her then. No point in discomfiting the girl further, and the dinner gong had just sounded. I hurried off while she struggled out from under the linen, hoping she would find her way.

  I hurried my maid, Morag, along in the dressing so I could be among the first down to the hall to mingle with the guests before dinner. Brisbane was expected to dine with us, and I had high hopes of stealing a few minutes alone with him in the course of the evening. With that in mind, I had Morag lace me into my most daring gown, a delicious scarlet taffeta affair that rustled like autumn leaves when I moved. My colour was high enough I needed no rouge, and the only jewel I wore was a pendant Brisbane had given me at the conclusion of our first investigation—a silver coin struck with the head of Medusa3. The code incised on the back of it was a secret between us, but it had been my first proof of his affections, and as such, that pendant meant more to me than any other jewels I had owned—even the Grey Pearls. Famed for having once belonged to Catherine the Great, the exquisitely matched set had been a gift from my late husband, Edward. They had been purchased by his family as a conceit to their last name of Grey, although the gems themselves had been named for their dusky hue. I had never worn them easily. They were heavy, monstrous things, and the double-headed imperial eagle clasp had always pecked me in the neck.

  But they had been a glorious temptation to Charlotte King, and in our previous encounter with her, she had cached them in the most ludicrous hiding place one could imagine—inside the moth-eaten pelt of Maurice, the grizzly bear my uncle had shot in the Yukon and sent home to Bellmont to be stuffed and given pride of place outside the great hall.

  He stood there still, his pelt somewhat the worse for having been torn open to retrieve the pearls after Charlotte’s flight and apprehension. I gave him a little pat as I made my way into what had once been the Chapel of the Nine Altars. Before the Dissolution, the good Benedictine brothers had worshipped in this space, but under the Marches, the great stone chamber had been transformed into a sort of reception space, grand and imposing, with an enormous vaulted ceiling soaring high overhead and windows of stained glass that shone like rare jewels in the setting sun. It was very nearly the longest day of the year, and the sun lingered, gilding everything in the gardens and sending shafts of violet, crimson, and blue light across the grey stone floors. Here and there a broad Turkey carpet warmed the floor, and even though it was high summer a fire had been lit in one of the great fireplaces—once an altar niche—to drive the chill from the stones. It was a ludicrous room, really, but one of my favourites at the Abbey, and not least because it was where the drink was kept.

  I made a beeline for the table that held the spirits and nodded to my own butler, Aquinas, who had been recruited to help with the festivities—a polite way of saying Aunt Hermia had begged him to take charge of everything while she petted old Hoots and told him he must only supervise so as not to tire himself unduly. Aquinas stood at attention below a portrait of my mother, the last countess. She had been painted in an elegant low-necked lavender gown with a tiny Mona Lisa smile playing about her lips. Somehow the artist had managed to capture her in between pregnancies—she had borne ten of us altogether, and I wondered if she had ever had recourse to the drinks cabinet.

  Aquinas brightened at my approach.

  “Sherry, my lady?” he enquired politely.

  “Whisky,” I murmured.

  “Ah, bridal nerves,” he whispered in return.

  I pulled a face at him, but he responded with a generous pour, and I lifted my glass in salute before I turned to survey the rest of the assembly.

  In one corner Portia was fending off the advances of the Duke of Aberdour, and in another our eldest sister, Olivia, was entertaining a trio of elderly spinster aunts who resided in Norfolk. One of them was rather deaf, another lame, and the third could scarcely see. They always seemed to move in a pack, compensating for each other’s infirmities. Between their ear trumpets and magnifying glasses and walking sticks they somehow managed. We had hated and feared them as children and it was Benedick with his imperfect grasp of Greek mythology who christened them the Harpies. They ought to have been the Graeae, the way they shared the various impedimenta of old age. But I was touched they had travelled such a distance for my wedding. I moved to join them, coming up behind Olivia as she spoke.

  “Always a happy occasion, a wedding,” Olivia shouted into Aunt Gertrude’s ear trumpet as she gestured, sloshing her whisky a little. “Of course, in this case, one must make allowances. Julia has always been an odd creature,” she went on, “but the unsuitability of the bridegroom is really quite shocking. Half a Gypsy and practically in trade! Still, she is one of us and we must accept it.” The aunts nodded and twittered and I slipped back the way I had come, holding out my glass for Aquinas to top me up as I stood by fuming.

  In a moment, Portia joined me, beckoning to Aquinas. “Pour, good man, and don’t stop until you see the bottom of the bottle.”

  “Easy, hen,” I told her mildly. “That way inebriation lies.”

  “I shall endure this week by whatever means necessary,” she told me, her expression dark.

  “I don’t know why you are so bothered. Did the duke propose again?”

  “Twice. And my bosom is sore from where he tweaked it,” she complained.

  “A lady could do worse,” I pointed out. “Croesus would envy him his fortune and his peerage is the fourth oldest in Scotland. Besides which he demonstrates considerable energy for a man of his years. I doubt he would disappoint you in the marriage bed.”

  “Unless he is secretly a woman, I should be very much disappointed indeed.”

  Her expression grew pensive then and I offered her a small smile. “Are you thinking of Jane?”

  We had not spoken of her lost love since Jane had broken off their relationship and left for India, forsaking Portia for the respectability of marriage. Portia had taken the break badly, and for some weeks after I had feared for her sobriety, if not her sanity. But she returned the smile. “She ought to be here. She loved you so, and she was quite fond of Brisbane. A family occasion without her seems quite wrong.”

  “I know, dearest. I miss her, too.”

  We were silent a moment, then Portia swallowed hard. “Still, there are worse things at sea. Like those vicious cats we happen to be related to.” She nodded towards Olivia and the aunts.

  “You heard?”

&nbs
p; Angry colour charged her cheeks. “I did. Olivia’s always been malicious when she is in her cups. And the only reason I did not go and give them all a piece of my mind is because I promised Father I would behave myself.”

  “Father expected you would be provoked?”

  She sighed. “There has been discussion amongst the family about Brisbane. Some of the others—those who don’t know him—have been talking up the unsuitability of the match. As you must have known they would,” she added.

  “I suppose. But I didn’t stop to think—”

  “And why should you?” Portia’s voice was fierce. “You are marrying to suit yourself and no one else’s opinion should matter.”

  I hesitated only a moment before asking. “And yours? What is your opinion? Truly?”

  She turned to face me, her green eyes brilliant in the lamplight. “Would it matter?”

  “No. I love him and, damn the world, I will have him.”

  She grinned. “Good girl. And since my opinion doesn’t matter, I give it freely: Brisbane is worth twenty Marches and dearer to me than most of my own brothers. If you do not marry him, I will do so myself, simply to keep him in the family.”

  I turned away quickly.

  “Are you weeping?” she asked.

  “Don’t be absurd.” My voice was muffled and I swallowed, blinking furiously. “I have a cinder in my eye.”

  Portia dropped a swift kiss to my cheek. “Happiness is within your grasp now, pet. Hang onto it, and do not let it go, whatever you do.”

  * * *

  Dinner that night was interminable. Father presided over a party of thirty-one, and through some mistake in the seating, Brisbane was seated as far from me as possible. To my amusement, he was seated next to Olivia who conversed with icy politeness when it was absolutely necessary to speak to him. The aunts from Norfolk peered at him throughout the meal, and one cousin from Wales mentioned in passing the “filthy Gypsies” camped out in the river meadow only to find Brisbane’s cool eyes upon him as he realised what he had said and stammered a hasty apology.