The stout guard barked out a laugh. “She’s old for a whore.”
“There’s no accountin’ for some men’s taste.” The woman tried to grab her kerchief, but the gaoler crumpled it in his grimy fist. “What will you gimme for it?”
“Sheka.”
“Gypsy dog!” The guard with the apple threw it at her. It struck hard enough to make the woman stumble. The taunts escalated, slurs so cruel and coarse that Elizabeth’s ears burned to hear them.
So engrossed were the gaolers in tormenting the woman that Elizabeth was upon them before they noticed her.
“Is this how Englishmen in service to the king treat a woman?”
The gaolers said nothing in response, but ceased their abuse. The stout guard spat in defiance.
Elizabeth held out her hand, palm up, towards the other gaoler, and fixed him with what she hoped was a commanding stare. Apparently, it was forceful enough, for he surrendered the kerchief. She turned to the woman to give it back to her, and met eyes as black as night.
“Nais tuke.”
“You are welcome.” Elizabeth gestured towards her coach. “Come with me. We can speak in my carriage.”
They started back towards the vehicle, her servants following. The coachman cleared his throat. “Mrs. Darcy, if I may speak freely?”
She paused. “What is it, Jeffrey?”
He cast a wary glance past her shoulder at the gypsy woman. “Are you certain it is wise to invite a… a person you do not know… into the coach?”
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but I know perfectly well who this woman is.”
Rawnie Zsófia.
“This is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it.”
— Emma Woodhouse, Emma
Bracelets clinked and jangled as Rawnie Zsófia stepped into the carriage. She sat down opposite Elizabeth and assessed her with an unwavering gaze. Perfume, barely noticeable when they had been outside, now added to the air a foreign scent Elizabeth could not identify. Though the coach was Elizabeth’s domain, it was difficult to say which woman occupied the small space with greater presence.
“So.” The gypsy woman set her basket on the floor and adjusted her skirts. “You are Rawnie Darcy.”
“Rawnie?” Elizabeth regarded her in puzzlement. She had thought “Rawnie” was Zsófia’s Christian name. If indeed gypsies were Christians.
“Rawnie—‘lady.’ Lady Darcy. Or madam, if you prefer.” She brought a hand to her own chest. “The gorgios sometimes call me Madam Zsófia.”
“It is simply Mrs. Darcy. I have no title.”
“You are more a lady than many who boast the title, Rawnie Darcy.”
Elizabeth wondered how Rawnie Zsófia had known her surname, and asked whether she had divined it.
The old gypsy smiled enigmatically. “If I told you that your name formed in the mist of my crystal ball, would you believe me?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
“Do not answer. I heard your servant address you.”
Rawnie Zsófia shook out her kerchief, determined that it was none the worse for having been clutched by a cretin for several minutes, and retied it round her head. Though according to Mr. Deal’s tale she must be sixty, she was yet a striking woman. While threescore years and a lifetime of traveling had etched lines in her dark skin, her angular face reflected wisdom as well as age, and her eyes appeared to hold secrets as numerous as Mr. Deal’s wares. She gingerly touched her side where the apple had struck.
“Did they injure you?” Elizabeth asked.
“They did nothing I have not endured many times before. But you did not invite me here to talk about Zsófia. You want to talk about my son. What is it you wish to know?” She had a low, mellisonant voice, one that charmed and disarmed its listeners.
“Whether he poisoned Edgar Churchill.”
Rawnie Zsófia laughed. The sound blended with her clattering bangles to form its own music. “You are direct. I admire that. So few gorgios are. I shall answer you with equal frankness. No, he did not.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I know Hram.”
“Hram?”
“That is his nav romano—his gypsy name. Hram Deal. It was I who gave it to him. It is not a name from the modern Romany tongue, but one formed of older words from the mountains of Romania, whence my mother’s people came. It means ‘church hill.’ The name connected Hram to his past, which I scryed in my ball, and to his future trade, which I read in his hand. He alters it to ‘Hiram’ when dealing with the gorgios, but among us he remains Hram. And Hram, despite having formed in the womb of a cold-blooded gorgie, has the heart of a Rom, and could never betray or harm a member of his familia—Romano or English.”
“He considers himself a gypsy, then?”
“Nai. He has learned our ways, and he sells our goods. He sings and dances with us, has celebrated and sorrowed with us. But he is not fully a Rom. Yet he is no longer purely English, either. Hai shala—do you understand? From nine to nine-and-thirty, he has divided himself between two worlds, existing in both but belonging to neither. I suspect that is why he has never taken a wife — though I sense, too, that he fears passing to a child the deformity that has so troubled his own life. Hram has a good heart and would make a fine husband to any woman. I know he would never stray, for he does not even accept what some would freely give.”
Rawnie Zsófia’s last statement brought to Elizabeth’s mind the morning’s conversation with Miss Jones. “There is a young Englishwoman whom I believe has been traveling with your caravan.”
“Hai. Loretta. She left the kumpania several days ago, I hope to return to her family.” Rawnie Zsófia sighed heavily and shook her head. “Her signs are very difficult to read. She is clever but not wise. Passion rules her instead of reason.”
“Was she kidnapped, as she claims?”
“Nai. She fell in love with a handsome young Rom of our kumpania and ran away from her family to be with him. Unfortunately, he did not return her love. She stayed with the caravan, hoping to win him, but he did not want a gorgie wife, especially one so headstrong and foolish. Two months ago he married a Romani.”
“And yet she continued to travel with the caravan?”
“I counseled her to go back to her own kind. So, too, did Hram. He had been away when she first joined the kumpania, but he returned shortly after the young man rejected her. She spent much time with Hram, following him like new pup, and he pitied her. I hoped that since he is English, like her, she would listen to him, but nai.”
“Did they — were they ever—” Elizabeth faltered, unsure how to delicately phrase her question. They were, after all, discussing Rawnie Zsófia’s son.
“Were they lovers? Nai. Hram has long been a man, and Loretta, though she has a woman’s body, is still very much a child. Perhaps she offered herself — sons, especially grown ones, do not tell their mothers everything, and even the most gifted drabarni cannot discern all. But he has no interest in her, save that of offering guidance to a fellow gorgio. He helped her understand the ways of the gypsies, but he did not teach her the ways of men and women.”
“Did her education in gypsy ways include the art of fortune-telling?”
“She is dukkering for the gorgios, is she?” Rawnie Zsófia released a low chuckle. “Hai, she asked me to teach her, and I saw that she has the intelligence to learn. But she had not the patience. Learning to read leaves or the cards or a palm takes time. One must know what to look for, and then how to interpret what is seen, and this knowledge comes only through practice. But Loretta, she wanted this understanding instantly. By the gods, she wanted to begin her training with the crystal! She sulked when I said we would start with tea. It was the same when she asked to learn the healer’s art. We were not an hour gathering plants when she complained of boredom and went off to watch her young Rom train ravens.”