She was about to reply, but I cut her off.
“But you do not know the debts to the place, I think. You do not know that he is a gambler and has already gambled away half his fortune.”
Her face was suddenly still.
“Did you not know he went to Millcote this morning to arrange for the sale of more land to pay his debts? And his property in Jamaica is gone.”
“I did not know—”
“Oh yes. There is much you do not know.”
She started to rise, but I held her back by saying, “Do you not want to know who he will marry? It is not you. No, it is someone with far greater riches and truer beauty than you will ever know.”
At that she rose with a start. “You are an ugly old hag! How could you know what will proceed? The future is unknown to all.”
“It is not unknown to me,” I replied, and she fled from the room.
Next came the three young ladies: Mary Ingram and Louisa and Amy Eshton, giggling and shrieking from embarrassment and fear. They had refused to see me except in a group. “Welcome, and sit down,” I said, and waited for additional chairs to be pulled into place.
“You thought it would be fun to tease the old Gypsy, did you not?” I said when they were all seated.
Miss Mary Ingram spoke up. “What did you tell my sister?”
“Do you think I should tell her secrets? Would you like me to tell her yours?”
“Then tell my fortune.”
I leaned back into my chair, the shadows better covering my face. “First, I will tell something of your past. Yes, indeed, you and your sister and brother tortured your governesses until they left in despair: calling them names, throwing books into the air, scattering crumbs of biscuit around the nursery.”
The Eshton girls sat openmouthed, and Mary Ingram winced, as if I had physically attacked her.
“Tell me: are those the actions of proper children?” I asked. Then, recalling every family story I had heard around the dinner table, I told a tale or two on each girl: how Louisa had tried to climb a tree and was too afraid to climb back down, how Mary had been thrown from a horse at the age of twelve and had refused to ride ever since, how Amy had secretly learned to cook eggs and had surprised her mother by making breakfast for her mother’s birthday just last year. And I described their homes and their favorite lockets and the books they preferred to read. Through it all, they sat amazed that an old Gypsy could have seen so closely into their lives.
“What about the future?” Mary asked softly when I had finished.
“Ah,” I croaked, “the future is far more difficult, for it has not yet been written in stone, as the past has. You cannot erase the past, but you can change the future.”
“Will my sister marry Mr. Rochester?” Mary asked suddenly.
“Your sister does not love Mr. Rochester. She will not marry him.”
The three sat silent in astonishment.
“I told that lady many things,” I added, “and some of it she did not want to hear.” But I didn’t want to send them back with sour faces, so I gave them beautiful, obedient children; stately homes; lovely gowns and exquisite jewelry—all the things I imagined young girls dream of, and I even whispered into each delicate ear the name of a young man in their group whom I was sure held her interest. I sent them away giggling.
After they left, Sam returned to usher me out, as all the young ladies had seen me.
“All?” I said. “All?” Sam nodded, not understanding whom I was after. “There is one more, is there not?”
“Ah, well. But she is not a lady,” he insisted.
“No? What is she, then?”
“She is just the governess—a kind person indeed, but—”
“She is alady, young man, and I will see her.”
“She is a private person. She may not come.”
