The same had been true of Allegra and Elijah Hartley. Who’d have thought she would have lowered herself to dance with a gardener? Not that there was anything wrong with being a gardener, it was just that was not what posh folk did, like they didn’t scrub floors! It would be like Arthur Devereux dancing with Florence. A thought that made her shudder and decide that if that was what Hope meant by an eager-whatsit society, she wanted none of it. But there was no getting away from the fact that Elijah was a good-looking man. He was a quiet sort, though, kept himself to himself. ‘More to him than meets the eye,’ so Mrs Partridge often said. ‘Still waters run deep, make no mistake.’
In contrast, Billy Minton was an open book and never stopped talking. He was as honest and straight as the day was long, and good company. The only awkward moment yesterday between them had been when Billy had been walking her home and had kissed her. He’d fumbled it at first, clashed his teeth against hers, but then they’d both got the hang of it and had kissed and kissed and gone on kissing. His soft mouth against hers had made her feel as if a fire had been lit deep inside her.
She blushed at the memory. Did kissing Billy make her a scarlet woman? She would have to be careful when she saw him next. It wouldn’t do to let things get out of hand. She wasn’t going to let him get her in the family way. She would have to make that very clear; she didn’t want him thinking she was cheap. Even so, he would be easy to fall in love with. Quick as a flash the words of the old gypsy woman echoed inside her head: You’ll find love and you’ll lose love. What if it was true and she fell in love with Billy only then to lose him?
‘I don’t know, Flo, falling asleep on the job. That’ll learn you to stay out dancing till all hours.’
‘I wasn’t sleeping, Mrs Partridge,’ said Florence, banishing Billy from her thoughts and getting on with the eggs she was supposed to be cracking into a large mixing bowl. ‘I was thinking. Do you believe there’s any truth in what fortune-tellers—’
‘Thinking indeed,’ interrupted Mrs Partridge, banging a large pan down on the stove. ‘As if we’ve got time for that! When you’ve whisked those eggs for me, you’d better lay the table in the dining room, and put a tray together for Mr Arthur Devereux. I expect he’ll want to eat in his room this morning, like he did with his supper last night. From all that Mrs Bunch has told us about him, it strikes me it was about time somebody gave him a good hiding. A man of his standing getting drunk in the beer tent, of all places! He should be ashamed of himself. God rest his soul, whatever would his father have said? As if poor Miss Romily hasn’t enough to think about!’
Romily was upstairs in her bedroom, working at her desk overlooking the long avenue of colourful herbaceous borders that led down to the pond.
She had slept badly, her sleep disturbed by dreams of Jack. Several times she had woken absolutely convinced he was in the bed next to her, only to realise he wasn’t. When she’d heard Annelise chuntering to herself in her sing-song fashion, followed shortly by Hope going to her, Romily had given up on trying to sleep. Slipping on her dressing gown, she’d made a start on replying to the letters from her readers, which she had abandoned since Jack’s death. Jack had often said that she should employ the services of a secretary to deal with her correspondence, but Romily believed her readers deserved more than that.
In need of some tea, she rang the bell to summon Florence, and within a couple of minutes the girl was knocking on her door. ‘Would you like anything with your tea?’ asked Florence, when Romily had made her request.
‘No, I’ll be down for breakfast just as soon as I’ve finished the last of these letters.’
When Florence returned with the tea tray and had poured a cup for her, Romily sensed her hovering, as though she had something to say. She was fussing over her apron, straightening it despite it being perfectly straight already. Worried that the girl might be feeling put upon with the extra duty of minding Annelise, Romily said, ‘Is there something you want to say to me, Florence?’
The girl hesitated.
‘Is it about Annelise?’ asked Romily.
‘Oh no, nothing like that, Miss Romily.’
‘What then?’
‘Do you know much about fortune-tellers?’
‘A little. What do you want to know?’
‘Can they look at your hand and really know things about you? Or do they just make wild guesses and hope something rings true?’
‘What an interesting question. Why don’t you sit down and tell me why you want to know?’
Florence did as she said, perching herself on the edge of the ottoman at the end of the bed. ‘I went to the gypsy woman at the fete yesterday and she told me something she couldn’t really know. About my mother. She also said that I’d find love and I’d lose love.’
Romily sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘I think we can safely dispense with the last part. Everybody is going to know love and lose it at some stage in their life, stands to reason, so I really wouldn’t let that worry you.’
Florence nodded. ‘But what about my mother?’
Romily knew all about Florence’s mother running off; the girl had told her about it herself. ‘What exactly did this so-called fortune-teller say about her?’
After she’d listened to what Florence told her, she said, ‘I must say, it sounds intriguing. Have you told anyone in the village about your family? Is there some way this woman could have known your background?’
Florence shook her head. ‘You and Mrs Partridge are the only ones here in Melstead St Mary who know.’
‘Well, I can assure you I’ve never mentioned it to anyone, and Mrs Partridge might enjoy listening to Mrs Bunch’s gossip, but she would never spread it herself.’
‘So do you think it was true what the gypsy told me?’
‘Undoubtedly there are some who have the gift of seeing things the rest of us are unable to, but equally there are plenty who would seek to take advantage of what they perceive as a person’s vulnerability. However, in this instance, the fortune-teller appeared not to know anything about you other than what she could guess from your dress, your voice and your manner.’
‘You mean she would know I wasn’t top-drawer like you?’
Romily smiled. ‘Not how I would put it, but yes, in short she would know how to categorise you. That’s hardly a talent; most people can do it. But by referring to some nameless woman you hadn’t seen in a long time, a woman who had the same colour hair as you … well, frankly, that could be a grandmother, an aunt, a sister, anyone related to you. Odds on there has to be somebody else in your family with your colouring. And, as is so often the way with how the brain works, you filled in the blanks of what you heard and leapt to your own understandable conclusion.’
