denied Edgar Churchill his only son. I thought what my own feelings would be if I learned that an infant I believed I had buried more than half a lifetime ago was found to have lived. To the Roma, family is everything; to the English… not always. I had little reason to hope that Edgar Churchill was any different than his wife. He had married her, after all, and lived with her some forty years. But the fact that she had been so desperate to maintain his ignorance of me made me wonder what sort of man he was, and whether he might want to choose for himself to accept or reject me.
“My gypsy mother discouraged my wish to meet him. The omens were unclear, and she did not want to see my heart rent twice. I was persistent, however, and when the Churchills came to Highbury after Frank’s wedding, so did our caravan.
“As I had with Mrs. Churchill, I presented myself to my father first as merely a peddler, so that I might judge his character. I found him so very different from his wife that I could scarcely imagine them together. His manner encouraged my hopes and, with great caution, I revealed myself to him. He was understandably shocked, and grieved by my account of such deceit and cruelty on the part of his late wife. Yet he saw in me a glimpse of his younger self, and remembered irregularities in long-ago conversations with his wife, that made my story plausible.”
“He simply accepted you as his long-lost son upon the spot?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“Heavens, no. He was no gull. He intended to verify my history as best he could, and said he would write to his solicitor immediately. The physician who attended the birth was long dead, but the nurse might yet be found, and some of the servants present in the house that night were still with the family.”
“Money seemed to be foremost on Agnes Churchill’s mind,” Darcy said. “Did either you or he make any mention of your inheritance?”
“I assured him I did not want anything from him, save the pleasure of knowing him at last.”
“And how did he respond?”
“He promised that if I were indeed his son, I would finally know my father’s affection and acknowledgment.” He picked up his wine once more but did not drink, only stared at the glass in his hand. “That was the first and last conversation I had with him. We did not speak while Frank was purchasing his snuff box. It was too awkward, our acquaintance too new — more fragile than this glass.”
“Did he tell Frank Churchill about your conversation?” Darcy asked.
“If he did, my cousin has superior bluffing skills to even the gypsies, for he has betrayed no hint that he knows me as anything but a peddler.”
“You must have suffered quite a shock when your father died,” Mr. Knightley said.
“Indeed, yes.” He emptied the wineglass again, but declined Mr. Knightley’s offer of a third. “I grieved at the news. I grieve still.”
Mr. Deal rose and returned his wineglass to the side table from which Mr. Knightley had taken it. Elizabeth slipped out of the room. As she did so, Darcy caught sight of Mr. Cole in the hall.
“It sounds as if you learned a considerable amount about Edgar Churchill in a short period of time.” Mr. Knightley left his seat and approached him. “As you have no doubt heard, the coroner’s inquest ruled his death a case of poisoning, though whether accidental or deliberate remains undetermined. Can you think of anybody who might have wished him harm?”
The table rested beside a window, and Mr. Deal gazed into the gathering darkness. “I certainly did not. For me, his death could not have come at a worse time.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “I no sooner found my father than lost him.”
He turned to face Darcy and Mr. Knightley. “I have given you a full accounting of my dealings with the Churchills,” he said to the magistrate. “Am I free to leave?”
Mr. Knightley and Darcy exchanged glances. Mr. Knightley stepped forward.
“I am afraid not.”
“There is something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural home!”
Pending verification of his story and further enquiry into his gypsy associations, Hiram Deal was committed to the county gaol. Mr. Knightley could not risk such an experienced itinerant fleeing. After thirty years of wandering with a gypsy caravan, the peddler surely knew every cove and corner of England, and Mr. Knightley and Darcy had no doubt of Mr. Deal’s success should he take it into his mind to disappear.
As the Darcys crossed Broadway Lane toward their waiting carriage the following morning, Elizabeth recalled her first meeting with the peddler. Though she presumed he possessed a colorful history, she had never imagined it so extraordinary. God forgive her, she was almost glad Mrs. Churchill had met her demise. It was fitting retribution, unjust only in that she died of natural causes while her guiltless husband had been poisoned.
“Are you quite certain you wish to accompany me to Guildford?” Darcy asked. “I should think you could find any number of more pleasant ways to occupy the day.”
The street was busy, Highbury already abuzz with word of Hiram Deal’s arrest. Elizabeth would just as soon escape the small village for a time.
“None superior to enjoying your companionship en route; we have had precious little time to ourselves since arriving here. Too, as much as I esteem the Knightleys, I do not mind absenting myself from Hartfield for a considerable portion of the day.” She smiled. “If Mr. Woodhouse orders me one more basin of gruel, I fear I shall choke on it.” The old gentleman meant well; she had come to realize that his gruel-mongering was a sign of regard. The two of them had developed an odd but congenial rapport. “But explain to me why you need to see Hiram Deal straightaway this morning, when he was just taken to gaol last night.”
It had required no small effort to persuade Darcy to allow her to ride with him to Guildford. Gaols were filthy places, breeding chambers for typhus, lice, and all manner of other plague and pestilence. By agreement, she would remain in the carriage while he met with Mr. Deal.
“Mr. Knightley and I did not complete our interrogation. By the time Mr. Deal explained his connexion to the Churchills and Mr. Cole returned, dusk was approaching, and Mr. Knightley wanted Mr. Deal on his way to Guildford before the hour grew late in case any of his gypsy
Darcy’s tone held a shade of derision as he pronounced the gypsy word. Though Elizabeth had been fascinated by Mr. Deal’s experience among the Roma and his friendship with Rawnie Zsofia, Darcy was more cynical.
“What else do you wish to ask him?”
When Darcy did not reply, she followed his gaze. Miss Jones had just emerged from Mrs. Todd’s house, apparently headed for the Crown Inn to ply her fortune-telling trade. She saw the Darcys, paused, and glanced towards her destination. They stood directly in her path to the Crown; there was no way to avoid them.
Miss Jones straightened her shoulders and continued towards them. “Good day to you,” she said in passing.
“Miss Jones — a word, if you please,” Darcy said. It was not a request.
Miss Jones stopped. She considered Darcy in silence for a moment. “And if I do not please?”
“I am confident that is not the case.”
“Then pray, be quick, for I have business this morning. There are those who will not begin their day until I have looked into their teacups.”
“I, too, have business this morning,” Darcy said, “with a man who I believe is a mutual acquaintance. How well do you know Hiram Deal?”
“The peddler? Perhaps hardly at all.” She tilted her head to one side and regarded Darcy brazenly. “Perhaps very well. Why do you wish to know?”
“I understand he travels with the same gypsy caravan that you claim kidnapped you. I wonder if he might tell
