The Intrigue at Highbury

’ardly let in the likes of you.”

The woman spoke again, gesturing towards her basket.

Elizabeth moved several yards closer. Her footman was beside her in an instant. “Ma’am…”

If Darcy questioned her, she was still near the carriage. “Hush, Ben. I only want to hear.”

The gaoler stood up, knocking over his rickety stool. “Prisoners ain’t allowed stuff from outside.” He lied — Darcy had walked in carrying both the blanket and Miss Bates’s basket without eliciting so much as a second glance. “Whatcha got hidd’n in there — knives’n such?”

His hand darted towards her. The woman quickly stepped back, but not before the gaoler managed to snatch something from the basket. “An apple? Surely y’got somethin’ better in there.” He took a bite and spat it out at her feet.

“Aw, Joe, can’t you see she was saving that for ’im?” The smaller fellow, emboldened by his comrade’s bottle-fed bravado, now rose. “What else are you savin’ for ’im? Are you his gypsy whore?” He yanked off the woman’s kerchief, revealing a greater proportion of grey.

Elizabeth had witnessed enough.

She started towards the entrance. Her footman matched her strides. Behind, she could hear Jeffrey trotting after them.

“Ma’am, surely you are not contemplating—”

“Indeed, I am not contemplating. I am quite decided.”

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 Zsofia.

Thirty

“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 Zsofia 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 Zsofia’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 Zsofia.”

“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 Zsofia 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 Zsofia 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 Zsofia. 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 Zsofia 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 Zsofia’s last statement brought to Elizabeth’s mind the morning’s conversation with Miss Jones.