regarding their servants passed through her mind as the coach lurched into motion. She could not believe they had betrayed her, however good their intentions. “Jeffrey told you?”
“Jeffrey? No. The gaolers saw fit to inform me. They are fine fellows — the very sort from whom one wants to hear reports about one’s wife.”
“I
“That is hardly the same thing.”
“You will be glad I took the liberty, when I tell you what occurred.”
The journey back to Highbury passed swiftly as Elizabeth recounted her conversation with Rawnie Zsofia. Thankfully, Darcy’s mood improved with each detail.
“So,” he said when she had done, “Edgar Churchill visited the gypsy camp on the day he died. I wager the other gentleman was Thomas Dixon. He was evasive when we asked him where he and Mr. Churchill walked that afternoon.”
“But why the secrecy? Does Mr. Dixon simply not want to bear the stigma of a person who associates with gypsies? Does he think he would appear foolish if it were known that he consulted a fortuneteller?” She paused, attempting to imagine the impeccably dressed Thomas Dixon in the midst of a roisterous gypsy camp. “Or did he lead Mr. Churchill there for some reason? Did they truly just happen upon the camp, or did one or both of them deliberately seek the caravan?”
“If either of them went there intentionally, I should think it would have been Edgar Churchill, seeking Mr. Deal.”
“Unless Mr. Dixon had intentions of his own. Rawnie Zsofia said that he was entirely willing to have his fortune told that day, yet he refused to let Loretta read his tea leaves two days ago at the Crown. Perhaps he was afraid that the second reading would reveal something about him that he does not want known.”
“Or he realized that the only revelation Miss Jones made at the camp was that she is an utter charlatan, and he was wise enough not to be taken in twice. Too, bear in mind that we have only Rawnie Zsofia’s account of what occurred in the camp, and she is not to be trusted.”
“Because she is a gypsy?”
“That alone is reason enough. But she is also Mr. Deal’s mother, and admitted that she protected her son at the expense of Edgar Churchill’s safety.”
“When did she say that?”
“In regards to the raven’s warning.”
Though it was dim inside the coach, Elizabeth beheld him with astonishment. “And when did Fitzwilliam Darcy start believing in omens?”
“I do not. But if Rawnie Zsofia does, then declining to act upon what she perceived as a warning bespeaks a less than honorable character. And if this renowned fortune-teller does not believe in portents, she is a greater fraud than Miss Jones. Either way, she is guilty of deceit and could be guilty of more. Indeed, she herself could very well be the poisoner. Of all the suspects, she alone possesses expert knowledge of herbs, and now we know she had the opportunity to administer the poison hours before Edgar Churchill died.”
“But she had no direct interaction with Mr. Churchill while he was at the camp.”
“So she claims. As I said, we have no reason to trust her.”
Though Elizabeth followed Darcy’s logic, she could not deny her own instincts. Darcy had not met Rawnie Zsofia; he had only cold reason and secondhand accounts to guide his interpretation of her. While Elizabeth remained cautious, she was not unwilling to believe that Zsofia’s words contained at least some truth. She considered the return of the baptismal clothes and signet ring an act of good faith — a development she had not yet shared with Darcy.
“We started discussing Edgar Churchill’s visit to the gypsy camp before I reached the most surprising part of my conversation with Rawnie Zsofia.”
“Did she tell
“No, she left this basket.” It remained beside her on the seat. Elizabeth had repacked it with the most interesting article on top, protected by the cloth cover.
“I just delivered Miss Bates’s. Are we starting a collection?”
“This one was also intended for Mr. Deal, but it contains something for us, as well.”
“Indeed?” He said no more, but the tone of his voice conveyed in that single word the full measure of his skepticism.
“See for yourself.”
Darcy grasped the basket by its handle and brought it beside him. Casting Elizabeth a dubious look, he lifted the cover.
And suddenly looked up at her again. “The christening set?”
“And your mother’s ring.” She removed her glove. “I put it on my finger for safekeeping.”
He leaned forward, took her hand, and examined the ring as best he could in the dismal light. “It appears undamaged.” Though done with his inspection, he retained her hand. His knees brushed against hers as the coach jostled. “What explanation did she give?”
“None. She was gone before I found them in the bottom of the basket. She said only that Mr. Deal was suspected of many things of which he is not guilty.”
“His mother had our stolen belongings in her possession. I would say that connects him rather strongly with the theft.”
“Unless she obtained them herself from the thieves in order to return them to us.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Perhaps to win our goodwill toward her son? To demonstrate that gypsies — some, at least — are acquainted with honor?”
“Or to distract us from the more heinous crime of Edgar Churchill’s murder.”
“Or that,” she conceded. “Whatever her motive, we have recovered our possessions, which means that as soon as Edgar Churchill’s poisoner is identified, we can collect our daughter and Georgiana, and finally join Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam at Brierwood.”
“You could go now. Jeffrey can drive you to London tomorrow to retrieve Lily-Anne and my sister, then take all of you to Brierwood whenever you wish. I will meet you there when this Churchill matter is resolved.”
She was tempted, but shook her head. Her place was with Darcy.
“Mrs. Knightley would never forgive me,” she said. “I would return in a month to find the case still unsolved, and you and Mr. Knightley discussing husbandry over spruce beer.”
“Thank goodness you have returned.”
Had Mrs. Knightley not said a word upon their arrival at Hartfield, Darcy would have seen in her face that something had changed. He and Elizabeth hastily removed their cloaks and followed her to the drawing room. She shut the doors.
“Mr. Perry was here earlier,” she said. “He came directly from Randalls, where one of the maids is ill. He suspects belladonna.”
“Will she recover?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mr. Perry is confident. He treated her as he did Frank Churchill, and she is already improved. Like Frank, she is young and of stronger constitution than Edgar Churchill was.”
“Who is she?” Darcy asked.
“One of the kitchen girls — Nellie.”
The maid Mrs. Bates had been talking about that morning. “Does Mr. Perry have any notion how she might have ingested the poison?”
“He says she imbibed a philtre she had obtained from Mr. Deal.”
Darcy could scarcely comprehend anybody’s being so foolish. “Why would she do that, knowing he had been arrested?”
“Young girls do unwise things,” Elizabeth said.
“Apparently, she meant to prove to some of the other servants that Mr. Deal is innocent of any wrongdoing,” Mrs. Knightley explained. “While in the village earlier today, she asked Miss Jones for a tea leaf reading, and when that failed to produce the ‘evidence’ she hoped for, she went back to Randalls and drank the whole phial.”
