Angel's Touch (23 page)

With a cry of alarm,
Verity saw one rider lean down and scoop up the child with one
hand, hoisting him, kicking and screaming, across his saddle, while
the other swung his leg over his mount and prepared to leap
down.

Next instant, she was
knocked to the ground and Peggy torn from her arms. Dazed, she
scrambled up. Too late! The brute had remounted and was already
away, the infant clutched in one strong arm.

Verity ran screaming after the horses in a fruitless,
desperate attempt to catch them, hearing still Peggy’s mournful
wails and Braxted’s shrill cries as the horsemen crashed back into
the forest and disappeared among the trees.

Chapter
Nine

Sobbing for breath, Verity came to a halt, clinging on to the
nearest tree as her brain signalled the utter futility of this
insane chase.

She
must think. The children were gone. Kidnapped. Henry could not
return for some time, but she would do better to wait. Oh, Wystan!
Little Peggy! What in the world would Henry say? All he had
endured, and now this. Tears dripped unnoticed down her cheeks as
she dropped to her knees, desperately trying to think clearly in
spite of her bursting lungs.

In a
few moments she had recovered sufficiently to get up again, and
with the restoration of her physical strength her faculties began
to function more coherently. One thought emerged clear and strong.
She must get help. There must be a dwelling hereabouts, estate
people or forest workers. Something!

Her frantic gaze
searched the surrounding area, and, finding nothing, focused
further afield, beyond the immediate confines of the ruins, over
the trees and down into the valley.

A
plume of smoke curling into the distant air impinged itself on her
consciousness. The gypsy encampment! Her heart squeezed tight all
at once. Gracious heaven, could the men have come from there? Into
her mind’s eye came the image of the gypsy she had first seen the
day she met the children. Could he have meant to take them then?
Had she thwarted his design?

Her too ready
imagination presented her with a horrific, impossible picture: the
gypsies, knives aloft, greedily gazing upon the two small bodies,
lashed to a makeshift spit which turned over the leaping flames of
an open fire. And riding around them all, the triumphant horsemen
she had just seen.

Instantly she snapped out of the picture, scolding herself
for a fool to allow her absurd realms of Gothic fancy rein at such
a time.
Those
men
were not gypsies. The mental image imprinted on her mind proved
that: old slouch hats and frock-coats, gaiters over their shoes.
They were rustics, working men, not gypsies. And the gypsies, she
remembered, common sense reasserting itself, were camped on the
marquis’s land. It would be sheer suicide for them to attempt a
crime of this nature, even if they had the inclination—which she
refused to believe. Time and past such stupid prejudice was set
aside.

She looked towards the
valley, straining her eyes, almost unconsciously beginning to move
in the direction of the gypsy camp. From here she could see over
the trees to gauge the right path to take. The forest was thin
above the valley and the distance did not appear very great. But
Verity hardly thought of all this as she began to walk purposefully
towards the dipping edge of the land. The children were in her
mind, and suddenly it seemed that the gypsies were the nearest
available source of help.

The
sun had risen high by now and even in the light cotton gown, Verity
was uncomfortably hot. Strands of hair under the now lopsided
chipstraw hat clung damply to her flushed cheeks, and in her
scrambling haste she stumbled once or twice on the uneven ground.
By the time she came out of the forest the pink gingham gown was
dirtied over, ripped in several places, and she had scratches on
her face and on her ungloved hands from the swishing greenery she
had thrust carelessly aside to clear her path.

From
here she could plainly see the little clutch of gaily painted
caravans a little below where she stood. But she was still some way
off and a sigh escaped her. She wondered, with an involuntary pang,
if Henry had returned yet, and what he would do when he found them
all gone. She thought, as she plodded on, that he might at first
suppose them to be playing a trick, and waste a deal of time
hunting fruitlessly about.

***

Could Verity but have known it, the marquis was at that very
moment staring from the seat of his phaeton in utter perplexity at
the distant figure he could just glimpse, moving at a jogtrot in
the direction of the gypsy camp, her hat bouncing on her shoulders,
held on only by the ribbons about her neck.

There was a spot on the route from Braxted Place to the
ruined manor of Haverigg Hall where the forest dipped so low that a
clear view of the valley was obtained. Salmesbury’s idle gaze had
been caught by something familiar about the hurrying figure and he
pulled up, uttering a shocked expletive.

‘
Good God! What in the world—?’

Bradshaw, the second nurse, who was up beside him, pleased to
find herself a member of the expedition after all, glanced
enquiringly up into his face. ‘My lord?’

The
marquis pointed. ‘See there? That is Miss Lambourn.’

The
woman peered, frowning. ‘But she don’t have the children with her,
my lord.’

‘
Exactly. She would never have left them. Damnation! They must
have run away.’

‘
Oh,
no, sir, surely not,’ protested Bradshaw. ‘Master Wystan thinks
that highly of Miss Lambourn, my lord. He’s talked of her often.
I’m sure he’d never serve her such a trick. And with Miss Peggy,
too.’

‘
You’re right,’ agreed Salmesbury, a heavy frown descending on
his brow. ‘He could never have outrun Verity while carrying the
babe.’

‘
What does it mean, my lord?’ asked the nurse
anxiously.

‘
I
don’t know, but I have a fearful suspicion. We must go back at
once.’

So saying, he began to
turn the horses to face in the direction of Braxted Place again,
revolving plans in his head, while his heart ached with dread.

***

They were waiting for
her when she got to the camp. She had seen them gathering at the
edge of their circle of caravans, one by one as the word passed
round of a stranger on the way, intrigued no doubt by her haste and
her unkempt appearance.

A
knot of nervous tension settled in the pit of Verity’s stomach as
she searched among the tanned, impassive faces for some sign of
warmth. Even the few ragged children who ventured out of the camp
towards her exhibited a surly, silent hostility.

No one spoke as Verity
came up, slowing her pace the last few yards, to come to a
faltering halt before the seemingly solid phalanx of humanity that
barred her progress. In fact there were less than a dozen, men in
breeches and waistcoats with colourful handkerchiefs knotted about
their necks, women in simple layered skirts and light embroidered
tops. No bright scarves in evidence here, for this was everyday and
they must keep them for best, like the villagers with their special
Sunday clothes for church.

Verity looked from one to the other, and proffered a
tentative question. ‘I need help. The marquis’s children. They’ve
been taken. . .kidnapped. Please, can you help me?’

The faces were blank,
shut in. They merely stared at her and said nothing.

Verity swallowed on a dry throat. Dear Lord, make them
understand. Desperation entered her voice.

‘
I’m not your enemy. I was alone with the
children for a very short time. Two horsemen came out of the forest
and took them. I saw your camp and ran down to see if you could
help.
Please!’

Not a flicker. As a
clan, these people were so oppressed, so isolated, that even this
innocent appeal failed to break through the wall of prideful,
silent enmity they had learned, through bitter experience, to
present to strangers.

Verity wanted to run
away. She wished she had after all waited for Henry. But she was
here, and the thought of the fear and horror that the children must
be experiencing even now drove her to hunt her mind for
inspiration. It came.

‘
There’s an old woman who tells fortunes. I met her at
Tunbridge Wells, at the fair. Is she here?’

There was a sudden
change. Here and there the gypsies exchanged glances, shifted
position.

‘
You know her?’ Verity went on eagerly. ‘I
can’t recall her name. An old gypsy. . .yes, something like
Mary,
was
it?’

The relaxation could
be felt. The stern poses eased and even a few mutterings could be
heard. Verity caught one and it jogged her memory with the errant
name.

‘
Mairenni!’ she said triumphantly. ‘That was it. Old Mairenni,
she called herself. Oh, please, take me to her. She told me there
was trouble and sorrow ahead. Now it has come. She’ll help me, I
know she will.’

One of the men stepped
forward a pace and jerked his head, signifying that she should
accompany him. He waited only to see that she understood, and then
turned to stride off into the circle of caravans. As Verity
followed, the tableau the gypsies made began to break up and shift.
In a moment the little group had dispersed about their various
businesses, and Verity was more or less alone with her guide.

Old Mairenni must have
been waiting for them, apprised by some earlier messenger of the
advent of this stranger. She came out of her caravan as they
approached and stood on the top step, peering down.

‘
And
is it we be suspicioned, dearie? Will ye find yon childer stowed
away in one o’ we wagons, eh?’

‘
You
know?’ Verity asked, amazed.

The
crone cackled. ‘Aye. But there ain’t nothing in that, dearie. Young
’un here brought yer tidings.’

She clicked her
fingers and an urchin crept out from under the wagon, grinning
cheekily up at Verity. She smiled at him automatically, but went to
the steps, closer to the old woman.

‘
Will you help me?’ she begged urgently.

‘
How? Is it the likes o’ we be knowing anything worthwhile?
How be we going to help?’

‘
I
don’t know how,’ Verity confessed. ‘But I feel sure you could—if
you wished to.’

Mairenni stared down at her for a moment, her old eyes
inscrutable as she scanned the face below her. Then she broke into
her cackling laugh, and swinging an ancient wrinkled hand, called
out in a cracked voice.

‘
Peneli! Ho, there, boy!’

Verity looked round to find that the man who had led her here
had retired to stand some distance away, not quite out of earshot.
Now he came forward, and an abrupt realisation jolted Verity’s
mind. It was that very same gypsy!

‘
Upon my word,’ she exclaimed, ‘it was you!’

His mouth curled
sardonically, marring his handsome features. His voice was rough
and deep, his accent as thickly overlaid with the west-country
twang as was that of the old woman.

‘
Is
it I took the markiss’s childer, then?’

‘
No,
no, I didn’t mean that,’ Verity said hastily. ‘But I have met you
before. At least, it was you, was it not, that day I found the
children on the road?’

‘
Aye,’ he agreed, his dark eyes roving insolently over her
face and figure. ‘Thought I meant ’em harm then, you
did.’

Verity could not deny it. ‘I admit that I was afraid. But I
later repented of such a hasty conclusion. It was wrong of me, very
wrong, and I beg your pardon.’

He
shrugged. ‘Can’t be blaming ye. It’s like yer kind. What do ye know
of us Romanies?’

‘
Nowt she knows,’ interrupted Old Mairenni. ‘Enough now,
Peneli. Come to we for help, she has. Is it our way to refuse? Go
now. Take her. Likely news to be found at yon thievin’
ken.’

Mairenni was evidently
a person of some power, for the man Peneli merely nodded, and once
again jerked his head to Verity and moved off. She paused to smile
up at the old woman.

‘
Thank you. I hope you will allow me to come here again to
visit you.’

The
woman showed her gapped teeth in a grin. ‘Yer welcome, dearie.
Fortune smiles on ye, don’t she?’

Then she waved the
girl off with a sweep of her hand and turned away. Verity could
hear her cackling as she turned to hurry off after Peneli.

The
man led her to a spot behind one of the caravans where a clutch of
ponies was grazing in a makeshift corral. He laid a hand on the
roped gateway and turned to the visitor.

‘
Ye
ride?’

Verity sighed. ‘I’m afraid not.’

The Reverend Harry
Lambourn kept but two horses, one to draw the gig and another for
his own use. His purse did not run to mounting his bevy of
girls.

The
gypsy’s lip curled in that disparaging way, but he merely said,
‘It’ll have t’be donkey. And fix yer hat. Hot it be.’

Verity obeyed, retying the ribbons, but without bothering to
prettify the bow. In a few minutes she found herself sitting rather
precariously on the blanketed back of an overfed creature, who
plodded behind Peneli’s pony at the end of a leading rein. The
position was ignominious, to say the least, but Verity did not mind
that. Her whole preoccupation was with the children, and she could
only hope that wherever Peneli was taking her would bring her
closer to finding them.