they were thieving, but I was more interested in the other little titbit Mrs. Smith had revealed.
“Your husband? Does he travel then?”
“Aye, lady. He travels with our family, but I keep a place for him here when the caravans come this way. That is his violin,” she said, nodding toward the instrument on the little table. “And the bed is wide enough for two.”
She roared with laughter again while Miss Allenby and I looked politely away. Had it not been for Miss Allenby’s company, I might have joined in her laughter. I had always had an affinity for such women—comfortable and at ease in their own skin—and I had known a few of them. My father’s particular friend, Madame de Bellefleur, and Minna’s own mother, Mrs. Birch, came to mind. But Miss Allenby was cool to the point of primness and I did not like to shock her.
She reached for her basket then and presented it to Mrs. Smith. “Godwin slaughtered a lamb, and Mama has sent along a small joint. I hope that will be sufficient?” It was a question, but only just. It was apparent from her tone that she considered the haunch a fair trade for the medicinals she had come to fetch.
Mrs. Smith peered into the basket, inspecting the lamb carefully. She put it aside and handed the basket back to Miss Allenby. “It will do,” she said at length. “The dew will be dry now. Go and cut an armful of mint. I will fetch the ointment of St. Hildegarde and the quince jelly.”
Miss Allenby rose and took up her wraps and basket. Rook the lurcher raised his head lazily when she opened the door, then laid it back down.
“He is a lazy one,” Mrs. Smith commented with a fond look at the dog. “But his company suits me.”
“It must get lonely for you,” I ventured, “alone up here, with only the odd villager for company.”
Mrs. Smith shrugged. “I told you, lady, I have a purpose. If one has a purpose, life is bearable enough, do you not think so?”
I did think so, in fact. I had spent the better part of my widowhood searching for one.
“But I think you will be lonely here,” she said suddenly, leaning toward me and pitching her voice low. “And when you are, you must come to Rosalie. You will have no greater friend on the moor. Do you understand?”
I did not, but I smiled at her, wondering if she had perhaps become a bit unhinged living in such isolation.
“How very kind of you,” I began, but she waved me off.
“I am not kind,” she said firmly. “My family is known for its gifts, but I do not have the sight. I do not see the future, although I do feel when danger is about. I feel it now, and it hovers over you, like a creature with great black wings.”
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes in annoyance. I had heard such things before, always from a Gypsy fortune-teller who wanted her palm crossed with silver.
“I do not wish to have my fortune told, Mrs. Smith, and I am afraid I have no coin on me at present.”
To my astonishment, she grabbed my hand and held it firmly in both of hers. Her hands were warm and smooth and I could catch the scent of herbs on her skin. “Lady, I do not want your money. I speak honestly of friendship. You must call me Rosalie, and you must come to me whenever you have need of me. Promise me this.”
I promised, albeit reluctantly. She rose then and rummaged in the black-painted cupboard. She returned with a tiny pouch of brightly-patterned red cotton. She pressed it upon me.
“Carry this with you always. It is a charm of protection.”
I must have looked startled, for she smiled then, a beautiful, beneficent smile. “I am a shuvani, lady. A witch of my people. And I want you to know I will do everything I can to protect you.”
I took the little pouch. It had been knotted tightly with a silken thread and it held several small items, nothing I could recognise from the shape. “I do not know what to say, Mrs. Smith—”
“Rosalie,” she corrected. “Now keep that with you and show it to no one.”
Obediently, I slipped it into my pocket, and only then did she resume her lazy, good-natured smile.
“I think Miss Ailith is ready to leave,” she commented, nodding toward the window. “Have you finished your tisane?”
“Yes, thank you.” I collected my wraps and bent to pet the lurcher. He gave a little growl of contentment and thumped his tail happily on the floor.
“Tell me, Rosalie,” I said, twisting the unbecoming shawl over my hair, “if all herbs have a purpose, what was the point of giving me borage?”
Rosalie smiled her mysterious smile. “Have you never heard the old saying, lady? Borage for courage.”
I collected Miss Allenby from the front garden and we bade Rosalie farewell. She pressed the jar of quince jelly and a tin of ointment upon Miss Allenby who thanked her graciously. As we passed through the wicket gate, I fell deeply into thought, pondering what Rosalie had told me. Perhaps she belonged to a more subtle variety of Gypsy than those I had yet encountered. Perhaps, rather than overt offers to tell fortunes or lift curses, Rosalie’s methods were more insidious. I had not paid her for the little charm, but who was to say that on my next visit she might not insist the danger was growing nearer and that only a costly amulet might hold it at bay? It was a cynical thought, but one that bore consideration, I decided as I tripped over a stone.
Miss Allenby put out a hand to steady me, aghast. “My apologies, Lady Julia. I would have warned you about that stone, but I did not imagine you could have missed it.”
She was right about that. It was nearly a yard across, a marker of sorts at the little crossroads in front of the cottage, and though it stood only a few inches proud of the earth, it was enough to catch an unwary foot.
“I was woolgathering,” I said apologetically.
She nodded. “I can well understand, although I have never found the moor a good place to think—the wind seems to drown out my very thoughts. But my brother used to walk the moor quite often when he was puzzling out a problem, and my sister still does. Perhaps you will find it a restful place as well, should you stay for some time.”
As a conversational gambit, it was blunt and inelegant. I rose to it anyway and replied with perfect truth. “I do not know how long I shall be at Grimsgrave. Some weeks at least, I should expect.” Heaven only knew precisely when Brisbane would return, and it could take some time after that to settle matters between us.
She nodded, as if I had confirmed some private conviction of hers. “It is a great distance to travel for a shorter visit,” she observed.
“That it is,” I agreed.
We moved down the path toward the turning for Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had died a little, and I seized the opportunity to take a better measure of Miss Allenby’s situation.
“Your brother was Sir Redwall Allenby?”
She nodded, her face averted.
“I understand he was an Egyptologist, a scholar,” I ventured.
She paused, but
