In spite of Madeline’s assurances that the gypsies would not harm them, Cecily’s qualms remained. During their hike, Madeline had told her about the Romany, as she called them.
Apparently they had arrived in England four hundred years earlier and in spite of modern progress had clung to their traditions and lifestyles in a stubborn resistance to change.
“They are determined to remain self-employed,” Madeline had told her. “Their children are taught to be independent and start work very young. They do everything from picking hops and fruit to selling clothes-pegs. They raise horses and collect scrap iron to sell. They work very hard and are a very proud people.”
It was obvious to Cecily that Madeline admired and respected the gypsies, unlike most folk, who feared them. But, it was hard to understand a race of people who lived such a primitive life, constantly on the move and never putting down roots.
Madeline had told her that only in the last twenty years or so had the majority of them been able to afford caravans. Before that they had lived in tents. Their only stability came from their fierce loyalty and commitment to their extended families.
All this had aroused Cecily’s sympathy, but still she was wary of speaking with them. But as the minutes passed and her steps grew weary, she began to look forward to the journey’s end.
A fine sea mist had begun to penetrate the trees, adding a chill that seemed to seep into Cecily’s bones. It felt as though she had been tramping across fallen acorns, dried leaves and dead twigs for hours. Her common sense, however, told her it couldn’t have been more than forty minutes or so since they had first started out.
While Madeline appeared to float effortlessly ahead, parting tendrils of ferns and networks of shrubs with a careless sweep of her arm, Cecily struggled to keep her feet in the tangle of undergrowth that seemed determined to snatch at her ankles and topple her to the ground.
Madeline had assured her it was the shortest route and she knew which direction to take, though they had left the riding trail far behind. Ahead of them lay the gnarled trunks of ancient beech and oak, clumps of nettles and tall grass, and thick branches that shut out the sky.
The air smelled damp and earthy, and all around she could hear scuffling and shuffling, until she imagined a thousand tiny eyes watched their progress.
The prickling feeling in her back held her so tense she was certain she would break a tooth from clamping her jaw. The ache in her side became more intense as she trudged up a slight incline behind the gliding figure in front of her.
Madeline seemed as at home in the forest as Cecily was in her library. The slender woman appeared not to notice the sharp twigs tugging at her hair, or the wayward branch that sprang back and slapped her cheek. She stepped sure-footedly over fallen logs, across tiny streams, and up the slippery, steep slopes without hesitation.
She seemed to have plenty of breath to spare as she occasionally sang out a warning of a low-lying branch, while Cecily barely had enough breath left to cough an answer.
“The trees are thinning,” Madeline called out, as they reached the top of the incline. “We should see the meadow quite soon.”
For Cecily it couldn’t come soon enough. She gritted her teeth and started down the slope ahead, then stopped, frozen, as the sharp snap rang out behind her.
Madeline stopped, too, pausing to look back at her. “What was that?”
Cecily shook her head. Fearfully she peered back the way they had come, trying to penetrate the shadows. “What do you think it was?”
“Probably a beaver. They bite off small branches to use in their dams. We must be getting closer to the big stream.”
Only half reassured, Cecily took a step toward her. Just as she did so, something large whizzed by her ear, narrowly missing her head. She let out a small scream of fright and bounded forward.
The shock on Madeline’s face did nothing to settle her skittering nerves. “What in heaven’s name—”
The words were barely out of her mouth before another large white rock sailed through the air and landed with an ominous thud at her feet.
“Oh my God.” Cecily clutched at her sleeve. “Someone is trying to kill us.”
For answer, Madeline grasped her hand and tugged hard. “Come on! Run!”
The two of them plunged down the incline. Leaping and running, Madeline dragged Cecily after her, dodging in and out of the trees like a rabbit chased by a hungry dog.
Cecily gasped painfully for breath, certain her heart was about to burst as it pounded in her chest. Slipping and sliding, she concentrated on staying on her feet, spurred by the crashing, thudding sounds behind them that told her someone was in hot pursuit.
And drawing closer.
Then, without warning, Madeline stopped in her tracks. Taken by surprise, Cecily smacked into her, sending both of them staggering a few more paces.
Unable to gather enough breath to speak, Cecily merely stared at her friend and made wheezing noises of protest.
Madeline seemed not to hear her. Instead, she slowly raised her hands, her palms flattened as if pressing against an invisible wall. “They are here,” she whispered.
Cecily’s next wheeze rose in question.
The crashing in the forest behind her had ceased, as if their pursuer waited, listening, for their next move. Quite sure that if either one of them took a step he would be after them again, Cecily stayed as motionless and quiet as her trembling body would allow.
Nothing moved in the forest. It was as if all had gone silent and still, waiting for something to happen. Cecily’s shoulders ached with tension. Braced to run, she waited for the next rock to come hurtling out of the dark woods.
Then she heard a rustling, louder than before. A snapping of twigs, a slap of a branch. It seemed to come from all directions, closing them in and trapping them inside the menacing circle.
She whimpered, and Madeline looked at her. The strange gleam was back in her eyes, and her mouth curved in a smile. “They are here,” she said again.
Cecily was about to ask to whom she referred, when a shadow detached itself from the trees and came forward. She jumped violently, backing away. Then another shadow moved, and then another.
They came out of the trees. Dark, swarthy men and bright-eyed women. Young and old, all of them strong. The women wore bright clothes, and kerchiefs holding back their long, black hair.
The men wore scarves about their necks, their rough-hewn features tanned and weathered by the sun.
Madeline spoke first, to the tall, sturdy man who appeared to be their leader. “Greetings, Pedro. We meet again.”
Cecily let out her breath. Of course. She should have known Madeline was acquainted with gypsies. She waited for Madeline to introduce her.
Instead, Madeline gestured at the woods behind her. “Back there. We are being followed by someone who wishes to do us harm.”
The man named Pedro issued harsh commands to his followers in a language Cecily didn’t understand. Several men broke away from the group and disappeared among the trees.
Pedro turned back to Madeline. “If he is still there, they will find him.” He glanced at Cecily. “What brings you into the woods alone, Madeline?”
He pronounced her name with a faint foreign accent that Cecily found rather charming. She managed a frozen smile as Madeline introduced her.
“We have come to ask for your help,” Madeline added, after Pedro had greeted Cecily. “We are searching for someone who may be lost in the woods. A man who is not accustomed to the severe climate of the outdoors in winter.”
Pedro’s dark eyes rested on Cecily’s face for a moment, then switched back to Madeline. “Who is wishing you harm?”
“That we do not know.” Madeline hesitated. “Bad things have been happening, Pedro. A man is dead, and we think his killer will do terrible things to prevent us from discovering his identity.”
“So I have heard. And the man who is missing? What is his name?”
“Hugh Baxter,” Madeline answered. “He is Mrs. Baxter’s husband.”
Once more Pedro’s sharp gaze raked Cecily’s face. “Come,” he said shortly. “We will return to the camp.” He beckoned to the rest of the group, then started striding away from them through the trees.
“What will they do if they find the man who chased us?” Cecily asked Madeline in a whisper.
“They will most likely hold him prisoner until we decide what to do about him.” Madeline gave her an encouraging smile. “We will let the constables deal with him.”
“Not until I have questioned him,” Cecily said fiercely. “He must tell us what happened to Baxter.”
“I think we can trust Pedro and his men to get the information you need. You have no idea what an honor this is, to be invited into their camp.”
“Well, I appreciate the honor, but I trust it isn’t too far away.” Cecily sighed. “I really don’t think I can walk much farther.”
As if understanding her weariness, a young woman took hold of her arm. “Lean on me,” she said softly. “I will be pleased to help you.”
Gratefully, Cecily allowed herself to be supported through the trees.
Soon they emerged from the thicket, where the trees grew farther apart. Between the trunks Cecily glimpsed a grassy area and a patch of cloudy sky. The sound of music drifted toward them on the breeze—fiddles played fast and furiously, and the tinkling beat of tambourines.
As she stumbled out into the meadow, she saw the caravans, painted in startling hues of red, blue, yellow, and green. Lines of wash, strung between the caravans, flapped in the wind.
Children ran about, their feet bare in the cold grass, their cheeks glowing like the embers of the blazing fire around which they frolicked.
A group of musicians played for a lone dancer—a young woman with flowing black hair and flying bare feet. Her yellow and red skirt swirled about her knees as she twirled and leapt to the fiery music, and kept time with a tambourine flashing in her hand.
Several older members, their backs bent with age and some leaning on canes, stood by the colorful doors of their tiny homes, watching warily as Cecily approached.
The music died away and the dancer stood still. Silence settled over the camp, until only the flapping clothes on the line and the faint jingle of iron pots hanging from the sides of the caravans broke the eerie hush.
Fascinated by the scene, Cecily could only stare about her, absorbing all she saw.
Pedro strode forward, one hand held above his head. He called out something in the strange language again, and more heads popped out of the narrow doors.
An elderly woman came forward, her silver hair bound by a long, wispy scarf. Pedro said something to her and she listened intently, then nodded.
Turning back to Cecily, Pedro said quietly, “He who wounds the hunted is wounded himself. A fair exchange.”
Cecily gave him a blank look, having understood not one word he’d said. She had no time to ask him to explain, however, as the old woman took hold of her hand and gave it a tug.
“Come,” she said, her voice a low croak.
Alarmed, Cecily looked at Madeline, surprised by the excitement she saw in her face.
“Go with her,” Madeline said.
Following the woman, Cecily picked her way across the grass. As they passed the caravans, the people nodded and smiled at her, easing her apprehension. Whatever this woman wanted with her, it could not be something to be feared.
At last they reached the caravan farthest from the fire. It was not as colorful as the others, though it seemed larger. The brown paint had faded in the sun, and the wheels looked worn. Assuming this was the woman’s home, Cecily hung back.
“Come,” the gypsy said again. She reached up and opened the door.
She did not want to go inside. Not without Madeline, anyway. She wasn’t sure what awaited her on the other side of that door. On the other hand, if the woman had the power to see into a crystal ball, she wanted to know what the gypsy could tell her.
One thing she did know. Her legs were so weak and trembling she marveled that they still held her weight. If by going through that door it meant she could sit and rest, then she would do it.
Nodding at the woman, Cecily stepped up into the tiny confines of the caravan. The sudden darkness robbed her of sight. She blinked, trying to adjust.
Slowly the room swam into focus, just as the door closed behind her, leaving her alone in the shadows with only the faint light from a candle.
There was barely room to move around in the space between a bed on one side and an armchair on the other. Cautiously she moved forward, wondering why she’d been left alone and more than a little scared. Then, with a shock, she realized someone lay on the bed. The figure moved, and turned over.
Cecily opened her mouth to apologize for her intrusion, but before she could speak a familiar voice muttered her name.
“Cecily? Can that really be you?”
What little strength she had left completely drained from her legs. She went down on her knees, clutching at the bed for support. Tears streamed down her face, and the one word she could utter came out in a sob. “Bax!”
Samuel flicked the reins along the chestnut’s back, urging it to run faster. Clouds had gathered over the ocean and a fresh wind promised rain. The thought of madam and Miss Pengrath trudging through the trees terrified him, and the threat of a storm only made matters worse.
Madeline had told him how to get to the meadow, but it meant taking the riding trail if he were to get there in good time to meet them. After the attempts to run him down, he was not relishing the idea of returning to the menacing shadows of the woods.
He reached the top of the hill and urged the chestnut into a full gallop. The trap swayed from side to side, the wheels groaning in protest as they hit a bump in the road.
Samuel’s teeth rattled as he was jolted out of his seat and crashed down again with a bone-jarring thud. Still he would not allow the horse to let up, and entered the riding trail at breakneck speed.
The next few minutes were a nightmare of grasping branches that threatened to snatch him from the trap, and loose stones thrown up by the chestnut’s flying hooves. On and on they thudded, down slopes and over ridges, turning the bend on one wheel while Samuel’s heart jumped to his throat.
Deeper into the woods they plunged, farther than Samuel had ever been before. The trail narrowed even more, until he was afraid the trap would become jammed between the trees. He reined in the sweating horse, coaxing it to a trot and then slowed to a walk.
Just as he did so, he heard a sound of twigs snapping. Nerves twisting, he lifted the reins to press the horse back into a gallop. Then, from out of the darkness, someone stepped in front of him. With a lurch of apprehension, he jerked the reins and halted the trap.
“Come,” the man said, his harsh voice echoing through the trees. “They are waiting for you.”
Tingling with alarm, Samuel grasped the reins tighter. “Who’s waiting for me?”
“Your friends. Miss Pengrath. Mrs. Baxter.”
Samuel narrowed his eyes, and demanded, “Are you one of them gypsy folk?”
“I am Romany.” The man beckoned, and still uncertain, Samuel nudged the chestnut forward.
The man guided them through the rest of the trees, until at last they came out into the wide-open meadow. At first Samuel’s attention focused on the young woman dancing by the fire. Dusk had already settled over the camp, and the leaping flames bathed the dancer in their fiery glow.
Enthralled by the lithe body twisting and bending to the music, he failed to see Madeline approach until she spoke at his side.
“It’s about time you got here. Mrs. Baxter is impatient to get back to the Pennyfoot.”
Samuel jumped, and stared down into Madeline’s green eyes. “Did the gypsies agree to help look for Mr. Baxter?”
“There’s no need.” Madeline signaled at a couple who moved slowly toward them, the man limping heavily and leaning on the woman at his side.
Samuel blinked, and blinked again. “I don’t believe it,” he murmured. “They found him.”
“Yes,” Madeline said, her voice warm with satisfaction. “They did. They’ve been taking care of him. But now we’re taking him home.”