The Marriage Rescue. Joanna Johnson

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       Chapter Two

      Selina gazed up at the ceiling of the darkened caravan, arching in a perfect curve above her head. Orange embers glowed in the grate of the compact stove set against one wall, dimly illuminating the gilt-painted woodwork of the shelves and bunks to gleam like real gold. A sliver of moonlight fell from one not quite shuttered window, slicing down to leave a pale splash on the polished floor.

      Like all Roma women, Selina kept her vardo spotlessly clean, and even Papa, when he came to call for a cup of tea, knew to wipe his boots before he was allowed to cross the threshold.

      A sideways glance across the narrow cabin showed her grandmother was asleep, the mound of colourful crochet blankets she slept under rising and falling with each breath. In the eerie stillness of the night even that small movement was a comfort.

      Selina sighed. It’s no use.

      Sleep evaded her, just as it had on the previous three nights. Each time she closed her eyes pictures rose up to chase each other through her mind: Edward as a young lad, on the day she had first encountered him all those years ago, attempting to smile through gritted teeth as she cleaned his wounded face, and then his adult counterpart, the blond curls just as vivid but his shoulders so impressively broad beneath his fine coat that Selina felt her heart beat a little faster at the memory.

      Would that distinctive hair have been soft beneath her fingertips, she wondered, if she’d leaned down from her tree to touch?

      The very notion made her breath hitch in her throat before she slammed the brakes on that train of thought, horrified by its wayward direction.

       You can stop that this moment, Selina. What’s the matter with you?

      At least the mystery of who he was and why she had encountered him there had been solved. Edward Fulbrooke. Ambrose’s son and Charles’ nephew. Perhaps she should have suspected, she mused as the image of his face drifted unstoppably across her mind’s eye once again, wearing the same dazzling smile he had flashed her mere days previously. But Edward’s father and uncle shared the same chestnut hair and ruddy complexion, quite unlike his cool fairness. There was no physical resemblance. And as for character...

      Certainly as a boy he had been agreeable, she recalled as she lay in the darkness. He’d looked surprised to see her there in the woods, hunting for wild mushrooms, and she herself had felt nothing but sympathy for him at the state of his bloodied cheek. In those days she’d had no real reason to fear the gentry; Mama had still been alive, and in her childish innocence it had felt the most natural thing in the world to go to him, to help tend to his wound and to feel a slow creep of pleasure at having made a new friend who delighted her with his strange old-fashioned manners.

      But then they had killed Mama. The Roma had left the Fulbrooke estate, never intending to return—and Selina’s hatred of the gentry had been burned into her heart like a brand.

       It was just as well he didn’t remember me. He might have wanted to talk, otherwise, and that would never have done.

      Selina shifted beneath her bedclothes, attempting to make her body more comfortable than her mind. The fact Edward had been just as courteous as a grown man as he had been as a lad was as surprising as her apparently instinctive attraction to him—and almost as confusing. The upper classes were renowned among her people for their contempt of the Romani, fostering the animosity that raged on both sides.

      Had her care of Edward as a child opened his mind to the possibility the Roma were more civilised than he would otherwise have believed? she wondered. Or perhaps she was giving herself too much credit, Selina thought wryly. Certainly she was giving him too much space in her head.

      The fact that she had slipped Edward’s handkerchief beneath her pillow meant nothing. There just wasn’t anywhere else to keep it. Zillah, with her hawk-like eyes, would spy it at once if she left it on her shelf, and carrying it upon her person seemed unduly intimate. Perhaps she should just get rid of it, wad it into the stove, but the thought made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite identify.

      Beneath her pillow it would have to stay, incriminating embroidered initials and all, and Selina could only pray nobody would find it.

      ‘You’re still awake, child.’

      Selina jumped, and sat up so quickly she almost hit her head on the low shelf above her bunk. ‘I thought you were sleeping, Grandmother.’

      ‘So I was—until you decided the early hours would be a good time to begin talking to yourself. A sign of madness, as well you know.’

      ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I’d spoken aloud.’

      ‘You didn’t.’ Zillah rose up in her bunk, arthritic bones creaking. ‘You’ve been tossing and turning all night; any fool could tell you have something on your mind. I’d wager it’s the reason why you rode back into camp three days ago as if the devil himself was after you.’

      ‘It’s nothing, Grandmother. Go back to sleep.’

      ‘I will not. Make a cup of tea, girl, and tell me what ails you.’

      Selina groaned inwardly. There really was no stopping Zillah once she got the bit between her teeth. A lifetime on the road—a hard path for any woman—had instilled in her an almost legendary resolve. There was no room for weakness in a vardo. At past eighty years old, with silver hair and a face lined with the countless creases of age, Zillah had a mind that was still sharp as a knife, and she was revered among the Roma for her experience and wisdom.

      Of course she’d noticed Selina’s absence from camp, and how distracted she had been for the past few days—how could Selina have expected anything less?

      She swung her legs down from her bunk and shuffled, still cocooned in blankets, the few steps towards the stove. She could have made a fire in her sleep by now, she was sure, and it wasn’t long before their copper kettle was whistling shrilly. Two doses of strong, sweet tea were poured into china cups, and she conveyed them back to where her grandmother sat, swathed in a thick woollen shawl and regarding her expectantly.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Well, what, Grandmother?’ Selina hopped up into her bunk, cup clutched to her chest.

      ‘I would like to know what it is that bothers you. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’

      ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’ Selina glanced at Zillah from beneath her lashes. Even in the darkness she could see her grandmother’s eyes were fixed on her, gleaming bright as a pair of new pins. ‘There isn’t anything I can think of.’

      Edward’s face rose up before her mind’s eye before she could stop it, his hazel gaze locked onto hers, and she frowned down into her teacup. How was it that the only man ever to make her blush was a gentleman, and a Fulbrooke at that? She had every reason to loathe his family, and yet the pull of Edward’s СКАЧАТЬ