A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(77)

“Mother Nance, do you know anything about Rosamund Romilly? Anything that might explain her disappearance or what became of her?” I burst out.

She settled back in her chair, her gaze going soft and unfocused. “She does not rest,” she told me at last, her voice small and dreamy. “She walks and she grieves. She must be buried properly for her spirit to quieten.”

“Do you know where she is?”

She gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head.

I put my tankard aside and prepared to rise.

She glanced at it, the fire in the hearth reflected in the polished copper. “Beware the sister,” she said suddenly, clutching my hand, her eyes round, the pupils dilating wide and black.

“Mother Nance?” Her hand was tight upon mine, the bones grinding a little as she grasped it harder.

“Beware the sister,” she insisted.

“Mertensia,” I murmured.

Just as suddenly as the little fit seemed to come upon her, it eased. She dropped my hand and sat back in her chair, giving her head a shake as if to clear it.

“Don’t mind it, child,” she said, her voice returning to normal. “The sight takes me that way sometimes, a force passing through me like the wind rushing through the trees. I do not even know what it means, only the words that I must say.”

She gave me a crafty look. “Would you like to buy a charm of protection?”

I tamped down a rush of annoyance. No doubt the old woman had playacted in order to sell a trinket.

“Are you certain?” she pressed. “I sold one just this morn to the one who speaks to the dead.”

“Helen Romilly?”

She nodded, a smile playing about her lips. “She’s a silly woman, thinking she can talk to ghosts. The ghosts choose you,” she told me decisively. “Come here at dawn, she did, to buy a charm; she were that affrighted. And now she knows better than to meddle with things she cannot control.”

“What sort of charm did you sell her?”

She waved a hand. “A trinket meant to keep the dead at bay.” She poured another measure of cider for herself, adding a hefty measure of rum. “Will you not have another?”

“No, thank you. I must be getting back to the castle.”

She nodded sagely. “Aye, there are things to be done. Mind you come back if you change your mind about that love charm.”

“I do not think I could bring myself to win a man by slipping him a love potion,” I told her frankly, smiling to take the sting from the words.

Her expression was sorrowful. “Nay, child. The potion is for you. There is no heart as pitiable as one that cannot love.”





        CHAPTER





15


I left Mother Nance in a state of considerable irritation. Her vague meanderings had been a pointless waste of time, and her instruction to “beware the sister” was absurd. Judging from the considerable noise of masculine conversation from the rest of the tavern, Stoker had not yet emerged from the taproom, so I made my way back to the castle alone, walking quickly, as the wind had risen, tossing the tops of the trees about with an unearthly sound. I reached the castle just as the rain started, driving and cold.

“Heavens, miss,” Mrs. Trengrouse said as I appeared in the main corridor. “You’ll catch your death in weather like this!”

I gave her a wan smile. “Fear not, I have the constitution of a donkey, Mrs. Trengrouse. You’ll not be landed with an invalid.”

She nodded towards the drawing room. “Everyone is gathered for luncheon. I have ordered it laid in the drawing room as the fire draws better there and the weather has turned. There will be hot soup as well. The trays have only just now gone in, so you haven’t missed it. I’ll send Daisy to help you change.”

“No need,” I told her with the flap of a hand. “I can manage more quickly on my own.”

I hurried to my room and flung off my butterfly-hunting costume, donning instead my day gown—a plain dark blue dress frogged with black silk braid. It was severely cut as a Hussar’s coat and offered the advantage of buttoning up the front so I had no need of a maid to help me into it. I changed my boots for thin slippers, and I smoothed my hair as I pulled my door closed behind me.

To my surprise, Stoker was just mounting the stairs, his black hair sleek with mist, his coat spotted with raindrops.

“Did you learn anything of note?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing save that the local cider is very, very potent. Were your inquiries more fruitful?”

I shrugged. “Mother Nance was amusing herself at my expense. But she did mention that Helen Romilly had purchased a charm from her.”

His dark brows rose. “Helen is dealing in love potions? I suspect she harbors a tendresse for Tiberius, but she’s wasted her coin if she thinks to lure him into matrimony.”

“It isn’t a love potion. It is a charm of protection. Whatever Helen fears, her feelings are sincere.”

We joined the others in the drawing room, where a sort of truce had been established. The casual meal gave a picnic air to the atmosphere with platters of cold meats and tiny casseroles of macaroni cheese jostling fruit compotes and a vast salad of greens from the castle gardens. Mertensia was freshening up the moss of one of her bowls of flowers while Helen presided over the soup tureen standing upon a sideboard and Tiberius stared out at the rising weather. Caspian was sunk low in a chair, sipping his tea and nibbling a leg of cold fowl. It was a peaceful, homely sort of scene, and anyone peering in from the storm-tossed gardens would have thought us the very picture of domestic serenity.