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Samia darted up to tug at Jack’s coat, then led them about the encampment. After Mistress Elena’s stamp of approval, Samia treated Harriet like an exotic creature she’d procured to exhibit to her friends. She stopped at intervals to let people stare. Other children tagged along behind them. One boy tried to sell Harriet a handful of hand-carved clothespins and was excoriated by his friends. Harriet gathered that one did not sell to guests in the camp.
Some people said the Travelers were careless and dirty and a blot on the landscape, but Harriet saw no sign of it. The camp was neatly kept. Whatever their sanitary arrangements, they gave off no smell. Instead, savory cooking odors wafted about. The meat might be poached, but she would not speak of that. There was no earl in residence to care for his coveys after all. The ring of the portable smithy followed them about the area. The dogs were wary but polite. The thought of her grandfather’s wrath should he ever learn of this visit added spice for Harriet. Here were more of the sorts of people he forbade her to know. Grandfather was so very eager to forbid. And yet quite easily flouted. She reveled in the sensation.
Wherever they went, Jack exchanged bantering conversation with the Travelers. They didn’t seem to be friends, precisely, but there was clearly mutual respect. Harriet had passed by Travelers on the road once or twice and seen the contemptuous looks they flung at those outside their circle. She saw nothing like that here. “They accept you,” she said.
“Because of my mother,” he answered, some sort of challenge in his voice.
“Yes, you said she was a Traveler. What was her name?” Harriet asked.
He blinked as if surprised, then smiled. Oh, that smile! Jack Not-Mere had more charm than any three other men combined. “Calla,” he answered. “She had red hair like yours.”
The warmth in his eyes seemed to pour over Harriet, like another sun, eluding her parasol, painting her cheeks crimson.
“Are you coming?” called Samia from up ahead. “You haven’t seen thehorses.”
“That would be a dire omission,” said Jack. There was a laugh in his voice but something more serious in his expression. Unless she was mistaken.
Harriet groped for her customary composure. It was there, a pillar and a refuge. She called upon it when men tried to unsettle her—the insinuating dance master, an oily vicar. But Jack wasn’t like them. He was something else entirely. The wordirresistiblefloated into Harriet’s consciousness. She waved it away.
“What is it?” asked Jack.
She had actually moved her hand! This wouldn’t do at all. Harriet suddenly noticed the position of the sun. It couldn’t possibly be passing toward the west. The time had gone so swiftly. “I must go.”
“Thehorses,” called Samia, sounding exasperated.
“You can’t miss them.” Jack was examining her with… What was it? Surely it could not be tender concern?
“I can only walk alone while no one notices,” replied Harriet. “I have been away too long.”
He accepted her word at once, without argument. “Miss Finch has to go,” Jack told their small escort. “She will see the horses next time.”
Samia put her hands on her tiny hips, outraged. “I would have taken her to the horsesfirst,” she said.
There shouldn’t be a next time, Harriet thought. She shouldn’t see Jack again. But she thought it very likely that she would.
Three
Dinner at Winstead Hall that evening was much as usual. Harriet’s grandfather preferred a monologue at this heavy, formal meal, punctuated by meek agreements, which her mother provided. He never asked a question or, still less, solicited an opinion. He was the sole source ofthose, reacting to the newspapers or communications from his employees. Now and then, he directed a glare at his companions, emphasizing a point, and every time, Harriet’s mother flinched.
Harriet had tried placing herself in the line of fire, so to speak, to shield Mama. But it didn’t help. When she spoke, her mother grew even more anxious over what she might say. Harriet had thought this worry would lessen as time passed and they were settled in her grandfather’s household. But in fact, it was growing worse. Her mother’s fears spread more widely each day. Trivial matters overset her. The lines in her face had deepened; her hands shook. She was no happier than she had been when they were poor, squeezing every penny. Indeed, she was less so. Harriet didn’t know what to do. When she tried to speak of it, her mother pretended that none of these signs existed.
“Filthy Travelers,” said her grandfather.
Harriet’s attention snapped back to him.
“They’ve camped not far from Ferrington Hall, bold as brass. The thieving scoundrels. Heard the earl was away, I suppose, and rushed in to take advantage. That fellow is shirking his responsibility. But I shall speak to the magistrate and have them driven off.” He raked the room with a petulant frown. “On no account are you to go near there.”
“Of course not, Papa!” said Harriet’s mother.
Harriet made no reply, knowing silence would be taken for obedience. But behind her blank expression, her mind raced. The camp must be warned. Her grandfather would raise a gang of men to harry the Travelers away. She’d heard of that being done, sometimes violently. The thought of Mistress Elena and little Samia and the others being beaten made her cringe inside. “Who is the local magistrate, Grandfather?” she asked.
Brought up short, the old man said, “Eh?”
“He is a great friend of yours, I expect.” Harriet made herself smile.
“I am acquainted with him, naturally.”
The hint of bluster told Harriet that they were not friends, which was good. “He is one of the neighbors?”
