"Good day," I replied, gripping Jessamy's arm, for I had a feeling she was going to turn and run.
"Don't be shy," said the woman. "My! You are two fine little ladies. I reckon there's a bonny fortune waiting for you."
I was enthralled by the prospect of looking into the future. I always have been. I could never then and cannot now resist a fortuneteller.
"Come on, Jessamy," I said, dragging her forward.
"I think we ought to go back," she whispered.
"Come on," I said, holding her firmly. She did not like to protest. She was afraid it might seem ill-mannered towards the gypsies. Jessamy was always considering what was good and bad manners, and she was terrified of committing the latter.
"Now you two has come from the big house, I reckon," said the woman.
"She has," I told her. "I'm from the vicarage."
"Oh, holy, holy," said the woman. Her eyes were on Jessamy, who was wearing a fine gold chain with a gold locket in the shape of a heart attached to it. "Well, my pretty," she went on, "I'm sure you've got a good fortune waiting for you."
"Have I?" I asked, holding out my hand.
She took it. "You'll be the one who makes her own fortune."
"Doesn't everybody?" I asked.
"Oh, clever, are you? I see. Yes, we do ... with a little help from fate, eh? You've got a great future, you have. You'll meet a tall dark stranger and you'll sail across the seas. And gold ... yes, I see gold. Oh, you've got a great future, you have, missy. Now let me look at the other little lady."
Jessamy hesitated, and I held up her hand. I noticed how brown and grubby the gypsy's was compared with Jessamy's.
"Oooh. Now you're going to have the luck, you are. You're going to marry a lord and have silk sheets to sleep in. There'll be gold rings on your fingers ... finer than this here chain." She had taken the chain in her other hand and was examining it. "Oh yes, you've got a fine and bonny future before you."
A man had strolled up. He was dark like the woman.
"You been telling the ladies' future, Cora?" he asked.
"Bless their little hearts," she said softly, "they wanted to hear their fortunes. This little 'un comes from the big house."
The man nodded. I did not much like the look of him. His eyes were sharp like a ferret's, whereas the woman was fat and comfortable-looking.
"Hope they crossed your palm with silver, Cora," he said.
She shook her head.
The little ferret eyes were gleaming. "Oh, that's terrible unlucky, that is. You must cross the gypsy's palm with silver."
"What will happen if we don't?" I asked with curiosity.
"It would all turn topsy-turvy. All the good would be bad. Oh, that's terrible unlucky ... not to cross the gypsy's palm with silver."
"We haven't got any silver," said Jessamy, aghast.
The man had his hands on the chain. He tugged at it and the clasp came undone. He laughed and I noticed what unpleasant teeth he had; they were black, like fangs.
It occurred to me that our elders had been right and it was unwise to go walking in the woods.
The man was holding up the chain and looking at it intently.
"It's my best chain," said Jessamy. "It was given to me by my papa."
"Your papa is a very rich man. I reckon he'll give you another."
"That was for my birthday. Please give it back to me. My mother will be angry if I lose it."
The man nudged the woman. "I reckon Cora would be angry if we didn't have it," he said. "You see, she's given you a service. She's read your fortunes. Now that's something that has to be paid for. You have to cross the gypsy's palm with silver ... if you don't terrible disaster will befall you. That's so, ain't it, Cora? Cora knows. She's got the powers. She's in touch with them that knows. The Devil's a great friend of hers, too. He says to her, 'If any don't treat you right, Cora, you just let me know.' Well, telling fortunes without crossing the gypsy's palm is all against the rule. But gold will do ... gold will do just as well."
Jessamy was standing as though transfixed with horror. She was staring at her chain in the man's hands. I sensed danger. I could see his little eyes looking at our clothes, particularly Jessamy's. She was wearing a gold bracelet too. It was mercifully hidden by her sleeve.
I suddenly knew we had to get away quickly. I seized her hand and dashed away, running as fast as I could, dragging her with me. From the corner of my eye I saw the man start after us.
The woman shouted. "Let 'em be. Don't be a fool, Jem. Let 'em go, and put the horses on the van."
Jessamy was panting behind me. I stopped and listened. The man had taken Cora's advice and we were not being followed.
"He's gone," I said.
"So is my chain," said Jessamy mournfully.
"We'll tell them he came up to us and snatched it."
"That's not quite true," said Jessamy. Oh dear, I thought, these sticklers for the truth, how trying they could be!
"He did snatch it," I insisted. "We mustn't tell them how far into the woods we went. Well just say he came up and snatched it."
Jessamy was very unhappy. However, I was the one who told the story, keeping to the truth as far as I could, not telling them how deeply we had penetrated into the woods and eliminating the woman and her fortunetelling.
There was great consternation—more, I realized, because we had been molested, as Aunt Amy Jane put it, than because of the loss of the chain. They sent men into the woods, but the caravan had gone, though there were the wheel marks and the remains of the fire to show where they had been.
Aunt Amy Jane, who managed most things in the village as she did at Seton Manor, had "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted" put up on signboards all over the woods, and from then on gypsies were not allowed to camp there. I felt overawed to contemplate that this had been brought about by my waywardness, but I consoled myself with the thought that I had not made a thief of the gypsy; he had been that already, so I did not feel there was anything much to worry about.
It was poor innocent Jessamy who worried. She blushed every time gypsies or fortunetelling were mentioned. We had acted a lie, she said, and the recording angel would make a note of it. It would have to be answered for when we got to heaven.
"That's a long time yet," I comforted her. "And if God is what I think He is He won't like that sneaking little recorder very much. It's not nice spying on people and writing down what they do in a little book."
Jessamy was always expecting the heavens to open and God to inflict something terrible upon me. I used to reassure her that He had had plenty of opportunities and He hadn't done anything so far, so it must mean that He thought I was not so very wicked.
Jessamy was unsure. Her life was fraught with fears and indecisions. Poor Jessamy, who had so much and never seemed to take advantage of it.
I was always very interested in Amelia Lang and William Planter. They had been a part of the vicarage household for as long as I could remember, and they had always been the same through the years. Then I discovered that there was, as Janet put it, "something between them." No sooner had I heard this than I was consumed with curiosity to discover what. I used to discuss it with Jessamy and make up all sorts of wild stories about them. William's name delighted me. It was William Planter, which, I said to Jessamy, was a lovely name for a gardener. Now did he become a gardener because his name was Planter or was it just a joke of God's ... or whoever had given him the name in the first place? For William came from a long line of Planters and they had all been noted for their skill in gardening.
I would roll about with delight and get Jessamy doing the same, forgetting all the rules about deportment, choosing names for people like William Planter's. The cook, I said, should be Mrs. Bakewell instead of Mrs. Wells. Thomas, the butler, should possess the obvious for his name. No one seemed to know what his real one was. He was always called Thomas. The footman should be Jack Foot. The coachman George Horsemare. As for Jessamy, she should be Jessamy Good.