I wish Ann would defend herself, tell Cecily what a toad she is. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slows her steps, falling farther behind.
“Ann,” I say, holding out a hand. But she won’t look at me, won’t answer. She makes it clear that I’m one of them now. It’s weeks yet until we part but she’s already pushing me away.
Fine. Let her. I walk down the path to join the others. The trees wear their new greenery awkwardly still. Through the sparse leaves I spy the East Wing’s progress. The turret is striking. I find I cannot help looking at it, as if it were a magnet pulling me in.
Loud shouts and threats erupt from the site and we rush to see what they are about. A group of men stand on the lawn, fists at the ready. When I draw closer, I see they’re not the workers; they’re Gypsy men. The Gypsies have returned! I search their faces, hoping to catch sight of Kartik. He’s traveled with them before. But he’s not among their number today, and my heart sinks.
The workers form a line behind their foreman, Mr. Miller. They outnumber the Gypsies two to one, but they keep their hammers close.
“Here now, what is all this fuss? Mr. Miller, why have your men stopped work?” Mrs. Nightwing demands.
“It’s these Gypsies, missus,” Mr. Miller sneers. “Causin’ trouble.”
A tall Gypsy with fair hair and a knowing smile steps forward. Ithal is his name. He is the Gypsy Felicity kissed behind the boathouse. Felicity sees him too. Her face goes pale. Hat in hand, he approaches Mrs. Nightwing. “We look for work. We are carpenters. We are building for many people.”
“Shove off, mate,” Mr. Miller says in a low, tight voice. “This is our job.”
“We could work together.” Ithal offers his hand. Mr. Miller doesn’t take it.
“Oi. These are decent ladies. They don’t need no dirty, thieving Gypsies here.”
Mrs. Nightwing steps in. “We have had the Gypsies on our land for years. We’ve had no trouble from them.”
Mr. Miller’s eyes flash. “I can see yer a fine, charitable lady, mum. But if you show them kindness, they’ll never leave. They should go back to their own country.”
Ithal holds tight to his hat, bending the brim. “If we go back, they will kill us.”
Mr. Miller smiles broadly. “See? Their own country don’t even want ’em. You don’t want to hire them Gypsies, missus. They’ll rob you blind.” He lowers his voice. “And what with young ladies present, mum…What could happen, well, I shouldn’t like to say.”
I do not like Mr. Miller. His smile is an illusion. It does not match the venom of his words. Ithal says nothing in return, but I can see by the tight line of his jaw that he would like to.
Mrs. Nightwing straightens her spine as she does when she upbraids one of us. “Mr. Miller, I trust you’ll finish this portion in time for our ball?”
“Aye, missus,” Mr. Miller says, his eyes still on Ithal. “’Twas the rain what put us behind.”
Mrs. Nightwing speaks to the Gypsies as she would to meddling children in need of bed. “I thank you for your concern, gentlemen. At present we have it well in hand.”
I watch the Gypsies go, still hoping I’ll see Kartik at any moment. Mrs. Nightwing is occupied with Mr. Miller and I seize my chance. Palming a penny, I traipse after the Gypsies.
“Pardon me, sir. I believe you may have dropped this,” I say, offering the shiny coin.
The Gypsy knows I’ve invented the tale; I can see it in his suspicious smile. He looks to Ithal for guidance.
“It is not ours,” Ithal says.
“It could be!” I blurt out.
The other man is intrigued. “For what?”
“Careful, friend,” Ithal warns. “We are like dirt beneath their feet.” He flicks his glance to Felicity, who does not even bother to see.
“I only wish to know if Mr. Kartik is among your company at present.”
Ithal folds his arms across his chest. “Why do you want to know?”
“He had hoped for work as a driver. I happen to know of a family in need of such and thought I might inform him.” I feel shamed by my lie.
“You see? Dirt.” Ithal glares at me. “I have not seen Mr. Kartik for some months now. Perhaps he is already in the service of a fine family and cannot come to play anymore.”
It’s a slap of a comment, and I feel properly stung by it, but I’m more stung by the knowledge that no one has seen Kartik. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him.