Forewarned but not Forearmed

Wrapping her long cloak around her, to ward off the chill of the wind, Elizabeth Bennet winced as one of her half-boots cracked the thin sheet of ice over a puddle, sinking her down into freezing slush.

As she turned to sympathise with her sister, Jane Bennet shuddered as a lump of snow fell onto her from a heavily laden branch above her head. “Remind me again why I agreed to walk to the library with you? In January! And so very cold!”

“Because, like me, you have also had a surfeit of that new concerto Mary has been trying vainly to master. Perhaps a little cold is not such a bad thing after all, is it?”

Jane smiled, but whatever answer she might have made was lost as they rounded the hedge. Normally they would be able to see the first houses of Meryton in the distance, but between them and the town the common was now littered with a score of brightly painted gypsy caravans. Young children, their clothes barely more than a collection of rags, ran between the little wooden huts on wheels and the picket of horses that had been set up to one side. In the centre of the camp was a large bonfire; it’s yellow and orange flames crackling invitingly to the two sisters, who could barely feel their fingers.

An old woman was hunched in a chair by the side of the path, watching the world go by. She was swathed in wraps and had a thick blanket over her knee. When she saw them she held up a gnarled hand and beckoned them closer. “May I tell ye fortune, râni?”

Jane was too polite not to answer, but she was aghast at the idea that they might do any more than hurry on past. “Oh no! Thank you, but we cannot stop. We are going to the library.” She held up the parcel of books in front of her, like a shield.

“Do ye not care to know what ye future holds? Ye rom?” The sisters swapped confused glances. “Ye husband?”

Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter as an icy chill swept down her spine. “But ... but we’re not married.”

The woman smiled. “Not now, perhaps, but akana-sig ... by the by ... it may yet happen.” She held out her hand; her knuckles swollen to the size of chestnuts. “Cross me vast with silver and I’ll tell ye what fate has planned for ye.”

Jane made to walk past, but Elizabeth hung back. It was all nonsense, of course. These things always were. It was nothing more than a little harmless entertainment to earn money. As long as one didn’t take it seriously, surely there was no harm in hearing what the old crone had to say. She reached into her reticule.

“Are you coming, Lizzy?”

“I’ll only be a moment. You can go on if you like and I’ll meet you in the library.”

Jane took a few steps closer. “No, if you’re going to do this, then I will wait with you and listen.”

The old woman held out her hand in warning. “Tu ne asis kek! That ye may not do, râni. Her future is for ye phen alone to hear.”

Elizabeth noted Jane’s disquiet and tried to reassure her. “Do not worry, Jane. You go on. It will only take a moment and I will catch up with you before you know it.”

“If you are sure, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth looked back at the woman who watched the pair with interest. “I will be fine. I’ll meet you in the library.

Reluctantly, her sister walked on, casting worried glances behind her as she left.

Curiosity and amusement gripped Elizabeth in equal measure. Turning back to the gypsy, she asked, “How can anyone speak of things that have not yet come to pass?”

“I have the gift ... gožverdo,” the old woman croaked. “As me daj and her daj had afore her.” She held up her hand and tapped in the centre of her palm. “Cross me vast with silver and ye will learn ye fate,” she repeated slowly.

Elizabeth opened her reticule and took out a shiny coin, placing it in the gypsy’s hand.

When it had been tucked safely away the woman held out her palm again. “To tačo vast. Your right hand.” She grasped Elizabeth’s fingers in her calloused hands, turning her palm upwards. Tracing the lines with a broken nail, the gypsy said, “I see a man. Two men.”

Elizabeth grinned. Except for the dubious attentions of Charlotte’s eldest brother, no man had looked at her twice in the last year. It was Jane who always garnered the attention and the offers to dance. This gypsy had no idea what she was talking about.

“Tall ... dark ... rankano. Very handsome. One has the address, and would sweep you off your feet if you let him. The other ... well, he is not what he appears to be. He is kâlo graj ... a dark horse.”

“I thought you said two men? I don’t care for horses.”

“No, and he’ll care nothing for you at the beginning, but the matter will be out of his hands.” She spread her hands theatrically.

Elizabeth snorted in an unladylike manner. “And this is the husband you predict for me? Is he so weak that he will end up with a wife regardless of his desires?”

“No, never weak! Not in your meaning. He will have hidden strengths ... hidden feelings ... but you will teach him much.”

“And I will marry one of these men?”

“Aye, râni. You will be his wife. That is as certain as the munos rising at night.”

“But ... but will I love him?”

“You wish him to be pirano? Your sweetheart?”

Lifting her chin, Elizabeth said, “Nothing but the deepest affection with induce me to marry.”

The old woman nodded her head slowly. “Well, you will marry. All the signs are clear on that point. Therefore, you must fall in love with him, must ye not?” She smiled encouragingly.

“And he? Will he love me?”

“Agre čeros. He will love you to the end of time.”

Convinced now that her future sounded like nothing more than a hackneyed tale of romantic love, intended to appeal to the innocent and gullible, Elizabeth asked one final question; keen to get as much entertainment as she could for her money. “And when will I meet this horse-like gentleman? Next week? Next month? Oh! Let it be on St. Valentines day!”

The old woman allowed her hand to drop. “As to when, exactly, I couldn’t say. That bâro kher ... the big house a way back, the one that stands off the Ware road. Do you know it?”

“I do.”

“Under that roof you will be in the company of your future husband before the year is out.”

At this point, Elizabeth struggled to stifle a smile. Her confirmation of the woman’s fakery was complete. Lord Winton had died before Christmas, and his son had broken his neck three years earlier while hunting at Belvoir. The new Lord Winton was a sickly child of eight years, living with his mother’s family in Lancashire. There was little chance of Netherfield Park being occupied in the near or distant future.

“You’ll remember my words girl?” the gypsy asked.

“Oh, yes!” She promised before stepping back onto the path towards Meryton. She’d remember them long enough that she could tell Jane when she got the the library.

Her sister always did appreciate a good joke.