He’d forgotten that Aaron and most of the other adults would be out working, but if any of the band had heard anything, Gracella would know.
She looked mildly intrigued, but shook her head. “No—of that, we have heard nothing. In fact, I would say we have not heard of any smuggling in these parts, in this county, for…perhaps as many as ten or twenty years. Not since Aaron was a small boy and my husband was leader of our group.”
Christopher tipped his head in thanks. “It was a long shot, but I would have felt foolish had I driven to the coast, only later to find that you already had the answers.”
Gracella nodded regally. “It was wise to check, and besides”—she turned her smile on Ellen—“now we may have our tea.”
The girls bustled around, setting out glasses and an ornate teapot on a lacquered tray. After carefully pouring boiling water from the kettle into the pot, they carried the tray to Gracella.
She inspected their efforts, then nodded approvingly, poured the rose-colored tea into the small glasses, doctored each with a dollop of honey and stirred it in, then indicated that the girl holding the tray should offer glasses to Christopher and Ellen.
Once they each had a glass, Gracella accepted the last and dismissed the girls, commending them on their performance, bringing relieved and happy smiles to their faces.
She waved the bevy away. “Off now and let us have some peace.”
In a swirling horde, the group ran off toward the stream.
Ellen noticed Gracella’s gaze following the children. She sipped, then couldn’t resist asking, “Are they all related to you?”
Gracella glanced at her, then smiled. “In one way or another.” After a second, she went on, “We Romany travel in bands, and at least in this country, the members of each band are more or less family.” She tipped her head toward the children. “Five of the eleven are my great-grandchildren, and the others are great-nephews or great-nieces. It makes it natural for me to watch over them while their parents are working in the fields. The children pay me all due attention, and the parents know I will not fail them—they are my flesh and blood.”
Ellen looked around. “So this”—she waved at the gathered wagons—“is really a big family community, much like many large farms or tiny villages. The only real difference is that this one moves every month or so.”
Gracella grinned and nodded. “This is true. We are just like any other family.”
“Perhaps bigger than most,” Ellen said, “but people are people, so the same rules apply.”
Gracella switched her gaze to Christopher. “This one is wiser than most. She does not leap to judge, but she looks, and most importantly, she sees.”
Christopher met Ellen’s eyes and smiled. “Indeed.”
Blushing, Ellen raised her glass and sipped.
They drank their tea and talked of the harvest and the state of the farms around about. Ellen noted that if Christopher wanted to know how his neighbors’ crops were faring, all he need do was ask the gypsies; they missed nothing—not even the repairs to the Bigfield House goat pen!
Once they’d finished their tea, she and Christopher rose, and she thanked Gracella for her hospitality. “The tea was delicious, and I’m glad to have seen your camp for myself.”
Gracella smiled contentedly and graciously waved them on their way. While walking to the curricle, Ellen glanced back and saw Gracella strolling toward the stream, resuming her eagle-eyed supervision of the children.
Christopher handed her up to the seat. She was pleased to note that her previously ridiculously leaping nerves had steadied; while they still tensed in anticipation of his touch, now, when that touch came, their reaction was more like a happy purr.
He reclaimed the reins from the boys, tossed them a penny each, then climbed up and set the chestnuts walking out of the field.
“If I’ve understood correctly”—still curious, she glanced one last time around the camp—“this band moves around the county as the harvest and the consequent need for their labor dictates.”
He nodded. “I’m not sure where this group winters these days, but in this area, we see them first for the cherry harvest in July. Then they move to a few other areas and return about now as the hops, and then the apples, and eventually the plums ripen.”
She arched her brows. “We don’t grow cherries.” She glanced inquisitively at him. “Does the manor?”
He shook his head as he guided the horses out of the gate and into the lane. “We specialize in hops and apples. Bigfield has some hops, lots of apples, and a damson orchard, but the damsons won’t be ready to harvest until at least the end of September, after the hops and most of the apples are in.”
“That’s a relief! Before the gypsies arrived, I was wondering how we were going to manage just to harvest the hops, never mind all the rest.”
He’d set his horses trotting freely, and the curricle was once more bowling along. “We—the manor and Bigfield House—usually pool our workers for the harvest. Normally, the manor’s crops are ready a few days before yours, so we combine your workers and Aaron’s band with our men and get the job done, then we all head across the road and get the Bigfield House crop in.” He shrugged. “It’s been that way for decades, at least since I was a boy.”
“That sounds an eminently sensible approach.” She glanced at his face. “I hope we can continue the tradition.”
He briefly met her eyes and smiled. “If you and your brother agree, I see no reason why we can’t.”
She smiled and looked ahead. The news that the entire harvest would occur more or less by rote was a significant relief.
Christopher returned his gaze to his horses. “Incidentally, Sir Humphrey always loved to see his hops brought in.” He glanced fleetingly her way. “You might think about bringing him down to the fields on one of the days we’re harvesting. I’m sure he’d enjoy that.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Poor Uncle Humphrey doesn’t get out enough—I’ll get Partridge to organize it. Perhaps make a picnic of it.”
Christopher slowed his horses as they reached the village and found themselves facing the Bull Inn. He turned the chestnuts left, onto the main village lane but heading east, away from the village. He set the horses trotting quickly along the better-surfaced lane, which afforded a fairly straight run between ripening orchards and fields to the town of Rolvenden. There, he turned south, onto the Hastings Road.
With smooth macadam beneath the wheels and the way ahead clear, he let the chestnuts stretch their legs, and they fairly flew along.
The wind ruffled his hair and tugged determinedly at Ellen’s bonnet.
She clutched it to her head, then grasped the dangling ribbons and tied them beneath her chin. “At least these wretched ribbons can be useful for something other than just bouncing about my ears,” she muttered.
He laughed and let the horses race on.
An hour later, he tooled the curricle down the last stretch of the London Road toward the Hastings seafront and turned in under the arch of the Royal Sussex Arms, one of the better coaching inns.
In the yard, he gave the reins into the care of an attentive groom with orders to feed and water the chestnuts, then rounded the curricle and helped Ellen down.