The Butterfly in Amber (6 page)

Emilia opened her eyes, sudden excitement giving her new energy. ‘She foretells the future through the Bible? How?'

‘She lets the Bible fall open and whatever verse her finger falls upon is the one she acts upon,' Obedience said. ‘She does not know I know about it. I've seen her do it late at night, when Father is out and I should be sleeping. He would not approve at all.'

‘Do you know much about your mother's childhood?' Emilia asked.

Luka fidgeted, the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece reminding him of time scurrying away.

Obedience shrugged. ‘Nothing. That's why I said she was a bit of a mystery. She never mentions her family, and neither does my father. I had always supposed she had a deadly dull, deadly respectable upbringing, just like ours,
except that she never talks about it. Aunt Grace is always telling us about how good
she
was as a child.'

‘Do you know her maiden name?'

‘Grey,' Obedience said. ‘Her name was Faith Grey. Could it get any more tedious?'

Fancy Graylings. Faith Grey. There was just enough of an echo for Emilia's interest to quicken. ‘Have you ever seen her with a small yellow jewel, a piece of amber?'

‘Jewellery? My mother? Of course not! She will not even have buttons on her clothes in case anyone thinks she's vain.'

‘It can't be her,' Luka said. ‘Come on, Emilia, let's go. It's a wild-goose chase. She isn't Fancy, she doesn't have the amber charm, and her husband isn't going to help a couple of grubby gypsy brats. He's more likely to turn us in. Let's get out of here while we still can.'

‘But can't I help?' Obedience said. ‘If it's legal
advice you need, I know nearly as much as Father, really I do.'

‘We do need help. Our families are in gaol and, come Monday morning, are facing the court. We need to get them out!' Luka replied.

‘Why are they in gaol?' Obedience asked. ‘What have they done?'

In fits and starts they told her, trying not to reveal too much about their adventures. Obedience was enthralled with their tale, however, and asked so many eager questions they ended up telling her nearly the whole story.

‘There's lots of things a lawyer could do to try to reduce the sentence,' Obedience said, ‘but to get the whole family out of gaol, scot-free, and no record against them, that's impossible. It'd take a miracle.'

Luka's shoulders sagged.

Emilia put her fingers up to her wrist and was reminded once again, sharply, of her missing
charm bracelet. ‘You must be able to think of something,' she said unhappily. ‘You're so clever, you know so much more than we do. Isn't there something we can do to help our families?'

‘No, I'm sorry,' Obedience said. ‘Unless . . .'

‘Unless what?' Luka sat up eagerly.

‘You could apply to the Lord Protector for a pardon,' Obedience said. ‘He's been known to issue them occasionally. Why, my father drew up a whole swathe of pardons for His Highness only a couple of months ago. Look, there are copies here in his drawer.'

She slipped off the corner of the desk and rummaged through one of the drawers. ‘It was after the beheading of Charles Stuart's old chaplain. He was arrested in June, you know, for sheltering the Duke of Ormonde when he was here in London.'

Luka and Emilia both jumped as if stung by a nettle, and exchanged a quick, horrified glance.
Luckily Obedience did not notice, still looking through her father's desk. ‘He was a silly old fool, really, Doctor Hewett. He used to ask his parishioners to remember an “absent friend” when he passed round the collection plate. Of course he was sending the money to the king! Anyway, he was arrested, along with about forty other Royalists, but Lord Cromwell ended up pardoning half of them. I think everyone in London was sick of watching people being hanged, drawn and quartered! Look, here they are!'

She came up flourishing a pile of thick parchment, affixed with large blobs of red wax in which they could see the imprint of a soldier on a horse.

‘That's his signature! Look how shaky it's got. He used to have a bold hand, Father says.'

Emilia and Luka looked at the parchment she held out with great interest. It was covered in close lines of ornate black script, which looked like the
tracks of a worm with a bellyache. Down the bottom, in a different, frailer hand, was a large sprawling signature. The first part looked like a scandalised mouth, the second like a runaway stagecoach.

‘Well, I can't see Old Ironsides pardoning a whole bunch of gypsies, so I guess we just have to break them out of gaol,' Luka said. ‘Maybe we can burn the whole stupid place down, so that they think everyone's dead, and won't come chasing after us.'

Obedience did not know whether to be shocked, or admiring of Luka's boldness. ‘I wish I could come with you,' she said wistfully. ‘How I'd love an adventure!'

‘You'll have adventures of your own, in time,' Emilia said, then bit her lip, realising she'd again spoken of something she instinctively and mysteriously knew to be true.

But Obedience only sighed. ‘Most unlikely, I'm afraid.'

‘We really need to go,' Luka said, bending to pick up his pack and swing it to his shoulder. ‘It's been a complete waste of time coming here.'

‘Are you sure you haven't seen a little amber jewel?' Emilia asked anxiously. ‘It has a butterfly inside it.'

Obedience shrugged. ‘No, never heard of it or seen it. Why?'

Emilia rubbed her wrist unhappily. ‘It's the lucky charm of the Graylings family. We thought your mother had it. I've been collecting the charms, you see, hoping they'd . . . well, it makes no difference now, I suppose. My bracelet's gone.' She tried to shrug as if she did not care, but it was impossible. ‘Someone took it.'

‘Oh no, really? The pickpockets in London are dreadful, I know. Was it very valuable?'

‘It was to me,' Emilia said.

‘You need to go along to a fence,' Obedience said.

‘A fence? What kind of fence? What on earth for?' Luka and Emilia were utterly baffled.

‘A fence is someone who sells stolen goods,' Obedience explained patiently. ‘The pickpocket doesn't sell the goods himself. He takes them along to a fence, who pays him for them and sells them on for a higher price.

‘Where would we find this fence?' Luka asked. Emilia was speechless, her spirits bounding with new hope.

Obedience made a face. ‘How on earth would I know? I daresay there are hundreds of fences in London, if not thousands. I wouldn't know where to begin looking.'

Emilia felt a telltale prickling in her eyes and leant over Rollo, fondling his ears, trying to hide her expression. Rollo did not thump his plumy tail, as he would do usually. His eyes were fixed on the door, a soft growl rising from his throat. Emilia looked up and saw the door handle
turning. She turned to the others, making frantic gestures. Luka at once swept up Zizi, Emilia grabbed Rollo by his ruff, and the three children scrambled behind the curtains, just as the door swung open.

E
milia put her eye to the crack where the curtains did not quite close. She just hoped no one could see her.

‘I cannot understand it, His Highness seemed so much better on Thursday!' A tall man in a long dark robe swept impatiently into the room. He had the same large, bony nose of Obedience's Aunt Grace, with grey eyes under thick frowning brows.

Behind him came a woman in a severe black gown. Her hair was parted in the middle and smoothed back into a sleek coil. Its severity did
nothing to detract from her exotic beauty. Everything about her was delicately formed, her skin was the colour of old ivory, and her hair and eyes as black as sable. Emilia had to bite back a gasp of surprise, for Mrs Purefoyle looked very much like Emilia's own sister Beatrice. She nudged Luka, and he nodded, his face alive with sudden interest.

‘I thought we must be over the worst!' Mr Purefoyle walked with quick, impatient steps to the fire and stood before it, scowling at the hearthrug. Emilia shrank down, her hand on Rollo's muzzle to keep him quiet.

‘So His Highness has taken a turn for the worse?' Mrs Purefoyle shut the door quietly behind her and turned, her hands folded before her.

‘Indeed, he is suffering exceedingly. None of us can understand it. This is not the way an ague normally runs. He has had the usual run of fever and sweating, and should now be recovering.
Instead, though, he is in terrible pain. We are all nonplussed.'

Emilia gave a little shiver. She could not forget the witch Marguerita Wood, stabbing the little poppet of Cromwell with hatpins and laughing as she thought of the agony she was causing him. She glanced at Luka, and saw by his face that he was remembering the poppet too. They grimaced at each other.

‘Oh, sir, what shall become of us all if the Lord Protector should die?'

‘Are you so ill-named, my dear? Have faith. God has not yet finished with the Lord Protector.'

‘But sir, this illness of the Lord Protector's is unnatural. You have said so yourself. I fear . . .'

‘You fear some secret assassin?' Mr Purefoyle laughed. ‘My dear, the Lord Protector wears armour even to bed!'

‘Does he make someone taste his food?'

‘You think he is being poisoned? That is a dangerous allegation, wife!'

‘Sir, I must tell you . . . I prayed for guidance, and then, when I opened the Bible and laid my finger on the page, it fell upon the Second Book of Kings, chapter four, verse forty . . .'

‘There is death in the pot,' her husband said heavily, his brows drawing together.

Emilia wondered if he knew every line in the Bible off by heart, that he could quote it so readily.

‘Aye, sir, that is what it said.'

There was a long silence. ‘So, wife, did you call upon the Bible again? What did it say?'

‘Ezekiel, chapter thirty-seven, verse three,' she answered in a low voice.

‘Can these bones live?' her husband murmured, much struck.

‘So you see, sir, why it is that I fear the Lord Protector may not survive this sickness of his. The Cavaliers must realise that their only hope of
overcoming him is to kill him. They have failed in battle, and they have failed in countless assassination plots. Why would they not try poison?'

He stood silent, frowning down at the carpet.

Mrs Purefoyle came a step or two closer, raising her eyes to fix upon his face. ‘Sir, you are the master of this household and I know you have a care for us all. Still, I cannot help but think we must look to the future. What shall become of us if the Lord Protector dies? I fear more war. I fear . . . Oh, I fear what will happen if the king comes back!'

‘You may rest easy on that account, my dear,' Mr Purefoyle said bitingly. ‘The king lost his head and his crown together, and his son has not the nerve or the money to start another war. I've heard he lives on charity, pawning his watch to pay for bread. How could he afford to raise an army? No need for fear on that account.'

He took a turn about the carpet, his hands
clasped behind his back. ‘I must admit I am troubled by what the Bible has told you,' Mr Purefoyle said at length. ‘You know I scorn such superstitious nonsense, but the Lord moves in mysterious ways and perhaps you are the unworthy instrument of his will. Indeed, the verses revealed to you are ominous. I think perhaps you are right, my dear, and we must put our house in order.'

‘I have heard, sir, that there are fortunes to be made in the New World. Perhaps . . . ?'

‘And leave all I have worked for here? I think not!'

‘As you see fit, sir. I know you will do what is best for us all.' Mrs Purefoyle's sleek head was bent, but Emilia saw how she clenched her fingers together.

Her husband was pacing the floor. ‘Poison . . . could it be? Certainly the violence of the Lord Protector's last sickness . . . But who? None come
near to him except his most trusted councillors . . .'

‘Was not Dr Bate once physician to the late king?' Mrs Purefoyle said. ‘He was most loyal to his master then, I heard.'

‘There are many in this country who were most loyal to the king until he lost his head,' Mr Purefoyle said acerbically. ‘You cannot suspect his doctor simply because he was once a king's man!'

‘Will they not suspect everyone if the Lord Protector should die? Even you, sir?' Mrs Purefoyle said innocently.

Emilia had kept her hands clamped close around Rollo's muzzle all this time, trying to keep him quiet, but the conversation had gone on too long and Rollo was tired of it. He gave a small whine, and tried to shake his head free.

‘What on earth was that?' Mr Purefoyle exclaimed.

The next instant the curtain twitched back,
and the lawyer's hand fell upon Emilia. She and Rollo were dragged out into the centre of the room.

‘What is this? A thief? A spy? Call the constables!'

Rollo barked furiously. He lunged at Mr Purefoyle, snarling. The lawyer seized a poker, whacking the big dog across the back. Rollo yelped, and Emilia clung to the lawyer's arm, shouting, ‘Stop it! Don't hurt him. We weren't doing any harm!'

Luka flung the curtain back and ran to her rescue. Zizi leapt at the lawyer, biting his ear savagely. He yelled, and flung her away from him. Nimbly she landed on the back of the chair and sprang from there to the mantelpiece. Luka grabbed Emilia's hand and ran for the door, Rollo bounding behind them. Zizi swung from the chandelier to Luka's shoulder sending hot wax spluttering everywhere.

‘Stop! Or I'll shoot!' came a commanding voice behind them.

Luka opened the door with a crash. There was the sound of an explosion, and a lead ball slammed into the wood next to Luka's hand. He sprang back, choking on the acrid smoke that billowed out from the flintlock pistol Mr Purefoyle held in his hand. The lawyer hurriedly poured another measure of gunpowder down the barrel, and rammed a lead ball wrapped in cloth after it. By the time the children had recovered from the shock, he had the short, snub-nosed gun pointing at them again, fully cocked and ready to fire.

‘Move away from the door,' he said, his voice shaking with fury. ‘Faith, my dear, shut the door behind them. Sit there against the wall with your hands on your head.'

The children obeyed, white-faced and trembling. Smoke drifted about the room, making their eyes water.

The lawyer regarded them, the gun unsteady in his hand. ‘Why, I've heard about you,' he said. ‘How many ragamuffin children can be running around the country with a dog and a monkey? I never expected to see the criminals Pastor Spurgeon described in my very own study!'

Luka and Emilia stared at him unhappily.

‘Faith, my sister will be having hysterics. Will you go and reassure her, and bring me back something to tie up these thieves? And be quick!'

‘Please, we're not thieves!' Emilia spoke quickly. ‘We're just children. We don't mean any harm.'

Mr Purefoyle snorted in disbelief.

‘Father, please!' Obedience came out from behind the curtain, looking scared. ‘These are my friends.'

Her father was flabbergasted. ‘Obedience! What are you doing here? How dare you!'

‘I . . . I'm sorry. It was so cold. We wanted to sit by the fire.'

‘
You
brought them into my study? How dare you!'

‘I . . . they're . . . they're sort of long-lost cousins. We needed somewhere quiet to talk.'

‘Obedience, go to your room. I will deal with you later.'

‘Father, did you not hear me? I said they were my cousins. They're not criminals. Please don't –'

‘These filthy, raggedy gypsy children related to us? Have you run mad? Go to your room, I said!'

‘But Father –'

‘Do not argue with me or I'll give you the whipping of your life!' Mr Purefoyle was white with rage, the gun in his hand shaking violently.

Obedience did as she was told, casting an unhappy look at Luka and Emilia.

‘Please, sir, it's true,' Luka said.

‘Shut your mouth, boy, else I'll take my belt to you as well.'

‘It's true, really it is. Please, Fancy . . . Mrs
Purefoyle! We came looking for you. We're your kin, really we are. Maggie Finch is our grandmother.'

Mrs Purefoyle had been standing immobile, her eyes lowered, her hands set flat against the wall. At Emilia's words they clenched. She gave no other sign of having heard.

‘Faith, go and get some rope. Hurry! I think we have ourselves some clever spies here. Who can believe those Cavaliers would stoop so low, using children to sneak about and spy for them!'

‘We're not spies, sir, truly we're not!'

Mr Purefoyle levelled the shaking gun at Luka and said in a dangerous voice, ‘One more word from you and I'll shoot you!'

Luka and Emilia huddled together, their hands on their heads, their jaws clenched to keep back the words of pleading and protest. They did not think he was bluffing. Rollo whined and pressed himself against Emilia's leg. She would have given
anything to wrap her arms about him and take comfort from his warmth and strength.

In just a few moments Mrs Purefoyle was back with some kitchen twine. ‘It was all I could find, sir,' she said, bowing her head.

‘Here, take the gun. If either of them moves, shoot them.' Mr Purefoyle took the twine, and made a grimace of disgust at its thinness. In a moment he had bound Luka and Emilia together, pulling the knots uncomfortably tight.

Zizi was cowering in Luka's lap, still frightened by the noise of the gunshot and the smell of the smoke.

‘If either of those animals moves, my wife will shoot them,' Mr Purefoyle threatened. ‘Can you keep them under control?'

Luka and Emilia nodded their heads. Both were gazing imploringly at his wife, but she avoided their gaze, holding the gun with outstretched arms. It did not shake at all.

‘I will go and get the constables, my dear,' Mr Purefoyle said. ‘I may be a while, it is still early and I do not know where they might be. Call Grace to come and help you guard them. I do not trust them not to escape, for indeed they are slippery and sly. Gaining entrance to our house by pretending to be related to us! I am surprised by Obedience. I had not thought her such a fool.'

‘She is young, sir, and naive. She has been much protected. What does she know about the trickery of this world?'

Mr Purefoyle sighed. ‘You are right, my dear. She is only a child. One cannot expect the wit and wisdom of a man to be found in the empty head of a girl.'

‘No, sir,' Mrs Purefoyle answered as he went quickly out the door.

Mrs Purefoyle stood silently, listening. They all heard the sound of his footsteps going down the
hall, and the front door opening and shutting. Then there was a long moment of silence.

Mrs Purefoyle heaved a great sigh, laid the pistol down, and picked up her husband's pipe from where it lay smouldering on the mantelpiece. She sat down in the wing chair, stretched out her button-up boots, and puffed pleasurably at the pipe. Clouds of fragrant smoke rose up around her sleek black head.

‘So, you're Maggie Finch's grand-weans, are you? What in blazes are you doing here?'

They gaped at her in utter surprise.

‘I thought you'd blown it when you blurted out that you were kin of mine!' She laughed and blew a smoke ring. ‘Fortunately, poor dear Henry never listens to anyone. He's always so sure he knows what's best.'

‘So you
are
Fancy Graylings!' Luka cried.

‘There's a name I haven't heard in a long while! Fancy! What a name to give a girl in these times. I ditched that as soon as I could.'

‘What about your mother's tarot cards, and her little amber charm?' Emilia said coldly. ‘Did you ditch those as well?'

Fancy pursed up her lips in a soundless whistle. ‘I'll be hanged! You two have been digging up some dirt on me. How do you know about that? Criminy, imagine if dear Henry had ever found out! No, I sold them just as soon as I could, and bought myself a Bible and a good black dress. You think I couldn't see which way the wind was blowing?'