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and valleys was by far more direct than the circuitous route by road or cart trail.
    She talked, telling Sanderson everything about Robbie’s illness and Mary’s concerns. As she assumed, that made him more than willing to help. She had long suspected that Sanderson was more than halfway in love with Mrs. Mary MacDougall, though only Mary appeared to be unaware of his feelings. He had no hope of return, Anne was sadly certain, for Mary was devoted to her son and her faith. Robbie respected Sanderson, following him like a puppy ofttimes, so that would have proved no problem, but Sanderson was a committed Methodist, abhorring Catholic ceremony, and even Church of England rite and ritual. They would never make a match of it, too far apart were they on seminal issues.
    But Sanderson was struck dumb with concern over Robbie. The wordless driver being struck dumb was difficult to tell from his habitual silence, only detectable by Anne, who knew him well. His walking pace hastened.
    They strode back through Harecross Hall’s vast orchard, the blossoms gone and the fruit just beginning to show, peaches, pears and apples. Past the large vegetable garden, they continued, and then along the path through the hops fields. The leggy plants were supported on tall poles grouped together like fifteen-foot tripod giants with spindly legs. Everyone in Kent who could, grew hops. As a necessary ingredient in the brewing of beer, and with Kent’s climate and soil perfect for the plant, it was financially rewarding, if challenging.
    The Harecross property was largely committed to the crop, and even her scholarly father spent time conferring with his farm manager, Mr. Riggle, on new methods of growing and harvesting the tricky crop. So far, no better method had been found than stringing the hop bines on tripods of poles, and having the workers remove the poles at harvest time in September.
    They left the hop fields behind and approached a sloping grassy meadow close to a wooded glade. The gypsy camp was within sight. Anne was suffocated once more by the memory of Tony, Lord Darkefell. He was never far from her thoughts. Was his proposal still valid, or had that last stormy scene on a cliff in Cornwall revoked it?
    She now doubted the man she had seen so many days before, talking to the gypsies, could possibly be Darkefell. Why would he do such an unlikely thing as consort with the gypsies? Tony was the most direct man she had ever met, and was far more likely, if breaking her injunction against visiting her, to walk right up to the front door of Harecross Hall and demand an audience. He would surely not skulk around her home like a thief.
    Those at Darkefell Castle and Ivy Lodge would have gotten her accusatory letters the day before, and so she would soon know the whole truth. If she had been imagining a similarity between the marquess and some fine-looking gypsy fellow—though that did not seem likely, for she was not that imaginative—then those at the castle and lodge would think her a lunatic.
    So who was the man, the Lord Anthony Darkefell’s look-alike?
    She tried to put that all out of her thoughts; the problem at hand was far more pressing. Anne had visited the encampment many times without accompaniment, but the problems with the villagers and Mary’s run-in with the gypsies had her a trifle uneasy. Sanderson carried a large basket full of vegetables, eggs, and a bottle of milk from Harecross Hall’s dairy. “I will ask to speak to Madam Kizzy. That’s who supposedly cursed poor Robbie. I don’t believe in gypsy curses, but Mary seems to, and I need to comfort her on that head. Look around, if you can, and see if there is anything amiss, any tainted food, anyone at all ill. At the same time keep your eyes open for the lunatic who is running about with a gun. I don’t want to be taken unaware again.”
    The gloomy driver grunted his acquiescence.
    She wondered, as she slowly entered the clearing, with its motley assortment of