Chapter One
Amersham Village
England
A gust of heavy, moisture-laden wind tugged at Henrietta’s Italian straw bonnet and threatened to rip her parasol from her grasp as she picked her way along the muddy paths at the village fair.
The occasion over which her father presided was a yearly event, with people traveling great distances to display their wares. Crowds milled in the town square and market hall, along with the livestock. Poultry, pigs, cows, and horses set up a cacophony of sounds, the air reeking of the farmyard.
“Where do you go, my lady, with such purpose in your step?” The question shook her out of her reverie.
Henrietta furled her umbrella and gazed up at the towering form of their neighbor, Squire Faraday. His kind eyes beneath the shaggy brows always reminded her of a Highland terrier. “The gypsy’s tent, to have my fortune told.”
“Ah, be careful, for you may not like what you hear.”
Henrietta smiled. “It’s just a bit of fun, Squire.”
“A young lady like y’self can only see good in the world.” Deep lines formed on his craggy face. “I trust your father, Lord Beaumont, knows of this?”
“He won’t mind, squire.” Henrietta hurried away. Many of the folk in these parts were superstitious, but despite that, a line of people waited outside the striped tent set up at the far end of the square. Henrietta made her way there greeted by townsfolk she had known all her life. She was confident the gypsy would only have good news for her. And if she didn’t Henrietta would take it with a grain of salt. She laughed to herself. Cook would advise her to throw a pinch of salt over her left shoulder for luck.
The tower clock struck twelve, and some abandoned their places in search of food and drink. Next in line, she was relieved not to have to wait long. She wasn’t good at waiting. She could hear Nanny now.You’ll have to curb your headstrong ways or suffer the consequences, my girl!
At almost eighteen, she considered herself mature enough to deal with anything. She tucked a fair lock behind her ear, her hair pinned up in the style of a lady of fashion and eagerly looked forward to the excitement that awaited her in London. In a few short weeks, she was to go to her Aunt Gabrielle’s in Mayfair who would present her to the Queen and introduce Henrietta into polite society.
A man stumbled from the tent, blinking into the light. It was Mr. Greenleigh from the haberdashery. He looked right through her as if he didn’t recognize her.
Henrietta swallowed uneasily and lifted the flap. She peered into the shadowy interior. In the gloom cast by a lone candle burning in its holder, an old gypsy woman dressed in a brightly striped turban sat at a table before a crystal ball.
She beckoned Henrietta in. “Please be seated.” The crone’s voice creaked with age. She stretched out a lined hand with long curved fingernails, and Henrietta dropped the coins she was holding into it. The gypsy bit one then apparently satisfied, tossed them into a dish on the table. She raised the candle and stared into Henrietta’s face. She muttered to herself and waved her hands over the crystal ball.
Henrietta stared at the cloudy glass.
A prickle of fear climbed her spine as the crone took up a pack of worn old cards with strange pictures on them and placed them in a pattern over the table. The crone announced each card by name. In the center lay the Ten of Coins crossed with the Death card. Other cards the Five of Coins, the Knight of Cups, King of Swords, and The Lovers followed. Finally, the Tower appeared before the woman swept them from the table. She reached across and grasped Henrietta’s hand in her papery one, turned it over, and studied her palm.
“Yes… yes.” She raised her ancient eyes to Henrietta’s. “Someone you know will die a violent death.”
“No!” Henrietta’s eyes widened. She should not have come here. “That’s horrible!”
She half rose. “You should not say such a thing!”
The crone took her arm in a surprisingly firm grip. “Sit.”
Spellbound, Henrietta sank back. Was it her imagination, or did the crystal ball glow?
“Your life is about to change, child.” She shook her head violently, wobbling her turban. “You will face much trouble. Be warned, there is someone in your future you will want to trust, but you must not. And another who you feel you cannot trust, but for your life, you must.”
“But how shall I know?” Henrietta couldn’t drag her eyes from the glowing ball. A lump in her throat threatened to choke her. “You must tell me more!”
“When you are presented with a choice, you alone will be responsible, both for your fate and for the fate of others. You are yet to realize how strong and resourceful you can be. If you come through the period of trial, your future will be blessed.”
Did the crystal ball’s murky light fade before the gypsy tossed a cloth over it? “That is all.” The crone jerked her head toward the opening in the tent flap. “Go now.”
Henrietta hurried away, blinking back tears. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode toward her. Forgetting her grown-up demeanor, she snatched up her skirts and ran, her hair unraveling from its careful arrangement. She threw herself upon his familiar strong chest and drew in his manly scent with relief.
Her father grasped her shoulders and drew her away to study her face. “What is this?”
She gazed into his affectionate brown eyes and breathlessly recounted her experience. He laughed. “Shame on you, Hetta. I thought you too sensible to believe such rubbish.”
