The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  It was the truth and explained, perhaps, why Henrietta felt she told a falsehood so poorly—she had little practice.

  “You look like a girl.”

  “My appearance is the bane of my life.”

  “We hang liars by their toes.”

  She choked on the water. Sputtering, she wiped her chin with her fingertips. Lucien’s ink black eyes glittered in quite an unsettling manner as they met hers. In a purely instinctive reaction, her toes curled tightly within Cousin Phillip’s big boots.

  “By the toes?” she repeated.

  “Occasionally by the thumbs.”

  Rather than risk either fate, Henrietta decided to tell the truth, plead for understanding and throw herself at the Gypsy King’s mercy. She hoped Lucien Vaslav possessed a particle of compassion, a modicum of mercy.

  “Very well, you shall have the truth.” She raised her chin. “My name is Lady Henrietta Elizabeth Hadley and I am running away rather than marry the man my guardian has chosen for me.”

  With a groan, the glowering king slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Worse than I thought!”

  “If you will not take me with you, I will find another way to flee. But I will not, cannot, marry the Earl of Oster,” she declared.

  “How old are you?”

  “I am eighteen, sir.”

  “Is it true you have a cousin in America?”

  “Yes, Phillip Markham. We have corresponded for these past two years. He tells me wonderful things about life in the new country. He has invited me many times to come live there with him and his wife.”

  “Why do you choose to sail from Liverpool when there are ports much closer?”

  “I fear my guardian. Lord Edward, will have the ports near to Bath and London watched. And Liverpool is the port where the Black Ball line departs for North America. The Abigail sails four weeks from now.”

  “You have thought this through?”

  “I am not impulsive by nature.” Indeed she was inclined to be impulsive, but in this case she had rather thoughtfully planned her escape.

  “Unfortunately for you, we are not traveling to Liverpool and I cannot delay our arrival in York. I am to be married there.”

  Henrietta laid trembling fingertips on his arm. “Please, King Lucien—”

  He backed away as if her touch had singed straight through his shirt to his flesh. “Lucien. Address me as Lucien.”

  “Begging your pardon.” She lowered her eyes. “Lucien.”

  “You shall return to your home in the morning.”

  “No! The Earl of Oster is old enough to be my grandfather. Hair sprouts from his ancient ears and his eyes run as if they have sprung a leak. It is only my inheritance he cares for. If I am locked away in his manor, I will surely die. Have mercy.”

  “Many women have met your fate and lived.”

  “I would rather live free and poor than in slavery to a sick, wicked old man,” she argued. “Please help me reach Liverpool.”

  “We are not traveling that way.”

  “Then take me with you for a portion of the journey.”

  ““What you are asking is impossible.”

  “I shall not be a bother. I will help the women with the chores—if they will show me what to do.”

  He gave a short grunt. “Ironic, that we are both in motion, you and I. You run from a marriage while I hasten toward one.”

  “But is your bride an aged crone? A curmudgeon of the first order?”

  Lucien studied the top of the tent. “No, but Romani women are not known for fine, delicate features.” A slight sardonic smile hovered on his mouth when he returned his attention to Henrietta. “It is entirely possible Sabina’s characteristics include canine teeth and more unflattering moles than I can count.”

  Henrietta seized on his similar predicament as a means of persuasion. “Have you ever thought of beginning your life anew in North America?”

  “No.” His eyes dulled to a flat cold shade of black. “I shall fulfill my duty, although I have never seen my bride to be. Some twenty years ago our parents arranged that the first daughter of the King of the Romi, who is Sabina, would wed the King of Britain’s Gypsy tribe. Her age and appearance make no matter.”

  “A noble decision to be sure. I, however, would rather die than marry the Earl of Oster,” Henrietta declared. “I have not your sense of duty.”

  “Are you threatening to do yourself in if I do not relent and take you along with us?”

  She did not hesitate in her reply. Another lie. “Yes.”

  He heaved the deep rumbling sigh of a man much put upon. “Lady Henrietta, you should be on the stage. You are far too melodramatic.”

  “I will cure myself if it is annoying to you. I will avoid your presence during the journey so you will not be vexed by my melodramatic ways.”

  “Avoid me?”

  “Like the plague.”

  He drifted away to pour a goblet of wine. “Can you not come to an understanding with your guardian? A frank discussion might lead to a more suitable solution than running away.”

  She followed. “I have tried. He cares not for my feelings. He only desires to be rid of me.”

  “Is there no one else who can intercede in your behalf?”

  “My dear Aunt Beatrice passed on but a month ago.” The loss of her aunt remained fresh and painful in many respects. She was alone in the world now. Except for cousin Phillip, an ocean away, she had no one to turn to.

  “With her passing, do I understand you lost an ally?”

  She nodded. “My guardian. Lord Edward, is a distant cousin but a close friend to the earl.”

  “You say the earl is old?”

  “Ancient. Fifty and five, at least.”

  “In your culture, as in mine, many women marry older men. Marriage is an arrangement, a business arrangement.” His cool practical tone showed he neither understood the matter nor sympathized with her feelings. “My advice to you is to marry Oster and take a young lover on the side.”

  “Although I have considered the same solution, such deception will not do for me. If I cannot marry for love, I shall not marry at all.”

  “An idealist,” Lucien muttered, as if that were a sad thing to be.

  “I am a woman with strong convictions,” Henrietta declared. At least that is how she preferred to think of herself, despite the fact Aunt Beatrice had often scolded her for having a strong will, unbecoming in a woman.

  “Is that so?” Lucien leveled a cold hard gaze that caused Henrietta’s stomach to knot.

  “Please sir, I shall not be any trouble.”

  “My people do not quarrel with me.”

  “I am throwing myself on your mercy.” She made a deep curtsy.

  “More melodrama.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  After an endless silence, the Gypsy King spoke—or grumbled, was more to the mark. “Very well. We will take you as far as Stoke-on-Trent.”

  A burst of happiness, a shower of sunshine swept through Henrietta. Smiling broadly, she resisted the urge to throw her arms around his great shoulders. Instead, she held herself back and sought to reassure him. “You will not regret your decision.”

  But Lucien had a bad feeling. Had he just endangered his tribe for a pair of luminous crystal-blue eyes?

  Chapter Two

  Despite her protestations, Lucien knew the girl would be trouble; he could feel it in his bones. But she was young and innocent and vulnerable. Turning her away was unthinkable.

  As Lady Hadley dipped into another deep, prolonged curtsy, he gazed into the fire, listened to the crackle of the flames. A mournful violin melody, played by one of the musicians, drifted in the evening air.

  Lucien hadn’t been fooled for a moment. Henrietta’s petite stature, fair skin and smooth hands gave her away as female at first glance. But it was her startling blue eyes, shining like the palest sapphires, that mysteriously impaired his thought process, preventing him from rational action. />
  Instead of escorting her back to her home, he had offered his protection.

  He raised his gaze from the fire to the woman who stood expectantly before him.

  “You know nothing of the Gypsy life, Lady Henrietta. It is a difficult one and if you cannot keep pace we will leave you beside the road,” he warned harshly. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” she replied, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “I am not the Prince Regent. I do not require obeisance.”

  “Yes, my lord ... liege ... worship.”

  Ignoring her nervous rambling, Lucien reached over and pulled off Lady Henrietta’s cap. A cascade of light brown curls tumbled down to settle past her shoulders. He knew with a glance the gleaming mass would be like silk to his touch.

  A dimple dove deep into her right cheek as she smiled up at him. It was a radiant smile filled with anticipation, a smile that threatened to melt the walls safeguarding his heart.

  Still, Lucien could not manage to look away from Henrietta’s bewitching, dirt-smudged face. He drew a deep bracing breath.

  She hiccupped. And quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

  But he knew by now that beneath her small hand were lips as sensuous, full and pink as a dew-kissed rosebud. Fleetingly, he wondered if Lady Henrietta’s lips had ever been kissed. A dangerous thought.

  “You will travel with Mila,” he said, abruptly turning on his heel. “The old woman will teach you our ways.”

  “I shall forever be in your debt. And I promise to be no trouble. No trouble at all.”

  “Mila will make an English Gypsy of you, Lady Henrietta.”

  “I shall become like any other member of your tribe. You are a kind and wise man.”

  “Do not make me regret my decision.”

  “Never.”

  Although she came from another world, the young English beauty demonstrated qualities Lucien understood—spirit and determination.

  He sighed, shook his head and pointed toward the door. “You will stay with Tern, the boy outside my tent, while I talk with Mila.”

  Lady Henrietta bowed her way out of his tent— backwards.

  Stifling the urge to chuckle, he dipped his head.

  The lady’s audacity and innocence amused him. He had not smiled so easily in months. After sending for Mila, Lucien settled by the fire to further ponder the consequences of his actions.

  Except for the nocturnal sounds of insects and owls and the snap of fire, all was quiet within his tent. A familiar, haunting quiet. He owed no explanation for his decision to anyone but his brother. How would he explain Henrietta’s presence to Steffan?

  * * * *

  In contrast to the king’s luxurious quarters, only one lantern lit Mila’s cramped tent. Henrietta had to stoop low to enter. No fine Persian carpet covered the cold grass here.

  “You’ll sleep on those blankets tonight, girlie.” The old Gypsy woman said, pointing to a heap of rags on the opposite side of the tent.

  Henrietta eyed the pile skeptically. The thought of worms and other night crawlers making their way over her sleeping body triggered a hiccup that caused the old woman to jump.

  “Did ye hear that?” she asked, her eyes wide and wild.

  “Begging your pardon?”

  The witchlike woman scowled.

  When Henrietta first heard the name Mila, she pictured a woman of elegance and grace, but the real Mila had nothing to do with elegance and grace.

  Hunched and shrunk with age, the Gypsy’s skin looked to be the texture of an old leather hide. Folds hung above her eyes and below, reducing the dulled black orbs to narrow slits. Silver rings adorned each of her fingers, drawing undue attention to the woman’s liver-spotted, gnarled hands.

  Beginning at a pronounced widow’s peak, a two-inch swath of silver hair swept straight through Mila’s wiry coal black mat. She wore layers of coarse plum-colored garments which overpowered her fragile frame and gave her an alarming look.

  Henrietta counted at least a dozen gold bangle bracelets circling both of Mila’s arms. The abundance of jewelry jangled in noisy discord whenever she moved.

  “These are my children.” Mila pulled one of two sleeping cats into her arms. The plump Persian felines slept on the old woman’s bedding. Their flat faces appeared to have met the wrong end of a horse’s hoof. Henrietta considered them truly ugly creatures.

  “What are their names?”

  “The big boy is Mercury and the little girl is Venus.”

  Both cats were black but Venus boasted a plump white stomach. Mercury was especially ill-favored.

  Henrietta searched for something kind to say about Mila’s pets. “They look ... excessively healthy.”

  “My babies eat special delicacies.”

  Henrietta could only imagine.

  “In the morning, we’ll give your hair a henna rinse,” the old woman said as she tossed the cat from her lap and stood. “The color will help ye to look more like a Gypsy woman ... if that is possible.”

  Henrietta did not object. She welcomed any change in her appearance that would provide a disguise until she sailed safely for North America. “I would like to look like one of your tribe.”

  “We’ll borrow clothes from Dudee. She is well-dressed and about the same size, though she has more meat on ’er.”

  “Thank you, Mila.”

  “Do not think by wearing our beautiful clothes ye’ll become one of us.” The ill-humored crone frowned. “Ye never will be as beautiful as an English Gypsy woman.”

  “No, no of course not.”

  “Have you eaten, girlie?”

  “Not since high tea.”

  Mila cackled in the bone-chilling manner Henrietta expected a witch might express amusement. “Ye won’t be having high tea here.”

  “I understand.”

  “No Lady this nor Lady that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sit ye down, and I’ll bring you some bread and cheese and a bit of my special nectar.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your—”

  “Ye’ll have to earn your keep to stay with me.”

  “I know. I shall do everyth—”

  “Lessons begin tomorrow.”

  “What sort of lessons?” Henrietta considered herself well educated for a woman.

  “Mila will teach ye to tell fortunes for the ladies and gentlemen of the gentry, girlie.”

  “I ... I do not know if I have such talents. I have never been able to foretell even my own future.”

  “Mila can teach anyone.”

  “Then I shall learn. King Lucien has shown great kindness in allowing me to travel with your tribe. I wish to repay him.”

  “Ah, Lucien. A devil and a saint.”

  Devil. Just as Henrietta had suspected.

  With a woebegone wag of her head, Mila clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “He was never meant to be king.”

  “No?”

  “Wolfgang, his older brother and the man who should be our King, was lost to us. A sad affair. Fighting other men’s battles, Wolf was. Steffan, the youngest Vaslav, is still a callow youth. Have ye met Steffan?”

  “No.”

  “Ye will.” Mila laughed in her cackly witchy manner again.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  Mila tapped a knobby finger against her temple. “ ’Tis what I see.”

  “Are you ... reading my mind?”

  “ ’Tis an open book.”

  Henrietta’s worst suspicions had been confirmed.

  “Good gracious!”

  Before the old woman took her next breath, Henrietta closed the book, quickly banishing unbidden thoughts of Lucien and his mesmerizing midnight eyes.

  Mila grinned, revealing a missing bottom tooth.

  “There is only one thing on my mind,” Henrietta assured her. “And that is leaving my guardian and the Earl of Oster far behind. I shall sail to North America and make my home there, free from wagging tongues.”
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  Once more Mila cackled. “Ah, but fate might have other plans for ye, girlie.”

  * * * *

  For two days Mila refused to divulge fate’s plans to Henrietta. Faced with so much to learn, Henrietta stopped asking. Not especially superstitious, she did not believe in Gypsy magic, potions and spells. She could not suppose the old woman could see the future. At least that is what she told herself.

  Lady Henrietta was dressed in Gypsy fashion. Voluminous layers of skirts, in varying shades of crimson and copper, were worn over a modest white muslin drawstring chemise. Her silky mass of henna-tinted curls was held back by a gauzy burnt orange scarf.

  On the second day out of Bath, a broken wheel and a sick baby forced the caravan to stop early in the day. They camped in a lush valley.

  Traveling in Mila’s van and living in a tent had given Henrietta a fresh appreciation for the countryside. With a sense of wonder, she viewed the rolling meadows and limestone hills. The first spring flowers had begun to blossom. Fields of buttercups, and wild pink dog roses colored the landscape. Fragrant, milky white blossoms burst from stately hawthorns.

  Up to this point, she had spent much of the journey looking over her shoulder, fearing her guardian had somehow discovered she had done the unthinkable, and joined the Gypsies.

  “Girlie, get me herbs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Henrietta had quickly learned Mila’s sharpness meant little. The old woman served as doctor, nurse, and oracle to most of the camp.

  “And watch me babies while I see to the sick child.”

  “Your cats will be safe with me.” Her lessons with the crystal ball might not be going well—the ball remained blank to her—but she was confident she could care for two small pets.

  Mila handed her two lengths of red velvet ribbon. “Tie ’em up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Only Mila would leash cats.

  The old woman was barely out of sight when what began as a simple task escalated into an improbable adventure. While Henrietta secured Venus, Mercury made a run for it.

  “Devil cat, come back!”

  Her shouted command fell on fleeing ears. Holding her skirt high, Henrietta ran through the field of flowers, hair flying loose behind her, giving chase to the flat-faced cat. Between gasping breaths, she prayed he would not live up to his name—she did not have wings on her feet. Mercury disappeared into the high weeds bordering a small winding stream and a wooded copse.