“Would you like to dance, Angel?” Grandmother squeezed her hand in encouragement. “Join the circle of young people and have a good time. It’s nothing like the constrictive formations you endure in London’s ballrooms.”
“You’re right about that.” She couldn’t withhold her grin of impenitence. “But I shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.” Her objection, flimsy and voiced without conviction, provoked her grandmother to smile.
“Of course you should. Tonight you are a lovely country miss.” Grandmother punctuated the sentence with a wink meant to imply no argument would be accepted, and Angelica capitulated without further discussion.
She joined the line of ladies and kicked up her heels in the frolicking dance. Exhilarated and out of breath, she returned to Grandmother and Nan who now held cups of lemonade and small bags of sugared nuts. Together they strolled the toy stalls and purchased gingerbread biscuits to save for later. The night provided the perfect respite from the week, although when Angelica believed no one was watching she scanned the crowd for an altogether different reason. More than once she thought she spied Benedict’s blond head among the gathering, only to be disappointed as the gentleman grew near. Benedict’s height and fair coloring would easily set him apart from the swarthy gypsies and simply dressed country folk, yet a part of her heart kept a keen sight to each passerby as if he might suddenly appear from the sheer magic of her wanting.
It shouldn’t matter, she told herself repeatedly, but she was loath to admit it mattered more than she could explain. With no effort she conjured the memory of his hands on her skin, the heat of his mouth, how he’d given her the most intimate kiss imaginable. A little shiver ran through her and she forced her attention to Grandmother by her side.
“Nan and I are off to view the tumblers. Be a dear and fetch more lemonade. This dusty field is making me parched. Then you can find us near the posture-men in the sand ring.” She pointed to an area to the far right. “Mind the time. When the tumblers finish there’s to be a dancing bear and I shan’t want you to miss it on my account.”
Angelica smiled in response and hurried off the way they’d come, remembering the beverage stall near the entrance gate. Past the puppet stage and games of chance, she startled when a small dog dressed in a red jacket dissected her path, a tiny monkey perched on its back, and a large tabby cat giving chase. She stalled in her tracks, looking after the unlikely trio of animals, the blur of orange similar to the groundkeeper’s pet this morning. Perhaps the servant had come to enjoy the event. There would be no way to know.
Her thoughts returned to Benedict and the unanswered question of whether she’d ever see him again and why it mattered when they’d agreed their moment was just that, and she dropped her focus to the tips of her boots, dirtied from the dusty field but she hadn’t a care.
When she reached the line of food vendors peddling their wares, she wove through the crowd to reach the end of the line, the position of the lemonade stand clear in her memory. Yet despite checking her location twice and surveying her surroundings, the beverage seller’s stall was nowhere to be found.
Instead, a small wooden booth cloaked in long tasseled drapes of crimson and aubergine stood in the very same spot. Had she taken a wrong turn? It didn’t seem likely. The gingerbread baker remained right next door, as was the case when she’d passed by the first time. Curious, she stepped inside the enclosure, ducking her head to accommodate for her height and shifting the heavy curtains aside.
A tiny woman sat behind a round table no bigger than a wagon wheel, a lacy white tablecloth covering the surface where a silver hand mirror and drawstring cloth bag rested in a shaft of sunlight slicing through a gap in the drapery. The woman was of petite stature and appeared to be quietly waiting or mayhap listening, although no one else occupied the booth. The stranger glanced up as Angelica entered, her head canted slightly, the long black braid on her shoulder shifting to drop down her back.
“I’m sorry. I’ve walked into the wrong place.” Angelica backed away, not wishing to disturb the woman and whatever activity she might be involved in. Her expression was intense.
“You haven’t. No one has visited all day. Come closer. I’ve been waiting. Have a seat.”
The woman gestured her forward, but Angelica didn’t move. She recognized the thick Rom gypsy accent, but she wouldn’t have needed the clue. The slender woman wore a kerchief around her neck and a bright orange wrap across her shoulders. The gown beneath was simple, a light blue color decorated with a pattern she couldn’t decipher. Aside from the table, there was scarce little in the fair booth. Angelica considered the gypsy’s invitation. The woman’s eyes were kind and her voice gentle, yet Angelica had no reason to linger. Grandmother and Nan waited for their drinks, and she too wished to see the dancing bear.
“I’ve made a mistake. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Surely you don’t believe in mistakes. Nothing is a mistake. Serendipity guides you now.”
Confused by the portentous statements, Angelica offered a slight smile by way of apology for her silence and took another step toward the exit. How her father would chastise her if he knew she’d attended a country fair and stood in conversation with a gypsy woman.
“You don’t live in the area, do you?” The little gypsy smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in echo to her grin, bright white teeth a stark contrast to her sun-darkened skin.
“No.” Angelica barely spoke the reply. She really should leave.
“But you’re looking for someone?”
The woman watched her with intense scrutiny and a beat of panic fluttered through Angelica’s chest. What was this misplaced alarm? Gypsies earned coins for such utterances, reading fortunes and decoding tea leaves, or predicting the future of any fool willing to pay for a bit of contrived nonsense. Although Angelica was looking for someone. Then again it was a common enough question for the gypsy to ask. And it was true. Angelica had kept watch for Benedict, so much so she’d forgotten where the lemonade stand was located.
“Your sister, perhaps?”
A strong shiver of unease rippled through her, but she ignored it and rushed toward the table at the mention of Helen. Could this gypsy possess the ability to divine the future? See the past? Was there something to learn about Helen’s predicament were Angelica to open her mind and heart?
“Why did you mention my sister? What do you know?” No one could mistake the desperate concern in her voice.
“One or the other, sister or brother. Most people have siblings.” The woman grinned, no doubt pleased she’d managed to lure another customer to the table.
Confused and conflicted, Angelica resigned to the barrel seat aside the round table. “Can you see the future? Will you tell my fortune?” She glanced at her palm, discouraged anything worth reading could be found there. She absently rubbed at a bit of dirt near the base of her thumb. Her father would condemn her for voicing such ridiculous questions, his divine beliefs utilitarian and singular.
The gypsy clucked her tongue as if she knew Angelica’s disapproving assessment and chided in a gentle voice, “I have no such talents. I only say what I believe.”
“Oh.” The one word expressed volumes. “I understand.”
“He thinks of you often.”
Angelica’s chin shot up, her eyes intent on the mysterious woman who seemed to evoke myriad questions with every utterance. “Who?” She couldn’t learn the answer fast enough.
“The man in your thoughts.”
Benedict. No, wait. She had considered her father when the gypsy spoke. Of course, the earl thought of her. He needed his daughter to comply with the plan, follow the rules, bow to his beliefs. And he would be coming to collect her in two days’ time.
“Remember…” the woman paused and met her eyes with beseeching insistence “…his heart is locked and you are the key.” She inhaled and exhaled fully as if she’d released a treasured secret. “Your bracelet is lovely. Let me see your wrist, child.”
The change of subject jarred Angelica to focus and she complied, though she had no clear reason why she did so. The entire interaction was taking a strange bend and the convoluted remarks of the gypsy woman confused more than intrigued. Thinking to leave, she extended her arm on the table so the bracelet rested on the tablecloth.
“It was given to me this morning in an act of generosity.” She didn’t say more, impatient now to return to Grandmother and Nan. “Thank you for your time. I need to go.”
The woman clasped her hand, her touch cool and smooth as she lifted Angelica’s wrist and examined the jewelry until the bracelet caught in the open weave of the lace table covering. No matter how she wriggled her wrist, one charm, the silver key, remained tightly entwined with the threads. Worried she might tear a hole in the tablecloth, Angelica deferred to the gypsy who gently unwound the charm all the while holding Angelica’s hand in a firm grasp.
“You are so troubled, child. Let me help you.” The woman released Angelica’s hand and picked up the drawstring bag, muttering about the pretty charms on the bracelet and other words in her native tongue.
“Is that Spillikins?” Angelica found a slight smile recalling the familiar game she’d played with Helen countless times. Spillikins consisted of several long thin sticks in a bag. Players emptied the contents onto a flat surface and attempted to pick up the sticks in size order without disrupting the overlapping pieces. Helen was an excellent player, whereas Angelica always became impatient and ruined her chances by removing the pieces in a careless hurry.
Without answering the question or providing an explanation, the gypsy set aside the mirror and emptied the pouch upon the table, a series of cards falling out in a disorderly pile. “Nothing like your parlor game, I assure you.”
The gypsy’s knowledge of the favored pastime seemed oddly misplaced, but then again the woman had likely traveled across the continent and thereby met a wide assortment of gentry who were amused by her charade and provided a wealth of information. The explanation made sense, at least, as much sense as Angelica could surmise considering the circumstances.
The gypsy methodically sorted the cards on the table and Angelica watched, transfixed by the woman’s intensity. Would the answer to her problems, any one of them, lie in the assortment of unrevealed pictures spread across the lace? The back of each card bore an identical design, a border in an ornamental key pattern, while the background, a bright yellow color, displayed stars in an assortment of sizes. It wasn’t until the gypsy had five cards lined vertically across the table that she resigned her hands to her lap and looked sedately into Angelica’s anxious face.
“What happens now?” Angelica whispered, not sure if some type of veneration was due the ritual.
The gypsy glanced up with a twinkle in her eyes, one small hand passing over the cards as if divining their meaning before she dropped her concentration to the line, her expression ever changing.
The wait seemed unbearable and likewise ridiculous, the sudden development of trust and hope she endowed to the cards unfounded and out of character. In truth, hadn’t everything she’d done of late been so? Dancing with a line of villagers? Abandoning propriety in fashion and custom? Requesting a kiss from a stranger and, most cherished, spending an evening in the arms of a charming and terribly handsome man. With no effort she envisioned Benedict’s rugged profile in her mind’s eye, the feel of his silky hair forever on her fingertips. Their lives were intertwined now. Spending time with him had provided everything she’d wished for, a memory to treasure forever, except she found herself wanting something else now. Wanting more. But more was impossible. More was a dream and dreams were for fools. She almost laughed aloud. Wasn’t she a fool sitting here in a gypsy’s tent at a country fair?
“Clear your mind of but one thought. Let your focus be solely intent on your heart’s desire.”
The woman’s voice echoed in her ears and again a shiver rippled through her. Angelica did as instructed and conjured Benedict’s image, the smell of his shaving soap, the brush of his whiskered chin against her cheek, and a resolute calm settled over her.
“I’m ready.” She whispered her reply although the last of her nervousness leaked out through her fingertips where she played idly in her lap with the charms on her bracelet.
The booth grew silent, terribly so. Almost as if nothing existed beyond the thick concentration of the two within the interior, a hallowed noiselessness that subdued the outside world, quashing all other sound until the only thing Angelica could hear was the steady rhythm of her own heart. With this quiescence achieved, the gypsy rested her fingers on the first card in the row and gently revealed the face.
The card showed a number two along with a vivid drawing of a woman dressed in ceremonial blue robes, a large headpiece and throne depicted in the background.
“The High Priestess. Aah, we start with a very positive energy. This card depicts you and the forces that tie you to the moon. Femininity and inspiration mix with strong physical desires. You are a complex woman with strong yearning for bodily pleasure.”
Uncomfortable and more than a little shocked, Angelica remained silent though a guilty flush threatened to reveal she knew exactly to what the gypsy woman referred when she spoke of bodily desire. Did she somehow look changed? She doubted so, but while the world may not know what had transpired on the beach, the cards revealed her physical curiosity and attraction to Benedict.
“Let’s see what the second card offers.” The woman paused as if suffering a beat of regret and then flipped the square.
Angelica hemmed her bottom lip anxiously, only to gasp when a skeleton, drawn in thick harsh strokes of pen and ink, appeared on the card.
“Do not despair over the Death card. Death can mean many things.” The gypsy ran her fingertip over the skeleton’s bones from skull to toes.
“I don’t understand. I know death as the end of all things.” She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, afraid to talk too loudly for fear of invoking an unpleasant result.
“A shallow understanding although you speak some truth. The end of all things can represent the abandonment of ideas, abolishment of plans, or release from a disruptive relationship.” She tapped her short fingernail against the card. “Of course, Death would like nothing better than to see us fooled. This card may represent exactly what you fear, death in its truest form.”
Suppressing another shudder, Angelica withdrew from the table as if to avoid the gypsy’s words but, not offended, the woman released a raspy laugh and turned the next card.
“How interesting that Fate shows us The Sun after revealing the darkness of Death. Sun represents vitality, new life, freedom, and joy.”
Angelica stared at the golden orb painted on the card, its rays extending to the very edges. The tattoo on Benedict’s chest matched the image closely. Was it her imagination or a trick of wishful thinking? Though he never spoke of it, she perceived Benedict was troubled on a different level than he showed the world. She’d like for him to find new life if that would make him happy, and of course freedom too. Perhaps the image on the card was no coincidence, but more her heart’s desire.
“We’ve two cards left.” Without pause, the woman revealed the fourth card. “The Fool.” She laughed again and reached across the table to stroke the back of Angelica’s hand. “Do not look displeased. The cards are having great fun at your expense.”
“What do you mean?” Was the jester on the card, dressed in purple costume with his painted grin, symbolic of her? All at once she wished to leave the booth and return to Grandmother. Good heavens, how much time had passed?
“Be calm. The Fool is not what you perceive. His card is one of positivity and purity. We are all fools at birth in need of instruction and pure of heart. The message here is to keep your eyes wide open, look where you are going, and learn from your past. Don’t allow others to dictate your choices. You must determine your own path or become the fool.”
A truer description of her father�
�s expectations didn’t exist. If only the cards told her how to avoid his predestined dictates. Despair winnowed through her, settling her eyes on the last card. What would it reveal? Between the disturbing shivers that occasionally skittered down her spine and the frenetic rhythm of her heart, her fortitude was stretched taut.
“The Hierophant.”
The gypsy stated the title with such finality, Angelica abandoned the card and shot her eyes to the woman’s face. “Is this bad?” Her simplistic question hardly encompassed the mass of emotions ricocheting through her chest as she waited for an explanation. How foolish. She attempted to persuade herself to ignore the entire experience, yet a niggling voice inside insisted she stop thinking and listen to the wisdom the gypsy had to share.
“The Hierophant represents many things. See here.” The old woman tapped the drawing where an enrobed holy man sat in a tall chair, a large key-shaped staff in one hand, and smaller keys at his feet. “Notice how his hand is raised in a blessing of benediction.”
Angelica’s eyes grew wide at the last word, her breath locked tight inside.
“And do you see how one hand is raised to the heavens and the other points below to hell? The Hierophant is a builder of the bridge to happiness, creator of a balance between two worlds. The keys to all one’s choices lie at his feet to remind us the decisions we make dictate our future.”
Stunned silent, Angelica stared at the card as if she could divine how the message impacted on her life. Was the holy card representative of her father’s devotion to religion? Was the mention of a benediction coincidence in its resemblance to Benedict’s name? And why was she still thinking about Benedict? Their shared intimacy was exactly what she’d requested. A one-time experience for her to carry into the future. He’d likely forgotten all about her by now. How foolish to think he’d be idling away his time by remembering their moments on the beach.
Confused and more than a little disenchanted, Angelica rose from the barrel, offered a tentative smile to the gypsy woman and fled the booth. She exited into a bombardment to her senses, the fair crowded and lively, in contrast to the quietude within the stall. For several breaths she stood motionless in an effort to right the world. When she finally trusted herself to continue with the evening, she glanced across the lane to realize she faced the lemonade stand. Good heavens, how had she missed it?
Society's Most Scandalous Viscount Page 12
