A Wallflower's Folly

by Amanda Mariel

  And, possibly more to the point, none of those men set her aflame or made her heart race with anticipation or mystery.

  There was something to be said for that. Marriage would be long indeed if there wasn’t attraction present.

  Mariana took up the threads of the conversation. “You won’t find a suitor at a country fair, Izzy. Or if you do, he won’t be a man of the ton.” She snorted as if such a thing were a tragedy. “Imagine, marrying a man who works for a living.” Her tone suggested it was not to be borne.

  “What difference does that make?” Three years had been a long time, and her personal tastes had changed. She no longer cared if a man possessed a fortune or held a position or title within the ton. Neither did she give a jot that she was an earl’s daughter and expected to marry well. None of that mattered. She wanted love, and it was nowhere to be found within the bevy of eager suitors that had come to call.

  “It makes a huge difference,” her middle sister asserted, her expression scandalized. “A man who works a trade is somewhat rather… less, don’t you think? He’ll never settle into domestic life and will forever be tempted.”

  Isabella pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Tempted by what? The amount of coin he could possibly make for himself? Tempted to not rely on old money or the traditions found within the ton?” She purposefully dropped her voice to what she hoped was a thrilling whisper. “Tempted by perfumed arms and come hither glances only found in the workaday world?” Then she emitted an unladylike snort. “In the event you hadn’t realized, sister dear, a man encounters those temptations all the time, no matter the circles he resides in, but if he is any man at all, he won’t indulge once his heart is engaged.”

  That was the trick, though. How to engage a man’s heart so that it stuck unerringly to hers? No, perhaps love wasn’t in her future at all, and if that were the case, she wanted scandal, something she could look back upon in her dotage and say with satisfaction that it was the most splendid folly, and that she was glad she’d done it.

  “Don’t be droll, Izzy,” Louisa said, but there was a decided smile upon her lips.

  “Fine.” Isabella shrugged. “Visiting the fortune teller is fun, and as it’s my birthday, it’s my prerogative. The two of you do not need to accompany me.” If love wasn’t part of her path, she was ready to embrace spinsterhood, for being firmly on the shelf kept unsavory men away. The eager young bucks would realize that soon enough as well.

  Mariana linked their arms. “Of course we’ll go with you. Then we’ll enjoy the rest of the fair.” She smiled. “That’s what sisters do. But the fair will run for ten days, at least, so if you don’t wish to go today…”

  “No, I do.” Isabella shot her a grateful glance. Then a sobering thought occurred. “No doubt you’ll be married soon, and then what with Louisa’s impending motherhood, our lives will shift and change. No longer will we have this time together, for other interests will pull you both away.” Would she still visit Buckinghamshire in the summer if she was alone?

  “No more maudlin thoughts,” Mariana declared and it was she who pulled Isabella along toward the brightly-colored wagons of the gypsies. “Marriage and children won’t break our bond.”

  As they drew nearer, sights and sounds and smells enveloped Isabella. The gypsy wagons were cozy, tiny houses on wheels. With round tops and a door at the end and painted in all manner of bright, happy colors, the wagons were arranged in half moon-shaped arcs. Each gypsy sat either on the steps that lowered from the back end of the wagon or on a chair in front of the vehicle. Small tables were draped with colorful scarves; some had crystal balls, others contained tarot cards, while still others were scattered with tea cups. It seemed each fortune teller had a different way of diving the future—for the right price.

  Isabella skimmed her gaze over the various vendors, and when her notice alighted on one in particular, her breath caught. “Can it be?” She broke away from her sisters. “It is!” The same gypsy she’d talked with three years ago sat at one end of the half-moon curve, her skirts just as bright and flowing as the last time, the scarf and spangles about her head as cheerful. “This one,” she urged and led the way toward Madame Zeta.

  When she stood in front of the woman with the beautiful creamy mocha skin and the soulful brown eyes, she smiled. Behind the seated woman, on a wooden placard affixed to the side of the wagon, a pretty hand-painted sign read: Fortunes by Madame Zeta. “I saw you three years ago in London. For my birthday,” she tacked on as if it mattered. “You read my palm.”

  “Ah.” Interest twinkled in the other woman’s eyes. “Did you find your true love?”

  “No.” Isabella chuckled. It was all so very amusing. “I found everything but—fortune hunters, men who are looking to gain a higher foothold in the ton, men who want a new mother for their brood, men who must marry for appearances, and even men who might be devoted husbands…”

  “But none who connect with your soul,” the fortune teller finished for her.

  “Indeed.” Isabella nodded with enthusiasm. She waved a hand and her violet reticule swung from her wrist. “However, my mindset has changed since I last saw you. I don’t believe love is in my future. And I… might wish for something else.”

  A mysterious grin tugged at the corners of Madame Zeta’s mouth. “You haven’t found your path.” She gestured to a matching chair. “Sit.”

  Isabella did so with a sigh while her sisters stood off to the side, a few paces away to give her privacy. She arranged the skirts of her jonquil dress about her legs. It was a pretty color and contrasted nicely with the violet spencer, reticule and dainty umbrella. “I fear my path is straight to spinsterhood.”

  Madame Zeta arched her eyebrows. “If that is where fate guides you.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I am perfectly fine with things as they are.” Liar. But only she knew the truth.

  “Fate isn’t in agreement with that statement, miss,” the gypsy said in a soft, melodious voice. Slowly, she slid a small, shallow bowl of red-painted clay over the tabletop toward Isabella. “Offer what you believe a fortune is worth.”

  More mature than she’d been the last time she sat with the woman, Isabella promptly pulled a gold sovereign from the depths of her reticule. She dropped it into the bowl with a satisfied smile. “I saved my pin money for just this occasion.”

  “Very well.” Madame Zeta pulled the bowl back toward her side of the table. “Let’s move on to your fortune, miss.” She held out a hand, the long slender fingers calloused from years of work. “Your palm, please.”

  With a sense of anticipation, Isabella slipped her hand—palm upturned—into the other woman’s. “I hope it’s a good one.”

  Madame Zeta’s eyes took on a faraway look, as if she saw, not exactly into the future but someplace not quite in the present. “Many paths still stretch before you,” she said in a quiet, sing-song voice.

  In silence and with a rapidly-beating heart, Isabella waited, for there had to be more.

  Then the fortune teller spoke again. “A dark-haired man will not arrive by traditional means, and he will have a mark only you will recognize. Heed me, girl: he is dangerous. You must make a choice.”

  “A choice? What sort of choice? And how will he be dangerous?”

  “That is not for me to say, miss. Many paths are present for you.” Madame Zeta blinked. With a slight shake of her head, she returned her focus to Isabella’s face. “I trust this fortune is more to your liking than last time?”

  “No, actually.” Isabella took her hand back with a frown. “It tells me nothing, so is there some sort of insurance I could procure in the event my fortune falls flat or goes afoul?” After all, a gold sovereign should have bought a better, more insightful fortune.

  “Of course not. Life doesn’t work that way.” An enigmatic grin lingered on the gypsy’s lips.

  Isabella’s huff ruffled the baby fine curls on her forehead. “I want protection from disappointment and possible hurt.�
�� And boredom. Definitely that.

  “Don’t we all, miss?” The madam shook her head. “Fate and fortune don’t work that way either. We must weather what we’ve been given and shine regardless.”

  The muscles of her stomach clenched. “Nothing you saw in my palm told of romance or even a grand passion?”

  For long moments, Madame Zeta held Isabella’s gaze. “What are you afraid of, miss?”

  “I am not afraid.”

  One finely arched eyebrow rose. “You can lie to me but not to yourself.”

  “Fine.” Isabella heaved another exasperated breath. “I’m afraid of settling, of consigning myself to a dull life, either married or not. I’m afraid of missing happiness because I cannot see it, or of making a wrong decision that takes me away from what I need the most.” A certain level of relief slid down her spine from the admission. Too long she’d carried it around with her.

  Madame Zeta nodded and the spangles over her forehead twinkled. “Happiness is a feeling that comes from within and being content with your place in the world. It is not something you plan for.”

  “How will I know whatever decision I make will lead to happiness?”

  “You will know in your heart.”

  She sighed. That told her nothing. “None of my suitors make me happy.”

  “Then they are not for you. Also, do not depend on a man to bring you happiness. Find it in yourself.”

  “Myself is boring.” Isabella stared at the fortune teller. “I long for adventure, for something delicious and scandalous before I become an old maid.”

  “Then go in search of it.” Madame Zeta shrugged. “Those things are always in the offing.”

  “Perhaps, but when spoken aloud, it sounds silly and impractical.” Perhaps I’m just the dullest of the Fortescue girls. Louisa had married and reformed a roguish viscount. Mariana was on the verge of bringing a duke’s son up to scratch. And she? Well, she had dismissed a whole parlor full of men because none of them made her heart flutter or seem like they fit in with a forever-type scenario.

  “Silly is good for the mind, child. Everything else, pain and heartache—even joy—builds character. They forge the soul into who we need it to be and equip it to survive the life we choose.”

  Back to a choice again. Isabella frowned. “I will still be myself regardless of what I do or where I go.”

  Madame Zeta nodded. “Perhaps, but each choice will make you grow into the person you will ultimately become.”

  “What if I’m happy with the person I am now?” Talking in riddles made no sense to her.

  “If you were happy with her, you wouldn’t have come to see me today.” Amusement sparkled in the gypsy’s eyes. “You are obstinate. That clutters your path.”

  A laugh escaped Isabella. “You have no idea.”

  “I think I might.” A wide grin curved the other woman’s lips, brightening her face. “Remember, miss, sometimes folly is a good thing; I highly encourage it. For folly can bring about exactly the path you might be missing.”

  “Yet you cannot tell me what that might be.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I cannot. You must discover it yourself.” Then the smile faded. “Might I ask you a question, miss?”

  “Of course.” Isabella leaned forward.

  “In your travels between London and here, have you seen a young lady with creamy skin, a mixed race woman? I have been searching for her and wish terribly to find her.” Wistfulness combined with grief in her brown eyes that spoke of a story.

  “I have not. Is she important?”

  “Invaluable.” Then the gypsy shook her head. “I will prevail. On one of the paths before me, I will meet her.”

  “How do you know?” Isabella almost envied the woman.

  “I have faith that everything will come about as it should.” Again, she lifted an eyebrow. “So should you.”

  “Best wishes,” Isabella murmured as she stood.

  “To you as well, miss.” Then the gypsy waved a hand toward the rear of her wagon. “Take a trinket as a memento of your time with me.”

  “Thank you.” As she sorted through jewelry and other baubles over two trays, another woman asked the gypsy to read her palm.

  Finally, Isabella selected a small gold pin that, at first glance, resembled the opened petals of a rose, but when she took a second glance, it looked like interwoven threads without a clear beginning or ending.

  Louisa scoffed from behind her. “I’m quite certain that isn’t real gold.”

  “It doesn’t need to be. I think it pretty.” She quickly pinned the brooch to her bodice beneath her spencer and grinned. “Now, let us go enjoy the remainder of the fair. I’m of a mind to eat something oh so bad for me and perhaps indulge in a lark that will make me laugh.”

  The fortune was a great joke, of course. No one could know another’s future, but it was interesting to contemplate. After today, she would retire from the Marriage Mart and make inroads into finding a scandal before spinsterhood overtook her.

  USA Today Bestselling author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.

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