The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  “The caravan is on its way to Staffordsville where I will join them. Under the circumstances I thought it wiser to avoid Stoke-On-Trent.”

  “You have planned well.”

  His impetuous brother grinned. A glint of mischievousness shone in his silver-gray eyes. “Perhaps you have underestimated me in the past?”

  “Perhaps I have.”

  “I accept your apology, brother.”

  Lucien fell in with his teasing banter. “So good of you.”

  “Would you like to hear the rest of my plan?”

  Despite the rain, the danger and the obstacles yet to be overcome, Lucien chuckled. At some moment— a moment he had obviously missed—his youngest brother had become a clever and confident leader.

  “Please, do not let me stop you.”

  “From Staffordsville,” Steffan continued, “we shall take Princess Sabina back to her home in York.”

  “She will not marry me, then? She has not changed her mind?”

  “I did implore her, but the princess’s resolve is firm.”

  Lucien could not remember when he’d heard better news.

  Sabina’s refusal had taken them by surprise. Although personally he felt great relief, her opposition presented a new problem.

  “Does she oppose uniting our tribes by other means?”

  “No. I have ... ah,” Steffan ran a hand nervously through his hair, “I’ve taken the liberty of proposing both tribes adopt a covenant that shall bind us.”

  “A covenant?”

  “An agreement to unite. We discussed it the night of your quarrel with Lady Hadley. Have you forgotten?”

  A river of shame washed over Lucien. He had forgotten, an unforgivable lapse brought about at the time by the rage reflected in Henrietta’s icy blue eyes. “I confess I had. I’m sorry, Steffan.”

  His brother’s jaw tightened, his body stiffened. “I had hoped you would assist me with the wording, but I have written it by myself.”

  “I see.” Lucien found himself with mixed emotions. He admired his brother’s assertiveness and intelligence. He decried his own negligence, and at the same time chafed at being informed of such an important enterprise after the fact. Had the council proclaimed Steffan king during Lucien’s brief absence? Not likely!

  In the interest of keeping peace, he launched a different but just as pressing subject. “What of Lady Hadley? Were you able to secret her to safety?”

  “No,” Mila said, speaking up for the first time.

  “No?” Lucien whipped around to regard the old woman. The truth lay in her eyes. He’d hoped the constable had lied to him. But Henrietta was on her way home. His blood ran cold.

  “The girlie gave herself up on condition you would be freed.”

  “What?” he thundered.

  “Of course,” Steffan added, “they did not uphold their part of the bargain.”

  Lucien advanced on his brother. “You knew they would not!”

  “I suspected as much, but I could not deter Lady Hadley.”

  “It is true,” Mila cried, stepping between Lucien and Steffan. “The girlie was determined to save you herself.”

  “And you allowed this?”

  “The lady is extremely headstrong, dear brother.”

  “They carried her back to Bath before the afternoon was over,” Mila added with a click of her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “She’ll be wed to the Earl of Oster before week’s end.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?” Steffan demanded. “Lady Hadley is not on her way to the gallows. She is simply going to become a bride like most other young women of her age. Granted, the groom is not to her liking.”

  “She may as well be dead than wed to that old man.”

  “You cannot stop the marriage, Lucien. If you try and fail you will be hanged,” his brother warned.

  “And if I am successful she will have her dream. She can begin a new life in North America.”

  “It is much too dangerous,” Steffan argued.

  “I could not live knowing I did nothing to help her now, when she needs me most.”

  Steffan stalked off toward his horse. “In my opinion, you have done far too much to this point. What of the tribe? Your people need you too. What is your responsibility to them?”

  “You appear to be handling my responsibility to the tribe extremely well,” Lucien snapped. “And I do not recall asking for your opinion.”

  But in his heart he knew Steffan was right. What kind of king jeopardized his people? What kind of foolish man risked his life for a woman forbidden to him? What kind of man was he? He had never wanted to be king. He had never wanted to care for Henrietta.

  Mila seized his hand and spoke in a harsh whisper that only he could hear. “The girlie loves you, Lucien. She loves you enough to give her life for yours. Do not make her sacrifice in vain.”

  “What makes you believe Henrietta loves me?”

  Mila did not know the truth. The lady did not love him. When Lucien offered Henrietta the world if she would be his mistress, she’d raged at him like a crazed shrew from one of Shakespeare’s plays.

  “The girlie walked into Seddly to free ye. Do you not understand why she would do that?” She shook her head. “What makes men so dull-witted?”

  “Come brother, enough of this,” Steffan urged as he mounted his sleek mare. “We must be on our way, you to Wales, and Mila and me to Staffordsville.”

  But Lucien was not yet ready to leave their resting place. How could he allow Henrietta to sacrifice her dreams in exchange for his life, a life he had not a modicum of control over?

  “What does your crystal say, old woman?” he demanded impatiently. “What should my destination be?”

  “I do not carry my crystal.”

  “But you do not need it, do you? You have the gift.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then tell me,” he insisted. “What should my destination be?”

  “Only you can see what is in your heart. Your heart will show ye the way.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Henrietta paced her chamber. Nothing had changed at Fairly Park. It was she who had changed. The reflection in the looking glass was that of a woman who had tasted adventure, a woman who had known great joy and who now lived beneath a cloak of terrible sadness. The impetuous young girl had vanished.

  Beyond her chamber walls the servants lurked. In fear for their positions, they reported her every move to Edward.

  In order to ensure her marriage to the Earl of Oster, Henrietta’s guardian had taken up residence in the huge estate on the outskirts of Bath. She lived there as a prisoner. Looking from her window, over the rolling green hills of the Avon Valley, she imagined herself galloping to freedom, racing across the emerald hills on Lucien’s magnificent mare, Ursa.

  She’d lost her appetite and never touched the food trays brought to her room, rejecting even her favorite scones. Her stomach would not allow her to eat. She sipped tea and cocoa, and stroked her ill-featured cat who seemed always to be in her lap. Mercury served as a constant reminder of the people she had grown to love, the family she had gained and lost in a matter of weeks.

  Henrietta cared not if the sun shone or if the flowers died on their stems. She sat at the window and watched. She watched the light in the sky change, from morning to afternoon to night. She watched the clouds scurry across the sky. She watched the dog rose bloom, and the swallows take flight.

  She felt listless, her body as limp as if the blood and bone had been drained from her form. Even her heart beat slowly, sadly.

  In the evenings, she applied Mila’s rose oil to her body. And every night, when the stars twinkled overhead, she relived her nights of love.

  In the week since the exchange and betrayal, her thoughts returned again and again to what she might have done differently to secure Lucien’s freedom. Steffan had feared her naiveté would lead to disaster. And it had.

  She knew Steffan had devised his own plan to resc
ue Lucien if they were deceived by the Bow Street Runner. Henrietta prayed he had been successful. Her upcoming nuptials would not be for naught if Lucien were free. But she might never know.

  “My lady?”

  “Come in, Margery.”

  Henrietta’s new lady’s maid, hired by Edward, sailed stiffly into her chamber.

  “It is time.”

  She nodded. Her guardian had gone to great efforts to make the marriage appear an agreeable occasion. He owed the delay of the wedding to an illness that confined the bride. Edward had also ordered a new gown for his ward. It only needed to be fitted when Henrietta returned. He had been so maddeningly certain.

  As Margery helped her dress, Henrietta thought how much she would like Lucien to see her in this gown.

  Fashioned from light blue silk, swags of appliquéd flowers in soft pink, moss green, and gold adorned the wide hem of the skirt. The same delicate flowers edged the low neckline of the gown’s narrow bodice and circled its puffed sleeves.

  Her hair had been swept up in a shining coil and large spiral curls framed her face. Margery wound slivers of gold ribbons and delicate silk flowers through Henrietta’s elegant coiffure. Blue satin slippers with dainty heels completed her costume.

  When she stood before the looking glass, she appeared as beautiful a bride as any. But in the reflection she could see her mother’s empty, emotionless eyes staring back at her. Only Henrietta knew that her spirit, like her mother’s before her, had been quelled forever.

  She applied Mila’s rose oil with a heavy hand. The scent made her ache for the past, yet eased her pain to some degree.

  “Come, Lady Hadley,” Margery coaxed. “I will escort you to the chapel.”

  Henrietta was to be married in the small chapel on the estate, near the gatehouse.

  “Wait!” She held up her hand. “Where is Mercury?”

  “The cat? You cannot bring him, Lord—”

  “I shall not go without him. Fetch a basket please.”

  Moments later she left the refuge of her chamber with Margery following behind. The maid carried a basket containing Mercury, who howled in protest.

  Edward waited for her in the great marble foyer. A small, stout unsmiling man, he appraised her with a critical eye. “You make a splendid bride, Henrietta. Are you not contrite that you made such a fuss over marrying the earl?”

  “I do not love the Earl of Oster.”

  Her guardian’s thinly veiled attempt to conceal his anger with her, failed in a trice. “How many times must you be reminded that marriage is not about love,” he spat through a clenched jaw. “Are you altogether lacking in intellect?”

  Biting back an indignant retort, she chewed on her lip.

  “And where is that cat going?” he demanded, casting an icy frown on the basket.

  “With me. He will quiet presently.”

  She regarded the scowling man defiantly, daring him to raise an argument.

  “I will see you in the chapel,” Edward bristled. His face grew crimson and she feared, rather hoped, for a moment that the dreadful man might fall victim to apoplexy. But he recovered, drawing himself up in the way of a strutting pigeon. “I shall see you wed to the Earl of Oster within the hour.”

  Henrietta lifted her chin as Edward spun on his heel and marched off in a fit of pique. She did not move until his footsteps died away.

  Pushing one foot ahead of the other, she proceeded slowly toward the door. Her steps were almost as heavy as her heart. But why should she delay? Whether the ceremony began in minutes or in an hour, the end would be the same.

  Edward had extended invitations to several families who kept estates in Bath. The waters drew many who suffered from various illnesses or imagined they did. He wanted witnesses to the evil drama, she thought.

  In the gravel drive, a team of ribbon-bedecked horses hitched to a polished Landau waited to convey her the short distance from the main house to the chapel.

  She rode in a trance-like state. Too soon, the carriage pulled up to the stone building where she would be wed. Henrietta was dismayed to see a line of horses and carriages, liverymen and drivers, stretching from the chapel to the gates.

  Margery took a firm hold of her elbow and whisked her into the chapel anteroom. Her time was running out. In minutes she would become Oster’s bride. The melancholy acceptance of her fate suddenly turned to terror, a sour upheaval in the pit of her stomach. Light-headed and trembling, Henrietta could not catch her breath.

  Margery turned to her in alarm. “What is it, my lady?”

  “I ... I cannot breathe.”

  “It is nerves, my lady. It will pass.”

  Henrietta hiccupped.

  “My lady!”

  She hiccupped again, so loudly that several of the guests sitting in the rear of the chapel turned. She forced a smile.

  “I need water, Margery. Fetch me water quickly.”

  The maid’s eyes were large. Obviously she feared to leave Henrietta’s side, but understood water might ease her lady’s distress.

  At that moment, a priest slipped in the door. He looked to be an old priest, dressed in dark robes, head bent and body bowed.

  After a cursory glance, Henrietta focused again on the entrance to the chapel. How could she willingly walk through that arch? Her feet had attached themselves to where she stood. Her gaze remained fixed on the altar.

  Although too alarmed to actually listen or take part, she was aware of the recently arrived priest whispering with Margery.

  “Am I too late for the ceremony?” the priest asked in a strained whisper. “I have been asked to assist.”

  “No,” Margery replied. “We are about to begin.”

  “Excellent. I feared I would be too late.”

  Henrietta hiccupped, even more loudly than before.

  “Water, my lady needs water.” Margery evidently took the presence of the priest as a sign. “Father, if you will stay with my lady, I shall return in a moment.”

  The priest grunted and Margery was gone.

  Henrietta stood alone, oblivious to all but what lay ahead of her.

  And then for the second time within a week, her nose and mouth were covered with a moist scarf. She was pulled against what felt like a mountain wall and lifted off her feet as if she weighed no more than a cup of cocoa.

  She passed out as she was being carried from the chapel.

  * * * *

  Henrietta awoke to a jolt. She opened her eyes by slow blinking degrees, to find herself in a huddled heap bouncing along in a well-appointed Landau on an unfamiliar road.

  She immediately closed her eyes again and raised both hands to her head, which felt as if it had swollen to three times its normal size. Her neck ached from sleeping in a twisted position. Her bones splintered with the smallest of movement. With her body in such agony, she did not care how she came to be in the carriage or where it was headed.

  Seeking a scrap of relief, she rubbed her temples. The last thing she remembered was passing out in the arms of a priest. Surely, a hallucination brought on by her distress. She could not blame one of Mila’s potions, for the old woman had been nowhere in sight.

  After stretching her body slowly, one shoulder, one leg at a time as she had seen Mercury do whenever he awoke, she opened her eyes once more.

  Across from her sat Mila!

  Or someone who looked like Mila. This lady was dressed in a fashionable traveling outfit of dark green silk with matching cape. A bonnet boasting one fine ostrich feather concealed her hair. Henrietta lowered her gaze to her companion’s hands, folded on her lap over a lovely beaded reticule— Mila’s gnarled hands.

  She looked up to the dark craggy face, and into the small black eyes of the Gypsy healer. It could be no one else!

  And when the woman began to cackle, a flood of relief like warm rain spread through Henrietta. “I feared ye would never wake, girlie.”

  Henrietta practically flung herself to the opposite seat, throwing her arms around her ir
ascible old mentor. “I thought never to see you again.”

  “Aye. ’Tis a surprise for me as well.”

  “Where are we? How did you find me? And, oh, why does my head hurt so?” she asked, rubbing her left temple again.

  “You ask too many questions all at once,” Mila replied, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She held out a vial. “Drink this and ye shall feel yourself.”

  Henrietta took the vial and gulped the familiar tasting bitter cocoa liquid. Desperate to feel normal again, she did not question the contents.

  “I am still wearing the dress in which I was to be wed,” she said, resting her head on the back of the seat. “Am I married to the earl?”

  “No, girlie.” Mila patted the back of Henrietta’s hand. “Ye were taken from the chapel before any harm could be done.”

  Henrietta let out a sigh of relief, “Thank goodness!”

  “The guests in the chapel did not know you had changed your mind until your maid returned from fetching water. She screamed quite loudly.”

  Henrietta could not help chuckling. “I hope Edward is not too hard on the girl.”

  “Do not worry over her.”

  “But what of Lucien?” She asked, leaning forward anxiously.

  “He is the priest who came to your rescue.”

  “The priest? Lucien is free?” Her heart leaped into a hasty beat. “The priest?”

  “He waits for you in Bristol.”

  Without warning, tears sprung to Henrietta’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks in a warm stream of happiness. Her heart continued to hammer wildly, its natural rhythm gone utterly awry.

  “Will we arrive in Bristol soon?” she asked, moving closer to the window.

  “Aye. And on the morrow ye shall sail to Liverpool, my girlie.”

  “Will Lucien be with me?”

  “I shall accompany you.”

  Henrietta had come to love Mila. She could not let her disappointment show. “You have been very good to me. My own mother could not have shown more kindness during the past weeks.”

  The old woman frowned and her eyes squeezed up into slits. “Do not forget my lessons. That is all I ask of ye, girlie.”

  “I will not forget my lessons or you,” she said softly.