by Dee Brice
“I suppose we’ve seen the last of the earl. At least for the rest of tonight,” she said, forcing her gaze from Adrian to Walker.
“Not if he values his life.”
Walker’s nonchalance surprised her. Did he wish Adrian dead?
“Why? Is the earl’s life in danger?” she asked as if it did not matter to her one way or another.
“Only if he allows Clotilde to lure him to her bed again.”
“Is she the woman dancing with him now?”
Walker’s dark gaze flicked from the entwined couple to Diane’s face. “She is William’s mother.” His attention returned to the couple.
“And?” Diane pressed, sensing that more than the boy’s paternity troubled Walker. Jealousy over Adrian’s success with women perhaps? Or did Walker want the Gypsy for himself? And where did William get his dark eyes if not from Walker? From his grandparents? From his mother?
“Like you, Clotilde’s father believes I am William’s father.”
“Oh.” As if his statement clarified the entire matter. “You told me—”
“No one knows the boy’s sire. His mother may, but she refuses to identify the man.”
“Perhaps she fears some Gypsy will curse her lover.” She grasped his hand, an apology on her lips. “I believe you, Walker.” His face darkened, a sure sign of his embarrassment. Or was he pleased that she believed him? Expelling an inaudible sigh, she waited for him to continue.
After several endless moments he said, “Clotilde’s father is the Gypsy king.”
“Oh,” Diane said again, more confused than ever. “Why do you tolerate these people camping on your lands? Poaching your game and no doubt,” she couldn’t stop her laugh, “tickling your trout? Wouldn’t it be less uncomfortable for everyone if they went elsewhere?”
“There is no elsewhere—at least none between here and London. No one will have them.” He shrugged. “They must rest somewhere. Here, they can do so in relative peace, without fear of being driven away, their few belongings stolen or destroyed completely—leaving them with nothing of value to sell or trade.”
“Even with Adrian’s troops so near?”
“They stay out of each other’s way. For the most part,” he amended with an appealing grin as a pair of Gypsy children chased a young soldier through the clearing—all of them yelling and laughing.
“Is that what drives you, Walker? Do you pity these people who choose to have no permanent home? Is pity why you let them stay?” Would pity move him to let her stay?
“Pity plays a small part, aye. But ‘tis not all.”
“What else then?”
Scowling, he straightened, making her rue pushing him to reveal secrets he wished to keep to himself. Surprising her once more, he continued. “William also believes I am his sire—the father who refuses to acknowledge him. He hates me, which allows him to hero-worship Adrian. And allows Adrian to give the lad all the love the boy needs.”
“For how long?” she wondered aloud.
“A month or two every summer and early winter. Which is more time than either Adrian or I had with our sires.” Taking her hand, Walker drew her to her feet. “‘Tis past time, milady, to hear your fortune.”
I’d rather not. She held her tongue, praying Walker could not see the tears for William’s plight filling her eyes. Walker led her to an isolated tent, then held open the tent flap. Her lover confused her. Indifferent one moment, too caring the next. At least toward everyone other than her—except on occasions when he wanted something from her. Her legs trembled, but she willed herself to cross the threshold and go inside.
After all, sooner or later, Diane would go home.
The interior of the tent was so dark it took several moments before her eyes adjusted. At first all she could make out was a sort of misty glow in the middle of utter blackness. A few moments more and a dozen or more blinks later, she made out a darker shadow, closer yet no less intimidating than all the other shadows surrounding her. Something passed slowly between her and the mistiness. The tent’s interior brightened a little, allowing her to see a veiled figure on the opposite side of a small, round table. Upon the bare wood rested a…a crystal ball, for cryin’ out loud! As if that overused piece of flimflam could convince her that what the fortuneteller said held even a dram of truth!
“Two steps forward,” the figure said, the raspy voice that of a woman despite its low, gravely timbre, “you shall find a stool.”
“I shan’t be here long enough to sit,” Diane told the seer.
A soft laugh became a hack that contained hints of phlegm and long-term illness. When she stopped coughing, the crone said, “Humor an old woman whose eyesight is failing and has a crick in her neck from looking up at you.”
Expelling an impatient huff, Diane found the stool, then sat, surprised by the soft cushion under her buttocks. She took a moment to run her hands under the table before resting them on the top’s smooth surface. At least there were no wires or strings or other means of fooling the unwary—none that she could find on her side of the round, tree-trunk-like table base. Which didn’t mean anything. The seer still could use some other means of misdirection.
“Pick up the globe if you wish. Search under its base. Satisfy yourself that I use no trickery.”
“If you think embarrassment will keep me from doing what you said—”
“I do not expect anything from you, Lady Diane. I do, however, ask that you listen.”
Despite the surge of fear at hearing her name in the fortuneteller’s harsh voice, she heard a deeper admonition beneath listen. She resigned herself to keeping an open mind. She would try to, at any rate. She held out her right hand, palm up.
The Gypsy chuckled. “I am not a palm reader, m’lady.”
“Then how—”
The globe in the middle of the table began to glow, its color changing from white to black before displaying all the spectrum of a rainbow. But even those shades paled or brightened until Diane felt a little dizzy and closed her eyes. She refused to let this…this charlatan hypnotize her.
“You have traveled a great distance,” the seer began, her voice no different than it had been. No spooky tremolos or other otherworldly emanations sounded from her mouth.
“Guess the American accent gave me away, huh?” Too late to worry or apologize for her sarcasm, she glanced over her shoulder, relieved Walker had remained outside. Which she should have noticed before she and the Gypsy started.
“To discover things about yourself you could not—nay, would not—learn in any other fashion. Not that you have not had opportunities, but that you have refused to avail yourself of them.”
Okay, this was getting a tiny bit spooky, Diane admitted to herself, wishing she had some chewing gum to snap like a disinterested teenager. The gum might also moisten her abruptly dry mouth. Not that the seer had said anything that specific. Not yet anyway.
Slitting her eyes, she saw that the globe had turned a deep purple, almost black. A heaviness pressed her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She felt as though a weight of pure depression had descended on her lungs.
“You come from a long line of unforgiving women,” the Gypsy went on. “Women who set high standards for others and claimed they expected only what they demanded of themselves. Because they could not—would not—accept human frailty, they died alone and bitter…and unforgiving to the end.”
Diane didn’t know about any long line, but her mother and grandmother sure fit the Gypsy’s description. A niggling voice in the back of her mind muttered several suggestions that Diane also fit.
“This is not your first journey,” the seer continued. “It is, however, the first time you have had companions to help and guide you.”
Now that was downright scary! How could this woman know that Adrian and Walker had been with her several centuries ago? The men didn’t seem to remember, so how…
“Although they will not admit it, they also have lessons to learn. Lessons to teach you and
lessons you will teach them.”
Yeah, right. So far what they had taught her was that she lived in a man’s world. Women were just along for the ride. Unbidden, an image of her posting up and down on one of their cocks made the ride a lot more satisfying.
“You have begun to learn about compassion.”
The globe swirled pale lavender, then gave way once more to the kaleidoscope of rainbow hues. Her ability to breathe improved. Her heart, however, continued to thump in her ears, sounding eerily funereal. She wanted to ask when she had learned about compassion. If she knew what had triggered that emotion, she could build upon it.
Sure, that niggling voice needled. You can fool people into thinking you’ve changed. Random acts of kindness and compassion didn’t mean squat. Even she knew that! Nibbling on her lower lip, she thought about Scrooge and his ghosts. At least good old Ebenezer had landed more or less in his own time and world. Diane feared she’d be stuck in the past—and not even her own past—forever.
Still…something must have triggered her feelings of compassion. She just couldn’t figure out what. Unless… Memories of Arnaud’s mistresses and blue-eyed children swirled in the glass orb, along with visions of the keep engulfed in flames. Was that the same fire Arnaud had caused or was it one that had happened after she escaped that era? It seemed so real she could smell the charred wood, hear the children’s screams. She wanted to return, save them from the flames she saw in the glass. Then, filling the globe, William’s black, hate-filled eyes glared out at her.
Startled by how real he seemed, she jerked back. The images blinked out as if they had never been. She couldn’t blame William for despising her. How could he not? Believing Walker to be his father, William would see Diane and any children she might have as insurmountable obstacles between him and his rightful place as Walker’s heir—never mind that he couldn’t inherit anything other than a stipend Walker might will him.
In a kinder, less judgmental world… No, Walker would never recognize William as his son. It simply wasn’t done—unless no legitimate heir existed.
There she went again! Expecting others to live up to her standards. Ludicrous, since she didn’t know—couldn’t even imagine—how she would behave if a stranger confessed to being her birth mother. Sighing, feeling that awful weight again descending on her chest, she decided to let the matter rest for now. Later, if she could, she’d ask both Adrian and Walker what they could do for William. And then she would stay out of it!
“You are also learning the art of compromise,” the Gypsy said.
And now the bloody woman was reading Diane’s mind! Instead of ordering the crone to keep out, Diane said, “What can I teach the duke? Or, for that matter, the earl?” Drawing a deep breath for courage, she asked the one question she needed answered. If the crone accused her of being a witch, it wouldn’t matter. The Gypsies would leave in the morning and, even if still in this time, Diane would remain safe.
“Can you tell me how to get home?”
Skyscrapers in San Francisco’s financial district replaced the miasma in the crystal ball. The Golden Gate Bridge swirled into sight, covered with bumper-to-bumper traffic going nowhere.
Throwing off her cloak, screeching, clawing, spitting venom with every word, the fortuneteller surged to her feet. All signs of age and illness vanished as if the Gypsy were possessed. Black eyes blazing hatred, the woman reached out as if to grab Diane and snatch her bald. She advanced a step. Diane retreated until she could go no farther. Trapped against the side of the tent, shaking despite all efforts to face this virago with her dignity intact, Diane felt incapable of staying upright.
“Witch!” the crone shouted, spittle spraying over Diane’s cheek. “You do not belong here.”
The world began to spin. Everything in Diane’s line of sight whirled as if enveloped in a tornado. Screaming, pushing at her skirts as the evil gusts tightened around her and threatened to expose her nether extremities, she cried out her lovers’ names. She wondered why the Gypsy would hate her. Well, duh…for the same reasons William—
Then the world went black.
“M’lady?” A cool hand settled on her naked shoulder, then shook her none too gently. “M’lady, wake up. ‘Tis time to dress.”
Swearing under her breath, Diane shoved away the offending hand. By all she held holy, if she’d gone back to her first encounter with Adrian and Walker in the Middle Ages, somebody would die. She saw the flames surrounding the keep and knew she would return gladly if she could save the children. Her heart beating at a rat-a-tat rate, she sat up.
Chapter Twelve
Opening her eyes, Diane gazed at the canopy above her bed. Pale-pink damask was gathered into a coronet centered over the mattress, its pleats widening out to the bedposts, then flowing down, she assumed, to the floor. Exhaling a small breath of relief, she shifted her gaze to the person who’d awakened her.
Pale-gray eyes met hers. Locks of white-blonde hair curled around a heart-shaped face. Marget, here with her again to provide guidance and sage advice. Diane’s own fairy godmother. At least she had a familiar face to take comfort from.
Taking in the young woman’s clothing—her gown empire-waisted and flowing down her slender body like a voluminous night rail—Diane decided she had finally reached Regency England—the era Adrian and Walker created for tourists. Whether she was actually in that era she’d have to determine pretty soon.
She wanted to ask if the other guests had arrived, but suspected her maid would remain in character no matter what. That’s what re-creators did. Public television channels had aired an entire series based on modern people living in Jane Austen’s time.
Please, please, please, let this be a re-creation and not another trip into the past. I’m so afraid I’m going crazy, so please let this not be real.
A sweet smile made Diane smile back.
“Awake? Good. I’ve filled your tub, so you’ve time for a leisurely bath—so long as you don’t dawdle too long.”
“Thank—” She coughed, clearing the frog of disuse from her throat as she took stock of her surroundings.
Wide, bright-white crown molding capped pale-pink walls. Landscapes and still lifes hung from silken, deep-gold ties that matched the tasseled tiebacks on deep red drapes at each of six enormous windows. A far cry from stone walls and tapestries and cold oak floors strewn with carpets. Or worse, rushes.
Definitely not medieval or Tudor. Not a campfire or Gypsy fortuneteller in sight.
“Thank you…”
Her hesitancy made the young maid say, “Margaret, m’lady. Filling in for Rose whose mum took sick this very morning.”
Whew. For once Dame Fortune had fallen on Diane’s side. Margaret, being new to her post, wouldn’t expect her mistress to know her. As for the different name with the same face…Diane didn’t expect everyone traveled through time as she had. On the other hand, many folks believed in doppelgangers and maybe Margaret was one of those.
Eyeing the girl, smothering another groan, she watched Margaret gather up a bundle of puce fabric.
“With your ladyship’s permission, I’ll take these mourning clothes away so you’ll not need to look at them again.” With a cheeky grin she added, “Unless, of course, you remarry and have the misfortune of losing another husband.”
The plethora of information made Diane dizzy. One word, however, stuck in her mind and filled her heart with dread. Losing. As if she had left her unnamed husband at the post office and someone had stuck him in the dead letter bin. She desperately wanted to ask the name of her departed. Please, dear God, don’t let Adrian or Walker be dead! She’d wanted to escape them, but not at such a terrible price as their lives. Better to have married and lost a stranger.
Unwilling to ask questions in case this really was Regency England, still fearing for her own sanity, Diane followed Margaret into a separate room. There, she slid into a large slipper tub with gold taps and spigot and groaned her pleasure. If she were stuck here in this time for t
he rest of this reenactment, at least she’d have the comfort of bathtubs and water closets with flush toilets. And money enough to enjoy shopping. She might even travel to London and ride in Rotten Row when the demi-reps appeared with or without their protectors. Hmmm. She’d need a fine carriage—a landau or brougham or curricle complete with tiger to hold her horses while she shopped. A carriage open to the air so she could see and be seen.
Perhaps Adrian or Walker or both would join her. And wouldn’t that set ton tongues wagging? Assuming Adrian didn’t have a different mistress, as his brother had had, and a different carriage for every day of the week. Assuming Walker could relax enough to enjoy riding with a woman whose reputation was ever so slightly tarnished.
She realized that she was thinking as though she really was living in the Regency era, and she wouldn’t allow herself to—she couldn’t.
But what if it was real? Assuming she was actually living in the Regency era, what should she do then? She would throw herself into the role Walker and Adrian had outlined during their train trip.
She wanted desperately to ask about her dead husband, but couldn’t. The servants might think her mad. Might even report her memory loss to some greedy male relation of her late husband’s who held power over her and would have her committed. Now there was an interesting plot for a novel. If—when—she got home to write it!
There she went again. How could she be sure whether this was real or not?
She’d decided, during the endless time it took Margaret to dress her hair that she’d think positively. Yet every time she glanced in the mirror—which she couldn’t seem to avoid, her predecessor being so vain as to have mirrors on every wall—she saw herself gnawing on her lower lip. Her eyes shimmered with tears she blotted away with a fine linen handkerchief embroidered with someone’s initials, her husband’s perhaps. Didn’t women of this time embroider their beloved’s initials on everything? Her tears could be seen as a sign of remaining grief, couldn’t they? The initials meant nothing. At least they lent no assistance or clue as to her mate’s identity. His initials were the same as Diane’s own—D de B.