by Susana Ellis
“She didn’t say. Why do you ask?”
Stephen’s green eyes—so like Helena’s—gleamed with excitement.
“Because, my friend, I had a cousin by that name. Disappeared when she was naught but a babe. The Cranbournes scoured the country for her for years. Not a trace of her or the parlor maid.”
“The parlor maid?”
“Aye. It was said the parlor maid took her, since they both went missing at the same time.”
Gibson set his glass down and stared intently at James. “How old is this Miss Lloyd, anyway? What does she look like?”
Feeling like his insides were vibrating, James felt like embracing his good friend.
“She believes she was born in 1790, and she bears a startling resemblance to you, Gibson.”
The pair stared at each other with growing excitement.
“Could it possibly be…?” breathed Gibson. “Could she be my long-lost cousin? Where do you suppose she’s been all these years?”
“Across a big, big pond,” said James grimly. “And if we don’t stop her, she’ll likely go back there.”
15
Madame Herne’s Shop
Gracechurch Street
London
That same day
Dusk had fallen by the time the hackney cab reached Gracechurch Street, and Helena had to strain her eyes to search for Madame Herne’s shop in the dimly lit street. Not surprisingly, the buildings were nothing like what she remembered from modern-day. She made out a cobbler's shop, a haberdasher's, and an apothecary in a line of store fronts surrounded by modest residences.
“Gracechurch Street, miss. Wot’s yer direction?”
“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “It’s a fortune teller. A Madame Herne.”
He murmured under his breath, and she could imagine what he was thinking. A lady traveling unaccompanied after dark to visit a fortune teller. Foolish in the extreme. Where was her husband?
Helena wasn’t feeling very sensible at the time. Exhausted and brokenhearted, she simply wanted someone to confide in, someone who would listen to her without thinking she was either a witch or a lunatic. Someone who could help her search out the truth.
So much for finding a home, she thought bitterly. If she didn’t belong in the twenty-first century, it was a cinch she didn’t belong here in the nineteenth either. Perhaps the gypsy had made a miscalculation. The couple pictured in her locket might not be her parents at all. As long as she was going to be homeless and out of sync, she’d rather be in the modern-day where she could at least support herself. The nineteenth century didn't have much use for an independent woman, and there was no way she could eschew her modernistic viewpoints to become a typical downtrodden female.
“There it is!” she cried, suddenly catching sight of the wooden placard bearing the words Genuine Gipsy Fortune Telling. Much more discreet than the gaudy red-lettered sign she recalled from the future.
The shop was different too. No window, no mannequin, just a black wooden door, one of many along the street in the same dilapidated building. The street appeared to be mostly deserted, although Helena could make out some movement in the distance. She shivered. What if Madame Herne were not at home? She did mention that she had been “traveling” a great deal that summer.
“Wait for me,” she instructed the driver as she handed him his fare. “If the shop is closed, I will need to return to Grosvenor Square.”
“That'll cost ye extra, miss. Not good ta keep the horse standin’ long.”
“I won’t be long,” Helena promised.
She descended from the coach and crossed the pavement toward the shop. No one answered her knocking. She knocked harder.
“Madame Herne!” she called. “Please let me in!”
Nothing. But she heard a scuffling noise inside, so she knocked again. “Madame Herne! I’ve come from Grosvenor Square. Lady Pendleton sent me!”
The door flew open. “Hush! Do you want the entire neighborhood to hear?”
A dark figure grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
In the dim light, Helena made out the form of the gypsy lady who had instigated her journey into the past. Incredibly—except for the gown, which was a closely-fitted, tightly-laced white blouse tucked into a skirt of tomato red clasped with a black leather belt—her appearance was the same as when they’d first met… two centuries into the future!
The gypsy woman peered out the door. “Is Agatha with you? What is this about?”
Helena swallowed. “No, she’s not. She’s in Derbyshire. I came to see you because—well, I need your help.”
“My help?” The woman’s raven-black eyes peered into Helena’s. “What sort of help, exactly? And you still haven’t told me your name.”
Helena swallowed. Why had she expected the nineteenth century Madame Herne to remember events that wouldn’t happen to her for two hundred years?
“I’m Helena Lloyd,” she said hoarsely, “and I’m from the twenty-first century. That’s where I met you… and you helped me come here.”
The other woman drew a sharp breath. “I-I see,” she said finally. “I wonder what sort of mischief my future self has managed to stir up for me now. It seems I am my own worst enemy."
She waved Helena inside. "I suppose you’d best come in and sit down. I’ll put the kettle on. I suspect it’s going to be a long night.”
Helena felt a sudden release of tension. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “I was really hoping you could help me.”
At the sound of a horse’s whinnying, Madame Herne stared pointedly toward the noise. “You’d best send away the hackney. I’ve a place you can stay for the night. That is, if we either one of us manages to get any sleep.”
* * *
“So tell me,” the gypsy said as she settled into the overstuffed armchair across from Helena, “what have I been up to in the twenty-first century? I confess I am both eager and fearful to hear, Miss Lloyd.”
Helena set down her cup and gave a brief description of their first meeting.
“You said I had an aura of being out of my time. Out of sync. A lost soul.”
“A lost soul? And how did I decide on this particular year for your return?”
Helena unclasped the necklace with her locket and handed it to the other woman. “This is the only thing they found on my mother—if she was my mother—when she died. It says “Helena” on it—which is why I was called by that name—but we don’t really know it was mine, or that those were my parents. They could have been hers—the woman who was killed in Florida, I mean.”
Madame Herne opened the locket and studied the faces inside. After a long appraisal of Helena’s face, she noted that there was a slight resemblance to the man. “The blond hair, the celestial nose, the set of the eyes, although the color is difficult to determine. Did the woman who was killed resemble you at all?”
Helena shrugged. “I don’t know. I was too young to remember, of course. But the caseworker remarked in her report that she was dark and ‘foreign-looking’, whatever that means.”
“Foreign-looking.”
Madame Herne wrinkled her nose. “I can’t tell you how many times my people are described in just such a way, and it’s not meant as a compliment, I assure you. How disappointing to hear that such attitudes persist two centuries into the future!”
“Oh no!” Helena hastened to explain. “Well, actually, the old aristocracy is still in place and almost exclusively Caucasian, and England is becoming more and more diverse, with immigrants from India and Africa and so on.” She blew out a puff of air. “Although there are still plenty of xenophobes who don’t like it, I have to admit.”
“Humph! Doesn’t sound like things have changed all that much!”
“It will. In time,” Helena said confidently. “The younger generation doesn’t see diversity as a threat, and eventually—”
“—their elders will die off and the world as they kne
w it disappears,” finished Madame Herne. “Oh yes, I’ve seen it before. That’s the way of the world. And a good thing too. Otherwise we might still be living in the Dark Ages.” She shuddered. “That was a fearful time, I assure you.”
The clock on the mantle struck ten, and she started. “Goodness! We have wandered off-track, have we not? So the woman who died was ‘foreign-looking’, was she? That usually means dark coloring, distinctive features…” She frowned. “Not at all like you, blonde and light-skinned.”
Helena pressed her lips into a fine line. “Well, it could be that I resemble my father,” she offered.
Madame Herne shook her head and studied the locket. “I think not," she said. “There isn’t a hint of ‘foreign-looking’ about you. It's more likely that these people are your relations." She put the locket down in front of Helena, who didn’t need to look. She had had many years to memorize those painted faces.
“But who was she, then? Was it she who brought me to the future? Why would she do that?” Helena shook her head. “There’s something else I haven’t mentioned yet. It may have nothing to do with me at all, but I discovered that there was a child who disappeared at about the time of my birth.”
She gave a brief rundown of what she had heard from Annabelle, which wasn’t much. “The surname was Gibson, the same as Annabelle’s mother. They might live in Derbyshire, where Annabelle’s maternal grandparents live, but I’m not sure.”
Madame Herne gripped the arms of her chair, her face white. “Gibson?” she squeaked. “That’s the surname of the Cranbournes. From Derbyshire.”
Helena leaned forward. “The Cranbournes. Yes. Lady Pendleton went to Derbyshire,” she said, eyes wide. “Do you think…?”
Madame Herne slumped back in her chair, her eyes closed. “This is all my fault,” she said finally. "I see it all quite clearly now. Of all the foolish things I've done… this one ranks among the worst." She put a hand to her head. "How could I have been so credulous? It's not like I haven't had centuries of experience to know better. But she was so convincing. And I suppose I wanted to believe her. She was like a daughter to me. A daughter I never had."
Helena's mind raced. The gypsy wasn't making any sense. But it was clear that she knew… something. And Helena was frantic to know what it was.
"Can I get you something? What can I do to-er-help you?"
The woman pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "No. No thank you, my dear. It's just that—well, it is just so disconcerting—truly dreadful—to discover that it was my fault that you were lost to your parents all those years. I hardly know what to say to you."
Helena's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean you were the one who stole me from my parents?" she asked, choosing her words carefully.
Madame Herne rubbed the bridge of her nose. "No. It was Marnie. She's the one who took you. But I thought—that is, she told me—you were hers. I should have known better—the babe didn't look at all like her—but she was so convincing. And heaven knows I’ve seen so many similar cases, where servants are misused and then blamed and persecuted by an unprincipled rake of a peer. I offered to buy her passage on a ship bound for America, but she insisted that the baby’s powerful father would find her and kill them both.”
Helena's face tightened. "I'm confused. Why would my father want to kill me?"
Madame Herne took a deep breath and looked her directly in the eye. “No, my dear. I believe Marnie—the maid who conveyed you to the future—must have stolen you from your birth parents, the Earl and Countess of Cranbourne. And I'm the one who gave her the power to take you into the future."
Helena felt a rush of adrenaline flashing through her body. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"
The other woman shook her head sadly and began the tale. Marnie's tale.
“I knew Marnie from the time she was a young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. She was Romany, as I am myself, from one of the tribes that roamed about in the southern counties. I found her when I was returning to London from an engagement at the Pavilion, the Prince Regent’s palace in Brighton.” She glanced at Helena, who nodded curtly. “Maria, that is, Maria Fitzherbert, the Prince’s-er-mistress, nominally lived at house nearby, but in truth she resided at the Pavilion for many years and was treated as the Prince’s wife in everything but name.”
“Yes, I know the Prince married her,” Helena said. “But it wasn’t a valid marriage, of course.”
Madame Herne’s lip curled. “I am certain it was to her,” she insisted. “In any case, she and the Prince jointly sponsored many popular entertainments there, and I agreed to divert them with my fortune-telling on occasion. Maria is a long-time patron,” she added quickly, “and I was pleased to serve her in that capacity. If it had not been for her, I would never have humbled myself to do such a thing for His Royal Highness, the lecherous jackass. I can’t tell you how many times Maria has come to me in tears because of his constant betrayals. She always feared he would forego their marriage for a marriage of state—and indeed, that's what he did. Married that German woman."
She smirked. “Got what he deserved, that-that imbecile. A wife he can’t stand to be in the same room with. Whereupon he comes running back to Maria, declaring that she is the wife of his heart. Poppycock! I told Maria the leopard would never change his spots, but she didn’t listen.”
“Marnie,” Helena urged impatiently. “Tell me about Marnie. You met her on the way back to London…?” Frankly, she didn't give a rat's ass about the Prince Regent's affairs.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Madame Herne glanced at the teapot. “Goodness! The tea has cooled. Would you like me to put the kettle on?”
“No,” Helena said definitively. “I want to know how Marnie fits into this story and why you believe my parents are the Cranbournes.” Get to the point. Before I lose my temper.
Madame Herne took another deep breath and closed her eyes. “Very well, my dear. It's just so dreadfully humiliating to acknowledge my own part in this dreadful tragedy.”
But she managed to straighten up and lean forward. “Marnie was a taking little thing, and she was desperate to leave the tribe and make a better life for herself. She begged me to take her to London, and finally I gave in.” She caught Helena’s eye. “Her parents sold her to me for a guinea. They had a dozen other young mouths to feed, and one less wouldn’t be missed.”
Helena swallowed hard. “Go on,” she said shortly. Being sold by her parents was horrific, but she wasn't able to feel much sympathy for Marnie yet. Not if she had been responsible for ruining Helena's life.
“I set her to work cooking and cleaning for a month or two, and then she asked me to write her a reference so that she could get into one of the upper houses.” She shook her head. “Marnie was an ambitious sort of girl. She wanted to be a lady, have fine dresses, jewels, and a coach to drive in the park to show off her good fortune. When I warned her about the disadvantages of becoming a courtesan, she laughed and said she wouldn't settle for less than a title. A countess, or perhaps even a duchess. She was so confident. I often thought her behavior not quite rational, but she was young, you know, and the young do have that tendency, before they are grown. So I gave her a reference, and she put in an application at a staffing agency, and it wasn’t long before she came rushing in all excited at having been hired as a parlor maid for the Earl of Cranbourne’s home in Derbyshire.”
Madame Herne shook her head. "‘Derbyshire?’ I asked her. ‘Why would you go so far away when there must be hundreds of houses seeking servants right here in Town?’ That’s when she told me about how she'd caught a glimpse of the Earl of Cranbourne as he left the agency that day. So handsome he was, wealthy and eligible too, she'd discovered from the manageress." Madame Herne snorted. "Somehow Marnie got the impression that she could finagle him into marrying her—all because he tipped his hat to her in the waiting room. And she wouldn't listen to reason."
“But she was only a child, wasn't she?"
“Not a child,” correc
ted Madame Herne. “Young, yes, but mature for her age. Girls that age or younger have been known to attract the gentlemen. And marriages at fifteen or sixteen are not unheard of, you know. But to set her cap for an earl, that was preposterous, and so I told her. For certain his mother would never allow it, and he would be the laughingstock of society besides! She laughed at that and told me his mother was undoubtedly an insignificant old hag. In any case, he disliked London and society, and only came in a few times a year for business. She was certain he must be dreadfully lonely in that palatial mansion of his.
"And then she was gone." Madame Herne threw her arms up in the air.
“I wondered about her over the years, especially when I saw the notice in The Times of his marriage to the daughter of a Scottish earl. Marnie couldn’t read or write, so I never expected to hear from her again, but I was surprised one day when she came to my door with a babe in her arms.”
Madame Herne paused and looked pointedly at Helena.
“Me?” Helena choked out.
Madame Herne shifted in her chair. “It must have been. I remember thinking the babe didn’t look much like her, pale complexion and blonde curls, but then I recalled her mentioning that the earl was fair-haired and I assumed… well, he wouldn’t be the first wealthy man to take advantage of a comely servant. Especially one so determined to attach him.”
“What did she say?” Helena was on the edge of her seat.
“More or less what I already suspected. She was filthy and disheveled from her travels, and hadn’t eaten for two days. The babe, too, was in poor condition. Marnie said the stress caused her milk to dry up and she hadn’t been able to feed her for several days.” She looked up with troubled eyes. “I managed to feed her some cow’s milk by giving her drops from a sponge until finally she calmed down. Then I demanded to know what had caused Marnie to endanger her child in such a way.”
“No doubt she was fleeing the law,” said Helena grimly. “Why would you help her do it?”