“Yes, but I wish to purchase it for ye. ’Tis not really jewelry, not diamonds or rubies, and I do assure you, Bess, it is no more than a trinket. I should dearly love you to have it from me as a token … of this time together.”
Hopes sank to the pit of her stomach. Was he telling her good-bye? Did he realize how she felt and mean to show her with a gift that it could never go any further? Was that what he meant? She turned away from his face and in so doing spied a tent clearly marked. “Oh, look—the fortune teller!”
“Right then, and that is something I shall manage and will brook no argument from ye.”
And once again he held her hand as he led her through the crowd of people. They stopped in front of the tent, and she looked at him archly. “Will you have your fortune read as well?”
He eyed her with a twinkle and answered, “We’ll see.”
* * *
The earl left her for a private reading and stepped out of the tent to find Robby, Donna, and Fleetwood bearing dow
n on him. He could see that young Fleet looked chagrined and smiled to himself.
“John!” Robby called and waved. “Come see this …”
He nodded and checked his pocket watch. He wouldn’t be far, and he wouldn’t be long while Bess had her reading, so he meandered over to the group.
* * *
Inside, Bess sat before the fortune teller, an elderly woman with a bright yellow scarf tied around her short gray curls. Her face was lined, and her dark eyes looked tired. Something about the woman made Bess feel uneasy, but she brushed this aside.
As Bess sat, she looked around and saw that the back of the tent opened onto a covered Gypsy wagon.
The aged woman took out a set of cards and said, “Keep yer eyes on m’cards, not m’home.”
“Oh, ah, so sorry,” Bess answered, feeling uncomfortable.
“M’Tarot cards tell all.”
“Sounds very interesting,” Lady Bess said, hoping it would be, yet something she wasn’t sure about worried her.
The woman began turning over cards and said softly, “You are beloved.” She then shook her head as she turned over another card. “But there will be hardships to face, and soon, very soon, they will begin.” She sighed and glared at Bess. The candlelight gave the Gypsy woman an eerie look, and Bess felt a shiver race through her system.
Another card was turned, and the woman said, “You have courted danger and must withdraw. You are very brave, but bravery can bring you harm.” She seemed to glare at Bess as she reshuffled the deck and demanded, “Touch the pack.”
Bess did this with a light tap and waited as the woman turned over three cards and sighed heavily. “I do not like to give a reading like this. I will tell you only that you are in danger …” She shook her head. “Your man will be angry that I did not give you a light and easy reading.”
“He is not my man, and I am fully prepared to take the ups and downs of life.” Bess shrugged.
“Not your man?” the Gypsy returned with eyebrows up. “Well, as you say.” She turned over another card and clucked her tongue. She reached out and grabbed Bess’s gloved hand. “Listen to me, child. Beware. Forget things you have seen, or someone will try and hurt you … beware.”
Lady Bess had enough and got to her feet. “Thank you. I will beware,” she said kindly.
The older woman remained seated, pulled her brightly embroidered shawl around herself, and said, “You are forewarned. If you believe, you are forewarned.”
Bess couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough and with a sigh of relief felt the warm sunshine on her face as she looked around the busy throng of people.
A goat apparently had broken free from one of the petting enclosures and nearly bumped into Bess as it scurried behind the tent she had just emerged from. She laughed and followed it a few steps but then came up short.
The Gypsy wagon at the back of the old woman’s tent was familiar, all too familiar. It couldn’t be the same one. No doubt they all looked alike? That was it; it simply looked like the one she had seen the other day. It couldn’t be the same one—that would be too much of a coincidence.
A creaking sound made her duck out of sight. She hid herself behind a large water barrel as a gentleman whose foppish clothes and style reminded her of the stranger who had accosted her at the Red Lion approached the wagon.
He sounded more than a little annoyed with the Gypsy as they argued near the caravan. He brushed off his coat, said something low that sounded harsh, though she could not make out the words, and then turned on his high-heeled boots and carefully minced away.
Was it the same dandy who had stopped her from investigating the Gypsy wagon at the Red Lion? She couldn’t see his face, but it could have been.