Chapter One
Amersham Village
England
A gust of heavy, moisture-laden wind tugged at Henrietta’s Italian straw bonnet and threatened to rip her parasol from her grasp as she picked her way along the muddy paths at the village fair.
The occasion over which her father presided was a yearly event, with people traveling great distances to display their wares. Crowds milled in the town square and market hall, along with the livestock. Poultry, pigs, cows, and horses set up a cacophony of sounds, the air reeking of the farmyard.
“Where do you go, my lady, with such purpose in your step?” The question shook her out of her reverie.
Henrietta furled her umbrella and gazed up at the towering form of their neighbor, Squire Faraday. His kind eyes beneath the shaggy brows always reminded her of a Highland terrier. “The gypsy’s tent, to have my fortune told.”
“Ah, be careful, for you may not like what you hear.”
Henrietta smiled. “It’s just a bit of fun, Squire.”
“A young lady like y’self can only see good in the world.” Deep lines formed on his craggy face. “I trust your father, Lord Beaumont, knows of this?”
“He won’t mind, squire.” Henrietta hurried away. Many of the folk in these parts were superstitious, but despite that, a line of people waited outside the striped tent set up at the far end of the square. Henrietta made her way there greeted by townsfolk she had known all her life. She was confident the gypsy would only have good news for her. And if she didn’t Henrietta would take it with a grain of salt. She laughed to herself. Cook would advise her to throw a pinch of salt over her left shoulder for luck.
The tower clock struck twelve, and some abandoned their places in search of food and drink. Next in line, she was relieved not to have to wait long. She wasn’t good at waiting. She could hear Nanny now. You’ll have to curb your headstrong ways or suffer the consequences, my girl!
At almost eighteen, she considered herself mature enough to deal with anything. She tucked a fair lock behind her ear, her hair pinned up in the style of a lady of fashion and eagerly looked forward to the excitement that awaited her in London. In a few short weeks, she was to go to her Aunt Gabrielle’s in Mayfair who would present her to the Queen and introduce Henrietta into polite society.
A man stumbled from the tent, blinking into the light. It was Mr. Greenleigh from the haberdashery. He looked right through her as if he didn’t recognize her.
Henrietta swallowed uneasily and lifted the flap. She peered into the shadowy interior. In the gloom cast by a lone candle burning in its holder, an old gypsy woman dressed in a brightly striped turban sat at a table before a crystal ball.
She beckoned Henrietta in. “Please be seated.” The crone’s voice creaked with age. She stretched out a lined hand with long curved fingernails, and Henrietta dropped the coins she was holding into it. The gypsy bit one then apparently satisfied, tossed them into a dish on the table. She raised the candle and stared into Henrietta’s face. She muttered to herself and waved her hands over the crystal ball.
Henrietta stared at the cloudy glass.
A prickle of fear climbed her spine as the crone took up a pack of worn old cards with strange pictures on them and placed them in a pattern over the table. The crone announced each card by name. In the center lay the Ten of Coins crossed with the Death card. Other cards the Five of Coins, the Knight of Cups, King of Swords, and The Lovers followed. Finally, the Tower appeared before the woman swept them from the table. She reached across and grasped Henrietta’s hand in her papery one, turned it over, and studied her palm.
“Yes… yes.” She raised her ancient eyes to Henrietta’s. “Someone you know will die a violent death.”
“No!” Henrietta’s eyes widened. She should not have come here. “That’s horrible!”
She half rose. “You should not say such a thing!”
The crone took her arm in a surprisingly firm grip. “Sit.”
Spellbound, Henrietta sank back. Was it her imagination, or did the crystal ball glow?
“Your life is about to change, child.” She shook her head violently, wobbling her turban. “You will face much trouble. Be warned, there is someone in your future you will want to trust, but you must not. And another who you feel you cannot trust, but for your life, you must.”
“But how shall I know?” Henrietta couldn’t drag her eyes from the glowing ball. A lump in her throat threatened to choke her. “You must tell me more!”
“When you are presented with a choice, you alone will be responsible, both for your fate and for the fate of others. You are yet to realize how strong and resourceful you can be. If you come through the period of trial, your future will be blessed.”
Did the crystal ball’s murky light fade before the gypsy tossed a cloth over it? “That is all.” The crone jerked her head toward the opening in the tent flap. “Go now.”
Henrietta hurried away, blinking back tears. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode toward her. Forgetting her grown-up demeanor, she snatched up her skirts and ran, her hair unraveling from its careful arrangement. She threw herself upon his familiar strong chest and drew in his manly scent with relief.
Her father grasped her shoulders and drew her away to study her face. “What is this?”
She gazed into his affectionate brown eyes and breathlessly recounted her experience. He laughed. “Shame on you, Hetta. I thought you too sensible to believe such rubbish.”
An arm around her shoulders he walked with her through the square.
“Lord Beaumont. Lady Henrietta.” Two ladies curtsied as they passed.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Freeman, Mrs. Brown.”
Henrietta calmed, reassured by her father’s unruffled manner and the deep, calm timber of his voice. She was proud that he was known in the district to be a fair man, despite the lean times. A widower, he had not remarried after the death of her mother, and many a female gaze followed their progress as he strode among them, sweeping her along with him to the waiting carriage.
The carriage traveled along the gravel drive bordered by ancient oaks. When the twisted apricot brick chimneys of her home came into view, the tightness in Henrietta’s shoulders eased. She tried to shrug off the unnerving experience and convince herself it was of no real consequence.
They alighted at the entrance to Beaumont Court, a rambling Tudor mansion which had been in the family since it was built over two hundred years ago. Nanny Felton greeted her at the door. “Henrietta, do I spy a stain on your new muslin?”
“It’s just dust, Nanny,” Henrietta gave her skirt a shake. “See, it brushes off. I wish you wouldn’t nag so.”
With a roll of her eyes, Henrietta hurried past her old nanny who had long since become a member of the family. She mounted the staircase carved with endearing gargoyles. A few steps farther on, she suffered another attack on her dignity. “Your hair has come down,” Nanny called from the paneled hall below. “I despair of turning you into a lady, Henrietta, I really do!”
Henrietta held up her skirts, thrust out her chin, and hurried out of range along the corridor.
She ran to her bedchamber, hoping to find Molly. There she stood, at the armoire with a lace fichu in her hand. “How did you manage to tear this, Lady Henrietta?”
An upstairs maid who was now her lady’s maid, Molly had lived at Beaumont Court most of her life, and she and Henrietta were more like friends.
“Don’t you start, Molly.” Feeling besieged, Henrietta picked up her heavy cat, Juliet, soon to have kittens, from the chair. She sat and stroked the cat’s black fur. Juliet’s loud purr soon filled the room. “Nanny has just scolded me, and I’m upset.”
“Nanny upset you?” Molly raised her eyebrows. She put down the fichu and crossed the room, a concerned frown on her freckled face. “What has happened?”
“Not Nanny. She just forgets I have grown up.” Henrietta recounted her experience at the fair.
Molly’s brow cleared. “’Tis a lot of rubbish. I went to see the gypsy myself.”
“You did? What did she tell you?”
Molly rubbed her forehead then adjusted her mobcap over her hair. “She said my Tom, who as I told you promised to marry me, will leave me.” Molly returned to her work, her hands busy folding a lawn nightgown. “How could I believe such a thing?”
“Then nothing she says can be true!” At Henrietta’s loud tone the cat leaped from her arms. Tom and Molly had been betrothed for almost a year. Tom worked with the farrier in the village. He and Molly planned to marry as soon as he set up his own business.
“Let us forget such nonsense,” Henrietta said in a brisk tone. “We have the trip to London to prepare for.”
She took the maid’s hands and danced her around the room. “London, Molly, just think about it!”
* * *
The days passed in a flurry of activity for Henrietta as dressmakers and milliners worked to provide an adequate wardrobe for her first London Season. Apart from her ball dress, she’d given the work to the village dressmaker who was skilled at copying the latest fashions.
They were to leave in an hour. Henrietta stood before the glass and angled the point of her bonnet over her forehead. She considered the effect to be as stylish as anyone might find in London. Molly finished the last of the packing, wrapping the delicate silks, satins, and muslins in silver paper. She placed them in the trunk on top of the dancing slippers and new shoes with pretty buckles.
Yesterday, Papa had presented Henrietta with a matched set of silvery pearls. He promised to allow her to wear the family sapphires, worn by her mother in the Gainsborough portrait in the long gallery when she ventured into London society. The parure of valuable gems had been in the family for generations.
Henrietta wished her mother was still with them. She had died when Henrietta was twelve. She hurried to her mother’s portrait. She often talked to her, a habit she’d adopted over the years. Her mother’s gentle eyes, filled with humor and intelligence, seemed to look directly at her, and Henrietta sensed her spirit was near. How beautiful she was, her fair hair soft around her face beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat. She stood beneath a huge oak in the oldest part of the garden, wearing the fashion of the day, a pale blue silk gown with rows of delicate lace at the elbow, the sapphires at her throat a sparkling contrast to her serene beauty.
“Goodbye, Mother. I will make you proud of me. I’m not nearly as beautiful, or as sweet as you. My impatience, I do try to control it!” She chewed her bottom lip. “But I will try to be everything you would have wished me to be. I promise.”
The Beaumont carriage drew up in Grosvenor Square before aunt’s townhouse designed in the French style by the famous Robert Adam. A liveried footman helped them alight. Henrietta had not seen her aunt for some years but remembered her with fondness. Her mother’s sister was known to be a ‘blue stocking’. She had been a close friend of Madame du Deffand when she lived in Paris and now held her own French-imitated salon of letters and literary breakfasts here in her London mansion.
“Henrietta, at last!” Aunt Gabrielle drew Henrietta against her soft bosom. “Let me look at you.” She released her. “Turn around. You have grown beautiful. Just like your darling mama.”
Her aunt kissed her father on his cheek. “How good it is to have you here, Anthony. I can’t tell you how much I have longed to see you both. Everything is arranged. Henrietta is to be presented at court at the next debutante ball, and Lady Pembroke has given us vouchers for Almack’s. How long might we have your company?”
“I must return home after the presentation. It’s hay season and many depend on me.”
“But that is what an estate manager and a steward are for. I believe you are making excuses!”
He laughed. “I’ve made no secret of my dislike of the Season. I come to London only when my presence is required at parliament. I’m a rustic at heart.” He smiled at Henrietta. “Hetta will prove a great companion. She will enjoy shopping for fripperies with you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll ensure that my horses are properly cared for.”
Watching him walk to the stables in the mews, Aunt Gabrielle shook her head. “I’ve given up matchmaking for your father. No one will ever take your mama’s place. I’ll take you up to your bedchamber. Come, child. You must be dusty after your journey. Then we shall have coffee and a long chat.”
She followed her aunt into the black-and-white marble circular foyer where a shimmering crystal chandelier hung. They climbed the sweeping staircase to the upper floors. Along the walls in recesses were exquisite artifacts from all over the globe her uncle brought back from his travels. She didn’t remember him, he’d died many years ago. Her aunt left her at her chamber door. Inside, Molly awaited her.
Henrietta drew off her bonnet and tucked a curl into place before the mirror. “Isn’t this quite the most elegant house?”
“And London right outside the door!” Molly’s hazel eyes danced. “I have laid out the white and green patterned muslin.”
* * *
Verity’s coach pulled up outside the Queen’s Theater in Haymarket. She alighted keen to view her troupe’s new home. The theater’s three Doric columns rose above a stone basement, with a grand pediment and balustrade. Members of the troupe were already installed inside being fitted for costumes and preparing for their first performance of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Sarah Siddens had graciously chosen to leave the Drury Theater and join them to play Gertrude for one season. Verity had studied her lines during her trip across the channel and was confident of tackling her role as Ophelia.
English speaking actors had abandoned France after the National Convention suppressed all Royal Académies, including the Académie Française. Verity had been disgusted by this latest absurdity. Her father made sure she learned to speak English and had long planned for them to abandon France for a country which would not condemn his philosophical views, but they had left it too late, it seemed.
Verity wasn’t entirely sure that England would welcome her father’s radical views either, but this country had a better system of government. She disliked the selfish and ruthless manner, in which the king and the aristocracy ruled the French people. Queen Marie Antoinette had attended several of Verity’s plays with her painted and bejeweled entourage in their fine silks and satins. Their careless manner contrasted poorly with the starving peasants fighting for a crust of bread.
Verity and her father accepted that changes needed to be made, but hopes for a better and fairer form of government faded as events went from bad to worse. The hollow pain of worry for her father’s health and welfare tightened her chest. Here she was in England without him, their plans in ashes, and about to play a very different role, one of a femme galante.
She gave instructions to the coachman for her trunk and bandboxes to be taken to the hotel, then she straightened her shoulders and picked up her skirts to climb the steps. Her reputation preceded her, but her performance must live up to it. She must do what Danton asked and be quick about it. If she failed, her life would not be worth living, here or anywhere.
First, she must discover more about this Lord Beaumont. His deceased wife had been French that was all she knew. She felt confident he would have an Achilles heel. For most men did.
Verity walked into the theater as the cast members gathered around to greet her. She pushed her concerns to the back of her mind as the world with which she was familiar embraced her.
Sarah Siddens, a tall woman with dark hair, over-bright eyes, and a striking figure, advanced on her. “I am so glad to meet you, Mademoiselle,” she said. “Ophelia is a favorite part of mine. One might say I’ve made it my own, but you look perfect for the role.”
It was left unsaid as to whether Verity’s acting was also up to scratch. Sarah seemed larger than life towering over Verity. It was best to give the actress her due and start off on the right foot. Verity sank into a low curtsey, then rising, squared her shoulders. “Your reputation as a breath-taking Ophelia is well known to us in France, Mrs. Siddens.” Her mouth suddenly dry, she fought to appear calm. “I have no wish to step into your shoes, merely to do the role justice.”
Sarah nodded, apparently satisfied. At least for now.