Besides, even on the off chance that he was to take Imogen back, I foresaw a future full of heartache and strife if she were to link herself to him. No, it was better for all concerned that the marriage had not been legal.
Not for the first time that day, I felt incredibly cross with Darien. It was wretched enough that he had abandoned Imogen after promising to marry her; now he was cavorting about with Marena Hodges when Imogen was still in the village. Had Imogen seen them together? It seemed likely enough. I pitied the poor girl and wished there was something I could do to help her. The very least I could do was advise her to go home and try to put the past behind her.
Milo’s voice pulled me from my reverie. “I’m going to speak to Mr. Yates there for a moment,” he said, catching sight of the farmer.
“All right.” As he walked away, I reluctantly surrendered the lamb back to its mother and, exiting the livestock tent, started toward the place I had seen Imogen. A voice caught my attention before I could reach her.
“Hello, Mrs. Ames.”
I turned to see Mrs. Hodges, Marena’s mother. She had set up a booth to sell her honey, it seemed. She stood behind a table covered in a white cloth and arrayed with jars of all sizes, each glowing a warm golden brown in the sunlight.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hodges,” I said. “How are you?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” Her eyes ran over me. “You look as though you’ve had better days.”
I put a hand on my stomach. “It won’t be long now.”
“So I see.”
From another woman, this might have been a pleasant conversation starter. From Mrs. Hodges, it was more of a criticism. I supposed she didn’t approve of my parading my stomach for all to see.
Marena’s mother was a thoroughly unpleasant woman. She had none of her daughter’s warmth, nor her beauty. Indeed, I had heard people comment that it seemed impossible that she might be the mother to so beautiful a girl. While the sentiment was not exactly kind, it was true that there was no resemblance between the strong-featured, hard-eyed woman and the vivacious girl who often drew appreciative glances from the men in the village.
For today’s festive occasion, Mrs. Hodges was dressed all in somber gray, and it seemed her mood matched her ensemble. Her mouth was drawn into a grim line; it was apparent that she was not enjoying herself.
“I’d like very much to buy some honey from you,” I said, feeling, for some unaccountable reason, the urge to appease her. Perhaps it was that I relished a challenge.
Whatever the case, my words did not seem to cheer her as I had hoped. “If you like. I’ve several varieties. The lavender honey is the most popular.”
She nodded toward one of the jars. I had had Mrs. Hodges’s lavender honey before and had to admit that it was delicious.
“All right, I…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Imogen hurrying out of a tent, her face very pale, and disappearing behind it. I wondered what all of that was about.
“I’ll take a jar of the lavender,” I said. “Perhaps I may come back and pick it up later? I’d rather not carry it.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” Mrs. Hodges grudgingly agreed.
I paid her for the jar and then went to the tent Imogen had vacated. It was the fortune-telling tent, a sign proclaiming it to be the domain of “The Great Griselda.” A young woman stood outside dressed in colorful garb, a scarf tied around her head, with large hooped earrings and bangles at her wrists that jingled when she moved. It was Mabel, one of the village girls, but I played along and pretended not to know her.
“May I tell your fortune, mistress?” she asked in an accent of no discernible origin.
I wasn’t normally one who ventured to look too far into the unknown, but it was all in good fun and would add a few more pence to the coffers of the Springtide Festival Committee. Besides, I was curious why Imogen had left the tent in such haste.
She led me into the tent, which had been draped with colorful fabrics. Two chairs sat at a table covered in a gold cloth, a crystal ball resting in the center. The Great Griselda motioned me to one seat and moved to the other.
She looked into the ball, squinting her eyes as though my future were clouded in mystery. At last she nodded and then spoke. “There will be a change to come in your life, my lady. One for the better.”
“Indeed?” I encouraged her.
She nodded. “A small thing that will become very important.” She sat back in her chair, looking pleased with herself.
With my bulging midsection, the glimpse into my future wasn’t exactly revelatory, but it was sweet of her to give me such a pleasant fortune.
“Thank you,” I said. “That was very enlightening. I wonder … The young woman who was here before me, what sort of fortune did you tell her?”
The young fortune-teller frowned, dropping her mystic guise and the accent along with it. “I don’t know what she was in such a huff about. I thought she’d like her fortune. It’s not as though I can really … That is…” She paused and reassumed her persona. “It’s not as though the Great Griselda can change what the future holds.”
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“I merely told her that something from the past would arrive to change her future. That secrets would be revealed that would make all become clear.”
It was standard stuff, the sort of vague prophecies than any imitation occultist would give. Why, then, would it have upset Imogen?
“Well, thank you very much, Mab … Griselda.”
“You’re very welcome, my lady,” she said.
I got up from my seat, and she followed me out of the tent just as Milo approached from the direction of the livestock pens.
“Would your husband like his fortune told, my lady?” Mabel asked, watching him.
“I don’t think so,” I said. I knew Milo had no patience for such things.
She looked a bit disappointed. I couldn’t help but wonder if the pretty young fortune-teller was just eager to have a few minutes alone with my husband. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“There you are, darling. I wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Milo said as he reached me.
“Having my future read,” I said lightly.
“Well, I’ll venture to predict your near future includes the sound of a pistol and the pounding of hooves.”
I saw that the crowd had begun to move as one toward the field on the south side of the festival grounds.
It was time for the races.
9
MILO HAD SECURED us one of the little enclosures close to the track, and we waited with anticipation for the race to start. I was mostly just relieved to have a seat, even if it was merely one of the plain plank benches, as temporary as the makeshift racetrack itself.
The crowd was in a jovial mood. The air was filled with the sound of conversation, laughter, and the shout of spectators cheering on their favorites. Many of the faces I recognized from the village and the surrounding areas of the county. The Springtide Festival was not an exceptionally large gathering by racing standards. I had accompanied Milo to the Royal Ascot, the Cheltenham Festival, and many of the other great racing events in the country, and our little event was quite humble in comparison. Nevertheless, it was always met with great enthusiasm, and the locals took as much pride in their wins as any owner in England.