Fortunes of Fate: Prequel Story Page 5

  I am your girl. Right, Mama?

  You are my beloved daughter.

  She would live, she knew. Snuggling deeper into the blanket, A’laya forced herself to rest. Her body would recover, and she would find Katherina.

  For Katherina lived, A’laya knew it in her heart.

  Her conviction to live was tested numerous times over the next several days as the coach traveled in what felt like a never-ending journey, only stopping occasionally to change out horses.

  “Why don’t you give up, woman?” the driver had said once when he opened the door and tossed in a piece of crusted bread. He’d refilled her water twice, but A’laya’s mouth remained dry, her lips cracked.

  “She said you’d die. What am I to do with you?” She heard annoyance in the coachman’s voice, but she also detected pity. That second emotion was her only hope.

  A’laya knew she reeked. Her hair was tangled around her head, and she’d soiled her gown over and over again. Each time the driver looked inside, presumably hoping to find her dead, he seemed to soften more.

  And then her prayers were finally answered.

  This time when the coach jerked to a stop, A’laya didn’t hear the now-familiar sounds of the horses being changed out. Instead, she heard voices in the distance. And she smelled smoke, as though someone were cooking over a fire.

  “Show me the poor child.” A female voice—not the duchess—called from nearby. There was compassion in the woman’s words, and A’laya grasped on to the sound. The first sense of hope since she’d been deposited in the coach and sent away rose within her. Whoever the woman was, surely she would help A’laya find her daughter.

  “She’s in here. If she’s still alive.”

  The door swung open. A’laya shivered as cold wind blew onto her fevered skin. She couldn’t speak, so she simply opened her eyes so they knew she still lived.

  She watched as a small, aged woman climbed in beside her. She wanted to apologize for the stench. If she’d had any emotion left at all, she would have been mortified to be discovered in her present condition.

  As it was, she barely had the strength to exist.

  A cool hand touched her forehead. “Poor girl. More dead than alive.” The woman turned to look over her shoulder. “You may leave her here. I think it is fate that brought her to me. If she lives, then fortune will find her. It always finds the deserving.”

  Was A’laya deserving of fortune’s good fate? How? She’d left her mama and her home for a man who didn’t love her. She’d allowed the vile duchess to take her babe. She’d lain upon the hardened floor of the coach for days without the strength to fight back—to find her daughter.

  Black eyes settled on her again. “The devil did not catch you. Did it, child? But she’s close. So very close.” And then, belying her frail appearance, the woman lifted A’laya to sit. With a fair amount of coaxing and lifting, the woman somehow managed to remove A’laya from the carriage.

  A fresh blanket was wrapped around her, and she was carried to a tent. Tender words were spoken about her as her gown was removed, her filthy skin washed with tepid water, and a clean, coarse dress lowered over her head.

  All encouraging, soothing things she’d not heard or felt since leaving Mama.

  A’laya’s throat tightened at the thought of her mama. She’d done all in her power to not allow the memory of her mother to be tainted by such a horrid time. Her mama was good. Her mama was kind. Her mama was loving.

  Nothing about A’laya’s life, except Katherina, had been good or kind or loving since she’d departed her home with Pierce. If she’d known what was to come, what her life would become, A’laya never would have left the Oderton vicarage that day, leaving her mother abandoned in the shadows of the old building.

  A’laya looked around. A fire was lit, and then spoonfuls of tepid broth with bits of meat and root vegetables were raised to her lips. For the first time in days—months, it seemed—A’laya’s humanity was acknowledged.

  Hope entered her bones along with the warmth from the fire.

  She would regain her strength and find her child. Whomever these people were, these women who now cared for her, they would understand. Women. Sisters. Mothers.

  “Aye, ‘tis the Path of Life,” the elderly woman noted the talisman around A’laya’s neck. “You’ll find yours, child, never fear. You shall find her.”

  Belatedly, A’laya realized she had been mumbling her daughter’s name over and over without pause as if she knew no other word.

  Katherina. Katherina. Katherina.

  More surprisingly, the older, frail-seeming woman appeared to understand what A’laya longed for.

  Her child.

  Chapter 5

  Oxfordshire, England

  May 1809

  * * *

  Eight years nearly to the day since A’laya had met Pierce. A tumult of emotions swept through her as she gazed down at the home of both her nightmares and her dreams.

  So many years since she’d been cast out like rubbish.

  Nearly six years since she’d set foot on the estate where she’d hoped to spend the rest of her days with her loving husband and cherub-faced daughter. Yet, she hadn’t gotten a loving husband in Pierce. And Katherina was forever ingrained in her mind as a three-month-old babe with a lock of dark hair and a band of wayward freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  If the duchess had treated Katherina kinder than she had A’laya, her daughter would be a toddler now, no longer the infant of her memories. Katherina would have seen six summers by now, along with six winters, and the falls and springs in between. A’laya cared little for the ever-changing seasons, but she cared a lot about her daughter, stolen from her in a move of betrayal she would never forget nor forgive.

  Shrewbury Gardens.

  She fought the urge to run, to hide, to turn away from the massive manor house before her. But despite the dread and hopelessness that threatened to pull her back into the past, new anticipation was blooming not far under the surface of her sun-weathered skin.

  A’laya had done as the duchess demanded and remained far from Pierce’s family estate. If Katherina were alive—and safe—A’laya did not want to jeopardize that by risking the duchess’s fury.

  However, the London Daily Gazette had recently proclaimed the death of Henrietta De Vere, the Duchess of Shrewbury.

  Which meant, Pierce’s mother could no longer harm Katherina—nor keep her hidden. The time had come for A’laya to collect her daughter.

  A powerful, all-consuming strength raced up her back, and A’laya lifted her chin.

  This was it; the day she’d waited all these years for. The day she would claim what belonged to her once and for all.

  Her daughter.

  The neighing of horses and the jangle of reins had A’laya glancing over her shoulder to the carriages, some barely useable, gathered not far behind her. When she read the post, A’laya had gone to Lavinia, the old woman who’d rescued her that long-ago day. She’d begged the woman to change their course and go to Oxfordshire immediately.

  Lavinia had shaken her head sadly and told A’laya that it was not yet time. However, A’laya would not be deterred.

  Katherina needed her mother, more so now than ever.

  The traveling band of fortune tellers and seers changed course, and within a fortnight, they’d made camp a few miles from Shrewbury Gardens. A’laya crossed her arms over her chest, not to ward off the evening cold but to guard her heart against what was to come next.

  Either she’d find Katherina inside the manor—or she’d tear apart the household in search of anyone who could give her information about where the duchess had sent her daughter.

  Walter, the duke, was in residence. A’laya knew as much from her inquiries in the nearby village where the clan had spent their measly earnings on supplies to last them into the warmer summer months. After the harrowing carriage ride all those years ago, A’laya had discovered that the adjustment to sleeping on the hard
, uneven ground or in the back of a carriage suited her just fine. It was all the same anyways—a bed, the ground, the rough wooden planks of a conveyance.

  In all three, Katherina was missing from A’laya’s arms.

  The grand manor situated not far in the distance held all the answers A’laya had craved for six long, unbearable years.

  “When shall ye go to the manor, Zeta?” Lavinia asked from behind her. Despite the woman’s age and frailty, she moved about camp with grace and stealth. “We cannot stay long. Ye know we are not welcome in any one place for more than a night or two.”

  A’laya smiled at the woman’s use of the name Zeta.

  Madame Zeta, formally.

  A’laya had decided as soon as she was strong enough to speak anything other than Katherina’s name, that she could not share her true identity for fear of the duchess’s retribution.

  The vile woman had expected A’laya to die. Likely, she believed she had.

  And so, A’laya had taken on her grandmother’s name—and occupation.

  Madame Zeta had read fortunes on the docks of Barbados nearly fifty years before. A’laya, masquerading as Madame Zeta, now told fortunes across Scotland and England, biding her time until she could reunite with her stolen child.

  That day had come, and A’laya was more than ready to have Katherina returned to her arms.

  This time, she’d never let go. Never allow herself slumber or to be fooled by another.

  “Now, Lavinia, the time is now.” A’laya lifted her chin at the same moment the older woman set her weathered hand on A’laya’s bare arm.

  “Do not fill yourself with any measure of hope.” The words were meant to remind A’laya of Lavinia’s earlier warnings. The fortune teller had read in her cards A’laya would not find her daughter—at least not so soon. However, A’laya could not help but wonder if that were due to the older woman’s need to have A’laya close.

  They’d become as close as A’laya and her own mama had been.

  A’laya had thanked Lavinia time and time again for saving her—for taking her in and teaching A’laya a way to earn her keep. No matter how thankful she was, A’laya’s soul longed for Katherina every second of every day they were separated.

  It hadn’t taken but a few months for A’laya to confess her secrets to Lavinia: that her name was not Zeta but A’laya, and that her child had been stolen from her. Lavinia had held A’laya as she cried countless times. The older woman had stopped A’laya from leaping from their moving carriage when she spied a young girl with creamy, dark skin and even darker hair more times than she cared to admit.

  Sadly, A’laya feared that with the passage of time, she could walk past her daughter and not even recognize her. Had they crossed paths in the last six years? Had A’laya’s heart betrayed her by not recognizing her own blood?

  “Take care, my child.” Lavinia sighed and turned away, making her way back to the circled wagons and the fire blazing within the circle.

  A’laya hadn’t cared about her own well-being for going on six years now. Although the pain left over from childbirth had subsided, it had never left her entirely. An uncomfortable fire burned in her womb. It matched the ache in her heart.

  Her monthlies tormented her as never before, both in body and spirit. With each new moon, she was reminded of her loss.

  She pushed on only to save Katherina—to find her child, give her the happiness that’d been stripped from A’laya, and pray that fate bestowed the fortune upon them that Lavinia had foretold years before.

  A’laya had donned a muslin gown she’d purchased years prior for this very occasion—the day she’d step foot inside Shrewbury Gardens again. She’d known she would need return to the ways of a true lady—her hair combed and styled, her gown pressed, and her half boots shined—to have even the chance of being admitted into the duke’s home.

  There would undoubtedly be servants remaining from her time at the grand house, and A’laya could not risk being recognized and denied entrance. Though her inherited appearance made it unlikely the servants would not notice her and report her at once to their master.

  Thankfully, the butler, a man of about her age, greeted her kindly and showed her into the morning salon. A room she’d been forbidden to enter during her stay at the estate. It had been the duchess’s impressively adorned room where she entertained guests and could hide the fact that her only son had wed an unsuitable woman of dubious lineage.

  The space, decorated in lilac and ivory, hadn’t changed in all A’laya’s years away.

  A’laya had informed the butler she’d come to see the Duke of Shrewbury.

  Truth enough.

  The room—the entire house—should have caused A’laya’s stomach to roil and her heartbeat to thrum in her ears, deafening her to any other noises. Yet, a certain measure of calm and rightness settled around A’laya. She was here to collect her daughter. That was all. After that, she and Katherina would depart and never set foot on Shrewbury land again.

  As she waited, she could detect no sounds from above stairs; not of a child’s laughter or running feet. She’d long held out hope Katherina had at least been returned to Shrewbury Gardens at some point, or perhaps sent to live with Pierce, her father. Over the years, A’laya had been to town a couple of times but had not heard any word of the scoundrel. Either he’d fled England altogether or was in hiding—from A’laya or his mother. Perhaps both. He’d used her. Worse than that, Pierce had made a mockery of her heritage by presenting her to his family.

  A’laya hated him.

  The creak of wooden wheels on polished floors had her turning toward the door as a maid pushed a chair into the salon. The duke, his hair greyer and his skin having taken on an unmistakable blue hue, slumped slightly in the wheeled contraption. His eyes were closed, and his lips sagged on one side, a trail of spittle falling to mar his linen shirt.

  “Your Grace?” A’laya asked, her eyes rising to meet the maid’s. “Is he asleep?”

  “No, my lady.” The servant’s response told A’laya two very important things. One, she’d managed to fool the Shrewbury butler into thinking she was a proper lady, and two, the duke was in no state to give her the information she sought. “He had a shock when the duchess passed”—the servant hissed the word as if fearing she’d upset the duke, who remained unmoving in his chair—“and cannot leave his chair now. He can hear you and speak on occasion when he needs something. Today has been a good day, so far.”

  A’laya smiled at the servant, willing the young maid to leave them alone so she could demand the information she sought—if the duke possessed it. However, the maid only nodded and moved across the room to sit on a bench close to the door.

  Her nerve would not waver, not after everything she’d done to survive these long, hard years without Katherina.

  Stepping toward the duke, A’laya sank low before the man. A lord who’d never treated her unkindly, except for allowing his wife to take away her only child and then dumping A’laya near the Scottish border.

  “Your Grace.” When Walter made no move to acknowledge he’d heard her, she raised her voice, thinking it was possible his hearing was failing just as his body was. “It has been many years since I visited…”

  That wasn’t the correct word at all.

  But then the duke stirred slightly, his foot twitching as his eyes fluttered. “Layla?”

  Dread laced up A’laya’s spine at the utterance, and her gaze darted to the servant by the door. The maid scrutinized her as if she too recognized the name. Had they spoken of her in the depths of the servant’s quarters?

  “Layla.” The duke’s arms flung wildly to the sides, his hand grazing his cheek and knocking his head forward.

  The maid sprang into action, hurrying over to calm Walter with a whispered, “shhhhh.” She took hold of his arms and returned them to his lap as A’laya stood and moved away, breathing deeply to gather her wits.

  Some questions needed to be asked—answers A’laya coul
d not leave Oxfordshire without.

  She had been forced out of Shrewbury Gardens once.

  It would not happen again. Not until A’laya had what belonged to her.

  Katherina.

  No one in the local village knew of any child that resided with the duke and duchess, yet A’laya had told herself over and over that many never knew of her existence either. Her daughter could very well be hidden in the upper floors of Shrewbury Gardens.

  Forgotten and unattended.

  A decoration no one slowed to notice.

  A dagger of pain pierced her heart at the thought. So many years had passed; time when A’laya could have held her daughter close, loving her, caring for her. Katherina was so much more than mere decoration for a grand duchess.

  “Your Grace,” A’laya forced herself to return to the duke’s side. He was her only hope right now, and she did not have long at Shrewbury Gardens before the caravan of wagons needed to move on. Ignoring the maid’s watchful eyes, she lowered herself to her knees and covered his dry, cold hand with hers. She stared down, and vaguely noted the contrast between their skin; hers, like golden honey but work-worn, his white and wrinkled, likely never having seen a day’s work his entire life.

  “I am Layla.” She spoke softly. If the maid overheard her, then so be it. Walter was her only hope. “Your son, Pierce’s wife.” Her heart recoiled as she said the words. She’d not uttered the earl’s name in so very long.

  “My boy,” Walter mumbled. “My boy.”

  “And your granddaughter. Katherina. Remember?” A’laya shifted her gaze to the maid. The woman watched intently but hadn’t moved to stop her.

  “Where is Katherina, Walter?” A’laya spoke his given name, hoping to jolt his awareness, his comprehension of his humanity. “Where is my daughter?”

  “My Henrietta.” The duke said the duchess’s name mournfully. “My beautiful duchess.”

  A’laya studied him carefully as tears squeezed from his yellowed eyes. He must have heard her, though his gaze seemed focused on an apparition.