Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)(6)

These words, stated so matter-of-factly, chilled her to the core.

“Why?” she demanded. Only she wasn’t sure what she was asking. Why are you telling me such lies? Why do I almost believe you?

The worst of it was perhaps that the woman did look sorry, wearied all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. It never gets easier. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen tragic fates in my mind … but you. You’re so young, and you’ve lived so little yet—”

“Enough,” Marguerite snapped, the words rooting with something raw and deep inside her. She’d heard enough. Rising to her feet, she fished a coin from her reticule. Dropping it to the table, she spun on her heels.

Had she hoped to feel better from this visit? Had she hoped for an apology? A retraction of the ridiculous prediction?

“Wait! If it’s any solace, I saw some happiness in your future.”

She shouldn’t, but she hesitated, looking over her shoulder, hope blossoming in her chest, eager to hear something good, anything to give her hope …

“You’ll be reunited with your family.”

She jerked, just a small movement, which she quickly masked, stiffening, unwilling to give any sign to Madame Foster that she might have hit upon a possible truth. “I have no family.”

Madame Foster shook her head. “I saw sisters. There were two.” She grazed her temple with her fingers, concentrating. “Perhaps three. No, two.”

No. It couldn’t be. Marguerite felt as if the earth had been pulled out from under her. She grasped the back of a chair to stop from falling. She couldn’t endure it, couldn’t bear to ask for more, to hear another tidbit that would make her suspect the woman was not a fraud, but a genuine seer—one who had seen her death.

With her heart pounding in her ears, she turned to flee the room.

“There’s something more …”

She stalled, glancing over her shoulder yet again and feeling the eeriest sensation at the quirk to Madame’s lips. “I’ve seen a man. A fine specimen, to be sure. He’ll be mad for you.”

Her foolish heart tripped. Why should she want this to be true? If this was true, then so was all the rest—specifically her death. No, best that it all be inaccurate.

She pressed her fingertips to the center of her forehead and dragged her head side to side.

“Aye, you’ll have a time of it with him.” Madame waggled her brows. “Gor, the two of you! It’s enough to make me blush, and I’ve seen everything. From the moment you both wed, you shall—”

Marguerite’s head snapped up, her hand dropping away. “Wed? I’ll marry him?” Her heart beat like a hammer against the wall of her chest.

“Busy year, eh?” Madame winked. “Yes, you’ll have a grand time. Romance, adventure, and marriage.”

“I cannot marry. It’s impossible. I haven’t any prospects. You’re wrong,” she said flatly, suddenly feeling a bit better, stronger again. As if she could once again breathe.

Madame Foster pulled back her shoulders, thrusting out her chest. “I am never wrong, but …”

“Yes?” Marguerite prompted. “But what?”

“I don’t want to raise your hopes up, but no one’s fate is etched in stone. A moment’s decision can alter the course of fate.”

She stared. “That’s it?” That would make her feel better?

The woman shrugged. “It’s something. All I can tell you.”

This time Marguerite didn’t hesitate. She fled the room. She didn’t stop until she left the tiny shop and breathed air that smelled decidedly unclean. She stood there on the stoop, blinking in the feeble afternoon sunlight, grappling with the knowledge that Madame Foster knew about her sisters … knew even that Marguerite would meet with them, the very thing she had determined to do.

Feeling like a wounded animal, she felt the need to escape, hasten to her rented rooms across Town where she could reflect and reduce all that had just transpired into logical facts.

She needed to overcome her fears. Her next post would begin shortly, and she need not be dwelling on the distant and unlikely prospect of her own demise.

For the first time, sitting beside a dying woman and assisting her through her departure from this world turned Marguerite’s stomach, leaving a foul taste in her mouth. She wanted nothing to do with death. She had no wish to be around it … she’d had her fill of it.

But what then?

She weighed this question as she worked her gloves back on her hands. What would she do? She’d tucked enough money away to live independently for some time, but that nest egg was intended for the future. So that she could acquire a home of her own some day. Just a small cottage. Perhaps by the sea. If she spent that money now, her distant goal was all the more distant. You’ll not live out the year.

Madame Foster’s unwanted voice rolled across her mind. Would it not be the height of irony to have saved her money so fastidiously only to die at a ripe young age? She felt the absurd urge to laugh, but bit back the impulse.

What would it hurt? Should not everyone live each day as though it was the last? In theory, it seemed a most excellent ambition. Carpe diem and all that rot. One could never look back with regret if she lived by that standard.

Indeed, what could it hurt?