The Gypsy and the Widow
Gypsy Lovers
Book 3
Juliet Chastain
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Gypsy and the Widow
Copyright© 2012 Juliet Chastain
ISBN: 978-1-77101-826-5
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Editor: Spencer Freeman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.
Glossary of Gypsy terms
The Gypsies (Roma, Rom, Romani) came to Europe from India a thousand years ago and kept to their own wandering ways for generations. They were always considered outsiders and often mistreated as a result. Some eventually found their way to England, where they referred to themselves as Romanichal.
Baba—Grandmother
Dadro—Dad, daddy
Didlo—madness
Gadje—Non-Gypsies or adjective describing non-Gypsies
Gadji—Non-Gypsy woman
Gadjo—Non-Gypsy man
Kori—Penis
Prikaza—Bad luck, especially as a result of coming in contact with something impure (such as non-Gypsies)
Puri Dai—Wise woman (usually older), who also takes care of the finances for her clan and whose advice is considered in any major decision
Puro dad—Grandfather
Rawni—A great (non-Gypsy) lady. An upper class Englishwoman
Romanichal—The name the English gypsies use for themselves
Romani—An adjective used to describe Gypsy-related people or objects
Rom Baro—The chieftain; the leader of a band of Gypsies
Vardo—Horse-drawn Gypsy home. Often resembles a small trailer
Ves’tacha—Beloved, darling
Vista—Gypsy clan
Chapter One
Joanna Daniels ran to the window when she heard them. They’re back, she thought, smiling. The Gypsies are back. And there they were, chattering and laughing as they cut the hay not twenty feet from where she stood. She sighed softly when she saw him—the handsome Gypsy she remembered from the year before.
She felt her heart constrict as she watched him—just as she had the previous summer—swinging his scythe back and forth, never stopping, even as he laughed at what the others said. Back then she had almost allowed herself to wish that she had married a man such as him; a man who laughed, who hugged his children, and always had a smile for them.
She had spoken with him a few times last year when it had fallen on her to direct and pay the laborers, her husband being God knows where gambling away his—and her—money as fast as he could, and drinking himself to death.
The Gypsies came to the village every fall in their colorful wagons and brought in the hay. Afterward, she had learned, they would travel south to pick hops.
“We are all wanderers on this earth. Our hearts are full of wonder, and our souls are deep with dreams.” Once he had said that of his people—the Gypsies, or the Romanichal as he called them.
He had looked at her then with eyes as black and mysterious as night and smiled at her, somehow making her very conscious that she was a woman and he a man. He had made her feel that he liked her. She in return had liked him. More than was appropriate for her to like a man—especially a laboring man, a Gypsy. Yet she had dreamed of him when she slept, and she had dreamed of him when she was awake. An entire year later, she still did.
His name, she remembered, was Tem Lovell. He was a swarthy man and slightly taller than average. She watched the shape of his broad shoulders working beneath his coarsely woven white shirt. Watched him push back his straight black hair, the way he had once when he’d spoken with her last year.
She saw him throw back his head and begin to sing. She opened her window to listen. First he sang alone and then the others joined in chorus.
She stood there in her somber black mourning clothes, listening, smiling, and forgetting for a minute how alone she was. How her house was silent without even the sound of housemaids bustling about. How she hated living here. When the song was done she stayed at the window, the gossamer curtain blowing softly past her shoulder. She watched as he helped a woman lift a pail of water and drink from it. The woman worebright green skirts and yellow blouse—how brightly the Gypsies dressed compared to the pale pastels and white of her own fashionable clothing.
It hurt her to see him with a woman. She stepped away from the window. How foolish I am—to feel jealous when one Gypsy helps another. Perhaps that is his wife… One of the women must be his wife. It is madness to be thinking of him as I do—I am a widow, and he is a laborer and a Gypsy. I must not think of him. I must not.
For a moment she wondered why the people of her class despised those who worked for a living while they themselves had done nothing to deserve their own good fortune save be born in the right family.
As for herself, wellborn she might be, but perhaps not so fortunate. The death of her husband had left her so nearly penniless that she had had to let all the servants go. It is true that Sir Edward, a good and true friend, had offered to pay their wages, but she had refused.
Dear Sir Edward had brought her husband’s body home from London—God knows where he had been or with whom—and had seen to a decent burial. He’d taken care of her financial matters, thank goodness. According to Sir Edward, her husband had sold him the fields around the house and as for the house itself, Edward had explained that the house was hers only for her lifetime. Alas, she would have preferred to move to a small cottage more suitable for her reduced circumstance, but he insisted that her wisest course was to remain, although the house held few fond memories for her.
Sir Edward had, as well, and over her protests, arranged for the sour-faced Mrs. Peters to come every day to cook and clean.
Joanna had grown tired of idleness and disliked counting on the kindness of Sir Edward. She wanted to learn how to be useful. She’d badgered Mrs. Peters until the woman had begrudgingly shown her how to do some homely things like make bread or light a fire and cook a joint over it.
She sighed again and paced up and down the room.
For a minute she wondered what it would be like to be outside with the Gypsies. She knew that they worked long and hard, but their laughter and singing drifted through the window, reminding her of her aloneness and her idleness; for in truth she had no real occupation, and she had no friends hereabouts to entertain.
The singing ceased, and she saw the Gypsies trail off down the lane, breaking for dinner before returning to work until sundown.
Mrs. Smith’s grating voice startled her out of her reverie. “You said you would go over to the Adams’ farm today and get apples and eggs and a chicken.”
Why did Mrs. Smith always sound aggrieved? There was still ample time to get there and back. Joanna called her son, five-year-old Nash, and helped him put on his boots and then put on her own. She got two big baskets for herself and a smaller one for Nash and they set off for their neighbor.
***
Joanna’s arms hurt as she and Nash made their way down the lane and she struggled to carry the full baskets. She wished that she had not bought so much. Nash had tired of carrying his apple-filled basket so she carried that as well while he ran to and fro as she trudged down the lane.
&nb
sp; She heard laughing and talking as the Gypsies poured into the lane from an adjoining path. They grew quiet when they saw her, the men tipping their hats while some of the women bobbed a small curtsey. The children stopped running about and stared solemnly at her and at Nash.
“I went to the farm with Mother,” he said conversationally to a boy of about eight years, “and I was helping her carry the apples in my basket.”
“Where is it?” said the other.
Nash pointed at his mother.
“I thought you were helping her,” said the boy. “But she is carrying your basket as well as her own.”
Nash ran to Joanna and took the small basket. “See, I am helping.”
Two girls joined the boy and all three, each trying to talk louder than the others, told Nash in what manner they assisted their father.
“I have no father anymore,” said Nash. “He died a month ago.”
“Why don’t you wear white then?” asked the bigger of the girls. “When our mother died we wore white and we didn’t go walking anywhere as you are doing. We stayed about our vardo and we all cried and cried and Dadro cried most of all.”
“Well,” said Nash, “that is because it was your mother who died and that is very sad, but we wear black because my father died and that was not so sad.”
Joanna winced at this honest assessment, but before she could decide whether she should intervene, Tem, whom she had watched so longingly from the window, came over to them and nodded a greeting at her before gently removing the heavy baskets from her aching hands.
“Allow me,” he said. “They look heavy.”
“They are,” she admitted, rubbing her sore palms together.
“I will return them to you whenever you wish.” He smiled at her. “Even though I am a Gypsy.”
She felt herself blushing. Everyone said Gypsies were thieves though she did not believe it.
“I…I didn’t think otherwise, Sir,” she stammered as they began to walk down the lane, trailing behind the others while the children ran here and there.
He laughed. “I thought every English person believes that Gypsies are thieves.”
“Not I,” she said, and thinking it best to change the subject she went on. “I understand you are widowed. I offer my sympathy.”
He nodded. “And I extend mine to you for your recent loss.”
She inclined her head and murmured, “Thank you.” She wanted to say that she felt no sorrow over the death of her husband, that she had finished mourning for him years ago when he was lost to drink and dissipation.
“I had the fortune to marry a fine woman. She was a good wife to me and good mother to our children.”
“I am so sorry,” she said and could not help adding, “I did not share your good fortune in my husband, so his loss weighs less heavily upon me.”
He sighed. “I don’t know which is the worst: to have loved and been loved and lost or to have not loved and been loved at all.”
She shook her head not knowing what to say and thinking with some bitterness that she had never really both loved and been loved.
They stopped walking as the children came running about them.
Joanna asked, “Those three are your children?
“Yes, they are mine and the rest are my nephews or nieces or cousins. Let’s see, here’s Florica.” He indicated the pretty child of about six who was wearing a pink skirt, green blouse, and gold earrings. He set the baskets on the ground and picked up the smaller girl of perhaps four years, dressed in rather grimy yellow. “And here’s my little Eleanor.” He lifted her above his head laughing up at her and turning about. Then he set her gently on her feet and watched as she scampered off.
Several children now swarmed about him, careful not to upset the baskets. Some cried, “Me, me” while others called out in a language she did not understand.
One by one he picked each child up and held them in the air, laughing at each one, acting as though they weighed nothing, and as though he had all the time in the world to entertain them. Nash was in the midst of the children, also begging to be picked up, and the Gypsy bent and picked him up and held him above his head, Nash screaming with excitement and joy.
Joanna felt tears come to her eyes. Poor Nash had never before experienced this simple thing; no man had ever played thus with him. Nor for that matter, had she ever experienced this with her own distant, cold father. She thought she would like to join the children and cry, “Me, me” as well.
As soon as Tem set him back on the ground, Nash threw his arms around the Gypsy’s legs for a brief moment before running off with the other children.
Joanna pulled her handkerchief from the wrist of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes as Tem stooped and picked up the baskets. He looked at her, his head tilted as though puzzled.
“I am not unhappy,” she said. “Perhaps something flew in my eye, but it is gone now. May Nash share those apples in his basket with the other children? I have some more in the other baskets, so there are enough for each child to have one—and you too.”
She could not read his expression when he looked at her, but he said, “That is most kind.”
***
When they got to her house, Joanna opened the door and turned to take the basket from Tem.
Nash shouted to the other children, “Come in and play with me, come on!” He ran inside but the others stopped at the door and then backed away.
“Please,” Joanna said, “come in and play.” How good it would be for her lonely son to have some company. How good it would feel to have laughter and movement and children’s voices in the house.
“No, wait,” Tem told them. He turned to her and said, “These children have never been inside a house; they might not know what is required in those circumstances. I fear—”
“Well, I shall teach them!” she said happily. “Come, children.” She ushered them inside. “I will bring them to the field when they tire of being here,” she called to Tem as she glanced back at him. He did not look pleased.
Chapter Two
“You let the children—all the children—go into a house, the house of that Gadji?” Lala hissed at her brother. “Tem, how could you allow this?”
Tem shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not quite sure—they went inside before I could object. I am sure they will be fine.”
“How can you know that? The Gadje have stolen Romanichal children before.” Lala dashed the tears out of eyes. The others gathered about them. Ignoring the scythes and rakes lying nearby.
“My Baba’s brother was stolen and made into a slave,” said an old man. The Gadje used to do that and there was nothing anyone could do about it.”
“But truly, the children are in good hands,” Tem said. “This rawni has only one child and he is lonely. She was very happy to have our children come into her house so the boy would have company.”
“It is not for to us to concern ourselves with the problems of the Gadje. Rather we must look always to protect ourselves from them,” said the rom baro, the leader of their vista, their clan. “But enough talking. Look, Sir Edward comes riding fast to make sure we lazy Gypsies are working hard, so get to work everyone, before he decides to buy a machine to replace us. After he goes, Tem, you must go and fetch the children.”
Every Romanichal was hard at work when the horse pulled up. The rom baro tipped his cap.
“Don’t pretend you were working,” Sir Edward said loudly. “I saw that you were not.”
“Sir,” said the rom baro, “we have come back from dinner and had to plan the best way to bring the hay in from this field to where we will stack it. Once everyone knew his place, we began work.”
“You are a bunch of dirty, lazy thieves is what you are. If the hay from this field is not cut and set to dry by morning, I shall dock your pay for this day and yesterday.”
“But, sir, that is impossible. Even if we had twice the men…”
“I shall come by in the morning to see that it has been done.” H
e rode off without another word.
“I have heard that before,” said the old man. “It is the trick the Gadje use to make us work into the night.”
“Yes,” said the rom baro, “and it works because he knows we must have that money.”
“Look, he goes to the rawni’s house,” said Lala. “What is he going to do to our children?”
“Lala, if there were but one child I would fear, but there are seven of them,” the rom baro said. “As we work we will keep watch and make sure he does not leave with any child. If he does, I have my knife and so does Tem.”
“We will be hanged,” cried one of the women.
“The rawni is a good woman,” said Tem.
“That may be,” Lala said, “but Sir Edward is not a good man.”
***
When they first came inside, the children whispered to each other in their strange language and looked about rather fearfully until Nash assumed the role of guide, leading them around, pointing things out.
“That is a painting of my grandfather who lives in London and does not care for small children, and that pitcher has water in it, but we must not touch it for it might break. Oh, and look, this is the book I am learning to read. Shall I read to you from it?”
The children all sat down on the floor while Nash, standing, read what he could and made up what he could not read, showing the pictures to his rapt audience.
The children sat or lay on the floor, every one of them staring at Nash. After a while they began to squirm and murmur to one another. Some crept closer and began to touch and pull at the book until a page tore and Nash began to cry.
“Children, children,” Joanna cried, “you must be gentle with books.” She wasn’t sure they understood but they let her take the book. One of the girls patted Nash on the back.
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