Through Gypsy Eyes

by Killarney Sheffield

  Her eyes darted to the young man, now leaning on his pitch fork scowling, before swinging back to the pony. “No, my lord. I’m jus’ a washer woman, see. I wouldn’t know of any noble woman wandering the forest in a storm.”

  Tyrone pondered her for a moment and then looked to the sky. He didn’t mention Miss Daysland was out in the storm. “The weather is fine this morning, mistress.” When she blanched and looked at her feet, prickles of wariness rode his neck. Something was not right, he could feel it.

  A thin, tight lipped man rode into the yard on a sorry nag, leading a sturdy workhorse. His eyes narrowed before he stepped from the swaybacked mount and snapped his fingers to the lad. “Can I be of service, my lord?” he asked, handing the reins of his horse and the work animal’s lead to the boy.

  “I have come in search of a young woman who is missing.” Tyrone took note of the red ribbon entwined in the mane of the feather-footed draft horse. The ribbon was the trade mark of a gypsy bred animal.

  “I’ve not seen any such girl, my lord. I’ve been gone these past days to purchase a new plow horse.” The man shrugged.

  “A fine specimen to be sure. Where did you purchase such a sturdy beast?”

  The man darted a look at the woman. “At the market in Wyatt Town east of ‘ere, my lord.”

  “Really? The beast has the look of fine gypsy stock.”

  “Could be.” The man shrugged again. “There were some traders there. I’ve no qualms buying from the gypsies, long as I don’t get cheated out of my coin.”

  Tyrone leaned forward. “Did he cost you a goodly sum?”

  “Enough. ‘Twas a good harvest this year and time to retire Samson there.” He jerked his head toward the shaggy, brown mount. The animal, little more than bones and skin now, wandered in the rickety corral beside the barn.

  “Indeed.” Tyrone tipped his hat and called to the pony, “Jester, come.”

  The pony whinnied again and shook his head. The woman shrank back from the door and flapped her shawl to encourage the animal from her doorstep.

  Tyrone rode forward, casting a curious glance inside the one room hovel. Nothing inside seemed out of the ordinary, he noted, leaning down and clipping a lead on the disobedient pony. “I bid you good day. If you come across the miss in question, please send word to Westpoint. There will be a handsome reward for her safe return.” He rode off down the narrow, weed-filled lane, with the pony and stable master.

  The stable master leaned forward in his saddle to peer at the ground. “Fresh wagon wheel ruts with the tracks of a large-footed horse between them. Someone else besides us also visited the farmer since the night’s rains.”

  Had the baron been here? Tyrone studied the tracks. It was possible, yet he didn’t think the baron would come looking for Delilah in a farm wagon. A saddle horse, too, it appeared had followed the wagon.

  He glanced over his shoulder before they rounded the bend. The farmer was standing there, watching him. Did the man steal the workhorse? It was possible, he supposed, however sure-fingered gypsies would be more apt to pilfer an animal. It was more likely the horse was of gypsy stock since it did display ribbons of the wanderers brand in its mane. He turned to the stable master. “Have you heard of any roving bands of gypsies in this part of late?”

  “Not around Wyatt, my lord, though they do pass through this way each planting and harvest I hear tell.”

  When they reached the main road the wagon tracks turned right. On a hunch Tyrone followed them to the junction of a field. The tracks crossed the open grass and entered the forest beyond. It couldn’t hurt to see just who visited the farmer this morning.

  The coolness of the shaded forest path was an inviting shelter against the early heat of the sun. The groom reined in his horse and pointed at the tracks in the soft dirt. “Look here, my lord. There are two sets of wagon tracks, one coming out of the wood and one going back in, followed by a single horse. A top of them, as if at a later time, are the tracks of a single horse, this time leading a heavier one behind. It is clear the farmer lied. The workhorse was not purchased at Wyatt, but most likely at the gypsy camp itself. Why did the farmer lie?”

  Tyrone’s gut told him it was something to do with Delilah.

  In time the trail led to an open clearing where it appeared a number of wagons had been circled around the smoldering remains of a campfire. The gypsies were here as little as two hours ago, he was sure.

  The groom looked to the sky. “It is getting late, my lord. Perhaps we should go back to the baron’s to see if he has yet to return. Mayhap he has found her, or can shed some light upon the situation.”

  Tyrone nodded. He could follow the gypsy tracks all day, but what was the point if they didn’t have Delilah? He wasn’t even sure they saw her at all. The stable master did have a point. They were better off returning to the baron’s to seek information. He pivoted his horse and returned the way they came.

  Chapter Twenty

  Delilah rolled over on the narrow cot, accustoming herself to the sounds and movement of the wagon. Could she believe the visions from the crystal ball? If they were true, Augustus was a murderer. Now that she was married to him, it stood to reason he would do her harm if he discovered she knew the truth, though he already attempted to, either deliberately or otherwise, in his drunken state. Tyrone was back in London, and no longer in charge of her well-being either, so who else could she turn for help? No one would believe her. They already thought she was noddy. On the other hand, Augustus wouldn’t find her here. She would be safe with the gypsies.

  The gentle sway and jingle jangle of the horse’s harness lulled her into a sense of peace. Or was it the answers she found in the crystal ball? No matter, she was a gypsy. Her place was the earth, sun, and the stars above. She wouldn’t be shunned by these people, her people, unlike the nobility that looked upon her with pity. She was safe here for the moment, until she could figure out how to foil the baron’s plans.

  The wagon slowed, turning in a wide arc before coming to a halt. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor as the door opened.

  “Ah, my niece, you are awake.” Deagan’s voice carried a hint of a smile to it.

  She smiled back. “I feel refreshed. Different somehow.”

  “The visions will do that to you. Here, Delinka has asked me to give you some clean clothing. When you are changed we will talk.”

  A bundle of soft cloth was pressed into her hands. When the door shut with a soft click and her uncle’s footsteps retreated down the steps Delilah hurried to change. When she was dressed in the clean garments she followed the edge of the bed to the wall and then the door. She opened the door and hesitated.

  “Let me help you,” Deagan’s dry, leathery hand grasped hers and guided her down the narrow steps to the ground. A light breeze tickled her cheek, the cool dampness of the air giving tell it was evening. Crickets chirped and people talked and laughed in hushed tones, as if afraid to disturb the creatures of the night. A nearby owl hooted as Deagan led her to a wide stump to sit. She arranged her skirt and paid attention to the sounds of the people setting up camp, unharnessing horses, and striking the flint to start a fire.

  “Tonight we will rest, for tomorrow people will come from miles around to trade, buy potions from us, and be entertained.”

  Delilah sighed with wonder. “How I wish I could see the festivities.”

  “Tonight you shall feel it.”

  As if on cue a drum began to beat, accompanied by a tambourine and the soft whine of a violin. The music began slow and sensual, increasing in tempo until Delilah couldn’t resist tapping her foot to the rhythm. “I wish my pianoforte was here.”

  Deagan clasped her hand and drew her to her feet. “Nay, my little jewel, feel the music in your veins and let your body play the way your fingers once did.” Spinning her around, he put his hands on her hips in a most unsettling way, and despite her protests moved them to sway to the music. His breath tickled her cheeks when he whispered in her ear, “Fee
l the music, allow your body and soul finally be free, my little jewel.”

  Delilah relaxed and moved to the music. The beat invoked a flurry of movement, and when Deagan’s hands slipped away she lost herself in the visions her mind conjured. Bright skirts, flowing blouses, and unbound hair swirled across her mind’s memories. Yes, this she saw before and could remember. Abandoning all pretenses, she pulled her hair from its remaining pins, unmindful of where they scattered, and lost herself in the music, twirling and gyrating as free will took her.

  The heat from the fire warmed her flesh, the snapping and popping of the sparks igniting her passion. With reckless abandon, she threw back her head, raised her hands to the heavens, and twirled around and around. A fever took hold of her body as the skirts of her gypsy dress flapped and waved in the heat of the fire. Never would she view music, dancing, or even her own body in the same light as before. She danced until her breathing came in labored gasps and then made her way to the stump just outside the circle of warmth, glad for the coolness of the night bathing her heated flesh.

  “You did well, Delilah.”

  She couldn’t contain her smile. “It felt wonderful, uncle.”

  He patted her hand in understanding. “You will fulfill your destiny soon, under the waxing moon.”

  “My destiny?”

  “Ah, yes, my little jewel. You see, each one of us dies and comes back in another form, but keeps ties to that familiar to them during their last life.”

  “Are you referring to this thing called reincarnation?”

  “Yes, some call it that. Each one of us is re-birthed many times during our soul’s journey. Did you never wonder about your connection to Jester and the mark you both bear?”

  Try as she might Delilah couldn’t recall a mark. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “Have you never wondered about the stone around your neck?”

  She touched the stone, now warm from the heat of her body. “What about it?”

  His fingers brushed hers and fumbled with the stone lying between her breasts. “I have removed the lock of Jester’s hair, now feel it.”

  Returning her fingers to the stone she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. A deep groove she never knew was there before made a ridge under her thumb. Brows bunched in concentration, she traced the lines until she thought she could make out the pattern. “A quarter moon?”

  “Yes. It is the same mark Jester carries on his head and the same as the birthmark on your hip.”

  Pursing her lips she tried to recall Jester the last time she saw him many years before. A vague remembrance of a white crescent came to mind. Yes, it did look like a moon. “What does it mean?”

  “Ah, Delilah, you have so much to learn about who you truly are.” His sigh was heavy. “He bears the mark of the quarter moon, the phase to which you were both born. He was created to be your guide, protector, and anchor to this world. He is also a part of your past.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The moon is your talisman. Jester and you were mates in your last lives.”

  Confusion and disbelief made her wary of his words. “I do not believe in such nonsense.”

  “Never say you do not believe in fate, for fate is what brought you here to me.”

  Delilah snorted. “If Jester and I were mates in our last life, then why have I come back as a human and he an animal?”

  “It is not for us to understand but rather to accept. I believe he came back in his animal form to atone for his sins in the past life.”

  “Then my blindness is a punishment for some sin I, too, committed in a former life?”

  “No. Your blindness is a gift, not a punishment. Jester was given to you as a guide to protect you until you could fulfill your destiny as a drabardi and marry the son of the great Romo baro. Delinka showed this to me just this morning in her crystal ball. I knew it was true when you asked to come with us.”

  “Who is this Romo baro?”

  “The Romo baro is the leader of all the gypsies. You are destined to be the greatest drabardi of all time. The one who will guide our people into a time of power and freedom.”

  What was he saying? Was she supposed to be some kind of witch? “I am afraid you are too late, uncle, for I am already married to Baron March.”

  “That is no marriage. It was not done under the harvest moon and no bride price was paid to me. Besides, it is a sacrilege and can never be.”

  Delilah stood, her hands shaking with anger. “I have no wish to marry or become something of your fantasies.”

  “Are you still pure?”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “I … yes, but it makes no difference.”

  “It does; one must be pure to marry under the harvest moon, for when the moon waxes comes a time of great fertility. The harvest moon will be upon us in five days. After which you will be who you were recreated to be. You will carry the future great leader of the gypsy people in your womb.”

  The man is noddier than a wet goose. Does he truly think I am some gypsy form of Mary, a vessel to birth the great gypsy messiah? It is impossible. I am a blind woman of illegitimate birth, nothing more. Nothing less.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I want answers!” Tyrone elbowed past the startled butler into the baron’s study.

  Augustus looked up from his paperwork with a scowl. “I say, Lord Frost, a very undignified way you have to come calling on another gentleman.”

  “Spare me the pomp and ceremony. Where is she?”

  The baron paled and then blinked. “Who is it you are referring to, sir?”

  Tyrone fixed him with a withering stare. “You know damned well whom I am referring to. Where is Miss Daysland?”

  Baron March’s gaze slid away from Tyrone’s. “If you are speaking of the baroness, she is right here where she belongs, of course.”

  “A lie. I came this morning to return Jester to her and she was nowhere to be found, nor were you. Care to explain?” Tyrone leaned across the desk itching to throttle the man.

  “A minor misunderstanding I assure you, Frost. My lady wife is back above stairs safe and sound where she belongs. Why I only just returned home from begging her forgiveness after a small faux pas this morning.” He poured a glass of brandy from the decanter at his elbow and offered it to Tyrone, who refused with a shake of his head.

  “What kind of insult did you give her?”

  “Ah, I simply refused to allow the smelly beast … uh, pony, of hers admittance to the house. I cannot have the creature soiling my expensive Turkish rugs now, can I?” The baron downed the glass of spirits himself.

  Tyrone grunted. “The animal is housebroken.”

  The baron waved a hand. “Yes, yes, so the lady did explain after I went and apologized on bended knee. A rather touchy girl it appears, and I shall be most careful not to wound her pride again.”

  “What happened to your head?” Tyrone sat and gestured to the thick white bandage encircling the baron’s head.

  “Oh that.” Augustus touched the wrapping with a cautious finger. “I admit to getting a little foxed last eve, sir, you know how it is. All the excitement over the wedding. Tripped over my own feet like a clumsy ox and banged my head on the corner of the Chippendale table over there.”

  Tyrone followed his motion, glancing at the table by the door. A plausible story he supposed, yet one which didn’t sit right with him in the least. “Send for her so I may inquire after her satisfaction over her new marriage and inform her of Jester’s return.”

  The baron fidgeted with his limp neck cloth. “I am afraid she is resting at present. All the excitement of our nuptials and the um … lack of sleep last night.” He winked.

  Tyrone grimaced at the man’s poor taste in his reference to the marriage bed. “Indeed. Well, tell her I have returned Jester and am anxious to remove to London this day.” He stood to go but paused. “Oh, be sure to keep a sharp eye on your livestock; gypsies are afoot again. I found evidence of their camp in
Westpoint woods this afternoon. It seems the farmer down in the hollow purchased a new workhorse of gypsy stock, though he refused to say the truth about where he purchased it.”

  “Dually noted, Frost, thank you and be assured I will keep my new lady wife close at hand for her protection.”

  “See that you do.” Tyrone nodded and saw himself out. He was in no hurry to return to London. Maybe he should avail himself of some gypsy hospitality. Some spirits and a bonny vixen in his bed for a night might help him forget he allowed Delilah Daysland to slip through his fingers. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought and returned to the baron’s stables. After commanding his coachman to continue on to London alone, he checked once more on Jester. The pony paced and kicked at his stall door. The animal’s restlessness concerned him, until it occurred to him Jester was not used to being confined. With a final pat he mounted his borrowed horse and headed for the town of Wyatt to find lodging for the night. Tomorrow he would return to London, gypsies forgotten, and resume his boring, predictable life. It was time he asked Miss Deval for her hand.

  • • •

  Augustus rang for the butler as soon as he spied Lord Frost riding down the driveway. By the time the sour faced man appeared, March had already formed a plan. “Benton, take that wretched pony from my stables at once. Go find the farmer in the hollow and pay him to deliver the beast to the gypsies for whatever they will pay for it. He is always willing to do a discreet favor. Be sure to be skimpy on pay for I’ll not share more than a pittance of the profit.”

  The butler nodded and left.

  “A mess. A terrible mess it all is,” Augustus mumbled, pouring himself a glass of spirits. “Blasted gypsy wench. She will cost me everything rightfully mine with her antics. I will squeeze the life from her neck before the week is out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Delilah touched the smooth orb with caution.