The Gypsy and the Widow

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.

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.”