Serialized Sundays; The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter 4

Here is the next scene in "The Gypsy's Curse"  Thanks for stopping by to read my rough draft.  If you enjoy the story, leave a comment. Those who do will recieve a free copy of the final product. Leave your email address for me so I can contact you.




Chapter Four  Copyright, Lily Silver 2013                                                 

          The darkness was cloying at her. Zara was confined, trapped in some sort of box. A coffin? Her mind made the connection against all rational thought.       

          Zara gave a thin screech, and clawed at the cool fabric hanging above her and touching her face. She winced, and shook her wounded hand as tears stung her eyes. The wound was festering. Judging by the wetness of her palm it was bleeding again or worse.

          She must have fallen asleep in the clothes press while waiting for the cottager and his wife to leave the house. Rising up on her numbed knees, with anxious fingers, she felt the smooth wood in front of her for the spring latch and pushed the door open. It creaked slightly, and she cursed herself for her carelessness in making even the slightest noise. She didn’t know if the caretakers were gone for certain as yet. She had to be careful.

           Oh, the air was so sweet and fresh as it caressed her hot face and freshened her stale lungs. Crouched on calves and knees that had lost all feeling, she listened to the strange new sound echoing through the room. Pat-a-tat-tat. Pat-a-tat-tat. It was a steady, rhythmic sound made by nature, not the uneven ones made by people attending their chores. Zara sighed with relief and listened closely to the peculiar sound. She leaned forward, bracing herself with her good hand against the doorjamb of the closet so she didn’t fall out of it on her face.

            Pat-a-tat-tat.  There it was again. The sound of icy water blowing against the window across the room, overshadowed briefly b a deep, low rumble that shook the roof and the foundations of the house.

          

Curses! She crawled out of the clothes press and stumbled forward on stiff legs. Just her luck, it was storming outside. She couldn’t leave the manse as she’d hoped, not until the winds and driving rains let up. Zara wobbled toward the lacy window, recognizing the leaden pall beyond the expensive fabric before she even reached the casement to pull the curtain away.

            The skies were heavy with anger. They seemed to mock her determination to put at least two shires between herself and the mob hunting her. Without the sunlight, she couldn’t tell the time of day. Was it noon or early evening?  It had been early morning when she climbed into the closet to evade discovery. She could not have slept in the closet for very long, could she? The rumbling beneath her ribs made her doubt her judgment. She hadn’t eaten yet today.

            Zara moved from the window to retrieve her bag from the closet. She hefted it over her shoulder and closed the door on the fine lawn shirts and velvet jackets and breeches hanging there. Her eyes surveyed the room for a clock. The furnishings had been covered, draped in white sheets to protect them from the accumulation of dust. The mantel above the black marble fireplace sported a clock, but it hadn’t been wound for some time. The hands stood still, as if resenting the labor of recording the passage of time.

             She supposed it didn’t matter so much what the hour was. It wasn’t nightfall as yet. She could have a look about the manse, start a fire in one of the rooms that didn’t have a window, or at least one that didn’t face to the west and would be noticed from the road or the hollow near the lake. She would close herself in for the remainder of the day. The cottagers wouldn’t be out in this weather. And if she were very careful, she might be able to spend another night indoors, where it was dry and somewhat warm.

            The hallway was dark, as the only windows were at the end of it and over the stairs. Zara slid the leather bag over her shoulder and held it steady with her uninjured hand. Her footsteps were muted on the carpet as she made her way to the open mahogany stairs. She paused at the top of the expansive stairway, marveling once more at the ingenuity of the Gadje in creating such wondrously regal spaces. The foyer below the carved, polished wood banister had a checkered black and white floor. The light fixture about her head had to hold at least fifty candles, if not more. She would love to see it lit one night. It must shine like sun above.

            She imagined herself standing here as a grand lady in a silk gown and lovely jewels--rubies, of course, glittering at her throat. White gloves would embrace her hands--the hands of a lady. Her dark hair would be swept up in a fashionable style by a servant. There would be a crowd of people gathered below, all eyes on her as they waited for her to descend and join them so the ball might commence. And waiting at the bottom of the stairs would be a gentleman, that certain someone who could not live without her in his world, nor she without him in hers. No more would she be cold, wet, hunted like an animal, abhorred by her father’s people and resented by her mother’s family. She would be accepted, have a home at last, a place where she not only belonged but was actually wanted and needed by those about her.

            Touching the balustrade as she prepared to descend the stairs brought Zara quickly back to reality. Her palm stung, as if an adder had emerged from the polished wood to rebuke her for her foolish fantasy. She released her breath in a low hiss. Tucking her wounded hand to her side, she made a slow descent down the majestic stairs. The kitchen would be the first stop on her journey through the magnificent Gadje palace, the kitchen where she could start a fire, heat some water, and apply a healing poultice to her festering palm. 

                                                       ___________________________________________

 

           “And you bade me thanks for helpin’ ye home and told me to come around today to receive a reward.” The street urchin concluded her tale and held out a dirty palm for the promised coin.Set upon by thieves, in Coventry Gardens? Stephan frowned at the chit. It sounded like a scam. A drunk lord wandering about the Gardens late at night could only expect to be robbed or worse, stabbed by some ne’er do well waiting in one of the hedges and thickets surrounding the walkways. He didn’t know if this girl were telling the truth or if she were taking him for a ride on the idiot coach.

 

         “You are claiming I was with you last night?” It was impossible. If she were a strumpet, she was not his type. She was too thin, for one thing. Starved would be a more apt description and her face was too childlike beneath a generous sprinkling of freckles and red hair.  

        “Oh, no sir. It wasn’t like that.”  The waif actually had the good sense to blush. “I found ye sprawled on the cobblestones, sir. You was holdin’ yer head. Ye couldn’t get up without my help. You asked me to hail a cab but when you reached into your coat, you said your coin purse was missing. That’s how I knew you’d been robbed, sir. I helped you walk home, you gave me your card and told me to come back this morning at nine-o’clock sharp.”

Stephan reached up to feel the back of his head. There was no lump or wound, which wasn’t surprising, as Brisbane would have remarked upon it while grooming him this morning if there had been. Still, the girl was probably telling the truth. She found him in a dazed condition after one of his harrowing blackouts and assumed he’d fallen prey to one of her comrades. He was still clothed, so he must not have transformed. And there was the matter of his card. She presented it when she spoke with the butler. Stephan didn’t give out his card to anyone and he certainly wouldn’t have done so to a street whore, even if he were foxed out of his mind.

           “Well, I thank you, Miss . . .?”

            “Maggie, sir, Maggie O’Donnell.” She informed him primly.

           “Thank you for helping me, Miss O’Donnell.” He said politely. “I’m afraid I do not recall what it was I promised you as a reward last night. The head injury, you know.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke to emphasize his oblivion. “How does ten pounds sound?”
            “Oh!” The freckled face bloomed crimson, framed in a riot of red curls spilling out of her poke bonnet. “Why sir, I-I didn’t’that is to say---you promised . . .”

            “Out with it. What did I promise you, Miss?” He replied with more vehemence than was necessary as his hackles rose. What kind of chicanery was this? Ten pounds was more than a girl her age could make in a year as a scullery maid. It would keep her off the streets for a long time. Unless she was greedy, that is.

           “Well, sir.” She posed her hands in front of her as if she were in a church and about to begin her prayers, licked her lips, and then rushed on. “You promised me a position in your household, at some abbey, ye said. I don’t reckon the name. T’was long. I know that much. You said you was returning there and didn’t have no help--and you doubted the locals would dare work there because of them strange murders, and you said I could be a maid and . . .”

             “And what?” he held up a hand to silence her run on speech. Stephan regarded the girl with horror, not for her story but because a random street waif could not know any of those things unless he told her those things.  He straightened from his casual slump in the chair. “I told you that on the way home?” He eyed her severely as he waited for her response.

            “Aye, sir.” She mumbled, looking suitably ashamed for repeating the tale. “But, you were pretty deep in your cups.”  She added, as if that made all the difference.

            “What of your family? Surely they would not let you go off with a strange man to parts unknown.”

           “My Da’s dead.”  Miss O’Donnell informed him in a somber tone. “I’ve no one else. Da brought me to London with him when he signed up for the army. He told me to find a job in service when he left and wait to for his return from the War. Seemed good advice. I’ve been trying, sir, but none will have me ‘cause I ain’t got no references.”

           “Don’t have. I do not have any references.” He corrected, more as a stalling tactic than any real annoyance. The girl could not help her lack of education and it seemed that correct grammar was not her most pressing problem at the moment. “How old are you? Don’t you have any relatives or friends that might take you in?”            

           The girl looked at him as if Stephan had struck her. She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the rising tears. “There’s nobody, sir. We left Newling Green after mama and my two brothers died. The fever wiped out half the town. Da came to London last year to sign up for the regiment. He left for Spain within a month. He arranged to have most of his wages set aside here for me. I was to go to the Home Office each month to collect it. Da used to write me, every week. He’d send his letters to the Home Office as he didn’t know where I’d be working. The nice officer kept them until I could come by and pick them up. The letters stopped coming a few months ago, my lord. They say at the office me Da is either dead or missing.”

           “I am sorry for your loss, Miss O’Donnell.” Stephan replied, regretting his words.  “However,  I am not running an orphanage. I cannot be responsible for you, if that is what you are hoping.”

           “I’m no child beggin’ for charity, sir. I’m seventeen.” She countered, drawing herself up to her full height. “And I’ve known girls who have gone into service as young as fourteen. I want to work. You said you needed maids in your manor house out in the county, and after city living for six months without my Da, I’d like to have an honest position in the country, sir.”  

            Stephan rubbed his temples as the ache rekindled in his head. “Seventeen.” He repeated with a sarcastic laugh, certain he was going to regret this sometime in the near future. The girl didn’t look more than fourteen and he’d bet his last cigar she was not much older than she looked. And yet, if what she said were true she had been living hand to mouth on the streets for past month, maybe more, since her father disappeared. The army did not give out wages to family members when a soldier went missing. And what she wasn’t saying in all of this was that he owed her something for saving his life--for helping him home when she could have left him where he was and let the street scum find him and finish him off. He promised her a position in his household, and God help him, he would keep that promise.   

          “So be it.” He said, lifting a hand to her for silence. “You may have made a deal with devil, we shall see if you have the courage to keep it.”

          “Thank you, sir! Thank you.” The girl gushed as if he’d given her a pretty bauble, not an opportunity to join the House of the Damned. Any more encouragement and he feared she might hug him like an exuberant child. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

           Stephan already regretted it. Hiring an adolescent girl to be a maid was not a duty for the master of the manor, it normally would fall to the lady of the house, or in the very least, the housekeeper. Since Julia was dead, she would hardly care now that the girl was of obvious Irish descent, a critical flaw that troubled his snobbish spouse when she was alive. Annie would bless him for bringing an extra set of hands to help her work as the local women shunned the manse since Julia’s grisly death, fearing they might come to a similar fate if they took a position working for The Beast of Huntingdon Abbey.

           “Now then.” Stephan replied, in a futile attempt to stymie the girl’s excitement. “You will return here tomorrow with your belongings. We leave at eight in the morning.  I will not wait around for you if you are late.”Copyright Lily Silver. 2013

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Lily Silver, Romance Author

 

Serial Sundays: The Gypsy's Curse

      

Here it is, Chapter Three part II for your reading pleasure:  

 Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

“Worry, worry, worry. Wind’s pickin’ up,” the breathless voice chanted, as if repeating a worn out song. “Winter storm a comin’, ain’t no one in his right mind going to be outdoors today pokin’ about the master’s house. I told her. But Annie, she does more than her share o’ worryin’. Worry, worry, worry, and when it’s done and everything’s all right, don’t she go out and find more to worry over! Wears a fella out, she does. Worry, worry, worry . . .”

       

  It was the cottager, Zara realized.  He was inspecting the manor, just as he promised his wife last night. She moved quickly to the armoire. She opened the door and slipped inside before the man discovered the door to this room was ajar. She sat down carefully behind the hanging clothes and drew the cabinet door closed behind her.

         “Ah, what’s this?” The man entered the room. “Open door, but nothing disturbed.” He chatted to himself. “No squirrels, here Annie, my love. They don’t open doors, now, do they? But they do leave a fearful mess behind.”

          Zara held her breath, and tried, unsuccessfully, to still her thundering heart. She feared he might be able to hear the loud clattering beneath her ribs, and discover her hiding place.

         “Aye. But a ghost will open a door now and then, won’t it?” The gruff voice continued. “Mayhap her ladyship’s been visiting the old place, looking for her lord. He’s not here, milady.” The voice shouted, as if trying to tell a very deaf spirit her quest was a useless one. “He’s in Lunn’un. Hasn’t seen fit to visit the home place since ye left us so sudden. Can’t bear the memories, I wager.”

         “Jasper!” A woman’s voice called from somewhere below. “Where are you?”

         “Demm it, woman. Give a man a chance, would ye?” The man called out, exasperated with the woman who had dragged him from his warm lodgings in the early morning hours to inspect the manor for would be four legged trespassers. He muttered to himself a little more as he shuffled about the room. She heard him pause at the window and rattle the latch.

          Please don't open the cabinet, she prayed. Even pressed tight into the back of it, behind the shirts and jackets she would be noticeable. The cabinet wasn’t that deep, after all.

The uneven gait moved toward the door. After a moment, it closed with a defining thud.

He was gone from the room at least. It would be a while yet before he and his wife left the manor house if they were checking it, room by room, to make certain it was secure against the woodland creatures seeking shelter for the winter. She?d just have to be quiet until they left and try not to suffocate amidst the masculine clothing in the tight, coffin-like space.

*   *   *

          

Stephan returned to the townhouse with sense of purpose he hadn’t felt for a long time.  The prospect of returning to the abbey was invigorating. He didn’t realize just how much he missed his family home. The winters in the Lake District were not terribly harsh. They were tolerable, as his father used to say. The foliage dressing the trees would be gone by now, of course, and the fields stripped of their verdant glory. All the same, he felt a small stirring of excitement in his breast. He was going home, to the family seat, to the place he knew and loved as a boy. The woods and the paths winding about the lake were old friends. Perhaps, they would offer him solace this time around, instead of pointing stark, accusing branches at him as he passed along the road in the carriage, as it seemed they had when he’d fled the dark manse.

          Huntley was shocked when he informed the butler of his decision to spend the winter at the abbey. The old man gazed at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Huntley didn’t say it aloud, but the question was in his eyes. Why, they asked with an impertinence made possible only from decades of service to the same family, would you wish to return to the place where your wife was murdered?

          Snapping his morning newspaper open, Stephan didn’t bother to answer the burning question in the old butler’s rheumy eyes. He simply began reading the news, and waited for the man to exit the room and carry out his wishes for the packing to commence. He’d have to send word to Maria in Derbyshire that he would not be attending the Christmas festivities at her husband’s estate this year after all.

          It shouldn’t come as a surprise to his sister, as he hadn’t attended them last year, either. He’d been in mourning. Maria coaxed him to commit himself to attending the annual Christmas house party this coming year when he’d spent a month brooding under her roof over the summer.  Maria, his baby sister was not one to tiptoe around a problem. She prided herself on being able to confront it head on. And thus, she’d confronted Stephan about his retreat from polite society. The chit had rung the duns over his head until he promised to attend her gala event this year. The holiday party was always a huge success and Maria had become famous for her ability to keep Christmas in a grand style since she became a Duchess.

          Well, she’d get over her disappointment, wouldn’t she? With over fifty house guests to attend to, she could hardly claim to miss him. And a quiet, uneventful Christmas spent at Huntingdon Abbey would be preferable to one spent here in London. He made that mistake last year, believing his presence in London would be overlooked as he was still in mourning. It had been just over a year, and he dared to hope the holidays would not find him.  Thanks to friends like Hadley, Christmas had been forced upon him because he had the audacity to be residing in town during the holiday.  

           Stephan took a sip of his lukewarm tea and ignored the eggs and rashers on the plate before him. He didn’t have an appetite for them this morning. Nothing cook made would tempt him. His life had been reduced to nightmares when asleep and wandering the streets of London during the night to avoid the demons clawing at his soul. Sometimes, he didn’t recall how it was he’d returned home. He blacked out. If he were given to strong drink, he’d blame the spirits for blocking his memory of the previous night’s events.

           It was a different spirit than mere alcohol that dogged his steps.

           Madness?  It was a possibility or merely an excuse.

           He scanned the headlines. The bold black print letters assaulted him.

           Heinous Murder in THE SLUM DISTRICT OF LONDON.

          The word murder jumped out at him, accusing, like the fingers of a preacher pointing directly from the pulpit. He read on, his hands rattling the thin paper as he did so.  A couple had been brutally murdered last night while enjoying a tryst in a secluded grove at Covenant Gardens. The man’s neck had been twisted and broken according to the constable, while the woman’s throat had been slashed.    

          The woman’s torso appeared to have been torn open by wild dogs before the couple were found early this morning by an attendant of the gardens. This was the third such murder in town in the last month, authorities said.

          Stephan uttered a curse under his breath, and set the paper on the table. His mind wandered back to last night. James Hadley had accompanied him to Whites. They sat before a fire, drinking and talking, or rather, James did most of the former while he did most of the latter. He didn’t remember leaving Whites, nor did he recall James taking leave of him there. What he did have was a strong impression of wandering through the streets last night, dangerously close to the gardens where the murder took place. It wasn’t a clear memory, but rather a fractured jumble of images that seemed more dream than reality.

          He brushed the curl from his damp brow, and concentrated on finding that shred of reality.  There were sounds of a couple laughing, and the strong scent of sex. How he knew that, he couldn’t fathom. There was the bittersweet taste of copper on his lips. The cool, night air had embraced him. The heavy fog lent a welcome shroud to his silent passage as he meandered through the hedges.

Stephan took a sip of the now cold tea, his mind frozen by the numb reality that he might have been in that district last night.  Had he gone to the Gardens after leaving the club? If so, had James been with him?  Could James exonerate him of any wrongdoing?

          Did he need to be exonerated?

          He released his breath, disturbed by the working of his own mind. He was being unreasonable. An old family curse had nothing to do with his current melancholy, or his detached thoughts. It was boredom, he told himself, taking up the paper again to peruse the financial page. A faint knocking sound at the front door gave him a start. He slapped himself mentally for his nervousness. He had no reason to be on edge.       

          The butler entered the dining room. “You have a caller, my lord. A young--er-- woman.” The old man corrected. “She claims you instructed her to come here last night. She gave me your card, sir, said you promised to reimburse her for her services to you last night.” The butler held up his calling card. “Do you wish to see her, sir?”

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

Free to a Good Home, Serialized Historical Romance

Yeah, I'm giving it away for free. Just for the fun of it. A little love story that is situated in the Lake District of England, circa 1816, during the Romantic Era. A Historical Romance with a Paranormal Twist. Why ....... just because I can. And I love to give something back to my wonderful readers.


Book Excerpt:  Chapter 9, Part I  of  The Gypsy's Curse by Lily Silver.
Weekly posts available on my website. If you would like to start at the beginning of the story, click here. http://lilysilver.webs.com/posts110.htm



  He had to be dreaming. The lovely young woman who appeared to him couldn’t be real.
          Stephan sat at the breakfast table alone, doing his best to appear to be eating the simple breakfast Annie, the housekeeper had prepared for him. The house was so big, so empty, so devoid of life. Stephan regretted coming, and he’d only just arrived.
          Ah, that woman--she captivated him. He dreamed of her all night long.
Lush, long dark curls. A heart shaped face, and startling eyes. He couldn’t discern the color of them in the low firelight--but then, did ghosts have an eye color? Did ghosts have generous curves?  Did ghosts speak to the living?
         His logical mind would say no, and yet, he’d heard of such queer events. They were becoming more the vogue in the romantic era. People like Mrs. Shelly and Lord Byron seemed to invite people to embrace the supernatural. And then there were those books his wife read voraciously, Gothic Romances by Mrs. Radcliffe. Perhaps his mind was merely too saturated with spirits of a different kind to pursue logic. He was certainly suffering the blue devils this morning due to his heavy indulgence.
         Ah, sweet spirit, come back to me. Whether it be my imagination or strong drink, do not leave me here alone to suffer the torments of a guilty conscience.

         Zara wasn’t sure what to do any longer. She wanted to stay, even more now that she’d seen the masculine beauty of the master of the house. And yet, the house was filling up with servants. There were three new ones here in the attic, on the opposite end where servant’s quarters were, but even so, they might discover her hiding in the storage attic if she lingered.
        It was harder to go wandering at night in search of food. Yes, there were the secret passages. She could use those if she really needed to. Zara found she resented the intrusion of people here. She’d been enjoying her solitary existence, eating and exploring, reading books, learning about the English world as she prepared to make an entrance therein. She didn’t like having to restrict her wanderings to late at night, and that with only the use of the passages between the walls. She’d love to be a guest here, able to meander about without fear of discovery or suspicion.
         And most of all, she’d love to taste the kisses of a certain gentleman.
         Tonight, she’d visit the man again via the secret passage. Maybe this time, she’d come out of the shadows and speak with him a little more.


         It was Midnight. St. John despaired of ever conjuring the same woman who haunted his dreams the night before. He sat in his private room adjacent to his bedchamber, his study, brooding before the fire. He’d had a few drinks, not as much as last night. He wanted to see her, remember her this time with a little more clarity. And yet, there was so much he wanted to forget.
         He fingered the crystal decanter, still half full, and deliberated over whether or not to refill his glass. The cool, hard surface between his fingers caressed his fevered mind. So many images he needed to forget, to banish. The brandy didn’t barricade their entrance into his mind as he hoped. Too many vile images pounded against the flimsy gate built by intoxicants.
        He tried Laudanum a few times. The sway of opiates was strong. Alluring, like that luscious woman who visited his dreams last night. He had a bottle of the heady stuff. He had only to go to his bedchamber to pour himself a draught. He caressed the brandy decanter, his fingers tracing the fine cut crystal ravines as if seeking shelter in their hard, sharp valleys.
        Moments later, Stephan rose and went into his bedchamber, seeking a stronger mistress than brandy to soothe his fractured mind.

         Zara hovered just beyond the curtain. She was trying to shore up her nerve and step out so the man could see her again. She’d been waiting, watching him, measuring how many drinks he’d had before she made her entrance. He’d had three glasses of brandy. Now he was returning with a small vial of some other substance cradled between his large fingers.
         She watched him sit down again and sip from the small vial as he stared into the flames. The substance must not be very tasty, as he grimaced each time he took a sip, as if he were being forced to drink a tincture of vinegar and herbs. Perhaps that is what it was, a healing drink. He finished it and set the glass on the small table beside his chair. He brooded, staring intently into the fire as if it held the answers to all his questions. His left leg was bent, his right extended in a lazy repose before him. He had his elbow raised and his head supported in one hand. He seemed to be getting drowsy with each passing moment. Zara wanted to kiss him. She wanted to taste his full, sensual lips and feel the warmth of his skin. She waited, wondering if he were awake.
          She might approach him while he slept and steal a kiss from him before leaving this place. Leave she must, or suffer discovery. Leave, but not right away, not tonight.
          Moments ticked by. The man seemed to be drifting into a comfortable sleep.
         Zara emerged from her hiding place behind the curtains and slowly approached his still form. He was breathing heavily, as if intoxicated, deeply so. She crept closer, step by step, until she stood just to his left, on the other side of the small table holding his ablutions. A snore, yes, a faint nasal drone that told her what she needed to know. He was sound asleep.
        She edged closer to the sleeping god, holding her breath as if it would betray her presence. She touched his limp hand as it draped over his chair in slumber. He started. And then he grabbed her wrist, imprisoning it within a strong cave of fingers and muscle. Zara gasped, uncertain of what to do. Was he dreaming? Or was he lying in wait for her?
Copyright  Lily Silver 2012