Serialized Sunday: The Gypsy's Curse Rough Draft

 

Hello everyone, If you've been following this blog, you're aware that I do a free chapter of my WIP every Sunday, in an event called Serialiced Sundays. I'm featuring a work that I've been trying to finish for some time, in the hope that by posting my progress each week I'll be held accountable, sort of like Dean Wesley Smith is doing with his Writing in Public posts. 

Here is the next installment of The Gypsy's Curse,  Paranormal, Historical Romance set in Regency England.  The heroine is a gypsy accused of foul things that are not true. She is in hiding, in an empty manor house. The hero is a wealthy merchant's son who owns the house, and has a few problems of his own, one of them being a werewolf. Ah, did I mention recently that I love, Love, LOVE a good Gothic Romance?  Well, here's my latest effort on that front:  

Chapter Five

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

            The main floor of the manor house was harder to navigate than the second floor had been.

 There were twists and turns that led one astray, much like a garden maze. Zara meandered about the grey halls, peeking into rooms until she despaired ever finding the kitchen.

            After several false starts and turning back to retrace her steps, she finally encountered the ancient chamber. It was huge, with low beamed ceilings and stone flooring that gave it a cave-like appearance. She stood in the center of it, clutching her bag to her chest, just staring at the huge fireplace taking up one wall. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before. She set her bag down on the stone floor and stepped close to the massive opening. Crouching slightly so she didn’t hit her head on the low mantel, she tiptoed into the large, clean stone chamber that made up the fireplace. It was nearly the same size as the interior of a caravan wagon.

            The ironwork gratings had to have been created to specification to fit this enormous hearth. She could only imagine the gigantic feasts that must have been prepared here centuries ago. It almost seemed as if this house had been built around an old castle. The kitchen and the rooms adjacent to it were made of ancient stone, including the window and door frames.

             She stepped out of the cavernous fireplace. Zara was intimidated by the prospect of starting a fire here. She’d have to find another room, one with a more manageable hearth in which to set up her camp. Still, the large stone chamber was a wonder to behold. The windows were mullioned, like in the old castles she’d seen during the caravan’s travels.  Uncle Lothar marveled at the Gadje’s penchant for building newer and bigger right over the old. He loved pointing out the differences of styles within one home to her as they sat in the wagon seat watching the countryside move slowly by. What would her uncle make of this place? An ancient monk's abbey that might have been converted into a garrison by the conquering Normans and then transformed into a residence when the Saxons had been subdued by their overlords? 

            The unguarded thought awakened a fierce choking sensation. With tight lips to contain the aching emptiness, Zara turned away from the great fireplace and her fanciful daydreaming to apply herself to a more practical task; finding food.

            For an empty house, the larder was surprisingly well stocked with all manner of dry goods. She found dried beans, some hairy onions, a few cabbages, carrots and potatoes from the garden, flour, sugar, oil, tea and a generous store of berry preserves. The basement storeroom had a smoked ham hanging from the rafters, along with a side of fresh venison. She unwrapped the ham, cut a small piece from it, and then re-wrapped it carefully so her intrusion would not be noticed. The cottagers must keep food on hand in anticipation of their lord’s hasty visit and make use of it themselves before it spoiled, and keep replacing the stores throughout the winter. Ah, the wealthy Gadje had their hirelings well trained, like dogs who eagerly traipsed behind the master, anticipating a few crumbs tumbling to the floor for them to devour as a reward for their faithfulness. Stupid, docile beasts. They’d be better off looking after themselves first and finding ways to profit from their dealings with the idle rich, like the gypsies did.

           After choosing a few root vegetables to cook in a stew, she rummaged about the kitchen for a small cooking pan and a bowl that she could use to soak her injured hand. She had to make a poultice of comfrey leaves and goldenseal to draw out the infection and she would need hot water to cleanse the wound and let it soak for a time before re-bandaging it. Her bag was already too full with the vegetables and the meat so she looked about the kitchen for a basket in which to place the two pots and the bowl in.

          The larder gave her what she was searching for. Satisfied that she had gleaned the makings for a good earthy stew, Zara set her bag and the reed basket on the counter and searched for a water pitcher. She’d have to step outside for a short time to get water from the well in the kitchen courtyard and to grab a few sticks of firewood from the pile near the door. She didn’t relish leaving the protection of the manse as she gazed out the mullioned windows overlooking the back courtyard. The wind was wiping the trees as if they had offered it deep offense. The rain sloshing down the windows looked like it could freeze at any moment.

           There was no use for it. She might be able to stick a pan out the door and have it filled with water easily, but the firewood was another matter. Of course, it would be soaked, and thus, it would not light. There had to be some inside, hadn?t there? She gazed about the grey stone kitchen. There was a tinder box above the massive hearth on the mantle shelf. A metal box of sulpher sticks, a recent Gadje invention that seemed practical, for once. She took a handful of the sulpher sticks and put them in her pocket. The tinder in the box was low, just a few shreds of yarn and some wood shavings. Well, she?d claim it. Who ever came to light a fire for the master when he returned would just have to improvise.

           The dry wood was going to be problem. There had to be something in here, a few twigs stowed away, a few dry pieces, for pity’s sake. She checked the heavy oak door with the pointed archway, the doorknob gave way and the bolt clicked with just a twist of the wrist. Whatever was in here wasn’t considered too precious, if they didn’t bother to lock it. No silver, she gathered, as she stepped into the small enclosure. It was little more than a closet, a pantry that didn’t hold food. Oh yes, the butler’s pantry, the Widow Kendall had told her of those curious little closets that held precious items the head servant of the house needed to keep the master and mistress happy. Widow Kendall had been in service and her husband had been an under butler in a great house many years ago.  

            She wished she had a candle so she could see what was on the shelves. The light from the large mullion windows behind her didn’t penetrate the dark cubby. She felt among the shelf, and withdrew a dusty bottle. The label said ‘Claret’, if she were right, it was some kind of wine. She took it and closed the small cupboard. As she leaned her hip against the door to make it latch, her eyes fell upon the odd cabinet just below the windowsill to her right. The cabinet itself was rectangular in shape, but the wooden top was built tilted at an angle like a deep slope on a hillside. There was a handle on the bottom, and hinges on the top. She lifted it, and nearly squealed her delight wood! Dry wood. There would be warm fire and some good stew tonight. As soon as she found a safe room to conceal her trespass.

            Unwilling to leave her prizes on the counter, lest someone come in the kitchen door and discover the intrusion, she swung the heavy laden bag over her shoulder, placed the wine bottle and a few small pieces of wood in the basket, and moved toward the interior door that led her to this wonderful old room. She didn’t relish wandering amid the dark halls again, but now that she had food and fuel she must find a small room in which to set up camp. She’d come back here later for the water, as she couldn’t manage to carry another stick, let alone a full pitcher.

            It took Zara nearly an hour to find that one isolated, lonely room that would be her campsite for the night. It was at the end of a long sequence of hallways and turns, an interior parlor that appeared to be abandoned. Ignoring the glowing white shrouds of furniture that rose up from the dark gloom, she set her gear near the fireplace before shutting the door. Once the door was closed, she’d have no window light to guide her in the small room. She remembered the sulfur sticks she found in the kitchen and put in her pocket as she looked about for a candle. A single brass candlestick was on the mantle shelf, with a half burned candle still in it.

         

   It didn’t take long for Zara to get her camp fire going in the fireplace. The small hearth was very cozy, just right for her purposes. She set up her bed roll and sat on the floor. After removing the riding boots, she sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and jutting out from her hips in a manner the Widow had always chided as unladylike. She pulled up her skirt to the knees, and admired the red silk stockings in the firelight. They made her feel pretty. Just knowing they were there, beneath her skirts brought a sizzle of pleasure and a quick smile to her lips. Oh, she’d managed to grab a pair of serviceable woolens, too. Those were in her knapsack.

            Once the fire was going steady, she returned to the kitchen for water. While her simple stew cooked she tended her hand. Upon removing the bandages, she winced at the angry color of her skin where the flesh was parted. Infection was setting in. Three days since the injury, and despite her best efforts while on the run the wound was not healing as it should. She grimaced at the pain and rummaged through her sack with her good hand for the comfrey leaves and powdered goldenseal she kept there. A paste of those two herbs, along with a good soak in some hot water should work well in reversing the infection.

            As the sun began to set, Zara relaxed after a cup of tea and some vegetable stew. She didn’t put the chunk of ham in the pot but instead kept it stashed in her pack for the days ahead. She’d need some substance while travelling. She set a couple of potatoes near the flame of the hearth but not close enough to burn them, just enough to bake them through. Those she intended to pack in her bag for the journey ahead, along with the ham. Some bread would be nice, but she didn’t want to mess up the kitchen by trying to make it and go through the proofing and rising. Alas, it was not to be.

            At least she had the bottle of wine. That would go a long way toward lifting her spirits and keeping her warm on this chill winters eve. Tomorrow, she would set out again toward the east, putting more miles between herself and the angry villagers who hunted her for the old woman’s murderer.

            Zara went over the scene again in her mind as she sipped the wine and gazed into the fire. She’d gone to bed that night in the attic room, where the widow’s daughter had slept until her marriage. She didn’t remember anything until she awakened later in the parlor in her night clothes, with two bodies in the room beside her. The widow, a sweet, gentle creature, had been slaughtered like an animal. It was horrifying to think that anyone would want to harm the gentle old woman. The widow’s nephew was lying near the door. He was badly mutilated. She didn’t recall his being at the cottage when she went to bed that night. What was that wicked man doing in the widow’s parlor in the middle of the night?  

            A chill went through her despite the warmth of the flames and the fire of wine spreading through her belly. Something wasn’t right. There was something, just beyond her memory that nagged at her. Jasper was a pig, a repulsive man who seemed to think his aunt was crazy. He kept claiming he’d commit her if she didn’t give him what he wanted. He wanted the deed to the farm. He believed the old woman owed it to him and she should just turn her home over to him. He believed his aunt had money hidden away, lots of money. He was the crazy one.

There was something else . . . a horrible howling came from outside the farmhouse that night . . . a nerve shredding cry that was unlike anything she?d ever heard before living in the woods. It wasn’t an animal cry. It was the cry of a demon, a hound from the depths of hell.  

The memory brought shivers and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She reached for her uncle’s big hunting knife. The wind outside the manor made eerie, keening noises. Lothar’s knife seemed smaller as she listened to the mournful wind. And somehow, this big, empty manor house was not as comforting to be in all alone at night as it was during the daylight hours.

                                                                                   *    *   *

           

Stephan turned Maggie over to his valet when she arrived the next morning. He asked Brisbane to befriend the girl and try to find out why she had been at Covenant Gardens that night and what she might have seen when she found him wounded there.

            As the carriage drew away from Grosvenor Square Stephan gazed out at the city.

           This was not the first murder in the past weeks that had ripped the headlines. Nor was it the first time he?d grappled with the growing presentiment that he might be the perpetrator. Each murder reported in the papers coincided with one of his blackouts. Each time he awakened, he had the disgustingly sweet taste of blood in his mouth. Ten unsolved murders had taken place during his two month stay in London. That was a lot of bodies. He thought it best to leave the city before he found himself in a situation that would shame his family and sully the name of St. John forever. He couldn’t help but wonder if leaving the city were wise. No matter where he went, if he were indeed the one responsible for the murders, death would surely follow him.

         The papers had been rife with speculation regarding the murders. It was rumored that a beast had killed the last couple, not a man or group of men. The rumor was substantiated when the physician examining the bodies said no knife could do such damage, that the slashes on the woman’s torso more closely resembled the rough claws of an animal; a wolf or perhaps a bear. The difficulty remained in that assessment as there couldn't be a wolf stalking the city streets, nor had any animals escaped from the London zoo recently. 

          Stephan had his own hypothesis, one that defied reason. He believed the animal responsible was within himself. And he was leaving London before anyone could make the connection between the murders and his aimless wandering of the city streets in the midnight hours. James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, had been no help in the matter. James had no head for liquor, he reminded Stephan grimly of that fact when asked about the events of that particular night. He did not recall anything more than Stephan had about their wanderings that night. Like Stephan, he did not recall how he made it back to his home. He simply awakened in his bed the next morning, hung over like his companion. Unlike Stephan, however, James Hadley did not harbor any nagging fears that he may have committed unspeakable and heinous acts during his memory lapse.

            The slow progress of the coach was something Stephan couldn’t fix. They would be traveling for several days before they reached the Lake District, and that was with good weather. The roads were usually not bad at this time of year. It was too early to snow and if the rains held off they’d be at Huntingdon Abbey by the end of the week.

           Stephan ordered Maggie to sit outside, up with the coachman for this stretch. The weather was tolerable. The sun was out and it wasn’t cold. Having taken her under his wing to be a servant and perhaps saving her from falling into prostitution in the streets due to her desperate situation, he felt there was no need to pamper the girl and give her the impression he was her guardian instead of her employer. Brisbane sat opposite him, and like Stephan, had the foresight to have chosen a thick volume to occupy the time.  They would be stopping at a posting house for luncheon and to rest the horses, and then they would make their way to the Inn in Haversham for the night.

        He did not understand why he let himself be hoodwinked into taking the girl on as he had. He could have given her a few guineas for helping him and sent her on her way. He must be getting soft, he decided, as he stared out the coach window at the passing scenery.

       And yet, there was also something to be said for removing the witness from the scene of the crime. The London constables would not trouble themselves to travel 120 miles north just to question an adolescent girl of little consequence about what she may have witnessed on the night of the latest murders. Perhaps he wasn’t so soft after all, merely shrewd.

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

 

 

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

Join us each week for a new excerpt. And leave a post if you wish to recieve a free copy of the final e-book. 

Lily Silver, Romance Author

 

Serialized Sunday; The Gypsy's Curse

Enjoy a peek into an author's life with a weekly rough draft excerpt from a work in progress.  This is for your reading enjoyment, Any comments are welcome. Once this book is complete and edited, it may differ slightly from the verision you read here. Those wishing to be given a free ebook copy of the finished novel  must leave a comment with their email address in the comment section. It's my way of giving back to my wonderful readers!  Enjoy this week's post.

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter Three Part 1

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

        The wind awakened her. It blustered outside and rattled the window panes.

        Zara sat up in the big bed, confused by her surroundings for a brief instant. She was in a manor house, in a warm, dry, comfortable old canopy bed. She wore a clean bed gown that belonged to the lady of the house. Her own meager clothing was draped over the chair to dry. Her sodden, stained slippers had been discarded when she entered the house via the unlatched window on the back side. It was not quite dark up here on the hill as it had been in the hollow by the lake. The grey twilight had given her just enough light to make her way to an upstairs bedroom and collapse.

        The bed was luxurious. She’d never seen the like before. Her experience with sleeping quarters was severely limited to her uncle’s camp wagon and the small cot the Widow Kendall had offered her in the cottage attic. She sprawled on the feather mattress and extended her arms. There were still a few inches on either side of her fingers. Oh, it must be wonderful to be wealthy. Warm, cozy beds. Rooms with fireplaces. Yards and yards of elegant brocade fabric hanging from the bedposts and windows, all matching, not scraps of fabric sewn together willy- nilly to create an illusion of privacy in an overcrowded wagon--Stop it.

         Guilt and shame dampening her spirits, Zara sat up suddenly and curled her arms about her bent knees. She was doing it again; ungrateful wretch that she was. She was mentally comparing the wasteful luxuries of the Gadje against the simple provisions of her mother’s people.  Oh, but it was so grand, this room. She’d never dreamed such places existed in the world. It was a place for a princess in a story book.

        The sun was still hugging the far horizon, as reluctant to rise from its dark, comfortable bed as Zara was to pull herself from her cozy refuge. She stretched, and placed a bare foot on the floor. It was cold, but not terribly so, as the rich carpet had been set down to protect milady’s dainty feet from the frigid reality of an uncaring winter floorboard. She stood and pulled the covers up about the bed and smoothed away any evidence of her presence the night before. Remembering the cottager’s assurance to his wife that he’d come up the hill to inspect the manse today, she hurried to the clothespress and hung the new cotton gown back up on the peg where it belonged. Her fingers caressed the soft fabric with longing before she closed the door on the borrowed gown and slipped into her own worn garments.

       Shoes. Yes, she needed something more substantial than the frivolous slippers she ruined on the way here. She’d cast them down the well in the courtyard last night, mindful that she must not leave any evidence of her passing for the villagers on the other side of the woods to track. Zara knelt on the floor and checked the drawers of the armoire. She found an alluring pile of soft silken garments?stockings, petticoats, garters. Her fingers coveted the costly garments. With reluctance, she closed the drawer and nibbled at her lower lip.

        Being in this house was bringing out the worst in her; the Gadje part she couldn’t deny, no matter how hard she tried. Her father had been wealthy landowner, so she’d been told. Perhaps not as wealthy as the one whose home she had stolen into now, but rich enough. He’d been a selfish, greedy man, so they said, a bad influence even among his own people. Devil seed, they sometimes whispered about Zara when she was a child. Devil’s child. It wasn’t enough that her mother had born a babe from a Gadje man. Such things could be forgiven. It was his reputation that had tarnished her standing in the tribe.

        All her life, Zara was cautioned about not giving in to her carnal side lest she become like her father--evil--given over to the desires of the flesh. It wasn’t fair. She was expected to walk a straighter path than the other children of the tribe. If she showed the slightest yearning for a pretty bauble, it was blamed on her Gadje blood and she was chastened for it, where another girl in the camp would be petted and fussed over for wanting that red silk shawl or that gold locket. Her uncle was the only one who took her part against the other children during the many squabbles. Her mother and grandmother always made her apologize for any disagreement. Not because they thought her guilty, but because they knew that her tainted blood could be brought up by the others and Zara would be exiled if she made trouble among them. And as she was but a child, her mother would be exiled too.

      

Zara didn’t resent her mother or grandmother for their caution--not much. It was hard to hold a grudge against the dead. It did little good. Uncle Lothar took her hunting or he’d let her tag along as he made his rounds to the cottagers to ply his tinkering skills. Aunt Sapphira gave Zara hugs when Cousin Rhys wasn’t watching. Rhys was the leader of their caravan, the oldest male since grandfather had passed on.  He watched Zara incessantly. She knew he was just waiting for a reason to make an example of her to the other children for her wickedness. Lothar always defended Zara against the bully Rhys had become as their chief, but Lothar died last spring, and after his funeral Zara was finally cast out and left to fend for herself.

      A bare branch rattling against the window startled her out of her ruminations. Zara refolded the pretty red silk stockings, placed them reluctantly in the drawer and closed it. Red silk was her weakness. Crimson, the color of blood, the color of the cloak from the Hellfire Club her mother had kept tucked in the bottom of her trunks and took out only late at night when she was alone in the wagon and she thought Zara was asleep. If her father had truly been a rapist, as they claimed, then her mother had secretly been in love with her assailant. A woman didn’t pine after a man who had shamed her and abused her body. Zara saw how her mother fondled the cloak and held it against her cheek, as if mourning the loss of a lover, not a villain. When mother died Lothar burned the cloak, refusing to let Zara have the token of her father’s so cherished by her mother. He spat on it, and cursed the man who wore it, frightening Zara with his vehement response.

      Shoes, girl, sensible boots, and then you must away!   Zara moved across the room in her bare feet. Her stockings as well as her shoes were destroyed. She nibbled her lip, and touched the clean bandage wound around her wounded palm. Surely the lady wouldn’t miss a pair of stockings when she had dozens. Would such a grand lady begrudge a poor girl a pair of stockings from her horde? The lady was probably in London. It was the place that all grand ladies preferred to the country. And surely the woman had other stockings with her.

      The trunk in the corner caught her eye. If there were boots, they might be in there. She opened the trunk and found a sturdy pair of riding boots. Soft black leather--it was like butter beneath her fingers. Zara grabbed them and closed the lid of the trunk, lest her eyes behold something else that her hands might itch to possess. She sat on the bed for a moment, hesitating, resisting the wicked urge to take those red silk stockings. She needed stockings, but not silk ones. Oh, and they felt so lovely against her fingers! There were woolen stockings shoved in the back of the drawer, banished from sight due to their bland, serviceable appearance.

        Zara’s hands fisted about the lovely red silk. She bunched the fabric up, resisting the call of her conscience to put them back in the drawer. If you’re going to steal something, choose something useful, she heard her uncle’s voice in her head.

       She bit her lip and counted to ten, fifteen, and on to thirty.

       In the end, it didn’t matter. Stockings were stockings she told herself as she gathered up her bag and treaded carefully from the room in her new black riding boots. She closed the door, and crept carefully down the hall, listening for the telltale sound of the cottager below the stairs.

      Once she was in the hall, she couldn’t resist peeking in the other rooms before descending to the first floor and making her exit. The house intrigued her. It seemed as if the hallway went on forever. There were doors and more doors as she gazed down the long hall. Zara shook her head. She must appear the simpleton to be so fascinated by a mere house, yet, having grown up in a camp wagon the notion of inhabiting such a grand, expansive home, of staying in one place for more than a week or a month, was vastly appealing.

       Zara entered the room across the hall from the one she had just exited. It was a masculine room, probably the lord’s chamber. The furniture was covered with white sheets to protect it from the dust. The curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out the light. It was a beautiful, peaceful chamber.

       Oh, to have such a room all to myself. The room was wider than three camp wagons put together and twice as long. All of this space for one person? She set her pack on the floor and stood in the center of the room. She held out her hands and spun about slowly. This would be a  place to dream, to be free. To sway to the music in her soul unobserved.

       That was one thing she could not do at the widow’s house, dance. It was in her blood. Her mother had been a dancer. And yet, the widow’s kindness in taking Zara in required a respect for the old woman’s beliefs. Widow Kendall frowned on her urge to move unrestrained, and so, Zara restrained herself, lest she give the woman cause to regret having taken her in.

        She closed her eyes and lifted her arms above her head. The boots with their slight leather heel were cumbersome, not allowing her feet to turn as easily on the carpet as if she’d been barefoot. She was not about to remove them. Zara forgot her loneliness for a time as she let her soul flow through her body, allowed her mind to cease its endless prattle of worried thoughts and recriminations. She gave herself up to the dance.

        A loud clanging of a door reverberated through the manse, stopping Zara’s movements. Someone was here. Probably the old man from the cottage below the hill. She froze and whirled about quickly to gather her bag and find a hiding place. The curtains were drawn. She considered them and just as quickly dismissed the idea. If the cottager came in and opened the drapes, she’d be exposed and hauled off to the nearest jail for trespassing. There was the dressing screen, but it proved equally flimsy. She could hear footsteps echoing on the parquet flooring of the hall below the stairs. She heard low muttering, turned to the door, and stifled a gasp. She left it open. She didn’t dare close it now. The sound would alert them that someone was in the house.  The muttering grew louder, more distinct as the person climbed the stairs and walked slowly down the hall toward the opened doorway.  

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013