Gypsy Jewel

by Patricia McAllister

  Gypsy Jewel

  by

  Patricia McAllister

  Copyright © 2012 Patricia McAllister

  Kindle Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Caucasus Mountains, April 1837

  THE GYPSY’S BARE FEET were blue and icy as she carefully threaded through the forest. Like most Romany, Tzigane disdained shoes, preferring to feel the bare mother earth on her soles. And the phuri dai was too absorbed in her pursuit right now to care that she risked frostbite on this bitter day.

  Though it was early spring, the narrow passes that led from the fertile Russian steppes up into the high mountain meadows were still dusted with snow. As the gypsy band drove through the upper pass of majestic El Bruz, the snow-capped peak that overlooked the Romany summer camp on the shores of the Black Sea, a thin, keening cry reached Tzigane from where she perched in the seat of her gaily-colored wagon.

  The fortune-teller’s alert eyes and ears at once sought the source. None of the others heard the peculiar wail that sounded like a small animal in distress. Since she was the last wagon in the caravan, efforts to stop the others proved futile.

  Tzigane drew her little mules to a stop, and went in search of the injured animal. She had no idea what she would do with the creature when she found it; perhaps it would be enough to put it out of its misery. So she brought along an ornate, ivory-handled stiletto, now tucked securely in the symbolic sash at her waist.

  As always, Tzigane wore the pomona skirt of bright red to signify her state of mourning. She wore it faithfully on each anniversary of her beloved husband’s death, not caring that some muttered she was mad.

  As her Bal had once been Rom Baro, king of the gypsies, Tzigane was now phuri dai, wise-woman of the Lowara band. She was the matriarch for over twenty years, so nobody questioned her fancies — not those in the band, and certainly none of the gaje, or outsiders, who came covertly at times to partake of her gift of foresight.

  The whimpering was closer now, and Tzigane continued cautiously toward the source. Chapped hands shaking as she drew the knife, she peered ahead into the mysterious shadows cast by the towering trees.

  The virgin snow was awash with scattered footprints that indicated the hasty departure of someone just moments before. Tzigane strained for a glimpse of a fleeing figure in the dusk, but she saw nobody. Then she caught her breath sharply in disbelief.

  There, left beneath a gnarled, ancient pine, a naked newborn baby howled in the snow. Jolted out of her shock by the realization that the child was freezing, Tzigane hurried over and snatched it up against her breast.

  The child’s cries were muffled as it instinctively, greedily rooted for food. It felt its cold, hostile world give way to comforting warmth, and its screams gradually subsided to gasping sobs. Tzigane smoothed the fine, pale down on the infant’s head and crooned softly to the squirming bit of flesh.

  Who would abandon such a perfect child to die? The baby wailed again, blinking back great tears, and Tzigane saw its eyes were a beautiful sea-green color. Exposure would have claimed its life within minutes had she not appeared.

  Noting the sex of the child as she hastily pulled off her heavy winter shawl, Tzigane wrapped it snugly around the babe. The infant girl had been left totally naked, but a small, green velvet pouch dangled from a silken cord around her neck. With an uneasy gaze at the darkening woods around her, Tzigane decided she could wait to pursue the mystery after she returned to the safety of the gypsy camp.

  Whoever had left the child had surrendered all rights to her in any case — for, at the will of the gods, Tzigane had just become a mother. And only the silent trees knew the truth, of how and why the baby had come to be there — except for the evil one who had abandoned the child to die.

  Chapter One

  Constantinople, Summer 1850

  “HALT! THIEF!”

  The hoarse, angry cry echoed in her ears, but the young girl dared not stop now. With a wild jangle of jewelry, she dashed down the alley, her kerchief flying off to sail away in the brisk wind. A wealth of blonde hair unfurled behind her, momentarily confusing the shop owner who was shouting for help.

  “Stop that gypsy. She stole my fruit!”

  Glancing down to see an apple clutched in her sweaty hand, April almost tripped in a tangle of colorful cotton skirts. She had just passed a fruit stall when the apples the hawker had been stacking too high came down in a bouncing heap all over the street.

  Without thinking, April had reached down to help him pick up his spilled goods. But the moment her hand closed around the nearest apple, he had started shrieking at her in rapid-fire Turkish. Who would believe her now? To anyone who looked, she appeared to be a gypsy girl with “stolen” goods in hand.

  Gasping for breath, April burst from the alley, wildly looking in every direction for any sign of the gypsy caravan.

  She had only wandered a few streets away from the others to gawk at the colorful crowds in Constantinople. Who would have guessed that a thirteen-year-old girl could get herself into such trouble in a matter of less than five minutes?

  Behind her, April heard the fruit seller still babbling urgently, no doubt directing the city soldiers her way. If they caught her, she knew her goose was cooked, as the gaje would say. Soldiers had a notoriously dim view of gypsies in the best of circumstances, and given any excuse to persecute them, they eagerly seized the chance.

  Shudders coursed through April at the thought, and with a Romany oath she dashed off in the direction in which she hoped to find Tzigane. She had left her mother telling fortunes across from a mosque near the Golden Horn. Ironically, that was where the phuri dai usually found her business was the briskest, near churches or holy sites. But now all of Constantinople was a maze of minarets and golden domes in her panic, and she could hardly choose which way to flee.

  Poised in mid-flight, April threw the unfortunate apple back over one shoulder, hoping that might appease anyone who took up the chase after her. She jumped guiltily when someone stepped out from the shadows of an overhanging shop awning and spoke softly in her ear.

  “I think you dropped something, mademoiselle.” The man’s voice was deep and smooth, his Turkish as flawless as her own. Whirling around in a flurry of skirts, April’s green eyes widened in surprise.

  She looked up into a strikingly handsome male face framed by waves of night-dark hair. Eyes the color of the Caspian Sea twinkled at her from beneath dark brows arched in apparent amusement. Obviously a gentleman, the man’s expensively tailored suit fit his tall, broad frame like a second skin. He had walked out from the silk shop and caught the flying apple just as she had hurled the evidence away.

  Immediately, April knew enough to be wary. Why should a stranger bother to address a gypsy girl so politely? Was he possibly a shan-glo, a policeman? April doubted it, quickly sizing up his fine clothes and lack of weapons, but for a long moment her heart was in her throat.

  The man extended the bruised apple in one well-manicured hand to her. He was a young man, t
hough April was in too much of a panic to note much more than that. She could hardly tear her own thoughts away from the alley she had left a moment ago, where the stall keeper’s curses still echoed off the stone walls.

  Shaking her head to refuse the apple, April started to back away. But something in the stranger’s approach froze her for a moment, and like a bird fascinated by a snake, she waited to see what he would do.

  “Are you afraid of me?” Damien Cross asked the obvious, wondering why the gypsy child was poised like a tawny tiger prepared to spring. By her defensive stance and glittering green eyes, she clearly expected him to injure her in some way. But nothing could be further from the Earl of Devonshire’s mind.

  Damien knew the girl was a gypsy, both by her clothing, a bright blue layered skirt and loose white cotton blouse, and the fact that she was brown-skinned and barefoot. She wore a dozen bangles around each slender wrist — real gold, if Damien was any judge — and large hoop earrings that just touched her shoulders. But instead of being dark, her hair was the color of summer wheat, pale gilt and gold swirling in a lustrous sheen all the way to her small waist. She was an unusually beautiful child.

  Before April could reply, the apple seller burst from the alleyway and came storming toward them. Damien adroitly palmed the apple into his silk-lined pocket and gained a look of surprised admiration from the girl for his sleight-of-hand.

  “Gypsy filth!” The Turk, short and fat and huffing with indignation, hawked and spat to one side as he rushed toward April with one finger wagging. “You give me back my fruit, or I’ll have you sent to prison, eh? You understand?”

  April raised her chin and held her ground. The earl could only watch in admiration, for the girl had definite poise and an inner strength that was obvious to the Turk. For a moment Damien wondered if she was truly a gypsy. There was something aristocratic about the way she stared the other man down.

  “What do you mean? What fruit?” Her innocent reply, delivered in perfect Turkish, caused the fruit seller to hesitate and fumble for further ammunition. He sputtered, impotently waving his chubby arms, and then Damien coolly intervened.

  “If you’re suggesting this girl has stolen goods, sir, I must admit I’m surprised. As you can see, she is clearly empty-handed, and only stopped here because I asked her to give me directions to the Hagia Sophia …”

  Was April mistaken, or did the handsome stranger slip her a sidelong wink? It seemed incredible to her that a gajo would ever stoop to interfere in street matters, especially when a gypsy’s life was at stake.

  Yet she couldn’t help but feel grateful when the merchant finally shook his head, more puzzled than angry, threw up his hands in a dramatic display of surrender, and stalked back to his display.

  April’s pounding heart gradually subsided and she glanced up at the stranger again, suddenly shy. She had no idea why, for she was not afraid of him, and he had helped her out of a sticky situation. But a sudden urge to find the Romany band and escape to the sanctuary of the mountains pulled at her. With a brief nod of thanks, she turned to go.

  “Wait.” It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. April paused, feeling those light blue eyes holding her in place. And then the man was beside her, taking her hand and wrapping her fingers around the apple which had mysteriously reappeared.

  She reddened with insult. “I didn’t steal it —”

  “I know. I happened to look out from the shop window into the alley, and I saw what really happened. But this apple is all I have to give you, little girl, and you deserve something for your courage just now.”

  Suspicious that he wanted nothing else from her, which was clearly out of character for a gajo, April asked boldly, “You saved my life. Why?”

  The man looked startled by her question, as if it had never occurred to him not to intercede on her behalf. Then his shrug made April wonder even more. His blue eyes distant, he finally murmured, “Sometimes a man sees all the injustice he can take in one day.” As her brow furrowed thoughtfully, he broke from his dark mindset and patted her kindly on the shoulder.

  “Maybe I’ll be in a position someday where you can return the favor, all right?”

  With a show of generosity, April offered eagerly, “If you ever want your fortune told, I’ll do it for free. I’m almost as good as my mother now.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you are. Will you predict good luck or bad for me, do you think?”

  “Good, of course.” She looked offended by the question.

  He laughed. “I can use all the help I can get, little girl. And if I ever have the good fortune to run into you again, I’ll take you up on it … right now, though, I’m due to catch a ship home. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? You’re far too young yet to go courting disaster.”

  While he spoke, Damien studied the sweep of golden-tipped lashes on the child’s rosy cheeks, studying the fine details of her features. Someday, when she was older, she would be a beauty to be reckoned with. And woe to the man, or men, who tried to break her spirit, he thought. There was fire in this little one’s green eyes.

  Her heart-shaped mouth pursed at the unfamiliar word. “‘Courting’? What’s that?”

  “No doubt you’ll find out soon enough,” Damien replied a little dryly. He gave her one last wink, then strode off down the street.

  April stood watching him for a moment, twirling the apple in her hands. Then, before she went in search of Tzigane again, she put the fruit to her lips and took a huge bite.

  TZIGANE WAS GETTING OLD, and the harsh Russian winters had not agreed with her. Her amber-colored eyes were still bright against the dark matte of her skin, but what had once been rich, sable-brown hair was now liberally streaked with gray, and hours of meditation upon her tarot cards ringed her eyes with dark circles and bags.

  With gruff honesty, Tzigane admitted to herself that looking in a mirror now only revealed the hag she was labeled by the gaje. But her crone-like appearance actually made for better business. The gaje women shivered with delicious fright when she cackled over their cards, and their men could not disguise interest when she spewed out their respective fates in a dramatic, croaking voice.

  The gypsies themselves agreed that Tzigane, though a widow, more than paid for herself and the keep of her daughter, April. Especially in the winter months, when boredom and confinement drove the boyar aristocrats in search of amusement, Tzigane could often be found huddled in her colorful little wagon with a circle of wide-eyed young ladies from the nearest town.

  After thirty years of plying her trade, Tzigane’s skirts were heavy now from the gold coins sewn safely in the hems. But money paled beside Tzigane’s secret purpose: to secure for her daughter April a better life. Many a time the phuri dai had watched the fine ladies upon gentlemen’s arms as the tribe passed through various cities, and she gnawed thoughtfully upon her plan.

  Close study of her foster daughter always reassured the old woman of her eventual success. April was a beauty, and had been turning men’s heads ever since she had tagged along at Tzigane’s skirts. Of the girl’s true heritage, the seer still knew nothing. Even her cards were silent on April’s past. But it was enough for Tzigane that April was pretty, clever, and quick to learn, and therefore able to fulfill her foster mother’s dreams for her.

  Tzigane plotted most carefully. Nowadays, a gentlewoman knew how to ride, hunt, and shoot alongside men, and she also spoke several languages. From childhood April had been well-versed not only in her native Romany, but in Russian and Turkish as well. The real obstacle had been getting the girl exposed to refined languages such as English and French. Fortunately, the Lowara band was comprised of those from varied backgrounds, and Tzigane paid several of the other women to instruct April in their spare time.

  There was a fiery, dark-eyed girl who had immigrated from a Manouches gypsy band on the outskirts of Paris, and another who had been an English lady’s maid until she had been dismissed for stealing. Both
agreed to teach April what they could of their languages, and reported to a satisfied Tzigane they were surprised at how easily the young girl learned new things.

  It did not surprise Tzigane. April was like a sponge, soaking everything up, incessantly curious, sometimes to the point of annoying the elders in the camp. But though she had exasperated them as a child, she worried them more as a young woman, riding her black stallion astride and causing the young men of the band to fight amongst themselves for the chance to race or chase her in the woods.

  When April had turned seventeen this past spring, it was agreed among the elders and the Rom Baro, Jingo, that it would soon be time to put an end to Tzigane’s crazy whims. Bad enough that she let her daughter run wild like a boy, but she had made no marriage plans for the girl.

  While most young women April’s age were already wed and with child, it infuriated the women and concerned the men that the phuri dai‘s daughter should be given preferential treatment. There was no doubt Tzigane had sufficient dowry for the girl, so when would she settle April’s future?

  But April’s future was exactly what Tzigane had in mind one late summer day as she spread out the arcana and peered at her tarot cards, trying to read the hazy signs that signified her daughter’s destiny. Once a day she had April shuffle the well-worn, colorful cards, and though the young woman was long impatient with the task, she still agreed to it out of love and respect for her mother.

  Tzigane always spent hours poring over the meaning of the cards, pondering and weighing her next move, and today was no exception. But something was wrong — never before had the cards been so clear, so defined, in telling her that April was in grave danger.

  Dabbing at her sweaty brow with the tail of the kerchief that bound back her hair, Tzigane stared at the picture of the mighty ivory and onyx tower surrounded by a boiling, blood-red sea. Red was the color of death to all Romany, and to see it surface made the old woman shiver with fear.