Once a Gypsy

by Danica Winters

  “Some people believe the Earl of Dunraven and his heirs had a special connection to the old gods as well as the new. In fact, they were one of the only families in the Irish aristocracy of true Gaelic origins. If you pay attention, there are many secrets held within the manor’s walls.”

  “Hey,” Da said, not paying attention to Graham. “You want me to fix that?”

  “What?” Graham asked.

  “There’s a crack.” Da walked over to the sleigh-backed bench and crouched down. “See? Right here.” He pointed at one of the claw-footed legs. A thin crack ran up its length.

  “Oh, that can’t be fixed.”

  “Ho, ho, there you’re wrong. Just wait here a sec.” Da stood up with a broad grin on his face. He looked over at Helena, then back at Graham. “Helena, you okay if I run to the lorry? I need to get my tools.”

  Helena nodded.

  He looked back and forth between her and Graham. “Graham, I need ya to promise me somethin’; if we’re gonna work here I need to know you’ll look after me daughter like she’s blood of yer blood. Can I trust ya?”

  Graham gave Da a confident, if not overly excited, smile. “Seamus, you have my word.”

  Helena stepped back, her back pushed against the cold stone. “Da… I’m fine.”

  Da waved her off. “Good. That’s a good man.” Da turned and raced off to the lorry.

  She and Graham stood alone.

  She wanted to ask him so much, but she was already running a risk by being this close to him—Mam would have a right fit if she found out that Da had left her unchaperoned. Sweat collected in her palms.

  Graham cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about the party. I didn’t mean to ruin your night—and I know I didn’t say the right thing at the prison. I shouldn’t have called you a gypo. I owe you an apology. I just didn’t realize…”

  She tried, but no matter how hard she attempted it, she couldn’t hold her tongue. “That I was a pikey?” Her nerves mixed with the anger in her gut. “Why did you talk to me at all?”

  “I guess I thought we could be friends, or maybe—”

  “You thought you would make friends with a gypo standing outside of Limerick Prison?” she interrupted. “What’s your angle?”

  “I don’t… there’s no…” Graham’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, but she didn’t wait for him to finish.

  “You people always think you can buy whatever you want. But you got another thing comin’ if you think that’s the kind of woman I am.” She looked up at the castle and some of the air left her argument.

  “I never said anything like that.” He reached out for her, but she moved away from him.

  “Why did you give Da this job? Were you tryin’ to get in my knickers? Or is this just some happy coincidence?”

  “Your knickers have nothing to do with why I offered your father the job.” The softness in Graham’s features hardened.

  “Then why are we here? Were you tryin’ to get my father to take the fall for something?”

  “Don’t you trust anyone? Can’t someone just want to help you? I hate to squash your conspiracy theory, but I wanted to hire you and your father because I thought you would be valuable additions to our staff.” Graham shook his head in disgust, but there was something in his eyes, some shadow, that made her second-guess his motivation. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know what kind of person you are. You speak of trust, but there’s something wrong… I can feel it. You ain’t tellin’ me somethin’.”

  Graham opened the door and stepped inside. He turned back to face her. “Think what you want. You’ll come to see that I’m not a monster.”

  Chapter Five

  “I don’t know what they did around this place before I got here,” Da said to Helena as they arrived back at the manor the next morning. “Did you see the look on Graham’s face when I fixed the bench? Just a lil’ crushed pecan shell and that bugger was good as new.”

  Helena nodded as the gates of the manor passed by. She’d spent the previous night trying to tell Da that she didn’t trust Graham and that he should find another job, but the words just wouldn’t come. Now they’d be back in Graham’s presence within minutes.

  Sighing, she leaned her head against the lorry door. Maybe it was best that Da stayed. Settling down for a little while would be good for the family. The kids could finish the school year. The family could pay off debts. She could focus on her studies in the evening—at least when Mam and Da weren’t fighting—and show the world that she had the power to create her own path. She could escape.

  Her opinion of the handsome-but-off-putting Graham didn’t matter. She needed to accept their situation and focus on the family and the greater good.

  “You okay, gra a mo gris?”

  She faked a smile. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

  “Sorry about the fighting again last night. I hoped your mam would be better since my new job, but those kids ran her ragged. I dunno know if she’ll be able to get on alone with ’em.”

  “Does that mean ya want me to stay at the trailer?”

  “Nah lass. She’s gotta learn how to handle the kids if we’re gonna make any money. Did you get that paperwork filled out?”

  Helena patted her purse. “With all the right details.”

  She had made sure to give them a fake name and address. No one in the government needed to know anything about their family—they didn’t need to be tracked like sheep.

  “Good, and don’t worry about the family. Rionna’s old enough to take control.”

  “I hope so…”

  Da pulled the lorry into the employee car park. Graham was working on the manor’s town car and, as he spotted them, he stood up and closed the hood. Today he wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough for Helena to spot the subtle curves of his tanned, muscular chest, but the same impractical red kilt. Very few men wore kilts. He probably did so in an effort to get the tourist girls running to him, but no matter how hard he tried, she’d never fall for his attempts to be sexy.

  “Hi, Helena,” he said as they got out of the lorry, his voice carrying an edge of overly friendly warmth. “Morning, Seamus.”

  Da nodded.

  “This week the village is going to be celebrating Feile na Maighe,” Graham said with a wide smile. “The festival will be in the village’s square, but there’ll be some big names staying here at the manor. We need to make sure we have everything in order when they arrive.”

  He turned to Da. “I was hoping that you and I could start going over more of what I will expect, as far as your daily duties are concerned. Will that work for you, Mr. O’Driscoll?”

  “Aye, but what about Helena? She’ll be workin’ alongside me, ain’t she?”

  Graham’s smile never wavered. “I’m afraid not, Seamus. I’ve arranged for another position for her.”

  Da’s face darkened as he glanced over at her. “Why don’t you wait here, gra? I think me and Mr. Kelly got a bit o’ talkin’ to do.”

  A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, only worsening as she watched the two men walk away toward the gardens.

  Graham turned back. “Helena? Why don’t you go inside and take a look. The house staff will gladly show you around. Just let them know that I sent you.”

  “We’ll only be a minute,” Da grumbled as he frowned at Graham.

  Helena lifted her purse higher on her arm and thought of Ogak Beoir. Had the old crone known this was coming? The woman had been right when she had told her things weren’t as they seemed. If she had been watching now, the crone would probably have been laughing away in her onion-scented shawl.

  As she made her way into the entrance hall, Helena’s shoes clicked on the white marble floors. In the center of the room stood an enormous golden vase filled with antique pink roses and greenery. Its soft floral scent filled the air, melting away some of the hard edges of her thoughts.

  She continued down the hall, tak
ing in the wainscoted walls, the black marble doorways, and the antique wood ceiling. The effect was breathtaking, and though it was only a large entranceway, Helena had never been in a more lovely room. That was, until she walked into the main parlor. The parlor walls were filled with oil paintings of ancient-looking men, most accompanied by their hounds. A large, intricately carved staircase rose from behind the front desk, where a receptionist sat dressed in a black pinstriped suit. She looked up from a computer. “Hello, may I help you?”

  “I… I’m here to help my—” Helena stammered.

  “Oh, you must be the new girl Graham hired,” the woman interrupted. She stood up and walked around the desk. “Follow me. I’ll take you back to the kitchens.”

  “I’m not—”

  The receptionist waved her hand. “I know you’re nervous, lass, but you’ll fit in in no time. The women back there are nice, though strict. Make sure you’re on time each day for your shift, and you won’t have any problems.”

  “I don’t think you have the right person.”

  “Nonsense. He described you perfectly.” The receptionist smiled and led her through a service door and down a maze of wood-paneled halls.

  Helena’s face burned. How exactly would a man like Graham describe a Traveller such as herself? Before she could ask, the woman pushed open a swinging door and led her into the kitchen. The kitchen staff moved through the stainless steel prep tables and stoves carrying trays of roasted meats, steaming pies, and sizzling veg like they were members of a well-choreographed ballet.

  “Here you go, lass. Best of luck.” The receptionist turned and rushed out before Helena had the chance to thank her.

  Helena sucked in a breath. The place was everything she expected and more from a professional kitchen. People stood in front of prep tables, calling out orders as they stirred and chopped. Some of the staff worked behind long rows of cookers as they flipped and scraped. Others kneaded dough, and a few washed and scrubbed and cleaned. The place was so busy, so frightening, and so absolutely incredible.

  A stout woman with mushroom-colored hair, a thin gold wedding band, and a crisp white apron stomped toward her. She had a crooked nose and a large mole beneath her left nostril. “Are you the new girl?” she asked in a strong Dubliner accent.

  Helena nodded.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Helena.” She tried to cover her Cant Traveller accent, but the woman’s eyebrows rose.

  “Well Helena, I’m Mrs. Mary Margaret. You can call me Mary. We’re gonna need you to be here on time each and every day.” The woman looked down at her clothes and scowled. She waved at Helena’s tight white top and shorts. “Ach… You can’t be wearing none of that around here. We have strict standards. You hear me?”

  Helena nodded.

  “Good. Before you start, I need to know what you’re made of. Can you cook?”

  “Aye.” Helena had been cooking for her brother and sisters for as long as she could remember. It had never been anything beyond what they could catch or trap or what was cheap at the shop, but she could put together a meal like nobody’s business.

  The woman led her through the kitchen, sidestepping people dressed in white aprons, black ties, and tall toques. A few of them smiled, but most looked at her with mistrust.

  The scent of the meat mixed with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves as they passed the row of cookers. Helena stopped and closed her eyes to enjoy the rich mix of scents, but when she opened them, the world had transformed. The kitchen was motionless. Mary Margaret, the staff—everyone was missing.

  She stepped forward, and her foot made a wet, sucking sound.

  She looked down. On the floor, surrounding her feet, was a pool of crimson blood.

  At the base of the stainless-steel table lay a man. He was on his back and his white chef’s jacket was speckled with blood. His dappled gray hair and bushy sideburns stuck out from under a crooked toque. He stared into nothingness.

  Helena rushed toward the man, but stopped. The kitchen, so busy with activity only moments before, was silent. This couldn’t be real. This all had to be some crazy dream…

  Helena closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The scraping of spatulas, the scratching of whisks, and the laughter of a chef flooded her senses. She blinked and stared down at the pristine white-and-black-tiled floor.

  The blood was gone, and so was the dead man.

  What in fecking hell is going on?

  “Helena? I asked you a question. I thought my Herbert was bad at listening…”

  “Your Herbert? Huh?”

  “Yes, my husband.” Mary Margaret waved her hands in frustration. “But never mind him. I was just asking if you’ve ever been in a professional kitchen before.”

  Helena shook her head, but she couldn’t stop staring at the spot on the floor—the spot where the body had been.

  “Well, you’re gonna have a lot to learn then. First thing is, don’t be standing in the way.”

  A big man with gray bushy sideburns stood next to her, carrying a large copper pot.

  It was the man. The dead man.

  She gasped.

  “Out of the way, lass. Some of us are tryin’ to work round here.” He pushed by her.

  The man moved through the room, working away, oblivious to the fact that she had just seen his death. She made to follow him, but Mary stopped her.

  “Come along, we don’t have all day.” Mary led her toward the back of the kitchen.

  A wave of exhaustion passed through her, nearly forcing her to sit down and rest, but Helena forced herself to keep walking after Mary. She must just be tired. This was nothing. She wasn’t losing her mind. She couldn’t be losing her mind. Her family depended on her.

  They stopped in front of a long, stainless-steel prep table in the back of the kitchen. “I want you to mince these mushrooms and chop the onion.” She pointed at the boxes of veg that sat at the end of the counter. “We’ll start you here and see how things go.”

  A stack of aprons sat on the shelves next to a bin for laundry. Mary reached up and handed one down to Helena. “You need to put this on.” She turned to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “And here in the kitchens you can’t be manky.” She spat the word and looked Helena up and down. “I know about you and your kind. Know that I’m taking a chance on a gypo like you. Don’t make me regret it.” Mary turned around and stomped off.

  Helena’s cheeks flushed. She tried focusing on the piles of papery onions and earthy mushrooms, but couldn’t bring herself to work. Was this her future? Would she never be able to escape her stereotype? It was hard to imagine that things would be different even with a university education. No one would care that she had a paper that said she was educated; they would only see where she had come from.

  Helena pushed her heavy, book-laden purse under the counter and washed her hands, making sure to scrub until her skin was shiny and red. She tied the apron around her waist and set to work washing the mushrooms.

  Pulling a mushroom from the bin, she grabbed a knife from the block and started to mince. Maybe she could get by at a place like this. Save some money. Run away to England. Go see Manchester United and see if Graham was right about them being God’s gift to man.

  She sat the knife down. Graham. If she had to lay a wager, that man damned near thought he was God’s gift to womankind. She grabbed the box of onions, slammed it down on the table next to her, and started slicing.

  The onions’ stinging scent made her nose prickle, and tears welled in her eyes, but she bit them back. She could feel the gazes of the other cooks in the kitchen. Keeping her head down, she continued on, working hard like Da had taught her, all the while trying to forget about Graham and his irksome red jersey and even more irksome red kilt.

  Before long the boxes sat empty, and the chopped veg were stacked in the industrial cooler.

  Mary stomped over and looked down at her watch. Her eyebrows rose, and she peered over at the fridge. “There’s
no way you got done that fast.”

  Helena wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, ma’am, I finished.”

  Mary walked over to the cooler and opened the door. “All right, lass. If you want the job, it’s yours.”

  Helena paused. Did she really have a choice? If she said no, she could go back to studying, but Graham had made it sound like she and Da were a package deal. If that was the case, she couldn’t bear the thought of how Mam would react if she heard they’d both lost their jobs because she didn’t take the job.

  “Aye, ma’am. This job would be grand. Thank ye.”

  “Ach… Don’t be thankin’ me yet.” Mary crossed her arms over her ample chest like she was trying to look tough, but there was softness around her eyes that made Helena smile. Maybe this was where she was meant to be—tucked away in the kitchens, away from the prying eyes of her mam, with a place to study for the days to come.

  “Get going, lass, but be back tomorrow no later than six o’clock. Got that? No later than six.”

  “Okay,” Helena said, almost in a whisper. She turned to go.

  “And lass?”

  Helena looked back over her shoulder. “Aye?”

  “Good job.”

  Chapter Six

  Graham couldn’t look away from the aura that pulsated around Helena. She looked like she was sitting in the middle of a rainbow. Perhaps she was his pot of gold.

  It had been a hard sell to get Seamus O’Driscoll to agree to let his daughter work for the manor, but in the end, Graham had won when he suggested Helena could work in a place out of the public eye. That had seemed to calm some of the Traveller’s fears.

  Helena stuffed a thick book into her purse as she made her way out of the manor and into the bright afternoon sun. When their gazes met, a whisper of a smile played over her lips. She turned away, but it was too late. Her expression had already made his heart sputter.

  Seamus waved at his daughter. “Where’ve ya been, gra? We’ve been lookin’ all over for ya.”