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CHAPTER 1
Si khohaimo may patshivalo sar o tshatshim. There are lies more believable than the truth. Old Romany saying
England 1811
"Bury me standing, for I have been on my knees all my life."
Valentina Rupa bowed her head to hear her beloved mother's last words, to see the twitch of her eyes beneath her eyelids, the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin blankets.
Her mother's breath faded, already settling into the bleak night, already gone.
Unearthly quiet filled their makeshift canopy. The dwindling light from the nearby campfires of their Romany tribe seeped through the canvas.
"Daj. Mother ... don't stop speaking." Tears blinded Valentina's eyes, defeated her voice. She focused on her mother's lips, willing her to speak once more. What good did it do to be a drabardi, a powerful fortune-teller and healer if she couldn't save her own mother?
Valentina's younger sister, Yolanda, stood beside her. Yolanda coughed violently, then wheezed.
"Please, Daj, it's not your time." Yolanda's hoarse voice faded to a whisper. "Her lips, she's breathing ..."
"Nay, it's the north wind." Valentina peered at the oak tree branches bending against a biting gust, threatening to collapse their crude canopy. Wagon wheels creaked, groaning into the dirt, familiar sounds, yet so distant. Their mother had lived her entire life in the caravan, traveling from village to village. There was no other way for her. Only the way of the Romany.
The air hung thick and heavy, warning of a hailstorm, stinging Valentina's damp cheeks. She didn't care, didn't bother to wipe them. She hated the weakness of crying. Crying meant loss and loneliness and defeat.
She glanced at Yolanda, noting her ashen face, the stoop of her slight shoulders. "Try to rest for a while."
"I'm not tired." Yolanda rubbed her temples. "Now that both Mother and Father are dead, we're orphans."
"I'll not abandon you." Valentina choked back her fears and crushing uncertainties. She was the older sister. She always took care of Yolanda.
With shaking fingers, she tucked the threadbare blankets around their mother's feeble body, smoothed the wrinkled fabric, and folded the ends back. Neatly, the way her mother liked it done. Tucked, smoothed, folded. Tucked, smoothed, folded.
"Daj, you starved yourself so we could eat. We'd have found the food we needed somehow." Her hands glided purposefully. "Why do the English treat the Rom as if we're animals?"
"Because this is the land of the English," Yolanda said. "They make their own rules."
Long shivers rippled through Valentina's body, a cadence of trepidation and doubt. In a single, deliberate breath, she blew them out.
The friends who'd discreetly stayed out of the way melted in now, coming from their wagons to gather around the deathbed. The sad cries of the caravan penetrated the dusk. Purple-lipped, the elderly, ragged men and women huddled together, stamping their feet to keep away the chill.
With the sleeve of her frayed cotton gown, Valentina wiped her eyes. Her hands were still wet from retrieving water from the river. She'd used the water to bathe her mother, an ironic Romany custom relying on her mother's willingness to go to her death.
Yolanda helped Valentina gather their mother's personal belongings and carried them to the campfire. The flames rose against the night sky and consumed the remnants of their mother's life — a well-worn apron, a silky fringed sash. Their people burned most possessions of the dead, believing the possessions were unclean and defiled the living.
Valentina skimmed her index finger across her mother's double-edged dagger and accidentally drew blood. Grimacing, she licked her finger. She didn't have the heart to destroy the weapon, so she thrust the dagger into its sheath and tied it on a cord along her gown's seam.
Then she slid her palm across the last treasure, her mother's yellow scarf, her diklo. Bringing it to her face, Valentina closed her eyes and inhaled. The scent of oak and jasmine, exotic and mysterious, flooded through her. She remembered her mother jauntily tying the diklo around her greying hair each morning.
Valentina knew she was supposed to take one small token before burial, although she took two. She'd never been one to obey rules. She folded the yellow scarf into a perfect triangle and tied it loosely around her throat. It didn't match her faded scarlet gown, and that didn't matter.
Nothing mattered now except her sister.
Yolanda's pretty, round face contorted in grief as she placed small multicolored stones around their mother's body. Valentina inserted pearls in her mother's nose to keep out all wickedness. Her hands wavered, and she avoided touching the body for fear of contamination.
Inhaling the fragrance of a drop of frankincense, she smoothed the spicy golden oil along her arms to protect herself against evil spirits. A shadow of skepticism crossed her soul, and her hands stopped. Maybe spirits didn't exist at all. They certainly demanded endless rituals, and in return granted ... nothing. Glancing around at the eerie silhouettes dancing in the firelight, she dabbed a few more drops of oil on her wrists, just in case.
The men of their tribe had moved to sit in the grassy clearing on the forest's edge, the scent of sweet blackberry brandy filling the brisk October air. They'd stolen it from an unsuspecting Englishman in town. Several grizzled dogs lay listless at their feet.
Luca, the caravan's young leader, was the only man who stood. His baggy green pants were fitted at the ankle and billowed in the wind. He mourned Valentina and Yolanda's mother in a plaintive cadence and guided the elders in solemn chants. Although all the other young men had gone off in search of food and never returned, Luca hadn't deserted the tribe.
"I'll get more hot water, Yolanda, before we prepare for Daj's burial." Valentina retrieved her wool cloak and then hoisted a pot of water off of a smoky campfire. With her free hand, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, longing for a warm bath. However, custom prevented her from washing until after her mother's burial.
She made her way past the lamenters to the small tent the women shared. An afternoon rain had washed soggy leaves over the ground. One of the dogs lifted its head and sniffed, the thick fur around its neck bristling. A sudden crackle — somewhere a tree branch snapped.
Her senses sharpened. The last few nights she'd dozed while nursing her mother and had dreamed about a man. A rich man. A powerful man.
Scanning the dense woods, she sensed someone was watching. She had the gift of second sight, her mother had said, but Valentina shook the thought away. Besides, her tribe was far too secluded to be found.
* * *
Yolanda labored through the night with a deep, raspy cough, while Valentina brewed a mixture of vegetable matter and barley water and fed it to her sister. Still, the cough persisted.
By morning, Yolanda's breathing came rapidly; her skin was pale. Curing Yolanda's chronic cough had been beyond their mother's skill, and Valentina's, also. With each day, Yolanda's condition had steadily worsened. Perhaps she had an infection.
Luca entered the tent. His brows furrowed as he studied Yolanda's sweaty face. "There's a gentleman who owns an estate in Ipswich, and a physician might live nearby," he said.
Valentina caught Luca's worried look and stood, deliberating.
"Perhaps the physician can prescribe a tonic medicine." She squeezed Yolanda's chilly hands reassuringly. "If we leave now, we'll be back at the camp before nightfall. Daj's burial isn't until tomorrow. Are you well enough for the walk to Ipswich, Yolanda?"
"Aye, of course." If Yolanda wanted to portray strength, the effect was spoiled by the look of hesitation in her deep-brown eyes. And then by a violent cough.
The midday sun loomed by the time Luca led Valentina and Yolanda to the outskirts of a grand country estate with a vast two-story home made of stone and the surrounding land dotted with tenant farmer cottages. Through the tall boxwood hedges that screened them from view, Valentina spotted a thin boy skipping stones on the banks of a slow-flowing stream.
The refreshing autumn breeze had renewed her spirits. Although still saddened by her mother's death, she was certain her sister would soon receive the care she needed to recover.
Luca stepped over a fallen stump and remarked how the color was returning to Yolanda's pale cheeks. "The walk has done us all good."
Valentina smiled, appreciating his attempt to encourage them.
"After your mother's burial," he continued, "we'll head south toward the coast."
"Before the winter, hopefully," Valentina answered, guiding Yolanda past a low wooden fence. From the corner of her eye, she thought she glimpsed movement at the edge of the field they were skirting. For a moment, she froze.
"Luca" — Her voice rose in alarm as she saw two men running toward them.
"What are you Gypsies doing here?" one of the men shouted. His hair was silver-white, and as he neared, she could see numerous lines creased his forehead.
Valentina's hands flew to her chest. "We're —"
Yolanda's lips quivered as she pressed her elbows to her sides. "Please. We're not doing anything wrong." She coughed so hard her face flushed crimson.
"Are you trying to steal from us? You'll answer to Mr. Colchester." The silver-haired man fixed his gaze on the other man. "Aye, Roland?"
Roland, a rough-looking man with huge shoulders, nodded. "Aye, Geoffrey. Gypsies aren't wanted here."
Prickles made their way up the back of Valentina's neck.
There was no time to explain. She whirled and grabbed her sister's hand. Frantically, she scanned the field. Where was Luca?
Trembling, shaking, gasping, she tugged Yolanda back toward the forest. The undergrowth whipped at her ankles. Her lungs burned.
"We should've stayed at the camp. I don't need a physician." Yolanda's cough was incessant as she tried to keep up. "If they catch us ..." She slipped and fell, bracing herself on both arms as she hit the ground. Her head went down and she cried out in pain.
"Valentina!" Yolanda glanced at her arm, twisted at an odd angle, and blanched. "It hurts. The pain is throbbing. I can't run!"
Absorbed in her sister, Valentina allowed herself one gasping breath and risked a look over her shoulder. The two men — Geoffrey and Roland — were dashing straight toward them.
Valentina slid her arm around Yolanda's shoulders, assisting her sister first to a kneeling position, then gently to her feet.
Yolanda pursed her lips, her eyes darkened with pain. "My arm feels hot."
As she murmured assurances to Yolanda, the trees rustled and Valentina peered upward. Luca had launched himself into the heavy branches of a tall, mossy pine. The limbs cracked under his weight as he braced his bare feet on branches on either side of the trunk, balancing with ease. Raw-boned and dark, he coiled and yanked a carving knife from his boot as the two men reached the women.
Valentina tried not to glance at him, fearful the men would see Luca and ruin his ambush. Before the men could speak, Luca vaulted to the ground and locked his muscled arm around Roland's throat.
"Romany men don't share and no one takes our drabardi anywhere." His blade glinted in a shaft of sunlight.
Roland struck a heavy jab to Luca's chest and threw Luca onto the ground. His head bounced hard, his eyes closed. Then Roland turned to Yolanda, now sobbing from pain.
"I'll take the hurt lass to the house," Roland said to the other man. Without waiting from a word from either woman, he scooped Yolanda up and lumbered toward the estate.
Valentina took judicious note of Luca. He was breathing steadily, and his eyelids flickered.
Geoffrey extended his hand. "Come with us. Your sister is hurt and needs help."
She ignored his hand. "Is there a physician on the estate?"
"Nay, although he lives close by. He can tend to her arm come the morrow. I fear it might be fractured."
Come the morrow. Valentina scraped a hand through her heavy, tangled hair. They had planned to return to camp by nightfall.
Briefly, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her mother's body required a proper burial ritual. However, her sister's injury required a physician to attend to her.
Valentina glanced over her shoulder at Luca. His quick, reassuring nod settled her conflicting considerations. In a wordless exchange, he assured her he'd attend to her mother's burial.
Pushing up the sleeves of her scarlet gown, she straightened her shoulders, and her five-foot stature seemed to lengthen. She matched Geoffrey's swift strides, concentrating on Yolanda and the grand house that awaited them.
Daj would want her to focus on Yolanda's care, she assured herself. Come the morrow, they'd return to their caravan.
CHAPTER 2
Devlesa araklam tum. It is with God that we found you. Old Romany saying
James Colchester rubbed his eyes, struggling with the fatigue of numerous sleepless nights. As a commissioned officer, he'd fought another senseless battle in King George's name. Time he would've preferred to spend near his son. Once the battle in Spain had ended for the time being, he'd quickly returned home.
His son's excited squeals of laughter as he'd run into James' arms had been his reward for his efforts. Warmth moved his heart, lifted his spirit. Now, with the boy finally asleep on his lap, he forced his shoulders to relax, and he lifted a prayer.
"Thank you, Lord, for watching over my son and keeping him safe."
James shifted in the straight-backed chair. It pressed unyieldingly against his sore muscles and was barely able to contain his long form and his little son's too. Despite his prosperity, he favored simplicity. His bedchamber contained little more than an unadorned fireplace, a clean bed, a wooden table beneath a woven tablecloth. He shook back an errant strand of hair, grown long from neglect. He'd haphazardly tied it back with a leather thong.
Geoffrey, James's steward, stepped into the room.
"Trouble, I hear?" James reached for his goblet of port wine set on the carved rosewood sidetable beside him. "A Gypsy woman on the estate?"
"Two Gypsy women, sir. They're sisters. And one Gypsy man, who would've been more than happy to slit Roland's throat. Roland and I saw them near the estate this afternoon, a few hours before you returned. Roland was feeding the game near his cottage while I was attending to one of the tenants. Anyway, when we confronted the Gypsies because we assumed they were stealing, they tried to run off. The younger sister injured her arm."
"And the Gypsy man?"
"He was no threat." Geoffrey shook his head, adding a dismissive hand gesture. "Aside from the one woman's injury, the both of them looked like they hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. That's why I brought them here." "Tell Wiborow to have guest bedchambers prepared for them both, as well as a warm meal. I'll call for the physician come the morrow."
"I assumed you would and have already made provisions for the women when we arrived a few hours ago. The injured sister is resting. The other sister is waiting in the parlor. I wasn't certain if you wanted to speak with her before you retired." Geoffrey squinted at the sleeping child in James' lap. "Forgive me for not asking about your son sooner. How is he?" He sighed. "Poor boy."
"My son was born deaf. Rest assured, he isn't poor."
"Aye. I only meant —" Apparently thinking better about continuing, Geoffrey took a long breath and threaded a wrinkled hand through his sparse hair. He perused the sideboard before selecting a ripe pear. "May I sit?"
"Of course."
Geoffrey's heavy profile cast a stooped shadow along the candle-lit room. He angled his chair near the fireplace, grabbed a glass of ale from the sideboard and took a lengthy swill. He'd been James' loyal steward since James had inherited his parents' estate six years earlier.
"I overheard several servants speculating in the hallway," James said, "and one of them mentioned one of the Gypsy women is a fortune-teller."
Geoffrey leaned forward in his chair. "Aye. They are camped nearby, and some of the servants have gone to have their fortunes told. It is the older sister, I believe."
"Perhaps she's the woman who once read my late wife's fortune. 'Twould be a coincidence, aye?" James stroked the stubble on his chin, and adjusting his sleeping son on his lap, stretched his legs toward the warm fire. He was still chilled from the battle. Anxiety threaded his words, despite his attempt to disguise it.
Geoffrey stared at his tankard and didn't meet James' gaze. "After your wife's death, the entire manor fears another outbreak of influenza."
"May I remind you, Geoffrey, that living here in the country, we're much removed from this latest epidemic."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Seeking Fortune"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Josie Riviera.
Excerpted by permission of Josie Riviera.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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