window to listen. First he sang alone and then the others joined in chorus.
She stood there in her somber black mourning clothes, listening, smiling, and forgetting for a minute how alone she was. How her house was silent without even the sound of housemaids bustling about. How she hated living here. When the song was done she stayed at the window, the gossamer curtain blowing softly past her shoulder. She watched as he helped a woman lift a pail of water and drink from it. The woman worebright green skirts and yellow blouse—how brightly the Gypsies dressed compared to the pale pastels and white of her own fashionable clothing.
It hurt her to see him with a woman. She stepped away from the window. How foolish I am—to feel jealous when one Gypsy helps another. Perhaps that is his wife… One of the women must be his wife. It is madness to be thinking of him as I do—I am a widow, and he is a laborer and a Gypsy. I must not think of him. I must not.
For a moment she wondered why the people of her class despised those who worked for a living while they themselves had done nothing to deserve their own good fortune save be born in the right family.
As for herself, wellborn she might be, but perhaps not so fortunate. The death of her husband had left her so nearly penniless that she had had to let all the servants go. It is true that Sir Edward, a good and true friend, had offered to pay their wages, but she had refused.
Dear Sir Edward had brought her husband’s body home from London—God knows where he had been or with whom—and had seen to a decent burial. He’d taken care of her financial matters, thank goodness. According to Sir Edward, her husband had sold him the fields around the house and as for the house itself, Edward had explained that the house was hers only for her lifetime. Alas, she would have preferred to move to a small cottage more suitable for her reduced circumstance, but he insisted that her wisest course was to remain, although the house held few fond memories for her.
Sir Edward had, as well, and over her protests, arranged for the sour-faced Mrs. Peters to come every day to cook and clean.
Joanna had grown tired of idleness and disliked counting on the kindness of Sir Edward. She wanted to learn how to be useful. She’d badgered Mrs. Peters until the woman had begrudgingly shown her how to do some homely things like make bread or light a fire and cook a joint over it.
She sighed again and paced up and down the room.
For a minute she wondered what it would be like to be outside with the Gypsies. She knew that they worked long and hard, but their laughter and singing drifted through the window, reminding her of her aloneness and her idleness; for in truth she had no real occupation, and she had no friends hereabouts to entertain.
The singing ceased, and she saw the Gypsies trail off down the lane, breaking for dinner before returning to work until sundown.
Mrs. Smith’s grating voice startled her out of her reverie. “You said you would go over to the Adams’ farm today and get apples and eggs and a chicken.”
Why did Mrs. Smith always sound aggrieved? There was still ample time to get there and back. Joanna called her son, five-year-old Nash, and helped him put on his boots and then put on her own. She got two big baskets for herself and a smaller one for Nash and they set off for their neighbor.
***
Joanna’s arms hurt as she and Nash made their way down the lane and she struggled to carry the full baskets. She wished that she had not bought so much. Nash had tired of carrying his apple-filled basket so she carried that as well while he ran to and fro as she trudged down the lane.
She heard laughing and talking as the Gypsies poured into the lane from an adjoining path. They grew quiet when they saw her, the men tipping their hats while some of the women bobbed a small curtsey. The children stopped running about and stared solemnly at her and at Nash.
“I went to the
She stood there in her somber black mourning clothes, listening, smiling, and forgetting for a minute how alone she was. How her house was silent without even the sound of housemaids bustling about. How she hated living here. When the song was done she stayed at the window, the gossamer curtain blowing softly past her shoulder. She watched as he helped a woman lift a pail of water and drink from it. The woman worebright green skirts and yellow blouse—how brightly the Gypsies dressed compared to the pale pastels and white of her own fashionable clothing.
It hurt her to see him with a woman. She stepped away from the window. How foolish I am—to feel jealous when one Gypsy helps another. Perhaps that is his wife… One of the women must be his wife. It is madness to be thinking of him as I do—I am a widow, and he is a laborer and a Gypsy. I must not think of him. I must not.
For a moment she wondered why the people of her class despised those who worked for a living while they themselves had done nothing to deserve their own good fortune save be born in the right family.
As for herself, wellborn she might be, but perhaps not so fortunate. The death of her husband had left her so nearly penniless that she had had to let all the servants go. It is true that Sir Edward, a good and true friend, had offered to pay their wages, but she had refused.
Dear Sir Edward had brought her husband’s body home from London—God knows where he had been or with whom—and had seen to a decent burial. He’d taken care of her financial matters, thank goodness. According to Sir Edward, her husband had sold him the fields around the house and as for the house itself, Edward had explained that the house was hers only for her lifetime. Alas, she would have preferred to move to a small cottage more suitable for her reduced circumstance, but he insisted that her wisest course was to remain, although the house held few fond memories for her.
Sir Edward had, as well, and over her protests, arranged for the sour-faced Mrs. Peters to come every day to cook and clean.
Joanna had grown tired of idleness and disliked counting on the kindness of Sir Edward. She wanted to learn how to be useful. She’d badgered Mrs. Peters until the woman had begrudgingly shown her how to do some homely things like make bread or light a fire and cook a joint over it.
She sighed again and paced up and down the room.
For a minute she wondered what it would be like to be outside with the Gypsies. She knew that they worked long and hard, but their laughter and singing drifted through the window, reminding her of her aloneness and her idleness; for in truth she had no real occupation, and she had no friends hereabouts to entertain.
The singing ceased, and she saw the Gypsies trail off down the lane, breaking for dinner before returning to work until sundown.
Mrs. Smith’s grating voice startled her out of her reverie. “You said you would go over to the Adams’ farm today and get apples and eggs and a chicken.”
Why did Mrs. Smith always sound aggrieved? There was still ample time to get there and back. Joanna called her son, five-year-old Nash, and helped him put on his boots and then put on her own. She got two big baskets for herself and a smaller one for Nash and they set off for their neighbor.
***
Joanna’s arms hurt as she and Nash made their way down the lane and she struggled to carry the full baskets. She wished that she had not bought so much. Nash had tired of carrying his apple-filled basket so she carried that as well while he ran to and fro as she trudged down the lane.
She heard laughing and talking as the Gypsies poured into the lane from an adjoining path. They grew quiet when they saw her, the men tipping their hats while some of the women bobbed a small curtsey. The children stopped running about and stared solemnly at her and at Nash.
“I went to the
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