My mother and I waited in the inn for my father’s return. The tension was almost unbearable. If in spite of everything they condemned him to death … I could not bear to contemplate that.
We sat at the window of my parents’ bedroom watching for his return.
Edward Barrington was with him. He had also been in court, and I warmed towards him for making our cause his.
As we saw them approaching I tried to judge from their expressions which way the verdict had gone, but I could not do so.
I sprang to the door. My mother was beside me. “Wait here,” she said. “It won’t be long now.”
They came into the room. I stared at my father. He was looking solemn and did not speak for a few seconds. I feared the worst and I cried out: “What? What?”
“They’ve sentenced him.”
“Oh no … no. It’s unfair. It was my fault that he was caught.”
My father took me by the shoulders. He said: “It could have been worse. A man was killed. That cannot be forgotten. He won’t hang. We’ve stopped that. They’ve sentenced him to transportation … for seven years.”
We were to leave Nottingham the following day. I felt deflated. I kept telling myself that at least they had not killed him. But to send him away for seven years … right to the other side of the world. Seven years … it was an eternity. I said to myself: I shall never see him again …
He had made a deep impression on me and I should never forget him.
The Barringtons persuaded us to dine with them on our last night. We did so—and the talk was all about the case.
“He was lucky,” said Edward Barrington. “It’s a fairly light sentence for killing a man.”
“In such circumstances …” I began hotly.
“He did kill the man and it would be considered a light sentence. The girl made a good impression. She was so young and innocent… and quite beautiful.”
“The fact that she was a virgin and we’d been smart enough to prove it knocked the wind out of their sails,” said my father with a chuckle.
“The prosecution was out to prove that she was a loose woman. That was proved false and the evil reputation of Ralph Hassett could not be denied.”
“Thanks for your help,” said my father.
“You have been wonderful,” added my mother.
“It is the least we could do,” said Mrs. Barrington.
“Moreover,” put in her husband, “it is good to see justice done.”
“He’ll be all right… that young man,” said my father. “He’s one of the survivors. That I saw right from the beginning.”
“But to leave one’s country … to be banished …” I said. “When he should not have been banished at all, but applauded.”
“The old squire was in a passion,” said Mr. Barrington. “He wanted a hanging.”
“Wicked old thing,” said Mrs. Barrington.
“Well, I think they should set him free,” I said.
“My dear girl, people cannot go about killing for whatever reason,” said my father.
My mother smiled at me. “We saved him from the rope. Let us rejoice in that.”
“Do you think he knew?” I asked.
“He saw me in court,” explained my father. “He heard my testimony and he knew I was the one who had produced the evidence of the dead man’s character and had proved the girl’s innocence. And he would say, Why should he do that? He would know it is because I have a daughter who tells me what should and should not be done.” He turned to the company. “She is a tyrant, this daughter of mine and she has made me her slave.”
They were all gazing at us smiling, all except Clare Carson. In the turmoil of my thoughts there came the idea that she did not like me very much. I dismissed the thought at once. It was pointless and unimportant.
“They are a wild pair,” said my mother, “my husband and my daughter. Jessica takes after her father and the odd thing is that I wouldn’t change either of them even if I could.”
“Remind me to remind you of that sometime,” said my father.
“I think,” put in Mrs. Barrington, “that we should drink to our meeting. It started in an unpleasant way and has turned out quite the reverse. I hope it will be the beginning of our friendship.”
We all drank to that and I caught Edward Barrington’s eyes on me. He was smiling very warmly and I felt rather pleased in spite of my sadness over Romany Jake, until I saw Clare Carson watching me.
I lifted my glass and drank.
The next day we left for home. We came out of the inn early in the morning. The Barringtons had requested that we call in to them on our way. There we were refreshed with wine and little cakes and it was agreed that we must visit each other at some time.
They all came out to wave us off and wish us a pleasant journey home.
My thoughts were melancholy. I had done everything I could to save him and at least he was not dead, but I wondered what it must be like to be banished to the other side of the world for seven years.
Ours had been a strange relationship and I knew that if I never saw him again he would live on in my thoughts.
He’s a survivor, my father had said.
Those words brought me a certain comfort.
I went to Aunt Sophie’s. One of us made a point of going every day. It was a different household since Dolly had gone there. Aunt Sophie was, as ever, at her best with misfortune, and Dolly had always been a special favourite of hers. Now that she was about to have a child and had no husband to help her through the ordeal, Aunt Sophie was in her element.
As I was given to pondering the strangeness of people’s behaviour this gave me cause for consideration. One would have thought it was an unpleasant trait to thrive on the ill fortune of others and yet Aunt Sophie was assiduous in her care for those in trouble. Perhaps, I thought, nothing is wholly good, nothing wholly bad, but when we do good we get great satisfaction for ourselves, and the more benefits we bring to others, the greater our self gratification. It is vanity, self absorption in a way.
What a maze my thoughts led me into at times! If I went on in that strain it would be difficult to tell the difference between good and bad. Romany Jake had committed murder to save a girl from an injury which could have affected her whole life. Good and evil walked very closely together.
And now Dolly was hoping to have an illegitimate child. That was to be deplored. But on the other hand her rather sad life had taken on a new dimension and for the first time Dolly was happy.
I was very interested in this matter and discussed it with Amaryllis. She listened to me and told me I was making a complicated issue out of something which was very simple. Amaryllis only saw the good in people. It does make life simpler to be like that.
I wished I had not gone to Aunt Sophie’s that day. I wished I had not had that talk with Dolly.
It had been decided that she should know nothing of Romany Jake’s sentence. Everyone knew, of course, that he was the father of her child. It was hardly likely that his visits to Grasslands and their being together on Trafalgar night could have passed unnoticed. Romany Jake was a man to attract attention wherever he went, and the fact that he had selected Dolly for his attention would cause some surprise and would no doubt be discussed at length in the kitchens of Grasslands and Enderby as well as in all the cottages.
“To know would upset her,” said my mother. “She will have to in time, of course, but let it be after the baby is born.”
I went into the room which had been assigned to her. It was one of the bedrooms on the first floor—the one with the speaking tube which went down to the kitchen. Jeanne had said she should have that room so that if she needed help there was another way of letting people know. It was Aunt Sophie’s room normally but she had given it up so that Dolly could have it. The midwife slept in the next room, but when the time grew nearer she was to have a bed in Dolly’s room.
She was lying on the bed with the blue velvet curtains and I noticed as soon as I ente
red that she was not looking as serene as when I last saw her. Perhaps, I thought, she is growing alarmed now that the ordeal is coming nearer.
She said: “I’m glad you have come, Jessica.”
“Everyone wants to know how you are. My mother is asking if you need another shawl.”
“No thank you. Mademoiselle Sophie has already given me two.” She went on: “I’ve been thinking a lot about… him, you know.”
“Who?” I asked, knowing full well.
“The baby’s father. I just have a feeling that something is wrong.”
I was silent.
She said: “If the baby is a boy, he is to be called Jake after his father. If it’s a girl she’s to be Tamarisk. He talked about the tamarisk trees in Cornwall. He liked them very much. I’ve never seen one. The east wind is too strong here for them, he said. He liked the feathery clusters of pink and white flowers with their slender branches. He said they are dainty … like young girls. So I shall call her Tamarisk. That should please him if he comes … when he comes …”
I remained silent but she gripped my hand. “I feel,” she said, “that something is wrong.”
“You mustn’t,” I replied. “You have to think of the baby.”
“I know. But I can tell. I’ve always had something … I don’t know what it is … but I know when something terrible is going to happen. I wonder if it is being not quite like other people … deformed in a way. Do you think if you are short of something Nature gives you something else … to make up?”
“Very likely.”
“I’ve done some wicked things in my life.”
“I expect all of us have.”
“I’ve done especially wicked things … but all for love … in a way. I wish I hadn’t. Taking you, for one thing, when you were a little baby. I know now what they must have gone through. I knew then, I suppose … but I wanted to hurt them.”
“Don’t think of that now. It doesn’t seem to have done me much harm.”
“I’ve done worse things … much worse. I wanted revenge. That’s a bad thing.”
“I suppose it is. People often say so.”
“But I’ve always had a special feeling for you because of that time when I kept you in my room. I can see you as you were then. Those lovely big eyes and you just stared at me, you did … and then suddenly you’d break into a smile as though you thought there was something rather funny about me. I knew I couldn’t hurt you then. Jessica, I want you to tell me about him.”
“Tell you what?”
“There is a lot of whispering going on. I know something has happened. You went to Nottingham and it was something to do with him.” She gripped my hand hard. “I sit here worrying. Tell me. I have to know. When I ask questions Jeanne pretends not to understand. She does that. She pretends her English isn’t good enough. But she understands everything. And Mademoiselle Sophie, she won’t tell me either. She keeps saying everything will be all right. I know something is very wrong and I believe it is about him.”
I half rose and said: “I ought to be getting back.”
She looked at me reproachfully.
“I thought you would have the courage to tell me. I lie here worrying. If anyone ought to know, I ought. They come south at the end of the summer. It will soon be summer. Something has happened to him, hasn’t it? I hear the servants whispering. ‘Don’t let her know,’ they say. ‘Don’t let her know till after the baby is born.’”
She was restless and there was a hot colour in her cheeks.
“You mustn’t upset yourself,” I began.
“I am upset and will be until I know. However bad it is, I’ve got to know. He killed a man and they caught him. He’ll be tried. I know what that means. They think I don’t hear their whisperings but I do.”
I burst out: “He killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the gypsy girls.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh then, it’s true. They will hang him.”
“No, no,” I cried. I had to ease her mind. I was sure now that it was better that she should know than fear the worst. “He will be all right,” I went on. “He will not hang. My father has saved him from that. Of course he could not get him freed entirely.”
“Then he is in prison …”
“He has been sentenced to transportation.”
She closed her eyes and lay back on her pillows. I was frightened. The colour had faded from her face. She was as white as the pillow on which she lay.
“It is only for seven years,” I said.
She did not speak. I was afraid and called Jeanne.
That was the beginning. I was not sure whether the shock brought on the birth prematurely, but it was only two days later when Dolly’s child was born.
I explained to my mother what I had done, and she assured me that there was nothing else I could have done in the circumstances. But I was sorry to have been the one to tell her.
The baby was a girl, healthy and strong. Not so, poor Dolly. The midwife said it was one of the most difficult deliveries she had ever undertaken. Aunt Sophie sent for the doctor. Dolly, he said, was not really suited to childbearing. In spite of the fact that she was in her mid-twenties, her body was rather immature.
She was very ill for a week—unconscious most of the time, but there were occasions when she was able to hold the child in her arms.
At the end of the week she died and there was great sorrow at Enderby and indeed at Eversleigh.
Jeanne said: “She was so happy to have the child. I’d never seen her really happy before. And as soon as the child is born she leaves this world! Life can be cruel so often.”
Claudine and my mother discussed at great length what should be done about the child.
“We will take her,” said my mother. “The girls will love to have a baby in the nurseries. I shall like it, too. There is nothing like a baby in the house.”
The child was to be called Tamarisk. I remembered Dolly had told me that she wished her to have that name. She must have told Aunt Sophie, too.
When my mother suggested that Tamarisk be brought to Eversleigh, Aunt Sophie was most indignant.
Indeed it should not be. She had decided to adopt Dolly’s baby. She had always intended to look after her and Dolly. There was only Tamarisk now.
Jeanne took charge as usual and a beautiful nursery was prepared. Aunt Sophie was better than we had ever seen her before.
“It is a great interest for her,” said my mother.
So Tamarisk lived at Enderby and flourished there.
Tamarisk
NOW THAT DOLLY WAS dead the question was what would happen to Grasslands. The baby Tamarisk was Dolly’s natural heir and it was decided that as the house would not be needed because Tamarisk was to live at Enderby, it should either be let or put up for sale.
To let was not easy, and it seemed only reasonable that the house should be sold.
My mother said: “I wonder whether the Barringtons would be interested in it.”
We all stared at her. We had forgotten that they had talked of looking for a house.
“It’s just a possibility,” went on my mother. “And think what pleasant neighbours they would be. Much nicer than having strangers here.”
“There is no harm in letting them know about it,” agreed my father.
Aunt Sophie was quite pleased when she heard we had a possible buyer in view but her interest now was centred on the baby and she gave little attention to anything else.
My mother invited the Barringtons for a visit, and she told them about the house. Both parents as well as Edward and Irene came; and of course Clare Carson was with them. They were enchanted with Grasslands and with the prospect of living close to us—all except Clare, who seemed somewhat guarded in her comments.
To our joy the Barringtons bought Grasslands and made it their main home. Clare came with them. Irene was shortly to be married to a Scot, so she would not be living in the house and Edward remained in Nottingham because of the business; but
he often came down to stay with his family.
I thought a great deal about Romany Jake and often wondered how he was faring in the penal settlement.
My conscience was eased a little because we had saved his life but I would never be content unless I could talk to him and explain how it had all happened.
Life at Eversleigh passed pleasantly, unruffled by what was happening in the outside world.
It was April—one of my favourite times of the year because of the coming of spring.
We had lived fairly serenely since the death of Dolly Mather. We were no longer apprehensive about a possible invasion though Trafalgar had not put an end to Napoleon’s ambitions. He had shrugged aside his failure at sea as he was making good his conquests on land and setting up his family to rule in the courts of Europe. Eager to found a dynasty of rulers, he had divorced his wife Josephine because she was barren and taken as his second wife Marie Louise of Austria in the hope of producing a son to carry on the line.
The wretched war dragged on. There were defeats and victories and one wondered whether it would ever end, though it did not affect us greatly except in increased taxation. The nation found a new hero in Arthur Wellesley who—after the victories of Oporto and Talavera about two years before—had been created Baron Douro and Viscount Wellington, and we were having spectacular successes on the Continent.
At home our poor old King was now blind and quite out of his mind; and in January of the previous year, the Regency Bill was passed, so that the Prince of Wales was now virtually the ruler.
One evening as we were sitting over dinner discussing topics of the day as we often did, my mother turned to a more frivolous topic: “It will soon be time for the birthday party and this year it will have to be a special one. Just think of it. The girls will be eighteen.”
She looked at Amaryllis and me as though we had achieved something rather wonderful in reaching such an age.
“Eighteen!” said David. “Are they really? How time flies!”
“They are no longer little girls,” said Claudine.
Return of the Gypsy Page 9
