Return of the Gypsy

by Philippa Carr

  “Yes, yes,” said Peter soothingly. “I’ve discovered everything. I’ll take you back and tell you all about it. Come along, both of you.”

  I was summing up the situation. He was involved in this. He knew the blind girl; he knew Prue; he knew these clubs. They were not ordinary clubs, after all. Strange things went on in them. What had I stumbled on?

  He took Tamarisk and me by our arms.

  Tamarisk was shouting: “You’ve got to tell them. You’ve got to tell Grandpa Frenshaw. It wasn’t Jonathan. It was Prue. She ought to come back with us. She ought to confess.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Peter. “I’ll explain everything. Jonathan shall be cleared.”

  That satisfied Tamarisk.

  I was silent, bewildered and incredulous.

  We came out into the street.

  He said: “I found the girl. I was trying to help her. She planned the whole thing … to compromise Jonathan. She had blackmail in mind of course.”

  “It’s all right now,” said Tamarisk. “I wish Jonathan were here. When can we go home and tell him, and tell them all. I found her. Wasn’t it clever of me? I recognized her by the way she walked … because she looked different, didn’t she? But I knew her.”

  We came to the house. Tamarisk ran in at once to tell David and Claudine what had happened.

  They listened in a somewhat bewildered fashion while Peter explained calmly that he had discovered Prue Parker and confronted her. She admitted she was trying to compromise Jonathan so that she could extract money from him. Then she became frightened and had run away. Peter said he believed he was going to save her from a shameful existence. He had already found a post for her in a respectable household and had arranged to meet her at the club where she worked to tell her of her good fortune. He was there for this purpose when we burst in on them.

  “I saw her,” repeated Tamarisk. “I recognized her, Jessica, didn’t I?”

  “You were very sharp, Tamarisk.”

  After they had marvelled at the story Claudine said she and David had to call on the Mattons, who particularly wanted to meet Tamarisk. “Will you come with us, Jessica?” asked Claudine.

  I said I would prefer to stay at home.

  So they went off and as soon as they had gone Peter came to my room.

  He stood looking at me almost slyly and then said: “Well?”

  “Are there any warehouses?” I asked. “Is there any importation of rum and sugar?”

  “There are as a matter of fact.”

  “And your main business, I believe, is in another kind of house. Not exactly a warehouse. Do they call them whorehouses?”

  “An unpleasant term I always thought.”

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  “I have to discover to what conclusions you have come.”

  “I have been thinking a great deal… over our acquaintance, and certain things seem to be becoming clear to me. I hope you have not prepared some intricate fabrication for I shall not believe it.”

  “I know that. You are very shrewd. I soon became aware of that. I can see the intricate fabrication would soon be pierced by your astuteness, so therefore it would be a waste of time to manufacture it.”

  “I believe you are a scheming adventurer.”

  “There is no point in denying it.”

  “You came into my family because you knew there was money there.”

  He nodded.

  “I suppose the inn meeting was a chance one?”

  “Yes. There I learned who your father was, and also a great deal about the family from the innkeeper.”

  “I see, and you decided that his daughter would be a worthy wife. How could you make your entry? My father is a rather suspicious man with many interests in London. Is that how you figured it out?”

  “But of course.”

  “So we had the little blind girl episode. One of your girls from your warehouses?”

  “We were moving out of the premises. That gave us the venue, you might say.”

  “What a convenient coincidence that you were there that day with your decoy.”

  “Oh, we had waylaid you several times. We were waiting for the opportunity.”

  “It was an unusual beginning, designed of course to earn our gratitude. Having succeeded in that you started to pay court.”

  “It was very agreeable. I have always found you attractive.”

  “Thank you. But you turned to Amaryllis.”

  “You were too lively … too inquisitive. I thought you would very quickly start to pry.”

  “And Amaryllis was docile so you chose her.”

  “And in pique you turned to the gentleman who is now your husband. Hard luck you should go on with the game after he was injured. But that was your own fault.”

  “And having charge of Amaryllis’ fortune, you are increasing your holdings in your apparently very prosperous business?”

  “It is indeed profitable. Amaryllis has increased her fortune since marrying me.”

  “It is still her fortune, is it?”

  “I have been very careful about that. I have used her money, but not taken it. If your father… or any of the family… decided they would look into my affairs they could not default me. I am in the clear.”

  “How worthy of you! I wonder what Amaryllis would say if she knew for what purpose her money is being used.”

  “She will never know. She is a completely contented wife and mother. It is better she remains so.”

  “I think I would rather know what is going on around me. I know why Jonathan was led to Frinton’s. I know where the anonymous letter came from. And then you staged that little affair with Prue Parker. You are determined to discredit Jonathan in my father’s eyes.”

  “Well, we have Peterkin now. A male heir right in line. I’ll see that he makes a better job of Eversleigh than Jonathan would.”

  I cried: “It’s monstrous! And to think Tamarisk was the one to expose you!”

  “That child is a nuisance. She always has been. Let’s hope she goes off with her father.”

  “You amaze me,” I said. “You are so indifferent. You don’t mind being exposed.”

  “Not by you.”

  “What do you mean? You wouldn’t want my father to know the manner in which you make your fortune. You are a procurer. I always thought that was one of the worst things to be. You won’t want my father to know about those tricks you played on Jonathan.”

  “I certainly would not.”

  “And yet… you seem to think your secrets are safe with me!”

  “They are.”

  “What do you think my father will say when he knows you deliberately brought Prue into the house, sent her to Jonathan’s room and made her feign that attempted rape scene?”

  “He would be horrified of course, but he won’t hear of it, will he? He will be told that by one of those queer quirks of coincidence—which happen more in life than people realize—I discovered Prue Parker walking the streets. I was horrified, for after all she had such a short time ago been a servant in the family house. I questioned her; she confessed that she had attempted to compromise Jonathan and demand money. She knew that he was already in his grandfather’s bad books and had a great deal to lose. It went wrong. Jonathan wouldn’t play, so she pretended he had attacked her. She became frightened by what she had done and fearing exposure ran away. She was without work and there was nothing for her but the streets. She was attached to that club where you discovered us, and when I had found a post of parlourmaid in a respectable household I went along to the club to find her. Then you and Tamarisk burst in.”

  “And you think I will allow you to get away with this?”

  “You must, mustn’t you?”

  “Why should I? How do I know what other schemes you have. I think Amaryllis should know how her money is being used. I think my family should know. After all, you are a member of that family now.”

  “But nobody must be allowed to bring disgrace on t
he family.”

  “You already have. It was an ill day when you came into it.”

  “We all have our weaknesses. You too, Jessica. This is going to be our little secret.”

  “You presume too much.”

  “I have justification. Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  I was silent. A terrible fear was beginning to grip me.

  “You certainly, my dear Jessica, are not without sin. What of this passionate love affair with the fascinating Sir Jake?”

  I felt myself flushing hotly. I stammered: “What… what do you mean?”

  “I have been frank with you. You must be with me. Do you think I don’t know what is going on? You and the handsome gentleman are lovers, are you not? You visit his house … alone. You spend several hours there. You see, Jessica, it ill behooves any of us to pass judgment on the rest of us.”

  I could see his smiling face through a haze of wretchedness. My secret was in the hands of this evil man.

  “Sit down,” he said. “You’ve had a shock. I was aware some time ago of the feeling between you. You couldn’t disguise it from me. You have the glow of love upon you, Jessica. Oh, I thought, I must be watchful of this. I am always eager for scraps of information. One never knows how useful they will be. And now here is this. One of my people has been set to watch you.”

  “You mean I’ve been followed!”

  “To and from the little love nest. Naughty Jessica! But understandable, of course. I’m not blaming you and I shall keep your secret… as long as you keep mine.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “It would be rather sad for that kind husband of yours to know that when his wife comes to London it is to be with her lover. You would not want that?”

  I was silent. I felt as though the walls of the room were closing in on me. I wanted to shout out to him to go away. He terrified me. He had changed a little. His face had become evil. He was like someone who had removed the mask he had been wearing and now showed himself for what he really was.

  He was smiling at me cynically, sardonically, horribly.

  “That’s our little bargain,” he said. “You don’t tell on me and I don’t tell on you.”

  He came close to me, took my arm and brought his face near to mine. “Remember,” he said. “One word from you and I shall go straight to your husband and tell him of those jolly little occasions in Blore Street. Do you understand, Jessica?”

  I nodded dumbly. Then I wrenched myself away and ran from the room.

  Suicide or Murder?

  I WAS BACK AT Grasslands. I had not had a moment’s peace since that interview with Peter Lansdon. I saw Jake only once before we returned. I dared not tell him what had happened for fear of what action he would take. It was blackmail of a sort. I was as guilty as Peter himself. If he were blackmailing me I was blackmailing him.

  I had a notion that Jake might welcome the exposure. Jake was the sort of man who hated inaction. Patience was not one of his virtues. I knew that he was capable of reckless action as he had shown when he had run off and joined the gypsies, when he had dashed in and killed the man who would have ravished Leah. He would have said: “Let him talk. He should be exposed for what he is—and we’ll take the consequences.”

  Those consequences, he would believe, might well result in our being together. I wanted to be with Jake forever. I wanted a permanent union. I wanted a home with him; I wanted his children. But I could not hurt Edward. I could not disturb his world in which I knew I was more important than anything. He would have his comforts, the attentions of James, Toby and Clare. But it was my presence which made it possible for him to endure the life into which misfortune had thrust him.

  I could never be completely happy if I hurt Edward.

  So I could not tell Jake. But what had happened could not fail to have an effect on me; and he knew that something was wrong.

  I left him frustrated and uneasy.

  Peter Lansdon had returned to Enderby before we arrived home. He had already told his story and I had to admit he made it sound plausible enough. He mentioned what a great pleasure it was to him to be able to put right this little difference between my father and Jonathan.

  The great topic at Eversleigh was Peter’s discovery of Prue Parker. My father was a little shamefaced, trying to be more gracious to Jonathan. Jonathan was delighted that his innocence had been proved.

  When we returned Tamarisk’s pleasure in seeing Jonathan again was overwhelming. She kept telling him how she had seen Prue in the street and, recognizing her, had followed her because she was determined to prove him right and Prue wrong. “And then we went there,” she cried, “and Peter was there…”

  Nobody thought it strange that we should have seen her when she was on her way to meet Peter and that he had chosen that questionable club as a rendezvous. It was a coincidence, but they were so interested in the story that they did not probe too deeply into the details.

  Peter dismissed any doubts they might have had. “It was a place she knew; she was attached to it in some way. It seemed reasonable to meet her there.”

  He modestly accepted the gratitude of all for having solved the mystery.

  I wanted to shout at them that it would have remained a mystery if Tamarisk hadn’t seen the girl in the street and we had caught him there redhanded.

  But how could I? I had to be silent.

  I did not want to go to London again. I did not feel I could go to Jake. How would I know whether or not I was being watched? Peter had spoiled everything for me. He had made me feel unclean … wicked … as bad as he was. He did not mind; he revelled in his wickedness; he called it shrewdness.

  When he caught my eye he would smile at me in a very special way. I had the horrible feeling that he was assessing me. What had he said: “I always found you attractive …” He was implying “More so than Amaryllis.” But he had chosen her because she was docile. I told myself I would never have married him. I admit I had at first been attracted, but not by him as much as the glamour of romance … being rescued, as I had thought he had rescued me.

  The horrible thought came to me that he might make another suggestion as a price of silence. I was thankful that I had enough against him to balance our evil doings.

  There was something cold about him, snake-like. I wondered at Amaryllis who was so much in love with him still. He was clever. He could slip in and out of his masks, changing his personality, shedding a skin. Yes, snake-like.

  He began to haunt my dreams as a nightmare figure.

  Sometimes in the night I felt I would go to Edward and confess. I would tell him that I would stay with him for ever and never see Jake again. Jake must take Tamarisk away. They could go to Cornwall on the other side of England, a long way from us.

  Only confession could free me from Peter Lansdon.

  My mother said: “Are you all right? You haven’t looked well since you came back from London.”

  “I’m quite well, thanks.”

  If only I could tell her! She would understand. But I dared not.

  “It will soon be Christmas,” she went on. “It is amazing how time creeps up on one. We’ll have to start planning for it soon.”

  I agreed.

  She was not the only one who noticed. Clare said to me: “Are you well?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem different… since you came back from London. A little nervous … Did anything happen during your trip?”

  “No … no.”

  I had always had an uneasy feeling about Clare. She was useful in the house. She would sit and read to Edward and play piquet with him. She was a great help but I always felt she resented me.

  Leah was useful too. While Tamarisk was in London she turned her attention to the sick room.

  “I have two handmaidens now,” said Edward. “Clare and Leah. And with James and Toby I am really cossetted.”

  “You have me … another handmaiden,” I reminded him.

&nbs
p; “You are not a handmaiden. You are my queen.”

  I laughed, but my heart was heavy. He must never know, I told myself.

  Meanwhile Jake was getting restive. He had been to Cornwall, for it was necessary for him to return, but his stay there was brief and he was soon back in London.

  He wrote to me again. His letter was an impassioned plea to come to London. If I did not, he said, he would come to Grasslands. He had plans. He could not wait forever. We were wasting our lives. We belonged together.

  The letter alarmed me while it delighted me.

  I told myself I should destroy it but I could not bring myself to do so. For a day I carried it with me, tucked into my bodice but I thought that might be detected so I hid it at the back of one of my drawers with that other letter. I read them again and again. They comforted me; they set me dreaming of the impossible.

  When I was talking to my mother about Christmas I said: “What about Tamarisk’s father?”

  “Perhaps he will want her to go to him in Cornwall?”

  “She never would. She is more devoted to Jonathan than ever.”

  “I suppose we should ask him here.”

  I hesitated.

  “Is it difficult? We could have him at Eversleigh.”

  “No … no. He should be where Tamarisk is.”

  “He doesn’t seem in any hurry to take action about the child.”

  “I think he would. It rests with Tamarisk.”

  “It’s an unfortunate business. One sees why convention and regularity in family life is so sought after.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “We shall have a full house as usual at Eversleigh, I daresay. The Pettigrews will be here … and others, I suppose.”

  “Oh … I have room at Grasslands.”

  The idea of having him in the house excited me while it filled me with apprehension.

  Peter would be at Enderby. He would certainly be home for Christmas. The three houses would be united in the festive celebrations and I should see a great deal of him. I wondered how I should feel being with Jake, while Peter looked on. I could imagine his bland looks and secret amusement.

  I wrote asking Jake to come for Christmas.