“Fools! Knaves! I’ll have the law on you. I’m going straight now to see about it.”
He had my horse by the bridle and was about to turn it when a stone hit my saddle. I caught my breath. It was too late for retreat now. I was aware of them closing in around us, and for the first time in my life I saw fear in my father’s face. It was for me, of course. He was terrified that he would not be able to protect me.
Then suddenly there was a shout from one of the caravans. We all looked towards it. Romany Jake was standing on the steps—colourful in his orange coloured shirt and the gold glittering in his ears.
“What’s to do?” he shouted.
Then he took in the scene—my father with me beside him, the angry gypsies surrounding us.
“His lordship wants to drive us off the land, Jake,” said one of the men.
“Drive us off? When we’re going in good time?”
He sauntered towards the crowd and came close to us. Even in such a moment his eyes held mine, slightly mocking, full of hidden meaning. “Good sir,” he said, in loud ringing tones, “I and my friends will not harm your land. Last night there was an accident. It was not our intention to cause damage.”
“But you did,” said my father. “And you’ll get out… now.”
“In good time we will pass on.”
“Not in your good time but mine. And that is now! This day, and, by God, if you continue to defy me I’ll have the law on you. It’s time some action was taken. I’ll get you shipped to Botany Bay, the whole lot of you. Perhaps you’ll be prevailed upon to do a bit of honest work out there.”
The man with the knife stepped nearer. I saw it flash in his hand as he lifted his arm. At that moment someone threw another stone.
“My God … Jessica…” murmured my father. I think he would have killed the man who threw the stone if he could have caught him. I felt numb with fear. I had always thought of him as invincible. He had always been a power in our household; he had lived a life of adventure; he had faced the French mob in the Terror and brought my mother out from under their noses; but here he was, unarmed, completely outnumbered … and vulnerable … because he was afraid … afraid for me as he could never be for himself.
They were cunning, these gypsies. I think some of them sensed the weakness in him.
One of them came close to me and laid a hand on my thigh.
My father made an attempt to seize him but then Romany Jake spoke.
He said in loud tones which rang with authority: “Stop that. Leave the girl alone.”
The man who had touched me fell back.
There was silence, tense and ominous.
“Fools,” said Romany Jake. “Do you want to get the law on us?”
I was aware of the effect he had on the gypsies. The knife had been ready and was for my father. The man stood still with it in his hand.
“Get back,” said Romany Jake.
The man with the knife seemed to be some sort of leader. He said: “It’s time to show them, Jake.”
“Not now … not before the girl. Put that knife away, Jasper.”
The man looked at the knife and hesitated. It was a battle of wills, and I sensed that a great deal hung on this moment. Those watching people were ready to follow either man. Jasper wanted revenge, wanted to wreak his anger against those who owned land and whose permission had to be granted before the gypsies could rest their caravans. What Romany Jake felt on that subject I was not sure. He had spoken as though it were solely on my account that they were to hold off. What would have happened to my father if he had come alone?
My father remained calm. He said: “You seem a reasonable man. Be off my land by nightfall.”
Romany Jake nodded. Then he said quietly: “Go. Go now.”
“Come, Jessica,” said my father.
We turned our horses and walked them slowly away from the gypsy encampment.
When we had left the woods my father pulled up and turned to me. I saw that the rich colour which had suffused his cheeks while he was talking to the gypsies had receded and he was pale. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.
“That was a near thing,” he said.
“I was terrified.”
“And had every reason to be. And another time when I tell you to do something, I expect obedience.”
“What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”
“Ha! You may well ask. I would have given my full attention to those rogues.”
“Romany Jake saved us. You have to admit that.”
“He’s a rogue, like all of them. If they are not off by dawn tomorrow, there’ll be trouble for them.”
“That man with the knife …”
“Ready to use it, too.”
“And, Father, you had nothing.”
“I wish I had brought a gun with me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. You had me instead, I was better than a gun.”
He laughed at me. I believed he was very touched because I had insisted on going with him.
“There’s no doubt whose daughter you are,” he said. “Jessica, forget I said this, but I’m proud of you.”
“I’m so glad I insisted on coming with you.”
“You think it would be the end of me if you hadn’t, don’t you? You’re kidding yourself. I’ve been in tighter spots. What beats me is that such a thing could happen on my land in broad daylight. Another thing … not a word of this to your mother.”
I nodded.
And as we rode home each of us was too emotionally stirred for words.
The next morning the gypsies left and there was lamentation in the kitchen because of the departure of Romany Jake.
The Verdict
LIFE SEEMED QUITE DULL after the gypsies had gone. We were all dismayed to hear of Napoleon’s great victory at Austerlitz that December. It seemed that he was not beaten yet. Trafalgar had merely robbed him of sea power and he was anxious to show that his armies were supreme.
However, we settled into the usual routine: lessons, rides, walks, visiting the sick of the neighbourhood with comforts. It was only with the preparations for Christmas that life became eventful again. Bringing in the log, hunting for mistletoe, cutting the holly, and all the baking that went on in the kitchens; selecting the gifts we were giving and speculating on what would be given to us: the usual happenings of the Christmas season.
Christmas came and went and it was January, three months after the gypsies had vacated our woods. I had not forgotten Romany Jake; I believed I never should. He had made a marked impression on me. I found myself thinking of him at odd moments. I was sure he had been attracted by me in a special sort of way; and there was no doubt that he had had an effect on me. He made me feel that I was no longer a child; and that there were many things I could learn and which he would teach me. I felt frustrated because he had gone before I could understand the meaning of this attraction between us.
The winds were blowing in from the north bringing snow with them. We had fires all over the house. I loved fires in the bedrooms; it was pleasant to lie in bed and watch the flames in the grate—blue flames which were due to the salty wood which was brought up from the beach after storms. It was great fun going down to collect it and to burn the pieces we had personally found; I always said that the pictures in the blue flames were more beautiful than any others.
Outside the wind buffeted the house; and there we were warm and cosy with our fires round which we sat roasting chestnuts and telling uncanny stories—the same which we told every year.
It was the middle of January, during an icy spell, when Dolly Mather came over to Eversleigh in a state of panic. She asked for young Mrs. Frenshaw. She seemed to have a special feeling for Claudine. I happened to come in just as Claudine was coming down to the hall, so I heard what was wrong.
“It’s my grandmother … Oh, Mrs. Frenshaw, she’s gone.”
“Gone!” For the moment I thought she was dead for people say “gone” because
they fight shy of saying the word “dead” and try to make the act of dying less tragic by calling it something else.
Dolly went on: “She’s gone. I went to her room and she’s not there. She’s just gone …”
“Gone!” echoed Claudine. “How can she be? She found it hard to get about. Where could she have gone on a day like this? Tell me exactly …”
“I think she must have gone last night.”
“Oh no … Dolly, are you sure?”
“I’ve searched the house. She’s nowhere to be found.”
“It’s impossible. I’d better come over.”
“I’ll come too,” I said.
Claudine went up to her room to get her coat and snow boots. Dolly looked at me, staring in that disconcerting way she had.
“I don’t know where she can have gone,” she said.
“She can’t be far off. She was almost bedridden.”
Claudine came down and we walked over to Grasslands. There were only two servants there; the man who managed the small estate lived in a cottage half a mile away and his wife also helped in the house.
Dolly took us up to Mrs. Trent’s bedroom.
“The bed has not been slept in,” I said.
“No. She couldn’t have gone to bed last night.”
“She must be in the house somewhere.”
Dolly shook her head. “She’s not. We’ve looked everywhere.”
Claudine went to the cupboard and opened the door. “Has she taken a coat?” she asked.
Dolly nodded. Yes, she had taken a coat.
“Then she must have gone out.”
“On a night like last?” asked Dolly. “She would have caught her death.”
“We’ve got to find her,” said Claudine. “She must have had some sort of breakdown. But where could she have gone?”
Dolly shook her head.
“I’ll go back to Eversleigh,” said Claudine. “We’ll send some men out to look for her. It’s going to snow later on. Where on earth can she be? Don’t worry, Dolly. We’ll find her. You stay here. Get a fire going in her bedroom. She may need to be warmed up when she gets back.”
“But where is she?” cried Dolly.
“That’s what we have to find out. Come along, Jessica.”
As we trudged back to Eversleigh, Claudine said: “What a strange thing … That old woman. She had difficulty in walking up and down the stairs. I can’t think what this means. Oh dear, I do hope she is all right. I can’t think what will become of Dolly if anything happened to Mrs. Trent.”
“It’s Dolly who really cared for Mrs. Trent.”
“But Dolly … all alone in the world.”
“She can’t be far away,” I said.
“No. They’ll soon find her. But if she has been out all night … in this weather …”
“She must have sheltered somewhere.”
As soon as we returned to Eversleigh and told them what had happened search parties were organized. As predicted it started to snow and the strong winds were making almost a blizzard. The search went on all through the morning, and it was not until late afternoon when Mrs. Trent was found, not by one of the searchers, but by Polly Crypton. Polly had been out—bad as the weather was—to take a potion to old Mrs. Grimes, in one of the cottages, who suffered terribly from rheumatism and had run out of her medicine. Coming back Polly had stumbled over something close to her garden gate. To her horror she had discovered that it was a woman, and looking closer had recognized Mrs. Trent.
It was clear to Polly that she had been dead some time. She hurried to give the alarm, and at last Mrs. Trent was brought back to Grasslands.
Several of us were there—my mother, Claudine, David, Amaryllis and myself. The doctor had come. He said that the effort of walking so far would have put a great strain on her impaired health; it was his opinion that exhaustion had been the main cause of her death; and even if that had not been the case she would have frozen to death.
“Whatever possessed her to go out in such weather?” cried Claudine.
“She must have been temporarily out of her mind,” said my mother.
“It is Dolly who worries me,” went on Claudine. “We shall have to take special care of her.”
Poor Dolly! She was like one in a dream. She spent a great deal of time at Enderby where she was warmly welcomed by Aunt Sophie—herself the victim of misfortune, she was always ready to show sympathy to those whom life had treated ill.
The day of the funeral came. Claudine arranged it all. Dolly had listlessly stood aside and accepted help. We all attended the church and followed the coffin to the grave. Poor Dolly, chief mourner, she looked so frail and white; and at times of emotion that deformity in her face seemed more prominent. Even Aunt Sophie attended in deep black with a black chiffon hood hiding half of her face; she looked very strange standing there at the grave like some big black bird, a prophet of doom. But Dolly kept close to her and clearly drew more comfort from her than from Claudine who was doing so much to help.
Claudine had insisted that the funeral party come back to Eversleigh, so there they all were, talking about Mrs. Trent and how well she had cared for her grand-daughter, and how well she had managed Grasslands, not an easy job for a woman even though she had a good manager. We remembered all the pleasant things about Mrs. Trent as people always do at funerals. I had heard people say—when she was living—that she was an old witch and that if she had been different, her grand-daughter Evie would never have committed suicide when she found herself pregnant, and that poor Dolly had a “life of it” looking after her. But she was dead and death wipes away a person’s faults and gives virtue in their place.
But Mrs. Trent’s virtues were discussed with not so much fervour as was the reason for her sudden departure from the comforts of Grasslands to go out into the bitterly cold winter’s night.
Claudine said that Dolly must stay at Eversleigh for a few days, but Aunt Sophie insisted that she go to Enderby; and it was clear that this was Dolly’s preference. So Dolly stayed with Aunt Sophie for a week after the funeral and then she returned to Grasslands. Claudine said that we must all keep an eye on her and do what we could to help her over this terrible tragedy.
One day when Claudine returned home from visiting Aunt Sophie, she looked very grave and I saw from her expression that something had happened. She went straight to my mother and they were closeted together for a long time.
“Something is going on,” I said to Amaryllis and she agreed with me.
“I’m going to find out,” I added. “It’s something about Aunt Sophie because it is since your mother came back from there that it started.”
I made a few tentative enquiries in the kitchens but I could glean nothing there so I decided to ask my mother.
I had always been treated in a rather special way by my mother. It may have been that she was older than most mothers are when their children are born, and she did tend to treat me more as an adult than Claudine and David did Amaryllis. It may have been that I was more anxious to be regarded so than Amaryllis. “Pushing,” as some of the servants called it.
So when I found my mother in one of what I called her dreamy moods, I asked her outright if there was something going on, some secret adult matter which was considered to be not for the ears of the young.
She looked at me and smiled. “So you have noticed,” she said. “My goodness, Jessica, you are like a detective. You notice everything.”
“This is rather obvious. Claudine went to Aunt Sophie and came back, well… secretive … anxious and strange.”
“Yes, there is something, but it is not Aunt Sophie. You will have to know in due course, so why not now?”
“Yes, you might as well tell me,” I agreed eagerly.
“It’s Dolly. She is going to have a baby.”
“But she is not married!”
“People occasionally have babies when they are not married.”
“You mean …”
“That is wha
t is troubling us. Dolly herself is happy enough, almost ecstatic. That’s a help in a way but it is more unfortunate. Your Aunt Sophie will help all she can. We shall all have to be gentle with Dolly. She has had a very hard life. She adored her sister who drowned herself because of her own pregnancy. So now you see why we are worried about Dolly.”
“You don’t think Dolly will kill herself?”
“On the contrary. She seems delighted at the prospect.”
“ ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord’… and all that,” I quoted irreverently.
My mother looked at me intently. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you all this. Sometimes, Jessica, I forget how young you are.”
“I’m quite knowledgeable. One learns about these things. I knew about Jane Abbey’s baby before she had it.”
“Your father thinks you are wise beyond your years.”
“Does he?”
“But most parents think there is something special about their offspring.”
“But my father is not like most parents. He would only think it if it were so.”
She laughed and ruffled my hair. “Don’t say too much about Dolly, will you? Not just yet. Of course it will come out and there’ll be a lot of gossip. But don’t set it going.”
“Of course not. I’ll only tell Amaryllis; and she never talks about anything if you tell her not to.”
I went away and thought a good deal about Dolly. Oddly enough I was to talk to her soon after my conversation with my mother.
I went over one day to see Aunt Sophie. Jeanne told me she was sleeping so I went into the garden to wait for a while and whom should I see there but Dolly.
She looked different. There was no thickening of her figure yet but there was a certain transformation in her face. The drawn-down eye was less noticeable. There was a little colour in her cheeks and the visible eye shone with a certain delight and, yes … defiance.
She was more talkative than I had ever known her.
I did not, of course, refer to the subject. It was she who brought it up.
“I suppose you know about me?”
I admitted I did.
“I’m glad,” she said. She gave me that odd look. “In a way you’re to blame.”
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 42
