It was while we were in the shop, sitting at the counter, that a young man ran in. He was breathless and could scarcely stammer out the important news.
“The Prime Minister… has been shot. He’s stone dead … there in the House of Commons.”
As we came through the streets we realized that the news had spread. People stood about in little groups talking in shocked whispers. The Prime Minister assassinated! Surely not! This could not happen in England. That sort of thing was for foreigners. Spencer Perceval the Prime Minister had not been exactly one of the popular figures in politics. He was no Pitt or Fox. He had been rather insignificant but was no longer so.
My father was not at home when we arrived there. I guessed he would be occupied for a few days, perhaps delaying our return to Eversleigh.
There was a hush throughout the capital. News began to seep out. The murderer had been captured. It had been no difficult task to catch him for he had made no attempt to escape.
He was mad, it was said, a fanatic. Some avowed that it was merely fate that it happened to be the Prime Minister who was shot. It could have been any politician. The madman had a grudge against the government, not against any particular person. The Prime Minister had just happened to be in a certain spot at a certain time.
The trial took place immediately.
The murderer was John Bellingham, a Liverpool broker who had gone bankrupt, he declared, through government policies. He had recently visited Russia where he had been arrested on some trivial charge and when he had applied to the British Ambassador in St. Petersburg for help, it had been refused. Eventually he was freed and returning to England he had applied for redress for the wrongs he had suffered. When this was refused, he went crazy and vowed vengeance.
Now he was pleading insanity.
My father said that he would not get away with it. The whole country was shocked. We could not have our public figures shot at and be told that it was the work of a person of unsound mind. There had to be an example.
He was right. John Bellingham was sentenced to death and a week after the shooting he was hanged. We were in London on the day but we did not go into the streets.
My father’s comment was: “The verdict was a wise one. Madman he may be, but we cannot have anyone with a grievance shooting our ministers and then being freed on a plea of insanity.”
But the affair haunted me. The idea of that man’s being so crazed with grief that he took a gun and shot a man dead depressed me. I could not shut out of my mind the image of his body dangling at the end of a rope. He had done the deed for revenge and two lives had been lost when there need not have been one.
My mother tried to disperse our gloomy mood by talking of other matters—chiefly the birthday celebrations. I responded but my thoughts could not be withdrawn from the tragedy of that poor madman and most of all I thought of the bereaved Perceval family who had lost a good husband and father. I heard there was a sorrowing wife, six sons and six daughters. He had been such a good man, people said; and even taking into account that aura of sanctity which invariably surrounds the dead, there appeared to be some truth in it.
To bear a grudge … a grudge which drives one to murder! I could not get that out of my mind.
Back in Eversleigh preparation began for the party. Eighteen was a coming of age. We were no longer children and I guessed our parents were hoping that suitable husbands would be found for us for that seemed to be the wish of all parents with nubile daughters.
The date was set for the end of August.
“The best time for a party,” said Claudine, “for if the weather is good it can spill out into the garden.”
We set about making out lists of guests.
“There is no need to send out invitations to the Barringtons,” said my mother. “You two girls can go over and invite them personally.”
A few days later Amaryllis and I set out together. On the way we passed the woods and I saw smoke rising from the trees.
“Look!” I said to Amaryllis.
“Gypsies, I suppose,” she answered.
“It’s a long time since we had them here. Not since …”
“That poor man …”
“Six years,” I said.
My thoughts were back in that terrible moment when Romany Jake had come out of the house and been captured. It was a nightmare which had recurred in my mind in the past and even now came back to haunt me.
Amaryllis knew how I had felt and was very sympathetic; whenever the subject was mentioned she would remind me that I had saved his life.
I tried to believe I had; and indeed it seemed certain that if I had not roused my father to take action, the death sentence would have been carried out.
Now the thought of the gypsies brought it back.
“Let’s go and see,” said Amaryllis, and she spurred on her horse.
I followed.
There in the clearing were the caravans. One of the women was lighting a fire and a few children were running about shouting to each other.
They were all silent when they saw us.
One of the men strolled over.
“Permission to stay is being asked,” he said. “Now… this minute.”
“You mean someone has gone to the house?”
The man nodded.
A girl emerged from a caravan and, looking curiously at us, strolled over. She was strikingly attractive with large luminous long-lashed dark eyes. Her hair hung in a thick plait tied at the end with red ribbon. I knew before she spoke who she was. She knew me too.
“Good day,” she said. “Miss Frenshaw, is it not?”
I said: “You are Leah.”
She smiled in affirmation.
“So you have come back.”
“My father has gone to the house to ask permission for us to rest here.”
“This is Miss Amaryllis Frenshaw,” I said.
She bowed her head. Amaryllis gave her friendly smile. She had heard of Leah, of course, and knew what part she had played in Romany Jake’s tragedy.
“Do you intend to stay long?” I asked.
She shook her head. “For a very short while. We are on our way to the West Country.”
“Have you … heard anything of…”
She shook her head.
“It is so long ago.”
“Six years,” I said.
“In another year he will be free.”
“Yes,” I said. “Another year. I am sure my father will agree to your staying here.”
“I think so,” she said, and stood aside to let us pass.
We went on.
“What an extraordinarily beautiful girl,” said Amaryllis.
“Yes. She looked sad, though. I suppose when something like that happens to you… when a man almost loses his life for defending you, it would make you feel strange … guilty in a way.”
“It was not her fault. She should not feel guilty.”
“No, but sometimes people feel guilty when things are not their fault. I mean … if they come about because of you.”
“It may be so, but she certainly is lovely.”
We had come to Grasslands. Mrs. Barrington had heard our approach and came out to greet us while one of the grooms took our horses.
“Edward is at home,” she said. “He’ll be so pleased you’ve called.”
“Everyone will, I hope.”
“I can assure you of that.”
“Everyone is well?”
“In excellent form. We still miss Irene and wish we could be more together. She is pregnant again. Isn’t that exciting? If only she were a little nearer!”
Edward had come out. “What a pleasure to see you,” he said.
Edward had seemed to become much more mature since I had first seen him six years ago on that fateful trip to Nottingham. He was very sure of himself. His father said he was going to be one of the most influential businessmen in the country one day. “He has a flair for it,” was his comment. “Much more than I ever had
. Reminds me of my grandfather who founded the business.”
I could well believe that. Edward constantly steered the conversation towards business; I imagined he found the trivialities of ordinary discourse a trifle boring.
I liked him though—mainly, I think, because whenever we met and Amaryllis was with me, although he was extremely polite to us both, he could not stop his eyes straying to me. That was pleasant. I think I was a trifle jealous of Amaryllis. She was so lovely and she had such a sweet nature; she was one of the good women of Eversleigh. I was of the other sort—not exactly bad, but rebellious, self-willed, selfish perhaps and decidedly vain. Yes … all those things and I really could not understand why so many young men—and older ones too—always showed more interest in me than in beautiful Amaryllis. It was extraordinary. Amaryllis would have made the perfect wife. She was domesticated, easygoing and extremely beautiful. I was none of these really. Yet it was to me they looked with a certain speculation which indicated they considered me desirable.
One of the servants once said: “You’ve got something, Miss Jessica. Miss Amaryllis is very pretty … beautiful as an angel… but you’ve got what they want. There’s no putting a finger on it. It’s just there. Miss Amaryllis is just too pretty, too much of the lady, too good, too nice. Men respect the likes of Miss Amaryllis but you’re one of them they go after.” The next remark was less flattering. “Men are such fools … never know what side their bread’s buttered, they don’t. Always go for them that’s hardest to live with … and leave the good ones behind.”
Amaryllis was undoubtedly one of the good ones.
“Come along in,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Oh, there’s Clare.”
Clare Carson had come in. She smiled as though pleased to see us, but I always felt she was hiding her true feelings.
“You’ll have to test the new elderberry,” went on Mrs. Barrington. “Ask them to bring it, Clare. Not a patch on young Mrs. Frenshaw’s … but you might like to try it.”
“We have come for a purpose, haven’t we, Amaryllis?”
“We have,” agreed Amaryllis. “It’s to invite you to our birthday party.”
“Oh, is it time then? How the days fly! It seems only yesterday when you had your seventeenth.”
Mr. Barrington had come into the room and heard the last remark. “The older you get, the quicker time flies,” he said. “Good morning to you, my dears.”
“It will be in August, I suppose,” said Clare.
“Yes,” I replied. “Midway between the two birthdays. That’s how it has always been.”
“You can be sure we’ll be there,” said Mrs. Barrington. “The whole lot of us … except Irene. She would be if she could, but she’s so far away … and there are the babies.”
“I shall make sure I’m here for it,” said Edward, smiling at me.
“A little relaxation will do you good,” added his father.
“He wouldn’t miss it for the world, I know,” said his mother.
The servants brought the wine which Mrs. Barrington poured out. We sipped it and declared it exceptionally good.
Edward came over to me. “It’s good to see you. You look blooming.”
“With health and vigour,” I said. “And you… you look a little preoccupied.”
He drew his chair closer to mine. Amaryllis was in conversation with the others.
“A little trouble at the factory. It’s the new machines. The work people don’t like them.”
“You’d think they would welcome them.”
“They are afraid the machines will take over their jobs and there will be no work for them.”
“And will they?”
He lifted his shoulders. “It may be so for a time. But if we don’t have the machines we can’t compete with the people who have and we should be out of business; so that would lose their jobs in any case.”
“It must be worrying.”
“We’ll overcome it, but they are threatening. In some places they have actually broken up the machines.”
“I did hear something about those people. Are they what they call Luddites?”
“Yes. It’s a name given to them because some time ago there was a Ned Ludd. He was simple, quite mad. He lived in Leicestershire. One day, in the factory where he worked, someone teased him. He was frustrated being unable to find words to express his anger and he turned to the stocking machines and started breaking them up. He was just crazy. He felt there was something evil in machines and vented his wrath on them.”
“But the present-day Luddites are not mad. They are just frightened men.”
“You could say that they are short-sighted. They can’t see that if we are to continue to be prosperous, we have to advance with the times, and if we don’t there will be no work anyway.”
Mrs. Barrington came over. “Is Edward boring you with talk about those people who are threatening to break the machines?”
Amaryllis wanted to know about them and it was explained.
“Poor men,” she said. “It is so terrible to be afraid of poverty.”
Edward said: “We have to move with the times.”
“What will happen?” she asked.
“We shall have to wait and see. We must have the machines, that’s certain. If the workmen become a menace we shall have to call in the troops or something like that.”
Mrs. Barrington changed the subject. She was the sort of woman who hated the thought of trouble and seemed to believe that if one did not think of it, it ceased to exist. But I was rather disturbed thinking of the men who feared the machines would rob them of their livelihood.
“Clare said there were gypsies in the neighbourhood,” Mrs. Barrington was saying.
“Yes. I saw them coming in this morning,” said Clare. “The caravans were lumbering along the road.”
“They plan to stay only a little while,” added Amaryllis. “We saw them as we came along and spoke to one of them.”
“It was Leah,” I said. “Do you remember Leah?”
They were all puzzled for a moment.
“Six years ago,” I reminded them. “When we all met. She must have been about fourteen then, I’d say. I recognized her at once. We were in Nottingham to do what we could for the gypsy. Leah was the girl in the case.”
“I remember well,” said Edward.
“They are asking my father’s permission to camp in the woods.”
“He’ll give it,” said Amaryllis, “with the usual injunctions about fire risks, of course.”
The Barringtons did not seem to find the subject of the gypsies very interesting and Mrs. Barrington began to talk about the previous year’s party at which rain had made use of the garden impossible.
At length we left.
As we came close to Enderby, I said: “Let’s call in. There’s time.”
Amaryllis was agreeable.
As we approached the house we saw Tamarisk on her pony—a new acquisition for last Christmas. One of the grooms had her on a leading rein and she was trying to break away from him.
I could never see Tamarisk without thinking of Romany Jake. She was a very beautiful child, though not conventionally so. She had enormous expressive dark eyes with thick black hair and lashes. Her features were perfect. Her hair was straight and so thick that nothing could be done with it. Jeanne despaired of it. She would have liked soft curls. Jeanne herself cut it, as she said, in the only possible way. It was short with a fringe on the forehead, so that Tamarisk looked like a handsome boy. She was tall for her years—long limbed and graceful. She had a wild rebellious nature. My mother and Claudine said it was due to the fact that Aunt Sophie had spoiled her, for Aunt Sophie doted on her. My mother declared she had never known Sophie so contented with life. And it was all due to this naughty child.
She was bright and intelligent and had already taught herself to read, but there was nothing docile about Tamarisk. She would fly into rages if she was crossed. If anyone annoyed her she would fix those enormous eyes up
on them and murmur in a deep voice: “You’ll be sorry.”
Jeanne both delighted in and despaired of her.
“I do not know what she will be like when she grows up,” she said. “She is so rebellious now.”
The governess said she was a handful though she had only been in the house a month. The previous one had stayed six weeks. Some of the servants blamed her parentage, saying: “She’s the gypsy’s child. What blood has she got in her veins? She could be a witch.”
It was unfortunate that Tamarisk overheard these comments for instead of being disturbed by being thought of as a witch, she was delighted.
“I’m a witch,” she was constantly reminding everyone. “Witches put spells on people.”
She had revolutionized Enderby. It was no longer merely the home of a recluse and her maid. It was typical of Tamarisk that she should dominate the household.
“I don’t want to be held,” she was saying. “I want to ride properly.”
I said: “Hello, Tamarisk.”
The luminous dark eyes turned to us. “You have a proper horse,” she said. “Why can’t I?”
“You will when you are a little older,” Amaryllis told her gently.
“I don’t need to be older. I want it now.”
“When you are seven perhaps.”
“I want it now …”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, feeling sorry for the poor groom.
Tamarisk glared at me.
“We are going to see Aunt Sophie,” I continued. “Is she well?”
“I don’t want a little horse like a baby. I don’t want to be a child.”
“Babies don’t ride at all,” pointed out Amaryllis.
“Some babies could. I could.”
“Come on, Amaryllis,” I said, turning away. “That child is getting impossible,” I added.
“Poor little thing. It hasn’t been easy for her.”
“Not easy! With Aunt Sophie doting and Jeanne supplying all her needs!”
“Still…”
“You’d make excuses for the devil.” I spurred on my horse and made for the stables.
Aunt Sophie was in her sitting room. In the old days before the coming of Tamarisk, she had scarcely stirred from her room. She looked almost normal or would have done but for the unusual hood she wore, which covered the scarred part of her face. This morning it was pale blue which matched her gown. Jeanne was with her.
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 48
