As I sat there on that beautiful night with the scent of the flowers all about me and the strains of sweet musk coming from the house, I felt it would be so simple to say Yes. Why should I think of a gypsy with the boldest eyes I had ever seen, a man who had danced round the bonfire with poor Dolly and got her with child … it was quite ridiculous. I was foolish to hold back. But I seemed to see him there in the light of the bonfire looking at me, his eyes bold, wanting me to come down from my father’s carriage and dance with him as he had danced with Dolly. What nonsense! He was a gypsy; he had killed a man; he was on the other side of the world and it was hardly likely that he would ever come back.
Edward was saying bleakly: “You are unsure, aren’t you? Well, you have only just reached the great age of eighteen. There is time…”
“Yes,” I said eagerly, “I must have time. Let me get used to the idea … Let me think about it. Will you?”
“I have no alternative, I’m afraid,” he said with a sigh. “I can scarcely sling you across my saddle and ride off with you, can I?”
“Hardly. There would be nowhere to ride to.”
“I might find somewhere. Alas, there will be no announcement tonight.”
“That was what they wanted, was it?”
“My mother thought there might be.”
“Oh dear, I feel I have let everyone down.”
“I understand. But I’m going to make you change your mind soon.”
“I’m glad. I hope you do. I’m afraid I’m being a little silly … a little young…”
“No, wise perhaps. One has to know one’s own mind about these matters.”
“Oh, Edward, I do love you. You’re so understanding. It’s just that marriage is such a big step. It’s for life and I don’t feel I’ve experienced enough of that to commit myself… for life.”
“I have a feeling that it is going to be all right for us.”
We sat in silence for some time.
It should have been exciting to receive a proposal of marriage on one’s birthday, but I felt deflated. By refusing I was disappointing so many people.
He put his arm round me and kissed me gently on the cheek.
“Don’t be sad about this, Jessica,” he said. “I understand. That was why I was hesitating. I have spoken too soon.”
How kind he was! How understanding! I was foolish to refuse such a man … and all because of some childish fantasy concerning a wild gypsy. Edward would be a good husband. But when one was eighteen one did not want a good husband so much as an exciting one; and although I liked Edward … loved him in a way … he did not set my pulses racing as I had heard lovers were supposed to.
I had seen the passionate devotion of my parents. Perhaps I wanted something like that to happen to me. I had also seen the love between Amaryllis’ parents—strong, solid and true—but there was not that between them which there was between my parents; and it was that which I wanted.
Perhaps I was obsessed by foolish dreams. I was, when all was said, only eighteen. I did not seek the peaceful life; I wanted adventure, and deep within me was the conviction which had been planted there some years before, that there was someone who could give me what I wanted.
Clare Carson was coming across the lawn. I withdrew myself from Edward involuntarily. I had a feeling that Clare did not like me very much, and rather resented my intrusion into the family; and what she liked less than anything was Edward’s feeling for me. I was certain that she was in love with Edward.
He was always charming to her, treating her like a sister; but that, I sensed, was not what she wanted and I had a feeling that often his brotherly attitude exasperated her.
“Jessica,” she said, “your mother wants you to go to her as soon as you can. I told her I had an idea where you were and would look for you.”
“What has happened?” I cried in alarm.
“She wants you to go quietly. Not make a fuss … not to disturb the party.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Edward.
Clare put in quickly: “Mrs. Frenshaw did particularly say that she wanted no one else but Jessica.”
Clare took the place I had vacated and I went quickly across the lawn and into the house. I went straight up to my mother’s room. Tamarisk’s governess, Miss Allen, was with her.
“Oh, Jessica,” cried my mother. “I’m glad you’ve come. Amaryllis is looking for your father and David. Tamarisk is lost.”
“Lost? How? Where?”
“Heaven knows. She is not in her room. She went to bed as normal and Miss Allen said she was asleep almost immediately, but when she looked in about half an hour ago the bed was empty.”
“Oh, that child! She is always up to some mischief.”
“Jeanne asked Miss Allen to come over. Jeanne is with Sophie who is almost frantic.”
“I can imagine it. Why, it must be past eleven.”
“Where can the child be at this hour?” said my mother. “Oh, here is your father. Dickon, something terrible has happened. Tamarisk is not in her bed. Where can she be? Sophie is in a demented state. What can we do?”
“I’ll get over there and find out what I can. Where’s David? He can come with me. Oh, here he is.”
My mother quickly explained to David what had happened.
“We’ll get over there with Miss Allen as quickly as we can,” said my father. “Don’t break up the party. No doubt she’s hiding somewhere in the house. We’ll be back soon, I daresay.”
They slipped away and the rest of us joined the guests.
The party broke up at midnight. I think we were all relieved when the last guest departed. The family assembled in the hall—my mother, Claudine, Amaryllis and I. The men had not returned.
“What on earth are they doing!” cried my mother. “If she were hiding in the house they would have found her by now.”
“It seems obvious that they haven’t found her,” I said.
“I think,” continued my mother, “that we should go over there and see what is happening.”
“I shall come with you,” said Claudine.
Amaryllis suggested that we go too.
“There’s no need for you girls to come,” said my mother. “You go to bed.”
But we insisted.
Aunt Sophie was in the hall with Jeanne, Miss Allen and some of the servants. Aunt Sophie, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown in spite of the fact that it was a warm night, looked very ill. Jeanne was hovering over her anxiously. The men were not there.
“No news?” asked my mother.
Aunt Sophie shook her head mournfully.
“Where are the men?” asked my mother.
“They are searching with some of our people,” explained Jeanne.
“The house … the garden …”
“We’ve been over every inch of them,” said Miss Allen. “I can’t understand it. She was there, asleep in her bed …”
“Perhaps pretending to be asleep,” I suggested.
“I don’t know. She was there … I saw her when I looked in. It is terrible …”
“It was not your fault, Miss Allen.”
She looked at me gratefully.
“How can we know what is happening to that poor child?” said Aunt Sophie.
“She will be found,” Jeanne said soothingly. “She will be safe. No harm will come to that one.”
“Taken from me,” mourned Aunt Sophie. “Why is it that I cannot keep anyone I love? Why is life always against me?”
No one answered. There was a faraway look in my mother’s eyes and I knew she was thinking of the time when I was taken away by Dolly Mather. I had heard the story many times. And now Dolly’s child had been taken. Or had she gone of her own accord? I could not imagine Tamarisk’s being forcibly taken away. She would have screamed with all the strength of her lungs, which was considerable. But I could imagine her planning some devilment to teach us all a lesson, no doubt. She had been very angry about the party. She might have taken her revenge for not b
eing allowed to attend.
My mother, who like me could not bear inaction, said: “Have the servants been questioned? Do any of them know anything?”
“They all know that she is not here,” said Miss Allen.
“Well, let’s do something,” said my mother. “Let’s have them in. Let’s question them.”
All those servants who were not out of doors searching for Tamarisk were commanded to come into the hall.
My mother said: “I want you all to think. Has anything strange happened in the last few days? Did the child say anything that might give us a clue as to where she may have gone?”
There was silence. Then one of the maids said: “She was always talking about being a witch.”
“She told me yesterday that she would put a spell on me if she didn’t get her own way,” said another.
“Yes,” I said. “She was always talking about being a witch. You don’t think she has gone to Polly Crypton’s place, do you?”
“Polly would have brought her home if she had. Polly’s a witch but a white one. She would do no harm to anybody … not lest they’d done her wrong,” said the cook.
“Perhaps we should send over to Polly’s to see?”
Two of the girls said they would go at once.
When they had gone one of the housemaids said: “She was always talking about the gypsies.”
“Oh yes,” I said, remembering the occasion when Leah came to tell our fortunes. There had seemed to be a special affinity between them then. Of course the child’s father was Romany Jake. “She wouldn’t have gone to the gypsies, surely.” I felt sure that if she had they would have brought her back.
“They say gypsies steal children,” said the parlourmaid. “They sell their clothes. Miss Tamarisk always had of the best. Mademoiselle Sophie saw to that.”
My mother cut in with: “Nonsense!” because she saw this talk was upsetting Aunt Sophie who had covered her face with her hands. Jeanne bent over her whispering in French that all would be well. Tamarisk would be coming through the door at any moment. She was sure of it.
My father and David came back with some of the men servants. One look at their faces showed us that the search had been unsuccessful.
Jeanne was telling Aunt Sophie that she would be more comfortable in bed and as soon as we had news it should be brought to her. If only she would go, Jeanne would make her comfortable. She could bring her something to soothe her throat.
Aunt Sophie shook her head. “How can I rest?” she asked. “How could I… until she is back?”
I went over to my father. I whispered to him: “I want to go to the gypsy encampment.”
“What?” he said.
“Don’t tell them here. It’s just a feeling I have. Will you come with me? Just the two of us?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Something. I’m not sure. Please don’t ask questions. Just come with me.”
My mother looked at us questioningly.
My father said quietly: “Jessica has an idea.”
We went out together.
“You’re not dressed for the saddle,” he said.
“No, let’s walk. We may find her on the way. Please …”
“I know I have to obey orders, General.”
“Father, I’m terribly afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That the gypsies may have had something to do with this.”
“You mean you think they have taken her. They wouldn’t dare. Kidnapping! It could be a hanging offence.”
“I don’t think they would care about that. Besides, they would say she is one of them.”
“Good God,” he said.
And we walked on in silence.
The night air was still balmy as the day had been so hot. It seemed a very long time since I had been sitting in the garden listening to Edward’s proposal.
At length we came to the clearing in the woods. There were no caravans there. My father went over to a pile of ashes. He knelt down and touched them. “They are still warm,” he said. “They can’t have gone long.”
He stood up and we faced each other.
“Why?” he said.
“Leah,” I said. “I may be wrong, but it did occur to me. She was very taken with the child … and the child with her. There was an affinity between them. I believe Leah loves the child’s father, and because of that she wants his child.”
“You’re romancing, my dear.”
“Maybe … and then maybe not.”
“What do you propose we do now?”
“We could send after them. They’ve gone to the West Country. We’ll see if Tamarisk is with them.”
We went back to the house. I dreaded reaching it for something told me that when we did we should hear that there was no news of Tamarisk.
And it was significant that the gypsies should have left just at the time when Tamarisk disappeared.
Everyone was talking about Tamarisk’s disappearance. It seemed a foregone conclusion that she had been stolen by the gypsies, or more likely gone of her own free will. One of the maids remembered that she had seen the gypsy woman talking to the child on the edge of the garden. Miss Allen confirmed that on the previous day she had insisted on walking to the camp, and when they were there she had talked to one of the gypsy women who had shown her inside a caravan.
It was too much of a coincidence that they should have gone at the very time Tamarisk disappeared.
Aunt Sophie was stricken with grief. She had been suffering from a cold before Tamarisk’s disappearance: now that turned to bronchitis. She would not eat; she could not sleep. She just lay in bed crying for the child.
My mother and I went over with Amaryllis. We were deeply shocked. She just lay in her bed, her hood slightly awry so that we could see the beginnings of those sad scars which she had been so careful to hide; now she did not seem to care.
Two days had passed and there was no news of Tamarisk.
My father and David had gone in search of the gypsies but they had disappeared completely and left no trace. It seemed very clear that Leah had taken Tamarisk away.
It was difficult to believe that the gentle girl could be capable of such an act, but I remembered the knife in her belt and the way she had looked at Tamarisk. I was sure she had loved Romany Jake; it was natural; he was the man who had risked his life for her sake. I believed that she would be capable of deep emotions, passionate hatred, passionate love.
And she had wanted the child. So she had lured Tamarisk away from us. I was equally sure that Tamarisk had not been taken against her will.
I thought of Romany Jake sitting in Dolly’s kitchen singing of the lady who had left her fine home for the gypsies.
That was what Tamarisk had done.
As the days dragged on and we had given up hope of finding Tamarisk, we became very concerned about Aunt Sophie.
We visited her every day. Jeanne was in despair.
“She cannot go on like this,” she said.
Poor Aunt Sophie was sunk in melancholy. Someone from the family was there almost throughout the day. We would sit by her bed, saying nothing. She just lay there staring into space.
Jeanne was always trying to tempt her with some special dish. Poor Jeanne, she herself looked weary and older.
It was about four days after Tamarisk’s disappearance. I had gone over to Enderby to be met by Jeanne. She was pale and there were shadows under her eyes.
I said: “How is she?”
Jeanne shook her head.
“I used to say how much good the child did her. After she came she was happy as she had never been before. Now I would to God there had never been a child. Then we should be as we were before her coming.”
“Do you think she will ever come back now?”
“She has gone with the gypsies. She is her father’s child. Her mother was a strange and unhappy girl and with the gypsy her father, it is small wonder that she was rebellious. There is something wild about her.
But we loved her and she was everything to Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle always wanted children. If she could have married and had them I think life would have been very different for us. Life is cruel. There she was … a young pretty girl. She goes out one night… one night only … and there is that terrible disaster and that is the end of the life she knew. A fresh one starts … a life of bitterness and regrets. Oh, it is so cruel. My poor, poor one. How I wish I could bear it for her.”
“You have always been so wonderful to her, Jeanne. My mother always says you are one of the rare people, for people are rarely so good.”
“She is my life, my child, you might say.”
“How I wish that wicked girl would come back. She plagued us all with her presence, but never as she has now by her absence.”
“Ah, if she would only come in at that door now. That would be enough for Mademoiselle. Then I could start feeding her … making her well again … make life good for her. But the child will not come.”
“Shall I go and sit with Aunt Sophie for a while?”
Jeanne nodded. “She seems listless but perhaps she is happy to know that we are all so concerned for her.”
So I went into that room and I sat there by the bed and I thought, There is something evil about this house. It was supposed to be haunted. Terrible things had happened here. My mother told me how surprised she had been when Sophie had decided to take it. They had said then that she had been bewitched by the melancholy of Enderby, the gloom which hung over it. The personality of the house was like that of Aunt Sophie.
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 51
