The Return of the Gypsy

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.

My father persisted: “Perceval’s got a point. But now we are at war with America he’s got to be cautious.”

“Wars!” said my mother indignantly. “How stupid they all are! I don’t even know what this one is about.”

“It’s all a disagreement about commerce,” explained David.

My mother sighed. “You would have thought they had learned a lesson, when they quarrelled before about the colonies.”

“History may repeat itself,” said my father, “but it is certain that the lessons it teaches are hardly ever learned.”

“One would have thought,” said my mother, “that war with France would have been enough for those who are so enamoured of it.”

“This war with France goes on and on,” said Claudine.

“Perceval’s a good man but I would say an uninspired one.”

I said that it was strange that good people did not often make good leaders, and good leaders were often wicked in their private lives.

David, who loved this sort of discussion, instanced the two King Charleses. Charles the First such a good husband and father and about the worst King we had ever had, leading us to Civil War; whereas the second Charles’s life had been one of moral scandal, and yet his rule had been really good for the country.

My mother interrupted with: “What colour would you like to wear for the party, Amaryllis?”

“I think perhaps blue.”

“What about white, darling?” asked Claudine. “I can just see you in white. You will look like an angel.”

“Jessica, are you going to have your favourite scarlet?” asked my mother. “Or is it going to be emerald green?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

“Such matters need weighty consideration,” said my father, “while the country is plunged into war on two fronts.”

“We should never do anything if we waited for those wretched wars to be over,” commented my mother. “And the sooner they have finished one they start another. We’ll go to London to choose the materials. I think we should give ourselves plenty of time. Where are we now … April… Sometime in May. That will give us plenty of time to have the dresses made up. We’ll fix a date. August would be best… somewhere midway between the two birthdays. That’s fair enough.”

There had always been one party to celebrate the two birthdays as they came so close together—mine in August, Amaryllis’ in September; and the parties were usually held at the end of August. Our mothers had started the practice when we were very young and had kept it up.

That was how we came to be in London in the May of that year 1812. There were my mother and myself as well as Amaryllis and Claudine; and as my father never liked my mother to go to London without him, he joined the party. So we all set out in the carriage and in due course arrived at the family house in Albemarle Street.

I had still retained that excitement which I felt when I came to London. The big city always seemed pulsating with life. Everyone appeared to be in a great hurry which always gave me a sense of urgency. I hoped we should visit the theatre while we were there.

The very first day my mother and I, with Claudine and Amaryllis, descended on the shops and after much debating a beautiful white silk was bought for Amaryllis’ dress. It was more difficult to find the acceptable shade of red to enhance my darkness; but my mother said we should not be hurried.

My father always had business in London—rather mysterious business as well as his banking concerns, and one thing we had learned was not to ask questions. We did know that he worked less in the field than he had in the past and that his son Jonathan had lost his life because of his connections with this mysterious espionage. I knew that Claudine was delighted that David had no part in it. Amaryllis had told me so.

I often wondered whether Jonathan’s son, also named Jonathan, who was at this time living with the Pettigrews, was also involved.

However, my father’s interests did not absorb him so much that he could not pay a visit to the theatre and we had a glorious evening watching A Tale of Mystery which was not exactly new but was the first of the melodramas which had since become so popular. It had a wicked villain who the audience liked to pretend struck terror into them when he appeared; and although we laughed we could not help being caught up in the drama, particularly as it was accompanied by the most expressive music which rose in volume for the villain and played sweetly for the unsullied heroine.

When the play was over we all returned home and sat up late drinking hot chocolate and discussing the improbabilities of the plot, laughing heartily at the actions of the villain and the gullibility of the heroine; and admitting that we had enjoyed every moment of it.

The next day was Sunday. We had attended church and afterwards walked in the Park; and my mother said that the following day we really must come to a decision about the material for my dress.

There were callers in the morning and an invitation to dine a few days later.

“And after that,” my mother said, “we must think about getting home.”

“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that when we are at Eversleigh, a visit to London seems very desirable; and when we are here we think how nice it would be to get back.”

“Perhaps anticipation is more satisfying than actuality,” suggested Amaryllis.

“I think you may be right,” I agreed.

“It reminds us that we should enjoy everything as it comes along.”

“Amaryllis, if you are so wise at eighteen, you’ll be a veritable sage by the time you are thirty.”

The callers delayed our visit to the shops but my mother was determined that we should go, so about four o’clock we set out.

We examined bales of material—emerald greens and vivid scarlets, both of which my mother declared were my colours.

I had my mother’s dark hair, but alas, not her vivid blue eyes. Mine were deep set, black lashed but of a deep brown; and I needed strong colours to set them off.

She was determined that I must look my best and she spent a long time selecting the right shade.

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 upon 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.

“We have fixed the day for the party,” I said, “and we’ve been over to Grasslands to issue the invitations.”

We did not ask Aunt Sophie. We knew she would not want to be present, and if by some miracle she did decide to come, she would not need an invitation.

She asked after my mother and Claudine which was a formality really, because they had called on her only the previous day.

I said: “Edward Barrington is concerned about trouble in his factory. The people are threatening to break up the machines.”

Jeanne flashed a warning look at me. We did not talk of such things in front of Aunt Sophie. It reminded her of what she had endured from the revolutionaries in her own country.

Amaryllis said quickly: “We saw Tamarisk on the way in.”

It was a subject calculated to turn Aunt Sophie’s thoughts away from all that was unpleasant.

“She sits a horse well,” I said.

“Amazing child,” murmured Aunt Sophie lovingly.

“Too fond of her own way,” added Jeanne.

“She has spirit,” insisted Aunt Sophie. “I’m glad of that. I shouldn’t want her to be meek.”

“She was complaining bitterly about being on a leading rein,” I said.

“That one wants to run before she can walk,” commented Jeanne.

“She is full of life,” said Aunt Sophie.

We chatted a little about the weather and the party and after a while there was a commotion outside the door.

“I will go in. I want to see Amaryllis and Jessica. They are with Aunt Sophie. I will. I will. Let me go. I hate you. I’ll put a spell on you. I’m a witch.”

These words were followed by a crash on the door.

“Let her come in, Miss Allen,” called Aunt Sophie. “It’s quite all right.”

The door burst open and Tamarisk stood there—beautiful in her riding habit, her eyes ablaze, her hair like an ebony cap on her perfectly shaped head.

“Hello, mon petit chou,” said Aunt Sophie.

Tamarisk turned to us. “Petit chou means little cabbage, and in French that means darling and you are very precious. You thought I was going to be scolded, didn’t you?”

“I thought nothing of the sort,” I said.

“Yes, you did.”

“How did you know what I thought?”

“I know because I’m a witch.”

“Tamarisk,” murmured Jeanne reprovingly, but Aunt Sophie was smiling, clearly applauding her darling’s precocity.

“And what have you been doing?” she asked, giving her entire attention to Tamarisk.

“I’ve been riding. I can ride now. I won’t have Jennings holding my horse. I want to ride on my own.”

“When you’re a big girl…”

“I want it now.”

“Little one, it is only because we are afraid you will fall.”

“I won’t fall.”

“No, chou, but you wouldn’t want poor Aunt Sophie to sit here worrying that you might, would you?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Tamarisk frankly.

Aunt Sophie laughed. I looked at Jeanne who raised her shoulders.

Aunt Sophie seemed to have forgotten our presence, so I said we should be going and Jeanne escorted us to the door. Tamarisk was still telling Aunt Sophie how well she rode and that she wanted to ride by herself.

I said to Jeanne: “That child is becoming unmanageable.”

“She is not becoming, she always was,” commented Jeanne.

“Aunt Sophie spoils her.”

“She loves her so. She has made all the difference to her.”

“It is not good for the child.”

“I daresay Aunt Sophie is very sorry for her,” said Amaryllis. “Poor Tamarisk… it is awful not to have a father or a mother.”

“No child could be better looked after,” I reminded her.

“Yes … but to have no real father or mother… I understand how Aunt Sophie feels.”

“It is good that we came here,” mused Jeanne. “We had to leave our home … everything. But here there was first this house and that did a lot for her … and now the child. I think she will become better than I ever hoped … and it is due to the child.”

“The child is storing up a lot of trouble for herself, and for Aunt Sophie, I should imagine,” I said.

“Dear Jessica,” put in Amaryllis, “you were a bit of a rebel yourself when you were young. I can remember you … lying on the floor and kicking out at everything because you couldn’t have what you wanted. And look at you now!”

“So I have improved, have I?”

“A little.”

“We do our best,” said Jeanne, “Miss Allen and I. It is not easy. She is a difficult child. Sometimes I wish she were not so bright. She listens; she misses nothing. Miss Allen says she is quite clever. I wish she could be a little more serene.”

“I’m afraid she won’t be while Aunt Sophie spoils her.”

We rode back to the house.

“Well, are the Barringtons coming?” asked my mother.

“The entire family … with the exception of Irene who could not possibly have accepted,” I told her.

“I thought they would,” she answered, smiling at me.

Riding near the woods I came face to face with Penfold Smith. I recognized him immediately as I had his daughter. I called: “Good day.” He hesitated for a moment and then he swept off his hat and bowed.

“You’re Miss Frenshaw,” he said.

“Yes, that’s right. We last met in Nottingham.”

“Six years ago.”

He looked older, I thought. There were streaks of white in the black hair, and his face was lined, more weather-beaten.

“We shall never forget what you did,” he said.

“It was my father.”

“Yes, but you, too. I think you moved him to do what he did.”

“You know a great deal about us.”

“Gypsies learn about life. It’s wandering … seeing so many people.”

“I should have thought you weren’t long enough in any place to find out much about people. I saw your daughter a few days ago.”

“Yes—a good girl.”

“She has married, I suppose?”

He shook his head. “No, she has not married. She will take no man.”

“She is very beautiful… strikingly so.”

“I think so. I fear for her sometimes because she is so beautiful. But she knows how to take care of herself… now.” His eyes glinted.

“You have never heard anything of… ?”

“You mean Jake?” He shook his head. “It would not be possible. He is well though.”

“How do you know?”

“Leah knows. She has powers … the second sight. She knew that disaster was threatening us. Poor child, she did not know from what direction it was to come. She has grown in her powers. She was born with them. She is my seventh child. Her mother was a seventh child. In gypsy lore the seventh child of a seventh child is born with the power to see into the future.”

“I thought a number of gypsies had that. Fortune telling is one of their gifts, I believe.”

“Leah has special gifts. She has said she would like to look at your palm one day.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes, after she had seen you. She said there were powerful forces round you.”

I looked over my shoulder and he smiled.

“They are not for ordinary eyes to see. She said you interested her very much. The other young lady, too, but especially you.”

“I am sure Amaryllis would love to have her fortune told. So should I. Tell her to come to the house tomorrow afternoon. If it is fine we will be in the garden. If the servants hear she is telling fortunes they would not give her a moment’s peace.”

“I will tell her.”

“And you say she foretold … that terrible tragedy?”

“In a manner … yes. She knew that Jake was in danger, but she did not know that it would come through herself. Now she knows that Jake is well. He will come back, she says.”

“She is waiting for him,” I said. “Is that why she will not marry?”

“Perhaps. She keeps her secrets. But… she is waiting and she knows that one day he will come.”

“I hope he understood that I had no part in betraying him.”

“I am sure he understood. He knew that you were there, that you cared enough to try to save him. He knew what your father did and that he owed his life to that.”

“But to be sent away … to that place … not knowing what would happen to him when he arrived …”

“Remember, he had been expecting the hangman’s noose. Anything would seem good after that. Life is sweet and he had not lost his. He would always survive, and he will always be grateful.”

“How cruel life was to him … just because he happened to be there …”

“He saved Leah. I think I should have been the one to kill that rogue if Jake hadn’t.”

“If he ever comes back he will find you,” I said. “When he does will you please tell him that I had no hand whatsoever in his capture. I rode over to tell him that they were looking for him. My plan was to help him. I had no idea that they were there … right behind me.”

“I’ll tell him but he knows already.”

“I think of it often and I hope and pray that life is not unbearable wherever he is.”

“He will come through whatever happens to him.”

“You are sure of that?”

“My daughter is and she is the one who sees beyond what ordinary people see.”

“And you are all right in your camp?”

“Very comfortable, thank you. Your father has been good to us.”

“He remembers too and wishes he could have done more at the trial.”

“He has given us permission to stay for a few weeks, but we shall be moving on shortly.”

“To the West Country, I believe. Your daughter told me. Will you remind her that we shall expect her tomorrow afternoon?”

I rode on.

When I told Amaryllis that Leah was coming over to read our palms, she was intrigued. Who does not like having one’s fortune told? Even the men do, I think, though they would probably deny it.

However, there was no doubt of Amaryllis’ interest.

The next day Jeanne came to the house with some embroidery she had done for my mother. To my surprise Tamarisk came with her. She wanted to see the puppies which had been born to one of the Labradors; and as Amaryllis and I were meeting Leah one of the maids was asked to take her to the kennels.

Amaryllis and I were in the garden when Leah arrived. She wore a red skirt with a simple white blouse; her hair was piled high to make a crown about her head and there were gold coloured rings in her ears. About her waist was a thick leather belt. She looked quite regal. “The queen of the gypsies,” I said to Amaryllis as we saw her approaching.

I said: “We are going to find a sheltered spot in the garden because if the servants discover that you are telling fortunes they won’t give you any peace.”

“I like only to tell when I have something to tell,” she replied.

We walked across the grass to the summer house.

“Let’s go in here,” said Amaryllis.

“You may well have nothing to tell us,” I said.

“I am sure there will be something.”

“And for me?” asked Amaryllis.

“We shall see. There is serenity all about you. It is the best. It makes for happiness … but happiness often means that there is not much to tell.”

We seated ourselves on the chairs in the summer house. There was a small white topped table there. As Leah sat down I noticed that her belt had a sheath attached to it. She was carrying a knife. I remembered what her father had said about her taking care to protect herself. The knife was such a startling contrast to her gentle demeanour. It was very understandable, I thought. If what had happened to her had happened to me, I should want to carry a knife in my belt.

First she turned to Amaryllis and took her palm. They made a charming picture—their heads close—one so fair, one so dark. Two of the most beautiful women I had ever seen—and so different. Amaryllis so open, so innocent in a way; Leah dark, brooding, her eyes full of secret knowledge—and wearing a belt with a knife in it!

“I see happiness,” she said. “Yes, I felt it immediately. You walk through life calmly, as the young do. You are young in heart and that is a good thing to be. There are dangers all around you … below you … above you … but you walk straight through and you look neither up nor down, and because you see no evil, evil cannot harm you.”

“It sounds a little dull,” said Amaryllis. “I should like to know what all these dangers are.”

Leah shook her head. “This is the best way. You are a lucky lady. That much I can tell you.”

Amaryllis looked faintly disappointed but Leah could say no more.

Then she turned to me. I held out my palm and she took it.

“Oh yes …” She touched my hand lightly and looked up at me. Her dark eyes seemed to bore right through me and I felt my secret thoughts were revealed to her, my petty jealousies and vanities, my less than admirable nature.

She said: “You will be much sought after and there will be a choice to be made. So much will depend on that choice.”

“Can’t you see what I should do?”

She answered: “There is always free will. There are divided paths. It is for you to decide. If you take one you must beware.”

“How shall I know which is the dangerous path?”

She paused and bit her lip. “You are strong in your will. Whatever happens to you will be your choice. You can come through. But you must be wary. All about you I see forces … forces of evil.”

“What sort of evil?”

She shook her head. “I saw this … and I wanted to tell you. You must be careful. Do not act rashly. Be careful.”

“How can I when I don’t know of what to be careful?”

“Take care in all your actions. The time of choice will come, depend on that. You go one way and the evil will not be there. You take one path and then … it is there.”

“What sort of evil? Death?”

She did not answer.

“So it is death,” I insisted.

“It is not clear. Death could be there … Not yours. A death. That is all I can say.”

“And you saw all this when you met me. You wanted to come and warn me.”

“I did not know what I should find. I never know. But I had the strong feeling that I wanted to warn you.”

She released my hand and looked at me helplessly; and at that moment the door of the summer house opened. I looked towards it in dismay. She had shaken me a little with her warning and I wanted to hear more.

It was Tamarisk who stood there. She was dressed in a red dress with a light navy blue cloak. The combination was beautiful. Jeanne made most of her clothes and the colours always blended delightfully.

“What do you want, Tamarisk?” I asked.

“To see you,” she replied. “What you are doing?” She stared at Leah. “You’re the gypsy,” she added.

“Yes, I am.”

“I know about you. Jenny and Mab told me.”

“They told you?” I said sharply.

“No … not me … but I heard them. You live in the woods and tell fortunes.”

Tamarisk approached and stood still, looking intently at Leah.

As for Leah herself she could not take her eyes off the child. I thought she was struck by her extraordinary beauty.

“Tell my fortune,” said Tamarisk.

“Fortune telling is not for children,” I said.

“Oh yes, it is. It’s for everybody.”

Leah had taken the small hand which had been thrust into hers. She said gently: “When you are young, there is nothing written in the palm. It comes when you grow older.”

“Nothing written on it!” She seized my hand and studied it. “There’s nothing written on Jessica’s.”

“It is not writing with a pen,” explained Leah. “It’s written by life.”

“Who is Life?”

“What we are … what we are growing up to.”

“I want Life to write on my hands.”

“It will,” said Leah with a smile. “I think it may have a great deal to write.”

That pleased Tamarisk, but she was bored with fortunes if she was not to have one yet.

“There are four puppies. I like the big one. He squeals a lot and he is very greedy.”

“Who took you down to show you the puppies?”

“Jenny.”

“Where is she now?”

Tamarisk lifted her shoulders. “Do gypsies have puppies?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” Leah told her. “We have our dogs and some of them have puppies.”

“Where does Life write on them? They haven’t got hands.”

“It would find somewhere no doubt,” said Amaryllis.

Tamarisk was quite taken with Leah. She put her hands on her knees and looked up at her searchingly.

“You’ve got gold rings in your ears.”

“Yes,” said Leah.

“I want gold rings in my ears.”

“Tamarisk always wants everything everyone else may have,” I said.

“I want gold in my ears,” she repeated.

“Perhaps one day …” began Amaryllis.

“I want it now. They are always saying one day,” she told Leah. “Do you live in a caravan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep there?”

“Yes. Sometimes if it is a very hot night we sleep out of doors … under the sky and when we wake in the night we can see the stars twinkling overhead. And sometimes there’s a moon.”

“I want to sleep under the stars.”

“Perhaps you will… one day.”

“You say it now. One day! I never want one day. I always want now.”

I heard an agitated voice: “Miss Tamarisk. Miss Tamarisk. Where are you?”

Tamarisk buried her head in Leah’s lap. I noticed how gently Leah’s long brown fingers touched the dark straight hair.

I went to the door of the summer house and said: “She’s here, Jenny. Did you think you had lost her?”

“She ran off and when I turned round she had gone, Miss Frenshaw.”

“Well, she’s here now. She ought to be put on a chain like a little dog.”

Tamarisk lifted her head and put out her tongue at me.

“Oh, certainly she should be,” I went on. “And taught how to behave.”

“I know how to behave.”

“Well, why not practise what you know?”

“Come along, Miss Tamarisk,” said Jenny. “Jeanne is waiting to go.”

She took Tamarisk firmly by the hand and led her away.

“She is a beautiful child,” said Leah as the door of the summer house closed.

“And a very unmanageable one. They spoil her.”

“She has a look of…”

“Romany Jake?” I said. “He is her father.”

Leah nodded; her face was full of secrets and I did not know what she was thinking.

“Poor Tamarisk,” said Amaryllis, “her mother is dead.”

“She has her father …” began Leah.

“A father who does not know of her existence!” went on Amaryllis.

“She is his child,” said Leah. “There could be no doubt of it.”

She was quiet for a moment, then she said: “I am sorry I could not tell you more. That is how it is. I do not want to talk nonsense … as some of our people do … just while they are waiting for what is to come. Inspiration … truth … it flashes upon you… and you wait for it. But sometimes it does not come and then there is no fortune. But what can be done? Can one say, ‘There is nothing. You do not inspire me. The powers are silent…’ Or ‘I do not wish to tell…’ How could we say that? We can only wait… and sometimes it comes and sometimes not.”

“I understand perfectly, don’t you, Amaryllis?”

“Perfectly,” she replied. “And you have given me such a lovely fortune. It’s poor Jessica I’m sorry about… all those dark forces …”

“They are there surrounding us all. We must be like you and look neither up nor down. Then we shall not see them … and perhaps our good angel will guide our footsteps in the right direction.”

I had brought money with which to pay her and I gave it to her. She accepted it gracefully with many thanks and we walked with her to the gates and then went back to the house.

Tamarisk and Jeanne had already left.

Guests were arriving for the party. Lord and Lady Pettigrew were there with Millicent and her son Jonathan.

Jonathan was a little younger than I, and Millicent, although my sister-in-law, was of an age with Amaryllis’ mother, Claudine. My birth to my parents late in life had made some rather complicated relationships for me.

I quite liked Jonathan. He had always been a high-spirited boy and was continually in some sort of scrape. He had a charming personality, and was always disarmingly sorry if he caused anyone any trouble. His mother said he was very like his father who had been killed nearly twenty years ago in a shooting affray with a French spy.

The Pettigrews were frequent visitors at Eversleigh and one day Jonathan would inherit the estate, and my father was quite interested in him, although he was often exasperated by him.

Lady Pettigrew was a very autocratic lady who thought she could manage everyone’s affairs better than they could themselves, and unfortunately tried to do so. Lord Pettigrew was a very pleasant old man, gentle and resigned. As I said to Amaryllis, he had to be, living with Lady Pettigrew for years. Claudine said she was getting old now and we must bear with her. Amaryllis was a great favourite with her; I was not because I could not resist the temptation to contradict.

The Pettigrews had come several days before the birthday and we were all invited over to the Barringtons’ to dine. I was next to Edward for dinner and I began to wonder whether we were being thrown together, for I always seemed to find myself close to him.

“I am very much looking forward to the party,” he said.

“We all are.”

“The eighteenth birthday! Rather a special one, isn’t it? Eighteen is supposed to be one of the milestones of life.”

“When one leaves childhood behind.”

He looked at me seriously and nodded. I felt faintly uneasy. He was hinting at something. Could it really be that he was thinking of marriage?

I hoped not. I had always fretted to be grown up but when one was an adult certain decisions had to be made. I did not want to be married yet. I liked Edward Barrington, of course. I also liked some of the other young men in the neighbourhood. Oh yes, I wanted to be grown up; but I did not want to leap straight out of girlhood into marriage. I wanted a little time to bask in the admiration of a number of people. I did not want to confine myself to the attentions of one, which I supposed I should have to do when I was married.

A faint gloom had been cast over the evening. Times change. Nothing remains the same for long. I looked along the table at my father and realized with a sudden anxiety that he was an old man. The great Dickon … old! I had always had a special relationship with him. I had been grateful from my earliest childhood when I discovered that I and my mother were the only ones who could soften him. I remembered Amaryllis’ saying “Ask your father. He’ll say yes … if you ask him.” Miss Rennie had said, “Miss Jessica knows how to get round her father.” It was especially wonderful because I did not have to know anything. I just had to be. I loved him dearly. For all his wickedness—and I believed he had been very wicked in his youth—I loved him more than I did anyone else—except perhaps my mother and that was equally. But they were both getting old and could not live forever. My father was fresh-faced; he looked healthy; but I realized with a pang that he was well into his sixties. The thought frightened me. And my mother was in her fifties. She was still beautiful, of course, because she had that kind of beauty which does not fade. There is a permanence about it. There was white in her hair now but it was still abundant; and her eyes, although they might be a little lined, were still of that arresting dark blue shade. But they were both getting old. Edward Barrington, by his insinuations … if insinuations they were … had reminded me of this.

“You look a little sad,” Edward was saying.

I flashed a smile at him. “Sad? No, of course not.”

I started to talk animatedly trying to dismiss those rather frightening thoughts.

When we returned home that night, my mother came to my room. It was a habit of hers. There were times, she said, when she was in need of a cosy chat. This was one of those occasions.

“A pleasant evening,” she said. “It always is at the Barringtons’. Nice neighbours. We were lucky when they came to Grasslands.”

“A little different from the last inhabitants.”

My mother frowned. “Yes, old Mrs. Trent was always something of a misfit and then that tragedy with Evie … and now poor Dolly … it seemed as though she were dogged by ill fortune.”

“Edward is a little perturbed about the work people and the machines.”

“Yes, I heard about that. I daresay Edward will overcome his difficulties. He’s that sort of person. I like him, don’t you?”

I looked sharply at her and burst out laughing.

“You know me well,” she said. “Sometimes I believe you know what I’m thinking.”

“For instance at the present moment?”

“Well, he’s very earnest. Mrs. Barrington hinted to me … Now, you mustn’t get on your high horse. Parents are like that. You’ll know one day. It has occurred to me for some time that there might be a happy outcome.”

“Why don’t you say it outright. You want me to marry Edward Barrington. Well, Mother, I do not want to marry him or anybody.”

“Don’t look so fierce. Nobody is going to drag you to the altar against your wishes.”

“I should think not!”

She laughed at me. “Just idle dreaming. I expect the idea is new to you. I’d like to see you happily married. It’s nice to have children when you are young.”

“As you did me?”

“That was a very special case.”

“I don’t want to think about marrying anyone. I want to be young for a while yet.”

“Of course. But if you did decide on Edward Barrington we should all be rather pleased. You’d be near us, for one thing.”

“He’s in Nottingham a great deal of the time.”

“Yes … but Grasslands would be a sort of root. I should hate it if you went far away.”

“I have no intention of going far away … or marrying … for a very long time. I like it here. I can’t imagine I should ever love anyone as much as I love you and my father.”

She was deeply moved. “My dear, dear Jessica,” she said. “What a comfort you have been to us both!”

“You don’t need any comfort from me. You have each other.”

“I’m so lucky.”

“I think we all are.”

She laughed. “We’re getting quite maudlin.”

“I felt a little sad at dinner because it suddenly occurred to me that you were getting old … you and my father … and it frightened me. I just could not bear it if you weren’t there … either of you.”

“We shall always be here until…”

“That’s what I mean.”

“My dearest child, all my joy has been in my husband and my daughters … you and Claudine. Charlot…”

“You rarely speak of him.”

“I think of him often. He left us … on that day years ago and I have not seen him since. Perhaps I shall one day. He is after all my son, and when I think of him I thank God for my daughters.”

I said: “Who is getting maudlin now? You are going to live forever and I’m going to be with you … your unmarried daughter who will always be there to look after you.”

The door opened and my father came in.

“What on earth is going on here?” he demanded. He was looking at my mother. “I wondered what had happened to you.”

“We got talking,” she said.

“You look a bit… peculiar.”

“Jessica was saying she was going to look after us for the rest of our days.”

“Look after us! When did we need looking after?”

“She’s worried because we’re getting old, and so is she, and she is dead against marriage because she much prefers you to any suitor.”

“Well, of course she does. She is going to find it impossible to discover someone who will match up with me.”

“It’s true,” I said.

My mother slipped her arm through his. “It all came about because I mentioned … or did I hint? … that Edward Barrington looked as though he might have plans concerning her.”

“I shouldn’t object to him as a son-in-law.”

“But it is I who have to accept or object, dear Father, not you.”

“Parental approbation is usually necessary in the best regulated families.”

“But this is not one of those. It’s us. Please get out of your silly old heads that you have to find a husband for me. When I feel the need of one I’ll choose him myself. At the moment, I am very content for everything to remain as it is.”

“You’ve made that clear enough. And what’s this about our getting old? I’ll never be old.”

“I don’t believe you ever will.”

“Well, come on, Lottie.”

He took my face in his hand and looked at me. “Stop fretting,” he said. “When have you not had your own way, eh? Nothing is going to change that… just because you have reached the mature age of eighteen. Stop thinking about age. That’s the best way to ward it off. All will be well. You are like me … born lucky. Life works out for people like us. Look at me. A wicked old sinner and I have got the two best women in the world.”

He kissed me swiftly.

“Good night,” he went on briefly.

My mother kissed me and they were gone.

Nothing had changed. No one would attempt to force me, nor even persuade me, to do what I did not want to.

My fate was in my own hands.

It was the day of the party. In the morning Amaryllis and I rode over to Enderby. We did not think for a moment that Aunt Sophie would come, but we had to assure her that if she decided to, we should be very happy to see her.

I said to Amaryllis: “It is good to get away from the house. The servants seemed to be running round in circles like a lot of ants. They seem to be busy but they are not sure doing what.”

“There is so much to be prepared and both our mothers want everything to go without a hitch. They’ll be terribly hurt if it doesn’t.”

We had reached Enderby. Jeanne met us and told us that Aunt Sophie was not very well. She believed she had a cold coming.

“Would she not want to see us today?” I asked. “We only came to enquire how she was, and to tell her that if she did decide to come to the party, we’d be delighted.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t come to the party, but she will be glad to see you.”

We went into Aunt Sophie’s room. Tamarisk was seated on a stool with a little table before her. She was painting in lurid reds and blues.

“I am sorry you are not well, Aunt Sophie,” I said.

“Are we disturbing you?” asked Amaryllis.

“No … no. Come in. I thought I’d have a day in bed. Jeanne thinks I should. Just a slight cold. Tamarisk is keeping me company.”

Tamarisk glanced up from her painting, looking very virtuous as though she were performing some act of mercy.

“What are you painting?” Amaryllis asked Tamarisk.

“I’m painting gypsies.”

“Tamarisk saw the gypsies yesterday, didn’t you, Tamarisk?” said Aunt Sophie. “She came back and told us all about it. We wondered where she was. Jeanne went out and found her with the gypsies.”

“I like gypsies,” said Tamarisk. “They have caravans. They sleep in them … and sometimes on the grass. There are horses and dogs and children without shoes and stockings. I don’t want to wear shoes and stockings.”

“You’d hurt your feet if you didn’t.”

“Gypsies don’t hurt their feet.”

“They are used to it,” I said, “and they would be thankful to have shoes.”

Tamarisk was thoughtful. Then she said: “They have fires on the ground and they cook the dinner on them.”

Amaryllis said to Aunt Sophie: “My mother would be so delighted if you came to the party tonight.”

“My dear child,” said Aunt Sophie, “I am afraid I am not well enough.”

“I want to come to the party,” cried Tamarisk. “It ought to be my party.”

“You always have a party for your birthday, mon amour” said Aunt Sophie.

“I want this party.”

“This is Jessica’s and Amaryllis’.”

“I have a birthday, too.”

“We all have birthdays and this happens to be mine and Amaryllis’,” I told her.

“Two of you! It ought to be mine, too. I want to come.”

“My dearest,” said Aunt Sophie, “it is not a children’s party. It is for grown-ups.”

“I don’t want a children’s party. I want a grown-ups’ party. I want to come.”

“When you are eighteen,” I said.

Tamarisk glared at me and leaving her painting went over to Aunt Sophie. She looked at her appealingly. “Please, I want to go to the party.”

“Now, Tamarisk my dear, you shall have a party of your own. This is not for little ones.”

Tamarisk stamped her foot. “You don’t love me,” she said.

Aunt Sophie looked desolate. “Oh, my little one …”

“You don’t. You don’t,” she cried. “I hate you. I hate you all.” With that she ran from the room.

“Oh dear,” said Aunt Sophie, almost in tears.

“She needs a very stern governess,” I said and even Amaryllis admitted that the child was getting out of hand.

“It’s so sad for her, having no parents,” said Aunt Sophie.

“Dear Aunt Sophie, you have done everything for her. She has not learned to be grateful. She must realize that she is not the only person in the world.”

Jeanne came in and said that Tamarisk had gone to Miss Allen who was going to take her for a ride.

When we came out of the house we saw Tamarisk coming out of the stables with one of the grooms. She was on a leading rein and they were making for the paddock. She looked at us serenely, but I thought I saw a certain look of triumph in her eyes.

It was a beautiful night. There was a full moon which threw a romantic glow over the gardens and so after the buffet supper, which had been served in the hall, the guests strolled out to take the air. Through the open windows came the strains of music which was being played in the gallery for those who wished to dance.

I was with Edward who was very anxious to find a secluded spot as he wished to talk to me. I guessed of what he wanted to speak.

We sat on the wooden seat and he was silent for a few moments, then he said: “What a lovely evening!”

“Just what we hoped and prayed for,” I replied.

“Jessica, I have wanted to talk to you for so long. I’ve been afraid to.”

“You … afraid! I thought you were never afraid of anything.”

He laughed. “I am … now. I am afraid that you will say No. I want to marry you.”

I was silent, and he went on: “I fancied you knew. After all, it seems obvious to everyone else.”

“I do know but… well, I haven’t really thought about marriage. I don’t believe I want to … just yet.”

“You are eighteen now.”

“I know that many girls are married at that age, but somehow … I don’t feel ready.”

“We could become engaged.”

“That seems too … definite.”

“My parents would be delighted.”

“Mine would too. It seems that everyone would be. It is just that I am … well, uncertain. I am fond of you, Edward. It’s been great fun since you came to Grasslands. We’re all delighted to have you for neighbours.” I thought then of our first meeting and when I did so there was one other figure who loomed large in my thoughts. But for Romany Jake I should never have known Edward. Then came the thought of what I should feel if instead of Edward sitting beside me on this moonlight night it was that other … he whom I had never been able to banish from my thoughts though it was so long since I had seen him. Something suggested to me that he might be at the root of my indecision. I dismissed that thought immediately as ridiculous. Then I thought of Leah … for whose sake he had been sent away. I thought of her large luminous eyes probing my mind. A choice, she had said. There were two paths. One would lead me to serenity, the other to danger. Surely this must be one of the choices and surely this life with Edward would lead me to peace. How could it be otherwise with a man like Edward? He was distinguished, of good family, comparatively wealthy, considerate and kind. He was all that my parents asked for in a son-in-law. But it should not be parents who made the choice.

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 being 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.

But Jeanne had brought her impeccable French taste to the house. She had subtly changed the furnishings. She had made discoveries in the house and changed it a little. And Aunt Sophie had been happier here than she had since her disfigurement when she had lost her fiancé and the happy future to which she had looked forward.

But Aunt Sophie was doomed. Those she had loved, she said, were taken from her. Her fiancé was lost to her, although it was she who had refused to marry him, so my mother told me. He would have gone on with the wedding; but he had married my mother instead. Then there was Alberic, the French spy who had come into her life and whom she had loved—so Jeanne told me—as her son. He had died—murdered, said Aunt Sophie; meeting his just deserts, said my father; it was Jonathan, my father’s own son, who had killed him and lost his own life in similar fashion.

So many tragedies! Yes, there was something about the house, I could feel it… in this very room.

A disembodied voice floated up to me.

“Is Mademoiselle all right?”

It was Jeanne speaking through the tube in the kitchen—a weird device, I had always thought it, connecting the two rooms. It always sounded odd to me, unnatural, even though I understood how it came through.

Aunt Sophie stirred a little.

“Am I all right?” she said. “I shall never be all right. Life is too cruel. Jessica, why do you sit there? Why don’t you go away. Just leave me in my misery.”

“Oh, Aunt Sophie, we are all so anxious about you. We all want you to be well.”

“I lose all those I have loved. There is something fatal about my loving. I just have to love and they are taken from me.”

“Oh no, it is not so, Aunt Sophie.”

She raised herself a little. “Yes, yes,” she cried vehemently. “There was Charles. He was so handsome. And he is long since dead. He married your mother. Charlot and Claudine were the result. I loved Charlot. Where is Charlot now?”

“He has his vineyard in Burgundy. My mother longs for the end of the war so that she can visit him … or perhaps he will soon come to us.”

“Oh, the war will be over. Your mother will see her son. Everything works well for her … whereas for me …”

“Oh, Aunt Sophie, you are here with your family. You escaped with Jeanne. No one could have a more devoted friend than Jeanne. She at least is something to be grateful for.”

“She is a good woman. I am devoted to her… but she is here with me in my prison. Charlot… Claudine … they might have been my children. But life is always against me. True, I escaped. I came here. I found this house. I thought life would be a little kinder to me … at last. Alberic came. He was a beautiful young man… always so eager to please me. And … they murdered him. I was fond of Dolly and she went with that gypsy and she died. But she gave me Tamarisk. I thought then I could be happy. I had this little girl to bring up as my own … mine at last. And now … she is gone. You see, whatever I do, whatever I touch, brings desolation. It is time I gave up the struggle, Jessica.”

“You must not say such things. You have been so brave.”

“Brave? I? Crouching in my prison … shutting myself away … afraid to see anyone … living like a hermit! You call that brave?”

I said: “It is brave in a way.”

She laughed. “No, it is cowardice. I was always a coward. Afraid of life. I never grasped firmly as your mother did. Perhaps I should have married Charles. He would have married me. Gentleman’s honour, you understand. I knew that he did not want me. I suspected even before the accident that it was your mother whom he wanted. I could have made him marry me. Perhaps I should have done so. I might have had children. After all, it was an obligation on his part. How different everything might have been if I had married him! Sometimes one has a choice in life. Two ways loom before one. Which should one take? And the decision makes all the difference to one’s life.”

I was thoughtful. Was that not what Leah, the gypsy, had said to me?

I sat there thinking of Aunt Sophie’s decision. Which would I have taken had I been in her place?

There was silence for a while, then Aunt Sophie said: “Jessica, I sometimes feel there is no reason why I should go on. It would be so easy to let go …”

I said: “Tamarisk will come back. I feel it in my bones.”

She shook her head. “I shall never see Tamarisk again.”

There was nothing I could say or do to comfort her. I kissed her forehead and took my leave.

The weeks were passing. There was no news of Tamarisk. My father had done everything possible to trace the gypsies, but there was no sign of them. Enquiries were made and it was learned that they had not visited their usual haunts that year.

There were whole days when no one mentioned Tamarisk which was a sign that we were all beginning to accept the evidence that she had gone with the gypsies. She was not, after all, related to us. My father said: “The child is merely Dolly Mather’s bastard by a wandering gypsy. If it wasn’t for Sophie’s preoccupation with her it would be no concern of ours that she is taken back to her father’s people. It might be said that they have more right to her than Sophie.”

I tried to explain to him what Tamarisk had meant to Sophie, but my father was apt to be impatient of the weaknesses of others. The only two people he cared about were my mother and myself. He had a certain pride in David who was a model son and as unlike Dickon as a son could be from his father. He regretted the death of Jonathan; he had a fondness for Claudine and for Amaryllis. But they were immediate family. Outside that he had little concern. So he shrugged his shoulders. Tamarisk had gone and that was the end of the matter for him.

How different was my mother. She was warm-hearted, making other people’s troubles her concern; and particularly so in the case of Aunt Sophie, for whom she always had had this very special obligation to help.

Aunt Sophie was shrinking into a decline. She seemed to have shrivelled; she was constantly talking of Tamarisk, and Jeanne told me that she had gone into her room at midnight to find her at the window looking out because she had thought she heard someone in the garden and wondered if Tamarisk had come home.

The talk at Eversleigh now was all about Napoleon’s advance on Russia. My mother always listened eagerly to news of the war. She was longing for the day when it would be over and she would be reunited with Charlot.

There was no fresh news about him but since she had heard that he and Louis Charles had a vineyard in Burgundy, she had been hopeful. She confided in me that it had been heart-rending when she had believed he was fighting in Napoleon’s army. “Fighting against us,” she said. “It seemed so terrible. Now I can think of him in his vineyard. He will find that so interesting. And Louis Charles with him. He was always his shadow. I wonder what his wife is like. I might have grandchildren. It is maddening to be in the dark. But I must thank God that he is safe.”

She did not try to bring a halt to the conversation at the table when it was about the war now as she had done in the past. She encouraged it, listening avidly for some indication that there might be peace.

My father watched events with great interest. He said that if Napoleon succeeded in conquering Russia the whole of Europe would be in his hands.

“Then,” he went on, “he would turn his attention to us.”

“But there is the sea to protect us,” said my mother.

“If he could find a way of bringing his armies over …”

“The Navy would never allow it.”

“If he does succeed in conquering Russia,” said David, “he will believe he cannot fail.”

“He failed at Trafalgar,” pointed out Claudine.

“And by God, he is going to fail again,” added my father. “But at the moment the Russians are in full retreat. Napoleon is after Moscow. If he succeeds in taking it the Russians will lose heart.”

“Will that be the end of the war?” asked my mother.

“My dear Lottie, what do you think the mighty conqueror of Europe will do if he beats the Russians? He will have come to the conclusion that he is invincible. Nothing will deter him from an attack on our island.”

My mother shivered. “It is all so stupid, so pointless. What does it matter to the people who is king or emperor?”

“Unfortunately, my love, it matters to the kings and most certainly to this particular emperor. Napoleon wants to see himself astride the world.”

“He will never conquer us,” said David firmly.

“Never!” agreed my father. “But there might be certain troubles to be faced first.”

We visited Aunt Sophie regularly. Sometimes I went; sometimes Amaryllis did. Always Sophie talked of Tamarisk, her beauty, her charm. I said to Amaryllis: “She is fast turning the child into an angel of virtue.” And she agreed.

Jeanne was very worried. “She eats scarcely anything; and does not rest at night. Often I hear her moving about. I went in last night. She was sitting at the window looking out. She said she thought she had heard Tamarisk in the garden, calling to her. She was icily cold. I got her back to bed and although I covered her with several blankets she lay there shivering for a full hour. She can’t go on like this.”

“I wish we could get some news of Tamarisk,” I said.

It was a balmy September day when we heard that Napoleon had entered Moscow.

“This is the end,” said David. “The effect of Moscow’s surrender will be devastating for the Russian army. It will collapse.”

David was a shrewd observer of the political field, I had always thought. He approached all subjects with logic. My father was apt to have preconceived notions and a certain amount of emotion crept into his judgements.

But for once David was wrong. We waited for news with the utmost eagerness. Moscow was burning. It was first thought that the French had set fire to it; but that would have been folly. Napoleon did not want a destroyed city. He had his army to house and feed. It was a last desperate manoeuvre by the Russians—an example of what they called the scorched earth policy. They had tried it out consistently during the war and Napoleon’s advancing armies, far from home, found nothing ahead of them but burning towns.

“He has to make a decision now,” said David. “To stay the winter in a burned-out city or to withdraw. He is hesitating. If he waits much longer it will be too late.”

“What we must pray for now is his retreat from Moscow and an early Russian winter,” said my father. “That will be better than an avenging army.”

“Those poor soldiers,” murmured my mother, and I knew she was giving up a prayer of thanksgiving because Charlot was no longer one of Napoleon’s soldiers, but snug, she hoped, in his vineyard.

“Those poor soldiers, Lottie,” retorted my father, “are the very gentlemen who would be over-running this land and bringing their accursed emperor here to rule over us.”

“I know. I know. But it is always sad when men … whose quarrel it is not… have to risk their lives. I do hope it will be over soon. Oh, if only it could be.”

“Then you should pray for a hard winter.”

I have no doubt that the Russians prayed for the same—and those prayers were answered. Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow decimated his army. However well drilled, well disciplined those men, they could not stand up to the terrible climatic conditions.

There were many to rejoice—ourselves among them—when Napoleon returned to Paris, and of the army of six hundred thousand only one hundred thousand had survived.

We were dining with the Barringtons when the news came.

“Perhaps he will make peace now,” said my mother hopefully.

“Not him,” said my father.

“Nothing short of capture and the complete destruction of his armies will silence Napoleon,” added Edward Barrington.

“You are right,” added his father. “Nothing will subdue him but complete defeat.”

“It will come, depend upon it,” said my father. “And when it does we shall be free of this threat which has been hanging over us for so long. The French have a lot to answer for.”

“Yes… all this unrest stems from them,” added Mr. Barrington.

“You mean your trouble at the works?”

“It is really getting serious,” Edward explained. “The mob is getting more and more violent. We have to have all-night guards on the machines.”

“Idiots,” said my father. “The law is not harsh enough.”

“I think they are going to tighten it up,” said Edward. “They’ll have to. We can’t go on like this.”

Then they talked once more of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow and speculated as to what his next plans would be.

When we returned home one of the grooms from Enderby was waiting for us. He said that Mademoiselle Fougére was very anxious about Mademoiselle Sophie and she thought we should go over to see her as soon as possible.

My mother said we would go at once, so with my father, David, Claudine and Amaryllis, I went to Enderby.

I could never enter that house without a little shiver of expectation. I never knew what it was. Amaryllis did not feel it. She said it was my imagination; but I did really feel that so many strange events had taken place there that somehow they had been caught up, captured and become part of the house.

I was certain as soon as I entered it that night that I sensed the presence of Death.

Jeanne came down to the hall to greet us; her hair was awry which was unusual for Jeanne, who always believed that one’s coiffure was of the utmost importance. Her face was white and the misery in her eyes was apparent.

“I am afraid,” she said, “terribly afraid that she is slipping away from me.”

We went up to Aunt Sophie’s bedroom. We stood round her bed. I am not sure whether she recognized us. She lay with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I wish I could have got a priest,” said Jeanne.

My mother said: “Perhaps she will recover.”

“No, Madame, not this time. This is the end.”

As though to confirm this, Aunt Sophie’s breathing became stertorous. After a while she was quiet.

“My poor Jeanne,” said my mother, putting an arm about her.

“I knew,” said Jeanne. “For the last days I have known. This last blow … It was too much.”

My father said he would send one of the servants for the doctor.

“I have already done so,” said Jeanne. “He will be here shortly. Ah … I believe now. But there is nothing he can do. Yesterday he told me. There is nothing, he said.”

My mother gently led Jeanne out of the bedroom.

My father took the doctor into the bedroom and the rest of us went downstairs. As we sat in the hall with its high vaulted ceiling and its haunted minstrels’ gallery I had the feeling that the house was listening, waiting. And I thought: Who will live here now?

Jeanne was saying that Aunt Sophie had never recovered from her grief over the loss of Tamarisk.

“It’s a pity that child was ever born,” said my mother.

“Poor Dolly,” I said. “She would have loved her.”

Claudine put her hand to her head and said irrelevantly: “I don’t like this house. There’s always trouble in it. I believe it is something to do with the house.”

If I let my imagination stray I was sure I would have heard the house laughing, mockingly.

“She grieved for Tamarisk,” mused Jeanne. “If only the child had not gone. She did so much for her. She was her life. She could see no wrong in her. To go like this without a word. The gypsy in her I suppose. And what it did to my poor lady!”

“What she would have done without you, Jeanne, I can’t imagine,” said my mother.

“She brooded on her misfortunes,” said Jeanne. “She always did. I used to think she revelled in them. But not this one … not losing the child.”

“I should like a little brandy,” said my mother. “Something to warm us up. I think we all need something.”

Jeanne went away to get it.

“It gives her something to do,” said my mother. “Poor soul. This is a terrible grief for her.”

When Jeanne came back the men joined us.

The doctor said Aunt Sophie had died of a congestion of the lungs.

“And a surfeit of sorrow,” added my mother.

Claudine looked over her shoulder at the minstrels’ gallery and shivered.

“Are you cold, Mamma?” asked Amaryllis. “Here. Have my shawl.”

“No, my darling. I’m not cold.” She looked with infinite fondness at her daughter.

The doctor was saying that Aunt Sophie had not wished to live. It sometimes happened when people had this death wish that death came to them. There was nothing which could have saved her—not all the devoted nursing possible. She was just tired of living, tired of fighting.

“She beckoned to death and it came,” I said.

My father looked impatient and said it was getting late and there was nothing we could do tonight.

We went back to Eversleigh leaving Jeanne with her desolation.

On a dark and dismal day, Aunt Sophie was laid to rest. Tamarisk’s disappearance had ceased to be a subject for contemplation among the servants.

There were a number of mourners at the graveside and even more spectators. Aunt Sophie had always been something of an oddity in the neighbourhood. Now she had died—or rather faded away—that was the end of her sad story.

The cortege had left Enderby and the mourners would come back to Eversleigh where they would be given food and drink; and after that the family would assemble for the reading of Aunt Sophie’s will.

We had discussed the possibilities of what it might contain.

“Enderby would be a problem,” said my father. He thought the wisest thing would be to sell. “The whole lot,” he said. “Lock, stock and barrel. Get rid of the place. The problem would be to find a likely buyer.”

“It’s improved a lot since Sophie took over,” said my mother. “Jeanne has stamped her impeccable taste on it and the blending of colours in some of the rooms is really exquisite.”

“It’s not everybody who is looking for fancy French taste,” my father reminded her.

“Maybe not but people are impressed by a tastefully furnished house.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

And now the waiting was over, and we were all assembled in my father’s study for the reading of the will.

It was what might have been expected. Jeanne was amply provided for. She would have enough money to set up in a house of her own or return to France when the time was ripe. Aunt Sophie wrote most touchingly of their devotion to each other. There were small legacies to the servants and to us but the house itself was to go to Tamarisk “so that she would always have a home.”

The will must have been made before Tamarisk’s disappearance.

When the guests had all gone my father expressed his dissatisfaction about the will. “We shall have to find that girl now. I’m wondering what can be done about the house. I wonder what she will think to discover herself the owner of Enderby.”

“She wouldn’t realize what it is all about,” said my mother. “She is only six years old.”

“She’s rather knowing,” I said.

“But to own a house. What could Sophie have been thinking of!”

“Sophie did not think very clearly on the best of occasions,” added my father. “We’ll have to make an effort to find the child. The best thing would be to sell the house and bank the money for her till she comes of age. I’ll see the solicitor and get his advice.”

“I wonder who will buy it?” I murmured.

“Wait and see,” said my father. “In any case I shall be glad to be shut of the place.”

“Do you feel it is haunted and brings a curse on those who live in it?” I asked.

“I think it’s a damned draughty inconvenient house, that’s what I think of it. And nothing will please me more than to be rid of it… ghosts and all.”

“Some people like that sort of thing,” I said.

Claudine met my eyes and looked away. She felt very strongly about the house, almost as though she herself had had some uncanny experience there. So Enderby was going to pass out of the family.

I wondered who would come there next.