The Return of the Gypsy

Romany Jake

I BELIEVE THAT VERY few people who lived through that summer and early autumn of the year 1805 will ever forget it. Throughout the entire country was a feeling of dread of what might be our fate, which was only surpassed by a determination to prevent it. We were a nation preparing for invasion from the most formidable foe any country had ever had to face since the days of Attila the Hun. The Corsican adventurer, Napoleon Bonaparte, had shown the world that he was determined on conquest, and, having subdued the greater part of Europe, was now turning his attention to our island.

His name was on everybody’s lips; any little rumour about him was magnified and passed around; he was generally known as Boney, for nothing is such an antidote to fear as contempt—even if it is assumed—and he was slightingly referred to as The Little Corporal; but the most ominous warning a mother could give to a naughty child was: “If you are not good, Boney will get you”—as though Boney was the devil himself. Boney was the bogey-man and there could have been few in England at that time who did not contemplate his coming to our land with considerable apprehension.

Bands were formed all over the country; weapons were collected and hidden. We looked at the sea which lapped our shores, and whether it was calm and blue, or lashing our beaches in a grey fury, we thanked God for it. It was our great ally because it separated us from that mass of land over which the Emperor Napoleon’s battalions had ranged and where, it seemed, none could deter him.

Enemies became allies in the only cause that mattered. We were all one great family, determined to maintain our independence. We were no little European state to be lightly overrun. Until now we had ruled the seas—and we were going to carry on doing so. We were—we hoped—impregnable in our little island, and thus we were going to remain.

There was talk of little else in our household, and we would sit over meals listening to my father discussing the state of affairs. My father was very much the head of our household. He was the patriarch, the master of us all, one felt. There were only two in the family who knew how to soften him; my mother was one; I was the other.

He was quite old at that time—sixty in fact—for my mother was his second wife, and although they had been in love with each other in their youth, there had been a previous marriage for both of them. My mother already had a grown-up son and daughter by her first marriage—and I was the result of that long delayed union.

This made complicated relationships in our family. For instance, my constant companion, Amaryllis, who had been brought up in the nursery with me, and who was only a month younger than I, was in fact my niece; her mother, Claudine, being my mother’s daughter by her first marriage.

I always felt this gave me a certain superiority over Amaryllis—one month’s superiority plus the fact that I was her aunt.

I used to call her Niece sometimes until Miss Rennie, our governess, told me not to be ridiculous.

“But it is a fact,” I would insist.

“There is no need to stress it,” retorted Miss Rennie. “You are both little girls, and there is scarcely any difference in your ages at all.”

I was not such a pleasant little girl as Amaryllis was. She was fair, with a face rather like the angels of the coloured pictures in our Bible. I sometimes expected to see a halo spring up about her curly head. She was pretty in a fragile way, with blue eyes and long fair lashes, a little heart-shaped face, and hair that curled about her head—hyacinthine locks, someone once called them and the description fitted.

She was very kind and loved animals; her mother, my half sister, Claudine, doted on her, and so did David, her father, who was my father’s son. The relationship seemed more and more complicated whichever way one looked at it. But we were a very close family and few in it were closer than Amaryllis and myself.

We were in the schoolroom together; we had our ponies on the same day; we learned to ride under the tuition of the same riding master; we shared a governess; we were as sisters. But although we were related and scarcely ever out of each other’s presence, we were not in the least alike in looks and temperament

I was very dark—with almost black hair and dark brown eyes, heavy dark brows and lashes. In our family there were very dark-haired and very fair-haired women. The picture gallery bore witness to this. Some of the dark-haired ones had blue eyes, which was a very attractive combination. My ancestress Carlotta and my mother were two of these. They were the dramatic ones, the ones who struck out from conventions when they wanted to. I was one of that kind. Then there were the gentle ones with their pleasant good faces. They were quite a contrast to the dark side of the family.

Amaryllis and I seemed to fit quite neatly into these categories. We were surrounded by love. Amaryllis was the sort of daughter most parents would have chosen had they been given a choice; but I believe my father and mother preferred me as I was. They knew that I might be a little rebellious, that I might act in an unpredictable manner. My mother might have been like that once. As for my father, he had always been bold and determined to get his own way, so he would want a daughter who was a little like himself.

That Amaryllis and I were the best of friends was largely due to her unselfish and forbearing nature. When I seized the more exciting toy or demanded more than my fair share of the rocking horse, she had merely stood aside. It was not that she had no spirit. I was sure that, in a good cause, she would have had a good deal. Perhaps she was wise and from an early age saw the futility of screaming for something which was after all not worth the effort; perhaps she was far sighted enough to realize that after I had taken the prize from her, it had already lost its value because she did not want it as desperately as I had done.

Well, whatever it was, Amaryllis was Amaryllis and I was Jessica, and the two of us were as different as two children brought up together and sharing a nursery and schoolroom could be.

I suppose my parents were not conventional, Dickon, my father, in particular. He made the rules his way and in our household they were law.

When we were eight years old he decreed that we were too old to eat in the nursery with Miss Rennie and we joined out parents at table.

“I like to see the family assembled,” said my father

Our parents encouraged us to talk and listened to our opinions. I was a great talker, egged on by my father who would sit back watching me with his mouth moving almost involuntarily as though he were trying to stop himself laughing. He would argue with me, trying to trip me up, and I always plunged in, stating my views without considering whether they were his or not, for I knew that the more I disagreed with him the more he liked it.

My mother would sit enraptured, her eyes on us both.

And it was the same with Amaryllis; her parents were as proud of her as mine were of me. I could imagine them in their bedrooms alone at night and I could hear my father’s comment: “Amaryllis hasn’t our Jessica’s spirit. I’m glad we have a girl like that.” And in that other bedroom: “What a difference in the two of them! I’m glad Amaryllis is not so forward. Jessica can be almost insolent at times.”

But most important to me, we both had love, the most important thing a child can have.

It was alarming to think that an alien force might intrude on our cosy way of life. My parents were aware of the threat and so, as I have said, was the whole of England. Patriotism flourished. It is only when people are afraid of losing something that they realize how precious it is.

That was what was happening to us in those memorable days of that year.

There is something very comforting about a big manor house which has been the home of a family for generations. Eversleigh was such a house. It overawed me to think that the house had been here long before any one of us was born and it would be there long after we had all gone.

It was also comforting to have the whole family there—my parents and Amaryllis’s. David’s twin brother Jonathan had died a long time before, and his wife Millicent had gone to live with her parents some miles away taking her son Jonathan with her. They should really have stayed at Eversleigh for Jonathan was the heir. I was next in succession and after me Amaryllis. I was a little resentful that Jonathan should come before me just because he was a boy. I was older than he was, and I never forgot to remind Amaryllis that she was a month younger than I. However, Millicent wanted to go to her old home, but although she lived at Pettigrew Hall with her parents she was often at Eversleigh.

I loved the place, especially the antiquity of it, and I often thought of the members of my family who had lived here. I had read so much about them, and I felt I knew some of them personally—generations and generations of them—right back to the days of the great Elizabeth when it was built—the E shaped building dated it without doubt. I loved the old hall with the two wings on either side. Dear Eversleigh!

I found the neighbourhood of immense interest. For one thing the sea was not very far away. I loved to gallop along by the frilly waves and feel the salt sea breeze in my face. “Race you!” I would shout to Amaryllis. I always wanted to race and it was of the utmost importance to me that I win. Amaryllis would come riding along, a pace behind me, smiling happily, not caring in the least who won. Winning was not important, she would say. It was the ride that mattered. Wise Amaryllis!

There were two houses close to ours and I found their inhabitants quite intriguing.

At Enderby was Aunt Sophie, a very sad and tragic figure; she had been badly burned during a fireworks display in Paris at the time of the marriage of Marie Antoinette to the Dauphin who soon afterwards became the ill-fated Louis XVI.

Aunt Sophie was a recluse, living there with her faithful friend and companion-servant Jeanne Fougére. I was not encouraged to visit her often; though she had a certain fondness for Amaryllis. It was an uncanny house. Terrible things had happened there. It was haunted, said the servants; and I could well believe it. Even my half-sister, Claudine, looked strange when we called on Aunt Sophie; and I noticed she looked about her almost as though she was seeing something which was not there.

Aunt Sophie had had a very tragic life. She had not only been terribly scarred but had lost her lover and she never forgot it. She liked to mourn over the past and I had a notion that if things were going well she was not so pleased as she was when they were going badly. All the talk of possible invasion seemed to take years off her life. She herself had come out of revolutionary France with her jewels sewn into her clothes—a story I loved to hear in detail. We did not speak of it often because of Aunt Sophie, and Jonathan my father’s son, who had shared in that adventure, was dead, so he could not tell of it.

Enderby, house of shadows, shut in by tall trees and thick bushes, uncanny, redolent of the past, was a house of mystery and tragedy which must stay so because that was the way Aunt Sophie wanted it.

I should have liked to prowl about that house all alone, for I always enjoyed frightening myself. I felt there was evil in that house. Amaryllis did not feel it. I suppose when one is good—fundamentally good—one does not sense these things as quickly as someone who is more inclined to sin.

But I felt there was something there. Often I would look quickly over my shoulder, expecting to see a sinister figure hastily disappearing. I loved to linger in the minstrels’ gallery for that was said to be especially haunted.

I liked to make Amaryllis call me up from the kitchen when I was in one of the bedrooms for there was a speaking tube connecting the two rooms. Claudine heard us once and asked us not to do it. Amaryllis immediately desisted but I wanted to do it more than ever. It had a fascination for me and when I was younger I used to ask one of the servants to talk to me through the tube.

The other house that interested me was Grasslands—and again it was not the house which fascinated me so much as the people who lived in it. Grasslands was an ordinary small manor house—pleasant without being impressive. There was nothing special about the house itself to arouse my interest. Its inmates were quite another matter.

Old Mrs. Trent, for instance. I was sure she was a witch. She rarely emerged from the house, and it was said she had become a little strange since the suicide of her elder grand-daughter. It was a tragic story and she had never got over it. She lived in Grasslands with another grand-daughter—Dorothy Mather, whom we all knew as Dolly.

Dolly was a strange creature. One met her riding about the countryside; sometimes she would return our greeting; at others pass us by as though she did not see us. She ought to have been attractive; she had a neat figure and pretty, fair hair, but she had a facial disfigurement. One eyelid was drawn down at one side and her face seemed slightly paralysed in a way that gave her a somewhat sinister appearance.

I told Amaryllis that she gave me the shivers and even when she smiled, which was not often, that malformation gave her a mocking look.

Claudine was always trying to be kind to her and telling us we must be the same. “Poor Dolly,” she used to say, “life has been cruel to her.”

Amaryllis would always stop and talk to her and oddly enough Dolly seemed to be a little fascinated by her. She looked at Amaryllis as if she knew something about her which she could tell if she wanted to.

So we lived in our little community which was now threatened by the possibility of invaders who would disrupt our pleasant existence.

It was a lovely September day. There was just a little chill in the air, which was full of the scents of autumn. Amaryllis and I had ridden away from Eversleigh in the company of Miss Rennie, and had come as far as the woods. It was lovely riding under the trees on a carpet of golden and russet leaves. I liked the scrumbling noise the horses’ hooves made as they walked through them.

Miss Rennie was a little breathless. As we had approached the woods I had pressed my horse into a gallop, which always alarmed Miss Rennie. She was not so sure of herself on a horse as she was at the schoolroom desk and was greatly relieved on those days when one of the grooms took over the duty of escorting us.

I was thoughtless in those days and I liked to tease her. It made up for the withering contempt she sometimes had for my scholastic achievements. It was like turning the tables and I am afraid I often set my horse galloping ahead of her, for I knew she had great difficulty in keeping up.

“Race you!” I had cried to Amaryllis; and we were off. Thus we reached the woods a little before Miss Rennie, which was why we came face to face with the gypsy.

“Don’t you think we should wait for Miss Rennie?” cried Amaryllis.

“She’ll catch up,” I replied.

“I think we should wait for her.”

“You wait then.”

“No. We should keep together.”

I laughed and pushed on. And there he was, sitting under a tree. He was very colourful and yet somehow blended in with the landscape. He wore an orange-coloured shirt, open at the neck. I caught a glimpse of a gold chain and there were gold rings in his ears. His breeches were light brown; he had dark hair which curled about his head and brown sparkling eyes. I noticed the flash of very white teeth in a sunburned skin. He began to strum on a guitar when he saw us.

I pulled up my horse and stared at him.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said in a musical voice.

“Good afternoon,” I replied.

Amaryllis was now beside me.

He rose and bowed. “What a pleasure to meet not only one beautiful lady—but two.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“A gypsy. A wanderer on the face of the earth.”

“Where have you wandered from?”

“From all over the country.”

“Are you encamped here?”

He waved his hands.

I said: “These are my father’s woods.”

“I am sure the father of such a charming young lady would not grudge the poor gypsies a spot on which to rest their caravans.”

“Miss Jessica! Miss Amaryllis!” It was Miss Rennie. She was close by.

“We’re here, Miss Rennie,” called Amaryllis.

The gypsy looked on with some amusement as Miss Rennie came into sight.

“Oh there you are! How many times have I told you not to go on ahead of me? It is most unseemly.” She stopped short. She had seen the man and was horrified. She took her duties very seriously and the thought of her charges coming into contact with strangers—and a man at that—momentarily stunned her.

“What… what are you doing?” she stammered.

“Nothing,” I replied. “We have just got here and have met…”

He bowed to Miss Rennie. “Jake Cadorson, at your service, Madam.”

“What?” cried Miss Rennie shrilly.

“I am Cornish, Madam,” he went on, smiling as though he found the situation very amusing, “and Cador in the Cornish language means Warrior. So Cador son… the son of a warrior. For convenience my gypsy friends call me Romany Jake.”

“Very interesting, I am sure,” said Miss Rennie, recovering her composure. “Now we must get back or we shall be late for tea.”

He bowed again and resuming his seat under the tree he began to strum on the guitar; as we turned away he started to sing. I could not resist looking back. He saw me and putting his fingers to his lips blew me a kiss. I felt extraordinarily excited. I rode on in a sort of daze. I could hear his strong and rather pleasant voice as we went on to the edge of the wood.

“I must insist that you stay with me when we are riding,” Miss Rennie was saying. “That was an unfortunate encounter. Gypsies in the woods! I don’t know what Mr. Frenshaw will have to say about that.”

“They always have permission to rest there as long as they are careful about fire—and there is not much danger of that after all the rain we have had,” I said.

“I shall report what we have seen to Mr. Frenshaw,” continued Miss Rennie. “And I must ask you, Jessica, to be more obedient to my wishes. I do not wish to have to tell your parents that you are disobedient. I am sure that would grieve them.”

I thought of my father’s receiving the news and I could picture that look on his face when he was trying not to smile. His daughter was very much what he must have been at her age, and parents like their children to resemble them even in their less admirable qualities; so I did not think he would be greatly grieved.

As for myself, I could not stop thinking of the man under the tree. Romany Jake! A gypsy… and yet he did not seem quite like other gypsies I had seen. He was like one of the gentlemen who were friends of my parents… only dressed up as a gypsy. He had fascinated me. He was very bold. What would Miss Rennie say if she knew he had thrown me a kiss when I had looked back? I toyed with the idea of telling her, but desisted. Perhaps that would be something which would be unwise to come to my parents’ ears.

True to her word she told either my father or my mother and the subject was raised at dinner that night.

“So we have gypsies in the woods,” said my father.

“They always come south towards winter,” commented David.

My father turned to me. “So you saw them today.”

“Only one. He said he was Romany Jake.”

“So you spoke to him.”

“Well, just for a few minutes. He had an orange-coloured shirt and a guitar. There were rings in his ears and a chain about his neck.”

“He sounds like a regular gypsy,” said David.

“I think you should avoid the woods when the gypsies are there,” said Claudine, looking rather fearfully at Amaryllis.

“But the woods are so lovely now,” I cried. “I love scrumpling through the leaves.”

“Nevertheless …” said Claudine, and my mother nodded in agreement.

“I wish they wouldn’t come here,” she said.

“They can make a bit of a mess of the land,” added my father. “But they’ve always been allowed to bring their caravans into the clearings. As long as they don’t make a nuisance of themselves they can stay. I expect they’ll be round to the kitchens with their baskets and oddments to sell—and telling the maids’ fortunes.”

“Mrs. Grant will deal with all that,” said my mother.

Mrs. Grant was our very efficient housekeeper who ruled the nether regions as despotically as Pluto ever did his. I had rarely seen so much dignity contained in such a small body—for she was under five feet and rotund with it—and the very crackle of her bombazine jet-decorated gown, heralding her approach, was enough to set a servant shivering and wondering what misdemeanour could be laid at his or her door.

So the gypsies could be left safely to Mrs. Grant.

During the days that followed I learned a little more about the gypsies. The best way to get news of such matters was through the servants and I had developed a very special relationship with them. I saw to it that there was always a welcome for Miss Jessica in the kitchens. I chatted to them, made a point of knowing what was happening to them and of encouraging their confidence. I was enormously interested in their lives; and while Amaryllis was studying the exploits of the Roman generals and the Wars of the Roses, I would be seated at the kitchen table hearing what was happening when Maisie Dean’s husband came home suddenly and caught her with her lover, or who might be the father of Jane Abbey’s child. I knew that Polly Crypton, who lived on the edge of the woods in a cottage surrounded by her own special herb garden, could cure other things besides earache, toothache and indigestion; she could get rid of warts, give the odd love potion; and if a girl was in a particular sort of trouble she could do something about that too. There was much mysterious talk about this activity, and when they found themselves discussing it in my presence there would be nods in my direction, followed by an infuriating silence. Still, at least I was aware of the powers of Polly Crypton, and this I told myself was Life, and as necessary to the education as a knowledge of past battles. Moreover, I could always copy Amaryllis’ notes. She was very good about such matters.

So it was not difficult to learn something about Romany Jake.

He was, according to Mabel, the parlourmaid, “a one,” and I knew enough of the vernacular to understand that that meant a person of outstanding fascination.

“There he was, sitting on the steps of the caravan playing that guitar. His voice … It’s a dream … and the way the music comes in … Real lovely. Romany Jake they call him. He’s from foreign parts.”

“Cornwall,” I said. “That’s not exactly foreign.”

“It’s miles away. He’s been up in the North and come right down through the country … all in that caravan … with the others.”

“He must know the country very well.”

“I reckon he’s been wandering all his life. One of them came round this morning, telling fortunes, she was.”

The other servants started to giggle.

“Did she tell your fortune?” I asked.

“Oh yes … Even Mrs. Grant had hers done—and gave her a tankard of cider and a piece of meat pie.”

“Was it an interesting fortune?”

“Course, Miss Jessica. You ought to have yours done. I reckon they’d tell you something.”

The servants exchanged glances. “Miss Jessica is a regular one,” said Mabel.

I felt warm and happy to be awarded the highest accolade which could be bestowed.

“Now, Miss Amaryllis… she’s a little darling… so pretty and gentle like.”

I was not in the least jealous. I would much rather be “A One” than pretty and gentle.

The servants left me with no doubt in my mind that there was something special about Romany Jake. I could tell it by the manner in which they spoke of him and giggled when his name was mentioned. Although they were fairly frank with me, there were times when they remembered my youth, and although that did not prevent their talking, it curbed their spontaneity and they spoke in innuendoes which I sometimes found difficulty in deciphering.

But I learned that the coming of Romany Jake was one of the most exciting things which had happened for a long time. He must have driven from their minds the thoughts of invasion for he was now the main topic of conversation in the servants’ hall.

He was no ordinary gypsy. He was a Cornishman—half Spaniard, they reckoned, and I remembered that at the time of the defeat of the Spanish armada many of the Spanish galleons had been wrecked along the coast and Spanish sailors found their way ashore. So there was a sprinkling of Spanish blood in many a Cornish man or woman. It was evident in those dark eyes and curling hair and their passionate natures—all of which attributes were possessed, so I was told, by Romany Jake.

“Romany Jake!” said Mabel. “What a name to go to bed with!”

“I always think of him just as Jake,” said young Bessie, the tweeny. “I don’t think he’s a real gypsy. He’s come to it because he likes the wandering life.”

“He looks like a gypsy,” I said.

“Now what would you know about that, Miss Jessica?”

“As much as you do, I suppose,” I retorted.

“They’ve made quite a little home for themselves in that clearing. They’re shoeing their horses, setting up their baskets and doing a bit of tinkering. You can’t say they’re lazy, and Romany Jake, he plays to them and sings to them … and they all join in the singing. It’s like a play to see them.”

“At least,” I said, “he has stopped you all talking about the invasion.”

“I reckon Romany Jake would be a match for Boney himself,” said Mabel.

And they all laughed and were very merry. That was what the coming of Romany Jake had done for them.

I saw him once when I was alone. I had been down to the cottages to take a posset to Mrs. Green, wife of one of the stablemen who was suffering from a chill, and on my way back there he was. He had no right to be on our land, of course, and he was carrying something in his coat pocket. I believed he had been poaching.

His eyes sparkled as he looked at me and I was aware of an acute pleasure because I fancied he was admiring me and as I was growing older I was becoming rather susceptible to admiration and experienced a kindly feeling towards those who expressed it. But it seemed particularly pleasant coming from him.

So I had no desire to run away from him, nor to reprove him for poaching on our land.

“Good day to you, little lady,” he said.

“Good day,” I replied. “I know who you are. You’re Romany Jake. I met you in the woods the other day, I believe.”

“I am certain of it, for having once made your acquaintance that would be something I should never forget. But that such a great lady as yourself should remember me … that is as gratifying as it is remarkable.”

“You don’t speak like a gypsy,” I said.

“I trust you will not hold that against me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you might think that every man should keep his place … a gentleman a gentleman … a gypsy a gypsy.”

I fancied he was laughing at me so I smiled.

“I know you live in your caravan in the woods,” I said. “Are you staying long?”

“The joy of the wandering life is that you go where you will when the spirit moves you. It is a great life lived under the sun, the moon and the stars.”

He had a musical voice not in the least like any gypsy I had ever heard. There was laughter in it and it made me want to laugh too.

“You’re quite poetic,” I said.

“The life makes one love nature. It makes one conscious of the blessings of nature—of the life on the open road.”

“What about winter?”

“Ah, there you have spoken. The north wind will blow and we shall have snow and what will the gypsy do then, poor man. I’ll tell you. He might find some warm and cosy house and a warm and cosy lady who will open her doors to him and shelter him there until the cold is past and the spring comes.”

“Then he wouldn’t be a wandering gypsy, would he?”

“What does that matter as long as he is happy and those about him are happy. Life is meant to be enjoyed. You agree with me? Yes, I know you do. You will enjoy life, I see it in your eyes.”

“Do you see the future?”

“They say, do they not, that gypsies have the powers?”

“Tell me what you see for me.”

“All that you want it to be. That’s your future.”

“That sounds very good to me.”

“You’ll make it good.”

“Have you made yours good?”

“To be sure I have.”

“You seem to be rather poor.”

“No man is poor when he has the good earth to live on, and the sun to warm his days and the moon to light his nights.”

“You have a great respect for the heavens,” I said.

“Well, from thence comes the source of life. I’ll tell you something if you will swear never to mention it to a soul.”

“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly. “I promise.”

“I took to you the moment I saw you. I said to myself: She’ll be a fiery beauty, that one. I’d like to steal her away and take her off with me.”

I burst out laughing. Of course I should have scowled at him and ridden off immediately; but I did not. I just wanted to stay where I was and indulge in this conversation which was fascinating to me.

“What! You think I would leave home and become a gypsy.”

“I did,” he said. “It’s a good life … for a while.”

I shivered. “What about the north winds blowing and the snow coming?”

“You’d have me to keep you warm at nights.”

“Should you be talking to me like this?”

“I am sure some would say I shouldn’t but between ourselves it depends on whether you want to hear it.”

“I don’t think I should stay here.”

“Oh, but is it not the things which we are supposed not to do which we enjoy doing? I’ll swear you have often done that which you should not have done … and loved the doing of it.”

Someone was coming. I looked at the bulge in his pocket. He was about to disappear when Amaryllis came into view.

“This is my lucky day,” he said. “Once more two beautiful ladies.”

“Why, it’s Romany Jake,” said Amaryllis.

“You are the second lady to do me the honour of remembering my name … and all in an hour.”

Amaryllis looked at me and said: “We ought to go in.”

“I was just going,” I replied.

“Good day, Mr.—” began Amaryllis.

“Cadorson,” he said. “Jake Cadorson.”

“Well, good day, Mr. Cadorson,” I said.

Amaryllis pulled at my arm and I turned away with her. I was aware of his watching eyes as we went towards the house.

“What was he doing there?” asked Amaryllis.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see what he had in his pocket?”

“There was certainly something there.”

“A hare or a pheasant, I think,” said Amaryllis. “He must have been poaching. Do you think we ought to tell your father or mine?”

“No,” I said firmly. “They have to eat. Do you want them to starve?”

“No, but they should not poach. It’s stealing in a way.”

“Don’t tell, Amaryllis. My father would be angry and turn them away. They must be very poor.”

Amaryllis nodded. It was always easy to arouse her compassion.

The next time I saw him was in the kitchen at Grasslands.

Claudine took a special interest in Mrs. Trent and was always sending something over to her. I had heard Claudine say that Mrs. Trent had never been the same since the death of her grand-daughter Evie. She just seemed to lose her grip on life. Amaryllis never liked going there very much which I thought odd for she was always eager to share our comforts with the people of the estate. They liked to see her, too. She had the face of a ministering angel, and was also patient listening to accounts of their ailments. She had more aptitude than I for that sort of thing. “You’re the ideal sister of mercy,” I told her. And so she was … except at Grasslands.

I asked her why she did not like going there and she said that Dolly had an odd way of looking at her.

“She makes me shiver sometimes,” she said. “I’ll look up and her eyes will be on me—at least the one that is wide open. And I always wonder what that other eye can see. It is almost as though it sees what other people can’t.”

“I always thought you were so reasonable and logical,” I said. “I don’t expect you to have flights of fancy.”

“That’s how I feel… just uncomfortable. So will you go and take them whatever my mother wants to send to them?”

Although I was not the perfect visitor of the sick, I did like going to Grasslands—just as I did to Enderby. It was not that I wanted to spend a good deal of time with Mrs. Trent and Dolly or Aunt Sophie; but the uncanny atmosphere which prevailed in both houses intrigued me.

“We are lucky to have two such houses in the neighbourhood,” I said to Amaryllis.

“It is not the houses,” she replied. “It’s the people in them. I wouldn’t mind Grasslands at all without Dolly.”

I thought a good deal about what she had said and I wondered why Dolly was so interested in Amaryllis, because most people simply thought Amaryllis sweet and angelic, and paid more attention to me. Dolly did, however, have a certain interest in me. Once she said: “You were ever such a lovely baby.”

“Do you remember me then?” I asked.

She nodded. “You were so pretty … and could you scream! If you couldn’t have what you wanted … You should have heard.”

“I probably did hear myself.”

“And when you smiled … oh you were lovely then.”

But even so her real interest was in Amaryllis.

So it was that I took the sloe gin to Mrs. Trent.

I looked in at the front door and there was no one there so I went round to the back. I could hear voices. The door was open so I went in.

In the Grasslands kitchen, seated at the table, his legs stretched out before him, sipping from a tankard, his guitar on the table before him, was Romany Jake.

Dolly was sitting at the table some little distance from him.

He rose when he saw me and said: “Well, if it isn’t the lady from the big house.”

Dolly said: “Oh Jessica, it’s you then.”

She needed no answer to the obvious so I put my basket on the table and said: “Young Mrs. Frenshaw thought your grandmother might like to try her sloe gin.”

“She’ll appreciate that,” replied Dolly. “Would you like a little wine?”

“No thank you.”

Romany Jake surveyed me with his laughing eyes. “Too proud to sit down with a gypsy?”

“I never thought …” I began; but he had turned to Dolly.

“Perhaps you should be taking your guest into the parlour which is more suited to her.”

I said firmly: “I will take a little wine, Dolly … here.”

“You are as gracious as you are beautiful,” he said. “Grace and beauty. What a joy to find the two together!”

“Jake brought in a basket I ordered,” said Dolly, explaining his presence.

“And how is your grandmother today?” I asked, as she poured out a little wine which she handed to me.

“She is brighter, thank you. I’ll tell her you called. She’ll like the sloe gin.”

Romany Jake, who had kept his eyes on me, then raised his glass. “A long and happy life to you, Miss Jessica,” he said.

“Thank you.” I lifted mine. “And to you.”

“Jake was telling my fortune,” said Dolly.

“I hope it was a good one.”

“I have told Miss Dolly what I tell all… and there is no great skill in it. What comes to you is largely of your own making. The good life is there … if you have the wit to take it.”

“It is a comfortable way of looking at life if you believe it,” I said.

“And wouldn’t you believe it, my lady Jessica?”

“I suppose you are right in a way, but so many things happen in life that one has no control over. Acts of God they call them.”

Dolly said: “Earthquakes, floods, death …”

“I wasn’t only thinking of them,” I said.

“She is wise, our lady Jessica.”

“Jake told me I had a good life ahead of me … if I took the right road to it,” said Dolly.

“That applies to us all,” I retorted.

“Ah,” said Romany Jake, “but we don’t all have the opportunity to take the golden road.”

“If it is golden why should we turn away from it?”

“Because it is not always seen for what it is at the start. You have to have the wisdom to see it and the courage to take it.”

“Shall I?” asked Dolly.

“It is for you to decide, Miss Dolly.”

He held out his goblet and she went to him to refill it.

There seemed to me then a sense of unreality in that kitchen. I wondered what my family would say if they could see me sitting at a table drinking wine with Dolly and Romany Jake. He seemed to guess what I was thinking and to be amused by it.

He said: “Look at me now. Romany Jake, sitting at this table drinking wine with two ladies. Now if I were a man who turned away from his opportunities, I’d have touched my forelock and declared myself to be unworthy of the honour.”

“I have a feeling that in your heart you think yourself worthy to sit down with the highest in the land,” I said.

“And what would a lady like you know of a poor gypsy’s heart?”

“I think Mr. Cadorson, that I know a little about you.”

“Well, it is clever you are and I’ve never doubted that. You’ll have a great life because you’re bold and you are going to take what you want with both hands. It will be a lucky man who shares that life with you.”

He looked at me very steadily when he said that. I felt myself flushing.

“And what of me?” asked Dolly.

“You are more timid than my lady Jessica. She has a fine opinion of herself, this one. She’s precious … and she knows it. And she will make sure others don’t forget it either.”

“You are still talking about her” interrupted Dolly somewhat peevishly. “Why are you so interested in her?”

“I am interested in the whole world—you, gentle Miss Dolly, and the not so gentle lady Jessica …”

With that he set down his goblet and picked up the guitar. He strummed a few bars and began to sing a song about beautiful ladies. We sat there in silence watching and listening.

Then he started to sing about a high-born lady who was discontented with her life until she met a gypsy in the woods. Then she left the luxury of her home and all that went with it to live a life of freedom under the moon and the stars and the sun … among the trees of the forest.

His tenor voice vibrated with emotion; and all the time he was singing his eyes were on me and I was sure he was singing for me rather than for Dolly.

I clapped my hands when he had finished but Dolly was silent.

I said: “I daresay she didn’t find it so very wonderful. It is all very well to change a soft feather bed for the earth … but the earth can be very hard and uncomfortable with creeping crawling things in the summer and frost in winter. It is just a pleasant song.”

“Oh, but my lady Jessica, there are great comforts in a gypsy’s life which I haven’t sung about.”

“Well, I think she would soon have been regretting it.”

“Not she. She learned more about love and life with her gypsy than she ever would with her high and mighty lord.”

“Perhaps high and mighty lords would think differently.”

“What an argumentative lady you are and how hard to convince. There is only one way of getting you to agree.”

“And what is that?”

He looked at me very boldly and I knew what he was going to say before he said it. He leaned closer to me and said quietly: “To show you.”

“Have some more wine,” said Dolly, still peevish.

She filled his goblet; he sipped it thoughtfully, looking at me with that amused smile; then he picked up his guitar and his deep rich voice echoed round the Grasslands kitchen. Some of the servants came down and stood at the door listening.

When I saw them I remembered it was time I went home.

I stood up hastily and said I must go. “I only came to bring the sloe gin.”

He rose and bowed, giving me that disturbing enigmatical smile. I hurried out and as I walked away I heard the sound of the guitar.

I felt very exhilarated by the encounter.

When I arose that October morning there was no indication that this was going to be an important day not only for my family but for everyone in England. But with one glorious stroke our fears disappeared when the news of the victory at Trafalgar Bay was brought to us.

Even my father was deeply moved. We were assembled at the table and the talk was all about what this would mean to us and our country. Lord Nelson had beaten the French at Trafalgar Bay. He had so crippled their fleet that there could no longer be a question of invasion. He had shown the world that Napoleon was not invincible.

The saddest news was that, in giving England freedom from fear, our great admiral had lost his own life. Therefore our rejoicing was tempered with sorrow.

But even that could not stem the jubilation. We had checked Napoleon. We alone, in threatened Europe, had shown the bombastic Emperor that we were the unconquerable.

My father was eloquent. “Never, never in all its history has our country lain at the foot of a conqueror.”

David mentioned the Norman Conquest and was immediately rounded on by my father. “We English are the Normans. The Vikings … for mark you they were not French …” I smiled at him. My father had an unreasoning hatred of the French because my mother had married a Frenchman before she married him. I could well imagine him in a winged helmet, sailing to these shores in a long ship. He guessed my thoughts and grinned at me. “No,” he went on. “Not French. The Normans were Vikings who had been given Normandy by the King of the Franks to stop them invading the rest of France. The Vikings along with the Angles and the Jutes mingled their blood with the Saxons and created the Anglo Saxon race … us, my son. And we have never allowed a conqueror to set foot on this soil… and by God’s grace never shall. Napoleon! Napoleon would never have been allowed to come here. But this matter of Trafalgar Bay has saved us a lot of trouble.”

Then we drank to the great hero, Lord Nelson, and to our own Jonathan who had died for his country. Claudine was overcome by emotion and I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

“There will be bonfires all over the country tonight,” said my mother.

“We must see them,” I cried.

“Well,” went on my mother, “I suppose we could all go out. They won’t light them until after dark.”

“I want to go out and see them, don’t you, Amaryllis?” I cried.

“Oh yes,” she answered.

Our parents exchanged glances and my father said: “We’ll take the carriage. It will be near the coast… right on the cliffs, so that any watchers from the other side of the water may be able to see them. Bonfires all along the coast telling the plaguey French what we think of their Napoleon. David, you can drive us. We’ll all go.”

The elders looked relieved. I followed their thoughts. There would be revelry round the bonfires tonight and they did not want their daughters to be out of sight.

At dusk we set out. The excitement was intense. People were making their way to that spot on the cliff top where the bonfire was to be lighted. Already there was a crowd assembled there. Driftwood and rubbish of all sorts had been piled up, and on the top of the heap was an effigy of Napoleon.

The crowd made way for our carriage.

“Down with the Boney Party!” shouted someone.

There were cheers for our carriage. My father waved his hand and called a greeting to some of them. Nothing could please him more than this display of feeling against the French.

Our carriage pulled up some yards from the bonfire.

People were looking anxiously at the sky. It must not rain. It occurred to me that people who had such a short time before been worried because they feared an invasion, now seemed equally so about the weather.

We were lucky. The rain held off. The great moment had come.

Several men approached carrying flaming torches. They circled the heap and with a shout threw their torches into the mass of accumulated rubbish and paraffin-soaked wood. There was a burst of flame. The bonfire was alight.

The air was filled with shrieks of delight; people joined hands and danced round the bonfire. Fascinated, I watched. They looked different in the firelight. One hardly recognized the sober people one had known. They were servants, most of them. I saw the little tweeny, wide-eyed and wondering. Her hand was seized by one of the stable boys and she was whirled off into the dance.

“They are going to get wilder as the night progresses,” said David.

“Yes,” replied my mother, “there will be some merrymaking tonight.”

“I trust the after effects will not be more than some of them have bargained for,” added my father.

“Crowds scare me a little,” said my mother.

My father looked at her tenderly. “This is rejoicing, Lottie,” he murmured gently.

“I know. But crowds … mobs …”

“Would you like to go?” he asked.

She looked at me and Amaryllis. “No,” she replied. “Let’s wait awhile.”

I felt a great desire to mingle with the crowds, to dance round the bonfire. Two of the men had brought fiddles with them and they were playing songs we all knew—The Vicar of Bray and Barbara Allen and the one which set them all shouting with fervour as we all joined in:

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And the guardian angels sang the strain:

“Rule Brittania, rule the waves Britons never will be slaves.”

The words rang out into the night air; below the waves washed against the white cliffs.

“Never, never, never,” chanted the crowd, “Will be slaves.”

All the pent-up emotions of the last months were let loose as the fear of the havoc an invading army could wreak evaporated from their minds. Not that any of them would admit that they thought it could really happen, but the relief was intense, and I could hear it in those words. “Never … never, never …” they went on singing.

The music changed. Now the fiddlers were playing a merry tune:

Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads

And away to the maypole hie …

It was not Maytime but the tune would do for a dance and the lasses and lads had joined hands and were dancing round the bonfire as though it were a maypole.

I saw some of the gypsies mingling with the crowd and yes! there he was. He was hand in hand with a sloe-eyed gypsy girl. Creole earrings flapped in her ears; she wore a red skirt and had wild dark hair.

He danced gracefully, leaping round the bonfire. He came close to our carriage and saw me. For a few seconds his eyes met mine. He released the hand of the girl with whom he was dancing and she went leaping on without him. He stood there just looking; and although he did not beckon I knew that he was telling me how much he wanted me to be down there dancing with him. His gaze implied that our acquaintance was a secret… a delightful secret—something daring and forbidden.

My father said: “The gypsies are here.”

“Well, I suppose there is no reason why they shouldn’t be,” replied my mother.

“They seem to be enjoying the occasion,” added David.

I was amazed to see Dolly in the crowd. I would not have expected her to venture out on such a night, and certainly not to come to the bonfire. She was standing on the edge of the crowd, looking frail and pretty because her deformity was not discernible. She looked like a young girl though she must be past her mid twenties.

I whispered to Amaryllis: “Look, there’s Dolly.”

And at that moment Romany Jake was beside her. He seized her hand and, drawing her along with him, began to dance.

“Dolly … dancing,” said Amaryllis. “How very strange.”

I followed them with my eyes for as long as I could. Once or twice as they came round the bonfire they were quite close to the carriage. Dolly looked ecstatic. He glanced my way. There was something I did not understand in his expression but I knew he was telling me how much he wanted me to be dancing with him round the bonfire.

I waited for them to come round again, but they did not. I continued to look for them but I did not see them again.

“This will go on through the night,” my mother said.

“Yes.” My father yawned. “David, take us home now. I think we have had enough. This sort of thing becomes monotonous.”

“It is a good thing that they all realize what dangers we have come through,” commented David. “There can’t be a man or woman in England tonight who is not proud to be English.”

“For tonight, yes,” said my mother. “Tomorrow may be another matter.”

“Lottie, my dear,” said my father, “you have become a cynic.”

“Crowds make me feel so,” she replied.

“Come along, David,” commanded my father, and David turned the horses.

So we rode the short distance back to the house through the lanes which were illuminated by the light from the bonfire. We could see other bonfires spread along the coast like jewels in a necklace.

“A night to remember,” said David.

What I would remember most was the sight of Romany

Jake standing there almost willing me to leave the carriage and go to him; and then hand in hand with Dolly he had disappeared.

A few days later there was trouble.

One of the gamekeepers came to see my father. He had caught two gypsies stealing pheasants in the wood. There was a definite boundary between those woods in which the gypsies were allowed to camp and those in which the pheasants were kept. There were notices in every conceivable spot warning that those who trespassed in the private woods would be prosecuted.

These two men had been seen by the gamekeeper with pheasants in their hands. He had given chase and although he had failed to catch them he had traced them back to the gypsy encampment.

As a result my father rode out there and warned the gypsies that if any more attempts were made to encroach on the land which was forbidden to them and if those stealing his pheasants were caught, they would be handed over to the law and suffer the consequences; and the gypsies would be moved on and never allowed to camp on his ground again.

He talked of them over dinner that evening.

“They are a proud race,” he said. “It’s a pity they don’t settle down and stop wandering over the face of the earth.”

“I think they like the life under the sun, moon and stars,” I said.

“Poetic, but uncomfortable,” said Claudine.

“I suppose,” added David, who always brought a philosophical turn to the conversation, “that if they did not prefer it they would not continue with it.”

“They’re lazy,” declared Dickon.

“I am not sure,” contradicted my mother. “They have been doing it for generations. It’s a way of life.”

“Begging … scrounging … making use of other people’s property!”

“I believe,” I put in, “that they have an idea that everything on earth is for the use of everybody in it.”

“A misguided philosophy,” said my father, “and only adhered to by those who want what others have got. Once they have it, they would endeavour to keep it to themselves with more vigour than any. That is nature and no philosophy on earth is going to change it. As for the gypsies, if they are caught in any more mischief, they’ll be out. They’re an insolent lot. There was one fellow… He was very different from the rest. He was sitting on the steps of one of the caravans playing a guitar of all things. I thought he might have got up and done a bit of work.”

“That would be Romany Jake,” I said.

“Who?” cried my father.

“He’s one of them. I’ve seen him about. In the kitchen they talk about him a great deal.”

“Colourful character,” said my father. “He was a sort of spokesman for them. He’s certainly not at a loss for words.”

“I saw him at the bonfire,” I added. “He was dancing.”

“He’d be good at that, I daresay. It would only be work he was shy of. I shall be glad when they’ve moved on. Thieves, vagabonds, most of them.”

Then he started to talk about what might happen on the Continent. Napoleon would be anxious for success in Europe. He had to restore the people’s faith in the invincible Emperor whose fleet had been crippled beyond redemption at Trafalgar.

It was a week or so after the bonfire. We were all at dinner when one of the servants came rushing in crying that the woods were on fire.

We left the table and as we came out into the open air we were aware of the smoke and the acrid smell of burning. My father soon had the servants rushing out with water. I went to the stables and mounting my horse galloped in the direction of the fire. I knew that it was in those woods where the gypsies had their encampment.

A scene of wild disorder met my eyes. The grass was on fire and the flames were running across it towards the trees, licking at their barks while I watched in horror.

My father was in the midst of the melee shouting orders; cottagers who lived nearby were running out with buckets of water.

“We have to stop it reaching the thicket,” cried my father.

“Thank God there’s hardly any wind,” said David.

I could see how the difficulty of getting water to the scene made us helpless. This went on for some time and the fire fighting method was most inadequate. I was sure that part of the woods could only be saved by a miracle.

And it came. The rain began to fall, a slight drizzle at first which soon changed to a downpour.

There was a shout of relief from everybody. We stood, faces uplifted, letting the precious rain fall on us.

“The woods are saved,” said my father. “No thanks to those plaguey gypsies.”

He noticed me and cried: “What are you doing here?”

“I had to come, of course,” I replied.

He did not answer. He was watching the flames being beaten out. Then he shouted to the gypsies: “You’ll be off my land tomorrow.”

He turned and started to ride away. I followed with David.

My father was up early next morning, and so was I. He was preparing to go out and I said to him: “What are you going to do about the gypsies?”

“Send them packing.”

“What? Now?”

“I’m riding out in a few minutes.”

“Are you going to blame them all because one or two were careless?”

He turned to me, his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it? These people nearly burned down my woods. If it hadn’t rained how much timber do you think I would have lost? I won’t have them burning down my trees, stealing my pheasants. Thieves and vagabonds, the lot of them.”

“The woods weren’t burnt down. And I don’t suppose you’ll miss a pheasant or two.”

“What does all this mean? Why are you making excuses for a band of gypsies?”

“Well, they have to stay somewhere. If people won’t let them camp, where can they go?”

“Anywhere, but on my land.”

With that he strode out. I went to my room and hastily put on my riding habit. I ran down to the stables. There, they told me that my father had left a few minutes before.

I hurried out and caught up with him before he had reached the woods. He heard my approach and looking round pulled up sharply and stared at me in astonishment.

“What do you want?”

“You are going to see the gypsies,” I said. “I am coming with you.”

“You!”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”

“You’ll turn right around and ride straight home.”

“I don’t want you to go alone.”

I saw the familiar twitch of his lips. At least he was amused.

“What do you think they are going to do to me? Truss me up like a pheasant and eat me for supper?”

“I think they might be dangerous.”

“All the more reason why you should not be there. Go back at once.”

I shook my head.

“So you would disobey me, would you?”

“I am coming with you. I am afraid for you to go alone.”

“Do you know,” he said, “you get more like your mother every day. Plaguey daughters! I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I’m coming,” I said.

He was laughing inwardly, well pleased. He turned his horse and started to trot towards the woods. I fell in beside him. It was far from his mind that there would be any trouble or he would then have insisted that I go back. He must have been dealing with gypsies all his life and I doubt he had ever known rebellion, either from them or anyone else with whom he came into contact.

We came to the gypsies’ encampment. There were four caravans there—brown and red—together with a van which was laden with baskets, clothes pegs and plaited rush mats. A fire was burning and over it sat a woman stirring something in a pot which smelt like a stew. Several horses were tethered in the bracken and four or five men were seated near the fire watching us.

It was clear that no preparations for departure had been made.

I felt a shiver of apprehension as I glanced at my father. The blood had rushed into his face. He was going to be very angry and show these people who was the master here.

He said in a voice of thunder: “I ordered you off my land. Why are you still here?”

The group near the fire did not move and the woman went on stirring. They just behaved as though my father was not there. This was the quickest way to anger him. He urged his horse forward towards the group of men. I followed.

“Get up, you louts!” he shouted. “Stand up when I speak to you. This is my land. I’ll not have you despoiling it… stealing my birds. Take your horses and your caravans and go. Go, I say. You were here with my permission. That permission is now withdrawn.”

One of the men got slowly to his feet and sauntered towards us. There was insolence in his very movements. Colour burned under his brown skin and his eyes were fierce. I saw that his hand rested on a knife in his belt.

“We do no harm here,” he said. “We go when we are ready.”

“No harm!” cried my father. “You call setting fire to my woods no harm! No harm … stealing my pheasants. You will go when I say and that is … this minute.”

The man shook his head slowly. He stood there threateningly but my father was not to be threatened.

My throat was dry. I tried to whisper that we must go at once. The gypsies in this mood were dangerous; they were a wild people and we were unarmed. It was folly to stay here. They were so many and we were but two.

“Father…” I whispered.

He made a gesture with his hand. “Leave me,” he said. “Get away … at once.”

“I will not go without you,” I answered fiercely.

Another of the men stood up and started to come towards us. Others followed. Four … five … six, I counted. They came very slowly. It was as though time had slowed down and they were taking a long time to reach us.

“Do you hear me,” cried my father. “Start packing … now.”

“The land belongs to the people,” said the man with the knife. “We’ve got a right.”

“Much right as you have,” shouted one of the others.

“Fools! Knaves! I’ll have the law on you. I’m going straight now to see about it.”

He had my horse by the bridle and was about to turn it when a stone hit my saddle. I caught my breath. It was too late for retreat now. I was aware of them closing in around us, and for the first time in my life I saw fear in my father’s face. It was for me, of course. He was terrified that he would not be able to protect me.

Then suddenly there was a shout from one of the caravans. We all looked towards it. Romany Jake was standing on the steps—colourful in his orange coloured shirt and the gold glittering in his ears.

“What’s to do?” he shouted.

Then he took in the scene—my father with me beside him, the angry gypsies surrounding us.

“His lordship wants to drive us off the land, Jake,” said one of the men.

“Drive us off? When we’re going in good time?”

He sauntered towards the crowd and came close to us. Even in such a moment his eyes held mine, slightly mocking, full of hidden meaning. “Good sir,” he said, in loud ringing tones, “I and my friends will not harm your land. Last night there was an accident. It was not our intention to cause damage.”

“But you did,” said my father. “And you’ll get out… now.”

“In good time we will pass on.”

“Not in your good time but mine. And that is now! This day, and, by God, if you continue to defy me I’ll have the law on you. It’s time some action was taken. I’ll get you shipped to Botany Bay, the whole lot of you. Perhaps you’ll be prevailed upon to do a bit of honest work out there.”

The man with the knife stepped nearer. I saw it flash in his hand as he lifted his arm. At that moment someone threw another stone.

“My God … Jessica…” murmured my father. I think he would have killed the man who threw the stone if he could have caught him. I felt numb with fear. I had always thought of him as invincible. He had always been a power in our household; he had lived a life of adventure; he had faced the French mob in the Terror and brought my mother out from under their noses; but here he was, unarmed, completely outnumbered … and vulnerable … because he was afraid … afraid for me as he could never be for himself.

They were cunning, these gypsies. I think some of them sensed the weakness in him.

One of them came close to me and laid a hand on my thigh.

My father made an attempt to seize him but then Romany Jake spoke.

He said in loud tones which rang with authority: “Stop that. Leave the girl alone.”

The man who had touched me fell back.

There was silence, tense and ominous.

“Fools,” said Romany Jake. “Do you want to get the law on us?”

I was aware of the effect he had on the gypsies. The knife had been ready and was for my father. The man stood still with it in his hand.

“Get back,” said Romany Jake.

The man with the knife seemed to be some sort of leader. He said: “It’s time to show them, Jake.”

“Not now … not before the girl. Put that knife away, Jasper.”

The man looked at the knife and hesitated. It was a battle of wills, and I sensed that a great deal hung on this moment. Those watching people were ready to follow either man. Jasper wanted revenge, wanted to wreak his anger against those who owned land and whose permission had to be granted before the gypsies could rest their caravans. What Romany Jake felt on that subject I was not sure. He had spoken as though it were solely on my account that they were to hold off. What would have happened to my father if he had come alone?

My father remained calm. He said: “You seem a reasonable man. Be off my land by nightfall.”

Romany Jake nodded. Then he said quietly: “Go. Go now.”

“Come, Jessica,” said my father.

We turned our horses and walked them slowly away from the gypsy encampment.

When we had left the woods my father pulled up and turned to me. I saw that the rich colour which had suffused his cheeks while he was talking to the gypsies had receded and he was pale. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

“That was a near thing,” he said.

“I was terrified.”

“And had every reason to be. And another time when I tell you to do something, I expect obedience.”

“What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”

“Ha! You may well ask. I would have given my full attention to those rogues.”

“Romany Jake saved us. You have to admit that.”

“He’s a rogue, like all of them. If they are not off by dawn tomorrow, there’ll be trouble for them.”

“That man with the knife …”

“Ready to use it, too.”

“And, Father, you had nothing.”

“I wish I had brought a gun with me.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. You had me instead, I was better than a gun.”

He laughed at me. I believed he was very touched because I had insisted on going with him.

“There’s no doubt whose daughter you are,” he said. “Jessica, forget I said this, but I’m proud of you.”

“I’m so glad I insisted on coming with you.”

“You think it would be the end of me if you hadn’t, don’t you? You’re kidding yourself. I’ve been in tighter spots. What beats me is that such a thing could happen on my land in broad daylight. Another thing … not a word of this to your mother.”

I nodded.

And as we rode home each of us was too emotionally stirred for words.

The next morning the gypsies left and there was lamentation in the kitchen because of the departure of Romany Jake.