The Return of the Gypsy

The Verdict

LIFE SEEMED QUITE DULL after the gypsies had gone. We were all dismayed to hear of Napoleon’s great victory at Austerlitz that December. It seemed that he was not beaten yet. Trafalgar had merely robbed him of sea power and he was anxious to show that his armies were supreme.

However, we settled into the usual routine: lessons, rides, walks, visiting the sick of the neighbourhood with comforts. It was only with the preparations for Christmas that life became eventful again. Bringing in the log, hunting for mistletoe, cutting the holly, and all the baking that went on in the kitchens; selecting the gifts we were giving and speculating on what would be given to us: the usual happenings of the Christmas season.

Christmas came and went and it was January, three months after the gypsies had vacated our woods. I had not forgotten Romany Jake; I believed I never should. He had made a marked impression on me. I found myself thinking of him at odd moments. I was sure he had been attracted by me in a special sort of way; and there was no doubt that he had had an effect on me. He made me feel that I was no longer a child; and that there were many things I could learn and which he would teach me. I felt frustrated because he had gone before I could understand the meaning of this attraction between us.

The winds were blowing in from the north bringing snow with them. We had fires all over the house. I loved fires in the bedrooms; it was pleasant to lie in bed and watch the flames in the grate—blue flames which were due to the salty wood which was brought up from the beach after storms. It was great fun going down to collect it and to burn the pieces we had personally found; I always said that the pictures in the blue flames were more beautiful than any others.

Outside the wind buffeted the house; and there we were warm and cosy with our fires round which we sat roasting chestnuts and telling uncanny stories—the same which we told every year.

It was the middle of January, during an icy spell, when Dolly Mather came over to Eversleigh in a state of panic. She asked for young Mrs. Frenshaw. She seemed to have a special feeling for Claudine. I happened to come in just as Claudine was coming down to the hall, so I heard what was wrong.

“It’s my grandmother … Oh, Mrs. Frenshaw, she’s gone.”

“Gone!” For the moment I thought she was dead for people say “gone” because they fight shy of saying the word “dead” and try to make the act of dying less tragic by calling it something else.

Dolly went on: “She’s gone. I went to her room and she’s not there. She’s just gone …”

“Gone!” echoed Claudine. “How can she be? She found it hard to get about. Where could she have gone on a day like this? Tell me exactly …”

“I think she must have gone last night.”

“Oh no … Dolly, are you sure?”

“I’ve searched the house. She’s nowhere to be found.”

“It’s impossible. I’d better come over.”

“I’ll come too,” I said.

Claudine went up to her room to get her coat and snow boots. Dolly looked at me, staring in that disconcerting way she had.

“I don’t know where she can have gone,” she said.

“She can’t be far off. She was almost bedridden.”

Claudine came down and we walked over to Grasslands. There were only two servants there; the man who managed the small estate lived in a cottage half a mile away and his wife also helped in the house.

Dolly took us up to Mrs. Trent’s bedroom.

“The bed has not been slept in,” I said.

“No. She couldn’t have gone to bed last night.”

“She must be in the house somewhere.”

Dolly shook her head. “She’s not. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Claudine went to the cupboard and opened the door. “Has she taken a coat?” she asked.

Dolly nodded. Yes, she had taken a coat.

“Then she must have gone out.”

“On a night like last?” asked Dolly. “She would have caught her death.”

“We’ve got to find her,” said Claudine. “She must have had some sort of breakdown. But where could she have gone?”

Dolly shook her head.

“I’ll go back to Eversleigh,” said Claudine. “We’ll send some men out to look for her. It’s going to snow later on. Where on earth can she be? Don’t worry, Dolly. We’ll find her. You stay here. Get a fire going in her bedroom. She may need to be warmed up when she gets back.”

“But where is she?” cried Dolly.

“That’s what we have to find out. Come along, Jessica.”

As we trudged back to Eversleigh, Claudine said: “What a strange thing … That old woman. She had difficulty in walking up and down the stairs. I can’t think what this means. Oh dear, I do hope she is all right. I can’t think what will become of Dolly if anything happened to Mrs. Trent.”

“It’s Dolly who really cared for Mrs. Trent.”

“But Dolly … all alone in the world.”

“She can’t be far away,” I said.

“No. They’ll soon find her. But if she has been out all night … in this weather …”

“She must have sheltered somewhere.”

As soon as we returned to Eversleigh and told them what had happened search parties were organized. As predicted it started to snow and the strong winds were making almost a blizzard. The search went on all through the morning, and it was not until late afternoon when Mrs. Trent was found, not by one of the searchers, but by Polly Crypton. Polly had been out—bad as the weather was—to take a potion to old Mrs. Grimes, in one of the cottages, who suffered terribly from rheumatism and had run out of her medicine. Coming back Polly had stumbled over something close to her garden gate. To her horror she had discovered that it was a woman, and looking closer had recognized Mrs. Trent.

It was clear to Polly that she had been dead some time. She hurried to give the alarm, and at last Mrs. Trent was brought back to Grasslands.

Several of us were there—my mother, Claudine, David, Amaryllis and myself. The doctor had come. He said that the effort of walking so far would have put a great strain on her impaired health; it was his opinion that exhaustion had been the main cause of her death; and even if that had not been the case she would have frozen to death.

“Whatever possessed her to go out in such weather?” cried Claudine.

“She must have been temporarily out of her mind,” said my mother.

“It is Dolly who worries me,” went on Claudine. “We shall have to take special care of her.”

Poor Dolly! She was like one in a dream. She spent a great deal of time at Enderby where she was warmly welcomed by Aunt Sophie—herself the victim of misfortune, she was always ready to show sympathy to those whom life had treated ill.

The day of the funeral came. Claudine arranged it all. Dolly had listlessly stood aside and accepted help. We all attended the church and followed the coffin to the grave. Poor Dolly, chief mourner, she looked so frail and white; and at times of emotion that deformity in her face seemed more prominent. Even Aunt Sophie attended in deep black with a black chiffon hood hiding half of her face; she looked very strange standing there at the grave like some big black bird, a prophet of doom. But Dolly kept close to her and clearly drew more comfort from her than from Claudine who was doing so much to help.

Claudine had insisted that the funeral party come back to Eversleigh, so there they all were, talking about Mrs. Trent and how well she had cared for her grand-daughter, and how well she had managed Grasslands, not an easy job for a woman even though she had a good manager. We remembered all the pleasant things about Mrs. Trent as people always do at funerals. I had heard people say—when she was living—that she was an old witch and that if she had been different, her grand-daughter Evie would never have committed suicide when she found herself pregnant, and that poor Dolly had a “life of it” looking after her. But she was dead and death wipes away a person’s faults and gives virtue in their place.

But Mrs. Trent’s virtues were discussed with not so much fervour as was the reason for her sudden departure from the comforts of Grasslands to go out into the bitterly cold winter’s night.

Claudine said that Dolly must stay at Eversleigh for a few days, but Aunt Sophie insisted that she go to Enderby; and it was clear that this was Dolly’s preference. So Dolly stayed with Aunt Sophie for a week after the funeral and then she returned to Grasslands. Claudine said that we must all keep an eye on her and do what we could to help her over this terrible tragedy.

One day when Claudine returned home from visiting Aunt Sophie, she looked very grave and I saw from her expression that something had happened. She went straight to my mother and they were closeted together for a long time.

“Something is going on,” I said to Amaryllis and she agreed with me.

“I’m going to find out,” I added. “It’s something about Aunt Sophie because it is since your mother came back from there that it started.”

I made a few tentative enquiries in the kitchens but I could glean nothing there so I decided to ask my mother.

I had always been treated in a rather special way by my mother. It may have been that she was older than most mothers are when their children are born, and she did tend to treat me more as an adult than Claudine and David did Amaryllis. It may have been that I was more anxious to be regarded so than Amaryllis. “Pushing,” as some of the servants called it.

So when I found my mother in one of what I called her dreamy moods, I asked her outright if there was something going on, some secret adult matter which was considered to be not for the ears of the young.

She looked at me and smiled. “So you have noticed,” she said. “My goodness, Jessica, you are like a detective. You notice everything.”

“This is rather obvious. Claudine went to Aunt Sophie and came back, well… secretive … anxious and strange.”

“Yes, there is something, but it is not Aunt Sophie. You will have to know in due course, so why not now?”

“Yes, you might as well tell me,” I agreed eagerly.

“It’s Dolly. She is going to have a baby.”

“But she is not married!”

“People occasionally have babies when they are not married.”

“You mean …”

“That is what is troubling us. Dolly herself is happy enough, almost ecstatic. That’s a help in a way but it is more unfortunate. Your Aunt Sophie will help all she can. We shall all have to be gentle with Dolly. She has had a very hard life. She adored her sister who drowned herself because of her own pregnancy. So now you see why we are worried about Dolly.”

“You don’t think Dolly will kill herself?”

“On the contrary. She seems delighted at the prospect.”

“ ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord’… and all that,” I quoted irreverently.

My mother looked at me intently. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you all this. Sometimes, Jessica, I forget how young you are.”

“I’m quite knowledgeable. One learns about these things. I knew about Jane Abbey’s baby before she had it.”

“Your father thinks you are wise beyond your years.”

“Does he?”

“But most parents think there is something special about their offspring.”

“But my father is not like most parents. He would only think it if it were so.”

She laughed and ruffled my hair. “Don’t say too much about Dolly, will you? Not just yet. Of course it will come out and there’ll be a lot of gossip. But don’t set it going.”

“Of course not. I’ll only tell Amaryllis; and she never talks about anything if you tell her not to.”

I went away and thought a good deal about Dolly. Oddly enough I was to talk to her soon after my conversation with my mother.

I went over one day to see Aunt Sophie. Jeanne told me she was sleeping so I went into the garden to wait for a while and whom should I see there but Dolly.

She looked different. There was no thickening of her figure yet but there was a certain transformation in her face. The drawn-down eye was less noticeable. There was a little colour in her cheeks and the visible eye shone with a certain delight and, yes … defiance.

She was more talkative than I had ever known her.

I did not, of course, refer to the subject. It was she who brought it up.

“I suppose you know about me?”

I admitted I did.

“I’m glad,” she said. She gave me that odd look. “In a way you’re to blame.”

“I? What have I done?”

“When you were a little baby I kidnapped you. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought you were the other one. I was going to kill her.”

“Kill Amaryllis! Whatever for?”

“Because she was alive … and oh … it’s an old story. But my sister had lost her lover and she killed herself. It was all mixed up with them at Eversleigh. It was their fault that it had happened. She was going away with her lover and I was going with her to look after the little baby.”

“You mean … you wanted revenge through Amaryllis?”

“Something like that.”

“But Amaryllis … she is the most inoffensive person I ever knew. She would never do anyone any harm.”

“It was because she was a baby and I’d lost Evie’s. But I took you instead … the wrong baby, you see. I had you up in my room hidden away. I was afraid you were going to cry. You were the most lovely baby I had ever seen. I used to try to make myself believe you were Evie’s baby. You used to smile at me when I spoke to you. I just loved you when you were a baby. That was when above everything I wanted a baby of my own. It was you who started it. And now I’m going to have one.”

“You seem very happy about it.”

“I always wanted a little baby… ever since I took you. I thought I’d look after Evie’s. I don’t care what people say. It will be worth it to have a little baby. You’d like to know about it, wouldn’t you?”

I did not speak for a moment. I looked into her face and I thought of her dancing round the bonfire on Trafalgar night.

“And … the baby’s father?” I said weakly.

She smiled, reminiscently, I thought.

I said: “Was it… Romany Jake?”

She did not deny it. “He used to sing those songs for me. No one ever cared about me before. He said life was meant for enjoying. There should be laughter and pleasure. ‘Live for today,’ he said, ‘and let tomorrow take care of itself.’ The gypsies lived a life of freedom. It was what they cared about more than anything. And so … I was happy … for the first time in my life, really. And now… there is going to be a little baby … mine and Jake’s.”

I felt deflated; betrayed. I could see him so clearly standing there in the light of the bonfire. I had felt he was calling to me … to me … not to Dolly. He had wanted me to be down there dancing with him and I had wanted to be there. Only now did I realize how much.

“Dolly,” I said, “did he ask you to go off with the gypsies … with him … ?”

She shook her head.

“It was such a night… It was the people dancing and singing … and everything somehow not quite real. I’ve never known anyone like him.”

“You will love the baby, Dolly.”

Her smile was ecstatic. “More than anything on earth I wanted a little baby … a little baby of my own,” she repeated.

I thought what a strange girl she was! She had changed, grown up suddenly. Though she was adult in years, there had always been a childishness about her, perhaps because she was so vulnerable. I was angry suddenly with Romany Jake. He had taken advantage of her innocence. He had called to me with his eyes, with his presence … but I was too young … I was guarded by my family and so he had turned to Dolly. It was wrong; it was wicked … but it had given Dolly what she wanted more than anything on earth.

She said: “I have nightmares about Granny. You know how you feel when it’s your fault… in a way. I could say I killed her.”

“You!”

“I didn’t know where she had gone … not then. But now I know and I know why. There was a terrible scene that night before she died. I’ve got to tell someone so I’ll tell you because it was partly your fault for being the baby you were … and it was your family who made Evie do what she did. But for the Frenshaws at Eversleigh, Evie’s lover would never have been found out and he would have gone to France with Evie and me and she would have had the dear little baby … so it was the Frenshaws’ fault in a way.”

“Tell me what happened that night when your grandmother went out in the cold.”

“She thought there was something wrong with me and she questioned me. When I said I was going to have a baby she nearly went mad with rage. She kept saying, ‘The two of you. It’s happened to the two of you. What’s wrong with you …’ That seemed to upset her so much that it took her right back to the time when Evie had died. She always thought afterwards that if she had been different Evie would have come to her with her trouble and something could have been sorted out. She blamed herself and that was why she was so ill. She kept shouting, ‘Who was it?’ and when I told her she cried out, ‘The gypsy! God help us, I can’t bear this. You … and the gypsy …’ I told her that he was a wonderful man and that there was no one I’d rather have for the father of my child, and the more I talked the more mad she became. She kept saying she had failed with us. She had planned for us; she had wanted so much for us … and I was going the same way as Evie. She kept on and on about Evie. I thought she really had gone mad. I didn’t know she had left the house. She told me to leave her alone and I did. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to do. Go away and leave me in peace to do it.’ She was so upset I went out and left her and in the morning she had gone. I know now where she had gone. She was making her way to Polly Crypton. Polly knows what to do to get rid of babies. She had done it before for girls in trouble. That was where my grandmother was going on that night. She was going to Polly Crypton to get her to do something to destroy my child.”

“Oh, Dolly, what a terrible story! Poor Mrs. Trent, she cared so much for you.”

“It was the wrong sort of caring … with Evie and with me. Evie was afraid to tell her. I shall never forget the day she learned that her lover was dead and we shouldn’t be going away with him after all. She kept saying, ‘What shall I do?’ I said we’d tell Granny and we’d stand together and we’d manage somehow. But, you see, she could not bring herself to tell Granny. She chose to drown in the river instead. Granny blamed herself for that, and when she knew that I was going to have a child it brought it all back to her. She was going to stand by me. That was why she went to Polly Crypton’s on that night.”

“I’m so sorry, Dolly. You know we’ll do everything … everything we possibly can.”

“Yes. Madame Sophie wants to help me. So do the two Mrs. Frenshaws. I’ll be all right.”

Jeanne was calling that Aunt Sophie was ready to see me. I touched Dolly’s hand gently and as I ran into the house I was still seeing Romany Jake standing there in the light of the bonfire and wondering what would have happened … if I had danced with him as Dolly had done.

By the time spring came, people ceased to talk much about Dolly and her coming child. No one seemed to think very harshly of her. I suppose it is only when people envy others that they revel in their misfortunes. Nobody ever envied Dolly. “Poor Dolly,” they all said, even the most humble of them. So if she had had her hour of abandoned passion and this was the result—about which she was delighted—who was to grudge her that?

She spent a great deal of time at Enderby. Aunt Sophie was quite excited at the prospect of the coming child. Jeanne Fougere made all sorts of nourishing dishes, and Dolly seemed to like to be cossetted. Aunt Sophie said that when the time came she must go to Enderby. The midwife should be there and Jeanne would look after her. My mother commented that she had rarely seen Sophie so happy.

Soon it was summer. The war with France dragged on. One grew used to it and a little bored by it. It seemed there was always war with France and always would be.

It was the end of June. Dolly’s baby was expected in July. Aunt Sophie insisted that Dolly leave Grasslands and take up her residence at Enderby and Dolly seemed happy to do so. She was completely absorbed in the coming baby and it was wonderful to see her so contented. For as long as I could remember she had been mourning her sister Evie and had been very much her grandmother’s prisoner. Now she was free and that which she wanted more than anything—a child of her own—was about to come to her.

“It’s a strange state of affairs,” said my mother. “That poor girl with her illegitimate child … the child of a wandering gypsy… and there she is for the first time in her life really happy.”

“Yes,” added Claudine, “even in the days when Evie was alive, she was overshadowed by her. Now she is a person in her own right… about to be a mother, no less.”

“I do hope all goes well for her,” said my mother fervently.

Jeanne had taken one of the cradles from the Eversleigh nursery and had made flounces of oyster-coloured silk for it. It was a glorious affair by the time Jeanne had finished with it. There was a room at Enderby called “the nursery”; and Aunt Sophie talked of little else but the baby. Jeanne was making baby clothes—very beautiful ones at that—and Aunt Sophie embroidered them.

It certainly was an extraordinary state of affairs, as my mother said.

The few servants who had been at Grasslands resided chiefly at Enderby now, going to Grasslands only a few times a week to be sure the place was kept in order.

When I walked past it I thought it had a dead look. It would soon have the reputation Enderby used to have. David had said that a house acquired a ghostly reputation because the shrubs were allowed to enshroud it, giving it a dark and sinister appearance. It was not the houses themselves which were haunted; it was the reputation they were given, and people usually saw to it that those reputations were enhanced. Things happened in supposedly haunted houses because people imagined they would.

With July the weather came in hot and sultry. Late one afternoon I had been over to Aunt Sophie with a special cake our cook had made and to enquire after Dolly’s health. When I came out of the house I noticed the heavy clouds overhead.

One of the servants called to me: “You’d best wait awhile, Miss Jessica. It’s going to pelt down in a moment or two. There’s thunder in the air, too.”

“I’ll be at Eversleigh before it starts,” I replied.

And I set out.

There was a stillness in the air. I found it rather exciting. The calm before the storm! Not a breath of wind to stir the leaves of the trees … just that silence, rather eerie … ominous in fact. It was the kind of silence in which one could expect anything to happen.

I walked on quickly. I was near Grasslands. I glanced at the house … empty now. I stood for a few seconds looking up at the windows. Some houses seem to have a life of their own. Enderby certainly had. And now… Grasslands. Eversleigh? Well, there were always so many people at Eversleigh. Enderby had had an evil reputation before Aunt Sophie had gone there, and a woman whose face was half hidden from sight because of a dire accident could hardly be expected to disperse that. Grasslands? Well, people had said that old Mrs. Trent was a witch; and her grand-daughter had committed suicide and now the other was going to have an illegitimate child. It was stories like that which made houses seem strange … influencing the lives of the people who lived in them.

There was a faint rumbling in the distance and forked lightning shot across the sky. Several large drops of rain fell on my upturned face. The black clouds overhead were about to burst.

I was flimsily clad. I ought to take shelter. The rain would pelt down but it would very likely soon be over. I looked about me. “Never shelter under trees in a thunderstorm,” my mother had often warned me.

I turned in at the gate. I could find adequate shelter under the porch at Grasslands.

I started to run towards the house; the rain was coming down in earnest now. I looked up. Then I stopped short for there at one of the upper windows, I saw … or thought I saw … a face.

Who could be there? Dolly was at Enderby, so were all the servants. There were only three of them and I had seen them all that afternoon.

A dark face … I could not see clearly. It had moved swiftly away as I looked up. Was it a trick of the unusual light? A fancy? But I was sure I saw the curtains move.

I reached the porch and stood there. I was quite wet already. Who could be in the house? I wondered.

One of the servants? But I had seen them all at Enderby just before I left. I pulled on the somewhat rusty chain and the bell rang. I could hear it echoing through the house.

“Is anyone at home?” I called through the keyhole.

There was no answer—only a loud clap of thunder.

I rapped on the door. Nothing happened. It was a heavy oak door and I leaned against it, feeling that something very strange was happening. I am not particularly scared by thunderstorms, especially when other people are there, but to see that lightning streaking across the sky and to wait for the violent claps of thunder which followed and to watch the rain violently hitting the ground when behind me was a house which should have been empty … well, I did feel a strange sort of fear which made my skin creep.

I stood for a while watching the storm as it grew wilder. My impulse was to run, for suddenly I knew that there was someone on the other side of the door.

“Who is there?” I called.

There was no answer. Did I hear heavy breathing? How could I? The storm was too noisy, the door too thick.

What was it I was aware of? A presence?

I would brave the storm. They would scold me. Miss Rennie would say, How foolish to run through it. You should have stayed at Enderby till at least the worst was over …

I shivered. My thin damp dress was clinging to me, but I was not really cold. It was just the thought that there was someone in that house who was aware of me … and that it was very lonely here.

I turned to the door and put my hands against it. To my amazement it opened.

How could that be? It had been shut. I had leaned against it. I had rapped on it and now… it was open.

I stepped into the hall.

It was dark because of the weather. I looked up at the vaulted ceiling which was rather like ours at Eversleigh but smaller.

“Is anyone there?” I called.

There was no answer and I had the feeling that I was being watched.

I advanced cautiously, crossing the hall to the staircase. I heard a movement and hastily turned round. There was no one in the hall. The door swung shut with a bang. I ran over to it. Someone was in the house and I had to get out quickly. I had to run home as fast as I could, never mind the storm.

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. I stared.

“Are you alone?” said a voice.

“It’s … it’s …” I stammered.

“That is right,” he said. “You remember me.”

“Romany Jake,” I murmured.

“And the lady Jessica.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you. But first are you alone … Is anyone with you? Anyone coming after you?”

I shook my head. I was no longer afraid. Waves of relief were sweeping over me. I could not feel afraid of Romany Jake—only a tremendous excitement.

He came down the stairs stealthily.

“It was you who were behind the door. You were at the window … You opened the door so that I would come in. What are you doing here?”

“Hiding.”

“Hiding? From whom are you hiding?”

“The law.”

“What have you done?”

“Killed a man.”

I stared at him in horror.

“You will understand when I tell you. You will not betray me, I know.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I thought Dolly would help me. There was no one in the house so I got in through an open window on the first floor. I was hiding until she came.”

“She is staying at Enderby.”

“Where are the servants?”

“They are there, too. They only come now and then to see that the place is all right.”

“What does it mean?”

“Aunt Sophie is looking after her until the baby comes.”

“The baby?”

“Your baby,” I said, watching him closely.

He stared at me incredulously. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Dolly is going to have your baby. She wants it very much and so do Aunt Sophie and Jeanne, and my mother says it is not such a bad thing.”

He was silent, running his fingers through his thick dark hair. Then he murmured: “Dolly!”

I said: “You say you have killed someone.”

“I want you to understand. But first… Dolly? Is she all right?”

“She is with my Aunt Sophie.”

“And she told you that?”

“That it was your baby, yes.”

“Oh … my God,” he said quietly. “What a mess.”

“She wants it. She’s happy about it. She’ll be all right. They’ll look after her and the baby, and my mother says she has never been so happy in her life. Tell me what you have done.”

A loud clap of thunder seemed to shake the house.

“No one will come here in this storm,” he said. “Sit down here and let us talk.”

I sat beside him on the stairs.

“You must decide whether you will go straight back to your father and tell him I am hiding here … or whether you will say nothing and help me.”

“I want to hear all about it. I don’t think I would tell my father. I think I should want to help you.”

He laughed suddenly and he was like the merry man I had known before he went away. I was happy to sit close to him.

He said: “First Dolly. It happened you know, suddenly … These things sometimes do. You won’t understand.”

“I think I do.”

He took my chin in his hands and looked into my face. “I believe you are very wise,” he said. “From the moment we met I wished you were a little older … not much … just a little.”

“Why?”

“Then I could have talked to you … You would have understood.”

“I can understand now.”

He smiled and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I must tell you what happened. We were encamped in a forest near Nottingham. The local squire had a nephew staying with him. I killed the nephew.”

“Why?”

“Because I caught him assaulting one of the gypsy girls. He would have raped her. He thought the gypsy girls were fair game. Leah is fourteen. I know her father. He adores his daughter. He is a good man. You may be surprised but morals are very strict among the gypsies. Leah is a beautiful girl. The squire’s nephew had marked her out no doubt and he just lay in wait to catch her alone. What he did not know was that I was not far off. I heard Leah scream. I hurried to her. He had torn her blouse off her shoulders and had flung her to the ground. I just went for him. I caught him and we rolled over and over on the grass. I was mad with rage against him and all of those people who call themselves nobility and think that gives them a right to take any girl they fancy providing she is not one of their own class. When I had finished with him nothing could have saved him. I took Leah back to the camp. Her father wanted us to move on and we all saw that that was the best thing possible. But we were too late. The law caught up with us. I was arrested on a charge of murder.”

“But it was not an ordinary murder. You did it to save Leah. They would have to take that into consideration.”

“Do you think they would? The squire is a man of great influence in the neighbourhood. It was his nephew who was killed.”

“But it is against the law to commit rape.”

“Does that apply to squires and gypsy girls?”

“To all, surely,” I said. “The real criminal is that squire’s nephew.”

“Do you think you could get a court to believe that?”

“There will be Leah to give evidence.”

“That would carry no weight. No. I could see it was the hangman’s noose for me.” He touched his neck wryly as though he could feel the rope about it. “I have a strong desire to go on living.”

“What happened?”

“Before they took me away, Penfold, Leah’s father, swore the gypsies would never allow me to be hanged. They knew where I was in jail and they had a horse waiting nearby in case I could make my escape. They were aware that if I came up for trial it would be over for me. My chance came … a drunken guard, a little bribery … and I was out and there was the horse waiting for me … and I was away. I want to get out of the country. I’ll never be safe here. I was making my way to the coast. I came this way because I thought Dolly would help me. But I found the house empty …”

I was silent, then I said: “You will be safe here for tonight. Tomorrow the servants will come. How will you get out of England? There is a boat in the old boathouse. I’ve seen it fairly recently, but you would never get across the Channel in it, and how could you go to France?”

“I would attempt it.”

“The French will be watching the coasts. You know we are at war with them.”

“I’d have to take the risk.”

“If you could get to Belgium … but that is a longer crossing.”

“First it would be for me to get the boat.”

“The boat is there. You’d have to row yourself…”

“The case is desperate. I’ll try anything rather than fall into the hands of those who will condemn me before the trial starts.” He took my hands and looked steadily at me. “You will not betray me, little Jessica?”

“I never would,” I cried with fervour. “I’d always help you.”

He kissed me tenderly.

“You are a wonderful girl,” he said. “I never knew a girl like you before.”

He had a certain effect on me. I forgot Dolly and how he had seduced her. I forgot that he had killed a man. Soldiers killed in battles. The enemy, they called them, although they had no personal quarrel. This man had killed another who would have harmed a young girl. He was protecting the innocent against the wicked. He had been right to use whatever methods were necessary to save the girl. I was on his side. I had a feeling that no matter what he had done I should have been.

“You should be out of this house before the morning,” I said.

He nodded. “After dark, I shall go down to the shore and find that boathouse. Perhaps I could take the boat along the coast and find a ship going somewhere …”

“You should go round to Ramsgate or Harwich. There you might get to Holland. Do you have any money?”

“Tenfold brought me money with the horse.”

“It would have been better if you had made for the east coast.”

“I could not choose my way. I was being hunted.”

“If you went abroad, it would mean you would never come back.”

“These things are forgotten with the years. Tell me, when will the baby come?”

“Very soon now.”

“And Dolly, how is she?”

“Very happy. She wants the baby desperately. I think if you came back, she would be perfectly happy.”

“What a neat little ending that would be to a midnight frolic round a bonfire.”

“Is that what it was to you?”

He was silent. Then he said: “Please don’t think too badly of me. You were there, weren’t you. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do remember.”

“Sitting in the carriage with your parents. I went on thinking of you…”

Neither of us spoke for some time. I was thinking of him in a cart, being taken to some place, and the crowd looking on while they strung him up by his neck. I had never witnessed a public hanging, but one of the servants had. She had come from London and seen it at Tyburn. She had given a graphic description.

That must not be the fate of Romany Jake.

I turned to him impulsively. “You must get away from here as soon as it is dark. I’ll bring you some food. Go to the east coast…”

“There is food here in the pantries. I was sure Dolly would not grudge me that. Where is the old lady? Has she gone with Dolly?”

“She died. She was horrified because Dolly was going to have a baby. She went out into the snow and was out all night. It killed her.”

He put his hand to his head. “So that is something else I have to answer for.”

“We all have to answer for all sorts of things.”

“How wise you are and how lucky I am to have your friendship. It is an unusual story. The lady of the manor befriending a poor gypsy who is running from the law.”

“There have been stranger stories. There is that one you sing about the lady who left home to join the gypsies.”

“You have not gone so far as that!”

The hall was suddenly illuminated by lightning which was immediately followed by a clap of thunder.

“I thought that one was for us,” he said.

“As soon as the storm is over I must go back. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“They wouldn’t expect you to be walking through the storm.”

“No.”

“So we are safe for a little while.”

“Tell me about the gypsies,” I said. “It seems such a strange life for a man like you.”

“I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not a gypsy, born and bred. I joined them two years ago because I wanted a life on the open road. I had never liked the restricted life. I wanted my freedom. I could have had an easy life… slept in my goose-feather bed … sat down at table and feasted like a lord. This is the story over again. This is not the lady who left her home to follow the gypsies; but the man who left the family home to join them.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I quarrelled with my brother. He is fifteen years older than I. As our parents were dead he was in a sense my guardian—and I was a rebel. I ran away from school; I consorted with the menials on the estate. I made their grievances my concern; and after a serious family quarrel I realized that I did not want to go on doing things just because that was the way they had been done for hundreds of years. I wanted to be free … my own man. I did not want to obey a lot of social laws which seemed absurd to me, so I joined the gypsies. They have accepted me and some of the best friends I ever had are among them. I cut myself off completely from the old life. There were no regrets I believe on either side. My brother was relieved to be rid of one who brought nothing but trouble. It was just that I cannot endure being shut in whether it be by iron bars or conventions.”

“I understand.”

“Well, now this could be the ignoble end of a useless life.”

“Don’t say that,” I cried. “In any case it wasn’t useless for Leah. You saved her, remember. And this is not going to be the end. You can get out of the country. Get to Harwich. I am sure you will be able to get across to Holland. You have the horse.”

“I took the liberty of putting him in the stables. I fed and watered him there. He is resting … ready for the long ride to Heaven knows where.”

“You must get to Harwich. Take the byways. They would not think of looking for you along the east coast. You’d have a good chance there.”

“I’ll leave when it is dark. Can I trust you to tell no one I am here?”

“Of course.”

“I hope to lie in hiding for a while until the hue and cry has died down.”

“Leave tonight,” I said; and I added: “I shall be thinking of you.”

“That gives me comfort, a determination to succeed, and when you are older I shall have so much to tell you.”

“Tell me now. I hate waiting.”

“I hate waiting too … but this will have to wait.”

We sat in silence for a while. Then I noticed that there had been no thunder for some little time and that the heavy rain had ceased.

“I must go,” I said reluctantly. “They mustn’t know that I have been here. Goodbye. Good luck. You are safe here for the rest of the day.”

“I will be watchful… and leave as soon as darkness falls. Thank you, my dear little girl. I shall think of you constantly … my beautiful young benefactress.”

He took my face in his hands and tenderly kissed my forehead. I felt very emotional. I wanted to do so much for him; but there was nothing I could do but remain silent.

I went across the hall. I stood at the door for a moment looking back, smiling at him.

I felt frightened suddenly, wondering if that was the last I should see of Romany Jake.

When I arrived home there was great consternation. Where had I been? My mother had sent the carriage over to Enderby to bring me back.

“Dear Mother,” I said, “I am not made of sugar.”

“And then we learned that you had already left.”

“I sheltered.”

She felt the sleeve of my gown. “It’s damp,” she announced. “Get it off at once. Where is Miss Rennie? Oh, Miss Rennie, see that Jessica puts her feet in a hot mustard bath at once.”

“Certainly Mrs. Frenshaw.”

I protested. “Really, this is absurd. I’m just a little wet.” And I was thinking, They sent the carriage over. Suppose someone had seen me go into Grasslands? Suppose they had come and found him?

I felt sick at the thought.

I must protect him.

I sat in my dry gown holding it above my knees while my feet were immersed in the hot mustard bath. Miss Rennie filled it again with hot water, when she thought it was getting a little cold.

“You should have stayed at Enderby. You could have come home in the carriage.”

“Such a fuss …”

How was he faring? Nobody else would call at the house this day and by nightfall he would be off.

I could not get out of my mind the horrible thought of his hanging by a rope. It must never be.

My mother came into the bedroom to see if her instructions were being carried out. She herself dried my feet, and while she was doing so there was the sound of voices below. She looked out of the window.

“It’s a stranger,” she said. “Oh, there’s your father. They’re talking earnestly together. I daresay this will mean a guest for dinner. I’ll go down and see. Now put on your stockings quickly. You’ll be heated from the mustard. You don’t want to catch cold.”

“Really, Mother,” I protested. “All this because of a little rain.”

“I don’t want you in bed with a cold. I have enough to do without that.”

In a way it was pleasant to be looked after and made to feel precious.

Then my thoughts were back with Romany Jake.

I went downstairs to see who had arrived. The whole family were gathered there with my father and mother. Claudine, David and Amaryllis. They were talking excitedly.

My father said: “This is my daughter Jessica. Jessica, this is Mr. Frederick Forby.”

Mr. Forby bowed and my father went on: “Do you remember the gypsy they called Romany Jake?”

I felt dizzy. I hoped I did not show how shaken I was.

“Mr. Forby is looking for him. We have to be on the watch.”

“Romany Jake?” I repeated.

“I thought he might come this way,” said Mr. Forby to my father. “We’re going to all the old haunts and I believe they were here last year.”

“Yes,” said my mother. “It was October. I remember they were at the Trafalgar bonfire.”

“October,” repeated Mr. Forby. “And not since?”

“Oh no, not since,” said my mother. “We should have been aware of them if they had been here.”

“They set my woods on fire,” put in my father. “I turned them off the land after that.”

“They say he is wanted for murder,” said David.

“That’s so,” said Mr. Forby.

“He’s a real villain then.”

“These gypsies have to be watched, sir. It’s usually petty crimes. Murder! Well, I have to say that’s rare enough. But we’re determined to get him.”

“Who was the victim?” asked Claudine.

“He was the nephew of the local squire. They were encamped near Nottingham.”

“Oh dear, that’s bad,” said my mother. “I thought perhaps it might have been a quarrel in the camp.”

“Oh no, the gypsy attacked the young man and killed him.”

“I hope they catch him,” said my mother.

I heard myself say in a rather high-pitched voice: “Why did he kill this man … the nephew of the squire?”

“Some quarrel over a girl. They’re a hot-blooded lot, these gypsies.”

I had to control myself. I wanted to shout: A quarrel over a girl! The squire’s nephew tried to rape her. Romany Jake was quite right to do what he did. Any man of chivalry would have done the same.

I must be careful. I must not betray the fact that I had seen him. I should somehow have to warn him that this man Forby was in the neighbourhood. I must be wary. He never should have come here.

They were talking about him. “A colourful sort of fellow as I remember,” said my father.

“I gather he is not a real gypsy.”

“What’s he doing living with them then?”

“It’s all rather odd. In fact he’s an odd fellow. We’ve been making enquiries. It seems he comes from quite a good family … somewhere in Cornwall. He’s known as an eccentric.”

“Who goes round committing murders,” said my mother.

“We don’t know of any others,” I said. “And it wasn’t murder. It was this girl…”

“Murder is murder, my dear young lady,” said Mr. Forby. “It is my job to see that the guilty are brought to justice.”

“But you said it was a quarrel over a girl. Perhaps …”

My father was looking at me with raised eyebrows and Mr. Forby went on: “We expect a bit of trouble with the gypsies. He seems to be a sort of leader in spite of not being one of them. Cornish name of Jake Cadorson. Romany Jake is just a nickname.”

“I remember the fellow,” said my father. “I quite liked his manner. He was reasonable enough when I went to order them off my land.”

“Hot-blooded,” said Mr. Forby.

“Where are they searching for him?” I asked.

“All along the coasts. I’ve got my men out. We’re determined to get him. He’ll try to leave the country. I think he’ll make for the east coast. Harwich most likely. But for the war I’d have expected it to be the south coast. But he couldn’t very well get to France at a time like this. No, I reckon he’ll make for Harwich.”

I felt myself tremble. I thought: He will go straight into the trap.

I had to see him.

“I’m going to all the houses round here,” went on Mr. Forby. “I’m warning them to keep a look out. If anyone should see this man we want to know right away.”

I made an excuse to get away. I went to my room, got into my riding habit and slipped out of the house. I saddled my horse and rode out.

The trees were still dripping with moisture and the ground was damp after the storm. The bushes looked as though they had had a battering. Why does one notice these things when one’s thoughts are deeply involved elsewhere?

I reached Grasslands. It was very silent. I dismounted and tied my horse to the mounting block. I went to the door and rang the bell. I called through the keyhole: “It’s all right. It’s Jessica…”

I heard his footsteps. The door was opened and he stood there.

Just at that moment there was a shout. My father and Mr. Forby were galloping towards the house.

“No, no!” I cried.

Romany Jake looked at me and the pain in his eyes hurt me more deeply than I had ever been hurt before.

They had leaped from their horses. Mr. Forby produced a gun.

“It’s all up,” he shouted.

I felt as if I were going to faint. My father put his arm round me. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here.”

Two men appeared as if from nowhere. I had never seen them before but I knew that they were Mr. Forby’s assistants.

I could not bear to see what was happening.

My father said: “I’ll take my daughter home.”

I turned to Romany Jake. I could not speak. I shook my head. I could scarcely see him. My eyes were full of tears … tears of horror, remorse, frustration … and deep sorrow. I wanted above all things to talk to him, to explain. I could not bear him to think that I had betrayed him.

Quietly I rode back with my father.

We went to the stables and my father lifted me out of the saddle. He held me against him. He was not naturally demonstrative. The grooms took our horses and we went into the house.

My father said: “I think you had better tell me, don’t you? What is your part in all this?”

I said: “We’ve got to save him.”

I wanted to talk to him. All my life he had been the most powerful being in the world. We all knew of how he had brought my mother out of France: he had always behaved as though he were a superior human being with such conviction that we had believed him to be.

Now I thought: He can save Romany Jake. He was my hope. I had to let Romany Jake know that I had not betrayed him. What had he thought when he opened the door and saw me and the men behind me? What could he have thought but one thing? That I had betrayed him.

“Come into my study,” said my father. “You can tell me all about it.”

When we were there he shut the door and said: “Well?”

“It was not murder,” I told him. “It was not what you think. The squire’s nephew was going to rape the gypsy girl. Jake found them. There was a fight and the nephew was killed during it.”

“Who told you this?”

“He did.”

“You mean … the gypsy?”

“He’s not a real gypsy. He joined them because he wanted to be free.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“Why were you there … behind me?”

“I was riding with Forby. We went out together and saw you turn in at Grasslands. I said, ‘That’s my daughter,’ and we rode after you.”

“Why did you do that… oh why?”

“My dear girl, we were going to ask at Grasslands if anyone had seen the gypsy.”

“But no one was there. Dolly and the servants were at Enderby.”

“I thought some of the servants might have been there. They knew him … from when he was here before.”

I buried my face in my hands. I felt so wretched.

“Come on,” he said. “Explain.”

“I went to Grasslands to shelter from the storm. I was going to stand under the porch till it was over. He was there. I thought I saw someone at the window and he saw me. He trusted me …”

“You mean you spoke to him?”

“Yes. I went into Grasslands and he told me what had happened … how he had killed that man. He said there would be no mercy for him. He, the gypsy, had killed the squire’s nephew. I wanted to warn him that that man was in the neighbourhood and had his men all along the coasts. He was going to Harwich after dark. He would have walked right into the trap. And that is just what he did, and he will think that I…”

“You must not upset yourself. You did not mean to betray him.”

“But I did.”

“No, no. It just happened.”

“What will they do to him?”

“They’ll take him to Nottingham to face trial.”

“And they’ll find him guilty.”

“He has killed a man. He does not deny it.”

“But it was not murder.”

“It is the usual term for describing such an action.”

“But you don’t see? There was this girl… What will they do to him?”

“Hang him, I expect.”

“They must not.”

“My dear Jessica, this man is nothing to do with you. A wandering gypsy. Colourful, I admit. Handsome … not without charm. This time next year you’ll be wondering who he was.”

“I shall never forget that he will believe I betrayed him. He trusted me.”

“You foolish girl. You did no such thing. You just went there to warn him and we happened to be behind you.”

“But he will think …”

“Very soon he will be past thinking.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that, Father. I want you to save him.”

“I? What power should I have to save him?”

“When I was little I used to think you could do anything you wanted to. I thought you could make it rain if you decided to. I thought you could do just anything.”

“My dear innocent child, you know differently now.”

“I know you can’t interfere with the elements, but I know there is very little else you cannot do if you really want to.”

“I’m a lucky man to have a daughter who thinks so highly of me. She is very wise and almost correct. But at least you know I can’t interfere with the weather. Nor can I with the law.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Oh?”

“Laws are man-made.”

“So it is only the gods I can’t defy. You think I can cope with everything else?”

“Father, wonderful, dear, clever Father, you can do something.”

“Dearest daughter, no blandishments you can offer me would enable me to save a man who is a self-confessed murderer.”

“The circumstances make it no real murder. He had to save that girl. He is chivalrous. Do you remember when we faced the gypsies … you and I together and he was afraid of my getting hurt. I may have saved your life then.”

“You think the gypsies would have murdered me if you hadn’t been there to save me?”

“It could have happened.”

He was silent for a while.

“There are means of influencing a court,” I said.

“Bribery? Corruption? These things exist. Are you suggesting that I, a law-abiding Englishman, should commit such crimes?”

“You could do something to save him. If the judge knows that he killed this man defending a girl from rape … doesn’t that count?”

“H’m,” he said. “A gypsy … the nephew of a squire …”

“That’s just it,” I cried indignantly. “Suppose a nephew of a squire had killed a gypsy who was trying to rape his wife …”

“Ah, there you have a point.”

“If this man hangs I shall never be happy again.”

“You talk wildly. You’re only a child, though I must say you make me forget it at times. How old are you. Eleven?”

“Nearly twelve.”

“Heaven preserve us. What will you be at eighteen?”

“Please, Father …”

“Jessica, my dear?”

“Will you do something for me … the best thing in the world you could possibly do. Will you help me save this man?”

“There is little I can do.”

“There is something then?”

“We could find the girl. Perhaps bring her forward.”

“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly.

“I’ll go to Nottingham.”

I threw my arms round his neck. “I knew you could do it.”

“I don’t know what I can do. I am just being bullied into taking actions which I feel cannot be fruitful—and all because of my over-bearing daughter.”

“So you are going to Nottingham. Father, I am coming with you.”

“No.”

“Oh yes, please … please. I want to be there. Don’t you see, I must be there. He must know that I did not betray him. If he thought that, I could never be happy again … not in the whole of my life. So … I am coming with you to Nottingham.”

He held me away from him and looked into my face. I saw that sudden twitch of the jaw.

“I used to think,” he said, “that I was master in my own household. That’s changed since I was misguided enough to beget a daughter.”

I flung my arms round him and hugged him.

He just held me tightly to him. It was a great comfort to be loved so much.

The next day we set out for Nottingham. My father had told my mother everything and she wanted to accompany us. When I told her in detail what had happened she was almost as eager as I was to save Romany Jake.

We went by carriage and the journey took several days. It would be about a week before the trial took place, my father reckoned, and we needed a little time to think out a plan of action.

It was dusk and we must have been about seven or eight miles from Nottingham and were gambolling along at a fair pace when our coachman pulled up sharply.

“What is it?” called my father.

“Well, sir, there’s someone on the road. Looks in distress.”

“Pull up,” ordered my father.

My mother laid a hand on my father’s arm.

“It’s all right,” he said, taking a gun from its place under his seat.

“Much better to drive on,” said my mother.

“It might be someone in real distress.”

“It also might be a trick. You never know with these gentlemen of the road.”

I looked out and saw a man limping towards the carriage.

“I’m in trouble,” he said. “Robbed of my purse and my horse…”

My father got out of the carriage and studied the man. “Get in,” he said.

My mother and I sat closer together to make room.

When the man was seated, my father said, “Whip up the horses,” and we were off.

The man was very well dressed, breathless and bewildered, and it was impossible then to suspect him of a trick. He was genuinely overwrought, and for some time found it hard to speak.

“I was riding along,” he said at length, “when a fellow stepped out and asked me the way to Nottingham. I told him and as I was talking three of them came out of the bushes and surrounded me. They had guns and commanded me to dismount and to hand over my purse. I had no alternative. I gave them what they asked. They took my horse and left me. Thank you for stopping. I am most grateful. I tried to stop one other carriage but it drove straight on.”

“Suspecting mischief,” said my father. “These robbers are getting a pest. Tis my opinion that we law-abiding citizens don’t get enough protection.”

The man nodded agreement.

“Well, sir, where do you want to be taken?”

“My home is just outside Nottingham. If you could drop me in the town where I am well known, I can find someone to take me home, I should be greatly obliged.”

“We’ll take you to your home,” said my father. “Is it far?”

“About a mile outside the town.”

“It will be simple to take you there. Just direct us, will you?”

“You are very good. My family and I will never forget your kindness.”

“It is only what travellers owe to each other. There ought to be more supervision on the roads.”

Our companion was beginning to recover. He told us his name was Joseph Barrington and he had a business in the town of Nottingham. “Lace,” he said. “As you know, Nottingham is one of the headquarters for lace-making in the country.”

“And your home is outside the town?”

“Yes. One would not want to live too near the factory. We are within easy reach and it is pleasant to be in the country. May I ask what part of the world you come from?”

“We come from Kent.”

“Oh, some way south. Have you been to Nottingham before?”

“No. I have business there and my wife and daughter are accompanying me.”

“That is a very pleasant arrangement. Could you ask your driver to turn off here. Straight ahead is the direct road into Nottingham. This road leads to my home.”

In due course he pointed to a house. It was large, imposing and built on a slight incline for commanding views of the countryside.

We turned in at the drive. Now we could see the house clearly. It must have been built about a hundred years ago and was characteristic of that time with its long windows—short on the ground floor, very tall on the first floor, slightly shorter on the next and completely square on the top. Looking at the door with its spider-web fanlight I thought it had an air of dignity which our Tudor residence lacked. The aspect was of simple good taste and elegance.

The door opened and a woman came out. She stared in astonishment as Mr. Barrington alighted.

“Joseph! What is it? Where have you been? We’ve been so worried. You should have been home hours ago.”

“My dear, my dear, let me explain. I have been robbed on the road … my horse and purse taken. Let me introduce these kind people who have rescued me and brought me home.”

My father had stepped out of the carriage and my mother and I followed.

The woman was middle-aged and rather plump and at any other time would have been called comfortable-looking. Now she was anxious and bewildered.

“Oh Joseph … are you hurt? These kind people … They must come in …”

A man came out of the house. He was tall and I guessed in his mid-twenties.

“What on earth … ?” he began.

“Oh Edward, your father—he’s been robbed on the road. These kind people …”

Edward took charge of the situation.

“Are you hurt, Father?”

“No … no. They only wanted poor old Honeypot and my purse. But there I was with nothing … nothing … and a good seven miles from home.”

The young man turned to us. “We are deeply grateful for the help you gave my father.”

“They must come in,” said Mrs. Barrington. “What are we thinking of? We are just about to serve dinner …”

My father said: “We have to get to Nottingham. I have urgent business there.”

“But we have to thank you,” said Mrs. Barrington. “What would have happened to my husband if he had been left there … unable to get home.”

“No one would stop … except these kind people,” added Mr. Barrington.

“They were all scared to,” replied my father. “They know something of these knavish tricks people get up to nowadays.”

“You stopped,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Otherwise my husband would have had to walk home. That would have been too much for him in his state of health. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You must come in and have a meal with us,” said Edward with the air of a man who is used to giving orders.

“We have to book rooms at an inn,” explained my father.

“Then you must come tomorrow night.”

My mother said we should be delighted.

“Very well, tomorrow. The name of the house is Lime Grove. Anyone will direct you here. Everyone in Nottingham will know the Barringtons.”

We said goodbye and as we drove away my mother said: “I’m glad we stopped and brought him home.”

“I have an idea,” my father reminded her, “that you tried to persuade me not to.”

“Well, those highwaymen can do such dreadful things.”

“I was terrified when you stepped into the road,” I added.

He gave me that look which I knew so well—slightly sardonic with the twitching of the lips.

“Oh, I was not in the least alarmed because I knew my daughter was there to look after me.”

“You are a rash man,” I said. “But I am glad you were tonight.”

“I look forward to dinner,” added my mother. “The family seem very agreeable.”

Then we were on the road to Nottingham.

We found a good inn in the town and my father was treated with the utmost respect. He seemed to be known, which surprised me. I had always been aware that he had a secret life which was involved in matters besides banking and his various business interests in London as well as the management of the estate. The secret life had taken him to France in the past and involved him and his son Jonathan in numerous activities. Jonathan had died because of his involvement; and Dolly was somehow caught up in the intrigue through the French spy Alberic who had loved her sister Evie. None of us could be entirely unaffected by the smallest action of those around us.

But such activities clearly had their advantages which were now borne home to me. I believed my father was a man who was capable of taking actions which might be impossible for most men.

My spirits were rising. He would use his influence to free Romany Jake.

My mother whispered to me when we were alone in that room which was to be mine and which was next to my parents’: “If anyone can save the gypsy, your father can.”

“Do you think he will?” I asked.

“He knows your feelings. My dear child, he would do anything he possibly could for you.”

That was a great comfort and I felt a good deal better than I had since that terrible moment when the door of Grasslands had opened and Romany Jake stood there while I realized that my father and the man Forby were behind me.

The very next morning my father was busy. He had discovered that the trial would not take place for a week.

“So we have some time at our disposal,” he said with gratification.

He saw several people of influence and when we met over luncheon he told us that the victim was said to be a man of unsullied virtue by his friends.

“We have to prove him otherwise,” he added.

“Would that save Romany Jake?” I asked.

“No. But it would be a step in the right direction. The girl will be represented as a person of low morals.”

“How could they prove that?”

“Easily. They’ll have friends to come forward and swear to it. I’ll tell you what I plan to do. The gypsies are encamped outside the town. They are awaiting the trial. I’ll see them tomorrow and I’ll impress on them that if we can prove the girl to be a virgin, we may have a good case.”

“Why not now?”

“My dear daughter, you are impatient. First I have to make inquiries. And have you forgotten that we have a dinner appointment for tonight?”

“Those nice Barringtons!” said my mother. “It will be interesting to get to know them.”

“We are here to save Romany Jake,” I reminded her.

“We’ll do our best,” said my father. “Now these Barringtons live in the neighbourhood. They are gentry … obviously. They might know the local squire and perhaps they were acquainted with his nephew. You have to tread cautiously in these matters. Leave no stone unturned. A little diversion this evening will do us no harm.”

So that evening we drove out to the Barringtons’, where we were most warmly welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Barrington with their son, Edward, were waiting at the door to greet us, and we were taken into an elegant drawing room on the first floor. Its long windows looked out over well-trimmed lawns and flowerbeds.

We were given wine and again effusively thanked by them all.

“We want you to meet the rest of the family,” said Mrs. Barrington. “They are all anxious to express their thanks.”

My father raised his hand. “We have had too many thanks already for what—-on our part—was a very trivial service.”

“We shall never forget it,” said Mr. Barrington solemnly.

“Oh, here is my daughter Irene,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Irene, come and meet the kind people who brought your father home yesterday.”

Irene was a fresh-faced young woman of about twenty. She shook our hands warmly and said how grateful she was to us.

“And here is Clare. Clare, come and meet Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Frenshaw and join your thanks to ours. Miss Clare Carson is our ward and a remote relation. Clare has lived with us almost for the whole of her life.”

“Since I was seven years old,” said Clare. “Thank you for what you did.”

“I think we might go in for dinner,” said Mrs. Barrington.

The dining room was as elegant as the drawing room. It was rapidly growing dark and candles were lighted.

“This is a most unexpected pleasure,” said my mother. “We did not expect to be invited out in Nottingham.”

“How long do you stay?” asked Edward.

“For a week or so, I believe. We are a little undecided at the moment.”

“It depends I suppose on how long your business lasts.”

“That is so.”

“Business is always uncertain,” said Mrs. Barrington, “as we know to our cost, don’t we, Edward?”

“That is very true,” agreed Edward.

“You are involved in the making of lace,” said my mother. “That must be quite fascinating.”

“My family has been in the business for generations,” explained Mr. Barrington. “Sons have followed sons through generations. Edward is taking over from me. Well, I would say he has taken over, wouldn’t you, Edward? I have little say in matters now.”

“My husband wants to get away from Nottingham,” Mrs. Barrington told us. “He wants a place in the country somewhere, not so far away that he can’t look in on the factory now and then. But his health has not been good. Affairs like that of last night are not good for him.”

“They could happen anywhere,” I said.

“But of course. He has not been very well lately …”

Mr. Barrington said: “I’m quite all right.”

“No you are not. Bear me out, Edward. We’ve been discussing this. You come from Kent, I believe?”

“Oh yes,” said my mother. “Eversleigh has been in our family for generations. It’s Elizabethan … rather rambling … but we all love it. It’s the family home. We’re not far from the sea.”

“It sounds ideal,” said Mr. Barrington.

“Are there any pleasant houses for sale in your neighbourhood?” asked his wife.

“I don’t know of any.”

“Let us know if you do.”

“I will,” promised my mother.

“Kent would be rather a long way from Nottingham,” said Clare.

She was pale, brown-haired with hazel eyes. I thought her rather insignificant.

“Indeed not,” said Mrs. Barrington. “We should want to be a fair distance away otherwise Mr. Barrington would be running to the factory every day. It would be the only way of stopping him if there was a long journey to be made. In any case there are no houses for sale there. I think we shall look in Sussex or Surrey. I have a fancy for those areas.”

“They are beautiful counties,” said my father; and the conversation continued in this strain until Edward said: “The assizes are coming to Nottingham tomorrow. There is a trial coming up. A gypsy murdered a young man. Judge Merrivale will probably try the case.”

“Merrivale,” said my father. “I’ve heard of him. He’s quite a humane fellow, I believe.”

“He isn’t one of our hanging judges.”

I put in rather hotly: “It is wrong that there should be hanging judges. They should all be humane.”

“So should we all,” said Edward, “but, alas, we are not.”

“But when it is a matter of a man’s life …”

“My daughter is right,” said my father. “There should be one standard for all. What chance do you think the gypsy has?”

“He hasn’t a chance. He’ll go to the gibbet. No doubt about that.”

“That will be most unjust!” I cried.

My eyes were blazing and they were looking at me in some surprise.

“Perhaps I had better explain our business here,” said my father. “I have come to do what I can for this gypsy. It appears that he killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the girls on the encampment. Unfortunately the man who was murdered was the nephew of Squire Hassett who is quite a power round here.”

The Barringtons exchanged glances.

“He is not a very popular man,” said Edward. “He drinks to excess, neglects his estate and leads rather a disreputable life.”

“And what of the nephew who was killed?” asked my father.

“A chip off the old block.”

“Dissolute … drinking … a frequenter of brothels?” went on my father.

“That would be an accurate description.”

My father nodded. “You see, the gypsies encamped on my land. I met the fellow who is accused. He seemed a decent sort for a gypsy and his story is that this nephew was trying to rape the girl.”

“It’s very likely,” put in Mr. Barrington.

“Oh! Could I get some information about him? Perhaps from people who have suffered at his hands?”

“I think that might be possible. There was one family up at Martin’s Lane. They were very distressed about one of their girls.”

“Wronged by this charming fellow, I suppose,” said my father.

“No doubt of it. And there were others.”

“Perhaps I could prevail on you to give me the names of these people.”

“We shall be delighted to help.”

I was getting excited. I believed that fate had led us to the Barringtons who were going to prove of inestimable value to us.

It was in a state of euphoria that we said goodnight to the Barringtons and rode back to the inn.

“What a charming family!” said my mother. “I wish they would find a house near us. I should like to see more of them. I thought Mr. and Mrs. Barrington so pleasant, Edward and Irene too. The girl Clare was so quiet. I would say Edward is a very forceful young man.”

“He would have to be if he is running a factory,” said my father.

“Clare was like a poor relation,” I said.

“Poor relations can be a little tiresome because they find it hard to forget it,” added my mother. “Everyone else is prepared to but they seem to get a certain satisfaction in remembering.”

And so we reached the inn, talking of our pleasant evening. Mr. Barrington’s ill fortune on the road had turned out to be very diverting for us.

The next day we all went to the gypsy encampment. I could smell the fires before we reached it, and a savoury smell came from a pot which one of the women was stirring. Other women sat about splitting withy sticks to make into clothes pegs. The caravans were drawn up on a patch of land and the horses tethered to the bushes.

“Is there a Penfold Smith there?” called my father.

A man came out of one of the caravans. He was middle-aged and swarthy; he walked towards us with the panther grace of the gypsy.

“I am Penfold Smith,” he said.

“You know me,” replied my father. “You camped on my land. I have heard that a friend of yours is in trouble and I have come to help.”

“He was betrayed … near your land.”

“No, no!” I cried. “He was not betrayed. I did not know …”

“My daughter wanted to help him. It was not her fault that she was followed. I am here to do what I can for this man. If you will help me we may get somewhere.”

“What could we do … against the squire and his sort? He owns the land here. He’s a powerful man and we are only gypsies.”

“I have some evidence which may prove useful. I can prove that the victim was a man of disreputable character. It is your daughter, is it not, who was attacked by him?”

“It was.”

“May I see her?”

Penfold Smith hesitated. “She has been very upset.”

“She wants to save Romany Jake, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, indeed, she does.”

“Then she must help us.”

“Wicked things are said against her.”

“That is why we must do all we can to prove them false.”

“Who would listen to her?”

“It is possible to make people listen to her.”

“How?”

“May I see her?”

Penfold Smith hesitated a moment longer, then he called: “Leah. Come here, Leah.”

She came out of the caravan. She was very beautiful—a young girl a year or so older than myself, very slim with black hair and dark eyes. I was not surprised that such a creature caught the fancy of the lecherous young man.

My father turned to my mother. “You speak to her. Tell her that we believe her. Tell her we want to do everything to help. Explain to her.”

My mother knew what was expected of her. She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Leah,” she said, “believe me when I say we have come to help. We have already evidence of the nature of the man who would have attacked you.”

She said gently: “Jake saved me. But for him …” She shivered.

“Yes,” said my mother, “and now we must save Jake. We will do anything to save him. Will you?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I will do anything.”

“What we must do is prove that you are an innocent girl. Will you do that?”

“How? They won’t believe me.”

“There are tests. Not very pleasant but necessary. I mean … they would have to believe you if the evidence was there.”

“Tests?” she asked.

“If the court is told that you are a virgin then all the stories which had been circulating about you would be proved false. We know that the man who died was a rake… a seducer, a rapist. If we could tell the court that you, on the other hand, are a virgin … Do you see?”

She nodded.

“Would you agree to this?” asked my father of Penfold Smith.

“Is it necessary?”

“I think it might be vital to our cause.”

“I would do anything to save him,” said Leah.

We went into the caravan and talked for a while. Leah told us that she had been aware of Ralph Hassett before the attack. He had tried to talk to her and she had run away. Then he had waylaid her and the attempted assault had taken place.

“I think,” said my father, “that we are getting somewhere.”

Penfold Smith, who had at first been suspicious, now accepted the fact that we wanted to help. I think that was due to my mother.

We went back to the inn and we talked continuously about the possibility of saving Romany Jake.

Fortune seemed to go our way. A panel of respectable matrons agreed to make the examination and to our great joy declared Leah to be virgo intacta.

Edward Barrington came to the inn and told us that if he could be of any use he would be delighted. He knew that influential people in Nottingham would be eager to see justice done, and they would see that the evidence in Romany Jake’s favour was brought forward and, what was more important, heard.

“All is going well,” said my father.

I wished I could have seen Romany Jake. I wanted to assure him that it was through no fault of mine that he had been caught. I wanted him to know that I had come to Grasslands to warn him, and that I had no idea that I had been seen.

Then came the day of the trial.

My father attended. My mother and I stayed in the inn. My father was going to say a word in the accused’s favour if possible. He was going to tell the court that he knew the gypsy because he had camped on his land and he was certain that he was not the young man to engage in a brawl without good reason for doing so.

He declared he would make them listen to what he had to say, and of course they could not fail to listen to my father. He was certain that when the evidence of Ralph Hassett’s dissolute behaviour was brought to light and with it the proof of Leah’s virginity, this could not be a hanging case.

My mother and I waited in the inn for my father’s return. The tension was almost unbearable. If in spite of everything they condemned him to death … I could not bear to contemplate that.

We sat at the window of my parents’ bedroom watching for his return.

Edward Barrington was with him. He had also been in court, and I warmed towards him for making our cause his.

As we saw them approaching I tried to judge from their expressions which way the verdict had gone, but I could not do so.

I sprang to the door. My mother was beside me. “Wait here,” she said. “It won’t be long now.”

They came into the room. I stared at my father. He was looking solemn and did not speak for a few seconds. I feared the worst and I cried out: “What? What?”

“They’ve sentenced him.”

“Oh no … no. It’s unfair. It was my fault that he was caught.”

My father took me by the shoulders. He said: “It could have been worse. A man was killed. That cannot be forgotten. He won’t hang. We’ve stopped that. They’ve sentenced him to transportation … for seven years.”

We were to leave Nottingham the following day. I felt deflated. I kept telling myself that at least they had not killed him. But to send him away for seven years … right to the other side of the world. Seven years … it was an eternity. I said to myself: I shall never see him again …

He had made a deep impression on me and I should never forget him.

The Barringtons persuaded us to dine with them on our last night. We did so—and the talk was all about the case.

“He was lucky,” said Edward Barrington. “It’s a fairly light sentence for killing a man.”

“In such circumstances …” I began hotly.

“He did kill the man and it would be considered a light sentence. The girl made a good impression. She was so young and innocent… and quite beautiful.”

“The fact that she was a virgin and we’d been smart enough to prove it knocked the wind out of their sails,” said my father with a chuckle.

“The prosecution was out to prove that she was a loose woman. That was proved false and the evil reputation of Ralph Hassett could not be denied.”

“Thanks for your help,” said my father.

“You have been wonderful,” added my mother.

“It is the least we could do,” said Mrs. Barrington.

“Moreover,” put in her husband, “it is good to see justice done.”

“He’ll be all right… that young man,” said my father. “He’s one of the survivors. That I saw right from the beginning.”

“But to leave one’s country … to be banished …” I said. “When he should not have been banished at all, but applauded.”

“The old squire was in a passion,” said Mr. Barrington. “He wanted a hanging.”

“Wicked old thing,” said Mrs. Barrington.

“Well, I think they should set him free,” I said.

“My dear girl, people cannot go about killing for whatever reason,” said my father.

My mother smiled at me. “We saved him from the rope. Let us rejoice in that.”

“Do you think he knew?” I asked.

“He saw me in court,” explained my father. “He heard my testimony and he knew I was the one who had produced the evidence of the dead man’s character and had proved the girl’s innocence. And he would say, Why should he do that? He would know it is because I have a daughter who tells me what should and should not be done.” He turned to the company. “She is a tyrant, this daughter of mine and she has made me her slave.”

They were all gazing at us smiling, all except Clare Carson. In the turmoil of my thoughts there came the idea that she did not like me very much. I dismissed the thought at once. It was pointless and unimportant.

“They are a wild pair,” said my mother, “my husband and my daughter. Jessica takes after her father and the odd thing is that I wouldn’t change either of them even if I could.”

“Remind me to remind you of that sometime,” said my father.

“I think,” put in Mrs. Barrington, “that we should drink to our meeting. It started in an unpleasant way and has turned out quite the reverse. I hope it will be the beginning of our friendship.”

We all drank to that and I caught Edward Barrington’s eyes on me. He was smiling very warmly and I felt rather pleased in spite of my sadness over Romany Jake, until I saw Clare Carson watching me.

I lifted my glass and drank.

The next day we left for home. We came out of the inn early in the morning. The Barringtons had requested that we call in to them on our way. There we were refreshed with wine and little cakes and it was agreed that we must visit each other at some time.

They all came out to wave us off and wish us a pleasant journey home.

My thoughts were melancholy. I had done everything I could to save him and at least he was not dead, but I wondered what it must be like to be banished to the other side of the world for seven years.

Ours had been a strange relationship and I knew that if I never saw him again he would live on in my thoughts.

He’s a survivor, my father had said.

Those words brought me a certain comfort.

I went to Aunt Sophie’s. One of us made a point of going every day. It was a different household since Dolly had gone there. Aunt Sophie was, as ever, at her best with misfortune, and Dolly had always been a special favourite of hers. Now that she was about to have a child and had no husband to help her through the ordeal, Aunt Sophie was in her element.

As I was given to pondering the strangeness of people’s behaviour this gave me cause for consideration. One would have thought it was an unpleasant trait to thrive on the ill fortune of others and yet Aunt Sophie was assiduous in her care for those in trouble. Perhaps, I thought, nothing is wholly good, nothing wholly bad, but when we do good we get great satisfaction for ourselves, and the more benefits we bring to others, the greater our self gratification. It is vanity, self absorption in a way.

What a maze my thoughts led me into at times! If I went on in that strain it would be difficult to tell the difference between good and bad. Romany Jake had committed murder to save a girl from an injury which could have affected her whole life. Good and evil walked very closely together.

And now Dolly was hoping to have an illegitimate child. That was to be deplored. But on the other hand her rather sad life had taken on a new dimension and for the first time Dolly was happy.

I was very interested in this matter and discussed it with Amaryllis. She listened to me and told me I was making a complicated issue out of something which was very simple. Amaryllis only saw the good in people. It does make life simpler to be like that.

I wished I had not gone to Aunt Sophie’s that day. I wished I had not had that talk with Dolly.

It had been decided that she should know nothing of Romany Jake’s sentence. Everyone knew, of course, that he was the father of her child. It was hardly likely that his visits to Grasslands and their being together on Trafalgar night could have passed unnoticed. Romany Jake was a man to attract attention wherever he went, and the fact that he had selected Dolly for his attention would cause some surprise and would no doubt be discussed at length in the kitchens of Grasslands and Enderby as well as in all the cottages.

“To know would upset her,” said my mother. “She will have to in time, of course, but let it be after the baby is born.”

I went into the room which had been assigned to her. It was one of the bedrooms on the first floor—the one with the speaking tube which went down to the kitchen. Jeanne had said she should have that room so that if she needed help there was another way of letting people know. It was Aunt Sophie’s room normally but she had given it up so that Dolly could have it. The midwife slept in the next room, but when the time grew nearer she was to have a bed in Dolly’s room.

She was lying on the bed with the blue velvet curtains and I noticed as soon as I entered that she was not looking as serene as when I last saw her. Perhaps, I thought, she is growing alarmed now that the ordeal is coming nearer.

She said: “I’m glad you have come, Jessica.”

“Everyone wants to know how you are. My mother is asking if you need another shawl.”

“No thank you. Mademoiselle Sophie has already given me two.” She went on: “I’ve been thinking a lot about… him, you know.”

“Who?” I asked, knowing full well.

“The baby’s father. I just have a feeling that something is wrong.”

I was silent.

She said: “If the baby is a boy, he is to be called Jake after his father. If it’s a girl she’s to be Tamarisk. He talked about the tamarisk trees in Cornwall. He liked them very much. I’ve never seen one. The east wind is too strong here for them, he said. He liked the feathery clusters of pink and white flowers with their slender branches. He said they are dainty … like young girls. So I shall call her Tamarisk. That should please him if he comes … when he comes …”

I remained silent but she gripped my hand. “I feel,” she said, “that something is wrong.”

“You mustn’t,” I replied. “You have to think of the baby.”

“I know. But I can tell. I’ve always had something … I don’t know what it is … but I know when something terrible is going to happen. I wonder if it is being not quite like other people … deformed in a way. Do you think if you are short of something Nature gives you something else … to make up?”

“Very likely.”

“I’ve done some wicked things in my life.”

“I expect all of us have.”

“I’ve done especially wicked things … but all for love … in a way. I wish I hadn’t. Taking you, for one thing, when you were a little baby. I know now what they must have gone through. I knew then, I suppose … but I wanted to hurt them.”

“Don’t think of that now. It doesn’t seem to have done me much harm.”

“I’ve done worse things … much worse. I wanted revenge. That’s a bad thing.”

“I suppose it is. People often say so.”

“But I’ve always had a special feeling for you because of that time when I kept you in my room. I can see you as you were then. Those lovely big eyes and you just stared at me, you did … and then suddenly you’d break into a smile as though you thought there was something rather funny about me. I knew I couldn’t hurt you then. Jessica, I want you to tell me about him.”

“Tell you what?”

“There is a lot of whispering going on. I know something has happened. You went to Nottingham and it was something to do with him.” She gripped my hand hard. “I sit here worrying. Tell me. I have to know. When I ask questions Jeanne pretends not to understand. She does that. She pretends her English isn’t good enough. But she understands everything. And Mademoiselle Sophie, she won’t tell me either. She keeps saying everything will be all right. I know something is very wrong and I believe it is about him.”

I half rose and said: “I ought to be getting back.”

She looked at me reproachfully.

“I thought you would have the courage to tell me. I lie here worrying. If anyone ought to know, I ought. They come south at the end of the summer. It will soon be summer. Something has happened to him, hasn’t it? I hear the servants whispering. ‘Don’t let her know,’ they say. ‘Don’t let her know till after the baby is born.’”

She was restless and there was a hot colour in her cheeks.

“You mustn’t upset yourself,” I began.

“I am upset and will be until I know. However bad it is, I’ve got to know. He killed a man and they caught him. He’ll be tried. I know what that means. They think I don’t hear their whisperings but I do.”

I burst out: “He killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the gypsy girls.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh then, it’s true. They will hang him.”

“No, no,” I cried. I had to ease her mind. I was sure now that it was better that she should know than fear the worst. “He will be all right,” I went on. “He will not hang. My father has saved him from that. Of course he could not get him freed entirely.”

“Then he is in prison …”

“He has been sentenced to transportation.”

She closed her eyes and lay back on her pillows. I was frightened. The colour had faded from her face. She was as white as the pillow on which she lay.

“It is only for seven years,” I said.

She did not speak. I was afraid and called Jeanne.

That was the beginning. I was not sure whether the shock brought on the birth prematurely, but it was only two days later when Dolly’s child was born.

I explained to my mother what I had done, and she assured me that there was nothing else I could have done in the circumstances. But I was sorry to have been the one to tell her.

The baby was a girl, healthy and strong. Not so, poor Dolly. The midwife said it was one of the most difficult deliveries she had ever undertaken. Aunt Sophie sent for the doctor. Dolly, he said, was not really suited to childbearing. In spite of the fact that she was in her mid-twenties, her body was rather immature.

She was very ill for a week—unconscious most of the time, but there were occasions when she was able to hold the child in her arms.

At the end of the week she died and there was great sorrow at Enderby and indeed at Eversleigh.

Jeanne said: “She was so happy to have the child. I’d never seen her really happy before. And as soon as the child is born she leaves this world! Life can be cruel so often.”

Claudine and my mother discussed at great length what should be done about the child.

“We will take her,” said my mother. “The girls will love to have a baby in the nurseries. I shall like it, too. There is nothing like a baby in the house.”

The child was to be called Tamarisk. I remembered Dolly had told me that she wished her to have that name. She must have told Aunt Sophie, too.

When my mother suggested that Tamarisk be brought to Eversleigh, Aunt Sophie was most indignant.

Indeed it should not be. She had decided to adopt Dolly’s baby. She had always intended to look after her and Dolly. There was only Tamarisk now.

Jeanne took charge as usual and a beautiful nursery was prepared. Aunt Sophie was better than we had ever seen her before.

“It is a great interest for her,” said my mother.

So Tamarisk lived at Enderby and flourished there.