The Return of the Gypsy

The Debt

IT WAS A WEEK SINCE Amaryllis’ wedding. I had thought about her and Peter a great deal and wondered about their honeymoon. They were staying at the family house in Albemarle Street, so I could picture them clearly.

I thought of their visiting the theatre, taking trips up the river, riding through the surrounding districts, calling at interesting inns—all the exciting excursions one could take in London.

I found myself imagining the intimate moments between them. Beautiful Amaryllis; handsome Peter Lansdon. I wondered about Amaryllis. She had always seemed uncertain and reserved; but she had been like a flower opening to the sun since her engagement to Peter Lansdon.

I felt restless and uneasy. I had a vision of myself living this life for years and years to come.

During those hours I would always take a horse and ride out. I liked to gallop along the sand and feel the wind in my hair. It gave me a sense of freedom. I was always thinking of freedom nowadays. It occurred to me that I was beginning to feel shackled. I always dismissed that thought as soon as it came. The last thing I must do was feel sorry for myself.

If anyone should feel self pity surely that must be Edward. He was an example to me. If he could accept what had happened to him, surely I could.

Another thought came to me. I had willingly accepted this life; he had had it forced upon him.

But these thoughts did not come often … as yet. I was still pleased with my role of self-sacrificing wife.

That afternoon when I came in from my ride I was confronted by one of the servants who said that someone had come over from Enderby and wanted to see me urgently.

“Is something wrong? Mr. and Mrs. Lansdon … ?”

Images were crowding into my mind. There had been an accident. Amaryllis? Peter?

“No, no Mrs. Barrington. It is nothing to do with the master and mistress. It’s someone who has come. She is asking for Mademoiselle Sophie … I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’ll come,” I said. “Who is it?”

“It’s a woman and child.”

I went back with the maid.

In the hall was a woman and with her a young girl. I stared at them for a moment. Then I cried: “Tamarisk.”

“I’ve come back,” she said. “Leah came with me.”

“But…” I began.

“Where is Mademoiselle Sophie? They say she is gone … Gone? Where has she gone?”

“She died,” I said.

Her face crumpled. “Where is Jeanne?”

“She lives in a cottage on the estate.”

“But… I don’t understand.”

Leah spoke then. She said: “The child is distraught. She has talked so much of Mademoiselle Sophie and Jeanne. She missed them sadly. She would not rest until she came back to them.”

“It is a pity she walked out without saying a word.”

“I’ve come back,” said Tamarisk.

I felt angry with her, remembering the suffering she had caused.

I said: “She was so sad when you went away without telling her even. She pined and didn’t take care of herself. Then she became ill… and had no wish to live.”

Tamarisk’s great dark eyes were fixed on me.

“You mean … I did that?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I said: “What is this? A brief visit?”

“I’ve come back,” she said.

Leah laid a hand on my arm. “Please … be kind,” she said. “The poor child … she has suffered.”

“Everything has changed now,” I said.

Tamarisk covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

“I do not want her to be dead. She loved me. Nobody ever loved me like Mademoiselle Sophie did. As soon as I had gone I wanted to come back.”

“It’s true,” said Leah. She was looking at me appealingly.

I said: “I don’t know what can be done now. The house is let.” I suddenly remembered that the house belonged to Tamarisk. She did not know this, of course, and it was not for me to tell her now.

I thought the best thing I could do was take her and Leah to Eversleigh. My parents would know what should be done.

I suggested this. Leah nodded and with the weeping Tamarisk we walked the short distance across the fields.

My mother was astounded at the sight of them. She noticed at once that they looked weary and travel-stained and that what they were most in need of was hot water to wash, clean clothes and some food. She arranged that this should be provided and her brisk, practical approach seemed a great help.

While this was in progress there was a family conference including David, Claudine, my parents and myself.

“The child has grown tired of the nomad life,” said my father, “and I don’t wonder. My impulse is to send her back to it. She was pampered at Enderby by Sophie and light-heartedly she decided to try it with the raggle-taggle gypsies. Then when the novelty of that wore off she says, I’ll go back now. She should be taught a lesson. However, we have to remember that En-derby belongs to her now.”

“She doesn’t know it yet,” said David.

“No, and perhaps it would be wise not to tell her just yet. She might decide to take up residence immediately and banish the honeymooners when they return. She should be a little older before she learns of her inheritance.”

“The question is the immediate future,” put in my mother. “Where is she going to stay? We’ll have them here, of course. They can’t go to Enderby with Amaryllis and Peter away.”

“I wonder where the gypsies were,” said David. “We did make extensive searches at the time she disappeared.”

“Gypsies know how to stay away when it is expedient to do so,” said my father.

Claudine said. “How would you feel about having her at Grasslands, Jessica?”

“Jessica has enough to do,” said my mother quickly.

I hesitated. The days were a little monotonous. They could hardly be that with Tamarisk around. She interested me. Romany Jake was her father. He, too, had fascinated me when he appeared briefly in my life.

“I will take her to Grasslands if you like,” I said.

“But Edward?”

“Edward would not object. He never does to anything I want. I think she might amuse him. Yes, I’ll take her until we decide what is to be done.”

“That’s a problem,” said my father. “The house is hers. I’m a trustee and she couldn’t do anything without my approval and that of the solicitor fellow, Harward, who acts jointly with me. We have to think of her interest, of course. I am of the opinion that we should go on letting the house for a few years.”

“I wonder if Peter and Amaryllis will stay?”

“I hope so,” said Claudine fervently.

“Peter doesn’t seem in a hurry to buy that estate he was talking about.”

“No, he has interests in London now,” said my father. “I think becoming a landowner doesn’t appeal any more.”

“This isn’t settling the problem of Tamarisk,” said my mother. “Let them stay here tonight. You can talk it over with Edward, Jessica, and if he is agreeable I don’t see why they shouldn’t go to Grasslands for a while. We’ve got to look after Tamarisk for Dolly’s sake … and in any case we wouldn’t want to turn the child away.”

“She was desperately upset when she heard about Sophie,” I said.

“So she should be,” retorted my father. “Little minx! Going off like that… and then calmly coming back and expecting to have the fatted calf killed for her.”

“We’ll have to wait and see how things work out,” my mother insisted. “Anyway, let them stay here for the night. Then we’ll see.”

That was how Tamarisk came back to Eversleigh.

It was almost a year since Amaryllis’ wedding and the return of Tamarisk.

I had taken the child and Leah into Grasslands. When I had discussed the matter with Edward, he, suspecting that it was what I wished, had said it would be a good idea to have her come to us. My mother was secretly pleased. Tamarisk was not the most lovable of children and my father certainly not the most patient of men. He was already irritated because Sophie had left Enderby to Tamarisk and so created problems. He said that if he had had his wish he would have sent the child back to the gypsies. So my mother, the soul of tact as ever, thought it would be a good idea if she came to us.

I suppose I really got along with Tamarisk as well as any. I never attempted to show too much affection to her. I was sharply critical and oddly enough that seemed to inspire a certain respect in the child. One thing in her favour was that she was genuinely sorry for the pain she had caused Sophie, but whether this was due to the fact that she missed Sophie’s blatant adoration or to true remorse, I was not sure. Whenever Sophie was mentioned her eyes would grow dark with sorrow and I had often seen her fighting to keep back her tears. One night I heard her sobbing in her bedroom and went in.

“You are thinking of Mademoiselle Sophie,” I said.

“She’s dead,” she muttered. “I killed her.”

“That’s not exactly true,” I said.

“She died because I went away.”

“She was very grieved when you disappeared. We searched everywhere.”

“I know. We went to Ireland. We went straight across the water. It was horrid. I wanted to come back. I wanted to be with Aunt Sophie again.”

“I expect it was uncomfortable living in a caravan after your lovely bedroom at Enderby.”

She nodded.

“And it was only then that you realized all the care you had had.”

“Leah loves me.”

“But she could not give you a warm feather bed, a pony of your own to ride.”

“I had a horse to ride.”

“Silk dresses … delicious food.”

“It wasn’t that… only.”

“Poor Tamarisk. You made a mistake. You walked thoughtlessly away from Mademoiselle Sophie who had done everything for you.

“I remembered after.”

“Yes. When it was too late.”

“I wanted to come back. I did really.”

“I daresay you did.”

“I couldn’t get home … because of the water. And they wouldn’t let me go.”

“You chose them. You hurt Mademoiselle Sophie deeply by deserting her for them.”

She was crying gently. I was unsympathetic but I felt that was what she needed. Any attempt to smooth over what she had done would not have pleased her. She was, at heart, an extremely logical person. She was more impressed if one spoke the truth. She had brought great sorrow to Sophie who had given her nothing but kindness, and any attempt to deny it would strike her as extremely false.

“When something is done it’s done,” I said. “There is no going back. You have to accept it and go on from there. That’s the best way.”

“But she’s dead.”

“Yes. But that is past. You have learned a lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“To think of others besides yourself.”

“Do you think of others?”

“Sometimes.”

“Not always?”

“We’re none of us perfect.”

“So you do wrong things.”

“Of course I do.”

She smiled and the tears stopped flowing.

“Listen, Tamarisk,” I said. “You’re a lucky girl. You did a wicked thing. You walked out on someone who had been kind to you and loved you dearly.”

“I killed her.”

“No, you didn’t. If she had been stronger she wouldn’t have died. She caught a cold and became ill. It was some time after you left. You caused her great suffering, that’s true. But most of us act badly at some time. The great lesson to learn is that it is done and you must try to atone for it.”

“What is that?”

“Being better in the future. Think of others. Go and visit Jeanne more often. Let her see you love her and that you are grateful to her for all the love she gave you. Try to be thoughtful and kind and then Mademoiselle Sophie will look down from Heaven and say, ‘It was not in vain.’ There! Here endeth the first lesson. Now go to sleep.”

I tucked her in and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Goodnight,” I said.

I tiptoed out and shut the door.

I wish I could say she changed after that night. She did not. But I think she began to grieve less. She was as headstrong as ever.

Leah was her constant companion and she was a great help in looking after her. I engaged a governess for her. She was eight years old now and in need of tuition. She was bright and eager to learn and very quickly made up for a lack of schooling during the time she had been with the gypsies.

I was seeing a great deal of Amaryllis and every time I came back from Enderby I would fight a battle with myself, for I was becoming more and more aware of what I was missing in life. What I wanted more than anything was a child. I learned that Amaryllis was expecting one. She was in a seventh heaven of delight. She was so much in love with her husband. It could not be anything but a happy house with Amaryllis in it. She was in constant conclave with Claudine; they went to London to buy materials for the baby’s clothes; the nurseries which had been quiet for so long were opened.

David had been wrong when he had said that if the bushes were cut down and more light let in it would take away the eerie brooding atmosphere. The bushes were of no account. Amaryllis, her happy marriage and her coming baby were enough to change that house.

Oh yes, I was envious. Not of her husband. That had passed. It was the baby I wanted.

So much was happening abroad. Napoleon was no longer having one success after another and Wellington was making progress. He was the hero of the hour and when he with his allies marched into Paris and Napoleon was forced to abdicate, we believed that really was the end of him. Napoleon had been banished to Elba and there was once more a king on the throne of France. Louis XVIII now reigned over them.

My mother’s comment was: “All the misery might never have taken place. Here they are just as they were before the storming of the Bastille.”

“Wiser, let’s hope,” said my father.

But the great topic was the coming baby.

Peter was often in London. He had great interests there. He had abandoned the idea of buying an estate. He said he did not think he was meant to be a squire. Moreover he had gone into several flourishing concerns and it was these, apparently, which took him so frequently to London. He talked a little about his affairs with my father and David. David, of course, did not pretend to understand the sort of business in which Peter was engaged. My father admitted that it was a little obscure and something with which he had never had any connection. Peter talked a great deal about his interests in Jamaica and I gathered that he was concerned in the importing of sugar and rum. He discussed Jamaica at length; but since my father was not entirely sure about what he was doing, it was hardly likely that the rest of us would be.

It was of little importance. He was clearly a man of substance; Amaryllis was very happy; and he was the father of the newcomer for whom such a welcome was being prepared.

At the end of April Amaryllis’ baby was born, and there was great rejoicing throughout the family although my father said: “Another girl. When is this family going to produce a boy?”

My mother chided him and said she had not noticed that he had an aversion to her sex.

The baby was christened Helena. I saw her when she was a few hours old, looking rather like a wrinkled and irritable old gentleman; but as the days passed the wrinkles disappeared, her skin developed the texture of a peach and her startlingly blue eyes delighted us all. We were all very soon Helena’s slaves; and the ache within me grew stronger every day.

I took to calling frequently. Amaryllis used to watch me with the child, for I always held her, if chat were permitted, and I did fancy she had a special feeling for me. I caught Amaryllis’ eyes on me and they were full of pity. I felt resentful against her then … against life, I suppose. I began to ask myself whether I should have listened to my parents’ warning.

Then I went home to Edward and sat by his bed desperately trying to checkmate him and failing miserably. I thought: No. I have done the right thing, the only thing. I should never have been happy if I had rejected him because of what had happened to him. But however right an action may be at the time it can be hard to live with. One quick act of self sacrifice is easy; but to go on practising it for years—perhaps for life—that is a very different matter.

I noticed that Peter was spending more and more time in London; and I wondered if this hurt Amaryllis. I mentioned it tentatively one day.

She said: “Oh, Peter is very busy. He has all sorts of commitments in London. He is very much the businessman.”

“All that sugar and rum,” I said.

“Yes. He knows so much about it, having been brought up where they produce it. He has opened several new warehouses.”

“Does he store the stuff then?”

“I suppose he must do if he is opening these places.”

“Have you seen any of them?”

“Me? Oh no. They are near the docks, I think. He has never taken me there. He said they were no place for me. He is so happy about it because he says it has turned out so well.”

“Does he talk to you about his business?”

“Very little. But he does give me money now and then saying that is a dividend.”

“You mean you have money in his ventures?”

“Of course.”

“I see.”

We had both received large sums of money on our marriages. It was all part of some settlement. I think the sums had been equal. Mine was invested and Edward never suggested touching it. The interest came to me and remained mine.

“All I have to do is sign the documents when they come along,” said Amaryllis.

“What documents?”

“I don’t know. Papers about money and all that. You see, I’m a shareholder. Peter manages all that.”

“So your fortune is in his business?”

“It’s a joint affair … only Peter does all the work.”

“And you supply the money?”

“My dear Jessica, Peter did not become rich only when he married me. He was far more wealthy than I before that. He is just allowing me to share in what he has. I do nothing. I don’t understand it. Really, Jessica, what should I know about importing rum and sugar and distributing it to people who want to buy it?”

“Nothing at all, I should imagine.”

She changed the subject, but it set me thinking. He was using her money for this big business in London. Was that why he had married her—so that he could use her money?

I suppose I was really trying to find an excuse for his turning to her. But it did not make sense. I was equally well endowed. There was absolutely no reason why he should have switched his attentions to her except that he found her more attractive.

It was natural. She was sweet and gentle and very pretty. I was abrasive, questioning everything, asserting myself, rather conceited. There was every reason why he should have preferred her.

She was more amenable, of course. Had I been involved in this business with rum and sugar, I should have wanted to know more about it. I should have wanted to see the warehouses; I should have wanted to see the accounts. Not that I was particularly interested in money; I just liked to be aware of all that was happening.

Why should I seek reasons? It did not matter. He had chosen her. I had not been in love with him … just flattered by his attentions and perhaps finding in him a certain sensuality which kindled something in myself. No, I had not been in love with Peter Lansdon, but sometimes I think I might have begun to be … a little.

I would stop thinking about him, The real source of my envy was the baby. She had brought home to me that while I remained Edward’s wife I could not have a child.

There was a sense of euphoria across the whole country now that the ogre who had haunted our lives for so long was in exile. We could go about our peaceful existences without fears of invasion.

“The French should never allow such a man to arise again,” commented my father.

“I think,” replied my mother, “that the French nation adored that man. They looked upon him as a sort of god.”

“What I meant was that we must never allow the French to produce such a man again.”

“Or any nation for that matter,” added my mother. “Why can’t people see how much happier we should all be living peacefully with our families … not hankering after great conquests.”

“Unfortunately,” said David, “it is not the people who decide. It is the so-called great men.”

“They may gain glory for themselves but they certainly bring misery to millions. I wonder what he is thinking of grinding his teeth on Elba.”

“Thinking of escape no doubt,” said my father.

“That must never happen,” added my mother.

Napoleon was finished, everyone said. He was not the first man who had dreamed of conquering the world and doubtless would not be the last. But eventually he had been brought to defeat and we could sleep in peace.

It was a lovely May afternoon when we had visitors. I was at Eversleigh sitting in the garden with my mother, Claudine and Amaryllis, when one of the maids came out to say that two gentlemen had called to see my mother. “Foreigners,” she added.

“Did they give their names?” asked my mother.

“No, Madam. They just said to see you.”

“Bring them out,” said my mother.

And they came.

My mother stared; then she grew pale and I thought she was going to faint. Claudine had risen; she gave a little cry.

Then my mother said faintly: “Is it really … ?” And with a little cry she flung herself into the arms of the elder of the men. The younger stood by, looking on in a bewilderment which was shared by Amaryllis and myself.

“Charlot… Charlot…” cried my mother.

Claudine stammered: “Oh Charlot, is it really you?”

And she embraced him too.

Charlot! My mother’s son—my half brother, who had left England before I was born.

“My dear dear son,” my mother kept murmuring. “To think … after all these years …”

“I came as soon as it was possible,” he said. “It seems so long … You recognized me.”

“My dear boy, as if I should fail to do so.”

“This is Pierre, my son.”

My mother took the hands of the younger one and stared at him. Then she kissed him on both cheeks. “Just think, you are my grandson. And this is your Aunt Claudine … Charlot, Jessica is my daughter … your half sister … and Amaryllis, she is David and Claudine’s daughter.”

“Much has happened since I left.”

“All those years …” said my mother. “It has been a long time to wait. Now tell me … You will stay with us for a while. This is not to be a brief visit. There is so much to talk of. All those years to account for …”

“I should have been here before only travelling was out of the question.”

“Thank God it is over and the tyrant is in exile.”

“We have a king on the throne of France now, Maman.”

There were tears in her eyes as she said: “You were always such a royalist, dear Charlot.” She went on briskly: “Amaryllis, will you go and tell them to prepare rooms. See what’s going on in the kitchens. Tell them my son and grandson have come home!”

My mother had eyes only for him. I realized how saddened she had been by his departure. It must have been more than twenty years since she had seen him. Wars! Revolutions! They did not only ruin states, they brought havoc into the lives of countless families. How we had suffered through them!

Now there was rejoicing. The prodigal had come home.

When my mother had recovered from her emotion a little, we sat in the garden and Charlot told us about his vineyard in Burgundy. Louis Charles would have liked to come with him but they had thought it would be unwise for the two of them to be away together.

Pierre was his eldest son. He was sixteen years of age and was learning about the production of wine. There were two other sons, Jacques and Jean-Christophe; and two daughters, Monique and Andree.

“What a family man you have become!”

My father came to join us. He expressed amazement to see Charlot. He liked the look of young Pierre and was quite interested in the talk about the vineyards; and in any case, he was pleased to see my mother so happy.

I had never seen her so completely content. All through the years she must have felt this nagging sense of loss, as I suppose one must if one lost a son. The thought that he was there just across the water must have been with her for a long time. Death is irrevocable and one can do no good by remembering, but when a loved one is alive, and separated by a devastating war there must always be the fear, the longing for reunion, the continual doubts, the question as to whether one will see that loved one again.

I said goodbye and left them on the lawn. I went back and told Edward all about it.

There would be great rejoicing at Eversleigh that night. I wished I could have been there to share in it.

Charlot stayed at Eversleigh for two weeks and when he left it was with assurances that he would come back, bringing other members of his family with him; and Louis Charles would come with his two sons.

“As for you, Maman,” he said, “you must visit us in Burgundy. We have a fine old house which somehow managed to survive the vandals. Louis Charles and I have had a great deal of pleasure repairing it. Pierre helped, didn’t you, my son? And Louis Charles’ eldest is quite a carpenter. We have plenty of room. You ought to come for the vendange.”

“I will. I will,” cried my mother. “And you too, Dickon. You’d be interested.”

“You’d be welcome, sir,” said Charlot.

And my father said he would be very interested to see everything. It added to my mother’s joy in the reunion that my father welcomed Charlot so warmly.

Amaryllis told me that her mother had said that when Charlot lived at Eversleigh there had been a certain antagonism between the two.

“In those days,” said Amaryllis, “your father had not long been married to your mother and he resented her having been married before and having two children. My mother said he tolerated her but could not bear Charlot. They were always sparring. Now he seems to have changed.”

“It is living with people that is so difficult,” I observed. “Visitors are quite another matter.”

So Charlot returned to France with promises of meetings in the near future.

My mother said excitedly: “It will be wonderful to visit France again. It is wonderful that all the troubles are over.”

My father commented that it was early days yet and while Napoleon lived, we must not hope for too much. But my mother refused to believe anything but good. She had recovered her son whom she had thought to be lost to her for ever. She was happy.

I noticed my father was a little preoccupied and one day, soon after Charlot’s departure, when I was alone with him, I asked him if anything was wrong.

“You’re a very observant girl, Jessica,” he said.

“I think we are all aware when those who mean a great deal to us are anxious.”

He put out a hand and gripped mine. He was not one to give way to demonstrations of affection so I guessed he had something really on his mind which was causing him concern.

“You’d better tell me,” I said. “I know something is bothering you.”

“Old age, daughter.”

“Old age? You? You’ll never be old.”

“What is the span? Three score years and ten? I’m approaching it, Jessica. With the best will in the world I can’t expect to be here much longer. Do you know how old I am?”

“Years have little to do with it.”

“It would be comforting if that were true. Alas, we wear out.”

“Not you. You never did what other people did. You’ll go when you want to and that will be never.”

“What a charming daughter I have.”

“I am glad you realize it.”

“My greatest regret in life is that I was prevented from marrying your mother when we were young. If we had not been stopped, we should have had ten children … sons and daughters like my own Jessica.”

“No use regretting that now. You have a wonderful son in David.”

“He’s a good son, yes. But what has he produced? One daughter. And now she has produced a daughter.”

“Oh, I see, it is this masculine yearning for men in the house.”

“I have the best daughter in the world and I wouldn’t change her, but it would have been a help if you had been born a boy!”

“I’m sorry, dear father, I would do anything I could for you but I cannot change my sex.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have my Jessica changed … not even for a son.”

“I am flattered. But is this all that is wrong? No boys in the family?”

“David and Claudine won’t have any more. David won’t live forever.”

“I hate talk about death. It’s morbid.”

“I’m just planning for the future. Seeing that boy, Charlot, with his Pierre growing up in the business, teaching him everything … and the other boys as well. It made me think. What about us? David … and then what? Jessica, I am sixty-nine years of age.”

“And you are as well and vigorous as someone twenty years younger.”

“Even I cannot defy nature forever, my dear. There is going to be a day when I go, and then David will follow me. And what of Eversleigh? Do you realize that for centuries this family have lived in this house?”

“Yes, I did know. They were Eversleighs at one time and then the name changed.”

“I want Frenshaws to be here for another four hundred years. You see, you have made this marriage. It was your choice. But I had hopes of you. If you had brought me even a girl I would have said Jessica’s girl would be as good as anyone else’s boy. Now what? Amaryllis has had this girl. If she had had a boy it would have been different. What I am getting at is that there is only one thing for me to do—Jonathan.”

“I see. You are going to bring him to Eversleigh.”

“That is what I am going to do, and without delay. But he’s wild. That worries me. He’s like his father. His father would never have been any good for the estate.”

“You were lucky to have twin boys. Just like you. Not content with one you had to have two.”

“That was indeed good luck. Jonathan was a fine fellow. Adventurous, brave … none braver … full of vitality and charm. But he would never have been any good on the estate. David stepped into the breach and I have to say he is a natural squire. I have been lucky. I had hoped David would have had sons, but all he gets is Amaryllis. That leaves Jonathan who I am afraid is going to turn out just like his father.”

“He is young yet.”

“But he already shows tendencies. I would never have attempted to put his father on the estate. Fortunately there were other interests, and he excelled in those. The estate would have gone to rack and ruin under him and that is what I want to avoid.”

“So you are going to train Jonathan?”

“That’s about it. But I must say I am uneasy. I know his sort. That affair with the farmer’s daughter. Fortunately there were no results, but there might have been and then he would have been saddled with keeping a child begotten in a few moments in a hayloft.”

“Quite a number of people recover from a misspent youth.”

“That’s what I want him to do. But one has to have a talent for managing an estate. I had it… in spite of being somewhat like Jonathan in my youth. I was in and out of trouble but it was always the estate which was of the utmost importance. Not only the estate … other business too. I have to make Jonathan realize this. That is why I am bringing him into the household.”

“And that is what is putting furrows on your brow?”

“Your mother is in such a state of excitement about Charlot’s return that I can’t get a sensible word out of her.”

“So you turn to your offspring who was so inconsiderate as to be born of the wrong sex.”

“She’s clever enough to know she couldn’t have meant so much to me if she had been a boy.”

“But how much more convenient.”

“And not half so charming.”

“You are a flatterer, dear sixty-nine-year-old Papa.”

“Jessica, my dear child, I don’t often mention this to you, but you and your mother are the most important things in my life.”

“Dear Father, do you know, you rank rather high in ours.”

There was a brief silence when I think both of us were too moved to speak.

Then he said briskly: “So you think it is a good idea to send for Jonathan?”

“I do. But what of the Pettigrews?”

“What of them?”

“They might not want to let their darling boy go.”

“He’s a Frenshaw. His duty is to his father’s family. Of course, it will mean having Millicent here too. Anyway, we’ll see.”

I kissed him on the forehead and left. I was touched that he had confided in me. But I was at the same time worried about him. It was disturbing to have brought home to me the fact that this man who had dominated my childhood, who was held in such awe throughout the estate—and the country it seemed—who had always harboured such a deep love for me, should be an old man.

There were several meetings between Eversleigh and Pettigrew Hall and at length it was agreed that Jonathan should come to Eversleigh. He was to work with David, establish a relationship with the tenants, learn about estate management—all with a view to eventual inheritance.

David had thought it was an excellent idea. Amaryllis and I were the natural heirs after him, of course, but as we were both of the female gender, it was not easy to decide who should have come first between us two. Eversleigh would naturally pass to David on my father’s death; true I was my father’s daughter but

Amaryllis was the direct descendant of the man who, on my father’s death, would own the place, so I supposed she would come before me.

It was all too complicated and neither of us would know how to manage an estate. Jonathan came before either of us, and he had the additional qualification of being masculine.

The solution clearly lay in him and my father’s real anxiety was that he should be worthy.

“There is a great danger,” my father told me during one of our talks, “of getting a gambling squire. That’s the worst thing possible for an estate. A frolic in the hay … well… that’s to be deplored if it is someone on the estate …”

“Outside is quite permissible?” I asked.

“Oh quite,” he answered. “One must not be too puritanical or attach too much blame to a young man for indulging in a little frolic now and then. It’s all in the nature of the animal.”

“And for young women?”

“An entirely different matter.”

“It is a great advantage in this day to be born a man,” I commented with a degree of bitterness.

“I am not sure of that. Women have their advantages if they know how to use them.”

“It is so unfair. These little frolics, which are so natural for a young man and so disastrous to a woman.”

“Because, my dear, these little episodes can have results and it is the woman in the case who is saddled with them. It is very logical when you look at it. A young woman has to bear her husband’s children. It is, to say the least, awkward, when she bears someone else’s.”

“People should remember when they condemn her …”

“When did people ever do what they should? And we are straying from the point. I am talking about young Jonathan. He is the sort of young man who will have his fun. All I ask is that he chooses partners who are not on my estate, that’s all. It’s the gaming tables I won’t have. I have seen good estates dwindle away … and all because their owners had a fancy for a gamble … I suppose there are some who have success at the tables, but that is rare and for one success there are a thousand failures. Yes, I want young Jonathan trained before I go. David is too gentle. He needs a firmer hand than David will give.”

Soon after that conversation Jonathan arrived. His mother had decided she would stay with her family. Jonathan, of course, would visit her frequently, and the Pettigrews would be coming to Eversleigh. They were not so very far away.

It was a week or so after Jonathan was installed at Eversleigh that I noticed a certain relationship growing up between him and Tamarisk. He visited us often and Tamarisk would go to Eversleigh which she regarded as her home as much as she did Grasslands and Enderby.

This relationship showed itself in a certain antagonism. Jonathan teased her; and she told him she hated him. He called her Little Gypsy which infuriated her. I remonstrated with him for it and he retorted: “Well, she is, isn’t she? She knows it and I don’t think she minds, after all. In fact I think she likes it. She’s proud of her connections.”

She was sharp witted and I began to realize that she enjoyed his taunts and tried hard to give him as good as he gave her. There was no doubt that if he did not come to Grasslands to see her she grew moody.

Leah said he was good for her and she should know. Miss Allen was only too glad to have the care of her taken from her shoulders however briefly. So Jonathan and Tamarisk were often together.

It was a strange attraction because their temperaments were in complete contrast. For all his faults Jonathan was very lovable. Tamarisk was scarcely that. She was rebellious, contradictory for no reason but that she wanted to disagree; she was a great trial to her governess, who was only mildly placated by her thirst for knowledge. Tamarisk could be interested in a subject, and then she was almost docile, asking many questions and listening intently to the answers. But if there was something she did not like, she would put up a stubborn resistance and refuse to learn. Arithmetic was one of those subjects which she was set against and she nearly drove Miss Allen to despair. I had to console the young woman again and again. I was afraid she would leave and that it would be impossible to find another governess who would stay.

Tamarisk was passionately interested in geography; she liked history only slightly less; but botany and literature were favourites. I suggested to Miss Allen that perhaps it would be best to concentrate on these subjects, although of course she must be taught everything she should know.

She was given to passionate loves and passionate hatreds. Passion was the keynote of her character. If she did not feel hatred or love she was indifferent—and that was how she was with most of us.

But she had a real affection for Jeanne, whom she visited often, and for Leah too. I was glad that Leah had come back with her for she seemed to be the only one who could control her. But she was certainly not indifferent to Jonathan. Her feeling for him seemed to be a passionate hatred—but I was not sure that that described it exactly.

She was eight years old at this time; he was ten years older, so the difference in their ages was great, and I wondered why there should be that sort of awareness between them. He was—so they told me—exactly like his father, undoubtedly good looking, though not in a conventional way. It was his manner which was so charming, his rather musical voice, and a certain insouciant attitude to life which quite a number of people—particularly women—found irresistible. His was a kind of careless good nature. Whatever outrageous thing he did would never be done out of malice. There was a certain lack of involvement in his attitude which seemed to set people at ease. I think the impression he gave was that he would never be critical and one felt he could charm his way out of any difficult situation. And that there might be plenty of those was evident. I was not surprised that my father felt a little apprehensive about him, and had secretly told me that an eye would be kept on him.

His coming into the immediate family circle had certainly added a spice of interest to our lives.

I was often at Eversleigh. Whenever possible I would take Edward over there to dine. My mother always welcomed this. James would wheel him out to the carriage, lift him in, fold up the chair, and when we arrived at our destination, wheel him into the house.

Much as I wanted to go, I could not allow it to be too frequent an occurrence because it tired Edward a good deal, but on the other hand he did enjoy mingling with the family and during the course of the evening he often forgot his disability.

It was the beginning of June and we were at the dinner table at Eversleigh with my parents, Amaryllis and Peter, Claudine, David, and Jonathan. David and Jonathan had spent the day at a nearby sale and were describing what they had bought.

This gave my father an opportunity to expound one of his favourite themes.

“Just think of it,” he was saying, “Oaklands Farm used to be one of the finest in these parts. That was when old Gabriel was alive. He would turn in his grave if he could see this day.”

“It’s terrible for Tom Gabriel… his home gone like that.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy on Tom Gabriel,” snorted my father. “He brought it all on himself.”

“What was his particular sin?” asked Peter.

“That which has been the ruin of many a man,” said my father. “Could never resist a gamble, Tom Gabriel couldn’t. When he was a boy he would be gambling with conkers and marbles. It was in his blood. God knows, old Gabriel had a good head on his shoulders. It was a fever with Tom Gabriel and it destroyed him and his farm. It is by no means an unusual story, I can tell you. There are some who never learn. I have seen gambling ruin more homes than anything I know.”

“You have never been a gambler, sir?” asked Peter.

“Only when I’m certain of winning.”

“That is not a gamble, Father,” I said.

“I’m telling you it’s a fool’s game,” retorted my father. He banged his fist on the table. “I would never have it in my house.”

“I don’t think any of us is likely to take it up,” said Claudine lightly. “You wouldn’t, would you, David?”

My mother laughed. “I doubt David would know one card from another.”

“As a matter of fact,” said David, “I know the whole pack. But I agree with my father. Risks should never be taken with anything that is important.”

“Well, Jonathan,” went on my father, “you’ve seen today what can happen to a man who gets caught up in all that foolishness.”

“Of course,” replied Jonathan, who could never resist taking the opposite view, “he might have won at the tables and instead of seeing his farm sold might have bought several others.”

My father’s fist once more came down on the table and this time the glasses rattled.

“Careful, Dickon,” murmured my mother.

“I tell you, young fellow, it’s a fool’s game. The chances of coming out on top are one in a million. Any sign of anyone here taking to gambling and they’d be out… like a shot.”

I noticed Peter was watching Jonathan intently and there was a glitter of amusement in his eyes. Jonathan was silent. He realized, as we all did, that my father’s vehemence on this matter was not to be treated lightly.

My mother, as she often did on such occasions, changed the subject, and the first thing she could think of was Napoleon’s defeat. It was a subject which had not yet grown stale and there was excitement over Wellington’s return to London.

“There will be galas and celebrations,” said my father. “It was like that with Nelson. Wellington has taken his place. He’s a Duke now. Well, it is good to see honours bestowed where they are deserved.”

“It will be a great homecoming for him,” said my mother. “I heard that he had been out of the country for five years.”

“A long time to be away,” said Peter. “I know how I feel when I make my periodic trips to London.” He smiled at Amaryllis and she smiled back while Claudine looked at them fondly.

“They say,” went on my mother, “that he is not exactly enamoured of his Duchess.”

“But his marriage was most romantic,” said Claudine. “It is true I believe that he fell in love with Lady Wellington… I suppose one must say the Duchess now … when he was a very young man. I heard that Lord Longford, her brother, at that time refused to accept Wellington as his brother-in-law because he had only his army pay.”

“I daresay he would feel differently about it now,” I put in.

“Well, there was no marriage and Wellington went to India and when he came back he found Catherine Pakenham unmarried—it was said because she had remained faithful to him, and he felt in honour bound to marry her, even after all those years.”

“Are you suggesting that he did not want to?” asked Peter.

“That’s the story. He is supposed to have certain lady friends.”

My father rapped the table. “This is a hero. He has just defeated the menace of the world. Let him have his relaxation in whatever way he wishes. It is his reward.”

“I’d rather have a faithful husband than a hero,” said Amaryllis looking at Peter.

“Well, let’s hope that everyone will be satisfied,” said my father. “Now what I was saying was that there will be fine doings in London when the Duke arrives. I think it would be a good idea to take a little trip, a party of us.”

“Oh, it would be lovely!” I cried; then I saw Edward glance at me and I wished I had not spoken.

David said he could not go. “Estate matters,” he murmured.

My father nodded and Claudine said: “I shall stay at home, too.”

“You, my dear, will no doubt be one of the party.” My father smiled at my mother who replied: “Yes, indeed.”

Edward said: “You must go, Jessica.”

“Oh, I’m not sure.”

“Yes, you must. You are too much at home. I want you to go.”

“I’ll see,” I said.

“Amaryllis?” said my mother.

“Well, there is Helena.”

“Oh nonsense,” said my mother. “The nanny is excellent and your mother will be at home. You could leave for a few days.”

“Yes, do come,” said Peter.

She smiled and said: “Well, perhaps I could.”

“Well, that’s settled,” said my father. “Lottie and I, Amaryllis and Peter and Jessica. Jonathan?”

“Certainly,” said Jonathan. “I can’t wait to be in the big city.”

“It will make a pleasant party,” said my mother.

“I think the Duke will be there on the twenty-third,” said my father. “Suppose we went two days earlier?”

“So be it,” replied my mother.

When Tamarisk heard we were going to London she begged to come with us. I had not at first thought of taking her. To tell the truth I was a little afraid of having charge of her. At Grasslands I felt relieved by the presence of Leah and Miss Allen—and to have the entire responsibility thrust onto my shoulders was daunting.

“I want to go … so much,” she said. “Why can’t I go? What difference does it make to you?”

“If I could be sure that you would behave …”

“Oh, I will, I will. Only let me come. I long to see London and the great Duke.”

“There wouldn’t be room for Leah or Miss Allen in the carriage.”

“They won’t mind staying behind.”

I sighed. “If you will promise me to be good …”

“I will be good … I will”

So it was arranged.

My mother was dubious. “The child can be such a responsibility. And, after all, she is no relation of ours.”

“She is Dolly’s child,” Claudine reminded her.

“Yes, and of a wandering gypsy,” added my mother.

“She is mixed up with the family because Aunt Sophie adopted her,” I reminded them. “And she does own Enderby. She really is in a way a member of the family.”

“I wish she were more like the rest of us.”

“She’ll change perhaps. And she has promised to be good.”

It was a lovely summer’s morning when we set out—my mother, Tamarisk, Amaryllis and I in the carriage with my father, Jonathan and Peter on horseback.

And so we came to London.

Tamarisk watched our approach in silent wonderment. She sat quietly demure, her hands folded in her lap. How lovely she is I thought, when she is peaceful like that particularly! I could be very fond of her if she were always thus.

We arrived at the house and the following day Peter, Amaryllis, Jonathan and I took Tamarisk sightseeing. We sailed up the river as far as Greenwich. Later we walked in the park. Tamarisk was true to her promise and was on her best behaviour.

My mother, Amaryllis and I took advantage of being in town to shop; Peter disappeared, as he said, on business and my father was likewise engaged. Jonathan once more took Tamarisk on the river and gave her a whitebait supper. She came back with shining eyes and I think it was the first time I had seen her look completely happy.

The twenty-third, the great day, dawned. London was en fete. The great Duke was coming home victorious. Because of his efforts the bogey, Napoleon, was on Elba where he could do no harm. We could sleep happily in our beds again and all because of the mighty Duke.

There was no doubt about it, he was going to be given a great welcome.

People were in the streets early.

“We could get near Westminster Bridge where he will alight,” said Jonathan.

“There’ll be crowds there,” warned Peter.

“Maybe, but it will be the best spot.”

My parents were going to watch from a window and my father advised us to do the same.

“Oh, let’s go into the streets,” begged Tamarisk. “It can’t be the same from a window. I want to be down there with all those people.”

“You come with me,” said Jonathan.

“Oh yes.” She was jumping up and down with joy.

“Well, if you want to get into the crush, do,” said my father.

In the end, Amaryllis and I went out with Tamarisk, Jonathan and Peter.

“Not too near Westminster Bridge,” warned my father.

“I know the very spot,” said Jonathan.

I had to agree with Tamarisk that there was nothing like the excitement of being in the streets. Traders were selling flags and effigies of the great Duke. There were mugs with his image on them. “Not very flattering,” commented Jonathan.

Everyone seemed to be shouting. A band was playing Rule, Britannia. The crowds were greater as we came near the Bridge.

“We’ll stay here,” said Jonathan.

“It’s a little close,” pointed out Peter.

“We want to be close. We want to see the great man,” pointed out Jonathan.

“There’ll be a scuffle when his carriage moves away.”

“The great point is to see him,” said Jonathan. “Tamarisk has told me that she insists, haven’t you, Gypsy?”

“I want to see the Duke,” she replied firmly.

“It is all right now,” admitted Peter. “And it is the best spot we can hope for. I was thinking of when the crowd begins to move.”

“All keep together,” said Jonathan. “No straying, Gypsy. Do you hear me?”

“Of course I heard you.”

“Well, remember it.”

The tumult had increased and there, in person, was the great Duke. Tamarisk cried desperately: “I can’t see. There are too many big people.” Jonathan picked her up and, to her intense delight, set her on his shoulder holding her high above the crowd.

The Duke was stepping into the carriage, acknowledging the cheers. He was neither tall nor short—about five feet nine inches, I guessed. He was handsome in his uniform, which was glittering with medals—spare figure, muscular looking as though he were in perfect health; and his features were aquiline and I was close enough to see his grey penetrating eyes.

“God bless the great Duke,” cried the crowd and the cheers went up.

Then the crowd took over. The horses were removed from the carriage and the people crowded round for the honour of pulling his carriage to the Duchess’s house in Hamilton Place. It was an extraordinary sight.

“There,” said Jonathan. “It wouldn’t have been nearly so good from a window, would it?”

“More comfortable,” I commented.

“It is comfortable,” said Tamarisk.

“We don’t all have the privilege of being held aloft by a gallant gentleman,” I reminded her.

She looked blissfully happy then.

The carriage was moving slowly away and the crowd started to follow. Jonathan put Tamarisk down and said: “Keep close.”

The crowds were pressing round. This was what Peter had warned us against. The shouting throng was pressing round the Duke’s carriage.

“We’ll get away from the crowd,” said Peter. He took Amaryllis’ arm and mine. “Come on,” he added.

Tamarisk said: “I want to follow the coach.”

And with that she edged away in the opposite direction.

“Tamarisk,” I shouted.

But she had pushed herself farther away. I caught sight of her standing alone trapped by the surging mass of people and I imagined her being trampled underfoot for people were converging on her from all sides and she was so small and light. I was numb with horror.

Jonathan had seen what was happening. I heard him murmur: “She’ll be crushed to death.”

He pushed his way through the crowd. He was just in time to reach her before she was swept off her feet. He snatched her up and held her in his arms. He was attempting to force his way through the crowd to where we were standing. It was not easy. The crowd surged round him making its way towards the carriage. Amaryllis was clinging to Peter’s arm. I felt sick with fear. I had myself experienced that terrifying feeling of crowds surging round me … enveloping me … forcing me down, trampling over me. That would have been Tamarisk’s fate if Jonathan had not snatched her up.

He reached us. He was obviously shaken but I do not think Tamarisk realized the danger she had faced.

Jonathan did not set her down until we were on the edge of the crowd.

“What I need,” he said, “is a drink. A draught of good ale or cider, possibly wine. Something. I’m as dry as a bone.”

“I’m thirsty, too,” said Tamarisk.

“As for you,” said Jonathan, “you deserve a spanking. You were told to stay where you were. That should be your refreshment and I would like to be the one to administer it.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” she said, her black eyes flashing.

“When you behave like one, Gypsy, that is how I shall treat you.”

I said: “We told you not to leave us, Tamarisk.”

“I wasn’t far off.”

“Thank God for that,” said Peter.

“You’re all against me,” cried Tamarisk. “I hate you all.”

“Extraordinary gratitude towards one who has just saved your life,” I said.

“Here’s the Westminster Tavern,” said Peter. “It’s a reasonably good inn.”

“Let’s go in,” said Jonathan.

There were several people there, all presumably with the same idea of escaping the crowds.

We seated ourselves round a table and ordered cider.

“Did you really save my life?” asked Tamarisk.

“It’s difficult to say,” mused Jonathan. “You might merely have been scarred for life or suffered a few broken limbs. It might not have been death.”

She stared at him in horror. “Like Aunt Sophie,” she said. “I didn’t think…”

-”That is the trouble,” I said, governess-fashion, “you don’t think as much as you should … of other people.”

“I was thinking of other people. I was thinking of the Duke.”

Jonathan wagged a finger at her. “You were told not to stray and you promptly did so.”

“And if Jonathan hadn’t rescued you …” I began.

“Oh.” She looked at him with wondering eyes.

“That’s better,” he said smiling at her.

“Thank you, Jonathan, for saving my life.”

“It was an honour,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

I thought what a beautiful child she was when she was soft and affectionate. She was now looking at Jonathan with far more admiration than she had bestowed on the Duke himself.

We sat in silence drinking our cider. I was thinking of the great Duke being drawn in his carriage by the people who wanted to show him how they honoured him; and I wondered about the meeting between him and his Duchess when the carriage arrived at Hamilton Place. There he was at the height of his triumph, honours heaped upon him, the people wanting to show their gratitude. He must be a happy man. Was he?

There was Amaryllis sitting close to Peter. She was happy. There were Jonathan and Tamarisk; she was looking at him with something like adoration. I hoped she was not going to care too much for him, for something told me that when Tamarisk loved, it would be most passionately. And Jonathan … he was lightly bantering, mocking her, calling her Gypsy. I felt that nothing would ever touch him deeply. Yet a few moments before he had rushed in to save her. And there was I, bound to a man who, loving as he was, could never give me that which I was beginning to feel would become an ever-increasing need in my life.

Refreshed we went home. My parents were not yet in. They came later. They had had an excellent view of the carriage being drawn by the people. Did not the Duke look magnificent? asked my mother. And hadn’t it been a day to remember?

I retired early. It had become a habit with me. We entertained scarcely at all at Grasslands and Edward should not be up late, said James.

I could not sleep though. I kept thinking of that fearful moment in the crowd when I had thought Tamarisk was going to be trampled underfoot and how Jonathan had snatched her up just in time and brought her back to us.

I went to the window and looked out. I could see the firework displays over the Park and the light of bonfires. And as I stood there, two figures emerged from the house—Peter and Jonathan. I watched them walk down the street together.

It was ten o’clock. I wondered where they were going. But I was tired and soon forgot them. Their nightly outings were no concern of mine.

I went to bed and was soon fast asleep.

I thought Jonathan looked a little disturbed the next morning. This was so unlike his usual nonchalant self that I noticed it immediately.

I asked if he had had a pleasant evening, remembering that I had seen him leave the house in Peter’s company.

He said: “Yes, thanks, Jessica.” But without a great deal of conviction.

I wondered vaguely where he and Peter had been.

I was to discover a few days later.

We were still in Albemarle Street for, although immediately after his ride from Westminster to Hamilton Place the Duke had gone to join the Prince Regent at Portsmouth, he would shortly return to London to take his place in the House of Lords and the celebrations were still going on.

My mother always found a great deal to do in London and she was ready to stay a little longer than we had planned. I was the same, though Amaryllis found it very hard to tear herself away from her baby, but she was happy to be with Peter, whose business detained him here.

I was in the house when a man called asking to see Mr. Jonathan Frenshaw. I saw him arrive. He was a rather seedy looking individual with a somewhat truculent manner, and I wondered what his business could be with Jonathan. They were closetted together for about half an hour before he left, and as he was taking his leave I heard him say: “It must be settled by the fourth of July, Mr. Frenshaw. Not a day later.”

Then I knew that Jonathan was in trouble.

Although I was only two years his senior, I was a married woman and I felt that gave me some authority. I was very fond of Jonathan—it was difficult not to be—but I had always realized that he was the type of young man who could easily slip into trouble. There had already been the affair of the farmer’s daughter. He had skipped out of that by good luck. The girl had merely lost her reputation and he had enhanced his as a rake. That was the only outcome.

It looked to me as though he might be in financial difficulty. Since I had married and had come into a certain inheritance I was by no means poor and might possibly help him.

I called him into the room and said: “Jonathan, are you in difficulties?”

He looked at me in surprise.

“I saw your caller,” I admitted. “I heard what he said about the fourth of July.”

“Oh that,” he said. “A little debt.”

“Are you in difficulties?”

“Not really. It is just a matter of laying my hands on the ready cash.”

“Can I help?”

“You’re a dear girl, Jessica,” he said, “and I love you. But it won’t be necessary. I can raise it in time.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

“Five hundred!”

“Yes … rather a lot. That’s why I can’t get it at once. I can’t understand why there is this rush. Usually people know one has to have time.”

“Was it… ?” I began.

He looked at me shamefacedly. “Gambling,” he said. “I don’t know what my grandfather would say.”

“He’d be horrified.”

“Cut me right out, I reckon. Send me packing … right back to Pettigrew Hall.”

“Sometimes I don’t think you would care.”

“It’s odd. I’ve got fond of the old place. I know you think I’m a waster and all the rest of it… but I believe I should be a tolerably good squire.”

“I think you would, too.”

“But I won’t be if Grandpapa hears of this.”

“How could you lose so much money?”

“How indeed? The stakes get higher. One is carried away. A sense of bravado… and one believes one’s luck will turn.”

“You’re a gambler.”

“Do you know, I haven’t touched it before. Just the odd bet or two. Nothing really.”

“I guess you were tempted because your grandfather is so set against it.”

“Is that it, do you think?”

“I know how your mind works.”

“Then you are cleverer than I.”

“Oh Jonathan,” I said, “he mustn’t hear of this. You’ve got to find that money and that has to be the end of it.”

“It will be. I have suddenly realized how I should feel if I had to leave Eversleigh. And the chances are that I shall be sent packing if the news of my misconduct reached the old man’s ears.”

“He can be very firm,” I said.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Did you go … with Peter?”

“Yes. Peter knows London. He took me to this place. He left me there.”

“Didn’t he gamble?”

“I don’t think he’s the gambling sort.”

“Yet he took you there!”

“Oh, he knows about the London haunts. He’s a club man. We got talking about it and he said if I wanted to look in at any time he’d show me. He’s too wise to gamble himself, I suppose. Of course I thought I was going to make a pile. Peter … he’s the businessman. Finger in all pies and when he draws it out, profits are clinging to that probing finger. I bet if he sat down at the tables Lady Luck would come to him.”

“We’ve got to think what you’re going to do,” I said. “Five hundred is rather a lot. It was a pity you didn’t stop before you lost so much.”

“How often have those wise words been used?”

“Well, we have to find that money, pay the debt and prevent this reaching my father’s ears.”

“First find the money.”

“If only it wasn’t quite so much.”

The door burst open and Tamarisk stood there, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes blazing.

“I’ll sell Enderby,” she said. “I can. It’s mine.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“The money,” she said.

“You’ve been listening at the door.”

“Of course.”

“Tamarisk, that’s a very unpleasant habit.”

“It’s the way to get to know.”

“You should never do it.”

“I always do it.” She ran to Jonathan and seized the lapels of his coat. “Don’t worry. You shall have the money. Enderby’s worth more than five hundred pounds and there is all the furniture in it. That’s worth a lot.”

He lifted her up in his arms. “You’re an angel, Gypsy, and I love you.”

She smiled. Then she said angrily, “You’re a stupid man. Don’t you know it’s silly to gamble?”

“You are right, Little Gypsy. I am and I do. I have learned my lesson. It shall never happen again.”

“This is our secret,” she said. “Nobody must know.”

“How are you going to sell Enderby without anyone’s knowing?” I asked.

That puzzled her and Jonathan put an arm round her and held her against him.

“Don’t worry, Gypsy. I can get the money easily.”

“Don’t ever do it again,” she begged.

“I won’t. But I’m glad I did this once because it has shown me what good friends I have.”

“I only offered to sell Enderby because you saved my life.”

“Of course. Quid pro quo. One good turn deserves another.”

“Five hundred pounds is a lot of money,” she said severely.

“A life is worth a little more,” he told her. “So you still owe me.

She was very solemn.

I said: “It’s all right, Tamarisk. Don’t say anything about selling Enderby. Don’t say anything at all.”

“Of course I won’t. It’s a secret.”

“We shall pay the money and that will be an end of it. No one shall know except us three.”

She smiled slowly. Secrecy appealed to her devious nature.

The incident revealed to me her feelings for Jonathan, and that gave me a few twinges of uneasiness.

That should have been an end of the matter. Jonathan could raise the money. The Pettigrews were a very rich family and the debt itself, though large, would not have given Jonathan major anxiety if it had not been for the time limit for payment and my father’s somewhat fanatical views about gambling.

The matter would have passed off smoothly—and I believe it had provided a good lesson for Jonathan—but for one thing. Someone was determined to make mischief.

When my father was breakfasting a day or so later, a letter was brought to him. I was with him at the time. He liked someone to breakfast with him and as I was an early riser and believed that he would rather have it with me than anyone else—except my mother—I usually contrived to be with him.

He did not pick up the letter immediately but after talking to me about the celebrations and when we should return to Eversleigh he opened it. His face turned puce with fury.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The young scoundrel!” he cried.

I took the letter from him. It was headed Frinton’s Club, St. James’s.

Dear Mr. Frenshaw,

I think it is my duty to bring to your notice the fact that your grandson, Mr. Jonathan Frenshaw, visited this club on the night of the 24th June and lost the sum of £500 in play. Knowing your feelings regarding this pastime—which I share—I thought it only right to let you know so that you may—if possible—turn the young man from this foolhardy practice.

A Friend

I cried: “What a beastly hypocritical letter. I think the person who wrote it is loathsome.”

“It’s true, I suppose.”

I was silent.

“My God,”-he said, “and this is the young idiot we are harbouring at Eversleigh! Tell them to send him to me… at once … this minute.”

“He probably isn’t up yet.”

“No. Late night, I daresay. At the tables till the early hours of the morning!”

“Aren’t you accusing him before you know?” I said, with sinking heart.

“Second thoughts … I’ll go to see him.”

He strode out of the room clutching the letter. I followed him up the stairs. He threw open the door of Jonathan’s room. Jonathan was in bed fast asleep.

“Wake up,” roared my father.

Jonathan slowly opened his eyes and stared at us in astonishment.

“What are you doing in bed at this hour? Why aren’t you up and about? Late last night, were you? At the gaming tables were you? I’ll tell you this, young man, you’re out. You’ll not be coming back to Eversleigh. You can go straight back to your mother. I shall speak to your grandfather about you, you lazy good-for-nothing.”

Jonathan was the sort of young man who would always be at his best in a crisis.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked. “Are you figures in a dream? You look real enough to me. Is that you, Jessica?”

“Yes,” I said, and thinking it best to put him in the picture as soon as possible added: “Someone has sent a letter about your gambling debt.”

That startled him. “How tiresome,” he said.

My father went to him and taking him by the shoulders shook him. Jonathan’s head went back and forth, his hair flopping over his face. He looked so comical that I would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious and I was feeling so upset because I liked having him around at Eversleigh.

“You had better not try to hide anything from me,” said my father.

“I had no intention of doing so,” said Jonathan. “I incurred the debt in a rash moment and oddly enough without having any desire to.”

“Stop talking like an idiot.”

“It’s true, sir. I went to the club and was persuaded to sit down and before I knew what was happening I had lost five hundred pounds.”

“Do you think I say what I don’t mean?”

“Certainly not.”

“Haven’t I told you that I won’t have gamblers on my estate?”

“Many times.”

“And you deliberately defy me?”

“Defiance was not really in my mind.”

My father would have struck him but with a graceful gesture Jonathan evaded the blow.

“I can only admit that this accusation is true,” said Jonathan, “and add that it shall never happen again.”

The door was flung open and Tamarisk came in.

“What do you want?” I cried.

“Get that child out of here,” said my father.

“You mustn’t blame Jonathan,” said Tamarisk. She ran to my father and hung on his arm. “It was my fault. I gambled. I lost the money. I was the one. It was five hundred pounds and I am going to sell Enderby to pay for it.”

It was so nonsensical that it stemmed my father’s anger.

“The girl’s gone mad,” he said.

“Yes, it was madness,” went on Tamarisk. “It was the gambler’s fever. You get it… and you are mad. You go in … the stakes get higher and you go on, saying I’ll go higher … I’ll go five hundred pounds.”

She was so beautiful in her charming innocence and determination to save Jonathan that I almost loved her in that moment. Her wonderful dark eyes were blazing and the colour in her cheeks made a charming contrast to her dark hair. No one could have watched her unmoved—not even my father, angry as he was, could be anything but susceptible to a beautiful woman. She was scarcely a woman but her innocence and passionate devotion gave her a certain maturity.

Jonathan was looking at her with great tenderness. I understood his feeling. This selfish rebellious girl was capable of love and when she loved it would be a fierce emotion which matched her temperament.

My father said gruffly: “You’re talking nonsense, child.”

“No … no. It’s true. I was there.”

“When?”

“When I lost the money.”

My father took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. “Don’t lie to me,” he said.

“It’s not lies. It’s true. Jonathan was pretending … to save me.”

“As you are pretending … to save him?”

“You’ll be sorry if you send him away.”

“Do you mean,” said my father and I saw his lips beginning to twitch in the way I remembered he had often looked at me when some precocity of mine had amused him during my childhood, “that you will be sorry if he goes?”

“Yes … yes … and so will you. He’s very good on the estate. The people all love him … more than they do—”

“More than they do me?”

“Yes. And people on the estate should love the squire. It’s all part of it.”

“He doesn’t deserve such an advocate.”

“A what?” she asked.

“He doesn’t deserve your confidence in him.”

“I don’t like Enderby much. It can be sold.”

Jonathan had risen from his bed and wrapped a dressing gown about him while this conversation had been going on.

“Tamarisk,” he said, “thank you for trying to save me. I can repay the money and if I have to go I shall come back and see you.”

She stamped her foot. “It won’t be the same.”

My father was a little disconcerted.

“I’ll see you later, Jonathan,” he said, and went out.

I sat on the bed and looked at Jonathan.

“It’s a letter he had. Anonymous. Signed ‘A Friend.’”

“I wonder who that dear friend could be.”

“It was a miserable thing to do.”

“It was rather. I’d have had the whole thing cleared up in no time and saved all this fuss.”

Tamarisk was looking from one of us to the other.

She said: “He’s very angry. He’ll send you away. I know.”

“He always sounds more angry than he is,” I reminded them.

“It just happens to be the cardinal sin,” said Jonathan.

“What’s that?” asked Tamarisk.

“The worst possible thing you can do, Gypsy.”

“I hope he doesn’t send you away.”

“If he does, I’ll come over to see you. We’ll have secret meetings.”

“I’d rather you were there all the time.”

He came over to her and taking her hands looked into her eyes solemnly. He said: “Everything is worth while to know I have such a good and loyal little friend.”

Then he kissed her gently on the forehead.

I felt very moved.

I said: “I’ll try to talk him out of it.”

“Do you think you can?” asked Jonathan.

“If anyone can, I can … or my mother. I’ll get her help.”

We did talk him out of it, but it was not easy.

I said that people who wrote anonymous letters were the worst possible and to give them the satisfaction of achieving their ends, was to pander to them.

I insisted that Jonathan had learned his lesson. He would never be so foolish again.

My mother and I both agreed that if he were found guilty of gambling again we would stand firmly beside my father and make no attempts to persuade him to act other than his inclinations advised him to.

And at last he gave way with a bad grace.

“When Eversleigh is bankrupt, you’ll be the ones to blame … just as much as that young jackanapes,” he growled.

We said meekly that we would accept the blame, hugged him and told him that he was not really such a fierce old curmudgeon as he made himself out to be—and even if he were, we still adored him.

Jonathan paid back the five hundred pounds and came back with us to Eversleigh.

But I did wonder who had written that anonymous letter and as the weeks passed I saw that Tamarisk’s feeling for Jonathan was growing stronger.