The Angel and the Sword

by Sally Wragg

  The gypsy leader she now knew as Leon was sitting on the top step of his caravan, which was lavishly painted in an extravaganza of reds, yellows and greens and decorated with elaborate carvings of lions and horses. He was whittling a piece of wood, Maisie May snuggled up beside him. A proud man who saw much and said little and yet, what he did say would be good, sound common sense, Ursula hazarded, letting herself into the field and making her way towards him, wishing forlornly, meanwhile, she had something to say other than what she’d come to tell him. She was acutely aware of the women watching her and that she was the centre of a not altogether welcoming attention.

  ‘We meet again,’ Leon murmured, dropping his clasp knife into his pocket and getting to his feet, his keen, dark eyes, so incongruous under his mane of snow-white hair, scrutinizing her face though not in an unkindly way, she thought. ‘You have a problem?’ he asked, unnervingly as if he’d read her thoughts.

  There was no way to say this, other than to come right out with it. ‘Not me, exactly,’ she replied, awkwardly. ‘I’m afraid my husband’s been to the police about your presence here and they’re coming to move you on. I thought I ought to warn you. I am sorry,’ she finished, truthfully.

  The old man’s shoulders lifted. ‘A gypsy’s lot, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘It’s hardly your fault, child. What will be, will be. Please, come inside; let me make you some tea.’ The invitation surprised her. Not waiting for an answer, he stooped, swinging Maisie May up into his arms and retreating inside so it seemed churlish not to follow him. Intrigued, despite the troubling news which had brought her out here, and keen now to be away from a distinct hostility emanating from the other gypsies, Ursula bid Fern sit and quickly followed him into the caravan. Inside, she was amazed to find herself in a bright and neat living area, partitioned by a gaily coloured curtain at one end with a wooden seat running the length of both walls. A little wooden table was placed centrally, covered with a lace cloth on which stood a vase filled with wild flowers, which greeted her with their faint perfume. Gleaming crockery and utensils hung on the walls.

  ‘But this is delightful!’ she exclaimed and then blushed, in case he should guess the truth. It had been the last thing she’d expected, exposing her prejudice for exactly what it was. Whilst she sat with Maisie May on her knee, Leon busied himself with a small primus stove on which a kettle was soon bubbling away merrily.

  The child was sleepy, leaning in against her trustfully.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Ursula murmured, glancing down and experiencing the usual and by now expected stab of pain that she got whenever she had anything to do with children, something to which she’d had to get used but still tugged at her heartstrings horribly.

  Leon poured tea and pushed a cup across the table towards her.

  ‘Children are a great solace,’ he said.

  ‘You have full care of her?’ she asked, sipping the tea, which was hot and sweet, calming the nerves which had seen her hurrying over here. Vaguely, she wondered what Freddie would think if he could see her now, fraternizing with the so-called enemy. She was at once aware of the spasm of pain crossing the gypsy leader’s still handsome face.

  ‘Her mother, Riah, my daughter, died when she was born,’ he said, explaining all.

  ‘Oh . . . I see . . . I am sorry. There’s no father on the scene?’

  He shook his head regretfully. ‘Not one of any use, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, feeling again the inadequacy of her words. She wished she could have found something more consoling to say but there was nothing. They all had their troubles, this man included, it appeared.

  ‘We get by,’ he replied, his gaze falling to Maisie May and with such warmth of affection, Ursula knew whatever else she might be missing in her life, the little girl didn’t lack love.

  The thought was troubling. As if Leon hadn’t enough on with the care of such a little one without Freddie sending for the police. It wasn’t right and now Ursula was here, and saw for herself how the gypsies lived, she felt worse than ever. Lost revenue apart, could she really say the gypsies’ presence here was doing harm?

  The sounds of angry shouts drew Hettie down towards the caravans, proving her suppositions correct. Several burly police constables had emerged from the two cars parked up on the verge, and were already heading for the caravans as Ursula Hamilton appeared from the top of the lane leading down to Merry Weather Farm. That she was upset was also clear.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Hettie called, running down the road towards her.

  Ursula swung round, waiting impatiently for Hettie to draw level. ‘My husband’s called the police, that’s what. They’re here to move the gypsies on,’ she said.

  Knowing what her grandmother thought of the gypsies, Hettie assumed this was all to the good. ‘You don’t look too pleased,’ she hazarded.

  ‘But where will they go? There are children involved. They’ll be so afraid!’ came the alarmed and alarming response. Not waiting to see if Hettie followed, her neighbour swung away and started to run down the road towards the policeman who, by now, had let themselves into the field and had come up against a straggly line of gypsy folk, arms linked, barring their way to the caravans. If their biggest number comprised women, it was still an explosive, volatile situation. Hettie saw an old man with a shock of white hair emerge from the nearest caravan and hurry across the meadow to put himself at the head of the protesters.

  Obeying her every instinct, Hettie charged after Ursula and down towards the policemen, crashing to a halt in front of them, where she was surprised to discover that she knew the officer in charge, a man from one of her grandmother’s myriad of committee meetings, often held at the hall.

  ‘Please. . . . This really isn’t necessary!’ Ursula began, waving her arms ineffectually. The officer in charge stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself, ma’am. We have the situation in hand,’ he replied.

  It didn’t look to be in hand. Under their tanned, weather-beaten faces, the gypsy women were tense and determined, making it perfectly clear if they were to be moved, it would have to be by force. As if in proof of it, stern-faced and resolute, the old man with the white hair sat down, cross-legged on the ground, folding his arms defensively across his chest. Seeing it, his followers adopted suit to form an immoveable human barrier so Hettie dreaded what might happen next, it flashing into her mind then that, whatever her grandmother might think, gypsies were only folk with the urge to roam, after all.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’ve changed my mind. I’d really rather you left these people alone!’ Ursula muttered belligerently.

  ‘With all due respect, ma’am, I’m acting under orders from your husband.’

  ‘My husband’s gone to market.’

  ‘And these itinerants are trespassing.’

  ‘But not if I say not, surely?’

  ‘That’s not what your husband says, ma’am.’

  It seemed impasse was reached but meanwhile, Hettie’s indignation was growing. It wasn’t just what Ursula had said; Hettie knew it wasn’t right either. Gypsies or not, people deserved to be treated with respect, not bundled off as if they were so many cattle on their way to market. Her gaze wandered to the old man, sitting so straight-backed, so determined and somehow regal, she couldn’t help but feel an admiration for him. It helped to make up her mind.

  ‘Surely Mrs Hamilton has the right to say what goes? This is her land, after all!’ she joined in, shocked to discover her voice ringing with an authority she hadn’t the slightest idea she possessed.

  Everyone stopped and looked around. The officer touched his cap. ‘Your Grace. . . . I didn’t see you there,’ he murmured but his tone was pleasingly mollified.

  Hettie took advantage, smiling disarmingly. ‘But you could leave things awhile, I’m sure? I’m certain my grandmother wouldn’t care to hear that there’s been . . . any kind of an unp
leasantness.’

  Mention of the formidable Katherine Loxley hung in the air, the pivot on which this whole unpleasant situation might turn. All at once, the tension in the air relaxed. The officer nodded curtly, turning abruptly back to address the gypsy leader. ‘I’ll allow you a few days’ grace, no more. We’ll be back . . . so watch yourselves!’

  Having fired this volley, relieving some of his ire thereby, his gaze flickered towards Hettie, his eyes narrowing, so she knew then that he would have liked to say more but that something restrained him, a respect for her position, she realized, with a little thrill of triumph. She had a voice, one that could make people do things they didn’t want to do, even someone in the exalted position of this man here. Her eyes gleamed. It was with some satisfaction that she stood back and watched the police depart, leaving the field to the victors. Shortly, the two cars were speeding back up the lane. As the gypsies scrambled to their feet and began to drift back to their caravans, their leader came towards them.

  ‘You changed your mind, Mrs Compton,’ he said, calmly.

  Ursula nodded uneasily and Hettie wondered what Freddie Hamilton would have to say when he discovered that not only had his wife defied him but in such a public manner, too.

  ‘I couldn’t stand back and see you badly treated,’ she answered. ‘Though what we’d have done without Hettie here, I really don’t know. . . .’

  The gypsy’s gaze moved to Hettie and she found her hand enveloped in a warm, firm handshake.

  ‘We owe you our thanks, too, Your Grace.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing, really. . . .’

  ‘It’s not the first time Loxleys have had to do with Romani folk. We go back a long way. . . .’

  ‘Do we? Oh, gosh! But I didn’t know!’

  Amusement sprang into the man’s face, a fine face she thought, with much going on behind his keen, dark eyes. He nodded. ‘Centuries ago to the time of the Civil War when our people had only just arrived in this land and could be hanged for simply being a gypsy.’

  It sounded barbaric. Hettie shivered. ‘Do you mean whilst Nell Loxley was alive?’ she asked, having been well schooled by Dizzy concerning Loxley’s redoubtable first Duchess and her Royalist sympathies, a woman of spirit and fire with whom she felt great empathy and whom she would love to emulate. As if he guessed her thoughts, the gypsy leader smiled.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace. Nell Loxley knew we gypsies could well keep a secret. We were once able to do her a great service. Just as you have done for us! We’re grateful to you and if there’s ever anything we can do for you. . . ?’

  Hettie smiled and shook her head, unsure what to say. But there was nothing! How could there be? She was suddenly aware that time was passing and she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she muttered, now all the excitement was over, feeling slightly embarrassed. Refusing Ursula’s offer of a cup of tea back at the farm, she said her goodbyes and hurried away; letting herself from the field and walking, head bowed and deep in thought, back up the lane towards Loxley. Her trip around Europe already seemed a lifetime away, and yet, she’d only just got back home. Such a lot had happened, not the least of it Bill’s upsetting attitude towards her.

  At the head of the lane, another shock awaited her. At once, she was aware of a man leaning with his foot on the low stone wall and staring down the meadow towards Loxley. Something about his stance drew her gaze so it stuck there. Hettie’s footsteps slowed. But, surely, she knew this man, indeed had seen him only far too recently! She hurried closer. ‘But you’re Alex Windrow!’ she said.

  Alex Windrow straightened up, tipping his cap to the back of his head with a thumb.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he responded, seeming not one whit surprised to see her.

  So, he knew who she was too when she was sure he hadn’t, when they’d first met in Berlin.

  Eager questions tumbled from her lips. ‘You painted that portrait of my mother!’ she said accusingly.

  ‘So I did.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You do know her, then?’

  ‘In a fashion.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  His smile, tenuous as it had been, instantly disappeared. ‘Why I’m here is my business. . . . But better I hadn’t returned. Better I’d never set foot in this place again!’ he muttered, his voice throbbing with some inner and disturbing tension. An odd, strange man, Hettie surmised, feeling the first, faint stirrings of unease. Though she’d thought about the painting of her mother often, she never thought she’d see its creator again. Something about him unnerved her.

  ‘Shall you come back to the hall?’ she enquired haughtily, not even sure if she ought to ask him. It was with a certain relief she saw him shake his head.

  ‘I think not . . . yet.’ His lips curled into the semblance of a smile. It appeared their conversation was over. ‘Good day, to you, then,’ he snapped. And that was it, she was dismissed and when she’d never even had chance to ask him about Lewis! Touching his cap, he limped quickly away, back down the road to leave her staring balefully after him. What did he mean in saying he shouldn’t have come back? Why shouldn’t he? Had he then visited Loxley before? Was that when he’d been so captivated by her mother he’d been urged to paint a picture of her – and such a picture! Wait until they heard of this back at the hall! Forgetful of both dignity and authority, so newly and pleasingly discovered, Hettie tore away, scrambling quickly over the wall to run, whooping with glee, pell-mell down the hill towards the bridge, arriving home red-faced and out of breath and bursting through the front doors just as her grandmother emerged from the sitting room from her afternoon nap.

  ‘There you are, child,’ Katherine retorted icily, out of sorts because she’d slept too long and woken with a start. Her disapproval deepened. ‘Look at the state of you! Whatever have you been up to?’

  If Hettie had been at all inclined to discuss the sensitive subject of the police trying to evict the gypsies from Ursula Hamilton’s field and the unwitting part she’d played in dispelling them, the meeting with Alex Windrow had quite driven it from her head.

  ‘Grandmamma, you’ll never guess who I’ve just seen outside in the lane? Alex Windrow! You know, the painter I told you about who did that portrait of Mother hanging in the art gallery in Berlin. . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t know! Why should I?’

  ‘Whatever is he doing here at Loxley? I must go and find Mother. . . .’

  As was her want, Katherine Loxley summed up the situation quickly. ‘You’ll do no such thing, my girl! Your mother has quite enough on her plate as it is! You leave this with me. I’ll find out exactly who the man is and whatever he imagines he’s up to following you here. . . .’

  Yawning heavily, Tom Compton plumped himself down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Here, tuck into this, lad,’ Mary, his wife, encouraged, plonking his supper down in front of him. ‘You look all in. You do know you’re doing too much?’

  ‘Someone has to make a start of winter planting, my love,’ he pointed out patiently and in a vain attempt to placate her. Mary was a grand lass but she had a sharp tongue on occasion, particularly when she imagined her husband wasn’t taking good care of himself.

  ‘The old skinflint ought to take on more staff,’ she retorted.

  ‘Don’t start, my love. You know how things are. . . .’ he responded, glancing across the comfy little kitchen to his wife’s unnaturally serious face. ‘Are you alright, Mary?’ he enquired uneasily.

  She sat down at the table, resting her chin on her hands. ‘I am worried, I have to admit.’

  ‘Not our Ursula again.’

  ‘Things aren’t going well with Freddie. I just know it.’

  ‘Has she said as much?’ Tom asked, sharply for him, the most amiable of men.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m her mother. She doesn’t need to say.’

  They’d had this conversation many times already. E
ven if he knew he might as well bang his head against a brick wall as repeat words he’d uttered so many times already, Tom did his best to soothe the situation. ‘I’ve told you already, Mother,’ he chided. ‘You leave our Ursula alone. The young folk’ll sort things out if you’ll only let ’em. . . .’

  At that moment, there came a sharp rap at the door, making both old folk jump. It was late for callers and, in any case, none were expected.

  ‘Who’s that now?’ Mary grumbled, nevertheless getting up to answer it.

  At once, she gasped and flung the door wide, allowing her visitor to limp past her and into the room, where he stood, looking around him as if he owned the place.

  ‘Good evening, Tom, Mary. You might look pleased to see me,’ he muttered, smiling coldly.

  Tom Compton half rose from his chair and then, as if in shock, plumped back down again. The last person he’d expected to see here, the one place on earth he’d hate to be!

  ‘Hello, Reuben,’ he responded, heavily.

  Chapter Five

  Her arms full of the threadbare sheets she’d just taken from the ottoman in the State Bedroom where they were stored, Bronwyn emerged into the Long Corridor just as Mary Compton’s comfortable frame appeared from the direction of the Blue Bedroom. Given that both the war committee and Roland de Loxley were due that afternoon and that there were more beds to make up than they had decent sheets to go round, both women were flustered.

  ‘Any more left?’ Bronwyn enquired, glancing down fretfully at the sad bundle she carried and praying she wasn’t meant to use these.