“They always have permission to rest there as long as they are careful about fire—and there is not much danger of that after all the rain we have had,” I said.
“I shall report what we have seen to Mr. Frenshaw,” continued Miss Rennie. “And I must ask you, Jessica, to be more obedient to my wishes. I do not wish to have to tell your parents that you are disobedient. I am sure that would grieve them.”
I thought of my father’s receiving the news and I could picture that look on his face when he was trying not to smile. His daughter was very much what he must have been at her age, and parents like their children to resemble them even in their less admirable qualities; so I did not think he would be greatly grieved.
As for myself, I could not stop thinking of the man under the tree. Romany Jake! A gypsy… and yet he did not seem quite like other gypsies I had seen. He was like one of the gentlemen who were friends of my parents… only dressed up as a gypsy. He had fascinated me. He was very bold. What would Miss Rennie say if she knew he had thrown me a kiss when I had looked back? I toyed with the idea of telling her, but desisted. Perhaps that would be something which would be unwise to come to my parents’ ears.
True to her word she told either my father or my mother and the subject was raised at dinner that night.
“So we have gypsies in the woods,” said my father.
“They always come south towards winter,” commented David.
My father turned to me. “So you saw them today.”
“Only one. He said he was Romany Jake.”
“So you spoke to him.”
“Well, just for a few minutes. He had an orange-coloured shirt and a guitar. There were rings in his ears and a chain about his neck.”
“He sounds like a regular gypsy,” said David.
“I think you should avoid the woods when the gypsies are there,” said Claudine, looking rather fearfully at Amaryllis.
“But the woods are so lovely now,” I cried. “I love scrumpling through the leaves.”
“Nevertheless …” said Claudine, and my mother nodded in agreement.
“I wish they wouldn’t come here,” she said.
“They can make a bit of a mess of the land,” added my father. “But they’ve always been allowed to bring their caravans into the clearings. As long as they don’t make a nuisance of themselves they can stay. I expect they’ll be round to the kitchens with their baskets and oddments to sell—and telling the maids’ fortunes.”
“Mrs. Grant will deal with all that,” said my mother.
Mrs. Grant was our very efficient housekeeper who ruled the nether regions as despotically as Pluto ever did his. I had rarely seen so much dignity contained in such a small body—for she was under five feet and rotund with it—and the very crackle of her bombazine jet-decorated gown, heralding her approach, was enough to set a servant shivering and wondering what misdemeanour could be laid at his or her door.
So the gypsies could be left safely to Mrs. Grant.
During the days that followed I learned a little more about the gypsies. The best way to get news of such matters was through the servants and I had developed a very special relationship with them. I saw to it that there was always a welcome for Miss Jessica in the kitchens. I chatted to them, made a point of knowing what was happening to them and of encouraging their confidence. I was enormously interested in their lives; and while Amaryllis was studying the exploits of the Roman generals and the Wars of the Roses, I would be seated at the kitchen table hearing what was happening when Maisie Dean’s husband came home suddenly and caught her with her lover, or who might be the father of Jane Abbey’s child. I knew that Polly Crypton, who lived on the edge of the woods in a cottage surrounded by her own special herb garden, could cure other things besides earache, toothache and indigestion; she could get rid of warts, give the odd love potion; and if a girl was in a particular sort of trouble she could do something about that too. There was much mysterious talk about this activity, and when they found themselves discussing it in my presence there would be nods in my direction, followed by an infuriating silence. Still, at least I was aware of the powers of Polly Crypton, and this I told myself was Life, and as necessary to the education as a knowledge of past battles. Moreover, I could always copy Amaryllis’ notes. She was very good about such matters.
So it was not difficult to learn something about Romany Jake.
He was, according to Mabel, the parlourmaid, “a one,” and I knew enough of the vernacular to understand that that meant a person of outstanding fascination.
“There he was, sitting on the steps of the caravan playing that guitar. His voice … It’s a dream … and the way the music comes in … Real lovely. Romany Jake they call him. He’s from foreign parts.”
“Cornwall,” I said. “That’s not exactly foreign.”
“It’s miles away. He’s been up in the North and come right down through the country … all in that caravan … with the others.”
“He must know the country very well.”
“I reckon he’s been wandering all his life. One of them came round this morning, telling fortunes, she was.”
The other servants started to giggle.
“Did she tell your fortune?” I asked.
“Oh yes … Even Mrs. Grant had hers done—and gave her a tankard of cider and a piece of meat pie.”
“Was it an interesting fortune?”
“Course, Miss Jessica. You ought to have yours done. I reckon they’d tell you something.”
The servants exchanged glances. “Miss Jessica is a regular one,” said Mabel.
I felt warm and happy to be awarded the highest accolade which could be bestowed.
“Now, Miss Amaryllis… she’s a little darling… so pretty and gentle like.”
I was not in the least jealous. I would much rather be “A One” than pretty and gentle.
The servants left me with no doubt in my mind that there was something special about Romany Jake. I could tell it by the manner in which they spoke of him and giggled when his name was mentioned. Although they were fairly frank with me, there were times when they remembered my youth, and although that did not prevent their talking, it curbed their spontaneity and they spoke in innuendoes which I sometimes found difficulty in deciphering.
But I learned that the coming of Romany Jake was one of the most exciting things which had happened for a long time. He must have driven from their minds the thoughts of invasion for he was now the main topic of conversation in the servants’ hall.
He was no ordinary gypsy. He was a Cornishman—half Spaniard, they reckoned, and I remembered that at the time of the defeat of the Spanish armada many of the Spanish galleons had been wrecked along the coast and Spanish sailors found their way ashore. So there was a sprinkling of Spanish blood in many a Cornish man or woman. It was evident in those dark eyes and curling hair and their passionate natures—all of which attributes were possessed, so I was told, by Romany Jake.
“Romany Jake!” said Mabel. “What a name to go to bed with!”
“I always think of him just as Jake,” said young Bessie, the tweeny. “I don’t think he’s a real gypsy. He’s come to it because he likes the wandering life.”
“He looks like a gypsy,” I said.
“Now what would you know about that, Miss Jessica?”
“As much as you do, I suppose,” I retorted.
“They’ve made quite a little home for themselves in that clearing. They’re shoeing their horses, setting up their baskets and doing a bit of tinkering. You can’t say they’re lazy, and Romany Jake, he plays to them and sings to them … and they all join in the singing. It’s like a play to see them.”
“At least,” I said, “he has stopped you all talking about the invasion.”
“I reckon Romany Jake would be a match for Boney himself,” said Mabel.
And they all laughed and were very merry. That was what the coming of Romany Jake had done for them.
I saw him
once when I was alone. I had been down to the cottages to take a posset to Mrs. Green, wife of one of the stablemen who was suffering from a chill, and on my way back there he was. He had no right to be on our land, of course, and he was carrying something in his coat pocket. I believed he had been poaching.
His eyes sparkled as he looked at me and I was aware of an acute pleasure because I fancied he was admiring me and as I was growing older I was becoming rather susceptible to admiration and experienced a kindly feeling towards those who expressed it. But it seemed particularly pleasant coming from him.
So I had no desire to run away from him, nor to reprove him for poaching on our land.
“Good day to you, little lady,” he said.
“Good day,” I replied. “I know who you are. You’re Romany Jake. I met you in the woods the other day, I believe.”
“I am certain of it, for having once made your acquaintance that would be something I should never forget. But that such a great lady as yourself should remember me … that is as gratifying as it is remarkable.”
“You don’t speak like a gypsy,” I said.
“I trust you will not hold that against me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you might think that every man should keep his place … a gentleman a gentleman … a gypsy a gypsy.”
I fancied he was laughing at me so I smiled.
“I know you live in your caravan in the woods,” I said. “Are you staying long?”
“The joy of the wandering life is that you go where you will when the spirit moves you. It is a great life lived under the sun, the moon and the stars.”
He had a musical voice not in the least like any gypsy I had ever heard. There was laughter in it and it made me want to laugh too.
“You’re quite poetic,” I said.
“The life makes one love nature. It makes one conscious of the blessings of nature—of the life on the open road.”
“What about winter?”
“Ah, there you have spoken. The north wind will blow and we shall have snow and what will the gypsy do then, poor man. I’ll tell you. He might find some warm and cosy house and a warm and cosy lady who will open her doors to him and shelter him there until the cold is past and the spring comes.”
“Then he wouldn’t be a wandering gypsy, would he?”
“What does that matter as long as he is happy and those about him are happy. Life is meant to be enjoyed. You agree with me? Yes, I know you do. You will enjoy life, I see it in your eyes.”
“Do you see the future?”
“They say, do they not, that gypsies have the powers?”
“Tell me what you see for me.”
“All that you want it to be. That’s your future.”
“That sounds very good to me.”
“You’ll make it good.”
“Have you made yours good?”
“To be sure I have.”
“You seem to be rather poor.”
“No man is poor when he has the good earth to live on, and the sun to warm his days and the moon to light his nights.”
“You have a great respect for the heavens,” I said.
“Well, from thence comes the source of life. I’ll tell you something if you will swear never to mention it to a soul.”
“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly. “I promise.”
“I took to you the moment I saw you. I said to myself: She’ll be a fiery beauty, that one. I’d like to steal her away and take her off with me.”
I burst out laughing. Of course I should have scowled at him and ridden off immediately; but I did not. I just wanted to stay where I was and indulge in this conversation which was fascinating to me.
“What! You think I would leave home and become a gypsy.”
“I did,” he said. “It’s a good life … for a while.”
I shivered. “What about the north winds blowing and the snow coming?”
“You’d have me to keep you warm at nights.”
“Should you be talking to me like this?”
“I am sure some would say I shouldn’t but between ourselves it depends on whether you want to hear it.”
“I don’t think I should stay here.”
“Oh, but is it not the things which we are supposed not to do which we enjoy doing? I’ll swear you have often done that which you should not have done … and loved the doing of it.”
Someone was coming. I looked at the bulge in his pocket. He was about to disappear when Amaryllis came into view.
“This is my lucky day,” he said. “Once more two beautiful ladies.”
“Why, it’s Romany Jake,” said Amaryllis.
“You are the second lady to do me the honour of remembering my name … and all in an hour.”
Amaryllis looked at me and said: “We ought to go in.”
“I was just going,” I replied.
“Good day, Mr.—” began Amaryllis.
“Cadorson,” he said. “Jake Cadorson.”
“Well, good day, Mr. Cadorson,” I said.
Amaryllis pulled at my arm and I turned away with her. I was aware of his watching eyes as we went towards the house.
“What was he doing there?” asked Amaryllis.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see what he had in his pocket?”
“There was certainly something there.”
“A hare or a pheasant, I think,” said Amaryllis. “He must have been poaching. Do you think we ought to tell your father or mine?”
“No,” I said firmly. “They have to eat. Do you want them to starve?”
“No, but they should not poach. It’s stealing in a way.”
“Don’t tell, Amaryllis. My father would be angry and turn them away. They must be very poor.”
Amaryllis nodded. It was always easy to arouse her compassion.
The next time I saw him was in the kitchen at Grasslands.
Claudine took a special interest in Mrs. Trent and was always sending something over to her. I had heard Claudine say that Mrs. Trent had never been the same since the death of her grand-daughter Evie. She just seemed to lose her grip on life. Amaryllis never liked going there very much which I thought odd for she was always eager to share our comforts with the people of the estate. They liked to see her, too. She had the face of a ministering angel, and was also patient listening to accounts of their ailments. She had more aptitude than I for that sort of thing. “You’re the ideal sister of mercy,” I told her. And so she was … except at Grasslands.
I asked her why she did not like going there and she said that Dolly had an odd way of looking at her.
“She makes me shiver sometimes,” she said. “I’ll look up and her eyes will be on me—at least the one that is wide open. And I always wonder what that other eye can see. It is almost as though it sees what other people can’t.”
“I always thought you were so reasonable and logical,” I said. “I don’t expect you to have flights of fancy.”
“That’s how I feel… just uncomfortable. So will you go and take them whatever my mother wants to send to them?”
Although I was not the perfect visitor of the sick, I did like going to Grasslands—just as I did to Enderby. It was not that I wanted to spend a good deal of time with Mrs. Trent and Dolly or Aunt Sophie; but the uncanny atmosphere which prevailed in both houses intrigued me.
“We are lucky to have two such houses in the neighbourhood,” I said to Amaryllis.
“It is not the houses,” she replied. “It’s the people in them. I wouldn’t mind Grasslands at all without Dolly.”
I thought a good deal about what she had said and I wondered why Dolly was so interested in Amaryllis, because most people simply thought Amaryllis sweet and angelic, and paid more attention to me. Dolly did, however, have a certain interest in me. Once she said: “You were ever such a lovely baby.”
“Do you remember me then?” I asked.
She nodded. “You were so pretty … and could y
ou scream! If you couldn’t have what you wanted … You should have heard.”
“I probably did hear myself.”
“And when you smiled … oh you were lovely then.”
But even so her real interest was in Amaryllis.
So it was that I took the sloe gin to Mrs. Trent.
I looked in at the front door and there was no one there so I went round to the back. I could hear voices. The door was open so I went in.
In the Grasslands kitchen, seated at the table, his legs stretched out before him, sipping from a tankard, his guitar on the table before him, was Romany Jake.
Dolly was sitting at the table some little distance from him.
He rose when he saw me and said: “Well, if it isn’t the lady from the big house.”
Dolly said: “Oh Jessica, it’s you then.”
She needed no answer to the obvious so I put my basket on the table and said: “Young Mrs. Frenshaw thought your grandmother might like to try her sloe gin.”
“She’ll appreciate that,” replied Dolly. “Would you like a little wine?”
“No thank you.”
Romany Jake surveyed me with his laughing eyes. “Too proud to sit down with a gypsy?”
“I never thought …” I began; but he had turned to Dolly.
“Perhaps you should be taking your guest into the parlour which is more suited to her.”
I said firmly: “I will take a little wine, Dolly … here.”
“You are as gracious as you are beautiful,” he said. “Grace and beauty. What a joy to find the two together!”
“Jake brought in a basket I ordered,” said Dolly, explaining his presence.
“And how is your grandmother today?” I asked, as she poured out a little wine which she handed to me.
“She is brighter, thank you. I’ll tell her you called. She’ll like the sloe gin.”
Romany Jake, who had kept his eyes on me, then raised his glass. “A long and happy life to you, Miss Jessica,” he said.
“Thank you.” I lifted mine. “And to you.”
“Jake was telling my fortune,” said Dolly.
Return of the Gypsy Page 2