My father persisted: “Perceval’s got a point. But now we are at war with America he’s got to be cautious.”
“Wars!” said my mother indignantly. “How stupid they all are! I don’t even know what this one is about.”
“It’s all a disagreement about commerce,” explained David.
My mother sighed. “You would have thought they had learned a lesson, when they quarrelled before about the colonies.”
“History may repeat itself,” said my father, “but it is certain that the lessons it teaches are hardly ever learned.”
“One would have thought,” said my mother, “that war with France would have been enough for those who are so enamoured of it.”
“This war with France goes on and on,” said Claudine.
“Perceval’s a good man but I would say an uninspired one.”
I said that it was strange that good people did not often make good leaders, and good leaders were often wicked in their private lives.
David, who loved this sort of discussion, instanced the two King Charleses. Charles the First such a good husband and father and about the worst King we had ever had, leading us to Civil War; whereas the second Charles’s life had been one of moral scandal, and yet his rule had been really good for the country.
My mother interrupted with: “What colour would you like to wear for the party, Amaryllis?”
“I think perhaps blue.”
“What about white, darling?” asked Claudine. “I can just see you in white. You will look like an angel.”
“Jessica, are you going to have your favourite scarlet?” asked my mother. “Or is it going to be emerald green?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.
“Such matters need weighty consideration,” said my father, “while the country is plunged into war on two fronts.”
“We should never do anything if we waited for those wretched wars to be over,” commented my mother. “And the sooner they have finished one they start another. We’ll go to London to choose the materials. I think we should give ourselves plenty of time. Where are we now … April… Sometime in May. That will give us plenty of time to have the dresses made up. We’ll fix a date. August would be best… somewhere midway between the two birthdays. That’s fair enough.”
There had always been one party to celebrate the two birthdays as they came so close together—mine in August, Amaryllis’ in September; and the parties were usually held at the end of August. Our mothers had started the practice when we were very young and had kept it up.
That was how we came to be in London in the May of that year 1812. There were my mother and myself as well as Amaryllis and Claudine; and as my father never liked my mother to go to London without him, he joined the party. So we all set out in the carriage and in due course arrived at the family house in Albemarle Street.
I had still retained that excitement which I felt when I came to London. The big city always seemed pulsating with life. Everyone appeared to be in a great hurry which always gave me a sense of urgency. I hoped we should visit the theatre while we were there.
The very first day my mother and I, with Claudine and Amaryllis, descended on the shops and after much debating a beautiful white silk was bought for Amaryllis’ dress. It was more difficult to find the acceptable shade of red to enhance my darkness; but my mother said we should not be hurried.
My father always had business in London—rather mysterious business as well as his banking concerns, and one thing we had learned was not to ask questions. We did know that he worked less in the field than he had in the past and that his son Jonathan had lost his life because of his connections with this mysterious espionage. I knew that Claudine was delighted that David had no part in it. Amaryllis had told me so.
I often wondered whether Jonathan’s son, also named Jonathan, who was at this time living with the Pettigrews, was also involved.
However, my father’s interests did not absorb him so much that he could not pay a visit to the theatre and we had a glorious evening watching A Tale of Mystery which was not exactly new but was the first of the melodramas which had since become so popular. It had a wicked villain who the audience liked to pretend struck terror into them when he appeared; and although we laughed we could not help being caught up in the drama, particularly as it was accompanied by the most expressive music which rose in volume for the villain and played sweetly for the unsullied heroine.
When the play was over we all returned home and sat up late drinking hot chocolate and discussing the improbabilities of the plot, laughing heartily at the actions of the villain and the gullibility of the heroine; and admitting that we had enjoyed every moment of it.
The next day was Sunday. We had attended church and afterwards walked in the Park; and my mother said that the following day we really must come to a decision about the material for my dress.
There were callers in the morning and an invitation to dine a few days later.
“And after that,” my mother said, “we must think about getting home.”
“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that when we are at Eversleigh, a visit to London seems very desirable; and when we are here we think how nice it would be to get back.”
“Perhaps anticipation is more satisfying than actuality,” suggested Amaryllis.
“I think you may be right,” I agreed.
“It reminds us that we should enjoy everything as it comes along.”
“Amaryllis, if you are so wise at eighteen, you’ll be a veritable sage by the time you are thirty.”
The callers delayed our visit to the shops but my mother was determined that we should go, so about four o’clock we set out.
We examined bales of material—emerald greens and vivid scarlets, both of which my mother declared were my colours.
I had my mother’s dark hair, but alas, not her vivid blue eyes. Mine were deep set, black lashed but of a deep brown; and I needed strong colours to set them off.
She was determined that I must look my best and she spent a long time selecting the right shade.
It was while we were in the shop, sitting at the counter, that a young man ran in. He was breathless and could scarcely stammer out the important news.
“The Prime Minister… has been shot. He’s stone dead … there in the House of Commons.”
As we came through the streets we realized that the news had spread. People stood about in little groups talking in shocked whispers. The Prime Minister assassinated! Surely not! This could not happen in England. That sort of thing was for foreigners. Spencer Perceval the Prime Minister had not been exactly one of the popular figures in politics. He was no Pitt or Fox. He had been rather insignificant but was no longer so.
My father was not at home when we arrived there. I guessed he would be occupied for a few days, perhaps delaying our return to Eversleigh.
There was a hush throughout the capital. News began to seep out. The murderer had been captured. It had been no difficult task to catch him for he had made no attempt to escape.
He was mad, it was said, a fanatic. Some avowed that it was merely fate that it happened to be the Prime Minister who was shot. It could have been any politician. The madman had a grudge against the government, not against any particular person. The Prime Minister had just happened to be in a certain spot at a certain time.
The trial took place immediately.
The murderer was John Bellingham, a Liverpool broker who had gone bankrupt, he declared, through government policies. He had recently visited Russia where he had been arrested on some trivial charge and when he had applied to the British Ambassador in St. Petersburg for help, it had been refused. Eventually he was freed and returning to England he had applied for redress for the wrongs he had suffered. When this was refused, he went crazy and vowed vengeance.
Now he was pleading insanity.
My father said that he would not get away with it. The whole country was shocked. We could not have our public fig
ures shot at and be told that it was the work of a person of unsound mind. There had to be an example.
He was right. John Bellingham was sentenced to death and a week after the shooting he was hanged. We were in London on the day but we did not go into the streets.
My father’s comment was: “The verdict was a wise one. Madman he may be, but we cannot have anyone with a grievance shooting our ministers and then being freed on a plea of insanity.”
But the affair haunted me. The idea of that man’s being so crazed with grief that he took a gun and shot a man dead depressed me. I could not shut out of my mind the image of his body dangling at the end of a rope. He had done the deed for revenge and two lives had been lost when there need not have been one.
My mother tried to disperse our gloomy mood by talking of other matters—chiefly the birthday celebrations. I responded but my thoughts could not be withdrawn from the tragedy of that poor madman and most of all I thought of the bereaved Perceval family who had lost a good husband and father. I heard there was a sorrowing wife, six sons and six daughters. He had been such a good man, people said; and even taking into account that aura of sanctity which invariably surrounds the dead, there appeared to be some truth in it.
To bear a grudge … a grudge which drives one to murder! I could not get that out of my mind.
Back in Eversleigh preparation began for the party. Eighteen was a coming of age. We were no longer children and I guessed our parents were hoping that suitable husbands would be found for us for that seemed to be the wish of all parents with nubile daughters.
The date was set for the end of August.
“The best time for a party,” said Claudine, “for if the weather is good it can spill out into the garden.”
We set about making out lists of guests.
“There is no need to send out invitations to the Barringtons,” said my mother. “You two girls can go over and invite them personally.”
A few days later Amaryllis and I set out together. On the way we passed the woods and I saw smoke rising from the trees.
“Look!” I said to Amaryllis.
“Gypsies, I suppose,” she answered.
“It’s a long time since we had them here. Not since …”
“That poor man …”
“Six years,” I said.
My thoughts were back in that terrible moment when Romany Jake had come out of the house and been captured. It was a nightmare which had recurred in my mind in the past and even now came back to haunt me.
Amaryllis knew how I had felt and was very sympathetic; whenever the subject was mentioned she would remind me that I had saved his life.
I tried to believe I had; and indeed it seemed certain that if I had not roused my father to take action, the death sentence would have been carried out.
Now the thought of the gypsies brought it back.
“Let’s go and see,” said Amaryllis, and she spurred on her horse.
I followed.
There in the clearing were the caravans. One of the women was lighting a fire and a few children were running about shouting to each other.
They were all silent when they saw us.
One of the men strolled over.
“Permission to stay is being asked,” he said. “Now… this minute.”
“You mean someone has gone to the house?”
The man nodded.
A girl emerged from a caravan and, looking curiously at us, strolled over. She was strikingly attractive with large luminous long-lashed dark eyes. Her hair hung in a thick plait tied at the end with red ribbon. I knew before she spoke who she was. She knew me too.
“Good day,” she said. “Miss Frenshaw, is it not?”
I said: “You are Leah.”
She smiled in affirmation.
“So you have come back.”
“My father has gone to the house to ask permission for us to rest here.”
“This is Miss Amaryllis Frenshaw,” I said.
She bowed her head. Amaryllis gave her friendly smile. She had heard of Leah, of course, and knew what part she had played in Romany Jake’s tragedy.
“Do you intend to stay long?” I asked.
She shook her head. “For a very short while. We are on our way to the West Country.”
“Have you … heard anything of…”
She shook her head.
“It is so long ago.”
“Six years,” I said.
“In another year he will be free.”
“Yes,” I said. “Another year. I am sure my father will agree to your staying here.”
“I think so,” she said, and stood aside to let us pass.
We went on.
“What an extraordinarily beautiful girl,” said Amaryllis.
“Yes. She looked sad, though. I suppose when something like that happens to you… when a man almost loses his life for defending you, it would make you feel strange … guilty in a way.”
“It was not her fault. She should not feel guilty.”
“No, but sometimes people feel guilty when things are not their fault. I mean … if they come about because of you.”
“It may be so, but she certainly is lovely.”
We had come to Grasslands. Mrs. Barrington had heard our approach and came out to greet us while one of the grooms took our horses.
“Edward is at home,” she said. “He’ll be so pleased you’ve called.”
“Everyone will, I hope.”
“I can assure you of that.”
“Everyone is well?”
“In excellent form. We still miss Irene and wish we could be more together. She is pregnant again. Isn’t that exciting? If only she were a little nearer!”
Edward had come out. “What a pleasure to see you,” he said.
Edward had seemed to become much more mature since I had first seen him six years ago on that fateful trip to Nottingham. He was very sure of himself. His father said he was going to be one of the most influential businessmen in the country one day. “He has a flair for it,” was his comment. “Much more than I ever had. Reminds me of my grandfather who founded the business.”
I could well believe that. Edward constantly steered the conversation towards business; I imagined he found the trivialities of ordinary discourse a trifle boring.
I liked him though—mainly, I think, because whenever we met and Amaryllis was with me, although he was extremely polite to us both, he could not stop his eyes straying to me. That was pleasant. I think I was a trifle jealous of Amaryllis. She was so lovely and she had such a sweet nature; she was one of the good women of Eversleigh. I was of the other sort—not exactly bad, but rebellious, self-willed, selfish perhaps and decidedly vain. Yes … all those things and I really could not understand why so many young men—and older ones too—always showed more interest in me than in beautiful Amaryllis. It was extraordinary. Amaryllis would have made the perfect wife. She was domesticated, easygoing and extremely beautiful. I was none of these really. Yet it was to me they looked with a certain speculation which indicated they considered me desirable.
One of the servants once said: “You’ve got something, Miss Jessica. Miss Amaryllis is very pretty … beautiful as an angel… but you’ve got what they want. There’s no putting a finger on it. It’s just there. Miss Amaryllis is just too pretty, too much of the lady, too good, too nice. Men respect the likes of Miss Amaryllis but you’re one of them they go after.” The next remark was less flattering. “Men are such fools … never know what side their bread’s buttered, they don’t. Always go for them that’s hardest to live with … and leave the good ones behind.”
Amaryllis was undoubtedly one of the good ones.
“Come along in,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Oh, there’s Clare.”
Clare Carson had come in. She smiled as though pleased to see us, but I always felt she was hiding her true feelings.
“You’ll have to test the new elderberry,” went on Mrs. Barrington. “Ask them to bring it, Cla
re. Not a patch on young Mrs. Frenshaw’s … but you might like to try it.”
“We have come for a purpose, haven’t we, Amaryllis?”
“We have,” agreed Amaryllis. “It’s to invite you to our birthday party.”
“Oh, is it time then? How the days fly! It seems only yesterday when you had your seventeenth.”
Mr. Barrington had come into the room and heard the last remark. “The older you get, the quicker time flies,” he said. “Good morning to you, my dears.”
“It will be in August, I suppose,” said Clare.
“Yes,” I replied. “Midway between the two birthdays. That’s how it has always been.”
“You can be sure we’ll be there,” said Mrs. Barrington. “The whole lot of us … except Irene. She would be if she could, but she’s so far away … and there are the babies.”
“I shall make sure I’m here for it,” said Edward, smiling at me.
“A little relaxation will do you good,” added his father.
“He wouldn’t miss it for the world, I know,” said his mother.
The servants brought the wine which Mrs. Barrington poured out. We sipped it and declared it exceptionally good.
Edward came over to me. “It’s good to see you. You look blooming.”
“With health and vigour,” I said. “And you… you look a little preoccupied.”
He drew his chair closer to mine. Amaryllis was in conversation with the others.
“A little trouble at the factory. It’s the new machines. The work people don’t like them.”
“You’d think they would welcome them.”
“They are afraid the machines will take over their jobs and there will be no work for them.”
“And will they?”
He lifted his shoulders. “It may be so for a time. But if we don’t have the machines we can’t compete with the people who have and we should be out of business; so that would lose their jobs in any case.”
“It must be worrying.”
“We’ll overcome it, but they are threatening. In some places they have actually broken up the machines.”
“I did hear something about those people. Are they what they call Luddites?”
“Yes. It’s a name given to them because some time ago there was a Ned Ludd. He was simple, quite mad. He lived in Leicestershire. One day, in the factory where he worked, someone teased him. He was frustrated being unable to find words to express his anger and he turned to the stocking machines and started breaking them up. He was just crazy. He felt there was something evil in machines and vented his wrath on them.”
Return of the Gypsy Page 10