In the last few weeks for the first time in my life I had felt satisfied with myself.
And now I was having disturbing thoughts.
That night I dreamed that I was being married. I was standing at the altar at Eversleigh waiting for my bridegroom. He came out of the shadows and waves of emotion swept over me. I was in love … passionately in love.
He was beside me. I turned, but his face was in shadow. I cried out to him to come to me.
Then I awoke.
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 fa
tted 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 w
hen 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?”
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