We knew what that experience was for it had nearly cost her saviour his life and he had paid for his part in the affair with seven years in a penal settlement.
And now she would come face to face with him.
She was there when they returned from their ride. I had prepared her for I thought that was wise. She had turned very pale and then flushed.
She said: “It was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“I never forgot what he did for me.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
And there they were. He was rather flushed from the ride; his eyes were alight with pleasure. I think he was rather intrigued by his daughter. Tamarisk looked like a handsome boy in her riding clothes; she was a daughter of whom he could be proud.
“We had a lovely ride, Leah,” said Tamarisk. “We raced. He beat me … but only just.”
“Leah,” he said. “Little Leah.”
He went to her and took both her hands. She lifted her eyes to his and I saw the adoration there. It moved me deeply.
“So you are looking after my daughter?”
She nodded. There were tears in her eyes. She said: “I have thought of you.”
“I’ve thought of you too, Leah,” he answered gently.
“What you did for me …”
“It was long … long ago.”
“And they blamed you. They were going to hang you…”
“But here I am … hale and hearty.”
“You’re gentry now,” she said. “You were never one of us.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
I thought I ought to go and leave them together. I felt as though I were prying on Leah’s emotion.
“Come, Tamarisk,” I said. Strangely enough she obeyed me.
She ran off to see that her horse was all right. I went into the garden … out to the shrubbery. I felt I wanted to get away from the scene of reunion.
I wondered if Leah loved him. She had made a hero of him, that much I knew. She had lured his child away from her home because she must have wanted something which was part of him. She loved Tamarisk devotedly.
And what were his feelings for Leah? He had spoken to her very tenderly. He had cared for the innocent young girl in the days when he had first gone to the gypsies. He had been overcome with fury when he had come upon that brute intent on rape. He had lashed out in that fury and it had nearly cost him his life.
How would he feel about Leah now? I was aware of the stirrings of jealousy.
He was susceptible to women, I was sure. I remembered Dolly dancing round the bonfire. Dolly had loved him, and how had he felt about her? He pitied her, I think, but there must have been some desire; and he had lightheartedly given way to it. How lighthearted had he been such a little while ago in a house in Blore Street?
And Leah? When she had been a gypsy girl and he had come among them, had she thought it possible that one day there might have been a match between them? It could have happened. Now, of course, everything was different with him. He was a country gentleman and Leah could have no place in his life. Or could she?
And in any case, what part could I have? Nothing but a secret one.
He must have seen me go into the shrubbery for he found me there.
“At last,” he said, “we are alone.”
I had sat down on the wooden seat there and he was beside me, very close. I was deeply stirred as I always was by his proximity.
I said: “Poor Leah was deeply moved.”
“Yes, she was. It brought it all back to her. When I saw her again I was glad I killed that devil. She was such a gentle girl.”
“She still is and she has been wonderful with Tamarisk. If Tamarisk went to live with you in Cornwall Leah would have to go with her.”
“Tamarisk won’t leave you. I’m a newcomer. She’s not sure of me yet. Jessica, couldn’t we be alone … somewhere … together …”
“Here?” I cried. “In this house? Oh, no … no.”
“It is hard for me to see you here… so near and yet so remote.”
“That is how it has to be.”
“You’ll come to London?”
“Yes … no …”
He smiled at me teasingly. “You’ll come. You must, Jessica, we’ll work out something. We can’t just go on like this.”
“I cannot see any other way of going on.”
“There are ways. There are always ways …”
“You mean secret meetings. Clandestine … furtive meetings …”
“We must take what we can.”
“It should never have gone so far.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Tell me about Leah.”
“What of her?”
“How was she … coming face to face with you like that?”
“Deeply moved, I think.”
“I think she loves you.”
“She is grateful to me.”
“And you?”
“I am fond of her.”
“Do you love her? She is a beautiful girl.”
“She is. But I love one only … now and for ever.”
For a moment I lay against him and then I remembered that I was near the house and that at any moment someone might come out. I stood up and he was beside me, his arms round me. He kissed me tenderly and then with passion.
“Not here …” I said, which was an admission that it could be somewhere else.
“When will you come to London?”
“As soon as it is possible,” I said.
“Perhaps you could bring Tamarisk. She ought to be with her father.”
“She is very sharp. What if she saw …”
“We’d be careful.”
I said: “It must stop.”
I withdrew myself and came out of the shrubbery with him beside me. He was holding my arm tightly.
I looked towards the house and wondered if anyone was watching.
Jake’s visit was declared to have been a great success.
“I like him,” said my father. “He’s lively.”
My mother liked him too, but she was a little reserved when speaking of him and I wondered if she guessed that my feelings for him went deeper than was wise.
He had suggested that Tamarisk visit him in London. There was so much there that he wanted to show her. Then he thought it would be a good idea if she went to Cornwall.
She must remember that he was her father and that his home could be hers if she wished, I told her.
She said: “I like it here.” And she was looking at Jonathan who happened to be there.
The great concern now was Amaryllis. Her time was getting near and Claudine was fussing, as Dickon said, like an old hen.
“Amaryllis is a healthy girl, and women were meant to have children. Why all this fuss?”
“There speaks the arrogant man,” said my mother. “Naturally Claudine is fussing. All mothers do. I’m fussing and we shall continue to fuss until we have the baby. As for you, I remember you fussed a little when Jessica was born.”
“I must have known that she would not be content to make a quiet and ordinary appearance.”
“Well, you were wrong. She did. Jessica, you were such an adorable baby … right from the first.”
“A squalling brat as far as I remember,” said my father.
“Whom you adored from the moment she was born.”
That was how they always were, sparring in a way which betrayed their love for each other.
How fortunate they were! I thought. Aunt Sophie had always said my mother had been one of the lucky ones. Yet she had at first been denied the man of her choice and made a not entirely satisfactory marriage; and she had passed through a horrifying experience coming close to death in a most frightening manner during the revolution in France … and only finally to this happy state at Eversleigh.
Poor Aunt Sophie, who had always pitied herself and never learned that one has to make the most of what one has.
/>
I was always telling myself that—particularly now. I had married Edward—good kind Edward—and it was my duty to care for him and shield him from all hurt.
I must learn to like this way of life, to stop dreaming of the impossible, to forget that I had stepped over the bounds of morality and convention … and never, never stray again.
I was with Amaryllis a great deal during those days when she was awaiting the birth of her child, wishing that I could have one. I must not wish for that—for if I did it could not be my husband’s.
I could only sit with Amaryllis and play with Helena.
Poor Amaryllis. She was rather long in labour but the great moment came and I could imagine her joy when she was coming out of her exhaustion and heard the cry of her child. And this one was a boy.
There was great rejoicing throughout the household. I had never seen Peter so delighted. What a store these men set by boys! I felt a little annoyed though I joined in the general rejoicing.
Amaryllis was so proud. She lay in her bed, pale, looking fragile, but beautiful with that radiance on her which I had seen at the time of her marriage.
It was mean of me to feel those twinges of envy. Yet I could not help myself.
She has so much, I said to myself. And what have I? Guilty memories.
I must pull myself together. I must never become like Aunt Sophie … bitter because life had passed me by. I had chosen the way I should go. Of course it was not always one’s fault that life took a certain turn. Was it Sophie’s fault that she had been disfigured in that fireworks disaster? Was it Edward’s fault that he had been cruelly injured? But we must not nurse our misfortunes. Someone had said never take them out and teach them to swim. Take them out and drown them. I must remember that.
I kissed Amaryllis.
“I feel I am the luckiest woman on earth,” she said.
“What are you going to call him?”
“Peter,” she said promptly. “After his father.”
“Does Peter want that?”
“Yes. And I do too.”
So the child was called Peter and because it was a little confusing to have two Peters in the household, he was soon known as Peterkin.
My father was undoubtedly delighted with the boy.
“At last,” he said. “A man in this household of women!”
“Don’t you call David and Jonathan men?” I asked.
“David will never have a son. As for Jonathan … well, I’m uncertain about him.”
“You’re unfair to him,” said my mother.
“Unfair? In what way?”
“Just because of that gambling business and Farmer Weston’s girl.”
“He’s got to behave himself if he takes on Eversleigh.”
“All young men sow wild oats.”
“Not on their own patch of land.”
“Well, the gambling took place in London.”
“That could affect the estate more than anything. It’s the first step on the downward path.”
“Dickon, please, not another lecture on the dangers of gambling.”
“Too much can’t be said about it.”
“You have already made that plain. Well, now you have your great-grandson and you are very pleased. You should be grateful to Amaryllis …”
“I wish Jessica …”
She silenced him. “Let’s go and have a look at Peterkin.”
It was amusing to see my father marching round the nursery with Peterkin in his arms.
“The master just dotes on that child,” they said throughout the household.
And they were right.
The christening of little Peterkin caused the usual flutter in the household. Christening robes were brought out and examined; and there was a great deal of discussion as to the guests who would be invited.
The Barringtons came from Nottingham, Clare with them. I always felt uneasy in Clare’s presence and often thought how much wiser Edward would have been if he had married her. I was sure she would have been a faithful wife; and there was no doubt in my mind that she loved him. Men so often chose the wrong women … as a servant had once told me.
Jake had prolonged his visit but he could not stay with us indefinitely. He had departed most reluctantly after extorting a promise from me to go to London as soon as the christening was over.
“Bring Tamarisk,” he said. “I should get to know my own daughter. Or… I shall come back here. Bless the child. She gives me the excuse I need for visiting you.”
He took our affaire more lightheartedly than I did. Well he might. He was not deceiving anyone … as I was.
I loved his dominating nature while I deplored it. I kept telling myself that it was one lapse on my part and it must never happen again.
The ceremony went off very well. Peterkin behaved with unusual decorum and was duly christened. I don’t know who was more proud of him—his father or mine.
They had their precious boy.
Amaryllis looked beautiful. She was radiantly happy. Lucky Amaryllis, for whom life ran so smoothly.
There was a reception in the great hall at Eversleigh and the usual toasts were drunk. Peterkin, by this time, was sleeping in his cot and several of the guests were taken up to admire him. I was with them. The old Eversleigh nursery had new life in it. Helena was there seated on the floor building a castle with bricks. The perfect domestic scene, I thought enviously.
Mrs. Barrington noticed my looks, I think. She took my hand and pressed it.
“I want to have a talk with you, dear,” she said. “When we are alone.”
Alarm shot through me which was due to the sensitivity of a guilty conscience. Whenever anyone spoke to me in that way, I imagined that something had been discovered.
The moment came.
She said: “Sit down, dear. I’m a little worried.”
“Oh? What about?”
“About you, my dear. You look a little drawn.”
“Drawn?”
“Not quite yourself. I think you must be very tired.”
“Oh no, I’m not in the least tired.”
She patted my hand.
“You’ve been wonderful. We never cease to talk about you and all you have done for Edward. I know how fond of him you are … but I think you are getting a little tired.”
“You mean …”
“I just mean that you are here all the time … and you must get really worn out.”
“Oh no … no. I’ve been to London. I went for the Waterloo celebrations. Edward insisted that I did and so I went.”
“I understand, dear. But I think you need help. That is why we have decided that Clare shall stay here … to help you.”
“Clare?”
“Why not? She is like a sister to Edward. They are fond of each other.”
“I know she has always been fond of Edward.”
“And he of her. But it is you I am thinking of, my dear. It will give you a little respite.”
“It is not necessary.”
The last thing I wanted was for Clare to come here. I always felt she had been resentful of me. I thought: She will be watchful. And I could not afford to be closely watched. She would try to find fault with me. Heaven knew that should not be difficult.
I protested again, but Mrs. Barrington had made up her mind.
“Do you know,” she went on, “being forced to go back to Nottingham has put new life into us both. Father didn’t really want to retire. It was those mobs that upset him. Well, that’s quietened down now. The punishment was getting so severe that they thought better of making all that trouble.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of the man, Fellows, who had been hanged for what he had done.
“So you see, we can do without Clare quite easily. She will help with Edward.”
“It is so kind of you, but I really can manage quite well.”
“I know you can, dear. But Clare will stay and I’ll send on what she needs.”
There was only one thing to d
o and that was thank her graciously.
There were letters from Jake—one for me, one for Tamarisk.
He had written what could only be called a love letter, telling me how lonely it was in London without me. He would have to go to Cornwall, he supposed, and he would hate to be so far away. Suppose he asked me to bring Tamarisk for a visit? Since I had given him such irrefutable proof of my love, he could not do without me. He lived over and over again those hours we had spent in Blore Street and separation was unendurable.
I read the letter and put it away. I knew I should want to read it again and again.
Tamarisk was pleased with her letter, and although she assumed an indifference I believed she was really delighted to find herself with a father. I think she was a little fascinated by him.
“Would you like to go to London?” I asked her, trying to keep the lilt out of my voice.
“I don’t mind,” she said, coolly but with her eyes sparkling at the prospect.
“Your father thinks it would be a good idea if I took you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t mind,” she repeated.
I decided I would talk the matter over with my mother. The prospect of a visit to London always excited her. She said she thought it was a good idea and Tamarisk ought to see more of her father.
“It might well be that he will want to take her,” said my mother.
“You mean to live with him?”
“Why not? It would be natural.”
“I wonder if Tamarisk would want to go.”
“She could take Leah with her.”
The thought of Leah in Cornwall and myself miles away at Grasslands tormented me. Beautiful Leah who, I was sure, was either in love with Jake or ready to be.
“I don’t think she would want to leave Jonathan,” went on my mother, “although it might be a good idea if she did.”
“You’re a little worried about her penchant for Jonathan.”
“I would call it more than a penchant. A grand passion, more likely. She’s an intense little thing and Jonathan … well, let’s face it… he’s not the most stable of young men. He seems to enjoy that adoration she gives him.”
Return of the Gypsy Page 32