The Return of the Gypsy (34 page)

Napoleon had tried to escape from France, but finding this impossible had surrendered to Captain Maitland of the Bellerophon at Rochefort about a month after his defeat at Waterloo. He must be given no opportunities to escape again; and this time he was banished to St. Helena.

This must be the end of him.

And so the celebrations continued. Later people would be counting the enormous cost of the war and complaining about the taxes that had had to be imposed to pay for it. While the war was in progress these had been accepted; it was only when it was over that voices would be raised in protest.

But in the meantime there was little thought beyond the euphoria of victory, and everyone was determined to make the most of it.

We went to London where we received invitations to the Inskips’ ball.

The Inskips were associates of my father, and Lord Inskip was a very important and influential gentleman. This would be one of the most splendid balls of that season of rejoicing.

We needed very special ball gowns for the occasion and my mother said they could not be trusted to our seamstresses. We must go to the Court dressmakers and give ourselves a little time beforehand, because naturally on such an occasion we must be suitably garbed.

Amaryllis was not with us in London, being in no condition to travel and therefore Claudine preferred to stay at home with her. David naturally did not come. He, after all, had not been concerned in the London side of my father’s involvements. So it was just Jonathan, my parents and myself.

My mother and I had a busy time shopping and attending the dressmakers. I had never had such a dress. It was of flame-coloured chiffon, narrow at the waist and a skirt which billowed out in flounce after flounce. It was slightly off my shoulders and my mother said I should wear my hair dressed high with a gold ornament in it. About my neck I was to wear a gold necklace and there were to be gold earrings in my ears.

My mother’s maid spent hours with us both, dressing our hair and making sure that our gowns set as they should and we wore the right accessories.

My mother was beautiful in her favourite shade of peacock blue. Jonathan was his jaunty self and my father looked distinguished and handsome, but I noticed how white his hair had become and that gave me a tremor of alarm. Even he could not live forever, I thought uneasily.

However, those were not reflections for such a day.

We set out in the carriage for the Inskips’ mansion which was close to the Park. There Lord and Lady Inskip received us most graciously and as we mingled with the glittering guests our magnificent dresses seemed suddenly to become commonplace among that throng.

Dancing was in progress in the ballroom and I danced with Jonathan. My mother and father danced together. When it was over a young man approached. He knew Jonathan who introduced us and he and I went into the next dance.

There followed the cotillion and the quadrille. Conversation was light and meaningless as it is on these occasions for one cannot very well talk of anything of moment when one is being whirled round the ballroom.

It was when the quadrille was over that I looked up suddenly and saw a man coming towards me. There was something familiar about him. He was very tall and so lean that he looked even taller than he actually was; his hair was dark, his eyes a lively brown; and there was something in his face which suggested that he found life very amusing—in fact something of a joke. I wondered vaguely why I should notice so much in such a short time. It might have been because I had seen it all before.

I must have stared at him, showing some interest.

“I believe,” he said, “that we have met before.”

He stood before me, smiling. “You don’t remember me evidently.”

“I … am not sure.”

“Perhaps it is a long time ago. Would you care to dance?”

“Yes,” I replied.

He took my hands and excitement gripped me. He was very like … He couldn’t be, of course. That would be impossible.

“When I caught sight of you,” he said, “I was taken back … years ago. I thought we had met before.”

“I had the same feeling. Do you live in London?”

“I have a place here … a small house. My home is in Cornwall.”

“I don’t think we can possibly have met before. But you are so like someone I knew once … when I was a child … briefly. He was … a gypsy.”

I saw his mouth twitch. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. He was a wicked character, was he? Someone it was not right that a well-brought-up young lady should know? And I resemble him?”

“Well, in a way you do. But there is a difference.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Nine years.”

“You remember so promptly.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Tell me how different I am from him?”

“Your skin is more brown.”

“That’s the Australian sun.”

My heart began to beat very fast. “You have been in Australia?”

“As a matter of fact I have but recently returned. I have been in England some six months. You have changed … more than I have. After all you were only a little girl. I was at least grown up. But nine years can do something to a man, especially when they are nine such as I have had.”

“You can’t be …”

“Yes, I am.”

“What a strange coincidence.”

“We should have met sooner or later. I was planning to come down your way to see what had happened after all those years.”

“Are you really Romany Jake?”

“I confess I am.”

“They sent you away …”

“For seven years.”

“And now you are free.”

He nodded. “There is one thing I never forget,” he said. “I should not be here but for a certain young lady.”

“You know that I didn’t betray you then?”

“I never thought that you did. Well, perhaps for just a little while when I came out of that house and they were there with you.”

“I suffered agonies. Then I made my father help you.”

“It would have been the end of me if you hadn’t.”

“I can’t tell you how glad I was when I knew your life was spared. There is so much I want to know. It is difficult to talk here.”

“There is a garden. We’ll slip away and find a corner down there where it is quieter. I have much to tell you.”

He took my hand and we went out of the ballroom and down the stairs. The Inskip garden faced the Park and beyond the wall it stretched out before us—the trees reaching out to the midnight blue sky, the stars shining there and the light of a crescent moon turning the Serpentine to silver. It was a perfect night but I was hardly aware of it. I was not aware of anything much but the man at my side.

There were one or two couples there who had sought the quiet of the garden, but they were well away from us.

We sat down together.

“I can’t believe you are Romany Jake,” I said.

“That is well in the past.”

“Tell me …”

“Let me tell you how Romany Jake managed to get an invitation to such an exclusive ball. I am a man of substance now. Sir Jake Cadorson. Jake to his friends. The Romany no longer applies.”

“But the last time I heard of you you were on a convict ship going out to Australia.”

“Seven years’ transportation. Those seven years were up two years ago. I am a free man.”

“So you came back to England.”

“At first I did not intend to. I was put into the service of a grazier in New South Wales some miles north of Sydney. He wasn’t a bad fellow. He was just and fair if one worked well. I was glad to work. There was so much to forget. So I worked and I was soon in favour with him. When my years of servitude were up he gave me a patch of land. I was going into wool myself, and I did for a year, I didn’t do too badly. It is easier in a new country. All one has to contend with is the elements, the plagues of this and that and other blessings of nature. It can be pretty grim, I can tell you; but there was a challenge in it and it appealed to me.”

“But you decided not to stay?”

He looked at me intently. “Life is strange,” he said. “You know I left home to wander with the gypsies. I never got on with my brother. He was considerably older than I, and very serious … without imagination. But that’s my side of the question. When I went he was glad to be rid of me and washed his hands of me. The family estates are in South Cornwall. Well, my brother died and then everything, including the title, has come to me. You see I have come a long way from the gypsy and felon I was when you last knew me.”

“I am so glad It has turned out very well for you.”

“And you?”

“I married.”

There was a brief silence and then he said: “I suppose that was inevitable. Is your husband here tonight?”

“No. I am here with my parents.”

Again that silence.

“My husband is an invalid,” I said slowly. “He was injured during the Luddite riots.”

“I’m … sorry.”

His manner had changed.

I said coolly: “I think I ought to tell you that you have a daughter.”

He stared at me.

“Dolly … of course,” he said. “Poor Dolly.”

“Poor Dolly indeed. She died giving birth to your child.”

“What?”

“Of course you wouldn’t remember anything about it. You had your little … frolic. Do you remember the bonfire? Trafalgar Day? Your daughter in fact lives with me now.”

“But this is incredible.”

“Of course you had forgotten. It is amazing, is it not? These things seem so trivial to some who partake in them, but they can have devastating results, and one of the partners is left to deal with them.”

“A daughter, you say?”

“Her name is Tamarisk. She is a rather wild, rebellious girl, as perhaps might have been expected.”

“You are hostile suddenly. A few moments ago …”

“Hostile? Indeed not. I was just stating the facts. When Dolly discovered she was to have a child, her grandmother was so upset she died.”

“Died! Because her granddaughter was going to have a child?”

“Some people care about these things. She had a similar trouble with another granddaughter. She just seemed to give up. She went out one cold winter’s night to consult someone and she almost froze to death. Dolly was taken under the wing of my Aunt Sophie and she died when the child was born. My aunt brought up the child who showed her gratitude by running away with the gypsies. You remember Leah.”

“Leah? Certainly I remember Leah.”

“It was because of Leah that you almost lost your life.”

“One does not forget such things. Poor Dolly… and the child.”

“She came back to us. She had tired of the gypsy way of life. She wanted her warm bed, the comforts of that other life she had experienced. But when she returned my aunt had died of a broken heart. You see what a trail of havoc one little frolic round a bonfire can bring?”

He closed his eyes and suddenly I felt sorry for him. He must have suffered a great deal.

I said more gently: “Well, now Tamarisk is with us. I don’t think she will want to go wandering again.”

“I must see the child,” he said.

“She is at Grasslands. Do you remember Grasslands? It was Dolly’s home.”

“The house in which I was hiding when they took me?”

“Yes,” I said. It was all coming back to me so vividly—that moment when he had opened the door and I had suddenly become aware that I was not alone, and that he would think I had betrayed him.

“I live at Grasslands now,” I went on. “It is my home. It was bought by my husband’s family before he was injured.”

“So much happens as the years pass,” he said. “I must see the child. I wonder what she will think of me. Perhaps I should take her back to Cornwall with me.”

“She will be excited to know she has a father.”

He was silent for a while. Then he said: “Forgive me. I am overwhelmed. I feel that sitting here I have lived through years. I have been thinking ever since I came back to England that I must come and look for you. How foolish one is! I let myself believe that I should find you just as I left you … a young girl… nine years ago … as if nothing would change.”

“And you? You married?”

He shook his head. “I always knew I should come back to England.”

We heard a distant bell ringing through the house.

“I think that means they are serving supper,” I said.

The other people left the garden and we were alone.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said. “I can’t tell you how often I dreamed of coming home when I was away.”

“I suppose one would.”

He stood up and taking my hand drew me up to stand beside him.

“I used to say to myself, I’ll go back. I’ll ride through the country. I’ll visit the places we used to see when we trundled through in our caravans. I’ll go down to Eversleigh. I remembered it well. That cosy corner of England. Isn’t it called the Garden of England?”

“Yes, because of the apples and cherries and plums that grow there better than anywhere else in the country.”

“Eversleigh … Grasslands and the young girl with the dark expressive eyes who had a spirit like mine and would fight for what she believed was right. Do you know, I thought you were the most enchanting little girl I had ever seen.”

“And Dolly?” I could not resist saying.

“She was a tragic little thing. Life had been unkind to her.”

“You mean people, don’t you?”

“I was thoughtless … careless …”

“You betrayed her.”

“I betrayed myself.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I thought nothing of it. We were dancing round the bonfire. Dolly was eager to be loved … even fleetingly.”

“Oh I see. Just worthy of your attention for a very short time.”

“It wasn’t like that, you know.”

“But you honoured her briefly with a little of your attention.”

“You are angry suddenly.”

“I hate this attitude towards women, as though they are here to pander to the temporary needs of men, little playthings to be picked up, amusing for a while, and then cast aside.”

“You are talking in well worn clichés.”

“Clichés come about because they are a neat way of stating a truth.”

“I have never before heard them so described and I repeat that it was not like that with Dolly. She was not forced, you know.”