The Return of the Gypsy (2 page)

The other house that interested me was Grasslands—and again it was not the house which fascinated me so much as the people who lived in it. Grasslands was an ordinary small manor house—pleasant without being impressive. There was nothing special about the house itself to arouse my interest. Its inmates were quite another matter.

Old Mrs. Trent, for instance. I was sure she was a witch. She rarely emerged from the house, and it was said she had become a little strange since the suicide of her elder grand-daughter. It was a tragic story and she had never got over it. She lived in Grasslands with another grand-daughter—Dorothy Mather, whom we all knew as Dolly.

Dolly was a strange creature. One met her riding about the countryside; sometimes she would return our greeting; at others pass us by as though she did not see us. She ought to have been attractive; she had a neat figure and pretty, fair hair, but she had a facial disfigurement. One eyelid was drawn down at one side and her face seemed slightly paralysed in a way that gave her a somewhat sinister appearance.

I told Amaryllis that she gave me the shivers and even when she smiled, which was not often, that malformation gave her a mocking look.

Claudine was always trying to be kind to her and telling us we must be the same. “Poor Dolly,” she used to say, “life has been cruel to her.”

Amaryllis would always stop and talk to her and oddly enough Dolly seemed to be a little fascinated by her. She looked at Amaryllis as if she knew something about her which she could tell if she wanted to.

So we lived in our little community which was now threatened by the possibility of invaders who would disrupt our pleasant existence.

It was a lovely September day. There was just a little chill in the air, which was full of the scents of autumn. Amaryllis and I had ridden away from Eversleigh in the company of Miss Rennie, and had come as far as the woods. It was lovely riding under the trees on a carpet of golden and russet leaves. I liked the scrumbling noise the horses’ hooves made as they walked through them.

Miss Rennie was a little breathless. As we had approached the woods I had pressed my horse into a gallop, which always alarmed Miss Rennie. She was not so sure of herself on a horse as she was at the schoolroom desk and was greatly relieved on those days when one of the grooms took over the duty of escorting us.

I was thoughtless in those days and I liked to tease her. It made up for the withering contempt she sometimes had for my scholastic achievements. It was like turning the tables and I am afraid I often set my horse galloping ahead of her, for I knew she had great difficulty in keeping up.

“Race you!” I had cried to Amaryllis; and we were off. Thus we reached the woods a little before Miss Rennie, which was why we came face to face with the gypsy.

“Don’t you think we should wait for Miss Rennie?” cried Amaryllis.

“She’ll catch up,” I replied.

“I think we should wait for her.”

“You wait then.”

“No. We should keep together.”

I laughed and pushed on. And there he was, sitting under a tree. He was very colourful and yet somehow blended in with the landscape. He wore an orange-coloured shirt, open at the neck. I caught a glimpse of a gold chain and there were gold rings in his ears. His breeches were light brown; he had dark hair which curled about his head and brown sparkling eyes. I noticed the flash of very white teeth in a sunburned skin. He began to strum on a guitar when he saw us.

I pulled up my horse and stared at him.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said in a musical voice.

“Good afternoon,” I replied.

Amaryllis was now beside me.

He rose and bowed. “What a pleasure to meet not only one beautiful lady—but two.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“A gypsy. A wanderer on the face of the earth.”

“Where have you wandered from?”

“From all over the country.”

“Are you encamped here?”

He waved his hands.

I said: “These are my father’s woods.”

“I am sure the father of such a charming young lady would not grudge the poor gypsies a spot on which to rest their caravans.”

“Miss Jessica! Miss Amaryllis!” It was Miss Rennie. She was close by.

“We’re here, Miss Rennie,” called Amaryllis.

The gypsy looked on with some amusement as Miss Rennie came into sight.

“Oh there you are! How many times have I told you not to go on ahead of me? It is most unseemly.” She stopped short. She had seen the man and was horrified. She took her duties very seriously and the thought of her charges coming into contact with strangers—and a man at that—momentarily stunned her.

“What… what are you doing?” she stammered.

“Nothing,” I replied. “We have just got here and have met…”

He bowed to Miss Rennie. “Jake Cadorson, at your service, Madam.”

“What?” cried Miss Rennie shrilly.

“I am Cornish, Madam,” he went on, smiling as though he found the situation very amusing, “and Cador in the Cornish language means Warrior. So Cador son… the son of a warrior. For convenience my gypsy friends call me Romany Jake.”

“Very interesting, I am sure,” said Miss Rennie, recovering her composure. “Now we must get back or we shall be late for tea.”

He bowed again and resuming his seat under the tree he began to strum on the guitar; as we turned away he started to sing. I could not resist looking back. He saw me and putting his fingers to his lips blew me a kiss. I felt extraordinarily excited. I rode on in a sort of daze. I could hear his strong and rather pleasant voice as we went on to the edge of the wood.

“I must insist that you stay with me when we are riding,” Miss Rennie was saying. “That was an unfortunate encounter. Gypsies in the woods! I don’t know what Mr. Frenshaw will have to say about that.”

“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.