“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.”
“But the present-day Luddites are not mad. They are just frightened men.”
“You could say that they are short-sighted. They can’t see that if we are to continue to be prosperous, we have to advance with the times, and if we don’t there will be no work anyway.”
Mrs. Barrington came over. “Is Edward boring you with talk about those people who are threatening to break the machines?”
Amaryllis wanted to know about them and it was explained.
“Poor men,” she said. “It is so terrible to be afraid of poverty.”
Edward said: “We have to move with the times.”
“What will happen?” she asked.
“We shall have to wait and see. We must have the machines, that’s certain. If the workmen become a menace we shall have to call in the troops or something like that.”
Mrs. Barrington changed the subject. She was the sort of woman who hated the thought of trouble and seemed to believe that if one did not think of it, it ceased to exist. But I was rather disturbed thinking of the men who feared the machines would rob them of their livelihood.
“Clare said there were gypsies in the neighbourhood,” Mrs. Barrington was saying.
“Yes. I saw them coming in this morning,” said Clare. “The caravans were lumbering along the road.”
“They plan to stay only a little while,” added Amaryllis. “We saw them as we came along and spoke to one of them.”
“It was Leah,” I said. “Do you remember Leah?”
They were all puzzled for a moment.
“Six years ago,” I reminded them. “When we all met. She must have been about fourteen then, I’d say. I recognized her at once. We were in Nottingham to do what we could for the gypsy. Leah was the girl in the case.”
“I remember well,” said Edward.
“They are asking my father’s permission to camp in the woods.”
“He’ll give it,” said Amaryllis, “with the usual injunctions about fire risks, of course.”
The Barringtons did not seem to find the subject of the gypsies very interesting and Mrs. Barrington began to talk about the previous year’s party at which rain had made use of the garden impossible.
At length we left.
As we came close to Enderby, I said: “Let’s call in. There’s time.”
Amaryllis was agreeable.
As we approached the house we saw Tamarisk on her pony—a new acquisition for last Christmas. One of the grooms had her on a leading rein and she was trying to break away from him.
I could never see Tamarisk without thinking of Romany Jake. She was a very beautiful child, though not conventionally so. She had enormous expressive dark eyes with thick black hair and lashes. Her features were perfect. Her hair was straight and so thick that nothing could be done with it. Jeanne despaired of it. She would have liked soft curls. Jeanne herself cut it, as she said, in the only possible way. It was short with a fringe on the forehead, so that Tamarisk looked like a handsome boy. She was tall for her years—long limbed and graceful. She had a wild rebellious nature. My mother and Claudine said it was due to the fact that Aunt Sophie had spoiled her, for Aunt Sophie doted on her. My mother declared she had never known Sophie so contented with life. And it was all due to this naughty child.
She was bright and intelligent and had already taught herself to read, but there was nothing docile about Tamarisk. She would fly into rages if she was crossed. If anyone annoyed her she would fix those enormous eyes upon them and murmur in a deep voice: “You’ll be sorry.”
Jeanne both delighted in and despaired of her.
“I do not know what she will be like when she grows up,” she said. “She is so rebellious now.”
The governess said she was a handful though she had only been in the house a month. The previous one had stayed six weeks. Some of the servants blamed her parentage, saying: “She’s the gypsy’s child. What blood has she got in her veins? She could be a witch.”
It was unfortunate that Tamarisk overheard these comments for instead of being disturbed by being thought of as a witch, she was delighted.
“I’m a witch,” she was constantly reminding everyone. “Witches put spells on people.”
She had revolutionized Enderby. It was no longer merely the home of a recluse and her maid. It was typical of Tamarisk that she should dominate the household.
“I don’t want to be held,” she was saying. “I want to ride properly.”
I said: “Hello, Tamarisk.”
The luminous dark eyes turned to us. “You have a proper horse,” she said. “Why can’t I?”
“You will when you are a little older,” Amaryllis told her gently.
“I don’t need to be older. I want it now.”
“When you are seven perhaps.”
“I want it now …”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, feeling sorry for the poor groom.
Tamarisk glared at me.
“We are going to see Aunt Sophie,” I continued. “Is she well?”
“I don’t want a little horse like a baby. I don’t want to be a child.”
“Babies don’t ride at all,” pointed out Amaryllis.
“Some babies could. I could.”
“Come on, Amaryllis,” I said, turning away. “That child is getting impossible,” I added.
“Poor little thing. It hasn’t been easy for her.”
“Not easy! With Aunt Sophie doting and Jeanne supplying all her needs!”
“Still…”
“You’d make excuses for the devil.” I spurred on my horse and made for the stables.
Aunt Sophie was in her sitting room. In the old days before the coming of Tamarisk, she had scarcely stirred from her room. She looked almost normal or would have done but for the unusual hood she wore, which covered the scarred part of her face. This morning it was pale blue which matched her gown. Jeanne was with her.
“We have fixed the day for the party,” I said, “and we’ve been over to Grasslands to issue the invitations.”
We did not ask Aunt Sophie. We knew she would not want to be present, and if by some miracle she did decide to come, she would not need an invitation.
She asked after my mother and Claudine which was a formality really, because they had called on her only the previous day.