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.
So I had no desire to run away from him, nor to reprove him for poaching on our land.
“Good day to you, little lady,” he said.
“Good day,” I replied. “I know who you are. You’re Romany Jake. I met you in the woods the other day, I believe.”
“I am certain of it, for having once made your acquaintance that would be something I should never forget. But that such a great lady as yourself should remember me … that is as gratifying as it is remarkable.”
“You don’t speak like a gypsy,” I said.
“I trust you will not hold that against me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you might think that every man should keep his place … a gentleman a gentleman … a gypsy a gypsy.”
I fancied he was laughing at me so I smiled.
“I know you live in your caravan in the woods,” I said. “Are you staying long?”
“The joy of the wandering life is that you go where you will when the spirit moves you. It is a great life lived under the sun, the moon and the stars.”
He had a musical voice not in the least like any gypsy I had ever heard. There was laughter in it and it made me want to laugh too.
“You’re quite poetic,” I said.
“The life makes one love nature. It makes one conscious of the blessings of nature—of the life on the open road.”
“What about winter?”
“Ah, there you have spoken. The north wind will blow and we shall have snow and what will the gypsy do then, poor man. I’ll tell you. He might find some warm and cosy house and a warm and cosy lady who will open her doors to him and shelter him there until the cold is past and the spring comes.”
“Then he wouldn’t be a wandering gypsy, would he?”
“What does that matter as long as he is happy and those about him are happy. Life is meant to be enjoyed. You agree with me? Yes, I know you do. You will enjoy life, I see it in your eyes.”
“Do you see the future?”
“They say, do they not, that gypsies have the powers?”
“Tell me what you see for me.”
“All that you want it to be. That’s your future.”
“That sounds very good to me.”
“You’ll make it good.”
“Have you made yours good?”
“To be sure I have.”
“You seem to be rather poor.”
“No man is poor when he has the good earth to live on, and the sun to warm his days and the moon to light his nights.”
“You have a great respect for the heavens,” I said.
“Well, from thence comes the source of life. I’ll tell you something if you will swear never to mention it to a soul.”
“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly. “I promise.”
“I took to you the moment I saw you. I said to myself: She’ll be a fiery beauty, that one. I’d like to steal her away and take her off with me.”
I burst out laughing. Of course I should have scowled at him and ridden off immediately; but I did not. I just wanted to stay where I was and indulge in this conversation which was fascinating to me.
“What! You think I would leave home and become a gypsy.”
“I did,” he said. “It’s a good life … for a while.”
I shivered. “What about the north winds blowing and the snow coming?”
“You’d have me to keep you warm at nights.”
“Should you be talking to me like this?”
“I am sure some would say I shouldn’t but between ourselves it depends on whether you want to hear it.”
“I don’t think I should stay here.”
“Oh, but is it not the things which we are supposed not to do which we enjoy doing? I’ll swear you have often done that which you should not have done … and loved the doing of it.”
Someone was coming. I looked at the bulge in his pocket. He was about to disappear when Amaryllis came into view.
“This is my lucky day,” he said. “Once more two beautiful ladies.”
“Why, it’s Romany Jake,” said Amaryllis.
“You are the second lady to do me the honour of remembering my name … and all in an hour.”
Amaryllis looked at me and said: “We ought to go in.”
“I was just going,” I replied.
“Good day, Mr.—” began Amaryllis.
“Cadorson,” he said. “Jake Cadorson.”
“Well, good day, Mr. Cadorson,” I said.
Amaryllis pulled at my arm and I turned away with her. I was aware of his watching eyes as we went towards the house.
“What was he doing there?” asked Amaryllis.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see what he had in his pocket?”
“There was certainly something there.”
“A hare or a pheasant, I think,” said Amaryllis. “He must have been poaching. Do you think we ought to tell your father or mine?”