I remained silent but she gripped my hand. “I feel,” she said, “that something is wrong.”
“You mustn’t,” I replied. “You have to think of the baby.”
“I know. But I can tell. I’ve always had something … I don’t know what it is … but I know when something terrible is going to happen. I wonder if it is being not quite like other people … deformed in a way. Do you think if you are short of something Nature gives you something else … to make up?”
“Very likely.”
“I’ve done some wicked things in my life.”
“I expect all of us have.”
“I’ve done especially wicked things … but all for love … in a way. I wish I hadn’t. Taking you, for one thing, when you were a little baby. I know now what they must have gone through. I knew then, I suppose … but I wanted to hurt them.”
“Don’t think of that now. It doesn’t seem to have done me much harm.”
“I’ve done worse things … much worse. I wanted revenge. That’s a bad thing.”
“I suppose it is. People often say so.”
“But I’ve always had a special feeling for you because of that time when I kept you in my room. I can see you as you were then. Those lovely big eyes and you just stared at me, you did … and then suddenly you’d break into a smile as though you thought there was something rather funny about me. I knew I couldn’t hurt you then. Jessica, I want you to tell me about him.”
“Tell you what?”
“There is a lot of whispering going on. I know something has happened. You went to Nottingham and it was something to do with him.” She gripped my hand hard. “I sit here worrying. Tell me. I have to know. When I ask questions Jeanne pretends not to understand. She does that. She pretends her English isn’t good enough. But she understands everything. And Mademoiselle Sophie, she won’t tell me either. She keeps saying everything will be all right. I know something is very wrong and I believe it is about him.”
I half rose and said: “I ought to be getting back.”
She looked at me reproachfully.
“I thought you would have the courage to tell me. I lie here worrying. If anyone ought to know, I ought. They come south at the end of the summer. It will soon be summer. Something has happened to him, hasn’t it? I hear the servants whispering. ‘Don’t let her know,’ they say. ‘Don’t let her know till after the baby is born.’”
She was restless and there was a hot colour in her cheeks.
“You mustn’t upset yourself,” I began.
“I am upset and will be until I know. However bad it is, I’ve got to know. He killed a man and they caught him. He’ll be tried. I know what that means. They think I don’t hear their whisperings but I do.”
I burst out: “He killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the gypsy girls.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh then, it’s true. They will hang him.”
“No, no,” I cried. I had to ease her mind. I was sure now that it was better that she should know than fear the worst. “He will be all right,” I went on. “He will not hang. My father has saved him from that. Of course he could not get him freed entirely.”
“Then he is in prison …”
“He has been sentenced to transportation.”
She closed her eyes and lay back on her pillows. I was frightened. The colour had faded from her face. She was as white as the pillow on which she lay.
“It is only for seven years,” I said.
She did not speak. I was afraid and called Jeanne.
That was the beginning. I was not sure whether the shock brought on the birth prematurely, but it was only two days later when Dolly’s child was born.
I explained to my mother what I had done, and she assured me that there was nothing else I could have done in the circumstances. But I was sorry to have been the one to tell her.
The baby was a girl, healthy and strong. Not so, poor Dolly. The midwife said it was one of the most difficult deliveries she had ever undertaken. Aunt Sophie sent for the doctor. Dolly, he said, was not really suited to childbearing. In spite of the fact that she was in her mid-twenties, her body was rather immature.
She was very ill for a week—unconscious most of the time, but there were occasions when she was able to hold the child in her arms.
At the end of the week she died and there was great sorrow at Enderby and indeed at Eversleigh.
Jeanne said: “She was so happy to have the child. I’d never seen her really happy before. And as soon as the child is born she leaves this world! Life can be cruel so often.”
Claudine and my mother discussed at great length what should be done about the child.
“We will take her,” said my mother. “The girls will love to have a baby in the nurseries. I shall like it, too. There is nothing like a baby in the house.”
The child was to be called Tamarisk. I remembered Dolly had told me that she wished her to have that name. She must have told Aunt Sophie, too.
When my mother suggested that Tamarisk be brought to Eversleigh, Aunt Sophie was most indignant.
Indeed it should not be. She had decided to adopt Dolly’s baby. She had always intended to look after her and Dolly. There was only Tamarisk now.
Jeanne took charge as usual and a beautiful nursery was prepared. Aunt Sophie was better than we had ever seen her before.
“It is a great interest for her,” said my mother.
So Tamarisk lived at Enderby and flourished there.
Tamarisk
NOW THAT DOLLY WAS dead the question was what would happen to Grasslands. The baby Tamarisk was Dolly’s natural heir and it was decided that as the house would not be needed because Tamarisk was to live at Enderby, it should either be let or put up for sale.
To let was not easy, and it seemed only reasonable that the house should be sold.
My mother said: “I wonder whether the Barringtons would be interested in it.”
We all stared at her. We had forgotten that they had talked of looking for a house.
“It’s just a possibility,” went on my mother. “And think what pleasant neighbours they would be. Much nicer than having strangers here.”
“There is no harm in letting them know about it,” agreed my father.
Aunt Sophie was quite pleased when she heard we had a possible buyer in view but her interest now was centred on the baby and she gave little attention to anything else.
My mother invited the Barringtons for a visit, and she told them about the house. Both parents as well as Edward and Irene came; and of course Clare Carson was with them. They were enchanted with Grasslands and with the prospect of living close to us—all except Clare, who seemed somewhat guarded in her comments.
To our joy the Barringtons bought Grasslands and made it their main home. Clare came with them. Irene was shortly to be married to a Scot, so she would not be living in the house and Edward remained in Nottingham because of the business; but he often came down to stay with his family.
I thought a great deal about Romany Jake and often wondered how he was faring in the penal settlement.
My conscience was eased a little because we had saved his life but I would never be content unless I could talk to him and explain how it had all happened.
Life at Eversleigh passed pleasantly, unruffled by what was happening in the outside world.
It was April—one of my favourite times of the year because of the coming of spring.
We had lived fairly serenely since the death of Dolly Mather. We were no longer apprehensive about a possible invasion though Trafalgar had not put an end to Napoleon’s ambitions. He had shrugged aside his failure at sea as he was making good his conquests on land and setting up his family to rule in the courts of Europe. Eager to found a dynasty of rulers, he had divorced his wife Josephine because she was barren and taken as his second wife Marie Louise of Austria in the hope of producing a son to carry on the line.
The wretched war dragged on. There were defeats and victories and one wondered whether it would ever end, though it did not affect us greatly except in increased taxation. The nation found a new hero in Arthur Wellesley who—after the victories of Oporto and Talavera about two years before—had been created Baron Douro and Viscount Wellington, and we were having spectacular successes on the Continent.