“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.”
“I think we should go to supper,” I said.
He took my arm and pressed it.
“This has been a most exciting evening. Meeting you … like this. I meant to come to see you within a few days. This is the first opportunity I have had of getting to London. My brother was an old friend of Lord Inskip so naturally I, the heir, was invited to the ball.”
“Do they know that you served several years … as a convict?”
“In Australia, yes. It doesn’t count. People are sent to Australia for their politics. There is not the same smear as serving a term of imprisonment here. I shall not attempt to hide my past, I assure you. People must take me as they find me.”
I had turned away and we went into the supper room. My emotions were in a whirl. I had been so taken off my guard. It had taken me some time before I could believe that he had come back.
For some reason I did not want to see him again. He disturbed me. I realized that over the last nine years I had thought about him quite often. He had intruded into my thoughts and now that he was back he seemed more disturbing than ever.
I saw my parents seated at one of the tables and leaving him I hurriedly joined them.