So I sat beside him and Mrs. Lincroft remained while we conversed. He wanted to assure me how he enjoyed my performances on the late Lady Stacy’s piano. He was often asleep when I finished, he knew; but that meant I had soothed him and that he had found my performance deeply satisfying.
We were talking thus peacefully when I was suddenly aware—one split second before the others—that someone had come into the courtyard. It was Serena, the gypsy.
Then Mrs. Lincroft saw her. She started up with a little cry and said: “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Sir William. How d’you do, Sir William. It’s not easy to get to see you, but you can’t help that, can you?”
“What does the woman want?” asked Sir William.
“You know who she is?” whispered Mrs. Lincroft.
I rose and started to move away but the gypsy cried: “No, you’re to stay, ma’am. I want you to hear this, too. I’ve got my reasons.”
I looked askance at Mrs. Lincroft who nodded and I sat down again. The color in Sir William’s face had deepened to an alarming purple.
“Now, are you going to stop ordering us off your land, sir?”
“No, I am not,” retorted Sir William. “You’ll be gone by tomorrow night or I’ll have the police on you.”
“I don’t think you will,” said Serena insolently. She was standing with her hands on her hips, her legs slightly apart, her head thrown back. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t stop that order right away and that’s a fact.”
“Sorry!” he demanded. “Is that blackmail?”
“You! To talk of blackmail, you old rogue! I reckon you’re no better than the rest of us.”
Mrs. Lincroft rose. “I can’t have Sir William upset.”
“You can’t? And you can’t have yourself upset either. But you’ve got to do what I want or you will. Oh I know I’m poor. I know I don’t live in this mansion here, but I’ve got a right to live where I want, same as anyone else…and if you try to stop me you’re going to be sorry…both of you.”
Mrs. Lincroft looked at me. “I’ll take Sir William in now,” she said.
I rose but the gypsy waved us both back.
“So you won’t take off your ban?” she asked.
“No, I won’t,” declared Sir William. “You’re going before the week’s out. I’ve sworn I won’t have gypsies on my land and I mean it.”
“I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Be off with you.”
“All right. You’ve asked for it. I’m going to tell you one or two things you won’t like. There’s my girl Allegra, your granddaughter…”
“That’s unfortunately so,” said Sir William. “We have looked after the child. She has had her home here. There our duty ends.”
“Oh yes…and Napier is said to be her father. That suits you, don’t it? But what if I tell you he’s not, eh? That’s what I’m telling you, and you won’t like it. One of your sons was the father of my child but it wasn’t Nap. Oh no, it was your precious Beau…him you build temples to.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Sir William.
“I thought you wouldn’t. But I ought to know who the father of my child is.”
“It’s lies,” said Sir William. “All lies.”
“Don’t listen to the woman,” said Mrs. Lincroft, rising and putting her hands on the wheelchair.
“Listen to that woman instead!” jeered the gypsy. “She’ll tell you all you want to know. She’ll say yes, yes, yes…like she always has.” Serena thrust her face forward and leered. “Right from the beginning, eh…even when poor Lady Stacy was alive. And why did she kill herself, do you think? Because her son was accidentally shot by his brother? Because she’d lost her boy? That perhaps, but mostly because she hadn’t a husband to comfort her and help her over her loss. She’d discovered that he was far more interested in comforting the pretty companion.”
“Stop it,” cried Mrs. Lincroft. “Stop…at once.”
“Stop it! Stop it!” echoed the gypsy. She turned to me. “Some people don’t like to hear the truth. And can you blame them? I don’t. Because the truth ain’t very nice. Poor old Nap! He was the scapegoat. He’d shot his brother so it was easy to blame him for everything. If I’d said Beau was the father of the child I was going to have I’d have been sent packing. No one would have believed me. So I said it was Nap. Then they believed me all right and accepted their responsibility and I did it for the child’s sake. So I lied…because I knew it was the only way to get a home for her…and when Lady Stacy killed herself and left a note saying why…Not only because she’d lost her beautiful boy but because her husband was unfaithful to her right under her own roof…they blamed Nap for that too and sent him away. That made it all very simple. One villain instead of three.”
“You’re upsetting Sir William,” said Mrs. Lincroft.
“Let him be upset. Let him come out from behind Nap. Let him stop fooling himself that he’s not responsible for his wife’s suicide. And don’t forget…if the gypsies are moved on everyone will know this, not just Madam Music here.”
Mrs. Lincroft looked appealingly at me. “I must get Sir William into the house,” she said. “I think we should call the doctor. Would you see about that please, Mrs. Verlaine.”
I went down to the stables because I knew that Napier would be coming in at that hour. When he arrived I said: “There is something I must tell you. We can’t talk here.”
“Where?” he asked.
“In the copse. I’ll go there now and wait.”
He nodded; he could see by my expression that this was something important.
I walked across the gardens to the copse. I had to talk to him about what I had heard in the enclosed garden; and even as I walked across the lawns on that bright and sunny day I felt that eyes were watching me. I could not rid myself now of the notion that everything I did was being observed, that someone was waiting for the chance to strike at me. It would not be death by fire this time. But there were other alternatives. And the one who was watching me, planning my destruction was, I felt in my bones, the one responsible for the deaths of Edith and Roma.
I was not safe, but I was learning rapidly; and what I had heard this morning—if it were true—was knowledge that made me joyous. And I could not wait to tell Napier what I knew.
I waited in the copse, near the ruin. Destroyed by fire…like the cottage. The first of the fires. I leaned against the walls and listened. A footfall in the woods. How foolish I was to come here alone. What could happen to me in this copse, this haunted copse to which people did not come frequently because they were afraid of ghosts.
But Napier would be here soon.
I looked over my shoulder uneasily. The crackle of undergrowth had startled me. I had a notion that somewhere…among those trees…some alien eyes regarded me. Someone was asking himself—or herself—what is she doing here? Is this the time?
Panic seized me. I called out: “Is that you, Napier?”
There was no answer. Only a rustle of leaves…and again that crackle of undergrowth which might have been a footstep.
And then Napier was coming toward me.
“I’m so pleased to see you.”
I held out my hands and he grasped them warmly.
“I have discovered the truth about Allegra,” I said. “Her mother has just confronted Sir William and told him. I had to see you. I had to…”
He repeated: “The truth about…Allegra?”
“That Beau was her father.”
“She told him that?”
“Yes. In the courtyard a short while ago. He was threatening to evict the gypsies and she came to see him and told him that his precious Beau was Allegra’s father and that she had blamed you because they would have said she was lying and turned her away if she had accused Beau.”