Philippa Carr - The Return of the Gypsy

“I am afraid,” she said, “terribly afraid that she is slipping away from me.”

We went up to Aunt Sophie’s bedroom. We stood round her bed. I am not sure whether she recognized us. She lay with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I wish I could have got a priest,” said Jeanne.

My mother said: “Perhaps she will recover.”

“No, Madame, not this time. This is the end.”

As though to confirm this, Aunt Sophie’s breathing became stertorous. After a while she was quiet.

“My poor Jeanne,” said my mother, putting an arm about her.

“I knew,” said Jeanne. “For the last days I have known. This last blow … It was too much.”

My father said he would send one of the servants for the doctor.

“I have already done so,” said Jeanne. “He will be here shortly. Ah … I believe now. But there is nothing he can do. Yesterday he told me. There is nothing, he said.”

My mother gently led Jeanne out of the bedroom.

My father took the doctor into the bedroom and the rest of us went downstairs. As we sat in the hall with its high vaulted ceiling and its haunted minstrels’ gallery I had the feeling that the house was listening, waiting. And I thought: Who will live here now?

Jeanne was saying that Aunt Sophie had never recovered from her grief over the loss of Tamarisk.

“It’s a pity that child was ever born,” said my mother.

“Poor Dolly,” I said. “She would have loved her.”

Claudine put her hand to her head and said irrelevantly: “I don’t like this house. There’s always trouble in it. I believe it is something to do with the house.”

If I let my imagination stray I was sure I would have heard the house laughing, mockingly.

“She grieved for Tamarisk,” mused Jeanne. “If only the child had not gone. She did so much for her. She was her life. She could see no wrong in her. To go like this without a word. The gypsy in her I suppose. And what it did to my poor lady!”

“What she would have done without you, Jeanne, I can’t imagine,” said my mother.

“She brooded on her misfortunes,” said Jeanne. “She always did. I used to think she revelled in them. But not this one … not losing the child.”

“I should like a little brandy,” said my mother. “Something to warm us up. I think we all need something.”

Jeanne went away to get it.

“It gives her something to do,” said my mother. “Poor soul. This is a terrible grief for her.”

When Jeanne came back the men joined us.

The doctor said Aunt Sophie had died of a congestion of the lungs.

“And a surfeit of sorrow,” added my mother.

Claudine looked over her shoulder at the minstrels’ gallery and shivered.

“Are you cold, Mamma?” asked Amaryllis. “Here. Have my shawl.”

“No, my darling. I’m not cold.” She looked with infinite fondness at her daughter.

The doctor was saying that Aunt Sophie had not wished to live. It sometimes happened when people had this death wish that death came to them. There was nothing which could have saved her—not all the devoted nursing possible. She was just tired of living, tired of fighting.

“She beckoned to death and it came,” I said.

My father looked impatient and said it was getting late and there was nothing we could do tonight.

We went back to Eversleigh leaving Jeanne with her desolation.

On a dark and dismal day, Aunt Sophie was laid to rest. Tamarisk’s disappearance had ceased to be a subject for contemplation among the servants.

There were a number of mourners at the graveside and even more spectators. Aunt Sophie had always been something of an oddity in the neighbourhood. Now she had died—or rather faded away—that was the end of her sad story.

The cortege had left Enderby and the mourners would come back to Eversleigh where they would be given food and drink; and after that the family would assemble for the reading of Aunt Sophie’s will.

We had discussed the possibilities of what it might contain.

“Enderby would be a problem,” said my father. He thought the wisest thing would be to sell. “The whole lot,” he said. “Lock, stock and barrel. Get rid of the place. The problem would be to find a likely buyer.”

“It’s improved a lot since Sophie took over,” said my mother. “Jeanne has stamped her impeccable taste on it and the blending of colours in some of the rooms is really exquisite.”

“It’s not everybody who is looking for fancy French taste,” my father reminded her.

“Maybe not but people are impressed by a tastefully furnished house.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

And now the waiting was over, and we were all assembled in my father’s study for the reading of the will.

It was what might have been expected. Jeanne was amply provided for. She would have enough money to set up in a house of her own or return to France when the time was ripe. Aunt Sophie wrote most touchingly of their devotion to each other. There were small legacies to the servants and to us but the house itself was to go to Tamarisk “so that she would always have a home.”

The will must have been made before Tamarisk’s disappearance.

When the guests had all gone my father expressed his dissatisfaction about the will. “We shall have to find that girl now. I’m wondering what can be done about the house. I wonder what she will think to discover herself the owner of Enderby.”

“She wouldn’t realize what it is all about,” said my mother. “She is only six years old.”

“She’s rather knowing,” I said.

“But to own a house. What could Sophie have been thinking of!”

“Sophie did not think very clearly on the best of occasions,” added my father. “We’ll have to make an effort to find the child. The best thing would be to sell the house and bank the money for her till she comes of age. I’ll see the solicitor and get his advice.”

“I wonder who will buy it?” I murmured.

“Wait and see,” said my father. “In any case I shall be glad to be shut of the place.”

“Do you feel it is haunted and brings a curse on those who live in it?” I asked.

“I think it’s a damned draughty inconvenient house, that’s what I think of it. And nothing will please me more than to be rid of it… ghosts and all.”

“Some people like that sort of thing,” I said.

Claudine met my eyes and looked away. She felt very strongly about the house, almost as though she herself had had some uncanny experience there. So Enderby was going to pass out of the family.

I wondered who would come there next.

FURTHER EFFORTS WERE MADE to trace Tamarisk without success. It did emerge that the gypsies may have left and gone to Ireland which they had on other occasions.

My father shrugged his shoulders and after consulting with the solicitor, it was decided that for the time being Enderby was to be let as it was, if a tenant could be found to take it until a decision was reached.

Enderby was shut up; the servants were scattered; some of them came into our household and some went to Grasslands. Some of our servants went over once a week to keep the place in order—always in twos and threes I noticed. Not one of them cared to go alone. The house’s reputation had become slightly more evil since the death of Aunt Sophie, and old rumours were revived.

“We had better put a stop to that,” said my father, “otherwise we shall never find a tenant.”

Jeanne herself often went to the house. She had moved to a cottage on the estate which happened to be empty. She was undecided about her future but I believed that one day she would return to France.

In the meantime the days were slipping past. My father said one day at dinner that he would have to pay a visit to London. He would be away for a week or so.

“You’ll come with me, Lottie,” he said.

“But of course,” replied my mother.

He looked at me. “And I wonder if my darling daughter would deign to honour us with her presence.”

“You know I should love to.”

“Well, that’s settled. We’ll go as soon as you can get your fripperies together.”

“A week,” I said.

“Too long. We are leaving on Thursday.”

“You always do these things in a great hurry,” protested my mother.

“Procrastination is the thief of time.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” I said.

My father turned appealingly to David. “The two of them line up against me. Did a man ever have such a wife and daughter!”

David and Claudine smiled benignly at us. His softness was all the more noticeable because it was for us alone.

How easily I could understand my parents. No inhibitions, no brooding grief such as Aunt Sophie had suffered. I was lucky. I never wanted to leave them. Edward Barrington was hoping that I would marry him. He did not actually ask me again but I could see the hope in his eyes.

It was a happy state of affairs. I was flattered to be so desired as a wife and I often thought I should accept his proposal; at the same time I did not want to leave my home. I liked to be there close to my parents all the time. I should have to feel very attracted by someone to want to leave them.

We left Eversleigh in the carriage, which was the most comfortable way of long distance travel.

“We should set out early and try to make the journey in two days,” said my father.

We made good progress on the first day and did five miles more than we had believed possible, but as darkness was about an hour away my father said we had better look out for a good coaching inn, which we did and that was how we came to the Green Man.

It was a charming inn set back from the road, clearly displaying the sign which depicted a man clad in green.

“This looks a likely place,” said my father. “Stop here, Jennings.”

The postilion descended and went into the inn while we remained in the carriage.

“Let’s hope they have rooms here,” said my mother. “I am not eager to continue after dark.”

The postilion emerged with the host who bowed obsequiously. Beside him was his wife, beaming a welcome.

“We are honoured,” said the host. “It is Mr. Frenshaw and his lady wife and daughter. You shall have the best rooms in the inn, my lord. If we had known … As it is there is good roast beef and chicken pie only … If we had been warned of such nobility …”

My father held up a hand.

“Your good roast beef will suit us quite well,” he said. “And we shall need two rooms—your best, of course.”

I smiled fondly at my father. I supposed his fame had spread to every inn on the road from Eversleigh to London. Of course it was only necessary to look at him to sense his importance.

As we stepped inside the inn parlour, I noticed a man sitting there drinking from a flagon. He wore a stylish brown coat and there was a very white cravat at his throat. His brown beaver hat was on the table beside him. I judged him to be in his mid twenties; he was quite clearly interested in our arrival.

“First we will see the rooms,” said my father. “And how soon can we sup?”

“When you wish, my lord, sir. Whenever is your wish. My wife will make sure that you are well served. You will wish to eat privately, will you not?”

“That would please me.”

As we were being led towards the stairs I looked round and noticed that the man in the inn parlour continued to show interest. He caught my eye and half smiled. I looked away quickly.

The rooms were pleasant—a double one for my parents at the. front of the inn, and a smaller one for me at the back. Their windows looked onto the road, mine over the stables to woods and fields.

My father said the rooms would be adequate and when the innkeeper retired, telling us that supper would be served in a small room leading from the inn parlour, my father added that we had been fortunate to find such a place.

“They seem to know you,” said my mother.

“I have travelled this way for years and stayed at a number of inns. People talk. Now you two will want to wash the grime of the journey from your faces. When you’ve done so we’ll eat. Then I think an early night and a good sleep. We’ll travel on at daybreak.”

Water was brought by a rosy-cheeked girl; and soon we were ready. As we were ushered into the private room I saw again the man who had been drinking in the parlour. He gave me a bow as though we were old acquaintances. I lightly inclined my head.

My mother whispered: “He looks as though he believes he has met us before.”