However, my father’s interests did not absorb him so much that he could not pay a visit to the theatre and we had a glorious evening watching A Tale of Mystery which was not exactly new but was the first of the melodramas which had since become so popular. It had a wicked villain who the audience liked to pretend struck terror into them when he appeared; and although we laughed we could not help being caught up in the drama, particularly as it was accompanied by the most expressive music which rose in volume for the villain and played sweetly for the unsullied heroine.

When the play was over we all returned home and sat up late drinking hot chocolate and discussing the improbabilities of the plot, laughing heartily at the actions of the villain and the gullibility of the heroine; and admitting that we had enjoyed every moment of it.

The next day was Sunday. We had attended church and afterwards walked in the Park; and my mother said that the following day we really must come to a decision about the material for my dress.

There were callers in the morning and an invitation to dine a few days later.

“And after that,” my mother said, “we must think about getting home.”

“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that when we are at Eversleigh, a visit to London seems very desirable; and when we are here we think how nice it would be to get back.”

“Perhaps anticipation is more satisfying than actuality,” suggested Amaryllis.

“I think you may be right,” I agreed.

“It reminds us that we should enjoy everything as it comes along.”

“Amaryllis, if you are so wise at eighteen, you’ll be a veritable sage by the time you are thirty.”

The callers delayed our visit to the shops but my mother was determined that we should go, so about four o’clock we set out.

We examined bales of material—emerald greens and vivid scarlets, both of which my mother declared were my colours.

I had my mother’s dark hair, but alas, not her vivid blue eyes. Mine were deep set, black lashed but of a deep brown; and I needed strong colours to set them off.

She was determined that I must look my best and she spent a long time selecting the right shade.

It was while we were in the shop, sitting at the counter, that a young man ran in. He was breathless and could scarcely stammer out the important news.

“The Prime Minister… has been shot. He’s stone dead … there in the House of Commons.”

As we came through the streets we realized that the news had spread. People stood about in little groups talking in shocked whispers. The Prime Minister assassinated! Surely not! This could not happen in England. That sort of thing was for foreigners. Spencer Perceval the Prime Minister had not been exactly one of the popular figures in politics. He was no Pitt or Fox. He had been rather insignificant but was no longer so.

My father was not at home when we arrived there. I guessed he would be occupied for a few days, perhaps delaying our return to Eversleigh.

There was a hush throughout the capital. News began to seep out. The murderer had been captured. It had been no difficult task to catch him for he had made no attempt to escape.

He was mad, it was said, a fanatic. Some avowed that it was merely fate that it happened to be the Prime Minister who was shot. It could have been any politician. The madman had a grudge against the government, not against any particular person. The Prime Minister had just happened to be in a certain spot at a certain time.

The trial took place immediately.

The murderer was John Bellingham, a Liverpool broker who had gone bankrupt, he declared, through government policies. He had recently visited Russia where he had been arrested on some trivial charge and when he had applied to the British Ambassador in St. Petersburg for help, it had been refused. Eventually he was freed and returning to England he had applied for redress for the wrongs he had suffered. When this was refused, he went crazy and vowed vengeance.

Now he was pleading insanity.

My father said that he would not get away with it. The whole country was shocked. We could not have our public figures shot at and be told that it was the work of a person of unsound mind. There had to be an example.

He was right. John Bellingham was sentenced to death and a week after the shooting he was hanged. We were in London on the day but we did not go into the streets.

My father’s comment was: “The verdict was a wise one. Madman he may be, but we cannot have anyone with a grievance shooting our ministers and then being freed on a plea of insanity.”

But the affair haunted me. The idea of that man’s being so crazed with grief that he took a gun and shot a man dead depressed me. I could not shut out of my mind the image of his body dangling at the end of a rope. He had done the deed for revenge and two lives had been lost when there need not have been one.

My mother tried to disperse our gloomy mood by talking of other matters—chiefly the birthday celebrations. I responded but my thoughts could not be withdrawn from the tragedy of that poor madman and most of all I thought of the bereaved Perceval family who had lost a good husband and father. I heard there was a sorrowing wife, six sons and six daughters. He had been such a good man, people said; and even taking into account that aura of sanctity which invariably surrounds the dead, there appeared to be some truth in it.

To bear a grudge … a grudge which drives one to murder! I could not get that out of my mind.

Back in Eversleigh preparation began for the party. Eighteen was a coming of age. We were no longer children and I guessed our parents were hoping that suitable husbands would be found for us for that seemed to be the wish of all parents with nubile daughters.

The date was set for the end of August.

“The best time for a party,” said Claudine, “for if the weather is good it can spill out into the garden.”

We set about making out lists of guests.

“There is no need to send out invitations to the Barringtons,” said my mother. “You two girls can go over and invite them personally.”

A few days later Amaryllis and I set out together. On the way we passed the woods and I saw smoke rising from the trees.

“Look!” I said to Amaryllis.

“Gypsies, I suppose,” she answered.

“It’s a long time since we had them here. Not since …”

“That poor man …”

“Six years,” I said.

My thoughts were back in that terrible moment when Romany Jake had come out of the house and been captured. It was a nightmare which had recurred in my mind in the past and even now came back to haunt me.

Amaryllis knew how I had felt and was very sympathetic; whenever the subject was mentioned she would remind me that I had saved his life.

I tried to believe I had; and indeed it seemed certain that if I had not roused my father to take action, the death sentence would have been carried out.

Now the thought of the gypsies brought it back.

“Let’s go and see,” said Amaryllis, and she spurred on her horse.

I followed.

There in the clearing were the caravans. One of the women was lighting a fire and a few children were running about shouting to each other.

They were all silent when they saw us.

One of the men strolled over.

“Permission to stay is being asked,” he said. “Now… this minute.”

“You mean someone has gone to the house?”

The man nodded.

A girl emerged from a caravan and, looking curiously at us, strolled over. She was strikingly attractive with large luminous long-lashed dark eyes. Her hair hung in a thick plait tied at the end with red ribbon. I knew before she spoke who she was. She knew me too.

“Good day,” she said. “Miss Frenshaw, is it not?”

I said: “You are Leah.”

She smiled in affirmation.

“So you have come back.”

“My father has gone to the house to ask permission for us to rest here.”

“This is Miss Amaryllis Frenshaw,” I said.

She bowed her head. Amaryllis gave her friendly smile. She had heard of Leah, of course, and knew what part she had played in Romany Jake’s tragedy.

“Do you intend to stay long?” I asked.

She shook her head. “For a very short while. We are on our way to the West Country.”

“Have you … heard anything of…”

She shook her head.

“It is so long ago.”

“Six years,” I said.

“In another year he will be free.”

“Yes,” I said. “Another year. I am sure my father will agree to your staying here.”

“I think so,” she said, and stood aside to let us pass.

We went on.

“What an extraordinarily beautiful girl,” said Amaryllis.

“Yes. She looked sad, though. I suppose when something like that happens to you… when a man almost loses his life for defending you, it would make you feel strange … guilty in a way.”

“It was not her fault. She should not feel guilty.”

“No, but sometimes people feel guilty when things are not their fault. I mean … if they come about because of you.”

“It may be so, but she certainly is lovely.”

We had come to Grasslands. Mrs. Barrington had heard our approach and came out to greet us while one of the grooms took our horses.

“Edward is at home,” she said. “He’ll be so pleased you’ve called.”

“Everyone will, I hope.”

“I can assure you of that.”

“Everyone is well?”

“In excellent form. We still miss Irene and wish we could be more together. She is pregnant again. Isn’t that exciting? If only she were a little nearer!”