The next morning he called at the house and asked for me. I received him in the drawing room, pleased that he had come and yet uncertain of myself.

“Good morning,” he said, taking both my hands and smiling at me. “I hope you will forgive such an early call. We left each other last night without making arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” I repeated.

“You kindly said I might visit you at Grasslands to see my daughter.”

“Yes, of course. I think I had better consult my mother. When would it be convenient for you?”

“As soon as possible. I feel that having suddenly learned that I possess a daughter I should lose no time in making her acquaintance. I was going to ask you if you would care to take luncheon with me. I know one or two very good inns hereabouts.”

I hesitated and he went on: “There is so much I want to know about… my daughter.”

“I understand that, of course.”

I felt foolish, awkward … wanting so much to go with him and at the same time feeling it was unseemly to do so with so much enthusiasm. But why not? I was no longer a young girl, I was a married woman. They deserved certain privileges, certain freedoms. To refuse to go with him alone would have suggested that I suspected him of intending to make advances. Or would it? Sensing my hesitation he pressed home the point.

“What about a trip on the river? Some of the riverside inns are of the best. We could sit in the gardens and watch the world sail by. I always find that pleasant.”

I said I should be ready in ten minutes. I went to my mother’s room but her maid told me she had just gone out with my father. I was rather glad as I did not want her speculating.

I put on my cloak and came down.

He looked very elegant in his dark blue coat and light waistcoat and his hessian boots. In my dreams I had seen him in his brown breeches and orange coloured shirt. Even then he had had a certain style—gypsy fashion it was true, but he had been outstanding as he always would be.

I was beginning to feel happy for no reason at all except that I was in his company.

He took my arm as we walked through the streets towards the river. It was a lovely morning: the sun was warm and that ambience of victory still hung about the streets. Everyone seemed full of joy.

“I am so pleased I found you,” he was saying. He pressed my arm. “Of course I should have done so in due course. I was planning to come down to find you when I left London. How much more interesting this is! I little knew when I set out for the Inskips’ ball how much I was going to enjoy it.”

“Surprises are always appreciated.”

“Pleasant surprises, yes. Do you know, I have often thought of something like this, sauntering through the streets of London, a beautiful young lady on my arm, and the strange thing was that it was with one particular young lady … and here I am. In my mind’s eye I have seen it many times. Is that precognition, would you say?”

“Certainly not. Once you were in London you could easily have found a young lady to stroll with you. You must have been homesick during your stay abroad.”

“Homesick for a morning like this.”

“It is certainly a beautiful one and I suppose however far one roams one never forgets one’s native land.”

“The longing to return is always there.”

He turned his head to look at me. “I had a very special reason,” he said.

“Because you were a prisoner and you knew you could only walk again in the streets of London as a free man.”

“It was more than that.”

We had reached the river. He hired a boat and helped me in; then he picked up the oars and we were speeding past the banks, past the Tower of London and all the other craft on the river. There were people in boats, bent on enjoying themselves, laughing, shouting to each other, some singing, some swaying to the strains of violins.

“It will be quieter by Greenwich,” he said. “That is where I propose to take you. The White Hart. I went there long ago and was impressed. Of course, I was young then. Do you think it is wise to go back to the haunts of one’s youth?”

“Hardly ever. They become beautiful in retrospect. Then when you see them again they are less than you expected, because they remain the same as they always were.”

“I have an idea that the White Hart is going to be more delightful today than it ever was.”

“Don’t set your hopes too high. I should hate them to be disappointed.”

“That will not happen.”

“You’re tempting fate.”

“I have always tempted fate. Do you know, I have a sneaking feeling that fate likes to be tempted.”

“I don’t think that is the general opinion.”

“I was never one who went in for general opinions. I was always an individualist.”

“You must have been to leave home and live with the gypsies. How long were you with them?”

“About two years.”

“That’s quite a time.”

“It was a gesture of defiance. They were camping on our land. My brother and I were engaged in one of our quarrels. It would have been unusual if we had not been. These quarrels were part of our daily lives. He said, ‘You’re no better than those gypsies. It would suit you roaming about, getting nowhere, living aimlessly …’ I said to him, ‘Maybe you’re right. At least they live naturally.’ And then I went off and joined them. It was a stupid thing to do. I was eighteen at the time. One can do stupid things at eighteen.”

“Yes,” I said quietly, “one can.”

“Not you. You never would.”

“You do not know me.”

The boat had drawn up at some stairs. We alighted and he tied it up. “Here is the inn,” he said. “Right on the river. There are the gardens. We could sit out there and watch the craft on the river while we eat. It’s just as I remembered it.”

We climbed the slight incline to the inn and seated ourselves. A buxom girl in a mob cap and a low-cut bodice came out to attend to us. There were fish fritters, whitebait, cold beef and pigeon pie, she told us, with ale, home-brewed cider or real French wine to go with it.

“I wonder if it is Charlot’s burgundy,” I said. “That is my half brother who lives in France.”

“Let’s have it in honour of your half brother.”

“I must tell you about him,” I said.

We decided on the cold beef and it was served with hot potatoes in their jackets. The food was plain but delicious. I quickly told him about Charlot’s vineyard and how now the war was over and Napoleon finally defeated, I expected we should be visiting him now and then.

He listened attentively, then he said: “It is so good to be here with you.”

I flushed a little and gave my attention to the beef.

“I want to talk to you about my experiences. Do you know, I have never talked about them much.”

“Won’t that bring back to your mind something you would rather forget?”

“Once I have told you I shall begin to forget. Can you imagine my feelings in that courtroom?”

“It is difficult to imagine something which has never happened to one, but I have a fair idea what it must have been like. Horrifying!”

“I trust you will never come so close to death as I did.”

“We all have to come close to it some day.”

“When we are old it is inevitable, yes, but not when it is decided by others that it is time you left the Earth. I used to lie in my cell and wonder. The uncertainty was hard to bear. I used to say to myself, This time next year, where shall I be? Shall I be on Earth or in the realms of the unknown?”

“Don’t speak of it.”

“I shall tell you once and then never again refer to it. There I was in the courtroom. I believed I was going to be condemned to death. To be hanged by the neck is so ignoble … so undignified. No man should be subjected to that humiliation. That was what I cared about… the degradation … not losing my life. I’ve risked that often enough.”

“You must put it out of your mind.”