“Johnny Faa?”

“My rom. My husband. Died in the middle of a dusty road, clutching at his chest, like, and cursing the Gajo—the Englishman—that had turned us out.”

“And who was that?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

“Never asked his name. Straight as a ramrod on two sticks, the devil!”

Father! I was sure of it! It was Father who, after Harriet’s death, had run the Gypsies off his estate.

“And Johnny Faa, your husband … he died because of it, you say?”

The Gypsy nodded, and I could see by the sadness in her eyes that it was true.

“Because he needed to rest?”

“Needed to rest,” she repeated in a whisper, “and so do I.”

And that was when it came to me. Before I could change my mind I had blurted out the words.

“You can come back to Buckshaw. Stay as long as you like. It will be all right … I promise.”

Even as I said it I knew that there would be a great flaming row with Father, but somehow that didn’t matter. Harriet had once given these people refuge and my blood would hardly allow me to do otherwise.

“We’ll park your caravan at the Palings,” I said, “in the bushes. No one even needs to know you’re there.”

Her black eyes scanned my face, darting quickly from side to side. I held out my hand to her for encouragement.

“Mmmm. Go on, old girl. Take her up on it. Spot of rest would do you a world of good.”

It was Dr. Darby, who had slipped quietly back into the tent. He shot me an eighth of a wink. The doctor was one of Father’s oldest friends, and I knew that he, too, could already foresee the coming battle. He had viewed the field and weighed the risks even before he spoke. I wanted to hug him.

He placed his black bag on the table, rummaged in its depths, and extracted a corked bottle.

“Take as required for cough,” he said, handing it to the Gypsy. She stared at it dubiously.