Marthawhat a granddaughter you have, Mr. Thomas Whitaker, darkeyed and whitetoothed.
Whos that? Not yours?
Of course shes mine, sir, he chuckled. A onceinageneration lass, and its taken ages for her to appear. Shes the greatgranddaughter of my son, Archibald, and Ill soon be a greatgreatgrandfather.
But, Mr. Whitaker, all your kin have fair hair. I know every Whitaker from my grandfathers daysyou were his farmhands, your forebears served the Crown faithfully.
We were, we were, he sighed. From the old days when my greatgrandfather was a clerk, then my father, then me Weve always been in service.
Our sons have gone to town. Vance works as a coachman for a wealthy lady who has taken to raising children of her own. Simon is a shop clerk, doing well enough to think of opening his own business. Archibald, the grandfather of little Annabel, rose through the ranks of the army, earned a few medals, and was praised by the Duke himself, who kept him close as a trusted aide.
Archibald lives comfortably on his farm, keeping the household tight. He married a solid young woman, Antonia, and they welcomed Annabel, a joy to everyone.
Girls are rare in our line, sirmostly sons. Yet when a girl does arrive, shes inevitably a firecracker like Annabel.
So it goes, sir
Old Mr. Whitaker was mending fishing nets when a sprightly darkeyed girl twirled nearby, her delicate fingers moving like a dancers, a marvel of beauty, not quite a child.
Beside her stood a young gentleman, Sergeant Samuel Hartley, who could not take his eyes off Annabel.
Annabelle, will you marry me? he asked.
Im still a child, sir
Of course youre a child now, but when you grow up
When Im grown youll be old. Id rather have a younger man, she retorted.
Whos the younger man? Have you found one?
Not yet. Grandmother Molly told me Ill know when he comes
The girls serious eyes made her sound older than her years.
Grandmother Molly? Thomas Whitaker, Im lost. Whos this Molly? Isnt Archibalds wife from our village? Is she Vera? I dont follow.
Ah, sir dont mind her ramblings. Shes just a child herself.
May I play with Scout? the girl asked, sprinting down the path toward the river, racing a hunting dog named Scout.
How does she know the dogs name, Mr. Whitaker?
Im not sureperhaps you dropped it, or someone mentioned it. I only brought him in today.
Sir, youre a sensible man. Dont invent things that arent there, the girl teased, darting along the riverbank while Scout yapped happily.
The tale lodged itself in Sergeant Hartleys mind. Like many lads of his age, he dabbled in mysticism, wrote poetry, and was generally an interesting fellow.
The next autumn they met again; Annabel was out mushroompicking with her grandfather, and Hartley was out walking Scout.
Hartley recited verses to himself as Scout, previously trotting at his heels, bounded ahead, ears flopping.
Scout, my boy, he heard Annabels voice call.
He turned, saw the dog sprawled on his back, legs kicking, and a little girl hovering over it.
Good day, Annabel, he said.
Good day, Sergeant Hartley
Are you alone?
My granddads out gathering mushrooms.
They walked together toward the old mans cottage.
Now, Annabel, have you changed your mind about marrying me?
No, sir. Your destiny lies elsewhere. Youll end up abroad, longing for home, and I wont be part of that.
What about you?
Ill meet you later, when Im grownthough our meeting will be hard, like a parting.
You speak with such drama, Annabel.
Its not me, its Grandmother Molly speaking
Whos this Molly?
Just an old lady, Annabel shrugged, and ran off to chase Scout.
Thomas Whitaker, you never told me the family legendwhy do you keep having girls like Annabel? Hartley asked.
The story, the old man said, settling on a stump, goes something like this: long ago, on the neighboring hills, a travelling Romani camp set up. A wealthy landowner, who loved the Romani, welcomed them and visited often. One of their girls, a striking child with mischievous eyes, bright lips, pearlwhite teeth, and a cascade of hair under a vivid scarf, sang and danced so powerfully that people wept.
They called her Molly, a sort of enchantress, though she was born that way. The landowner fell for her, begged her father to give her to him, or at least sell her.
Give her to me, or sell her? he demanded.
How can I sell my daughter? an old Romani elder protested. Theyre a free people; if she wishes to go, she will, otherwise
Molly laughed, a sound that made the reeds tremble.
You think Im a mere granddaughter to bargain with? she snapped.
The landowner, delirious with desire, scraped money left and right, promising her a life at courtgolden carriages, dresses like an empresss, shoes finer than any.
Why would I want that? Molly replied. Im a gypsy queen of the plains; I need no palace, no silk, no golden cage. I run barefoot on dewlit grass. Take away my freedom, and youll lose something far more precious than gold.
He begged, she turned him down, and he, blinded, sent soldiers to seize the Romani. The camp fled that night, leaving the landowner raving, accusing the Romani of horse theft, shouting threats. A girl emerged, demanding the soldiers release the camp, and sang as she walked away, while the landowner, eyes wild, tried to barter the Romani for Molly.
You were warned, the girl said, youll lose what you love most. He ignored it, and the chaos grew.
Months later, his own son, Victor, an acknowledged but illegitimate heir, arrived to set his father straight. Molly, now a spectre in the fields, warned him that his fate would be sealed, that she would take what he cherished most.
Release my son, she pleaded. He is the only thing I value.
He replied, I cannot; I love you, and you have taken everything.
They vanished into the night, back to the wandering camps, where fires crackled and children played.
Eventually, a grandson named Thomas Whitaker took in his greatgrandfathers old clerk, Vladimir, and made him a steward. The Whitaker line settled on a modest estate in Yorkshire.
Years later, after the war, the country changed. Thomass descendant, Sergeant Hartley, got caught up in the new regimes sweep at the old Whitaker manor. He and a few comrades were locked up, awaiting a command from a highranking officer.
One night, a soft voice called from the window, Sergeant Hartley, come quietly. We have half an hour before the guards return. A girl, radiant in moonlight, stood thereAnnabel, grown but still luminous.
She led them through hidden tunnels to a cave. My people have hidden here for centuries. Trust me, Ill help you.
Hartley, humbled, whispered, Annabel youve become a woman.
She smiled, Do you like me, sir?
I do, dear Ann, he replied.
She reminded him of the family legend, then guided them to a port, arranging contacts that shipped the men abroad.
Come with me, Annabel, Hartley begged, youve become more than a friend.
I cannot, sir. My fate lies elsewhere. Go on, live long, she answered.
Please, sister, he pleaded, just a little while longer.
She shook her head, I must stay, finish my path. Farewell, sir.
In exile, Hartley drew Annabels likeness from memory and gave it to a painter, who immortalised her on canvas. He later married, but the portrait of Annabel stayed in his heart, a pure, untarnished love.
When Hartley grew old, his grandchildren discovered the portrait and finally learned the truth: Annabel had married the very officer who had once ordered the crackdown. He was executed during the purges, later rehabilitated; they raised three sons and a daughter.
Annabel lived long enough to see her greatgrandsons daughter born, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the original Molly.
Mr. Collins, your little Angel looks nothing like the rest of us, a neighbour remarked at the garden party.
Our Angel, Mr. Collins laughed, is as much ours as anyone.
Whats her nickname? Something exotic? the neighbour asked, eyeing the pearllike necklace on her.
Its not a necklace, its a monsignor, the girl replied, eyes bright, and we call her Molly.
Thus the tale of Molly, the fiery Romani girl, lived on, reshaped through English fields, tearooms, and the gentle irony of a family that still whispered her name whenever the wind rustled the rye.
