Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16)

by Barbara Cartland

  One thing Saviya told the Marquis fascinated him: it was the Gypsies who invented lures for line-fishing.

  “They were the first to make artificial baits,’ she said, “such as little wooden fish decorated with tufts of coloured feathers, in the middle of which hooks are hidden.”

  “I had no idea of that!” the Marquis exclaimed.

  “And my father told me it was the Gypsies in Britain,” Saviya went on, “who invented the artificial fly for trout fishing.”

  She looked at him from under her eye-lashes and said with a smile:

  “You will doubtless think it un-sporting, but they know how to make magical bait!”

  “How do they do that?” the Marquis enquired.

  “They are generally made with the gums of resinous plants whose attraction for fish was known centuries ago in Persia,” she replied. “But there is another way of coating stones with sweet-smelling oils.”

  Most of all the Marquis wanted to learn about the Gypsies’ proficiency with horses.

  “We never say, ‘I hope you will live happily,’ ” Saviya told him, “but, ‘May your horses live long!’ ”

  “All Nomads have revered the horse,” the Marquis remarked. “The Great Khan of the Mongols had a postal service of three hundred horses.”

  “Gypsies are strictly forbidden to eat horseflesh,” Saviya went on, “as they believe it will send them mad. The Gypsy tribe of Zyghes saddle the horse of a dead man for three days after he is buried and lead it to the Grave.”

  “What happens then?” the Marquis enquired.

  “The man who leads the horse calls the owner three times by name and asks him to dine.”

  “I believe the Gypsies excel in being able to pass off an old horse at a Fair by making him appear young and spritely,” the Marquis remarked with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Saviya laughed.

  “That is true, and among some tribes there is a great deal of magic connected with the trading in horses.”

  “And love?” the Marquis questioned. “Is magic necessary to love?”

  “Many Gypsies think so,” Saviya answered, “but to me love ... is magic.”

  “And to me, my darling,” the Marquis told her.

  It seemed to the Marquis as they walked together or sat outside the caravan that Saviya’s knowledge was inexhaustible, and every moment they were together he found her more and more fascinating.

  The food she cooked for him, even though Hobley brought most of it from the House, was different from anything he had tasted before. Berries, mushrooms, herbs, nettles, and wild vegetables were all part of the soups and stews she made over a fire in the pot that was supported from a tripod of sticks.

  “Why does what you cook taste far more delicious than the food prepared by my extremely expensive and renowned Chef?” the Marquis enquired.

  “I think one reason is that the herbs which I add to the meat or the chickens that Hobley brings, are fresh,” Saviya replied. “Everything you have eaten today I picked this morning.”

  “It certainly tastes different,” the Marquis said appreciatively.

  “The Gypsies use few spices and very little salt,” Saviya told him. “In fact the only condiment we like is wild garlic.”

  Sometimes the Marquis felt he was almost like a child asking for “another story.” He found an inexpressible delight not only to listen to what Saviya told him, but also to watch her as she talked.

  ‘It is not only her beauty,’ he thought.

  But it was impossible not to realise that because she was in love she was more beautiful than she had ever been.

  Also the strength of her character and her personality shone like a spiritual light and made him feel at times that there was an aura about her that was not of this world.

  In the evening when the Marquis had eaten the supper she had prepared for him and Hobley, having got him ready for bed, had gone home, Saviya would sit beside him and they would look through the open door of the caravan into the mystery of the wood outside.

  There would be the rustle of the leaves in the evening breeze; the hoot of an owl; the soft scuffle of some animal through the undergrowth. Otherwise there was an indescribable peace.

  “You make me very happy,” the Marquis said one evening in his deep voice.

  “Do I really?” Saviya asked.

  “I have never before known real happiness,” the Marquis answered.

  He raised her hands to his lips and knew as his mouth touched her skin she quivered with the sudden ecstasy.

  “I thought what I wanted in life was to be amused,” he went on, “to listen to witty, bright conversation; to be made to laugh; to attend the parties given by my friends. But now I want only to be alone with you.”

  “Perhaps if we were together for too long, you would be ... bored,” she suggested, a little catch in her breath.

  “You know that is not true!” the Marquis replied. “Always before, when I have been with a woman and have not actually been feeling passionate about her, I have been restless.”

  He kissed Saviya’s hands again before he said:

  “I think too I have been afraid of being alone.”

  “And now?”

  “I feel,” the Marquis replied, “as if a whole new world was opening before me; a world of discovery, not only of people, places and things, but of myself and you.”

  Saviya turned sideways to lay her head against his shoulder. “You are my world,” she whispered.

  Then the Marquis had put his arms around her and held her close.

  He knew now, sitting outside the caravan, that Saviya was worried. He had grown to know only too well without words what she was feeling and especially when she was perturbed.

  She was afraid for the morrow, and what might happen when he confronted Jethro and threw him out of the House.

  The Marquis on the other hand was filled with a sense of excitement. He knew that something fierce and primitive within him wished to do battle with his cousin and punish him for the attempts he had made on his life.

  “Why are you worrying, my darling?” he asked Saviya.

  She moved from the stool on which she had been sitting to come and kneel beside his chair.

  “I cannot help it,” she answered.

  “Are you being clairvoyant, or merely human in that you are apprehensive?”

  She smiled a little forlornly.

  “You know that because I love you so deeply I can no longer see the future where you are concerned, but I can feel that you are in ... danger. Otherwise my love blinds me and I am no longer a witch, but a ... woman!”

  The Marquis laughed.

  “Do not sound so tragic about it,” he begged, “that is what I want you to be—a woman! My woman! Now and for all time!”

  He rose from the chair as he spoke and drew Saviya to her feet to put his arms around her. Tipping back her head, he looked down into her dark, troubled eyes.

  “Trust me,” he said, “I know what is best for both of us.”

  Then he kissed her, and they could not think of anything but the rapture which consumed them both and transported them into a world where there was no treachery, no fear, but only love.

  Nevertheless, that night before the Marquis went to bed he held Saviya close to him and knew that she was trembling in his arms, but not because she was afraid.

  “This is our last night here together,” he said slowly. “But after tomorrow we shall never be apart from each other. As soon as I have rid my House of my disreputable cousin and set my affairs in order, we are going away in my yacht.”

  Saviya gave a little murmur and hid her face against his shoulder. “We are going away for the rest of the summer,” the Marquis said, “and by the time we come back, all the talk, excitement and gossip about us will be over, and some far more amusing scandal will have taken its place!”

  He stroked Saviya’s head with a gentle hand, feeling her hair like silk beneath his fingers.

  “Whatever people say,
they will say it behind our backs,” he went on, “and why should that worry us? We will cross the Channel and move slowly along the coast of France. I am going to take you to Spain, Saviya.”

  His arms tightened around her for a moment and he said: “Anywhere we go together will be like Paradise, but I want to show you the golden beaches and the magnificent Palaces.”

  Saviya made no answer but the Marquis knew she was listening. “I have friends in Spain,” he said, “who will welcome you because you are beautiful.”

  “They will think it strange that you are consorting with a Gypsy,” Saviya said in a low voice. “The Spanish Gitanos are very poor. They are treated with contempt and have been persecuted by every succeeding Monarch.”

  “You have been to Spain?” the Marquis asked.

  Saviya shook her head.

  “Then it will be somewhere new that we can explore together.” The Marquis felt that Saviya was still uncertain, and he said gently:

  “We are starting a new life together, Saviya. The prejudices of the old must not encroach on or overshadow our future.”

  She slipped her arms round his neck and drew his head down to hers.

  “I love you!” she whispered. “I love you so desperately! You know that all I want is your happiness?”

  “Which is to be with you,” the Marquis replied. “There are so many things for us to do. I want to take you to Greece, to the Islands of the Mediterranean. But what does it matter where we go? You hold my whole happiness in your little hands.”

  Then he was kissing her again, kissing her until she could no longer think, only feel that she was a part of him and that there was no gulf between them.

  The Marquis would have kept her with him much longer, but Saviya insisted that he must rest because of what he had to do the following day. Finally he gave in to her insistence, climbed into the small caravan and went to bed.

  He slept peacefully without dreaming, but with a sense of happiness which lingered with him when he awoke.

  Saviya had already lit the fire, before Hobley arrived with fresh eggs, newly baked bread and a pat of golden butter from the Marquis’s own dairy.

  He helped the Marquis to dress while Saviya cooked the eggs and brewed the coffee.

  As the Marquis came down the steps of the caravan he saw there was a faint flush on her cheeks from the heat of the fire. In her pretty Gypsy clothes, she looked like the heroine of a theatrical melodrama and far too glamorous to be practical.

  Yet the eggs were cooked perfectly and, because she had added a few special herbs to the dish, the Marquis thought it tasted better than any breakfast he had ever eaten at Ruckley House.

  “Tell me, Hobley,” he said as Saviya poured him a second cup of coffee, “has Mr. Jethro any plans for this morning?”

  “I ascertained, M’Lord, that he is rising late,” Hobley replied.

  “Was he drinking deep last night?” the Marquis enquired.

  “He was, M’Lord. Two of his friends left after midnight and a third was posting back to London the very moment that I myself left the House.”

  “Then Mr. Jethro will be alone?”

  “Yes, M’Lord.”

  “That is what I wanted to know,” the Marquis said. “You have ordered the horses?”

  “They followed me here,” Hobley said. “I left them about fifty yards away, M’Lord. I thought it best for the grooms not to see the caravan.”

  “Quite right,” the Marquis approved. “And now, Hobley—be off with you! Collect the Chief Constable and bring him to the House. We will meet you there in an hour. Will that give you enough time?”

  “Plenty of time, M’Lord.”

  Hobley turned to go and then said:

  “Good luck, M’Lord! It will be a pleasure to have you back again.”

  “Thank you, Hobley.”

  The Valet disappeared and the Marquis resumed his breakfast, eating everything that Saviya offered him with a calmness which bespoke an iron control over his emotions.

  “You will be careful?” she said suddenly, as if they had been talking instead of eating in silence.

  “I will be careful for your sake,” the Marquis replied. “But after all, what can Jethro do? He has announced to the whole world that I am dead and that you are my murderer ... When I return very much alive with you beside me, it will be difficult for his lies to be treated with anything but contempt.”

  “All the same, he is like a snake or a rat,” Saviya said. “I do not believe that he will give in so easily.”

  “I have decided,” the Marquis told her, “to give him a choice. Either I will bring charges against him for attempted murder, or he leaves the country.”

  He paused and added:

  “I would of course prefer the latter course. It would be unfortunate from the family point of view that there should be a scandal, or for anyone who bears our name to be accused of intent to murder.”

  “I wish you had taken my advice and asked Charles Collington to be with us this morning,” Saviya sighed.

  “I am not proud of the manner in which my cousin has behaved,” the Marquis answered, “and the fewer people who know what has occurred, the better.”

  “I can understand that,” Saviya murmured.

  “There have been few scandals in our family over the centuries, very few. My father and my grand-father were respected here in the county and in the House of Lords where they each played their part. When I die, I hope that men will also speak well of me.”

  It was only as he said the words that the Marquis saw the expression in Saviya’s face and knew perceptively that she was thinking that it would not add to his prestige to associate with her.

  He put out his hand and caught her wrist as she turned away.

  “Do not look like that, my darling,” he said. “My private life is my own and no man shall interfere with it. In public we will be very circumspect.”

  Even as he spoke he realised how difficult it would be to have Saviya living at Ruckley House without everyone being aware of it.

  He knew too that he could never insult her by keeping her as he had kept his previous mistresses, in a small house in the less fashionable part of Mayfair where he could visit her at his convenience.

  There were, he knew, very many obstacles ahead, but for the moment he thought it best to take one fence at a time.

  When he had disposed of Jethro, then he and Saviya could go abroad, and when they returned in the Autumn, they could face the other problems concerning their association.

  He tried to draw Saviya to him but she slipped away.

  “You have to get ready,” she said. “We must be leaving in a few moments and you must think now of what you have to say to your cousin. But watch him! Please, My Lord, watch him carefully!”

  There was a little sob in her voice, but the Marquis ignored it.

  “I have said before, you must trust me,” he replied. “I have been a soldier, Saviya, and I have learnt never to underestimate the enemy.”

  The horses that Hobley had brought for them were the best in the Marquis’s stables and as he lifted Saviya into the saddle he said softly:

  “I have always wanted to see you ride.”

  He knew by the sudden light in her eyes that she too was excited by the magnificence of the horse-flesh, and the fact that she held the reins in her hands.

  The two grooms who had brought the horses were astonished at seeing the Marquis, and when he greeted them there was no mistaking that they were sincerely pleased to see that he was, contrary to what they had believed, alive!

  They had their own horses, and as the Marquis mounted they followed him.

  It was, Saviya thought, quite a cavalcade that set off through the woods to emerge finally into the Park.

  Ruckley House was looking exquisite in the sunshine, its red bricks warm against the flashing diamond-paned windows, the curling chimney stacks silhouetted against the blue sky.

  As Saviya raised her eyes to the gabled roofs of R
uckley House, she saw that the flag was flying.

  The Marquis saw it too. His lips tightened and his eyes were angry.

  It was only when the owner was in residence that the flag flew from the mast on top of the house. That Jethro had ordered it to be flown indicated that he already considered himself the new Marquis of Ruckley.

  They moved across the Park, scattering the deer who were clustered under the trees, and moved without undue haste towards the court-yard in front of the main entrance.

  ‘Never,’ the Marquis thought, ‘has my house looked more beautiful.’

  The lilacs had come into bloom since he had last seen it, purple and white; their blossoms as lovely as the showers of golden laburnum and the pink and white petals of the almond trees.

  The daffodils were over, but now the rhododendrons were crimson, pink and purple beside the sweet-smelling yellow azaleas.

  ‘It is worth fighting for,’ the Marquis thought to himself.

  He knew he would struggle with every breath in his body to prevent Jethro and his dissolute, drunken friends from ruining the peace and beauty that was Ruckley.

  Saviya was looking over her shoulder as they drew their horses to a standstill outside the front door.

  “There is no sign of Hobley,” she said. “We must wait for him.”

  “I am waiting for no-one,” the Marquis replied, and there was a note in his voice which told her he was very angry.

  It was as if seeing the house again had brought home to him all too forcefully what he might have lost. Now the calmness with which he had started the day had changed to a deep fury.

  He dismounted, and lifted Saviya to the ground.

  She wanted to beg him to wait a little longer for the Chief Constable. But knowing that nothing she could say would make any difference, she moved silently beside the Marquis as he strode up the steps towards the front door.

  It was opened immediately and, while the footmen in their livery stared in astonishment, Bush gave an exclamation of joy.

  “Your Lordship! You are alive!”

  “Very much alive!” the Marquis replied.

  “We were all sure, quite sure, M’Lord, that you could not have died as they said, but we were afraid, sore afraid when you did not return.”