The Blue Eyed Witch

by Barbara Cartland

  “Thank you, my Lord! Thank you very much!” the butler beamed.

  *

  It was late in the evening before the Marquis, having ridden many miles with Roger Clarke, returned to The Castle, tired, but having, as he admitted to himself, thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon.

  It was not only the feeling of well-being he had from riding his magnificent stallion over the flat unspoilt country with the sea breeze in his face and the joy of being untrammelled and unconstrained that he had not experienced for many years.

  It was also the manner in which he had been welcomed by the farmers and their wives, from whom he had learnt that they appreciated their tenancies and were well content to farm on the Ridge estates.

  Several of the farmers had known the Marquis’s father. Although the previous Marquis had many faults, he had been a good landlord and took a pride in seeing that on his estates his tenants were happy and not at odds with the owner.

  “You know, my Lord,” Roger Clarke said as they rode home, “if the whole of England followed the example of the Ridge estates, I cannot help feeling we would be free from much of the trouble which incites people to violence and ends in protestors breaking windows and booing Members of Parliament in Whitehall.”

  “I am afraid it is the Prince of Wales who gets booed most frequently,” the Marquis remarked.

  “And with reason!” Roger Clarke remarked, adding quickly, “I apologise, my Lord. I spoke without thinking!”

  “You spoke what you believe to be the truth,” the Marquis said. “At the same time, the Prince is really more sinned against than sinning. Although you may find it hard to believe, he has little chance at the moment to do anything but waste his life seeking pleasure, when, if he had his way, he would be engaged in much more serious pursuits.”

  The Marquis was thinking as he spoke of how the Prince, two years earlier, had entertained high hopes of being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

  It was an idea suggested to him by the Irish Whigs, but the King had discounted it out of hand and the Prince had said despairingly,

  “My father complains about my extravagance, he moans incessantly about my way of life, but if I ever have an idea of doing anything else, it is slapped down as if I was a naughty schoolboy!”

  There was no gainsaying this and the Marquis had in fact been very sympathetic.

  Seeing the extravagance of Carlton House parties, hearing only the gossip about the Prince’s innumerable love affairs, it was no wonder that the country as a whole thought of him only as a drunken dilettante and had no idea that he had many more serious qualities.

  Back at The Castle, the Marquis bathed, changed for dinner and went down to dine alone in the large dining room painted exquisitely with murals of allegorical scenes. He was alone but he did not feel lonely.

  What he did feel was extremely hungry.

  He knew that such strenuous exercise was something he had needed for a long time, but which he could never find by galloping round the parks of London or driving his phaeton to a mill at Wimbledon or the races at Newmarket.

  There were many more of his farms for him to see yet, he told himself with satisfaction, and did full justice to the many delicious dishes that Mrs. Headley had prepared for him.

  When he finished, he decided he would go to the library to see if there were any books there on witchcraft.

  He was certain there would be some reference to witches in the History of Essex, and he had a feeling that somewhere he had read about the famous magician Dr. Dee, who had been called Queen Elizabeth’s Merlin.

  Unless his memory was at fault, Dr. Dee had been in trouble in Mary’s reign for casting a horoscope of the Queen at the request of someone at Court.

  He had been acquitted and had become a great favourite of Elizabeth when she came to the throne.

  ‘Perhaps the history of Dr. Dee will throw some light on what is puzzling me,’ the Marquis mused.

  He was sure that the more he learnt about witchcraft, the more likely he was to discover the reason Idylla had been left on the druid stones with a sacrificial cock bleeding on her gown.

  As he rose to leave the dining room, the butler said to him,

  “Excuse me, my Lord, but Nanny asked me to inform your Lordship that Miss Idylla is conscious.”

  This was interesting, the Marquis thought, and would undoubtedly tell him far more about his involuntary guest than any book could do.

  He hurried up the stairs and reached the nursery on the third floor without losing breath.

  Nanny heard him open the day nursery door and came from the bedroom.

  “She’s properly awake, my Lord!” she said triumphantly. “I’ve not questioned her. I thought your Lordship might wish to do that.”

  “Of course,” the Marquis answered.

  He walked into the night nursery, looking very large and tall in the low-ceilinged room.

  Although it was not yet dark outside, the candles had been lit beside Idylla’s bed and the light from them illumined her small face and seemed to linger in her blue eyes.

  Again the Marquis thought how strange she looked.

  Her eyes were not even the pale blue one might have expected, but the deep vivid blue of gentians or the Southern Sea on a sunny day. Fringed with dark lashes, they had a beauty that was indescribable.

  She was not in the least like a witch, the Marquis decided, but rather like a nymph who had risen from the depths of a still lake, or perhaps a white-crested wave to bewilder and beguile the human beings who beheld her.

  Then he told himself he was being absurdly poetic and walked purposefully towards the bed to sit down on the wicker chair that Nanny had placed in position for him.

  Idylla seemed to be looking at him gravely and perhaps speculatively, but she did not appear frightened and after a moment he began,

  “I am afraid you have been through a very unpleasant experience, but you are quite safe here in my house.”

  “Where – am – I?”

  Her voice was very low and hesitant, as if she found it hard to speak, but it was musical and educated.

  Her thin sensitive hands lay in front of her on the sheets and the Marquis thought as he glanced at them and heard her voice that he had been quite right in thinking she was well-born and a gentlewoman.

  “You are at Ridge Castle,” he replied to her question.

  “R-Ridge – Castle?”

  She repeated the words as if she was trying to remember if they meant anything to her.

  “You have heard of it?” the Marquis asked softly. “I – don’t – think so.”

  “Then suppose we start at the beginning?” the Marquis suggested. “We know your name is Idylla. It was embroidered on the handkerchief Nanny found in the pocket of your gown. And very beautifully embroidered too!”

  “May I – see it?”

  As if she had already anticipated the question, Nanny had the handkerchief handy and gave it to Idylla.

  She looked at it, turning the embroidered name towards the light.

  “You say this is – mine?” she asked after a moment.

  “You don’t recognise it?” the Marquis asked.

  “I do – not – think so.”

  “But your name is Idylla?”

  She looked at him and for the first time he saw an expression of fear in her eyes.

  “I don’t – know,” she answered. “I cannot – remember who I am or – anything about – myself.”

  The Marquis looked at her in astonishment.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have been – thinking this afternoon when I was – awake,” she answered. “The room was – strange and my head hurt, so I thought I must have had an – accident. But I cannot remember it.”

  “You cannot remember anything hitting you on the head?” the Marquis asked.

  “N-no,” she replied.

  “Then can you remember your home – where you live?”

  “It is very – strange,” she s
aid slowly. “When I try to – think about myself or – where I have come from, everything is – dark. It is just like a – black curtain between – today and yesterday.”

  Her voice was so troubled that the Marquis smiled at her reassuringly.

  “This is what we might have expected after a blow such as you received,” he said. “You must have fallen and perhaps struck something inadvertently. Whatever it was, it rendered you unconscious and you have lost your memory.”

  “Will it – come back?”

  “But of course!” he replied. “It is quite a usual symptom of concussion. It happened to me once when I had a fall out hunting. For twenty-four hours I could not remember what had happened and I was told later that I was delirious.”

  “I-I have not been – delirious,” Idylla said. “At least I don’t – think so.”

  She glanced at Nanny as she spoke.

  “No, dear, you’ve been as quiet as a little mouse ever since you came here,” Nanny said.

  “You – tell me – this is – Ridge Castle,” Idylla said, rather like a child repeating her first lesson at school.

  “That is correct,” the Marquis replied.

  “Then who – are – you?”

  “I am the Marquis of Aldridge.”

  He almost expected some flicker of recognition in her eyes such as he had seen so often in other women’s.

  Instead Idylla regarded him speculatively and there was not even that glint of admiration and enticement to which he was so used and which, now that it was not there, he missed.

  “It is very – kind of you to – have me. I would not – wish to be a – nuisance.”

  “You are certainly not that,” the Marquis answered. “But now I think you should go to sleep again. The more you rest, the quicker your memory will return.”

  “You are – certain that it will?”

  “Of course I am certain. Then you will be able to tell me if you wish me to notify anyone of your whereabouts, perhaps your mother or father. They will be very worried that you have disappeared.”

  “How can – I have done – that?”

  “I have no idea,” the Marquis replied, “but I hope you will soon be able to tell me exactly what happened to you. So get well quickly. I shall be as interested as you are to have an explanation of how you injured your head.”

  He rose from the chair and smiled down at her as if she was a child.

  “Goodnight, Idylla. Just go to sleep and your memory will come back. That I promise you. Goodnight, Nanny.”

  He went downstairs with a smile on his lips, well assured that his curiosity about his strange guest would soon be assuaged.

  At least he was certain of one thing – Idylla, whoever she might be, was not a witch but in fact a very bewitching and attractive young woman!

  Chapter Four

  The Marquis was permitting his valet to help him into his riding coat when there was a knock on the door.

  On the dressing table lay several crumpled cravats that had not been tied to his liking.

  The one he wore was perfect, exactly the width, height and twist ordained by Beau Brummel, who had invented that particular style.

  As the Marquis pulled his coat into place, he knew that it was a trifle looser than it had been when he first wore it. As if he realised what his Master was thinking, the valet said,

  “You’ve lost weight, my Lord. Your Lordship’s taking more exercise than you do in London.”

  “That is true, Harris,” the Marquis agreed, “and incidentally drinking less.”

  “It becomes you, my Lord.”

  As the Marquis did not reply, the valet went on,

  “Quite a number of your Lordship’s clothes will have to be altered when we return to London if they are to fit to ‘perfection’, as Mr. Weston requires.”

  Weston was the tailor patronised by the Prince of Wales and the majority of the rakes and dandies who followed the Royal lead.

  The Marquis suddenly remembered that there had been a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” he said, and saw that it was Nanny who wished to enter.

  “May I speak to your Lordship?” she asked.

  “Of course, Nanny,” he replied, as his valet tactfully withdrew. “How is our patient this morning?”

  “She’s better in health, my Lord, but there’s still no sign of her memory returning. It worries her, although I keep telling her it’s quite natural.”

  “Of course it is!” the Marquis said. “After a blow like that she must expect to suffer from concussion for quite a time and I am sure if it was not for your care of her she would be far worse.”

  “I thought that myself, my Lord,” Nanny answered, “but that’s not the reason I came to see you.”

  “What is it?” the Marquis enquired.

  As he stood waiting for her to speak, she thought it would be difficult to imagine a finer figure of a man. She had always been proud of her ‘baby’, as she called the Marquis to herself.

  He had been an unusually handsome and singularly attractive child, but even she had not imagined that he would grow up into quite such a striking figure as he was now.

  “Well, Nanny?” the Marquis prompted impatiently.

  “I was thinking, my Lord, that what Miss Idylla needs is fresh air and I was wondering if your Lordship would give permission for her to use her Ladyship’s bedroom which has a balcony.”

  The Marquis knew that Nanny was speaking of his grandmother, for as far as he knew his mother had never visited Ridge Castle.

  When William Adam, father of Robert and James, had practically completed The Castle, his grandfather and grandmother had moved in to superintend the decoration of the State Rooms by the Italian artists and to choose the furniture and pictures.

  In all his buildings, which were numerous, the third Marquis liked to complete in every detail whatever house engaged his fancy at the time.

  He had made improvement to Aldridge Park in Oxfordshire, but there had not been as much building to do there as on the other estates that had been added to the family possessions.

  At the time everyone had thought it grossly extravagant to spend so much money on so many different buildings.

  But there was no doubt that everything the third Marquis had bought in the way of furniture and pictures had grown more valuable as time passed and would doubtless continue to do so.

  His wife had not been a strong woman and in middle age had developed arthritis of the hip, which prevented her from walking easily and finally kept her confined to a wheelchair.

  After The Castle was finished, her husband had added a large balcony to one of the State bedrooms on the first floor. This enabled her to sit in the sunshine overlooking the garden without always having to be carried downstairs.

  Since the present Marquis had inherited the title, the room had never been used and he thought now that it was an excellent idea for Idylla to sleep there and be able to sit outside without any exertion on her part.

  “Of course you are right, Nanny,” he said aloud. “I should have thought of it myself. Tell Mrs. Darwin to have the room prepared and Miss Idylla can be taken there as soon as it is ready.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” the Nanny said.

  And then with a smile she added,

  “There is, however, one problem your Lordship has not thought about.”

  “What is that?” the Marquis asked.

  He turned from the dressing table to pick up a handkerchief and now he was ready to descend the stairs to breakfast, aware that his horse would be waiting for him outside The Castle as soon as he was finished.

  “It is unlikely that anyone in the household will consent to carry Miss Idylla downstairs,” Nanny replied. “They are not as scared of her as they were, but I doubt if there is a man amongst them who would touch a witch!”

  The Marquis laughed.

  “That leaves me to do what you require, Nanny. All right, when I come back from riding, I will carry our guest to her new room
. If I fall down or turn into a toad, we shall know she really is a witch!”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Nanny said, “and just one more thing – ”

  “Another?”

  The Marquis had already walked towards the door and now he turned back.

  “I don’t suppose your Lordship, being a man, has thought that Miss Idylla has nothing to wear when she is well enough to get up. Her gown was practically torn to pieces and, even if I tried, I doubt if I could wash the blood from it.”

  Nanny paused before she continued with her eyes twinkling,

  “I’ve lent her my nightgowns, but I hardly think my clothes would look right on a lady young enough to be my grandchild.”

  “I thought I had an eye for detail and a capacity for organisation,” the Marquis said, “but you put me to shame, Nanny.”

  “You’ll see to it, my Lord?”

  “I will see to it,” he said firmly. “Have you her measurements?”

  Nanny drew a piece of paper from the pocket of her white apron.

  “I thought perhaps if you sent a groom to Chelmsford,” she said, “he would find a ready-made gown or two, besides the other items I’ve listed.”

  The Marquis took the piece of paper.

  “You can leave it to me.”

  “You know what to ask for?” Nanny enquired.

  There was a twinkle in the Marquis’s eyes as he replied,

  “You are assuming that I am unversed in the requirements of the fair sex, Nanny,” he answered. “An assumption quite unrelated to fact!”

  Before she could reply he ran downstairs, carrying her list in his hands.

  Instead of turning towards the breakfast room where Newman and two footmen were waiting to serve him from a quite inordinate choice of well-prepared dishes, the Marquis went to the library.

  He sat down at his desk, read Nanny’s memorandum carefully and then set a piece of writing paper ready on the open blotter.

  As he did so, he was wondering what colours would best become Idylla.

  As it happened, he knew a great deal about feminine attire, not only because he had paid so many bills for so many different types of women.

  When he was young, one of his mistresses had been an exceedingly attractive ballerina of Russian birth.