Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) (11 page)

She did not reply, yet he knew without being told she was not convinced.

“Look at me, Saviya!”

She hesitated and then as if she must obey him she threw back her head. Her worried eyes were very large in her small face.

“You love me!” the Marquis said. “I know you love me and you thrill me in a way I have never known in my whole life before! My body aches for you! I desire you, Saviya, but there is so much more to it than that. I want to be with you; to know you are there; to listen to your voice. I want to watch the movement of your lips; to see that strange, lovely, melting expression in your eyes which tells me that you love me.”

Saviya drew in her breath. Her lips were parted a little, her eyes were pools of mystery and the Marquis knew she was trembling.

“God, I want you!”

It seemed with the words as if something broke within him. He swept her into his arms. He held her crushingly against him.

His lips were on hers and then as her head fell back against his shoulder, his kiss was not only demanding and possessive, but gentle, as he realised how soft, small and yielding she was.

It was a moment of magic such as he had never imagined. It seemed as if the whole world stood still and they were alone in an eternity where there was nothing but themselves.

“I love you!” He remembered even as he spoke, that he had never in his life said that to a woman.

“
Me hamava Tut
!” she whispered.

He knew that she was saying the same words as he had said to her, but in Romany.

“I love you!—I love you!”

Now he kissed her eyes; her cheeks; the little pulse throbbing frantically in her throat; and then again her lips.

“Come back with me now!” he begged. “Why should we wait? I want you with me! I cannot wait until tomorrow to see you again!”

Very slowly she drew herself away from him.

Her face in the moonlight was radiant. Then he saw her expression change.

“No!” she said. “No! No! It is ... wrong not only for me but for ... you. I love you too much to ... hurt you!”

“Why should it hurt me?” the Marquis asked roughly.

She stood looking at him and he felt once again in that strange way he had felt once before that she was not looking at him, but through and beyond him.

“It is you who ... matters,” she said softly.

Then before he could stop her, before he could take her again into his arms, she had moved away from him amongst the tree trunks and vanished!

“Saviya!” he called desperately. “Saviya!”

But there was no answer from the darkness. He was alone.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Marquis walked slowly back to the house, and after a short conversation with Sir Algernon and Charles Collington he retired to bed.

He gave orders to Bush before he did so that, as Saviya had suggested, the snake should be sent over to the St. Albans Circus the following morning in charge of a groom.

When Hobley left him he sat for some time in an arm-chair before getting into bed, and found himself recapturing the incredible magic of the evening.

He had known as he watched Saviya dance that his whole being responded, and she made him feel as no woman had ever done before.

Then when he touched her and was aware of a new rapture and ecstasy within himself, he knew he was in love.

There had been many women in his life whom he had found amusing, entertaining and at times irresistible, but never had they fulfilled his first expectation. Always he had found, however enticing they might be, they could not give him what he really wanted from a woman.

This was something he could not express even to himself. He just knew there was some hidden part of his being that remained untouched by even the most alluring and attractive woman, so that in some inexplicable manner she failed him.

He had laughed at love, mocked it and declared it was the infatuation of fools, but there was nevertheless an idealism that told him that true love was possible, even if he had not met it.

He understood now why Eurydice had been prepared to give up everything that was familiar and cross the world to a strange land with a man of whom she knew little, but whom she loved.

She had warned him that one day he would feel the same, but even as he thought of her words, he knew it was impossible for him to offer Saviya marriage.

It was what he should do. Even while to her he was a “Gorgio,” she would wish him to want her to be his wife. Yet how could he make her the Marchioness of Ruckley?

He told himself that, where only he was concerned, he could not think of anyone more suitable and indeed more perfect to be his wife and the Chatelaine of his house.

But he would have been a fool if he had not realised the difficulties, and indeed the unhappiness such a position would entail for Saviya herself.

However lovely she was, however competent, however charming, she would have to endure the sneers, the innuendos and the insults that she would receive not only from his friends but, in a way far more important, from those he employed and who were part of his background.

Saviya might have charmed the servants when she stayed in the House, but would they accept her as their Mistress?

And even if the servants could be captivated, what about the keepers, the other employees on the Estate, the people in the village, the farmers, the tenants and everyone who lived in the immediate neighbourhood of Ruckley, who had looked up to the family and respected them for generations.

Hatred and fear of the Gypsies lay deep in the roots of almost all Englishmen, but why it should be so the Marquis could not understand.

Ever since the Gypsies had first come to the country in 1512, there had been people who not only disliked them but who attempted to persecute them.

In the book by John Howland which The Reverend had found in the Library, the Marquis had read that even in the reign of Henry VIII a number of outlandish people calling themselves Egyptians had been reshipped to France at public expense.

In the “31st yeare of the Raigne of our Sovraigne Lady, the Queen’s Majestie, Acts were passed for the punishinge and suppressinge of Roags and Vacabonds,” mentioning particular parts of the country where the Gypsies congregated.

Under Scottish laws in 1609, “Somers, common thieves, commonly called Egyptians were directed to pass forth of the Kingdom under pain of death as common, notorious and condemned thieves.”

Things had altered very little, the Marquis thought, and despite a number of romantic writers who had glamourised the Gypsies, the country people still believed they could curse their crops or their animals, cast the “Evil Eye,” and that Gypsies were, in the main, evil folk.

According to Howland there were some thirty-six thousand Gypsies in Great Britain and yet nothing was done for them.

No attempt was made to educate their children, Clergymen avoided the camps, and they received severe sentences whenever they were brought in front of the Magistrates.

And yet, the Marquis thought, there were Gypsies like Saviya, who was more intelligent than any woman he had ever met and certainly more cultured than the majority of his friends.

It was true she was half-Russian and, according to Sir Algernon, the Russians were different from those in the rest of Europe. But socially she would always be tainted by her Gypsy blood.

He wondered if any marriage could survive when a man must be continually on the defensive to protect his wife, not against violence, but slanderous tongues and evil minds.

No. Marriage was impossible! It therefore remained, the Marquis thought, to persuade Saviya to live with him as his mistress.

He had not missed the contempt in her voice when she had said the word “
Piramni
,” and he had known that to her it suggested much worse sin than it would have to an Englishwoman.

The strict morality of the Gypsies was part of their faith, an intrinsic part of their way of life, and he knew that only a great love utterly beyond self would make Saviya accept a position that offended every instinct in her body.

But what else could he do? He asked himself the question and then, because there was no answer, he at last went to bed.

He found it impossible to sleep, and rose very early.

He had a feeling it was urgent for him to see Saviya as soon as possible. There had been something unsatisfactory and indecisive in the manner in which she had left him last night, after that moment of indescribable wonder when he had held her in his arms and kissed her.

He knew irrefutably it was the first kiss she had ever received.

He was aware as he felt her quivering against him that he had aroused in her a rapture to equal his own and that already, without physical possession, they were one in body, mind and soul.

‘I love her!’ the Marquis told himself, and he knew it was an expression of the deepest feelings of which he was capable.

He felt sure she would come to the House at her usual time, which was about eleven o’clock.

Invariably when he returned from dealing with Eurydice’s Estate, he would find her in the Library with The Reverend.

She would be discussing subjects so erudite he thought them beyond the intelligence of a woman, and looking so entrancingly beautiful that it was hard to believe she could be as clever as The Reverend proclaimed her to be.

Today the Marquis thought he could not bear to miss a moment of the time they might be together. So this morning Saviya would not be waiting for him, but he for Saviya.

As Hobley assisted him into his riding-clothes, he remembered that he had not given Saviya back the coins that she had borrowed from her father for them to deceive Sir Algernon.

He must remember, he thought, to return them as they were in fact extremely valuable.

How strange it must be, he thought to himself, to know that one must wander the world encountering terrible discomforts from the climate, the hostility of the different races and enduring all sorts of privations, when in fact one could well afford to settle down in comparative comfort.

Then with a smile he felt it undoubtedly had its compensations for a man. To battle against tremendous odds was a challenge. It must also be a very successful way of avoiding boredom and social ennui, when the horizon was limitless.

“Do you know what time Sir Algernon and Captain Collington plan to leave for London, Hobley?” he asked his Valet.

“Sir Algernon ordered his carriage for eleven o’clock, M’Lord.”

“I will be back long before that,” the Marquis said. “There are certain people I have to see on Lady Walden’s Estate. But will you assure Sir Algernon and Captain Collington I shall not be long delayed and hope to be with them some time before their departure?”

“I’ll give them your message, M’Lord.”

“I have discovered a quick way to the new land, Hobley,” the Marquis said with satisfaction, as the Valet helped him into his riding-coat.

“Indeed, M’Lord?”

“I have been using it now for the past week. I have timed myself and it takes me not quite twenty minutes.”

“Riding the finest horse-flesh, M’Lord,” Hobley said with a smile.

“I admit a fine mount is essential,” the Marquis replied.

“I think I know the way you mean, M’Lord,” Hobley said. “It is through the Ride at the north end of Battle Wood.”

“That is right,” the Marquis replied. “It takes me directly onto the parkland sloping down to Lady Walden’s house.”

The Marquis took a quick glance at himself in the mirror and went from the room.

Hobley watched him appreciatively as he walked down the passage.

There was no-one, he thought, who could look smarter than his master in a grey whipcord riding-coat, which had been cut by a master-hand, over a yellow waistcoat above the spotless white of his riding-breeches.

The shine on the Marquis’s riding-boots was Hobley’s special pride.

He had refused innumerable bribes to tell the secret of their brilliance to the London Dandies who tried to imitate the Marquis’s elegance, and who invariably failed in their aspirations.

Outside the front door two grooms were holding with some difficulty a stallion the Marquis had acquired only a month ago from Tattersall’s salesrooms.

It was a fiery young horse with a touch of Arab in its pedigree, and as the Marquis swung himself into the saddle he thought with pleasure that his ride was not going to be an easy one. He would have to assert his mastery over an animal that was not yet broken to his touch.

The stallion bucked several times to show its independence, and was checked from starting off at too swift a pace.

Finally he contented himself with shying at several imaginary objects before the Marquis allowed him to trot over the Park towards the woods.

As he went the Marquis thought of how last night he had walked in the moonlight with Saviya.

It was impossible to keep her from his thoughts. Just to think of her eyes raised to his, of her softness as she had surrendered herself into his arms, made his breath come quicker.

Also he felt once again that strange constriction within his heart that he had never known before.

“God, she is beautiful!” he told himself.

It was not only her beauty which held him. There was some indefinable link between them, some union that had made them part of each other from the first moment they had met.

“I want her!” the Marquis said beneath his breath. “Dear God, how I want her!”

The stallion distracted his attention from Saviya by shying at one of the speckled deer which, startled at their approach, ran from beneath a tree.

Already they had reached the woods which on the north side of the house constituted a background, and a wind-break had been planned for the great red-brick mansion when it was first erected.

There was, as the Marquis had told Hobley, a Ride through the wood which had been cut originally by the tree-fellers so that they would use it for conveying the chopped wood to the House in their carts.

Now it was a straight lane through the trees, and the Marquis set his horse to a gallop putting up his hand as he did so to settle his hat more firmly upon his head.

The great trees, many of them centuries old, rose high on either side. As it was so early in the morning, the sun was not yet strong enough to percolate through the branches and dry up the dew, which lay like small diamonds on the grass.

There was a scent of pine and of birchwood, and among the trees there was an occasional glimpse of the vivid blue of bluebells.

Then as the stallion increased his pace the Marquis, enjoying a sense of satisfaction and well-being, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, even as he reached it, saw something rising from the ground with a quick movement.

It was a rope! Knee-high it was taut in front of his horse.

There was not even time for the Marquis to tighten the reins before he felt his mount gallop straight into it, heard himself shout, and knew, even as he fell, there was nothing he could do.

He was conscious of the violent impact as his head hit the ground, then he thought he heard the bone snap as his collar-bone broke...

Someone was speaking very softly and there was a touch on his forehead that was soothing and somehow hypnotic.

“Go to sleep!” the soft voice said. “You are dreaming. Go to sleep!”

The cool fingers were comforting, and yet vaguely the Marquis remembered that someone had been crying out ... There had been darkness and pain...

But he could not ignore the compelling movement on his forehead, and he fell asleep.

Slowly he came back to consciousness...

He thought for a moment he was with his mother. He was in someone’s arms and his head was against the softness of a woman’s breast. Then he was aware of a fragrance.

He was very comfortable. He felt secure and there was a strange happiness in knowing he was loved.