Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) (6 page)

She was wearing the same attractive Gypsy dress that she had done when he first saw her, but he could see that the blouse was not the one which had been torn from her shoulder. On her arm he could see a bandage.

“I need not tell you how sorry I am that I should have hurt you,” the Marquis said.

“It was my fault,” the Gypsy answered. “I was looking at your house and I forgot everything else because it was so beautiful.”

“I am glad you think so,” the Marquis replied. “As I expect someone has told you, it was built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and there are very few Tudor houses in the whole country to equal it.”

There was a note of pride in his voice because Ruckley had always meant so much to him.

“I did not think English houses would be as fine as they are,” the Gypsy said.

“You sound as if you have not been in England long.”

“No, this is the first time.”

“What is your name?”

“Saviya.”

“That is a very unusual name.”

“It may seem so to you,” she replied, “but it is quite a common name amongst my tribe.”

“And what is that?” the Marquis enquired.

He thought for a moment she would not answer him. Then she said:

“We are the Kalderash.”

She saw that he was ignorant of what this meant and she added:

“The metal-workers, the farriers, the healers, the musicians and the magicians!”

“Magicians?” the Marquis exclaimed, then added: “Oh, you mean fortune-telling and that sort of thing. I believe the Gypsies are very good at that!”

Saviya gave him a faint smile that had a hint of mockery in it before she said in a low voice:

“I must thank you, My Lord, for having given orders that I was to be well treated in your house and restored to health. It has been a very interesting experience for me.”

“I can believe that!” the Marquis said. “Perhaps you have never slept under a roof before?”

Again she gave him that strange smile which made him feel as if he had said something rather ridiculous. But he told himself it was just a trick she had.

“Where have you come from?” he asked, “I mean, from what country?”

She hesitated and, before she could reply, the door opened and The Reverend came in.

“Ah, there you are, My Lord!” he exclaimed. “I heard you had arrived. It is a pleasure to welcome you back so soon, and I see you have made the acquaintance of my new pupil.”

The Marquis shook hands with The Reverend and asked in surprise:

“Your new pupil?”

“Saviya has the most intelligent brain and the most remarkable memory I have ever encountered,” The Reverend said enthusiastically.

The Marquis looked astonished.

“All in one small person?” he asked.

“You may not believe it, My Lord, but she absorbs a new subject in a manner which I consider phenomenal,” The Reverend said, almost as if Saviya was not present.

She was listening, but still, the Marquis noted, with that faint smile on her lips.

“I had an idea,” the Marquis said slowly, “although of course I must have been mistaken, that Gypsies could not read or write.”

“That is true,” Saviya agreed, “and they do not wish to do so. They memorise what they hear and there are story-tellers who translate our legends into poem or song. Besides, for a Gypsy who is always on the move, there is no room for books.”

“And yet,” the Marquis said, “from what I have just heard, you can read!”

“I am the
exception! “And
then, still with that faint mocking smile on her lips, she added:

“But you see, I am a witch!”

“A witch?” the Marquis echoed in astonishment.

“But naturally!” she answered. “Otherwise I should not be able to qualify for the very flattering report the Reverend Gentleman has just given of me.”

The Marquis was intrigued.

“You will both have to tell me much more about this,” he said. “First of all I want to know where Saviya has come from, and why her tribe has visited Ruckley—it seems, for the first time.”

“I have learnt, not from Saviya, but from other people in the neighbourhood,” The Reverend answered, “that the Gypsies have certain places which they visit in rotation. Ruckley is one of them, as I told you, My Lord, by arrangement with your grand-mother.”

“I had not forgotten,” the Marquis said briefly. “What interests me is that we should attract not only English Gypsies but foreign ones.”

“All Gypsies are foreign,” Saviya said. “We have no place that we can call our own.”

“And why is that?”

“We are condemned to wander the earth,” she answered, “perhaps for the expiation of past sins, perhaps because for us that is happiness.”

The Marquis sat down on the edge of the desk.

“Will you please answer the question I have already asked you?” he said. “Where have you just come from?”

“Germany.”

“And before that?”

“We came across Poland from Russia.”

“Now let me think,” the Marquis said. “I have a feeling that the Russians treat their Gypsies in a different way from other countries. Is that true?”

“All countries at some time or other have persecuted the Gypsies,” Saviya answered, “with the exception of the Russians. There we have a different status altogether.”

“Why?” the Marquis enquired.

“Because of our music and because the Russians appreciate our dances.”

The Marquis looked at her slight figure and realised that even standing still, she had a grace about her that he had not noticed in other women.

“You are a dancer?” he asked.

She nodded her head.

“I have been taught by my mother, who was the daughter of one of the greatest of all Gypsy dancers in Russia. Grand Dukes and Princes fought with each other so that she should appear in their private theatres, and on several occasions she danced before the Tsar.”

“It is fascinating, is it not?” The Reverend exclaimed. “These are the things I always wanted to hear, and never until now have I had the chance of learning anything about the Gypsy race.”

“Tell us more,” the Marquis said to Saviya.

“So that you can laugh at us?” she enquired.

“You know I would not do that,” he answered seriously. “I am as interested as The Reverend is, because we both realise how lamentably ignorant we are where your race is concerned.”

“The Gypsies prefer people not to know about them,” Saviya replied. “It is good that they should be mysterious, so that when they leave there is little to remember.”

A footman came into the room to inform The Reverend that someone wanted to see him.

“Do not leave before I return, My Lord,” he begged.

“I am in no hurry,” the Marquis replied.

As the door shut behind him, the Marquis said to Saviya:

“Come, sit down and talk to me.”

He walked to the window as he spoke where in the summer there were comfortable chairs arranged so that from the Library one could look out on the velvet green lawns which ended in a yew-hedge beyond which was the Herb-Garden.

The Marquis seated himself in an arm-chair and Saviya sat on the end of the window-seat, her face turned from the Marquis so that he could see the exquisite outline of her profile.

He tried to think of what she reminded him, but it was hard to say if there was a characteristic from any other race to be distinguished in her features.

‘She is beautiful,’ he thought suddenly, and yet her beauty was neither classical nor did it belong to any one artistic period.

She was simply unique, with green eyes slanting up a little at the corners, an oval face which ended in a small pointed chin below lips which, when she smiled, curved in that strangely mocking manner.

Her hair hung as it had the first time the Marquis had seen her, straight down her back to below her waist, and now he saw that she wore earrings also made of coins to match her necklace, and they glittered in the sunshine as she moved her head.

“Has Hobley given you the money as I instructed him?” the Marquis asked suddenly.

Saviya turned her face from the window to look at him.

“I do not want your money,” she answered.

As she spoke, the Marquis realised that the coins around her neck and in her ears were worth a hundred times more than the five pounds with which he had thought to recompense her for her injuries.

He also had an uneasy suspicion that the red stones he had supposed were glass were in fact rubies.

Then he told himself he must be in a state of stupidity. How could Gypsies be expected to own anything so valuable?

“Tell me about your tribe, the Kalderash,” he said.

“I have told you that we are the metal-workers,” Saviya answered in a tone that was almost reproving, because she must repeat herself.

“And what metals do you use?” the Marquis enquired.

“Copper, silver or gold. Whatever is necessary for the work we have to do,” Saviya replied.

“Gold?” the Marquis questioned.

“The Nobles in Hungary use goblets for their wine and vessels of every description to ornament their tables. It is the Kalderash who fashion them.”

“You liked being in Hungary?” the Marquis said, and added before she could answer: “I have the feeling the Hungarians call you something rather special.”

“In Hungary and in Germany our Chiefs are ‘the Dukes of Little Egypt’.”

“An important designation! Does it please you?”

“Sometimes we are Kings, in Germany the ‘Zigeuner,’ in France ‘Bohemians,’ in Turkey the ‘Tchinghanie,’ and in Persia ‘Karaki.’ What does it matter? We are still Gypsies.”

“But more appreciated in some countries than in others.”

“King Sigismund of Hungary gave the Gypsies letters of protection. James V of Scotland gave one of our patrons, Johnie Faur, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, juridical rights over his own Gypsy Bands.”

“How do you know that?” the Marquis asked.

“Our history is passed by mouth from tribe to tribe so that we know where we may find friends,” Saviya answered.

“That is good sense,” the Marquis said. “I would very much like to meet the rest of your tribe. May I come to your camp?”

“No!”

The refusal was positive.

“Why not?”

“Because if they see you, I shall not be able to come here again.”

The Marquis was surprised.

“But why?”

“You would not understand.”

“What would I not understand?”

Saviya hesitated before she said:

“My Father, who is the Chief of the Kalderash, or, as we call him, the ‘Voivode,’ allowed me to come here and read your books because you were not at home. If he knows that you are back, then I cannot come again.”

“But what has your father got against me?” the Marquis asked incredulously.

“You are a man!”

“Explain what you are trying to say,” he begged.

“Perhaps another time,” Saviya said, rising to her feet. “It is getting late. I must return or they will come in search of me.”

“Return where?” the Marquis asked.

“To where we are camped in your woods.”

“But I thought you were staying here in the House!”

“Only for the first two days when I was unconscious,” Saviya replied. “But because Mr. Hobley was so kind and treated my wounds, I was allowed to return to have them dressed. Then, because I begged and besought my Father to let me read some of your books, he agreed. But there must be no other reason for me to visit your house.”

“But you will come tomorrow?” the Marquis asked.

“I think it will be permitted.”

“Then do not tell your father that I am here.”

She gave him a glance from under her long lashes.

“Please come tomorrow,” the Marquis begged. “There is so much I want to learn about you. Why you are a witch, for instance, and what strange enchantments you can perform.”

Saviya smiled but did not answer.

Instead she moved away from the Marquis and, as she crossed the floor of the Library, he thought he had never seen a woman move with such grace—she seemed to float rather than walk.

As she reached the door she looked back at him.

“You will come tomorrow?” the Marquis insisted.

“If it is possible,” she replied.

Then she was gone.

The Marquis stood quite still for a moment staring at the closed door.

“A witch!” he said aloud. “That is certainly a being I never expected to encounter!”

CHAPTER THREE

The Marquis rose early the following morning, as he realised he must go over to Eurydice’s house and arrange about taking over the management of her Estate.

As Hobley helped him put on riding-clothes, he said:

“You did a good job on our Gypsy, Hobley.”

“The wound healed quickly because she was so healthy,” Hobley replied, “and it was in fact, M’Lord, a pleasure.”

The Marquis raised his eyebrows and asked:

“Did the rest of the household get over their fears of what she might do to them?”

“Yes indeed, M’Lord,” Hobley answered. “She captivated all of them before she finished. Even Mrs. Meedham spoke well of the young lady!”

The Marquis was amused to notice that Saviya had changed from being “one of them Gypsies” to a “young lady,” and he realised it was indeed a compliment.

There was no-one more snobbish or more rigid in their sense of propriety than the servants in a Nobleman’s house.

The slightest infringement of their privileges or of their recognised order of precedence would cause almost a revolution in their ranks.

That they were no longer frightened of Saviya but had accepted her was, the Marquis thought, a very unusual and unpredictable change in their attitude.

He did not, however, express his thoughts to Hobley but merely remarked:

“The Reverend seems to think very highly of her intelligence.”

“The Reverend is a good judge of character, M’Lord,” Hobley said stoutly.

The Marquis found himself thinking of Saviya as he rode across the Park and then through the woods towards Eurydice’s house.

Trees covered many acres of land in that part of Hertfordshire, and as the Marquis moved through them he realised that it would be easy for not one band of Gypsies but dozens to hide themselves away so that it would be difficult for anyone to find them.

He, however, had a vague idea as to where they would be camping, and he thought that when he had the time he would perhaps visit them unexpectedly and see what they were like.

At the same time, if Saviya was to be believed, that would mean her visits to the House would be stopped. At the moment that was something which he had no wish to happen.

He wondered if she was speaking the truth.

He had always believed Gypsies were free and easy, and the women dispensed their favours to whomever they fancied.

If they did, the Marquis thought with a faint smile, they would be behaving just like the more aristocratic members of their sex in the
Beau Monde.

There was no doubt that sexual morality in the Social World was very lax.

The raffish Society which was centred round Carlton House had since the very beginning of the century, set an example that was, to say the least, regrettable, while London itself was, as the Marquis well knew, a hot-bed of vice.

A man would have had to be blind not to notice the ever-increasing numbers of painted wantons who haunted the streets at night.

Some of them were but children, and the Flash Houses, where boys were taught to steal, pick pockets and commit every other minor crime in the calendar, grew more uncontrollable every year.

There were so many evils that should be denounced and reformed, the Marquis thought, and wondered if he himself should speak on the subject when the opportunity arose in the House of Lords.

Then, he thought with a wry smile, he was hardly the person to take a stand against immorality or to constitute himself a champion of good morals.

He could see the faces of many alluring women looking at him with a fire burning in their eyes, their white arms reaching out, their lips surrendering themselves with an ease which told him without words he was by no means their first lover—nor would he be their last.

And yet he was prepared to bet quite a considerable sum that the Gypsy girl he had knocked down with his Phaeton was intrinsically pure.

At the thought he laughed aloud.

‘Really, I must be besotted to imagine such a thing is possible,’ he told himself.

After all, Saviya admitted, if she was to be believed, to having visited Russia, Hungary, and Germany. To reach these countries she must have passed through many others. Was it likely that on her travels she had not with her strange beauty aroused attention?

And what about the men of her own tribe? They would have eyes in their heads and warm blood in their veins!

The Marquis emerged from the woods to see in front of him Eurydice’s house, and at the sight of it he deliberately put the thoughts of Saviya and all the other women he had known out of his mind.

He was certain that ahead of him lay a great deal of hard thinking and perhaps quite a considerable amount of work.

He was not mistaken.

When he arrived home at luncheon time, he knew that there was no chance of his returning to London for at least a week.

He was in fact appalled at the mess in which Eurydice had left her properties.

Her instructions were very clear.

They were to be handed over to his administration, and all future orders and of course the payment of employees was to come from Ruckley.

Anyone else, the Marquis thought, might have resented having such a problem—and an expensive one—thrust upon him without notice, but he guessed that Eurydice had known that her decision was in a way his triumph.

His father had always wished to acquire the neighbouring land and make it a part of the Ruckley Estate. Now, to all intents and purposes, this had happened!

The Marquis interviewed the Agent, the Farm-Managers and Eurydice’s Attorney, who was waiting with a number of papers which required his signature.

As he rode home, the Marquis told himself that it was essential that he should give the new land his personal and immediate attention in order to rectify the loss of revenue he had discovered.

He was still debating who he would put in charge and how to dove-tail the management of the two Estates when he reached home.

It needed a quarter of an hour to luncheon time, and the Marquis handed his hat and riding-whip to a footman and walked automatically towards the Library.

As he expected, The Reverend was there and so was Saviya. They were so interested in what they were reading that the Marquis was half-way across the room before they noticed him.

Then they turned round and there was no mistaking the expression of gladness in their eyes at the sight of him.

“Here you are, My Lord!” The Reverend exclaimed. “You left very early this morning, before I had time to tell you of my new discovery.”

“Good-morning, Sir,” the Marquis said, “and good-morning to you, Saviya.”

She smiled at him, and he thought how lovely she looked: her hair very dark against the brilliant bindings of the books; the movement of her hands even more graceful than he had remembered. “Good-morning, My Lord.”

Then, like a child that has something exciting to relate, she added:

“The Reverend Gentleman has found a book which he is sure will please you.”

“What is it?” the Marquis enquired.

“It is a book on Gypsies by one John Howland,” The Reverend replied, holding it out to the Marquis. “I had no idea it was in the Library, but actually it was only published two years ago in 1816. It relates all you wished to know about the origin of the Gypsies.”

The Marquis took the book from him.

“I suppose my father must have bought it.”

“That is so, and because he died that same year it must have been overlooked,” The Reverend replied, “which was why I had not included it in the Catalogue.”

The Marquis opened the book, turned the pages and remarked: “I see it has a comparative list of the Gypsy and Hindustani language. Some of the words seem very similar.”

“That is true,” Saviya said. “For instance I would describe you in English as a very important man, or Prince. The word is Rajah in Hindustani and Raja in Romany.”

“I shall have to study this,” the Marquis said, “but at the moment I am extremely hungry and also thirsty. Will you join me in a glass of wine, Reverend?”

“I shall be delighted, My Lord.”

“And I hope, Saviya,” the Marquis said, “that you will have luncheon with me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then answered:

“I would like that.”

“It is no use my inviting you, Reverend, is it?” the Marquis asked.

The elderly man shook his head.

“You know with my poor digestion I can eat only once a day.”

“I had not really forgotten,” the Marquis replied.

They went into the Salon, and after The Reverend had accepted a small glass of Madeira, he returned to the Library.

Saviya looked at the Marquis’s shining riding-boots and said: “You have been riding. I have admired the magnificent horses in your stables.”

“I imagine that you ride?”

She smiled and answered:

“It is something I enjoy doing more than anything else except dancing.”

“I hope to see you do both.”

They went into luncheon and the Marquis wondered how she would eat. Surely, he thought, a Gypsy would not know either the etiquette or the proper behaviour expected at a Gentleman’s table.

But it would have been impossible, he realised, for Saviya to do anything that was not graceful or elegant. He noticed, however, that she did not pick up a knife or fork until she could follow him.

Yet it was cleverly done and anyone who had not been observing her closely would not have noticed that she was imitating not only his choice of cutlery but also the manner in which he used it.

But after a time the Marquis forgot to watch Saviya for any faults she might commit. He was too much interested in what she was saying to think of anything else.

He had little difficulty in persuading her to talk of her travels. The Marquis was an expert at drawing a woman out, obtaining her confidence and making her feel so secure and happy in his company that she could trust him with her innermost secrets.

Usually he did not exert himself unduly in this way, but he knew without consciously thinking of it that he had the power at his command.

Because he was quite certain that Saviya had never had luncheon alone with a man before, and certainly not in such agreeable circumstances, it was easy to make her talk.

She told him of how the Gypsies trekked across Europe, moving from country to country, often having to flee from cruel persecutions by the Authorities, but usually welcomed by the ordinary people, because of their special crafts, sorcery and horse-dealing.

“My father is a great authority on horse-flesh,” Saviya said, “and he has often been commissioned to buy animals in one country and send them to another.”

“How big is your tribe?” the Marquis asked.

“When we left Hungary for Russia, there were two hundred of us,” Saviya replied, “but usually we number but forty to fifty as we are here in England.”

“Do you sleep in tents?”

“We used to,” she answered, “but now we have something new.”

“What is that?”

“We have acquired caravans. There are not many in England yet, but in Europe a number of Gypsies have them. Caravans have always been used by the Circus people, but they are so attractive and comfortable that now all the Gypsies that can afford it wish to own one.”

When luncheon was over the Marquis and Saviya went to the stables and he at once realised, as he might have expected, that she had a special way with horses.

“What magic do you use on a restless or savage horse?” he asked, when she had entered the stable of a stallion of whom even the Marquis’s grooms were wary.

“It is a secret which belongs only to the Gypsies,” Saviya answered, “and must certainly not be imparted to a Gorgio.”

“Is that what I am?” the Marquis asked.

“Anyone who is not a Gypsy is a Gorgio or Gadje,” she replied.

“And what do you call yourselves?”

“We are the Rom,” Saviya replied proudly.

When they had finished inspecting the stables, the Marquis took Saviya round the old part of the House, showing her the Priests’ holes, where the Catholic Priests had hidden from Queen Elizabeth’s soldiers, who would have burned them at the stake.

The hiding-places had been used later in the history of the Ruckleys, when Cromwell had defeated the Royalists and hung many of them on Tyburn Hill.

As the Marquis showed Saviya round his home, he found himself recalling family stories and legends that he had known as a boy.

He liked the concentrated attention she gave to everything he said: the light in her eyes; the way her lips curved differently from the mysterious mocking smile she had given him yesterday.

Finally, they reached the end of the long Picture Gallery where he had shown her paintings of his ancestors, and the Marquis stood at the casement window looking out into the garden.

There was a fountain just below them where a stone cupid held a huge fish in his hands. From its mouth a jet of water spouted high, which glittered iridescent in the sunshine.

“You are very lucky,” Saviya said in a low voice.

“Am I?” the Marquis asked.