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.
Again he thought of his mother, but the fragrance haunted him.
He remembered now he had smelt it first in the hair of a Gypsy he had carried in his arms after he had run her down with his Phaeton.
He felt very weak. It was too much trouble to open his eyes. Then he felt whoever held him move, and he wanted to cry out because his cheek no longer rested against the softness of a breast.
Instead his head was on a pillow, and he felt as if he had been deprived of something very precious.
“How is he, Miss?”
The Marquis thought he would have known Hobley’s voice anywhere, even though he spoke in a whisper.
“He was not so restless in the night, but he has not yet regained consciousness.”
It was Saviya who spoke. Who else could speak in that soft, melodious tone with just the trace of a foreign accent?
With an effort, feeling as if his eyelids were weighted down with lead, the Marquis opened his eyes.
She must have been looking at him, for with a little cry Saviya knelt beside him. He felt her hand against his cheek.
“You are awake!”
The Marquis looked at her. Her face was very near to his, and he could see the worry and at the same time a glint of excitement in her eyes.
“What—happened?” he asked.
Even as he spoke he remembered the rope across the ride. He had fallen!
“I do not think you ought to talk.”
“I want to—know what—happened,” the Marquis repeated and now his voice was stronger.
As he spoke, he realised that he was lying on a bed that was almost on the floor and that he was enclosed by curved walls so that he thought for a moment he was in a cave.
It was so small there was hardly room for himself, for Saviya kneeling beside him, and for Hobley with his head bent just inside what appeared to be an open door.
“Where am—I?” the Marquis asked.
“You’re all right, M’Lord, and that’s thanks to Miss Saviya,” Hobley replied. “It’s worried we’ve been about you and that’s the truth.”
With an effort the Marquis turned his head a little, realised that his shoulder was bandaged. He remembered breaking his collarbone.
“I fell, but it was not my horse’s fault. Is he all right?”
“He went home,” Saviya said. “There was a rope stretched between two trees. The men raised it just as you reached them.”
“What men?” the Marquis asked, and knew even as he spoke it was an unnecessary question.
“Mr. Jethro’s men, M’Lord,” Hobley said bitterly, “and ’twas them that swore false witness in front of the Magistrates against Miss Saviya.”
The Marquis suddenly felt more awake. He tried to raise himself a little and then was conscious of a sharp pain in his back.
“Do not move,” Saviya said quickly, “they stabbed you!”
“They’d have killed you, M’Lord, if Miss Saviya hadn’t come along when she did,” Hobley said.
“I have to know what happened,” the Marquis said, with some of his old authority back in his voice. “Start at the beginning.”
Saviya looked at Hobley as if for guidance.
“It’ll worry His Lordship,” he said to her, “if we don’t tell him.”
“It will indeed,” the Marquis affirmed. “All I can remember is feeling myself fall, and knowing it was a rope against my horse’s knees that had been the cause.”
“ ’Tis an old trick, M’Lord, but a clever one,” Hobley said. “They must’ve known Your Lordship went that way every morning and were lying in wait for you.”
“I had a feeling that something was wrong,” Saviya said. “We were packing up ready to move on...”
“You were leaving?” the Marquis interrupted.
He looked at her and her eyes fell before his.
“I had to ... go,” she murmured, and he thought the colour rose in her cheeks.
“But you stayed!”
“I felt that you were in danger, and then to make sure it was just my imagination, I told one of the Gypsies to bring me a horse and to come with me on another.”
She gave a little sigh.
“I thought as it was so early that you would not yet have left the House, and I intended merely to watch you cross the Park, pass into the Ride and out the other side.”
“You have watched me before!” the Marquis said with a sudden perception.
Again the colour seemed to tinge her cheeks.
“Almost ... every morning,” she answered.
“It was fortunate, M’Lord,” Hobley interposed, “that Miss Saviya saw you just as you disappeared into the Ride. If she hadn’t done so, you wouldn’t be lying here at this moment!”
“What happened?” the Marquis asked.
As he spoke, he covered Saviya’s hand with his own and felt her fingers tremble beneath his.
“As I reached the Ride,” Saviya said, “I actually saw your horse tripped and you shoot over its head. Then when you were on the ground, two men emerged from behind the trees. One of them held a long knife like a dagger in his hand. Before I could move nearer or shout, he drove it into your back.”
The Marquis understood then the reason for the pain he had felt a few moments before when he had tried to raise himself.
“The man drew out the knife and would have stabbed you again,” Saviya said, “if I had not urged my horse forward, shouting at the top of my voice. And the Gypsy boy with me did the same. The noise we made frightened the two men and they ran away into the woods.”
She drew in her breath before she said:
“When I reached you I thought at first you were dead!”
“It’s lucky you aren’t, M’Lord,” Hobley said. “An inch or two lower and there’s no doubt those murdering devils would have achieved their object.”
“What did you do?” the Marquis asked, holding Saviya’s hand a little more tightly.
“Yerko—the Gypsy who came with me—and I carried your body away into the trees in case the men should return to try to finish murdering you.”
She smiled.
“You are very heavy, My Lord.”
“How did you manage it?” he asked.
“Yerko is strong and I wanted to save you,” she said simply.
“When a Gypsy came to the House to tell me I was urgently needed by Miss Saviya in the wood, I’d a suspicion that something like this had happened,” Hobley said. “I was sure, M’Lord, that Mr. Jethro was up to something when he was seen at The Green Man.”
“Is there any proof that it was Mr. Jethro who tried to kill me?” the Marquis asked.
Saviya looked at Hobley and neither of them spoke. The Marquis knew they were wondering whether they should tell him the truth.
“Dammit all!” he said, “I am not a child. Tell me what has happened.”
Saviya put her hand on his forehead.
“You have been running a very high fever for a long time,” she said, “and we do not wish to agitate you.”
“It will agitate me a great deal if I think you are keeping something from me,” the Marquis said.
“Very well, M’Lord, you’d best know the worst,” Hobley said. “There is a warrant out for Miss Saviya’s arrest for having killed you. The knife that them murderers used on you is in the hands of the Magistrate, and Mr. Jethro has moved into the House!”
“God dammit!” the Marquis ejaculated.
He attempted to move again but there was a sharp pain in his back which brought beads of sweat onto his forehead.
“This is too much for you,” Saviya said. “You should have waited. There is no hurry for you to learn these unpleasant things.”
“No hurry?” the Marquis enquired. “How long have I been here?”
“For over a week,” Saviya answered.
“For over a week?” the Marquis could hardly repeat the words.
“Time enough, M’Lord, for Mr. Jethro to assert that you’ve been murdered by Miss Saviya, that the Gypsies have buried your body, and that he’s entitled to assume both the title and the ownership of the Estates!”
The Marquis lay for a moment in silence trying to digest the enormity of what Hobley had told him.
Then he asked:
“Why has no-one searched for me?”
“Because if you had been taken back to the House in the state you were in,” Saviya said, “I am certain that your cousin would have found some way of disposing of you when you were too weak to resist him.”
“Besides,” Hobley said, “with a warrant out for her arrest, if Miss Saviya is seen she will be taken to prison.”
“Where am I hidden?” the Marquis asked.
“In my caravan in the very depths of the forest,” Saviya answered. “If it seems dark, it is because the Gypsies have draped it with shrubs and ivy so that it is almost impossible for anyone to see it, even if they are just outside.”
Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Page 10
