“You can thank me for that,” Sir Algernon Gibbon said proudly. “When the Marquis and Charles Collington thought they had won a thousand pounds from me because they had passed off a Gypsy as a Lady of Quality, I was prepared to acknowledge myself the loser and pay my debt.”
“You were indeed very sporting about it,” Charles Collington said irrepressibly.
“I am glad you thought so,” Sir Algernon Gibbon replied, “but I was also quite certain that my contention was right, and that Saviya was in fact the possessor of blue blood.”
“How could you have thought that?” the Marquis said.
“Because,” Sir Algernon answered, “I knew in the back of my mind, when it was first mentioned, there was one family somewhere in the Kingdom whose members carried somewhere on their person the mark of the hawk.”
“I thought it ... showed that I was a ... witch!” Saviya murmured.
“On the contrary,” Sir Algernon said, “after some thought I remembered that it showed that you were a McCairn.”
“It is quite true,” the Earl interposed. “The birth-mark occurs all down the ages, not on every member of the Clan, of course, and more often amongst the females than the males. In any case it happens and our crest is the hawk’s head.”
“We must be very grateful,” the Marquis interposed, “for your amazing knowledge of genealogy, Gibbon.”
“When I remembered the history of the McCairn birth-mark,” Sir Algernon said, “I wrote to the Earl asking to see him. He replied that he was coming to London and would call on me. By the time I received his letter your death was being proclaimed by your cousin, Jethro, and there was a warrant out for Saviya’s arrest.”
“I should still have wanted to find her,” the Earl said.
“Fortunately, I did not have to upset you with such a disturbing story,” Sir Algernon replied, “because while I was wondering what excuse I should make for dragging you to London, Charles Collington heard yesterday from the Marquis and I was able to give you good news of your daughter instead of bad.”
“It is very good news indeed,” the Earl exclaimed and to Saviya he said:
“If you only knew how much I have suffered these past six years!”
“Had you no idea that the baby which was buried was not your own?” the Marquis asked.
“None at all!” the Earl answered. “Actually I was away from home at the time and only returned the very day of the funeral which had been arranged by my wife, Conchita’s step-mother.”
“And I imagine the old nurse told you exactly what happened,” the Marquis said. “We have heard the story from the Voivode, the Chief of the Kalderash, who brought Saviya up as his own child.”
“I want to hear every detail,” Charles Collington cried. “When did you and Saviya learn that she was in fact not a Gypsy as she had thought herself to be? There is a lot of explaining to do.”
“There is indeed,” the Marquis answered, “but there is one thing I want to ask before we go any further and I think it is a question uppermost in all our minds.”
“What is that?” the Earl enquired.
“Why is Saviya so dark?” the Marquis enquired. “She does not resemble you in the least.”
“No indeed,” the Earl answered.
His hair was almost white but it was obvious that when he was young it would have been the pale red that was essentially Scottish.
He also possessed blue eyes and a fair complexion. Sturdily built with square shoulders, it seemed almost impossible for the slim, small-boned Saviya with her jet-black hair to be his child.
“The explanation is very simple,” he said. “My wife was Spanish.”
“Spanish!” Sir Algernon ejaculated, “why did I not think of that?”
“It did not occur to any of us,” the Marquis admitted.
“My family has always owned land in Spain,” the Earl went on. “It is near Segovia. When I visited it as a young man I fell in love with a most entrancing Contessa. I brought her back to Scotland but she died when our child was born.”
He paused and said to Saviya in a voice deep with emotion: “When I saw you walk across the room just now you might in fact have been your mother. The resemblance is almost uncanny.”
“Now tell us the whole story,” Charles Collington insisted. “From the very beginning.”
The Marquis related briefly what the Voivode had revealed to him and Saviya only the day before.
“It was Conchita’s old nurse who told me the truth six years ago after my second wife died,” the Earl said on the completion of the Marquis’s story. “What you have just related exactly bears out her tale.”
He smiled at Saviya who had been listening wide-eyed.
“There is only one thing I have to add,” he went on, “which I hope, my dear, will not disappoint you. It is that you are not my heir.”
“Why not, now that you have found her again?” Charles Collington asked impulsively.
“Because,” the Earl replied, “I have married for the third time and two years ago my wife, who is a good deal younger than I am, presented me with twin sons. There is therefore a male McCairn to inherit the Earldom.”
“I am glad,” the Marquis said. “I do not wish my wife to be concerned with any Estate save my own!”
As he spoke he looked at the clock on the mantel-shelf and rose to his feet.
“The Reverend will be ready for us in my private Chapel in exactly half an hour’s time. I feel, My Lord, that you would wish to give your daughter away, and what could be more appropriate than that my best man should be my oldest friend?”
He smiled at Charles and went on:
“And that the witness to the ceremony should be Sir Algernon Gibbon, whose exceptional knowledge of ancient family characteristics has brought my future wife and her father together?”
The Marquis took Saviya by the arm and drew her towards the door.
“Upstairs, my darling,” he said quietly, “you will find a white gown which I ordered from London yesterday, along with some other clothes which I hope will please you. They come from the same dress-maker who provided the green dress in which we attempted and failed to deceive Sir Algernon.”
“I can hardly believe that all this is true!” Saviya told him. “Now I am no longer ashamed to be your wife.”
“There was never anything of which you need have been ashamed,” the Marquis replied, “but if the knowledge that you are of noble Scottish descent makes you happy, then it makes me happy, too.”
He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers one by one.
She looked into his eyes and for a moment they were both very still.
“I love you!” the Marquis said below his breath, “and I want to be alone with you.”
“I want it ... too!” Saviya whispered.
Then with an effort she drew her hands from his and went up the stairs.
It was nearly mid-night when the Marquis dismissed Hobley.
There had been so much to talk about after the wedding; so much to hear both from Saviya and her father that the hours had sped by.
Their wedding had been very beautiful.
The Chapel at Ruckley House had been built at the same time as the house itself, and the carved pews and beautiful reredos behind the Altar had remained unchanged down the centimes.
There had been the soft music of an organ, very unlike the throbbing melody of the violins, viola and sitar which had been part of the ceremony of the night before.
But there had been an atmosphere of faith and devotion in the small Chapel. The candles glowing brightly illuminated Saviya’s lovely face covered by a lace veil that had been in the Ruckley family for centuries.
There had been a tiara of diamonds on her dark hair, diamonds to encircle her neck and glitter in her ears, and her bouquet had been of white lilies.
She had looked beautiful but also so conventional that it was hard to remember they had ever imagined her to be a wild, uncivilised Gypsy.
The Marquis
had repeated his vows in a firm, strong voice that seemed to echo round the Chapel.
Saviya’s tone had been soft but at the same time there had been such a deep sincerity in the way she spoke which brought, the Marquis thought, a new solemnity to their relationship.
On The Reverend’s advice and to please the Earl, Saviya used her real name which had been given her at her Christening and which had also been her mothers.
But because the Marquis would never be able to think of her except as Saviya, she said:
“I, Conchita Saviya, take thee, Fabius Alexander, to be my wedded husband...”
Last night the Marquis had not given her a ring, but tonight, his mother’s ring was on the third finger of her left hand, and he felt that it bound them even closer to each other than they had been before.
‘You are mine, mine by every law and vow that could unite us with each other,’ the Marquis wanted to cry.
Instead, when the ceremony had ended, he lifted Saviya’s veil and kissed her very gently on the lips.
He knew then that she was as moved as he was.
It had seemed that there was a new dignity and authority in The Reverend that neither of them had known before, and by the sanctity of his office they were now husband and wife, in the real sense of the word, and no-one could ever put them asunder.
“I love you!” the Marquis whispered as, with Saviya on his arm, they walked from the Chapel and down the corridor which led to the more familiar part of the house.
“I am your wife!” she said, “and now I want everyone to know that I am yours and that I am who I am!”
“It shall be in The Gazette the day after tomorrow,” the Marquis said with a smile, “and then there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind as to whom I have married.”
“You know I am not thinking of myself,” she whispered, “but of you.”
“I know that,” he answered, “but I am glad for your sake, my beloved, as well as for mine. Now you have a background. Now you have roots. Now you have a whole family and a Clan!”
“You are trying to frighten me!” she said accusingly, but her eyes were shining.
“I am only reminding you that you have taken on many heavy responsibilities,” the Marquis said. “There will be no more wandering carefree over the world!”
“If you talk like that I shall run away from you!” she threatened, but he knew she was only teasing.
“You will never leave me,” he answered seriously, “because you know I could not live without you. You will be with me always, Saviya, and because we have so nearly lost each other, I will never let you out of my sight.”
She laughed a little at that, but she knew that it was true.
She had not only nearly lost him through the murderous intentions of his cousin, but also, believing it was in his best interests, she had attempted to run away with her tribe and break the bond which bound them to each other by some indefinable magic.
After the wedding they had dinner, but it was a very different feast from the one they had enjoyed the night before.
Course succeeded course, served by powdered footmen on crested, silver dishes. There had been champagne to drink, but now it was in crystal glasses and not in the fabulous jewelled goblets from which they had drunk around the fire in the woods.
The Earl of Glencairn told them stories of the McCairn Clan; their fights and feuds and the part they had played in Scottish history.
Sir Algernon related strange signs which other families besides the McCairn’s bore, and repeated again and again how delighted he was that it was his knowledge which had united Saviya and her father.
There was so much to talk about; so much that was interesting and amusing. But the Marquis did not only wish to be alone with Saviya; he also remembered that the following day they were starting on a journey that would carry them to Spain.
“It is strange that I should have chosen Spain for our honeymoon,” he said to the Earl.
“You must visit Conchita’s relations,” the Earl replied. “I will give you letters of introduction and you will learn if you have not visited Spain before how very beautiful its women are.”
“To be aware of that I have only to look at my wife,” the Marquis answered.
It had been altogether a very satisfactory day, he told himself, when finally he knocked gently on the communicating door between his own and Saviya’s bed-rooms and without waiting for an answer entered.
The room was in darkness save for the light from the flames in the fireplace.
It might have been expected, the Marquis thought, that Saviya would have a fire. It was so much a part of the Gypsy way of life, it was in fact almost a sacred symbol amongst them. But the heat of the day had passed and tonight there was a chill wind blowing outside, so the fire was in fact a necessity.
He walked across the room and in the darkness the bedposts reminded him of the trunks of the trees which had encircled them last night.
Saviya was sitting on a white bear-skin rug in front of the fire.
The Marquis noticed that she had pulled the cushions from the chairs and placed them around her.
But she was sitting upright, her long dark hair covering her to below the waist.
There was the scent of flowers but now they were in vases on the side-tables. There was also the exotic fragrance of Saviya’s hair, that strange, haunting perfume which the Marquis had noticed that first time when he carried her in his arms after he had knocked her down with his Phaeton.
He stood looking down at her, very tall and handsome in his long brocade robe.
As she lifted her face there was a smile on her lips and an expression in her eyes which made his heart turn over in his breast.
“You are very beautiful, my precious.”
There was a depth in his voice to which she vibrated.
“I want you to ... think so.”
“Could I ever think anything else?”
The firelight was on her face and he wondered if any other woman could look so alluring, so mysterious and at the same time so utterly and completely desirable.
There was a sudden gust of wind in the chimney and the creeper outside the windows tapped against one of the panes.
“There is a cold wind tonight,” the Marquis said in an absent-minded voice as if he was thinking of something else. “I am glad we will sleep in a bed.”
“Are you sure of ... that?” Saviya asked.
Now he saw there was that faintly mocking smile on her lips that had entranced him when they had first met.
He reached down to lift her to her feet but as he did so her arms went round his neck and she pulled him down to her.
“Saviya!” he said hoarsely.
Then he felt her lips seek his and as his mouth took possession of her he could feel her heart beating against his.
“I love you!” he wanted to say.
But he was swept away by an indescribable magic—a spell so blinding, so compelling that they were both lost in an ecstasy and rapture for which there were no words.
Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Page 17
