Read Online Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) by Barbara Cartland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Cartland
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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.
“You do not always think so,” she said, “but one day you will realise how important this House and everything it contains is to your happiness.”
“I think I realise it now,” the Marquis said. “Are you telling my fortune, Saviya?”
“No, not really,” she answered, “but at the same time there is something I do not like.”
It seemed to the Marquis that her voice had changed.
Now she turned her head to look at him and he had the strange feeling she was not actually seeing him but looking through and beyond him.
“Yes, there is danger,” she said in a low tone. “You must be careful! You have an enemy. It is a man and he is trying to injure you.”
“How do you know that?” the Marquis asked sharply. “Has Hobley been talking to you?”
“I know it because he is there,” Saviya answered. “I can see him quite clearly. He is dark, he has a long nose, and his name has the same first letter as yours. You must be careful ... very careful where he is concerned!”
“How do you know this?” the Marquis asked again.
As he spoke, his voice almost harsh, Saviya shook her head as if she would dispel something that was hurting her and from which she would be free.
Then she knelt on the window-seat and looked out into the garden.
The Marquis did not speak for a moment and then he said: “What you have told me is true, but I cannot understand how you can be aware of something which concerns only my private life.”
“I told you I am a witch.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Magic is not a joke to the Kalderash. It is a part of us and part of our destiny; we cannot escape it.”
“What you have told me is true,” the Marquis repeated, “but you did not say if my enemy would be successful in what he is attempting to do to me.”
There was a silence, and then Saviya, still not looking at him, said:
“I have warned you of danger. That is enough. A man prepared is already armed.”
“I hope you are right!”
She turned her face suddenly.
“Be careful! Please be very careful!” she pleaded.
Her eyes met his and for a moment it seemed as if something passed between them and it was impossible for either of them to move.
Almost without meaning to, the Marquis put out his arms towards Saviya.
It was an instinctive gesture—something he had done so often in his life, when he had been attracted by a lovely woman, that he did not even
“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.
“You do not always think so,” she said, “but one day you will realise how important this House and everything it contains is to your happiness.”
“I think I realise it now,” the Marquis said. “Are you telling my fortune, Saviya?”
“No, not really,” she answered, “but at the same time there is something I do not like.”
It seemed to the Marquis that her voice had changed.
Now she turned her head to look at him and he had the strange feeling she was not actually seeing him but looking through and beyond him.
“Yes, there is danger,” she said in a low tone. “You must be careful! You have an enemy. It is a man and he is trying to injure you.”
“How do you know that?” the Marquis asked sharply. “Has Hobley been talking to you?”
“I know it because he is there,” Saviya answered. “I can see him quite clearly. He is dark, he has a long nose, and his name has the same first letter as yours. You must be careful ... very careful where he is concerned!”
“How do you know this?” the Marquis asked again.
As he spoke, his voice almost harsh, Saviya shook her head as if she would dispel something that was hurting her and from which she would be free.
Then she knelt on the window-seat and looked out into the garden.
The Marquis did not speak for a moment and then he said: “What you have told me is true, but I cannot understand how you can be aware of something which concerns only my private life.”
“I told you I am a witch.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Magic is not a joke to the Kalderash. It is a part of us and part of our destiny; we cannot escape it.”
“What you have told me is true,” the Marquis repeated, “but you did not say if my enemy would be successful in what he is attempting to do to me.”
There was a silence, and then Saviya, still not looking at him, said:
“I have warned you of danger. That is enough. A man prepared is already armed.”
“I hope you are right!”
She turned her face suddenly.
“Be careful! Please be very careful!” she pleaded.
Her eyes met his and for a moment it seemed as if something passed between them and it was impossible for either of them to move.
Almost without meaning to, the Marquis put out his arms towards Saviya.
It was an instinctive gesture—something he had done so often in his life, when he had been attracted by a lovely woman, that he did not even
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