Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) by Barbara Cartland Read Free Book Online Page B

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