68 The Magic of Love Read online

  Was it her imagination or did Cécile’s figure seem for the moment to be almost luminous?

  She felt too as if there was someone in the room, someone she could not see.

  Then, as if she was compelled to do what she had been told, she put her hand on the bottom of the picture and lifted it away from the wall.

  Nothing happened and she put her other hand against the back of the picture. She felt something stuck into the side of the frame.

  She pulled gently and it came away in her fingers. She let the picture fall back into place.

  In the darkness of the bedroom she could just discern that she held a piece of paper and an envelope.

  This, she thought, was what she had been meant to find.

  Rose-Marie did not move as she went from the room back to her own bedchamber.

  She lit the candles by her bed, then looked down at what she had found behind the picture.

  There was a piece of paper just folded in two and a sealed envelope on which was written, “Étienne.”

  Melita felt a strange excitement rising within her as she unfolded the paper and bent towards the candle.

  The writing was rounded, but almost the writing of a child and it was easy to read.

  “May 3rd, 1839,

  I, Cécile Marie Louise, Comtesse de Vesonne, declare this to be my last and real will.

  I leave everything I possess to my beloved husband, Étienne, Comte de Vesonne.

  Cécile Vesonne.”

  Below the signature was written, “Eugénie – this is her mark. Jeanne – this is her mark.” And there was a roughly executed cross by each of the names.

  Melita stared at what she had read and then she closed her eyes.

  Her prayers had been answered and Étienne was saved as Cécile had wished him to be!

  Chapter Six

  Melita dressed herself, putting on a thin riding habit.

  She did not light the candles, but felt her way round the room.

  By the time she was nearly ready the sky had lightened and the stars had disappeared.

  Very soon it would be dawn.

  She moved on tiptoe along the passage to Eugénie’s room.

  The maid slept only a little way from Rose-Marie so that she could hear the child if she awoke in the night and needed her.

  Melita was too frightened to knock on the door in case the sound of it should disturb Madame Boisset, who would discover what she was about to do.

  Instead she turned the handle very gently. By the faint light coming from the door she could see Eugénie sleeping in a narrow wooden bedstead.

  She touched her shoulder and the maid awoke immediately.

  “Don’t make a noise,” Melita murmured. “I need your help, Eugénie.”

  The maid got out of bed, took a shawl from a chair and pulled it round her shoulders to cover her cotton nightgown.

  “Listen,” Melita whispered, “I have to go to St. Pierre immediately to find the Comte. It is very important! And I need a horse.”

  “I take you stables, m’mselle,” Eugenie said. “Wait downstairs, I not long.”

  Melita turned towards the door and, as she reached it, Eugénie said in a little louder tone,

  “We not wake Madame, She sleep heavy.”

  Melita asked no questions, but a few minutes later, when Eugénie joined her downstairs dressed in her usual cotton gown with a white apron, she explained,

  “Madame called me one o’clock. Bad pain! I give her sleeping herbs. She sleep long time.”

  That was a relief, Melita thought and she said as they walked quickly towards the stables,

  “You will look after Rose-Marie, Eugénie? I shall be back as soon as I can.”

  “No hurry,” the maid answered. “Madame not know you gone, trust me.”

  Melita doubted this, but she was concerned with getting away before everyone was up.

  Jacques was awakened by Eugénie and he put a side-saddle on a spirited chestnut horse, which at any other time Melita would have been excited at the thought of riding.

  Now she had only one object in mind, one goal, one desire, and that was to find the Comte and show him what had been hidden behind the picture of Cécile.

  Jacques helped her into the saddle and she arranged the full skirt of her riding habit over the pummel, then, turning the horse’s nose West, she set off in the direction of St. Pierre.

  Fortunately she was already aware that there was only one road leading to the town and it would be difficult for her to lose her way.

  At the same time she was a little apprehensive about riding alone through the rain forest.

  In fact she need not have been afraid because before Vesonne was out of sight dawn had come and the sunshine seemed not only to sweep away the shadows of the night but also her own fears.

  Now everything was enveloped with an aura of gold, although Melita was not certain whether it was due to the happiness she felt in her heart or the sun shining on the flowers and exotic vegetation.

  At first her mount was frisky, but he settled down to move at an even but swift pace and Melita was certain that she would be able to reach St. Pierre in two-and-a-half hours.

  Actually it took her a little longer and, when she came down the hill with its high shady trees into the town itself, she realised that she had forgotten how large it was and how many streets there appeared to be in which she might lose her way.

  She stopped the first elderly man she saw and asked if he could tell her the right direction to Château Vesonne.

  She knew that this was the name of the house where Étienne’s father and mother had lived after they left Vesonne-des-Arbres.

  But she had no idea of the road it was situated in or even its general location and she was half-afraid that she might have to ask innumerable times before she finally found it.

  But the Comte was better known than she expected, for the old man pointed his finger to the left and said in a deep guttural tone,

  “Pass the Cathedral, madame. Big house – you not miss.”

  The Cathedral with its white turrets, which Melita had seen when the ship was coming into Port, was an inescapable landmark as it towered high above the red roofs of the houses around it, and was, she found, extremely impressive.

  Although it was so early in the morning, the streets already were crowded, the women in their colourful red, orange and blue dresses carrying baskets of fruit on their heads.

  The men were moving loaded wicker baskets and wearing wide-brimmed woven hats, which Melita knew were made from Caribbean straw.

  There were donkeys laden with huge loads and horses dragging wooden carts loaded with freshly cut sugar cane or pineapples.

  Past the Cathedral there was less traffic owing to the fact that the houses on either side of the road were larger and more luxurious.

  Each stood in its own garden brilliant with flowers and, as each one seemed more impressive than the last, Melita began to wonder which belonged to the Comte.

  Then a little higher up the road, standing alone in a commanding position was a house that appeared to be different from any of the others.

  Its garden was brilliant with bougainvillaea and a number of tall cypress trees stood like green sentinels at the entrance.

  The house itself was built in the design of a French château except that, like all the other villas in the town, it had a shady veranda.

  Painted grey with grey shutters, Melita was sure that it had reminded Étienne’s father of his own country far away across the ocean.

  There was no need to ask anyone if this was the place she was seeking. She was sure that it was the Comte’s home and as she reached the entrance and passed through a pair of wrought iron gates she saw over the top of them picked out in gold the Vesonne Coat-of-Arms.

  There was a narrow drive, then a front door reached by a flight of steps.

  Now that she had arrived at her destination, Melita was no longer in a hurry. At the same time she was not quite certain wh
at she should do.

  She sat a little helplessly on her horse, wondering if she should dismount and ring the bell at the side of the door.

  Then a man appeared around the side of the château and she recognised him as the groom who had travelled with the Comte in his chaise.

  He looked at her in astonishment and then came quickly to her side.

  “Bonjour, m’mselle,” he smiled.

  “Bonjour,” Melita replied.

  Now that she had seen a friendly face, she somehow felt surer of herself.

  She dismounted and walked to the door, but, before she reached it, an elderly man appeared.

  He had grey hair and wore the white linen coat of a servant.

  “Is Monsieur le Comte at home?” Melita asked.

  There was a little tremor in her voice as for the first time she wondered what she would do if by any chance Étienne had already left the house. It might be hard to find him in such a big town.

  “Monsieur is having breakfast, m’mselle.”

  Melita stepped into the hall. As was usual in hot countries the doors were all open and through the salon she could see the man she was seeking sitting on the veranda outside.

  The Comte was reading the newspaper, until, as if she called to him without words, he turned his head and saw her.

  She ran towards him, crossing the hall, passing through the salon and by the time he had taken only two steps in her direction she had reached him.

  “Melita, my darling, what are you doing here?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Oh, Étienne, I have something for you, something which is so wonderful that I can hardly believe it’s true.”

  “You have ridden all this way alone?” he asked in a tone of consternation.

  “Yes – yes,” Melita said impatiently, “but it was not difficult. I had to see you and I dared not wait.”

  She undid the buttons of her riding jacket as she spoke and drew from her breast where she had kept them safe the piece of paper and the envelope she had found behind the picture in Rose-Marie’s bedroom.

  She held them out to the Comte who took them automatically, but his eyes were on her face.

  “I can hardly believe you are here,” he said. “I was thinking about you all night, longing for you.”

  “Read what I have brought you,” Melita said insistently. “Read them!”

  He smiled at her impatience and then unfolded the piece of paper on which Cécile had written her will.

  He stared at it and, having read it through, read it again.

  “You found this?” he asked after what seemed to Melita to be a long silence.

  She had been watching him.

  There was a little pause before she answered,

  “Yes – I found it. I will tell you how in a moment. Is it – is it valid?”

  She expressed the fear, which had lain at the back of her mind all the time she had been riding to St. Pierre.

  Supposing legally the will was unacceptable? Then it would have raised her hopes and the Comte’s unnecessarily.

  He looked again at the date.

  “This will was executed two days after the other,” he said after a moment.

  “That is what I hoped.”

  As if the relief was almost too much for her, she sat down in the nearest chair that stood at the breakfast table.

  The Comte put Cécile’s will down on the table and stared at the envelope.

  “You have not read this?”

  “No, it was addressed to you.”

  He took a silver knife from the table, slit it open and drew out the piece of paper, which was inside.

  He read it slowly and Melita watched him as she had done before.

  Then, with an expression on his face she did not understand and in complete silence, he handed it to her.

  As she took it, he walked away to stand on the edge of the veranda, holding onto one of the iron posts supporting it and staring blindly into the sunlit garden.

  Fearfully Melita looked down at what he had given her and read,

  “My dearest husband,

  Josephine has made me sign a wicked will in which I leave her all my money. I knew it was wrong of me, but I could not help myself. I am sorry, so very sorry, but I have written another, which I will hide so that she cannot find it.

  Forgive me.

  I am your devoted wife,

  Cécile.”

  The writing was clear, but beneath it written in an entirely different manner with dozens of blots there was scrawled,

  “I think Josephine is trying to kill me. She gave me a glass of Madeira to drink. It made me very sick and during the night I had bad pains.

  Today she asked me to have another glass and when I refused She brought me coffee and it tasted very strange. She forced me to drink some and I am afraid – very afraid because I am sure she means me to die! Save me, Étienne! Only you can save me and if you don’t come home soon it will be too la – ”

  The writing squiggled away into nothing and now there was a great blot as if the pen had fallen on the paper.

  Melita raised her eyes.

  Now she knew why Madame Boisset had been so pleasant yesterday evening and why she had offered her a glass of Madeira.

  But Eugénie had changed the glasses and it was Madame Boisset who had been ill in the night.

  It seemed inconceivable and yet she knew that she had escaped being murdered by a hair’s breadth.

  “Étienne,” she began almost in a whisper, “there is something I must tell you.”

  But, as she looked at him, she realised that he was suffering. He could not bear to think of his child-like wife being murdered because Josephine Boisset desired him for herself.

  It was then Melita knew that what she had to tell him would alleviate some of his suffering.

  It was Cécile who had come back from the grave to save him from the evil machinations of her cousin.

  Cécile, who had spoken through the lips of Léonore, Cécile, who had awakened her to tell her where the will was hidden.

  For a moment Melita felt very young and too inexperienced to cope with such a situation.

  Then she knew that all that mattered was that she should comfort and sustain the Comte because she loved him.

  She pulled her riding hat from her head and, going to his side, she slipped her hand into his.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said gently. “Shall we go into the garden? I feel it would be easier to talk to you among the flowers and in the shade of the trees.”

  He did not answer.

  He merely drew her by the hand as if she was a child across the garden lawn to where, shaded by palms and surrounded by shrubs, there was a balustrade of white marble.

  From it there was an incredibly lovely view of the sea and to the right Mont Pelée was under big white clouds.

  The ground fell away beneath the balustrade and when they seated themselves on a wooden seat they could not see the roofs of the town, only the blue of the sea and the misty horizon.

  Melita did not relinquish the Comte’s hand, but held it tightly in both hers,

  Then, very simply, not looking at him, but with her eyes on the sea, she told him everything that had happened since he had kissed her under the fruit trees.

  When she told him about the Voodoo ceremony in the forest his fingers tightened, otherwise he did not move.

  He did not interrupt her story, nor did he ask any questions.

  Only when she told him how Madame Boisset had offered her a glass of Madeira and how Eugénie had exchanged the glasses did she feel him stiffen beside her and draw in a deep breath of what she thought was anger.

  She continued her narrative, telling him how she had found Philippe’s doll in her bedroom and how she had known that it was a replica of Cécile.

  “I heard a voice quite – clearly as I awoke telling me to look behind the picture,” Melita said. “It was the same – voice that I had heard in the forest, – a voice not – unl
ike – Rose-Marie’s.”

  She paused for a moment before she went on,

  “When I went into Rose-Marie’s bedroom she murmured, ‘Mama! Mama!’ in her sleep and I had the feeling that – someone was – there in the – room.”

  She paused, trying to recall every detail.

  “The portrait over the bed seemed – luminous, but then when I found what was – hidden behind the picture – she had – gone!”

  There was a long silence and then the Comte said,

  “I can hardly credit what happened and yet you found the will and the letter.”

  “I found them.”

  The Comte gave a deep sigh.

  “I can only blame myself,” he said, “for not insisting on sending Josephine away when I wished to do so. I felt that her influence over Cécile was wrong and oppressive.”

  His voice was sad as he continued,

  “But because I was working so hard I did not wish her to be lonely and she had clung to her older cousin all her life.”

  “I can understand – exactly what you felt,” Melita said. “But, darling Étienne, no amount of – regretting can alter what has – happened. We have to think of the future – both for you and for – Rose-Marie.”

  The Comte straightened his shoulders.

  “You are right, as you are always right,” he said. “It is the future that counts, not only for ourselves but also for those who have always lived at Vesonne and worked on the estate.

  “I did not realise until yesterday how badly they were being treated and the fact that they were kept short of food is something I will never forgive.”

  “They only have salt fish.”

  “How angry my father would have been!” the Comte exclaimed. “However poor we were, he always insisted that the slaves’ diet was varied. They enjoyed a modification of the dishes that are peculiarly African.”

  “Léonore told me that you gave them crab and pork stew, grated coconuts and hot peppers.”

  The Comte smiled.

  “It sounds exotic and they also like Sansam which is pounded poached corn, mixed with salt or sugar, but the black people on each of the islands of the Caribbean have special names for their dishes. In Barbados they ask for Coucou and Jug-jug.”