68 The Magic of Love Read online

  “You had better make sure they do, unless you are prepared to swim home,” Lady Cranleigh said.

  She rose to her feet and looked at Melita with undisguised hostility.

  “I have already replied to the Comte’s letter to say that you will be on the ship that leaves Southampton in two weeks’ time. I will pay your passage to Martinique and I will give you one hundred pounds. That is more than is left in your father’s estate so you should think yourself very lucky to have it!”

  “And when that is – spent?” Melita asked.

  She turned to face her stepmother almost piteously as she asked the question.

  At that moment a pale gleam of winter sunshine came through the window to illuminate her fair hair almost as if it was a halo.

  She looked very lovely and very insubstantial.

  “You can starve in the gutter for all I care!” Lady Cranleigh said in answer to her question and left the room slamming the door behind her.

  It had seemed to Melita in the days that followed that she moved in a nightmare she could not awake from.

  As she supervised the packing of her trunks, taking with her not only her own treasured possessions but also everything she could that had belonged personally to her mother, she thought it could not be happening.

  She could not be leaving England, perhaps for the rest of her life. She had visions of being so inadequate a Governess that she was dismissed and of seeing the one hundred pounds melting away before she found other employment.

  ‘I shall starve!’ she thought frantically.

  Then she remembered almost as a comforting thought that there was always the sea.

  It would not be too hard to die if she could join her mother and father. At least she would not be alone as she was alone at the moment in a hostile world where there was no one she could turn to for help.

  Vaguely she thought of trying to get in touch with her cousins and any other relatives she must have in Northumberland. But then she remembered that to them she would be merely an encumbrance, an unattached woman without money, and she shrank from contacting them.

  But there was in fact no time for her to do anything except obey her stepmother’s instructions, pack her boxes and travel to Southampton.

  Because she suddenly felt extremely ignorant and quite incapable of teaching anyone, even a young child, she packed a number of her father’s books feeling that by doing so even in the new world she would not lose contact with him.

  They made her feel even more alone and unhappy as she touched the well-thumbed pages and those that had been her childhood favourites brought tears to her eyes.

  She could hear his deep voice reciting lines of poetry to her that he knew, because they were so close, she would enjoy as much as he did.

  “Oh, Papa, Papa,” she wept, but she knew that there was nothing she could do except carry out her stepmother’s plans.

  Up to the last moment she had had a feeling that perhaps a miracle would save her, but when the ship finally sailed out of Southampton Harbour she had been too blinded by tears to take a last glimpse of the land of her birth.

  There had actually not been much to see because it was a grey drizzly day, the sky was overcast and the sea as dark as steel.

  By contrast the great rollers breaking on the beach at Martinique were the colour of Melita’s eyes and the sky was a translucent blue that was unlike any colour she had ever seen before.

  As the ship slowly nosed its way towards the long jetties, she saw innumerable little boats in the harbour, some of them with their sails up running before the wind, others moored to buoys and a large number of three-masted schooners anchored near the shore.

  There were pennants and flags fluttering from their mastheads and they gave the harbour an air of festivity, which made it seem almost as if St. Pierre was en fête.

  ‘The Paris of the West Indies,’ Melita said to herself and then she knew that whatever the town was like it would not concern her.

  She had learnt by studying the letter the Comte had written to Lady Cranleigh that the house or château where she was going was not in St. Pierre but some way outside.

  ‘I myself, will meet the lady you are sending us,’ the Comte had written in an elegant educated hand, ‘and I assure you, madame, we will do everything in our power to make her feel at home.’

  ‘At home!’ Melita thought scornfully.

  How could she ever feel at home amongst strangers in a strange land?

  And yet even if Martinique was strange. it was certainly beautiful.

  Although she had been frantically busy with her packing, before she left London she had found time to go to Moody’s Library in Mount Street to ask if they had any books on Martinique.

  The librarian, who had often helped her before in finding books that she and her father wanted to read, searched and searched, but could find nothing that was particularly helpful.

  There were just a few paragraphs in an encyclopaedia and a map that he admitted was not likely to be very accurate.

  Nevertheless the map had seemed to Melita to give her a better idea of the island than she had had before.

  She found St. Pierre marked quite clearly and a little to the North of it there was Mont Pelée. To the South there was another town and harbour marked ‘Fort de France’.

  The history of the island told briefly and baldly was that Christopher Columbus had discovered Martinique in 1502. Finding the natives, who were called Caribs, unfriendly, he did not stay there.

  It was not until later that Martinique was colonised by the French and afterwards it had been captured several times and taken over by other foreigners including the English.

  But finally it had returned to France and remained French territory.

  Melita had visited Paris with her father, but he had never had a diplomatic post in France and she wished now that she knew more about the French.

  They had seemed charming, delightful, courteous people, but she had not been grown up when they had visited Paris and she had met no one socially but diplomats.

  What did she know of the ordinary people? She had a feeling that they were different in every way from the English. After all, their countries had been enemies and from time to time at war for many years.

  ‘Suppose they dislike me just because I am English?’ Melita said to herself apprehensively.

  She knew she was nervous in a way that she had never been nervous in her life before, as the ship drew nearer and nearer to the jetty.

  She went down below to her cabin and put on a cloak of silk taffeta, which had been made in the latest fashion before she left London.

  She was determined that, whatever else, she would not appear in her new position looking like a crushed miserable Governess who was utterly dependent on the whims of her employer.

  So she had sold a small diamond ring, which had belonged to her mother, and spent the proceeds on clothes.

  When her stepmother realised what she had done, she sniffed and said scathingly,

  “If you like to dissipate your only assets on personal adornment, I shall not stop you! But don’t ask me for more money, for I have no intention of giving it to you!”

  Melita had not replied, but she had thought to herself that she would rather die than go begging to her stepmother.

  For the last year while she had been in mourning all her clothes were black and those she had worn previously were either too young for her now or quite unsuitable to be worn by a Governess.

  She realised that the climate in Martinique would be hot and she therefore bought yards of voiles and muslins to make into gowns during the long voyage.

  Although her father had taught her from books, her mother had been an expert needlewoman and had taught Melita to sew.

  “Every woman should be able to use her needle,” she had said once, “and, dearest, you will find it useful in life to be able to make your own gowns should you ever have to do so.”

  Her mother had just been talking vaguely,
Melita had thought at the time. But now she wondered if perhaps she had been clairvoyant enough to know that one day her daughter would be very glad of such a feminine accomplishment.

  The silk taffeta cape, which had been expensive, and her bonnet with its decoration of soft lace framing her face not only looked chic but also extremely becoming.

  There were blue ribbons tied under her chin and when she went up on deck carrying a leather bag containing her money and her jewels she knew that while her heart was thumping apprehensively and she felt very vulnerable and very afraid, she looked a Lady of Fashion.

  The jetty and the quay beyond were crowded with people and Melita went to the rail of the ship to look for her future employer.

  She had asked her stepmother to give her a description of the Comte, but she had been vague, perhaps purposely so, Melita thought.

  “Quite a nice looking man, about your father’s height,” she had answered coldly. “I cannot tell you anything more about him. All Frenchmen look alike to me!”

  “Has he any other children besides the one I have to teach?”

  “I really have no idea,” Lady Cranleigh replied. “I was not particularly concerned with the Comte at the time. It was only after your father’s death that I thought he might be useful – as indeed he has proved to be.”

  ‘I don’t even know if he is young or middle-aged,’ Melita thought.

  She told herself, however, reassuringly that he would undoubtedly find her and, when the gangplank was put down, great crowds of people swarmed up it and onto the ship.

  There were not only those meeting the passengers, there were porters, ships’ clerks, salesmen and a number who, Melita thought, had just come aboard out of curiosity.

  The ship’s crew tried to prevent the influx and then gave up the unequal struggle.

  A Steward brought Melita’s luggage from her cabin and set it down beside her.

  “I think that’s everything, miss.”

  “Yes, it is,” Melita replied, “and thank you very much for looking after me so well.”

  She gave him two guineas, which she felt was the least she could do after such a long voyage and he thanked her profusely.

  “I hope, miss, you’ll enjoy your holiday,” he said as he pocketed the guineas.

  ‘Holiday!’ Melita thought bitterly. ‘It’s a life sentence!’

  She stood waiting a little apart from the gangplank, but now there was no longer a crowd coming aboard and those who had found the people they had come to meet were beginning to leave the ship for the quay.

  Melita looked with anxious eyes at a large fat Frenchman with a very loud voice, who was conversing with a sailor.

  He had an absurd little pointed moustache and looked like a blown-up balloon and she hoped fervently that he was not her future employer.

  But he was there for nothing more important than to collect a huge parcel and a few minutes later he carried it down the gangplank, sweating profusely as he did so.

  The air was hot and moist, but not unpleasantly so.

  There was a cool breeze from the sea and Melita could see the palm trees moving gracefully. Beside them were a number of other trees in blossom, which she thought very beautiful.

  But it was difficult to be concerned with what was happening ashore when she was waiting anxiously to be collected and there was no sign of her future employer.

  ‘Supposing there has been a mistake,’ she thought fearfully, ‘and he has not come to meet me? Or supposing after all they have changed their minds and do not want me?’

  She felt so apprehensive that she looked around praying that she would not be left uncollected for much longer. Then she saw a tall man with a top hat at a rakish angle talking to one of the ship’s Officers.

  She had not noticed him come aboard. Now she thought in fact that he was the most distinguished of any of the men she had seen coming up the gangplank.

  His long tube-like trousers were in the very latest fashion and his embroidered double-breasted waistcoat was not unlike one she had often seen her father wear.

  But she could only see him in profile and now he turned at something the ship’s Officer said and looked towards her.

  ‘This cannot possibly be the man I am expecting!’ Melita thought wildly. ‘He is far too young and far too handsome!’

  But astonishingly he was walking towards her and she realised that she had not been mistaken in thinking he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.

  With dark hair and dark eyes, his face sunburnt against his white collar he was the personification of elegance as he moved across the deck.

  Only as he reached her side did she realise that, if she was staring at him in surprise, he was looking at her in complete and utter astonishment.

  “Pardon me, mademoiselle,’ he said, sweeping his hat from his head, “but I am told that your name is Miss Cranleigh.”

  “That is right,” Melita said, “and you – ?”

  “I am Le Comte de Vesonne!”

  Melita curtseyed, but the Comte was still staring at her.

  “You are really the Miss Cranleigh whom I am expecting – the lady who has come to Martinique as Governess to my daughter?”

  “I am Melita Cranleigh, monsieur, and my stepmother wrote to you about me.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  The exclamation seemed to jerk from his lips.

  Then he said in a different tone,

  “Forgive me, but I cannot credit that you should be so young. I was expecting someone older.”

  “My stepmother – Lady Cranleigh – did not tell you – ?”

  “She told me that she could provide me with a very suitable Governess for my little girl, one who was intelligent, experienced and whom she could thoroughly recommend! But she did not say that you were your father’s daughter.”

  Melita’s lips tightened.

  She knew only too well what had happened.

  In her desire to rid herself of her stepdaughter, Lady Cranleigh had deliberately omitted to say who she was and that she had not yet passed her nineteenth birthday.

  “I am – sorry that you should be – disappointed,” Melita said uncomfortably.

  The Comte’s eyes looked down into hers and they were twinkling.

  “I am not at all disappointed,” he answered, “I am astonished and perhaps I should add – delighted! Come – let me take you ashore. We can talk it over later.”

  “Yes, of course,” Melita agreed.

  She looked vaguely at her luggage lying beside her, but the Comte snapped his fingers and a porter appeared from nowhere.

  The Comte reached out and took a leather case that Melita carried in her hand and then preceding him she walked towards the gangplank.

  When she reached it, she saw one of the ship’s Officers who had been very kind to her on the voyage.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Jarvis,” she said. “I would like to thank you for a very pleasant voyage and will you please convey my compliments to the Captain?”

  “I will indeed, Miss Cranleigh, and I wish you every happiness on this beautiful island.”

  “Thank you,” Melita replied.

  She went down the gangplank and, when she reached the jetty, she turned to look at the Comte who was just behind her,

  “You have more luggage than this?” he asked.

  “A great deal more – I am afraid,” Melita answered.

  “A porter will find it,” he said.

  He gave instructions to the man and they waited on the quay while Melita’s trunks – five large ones – were brought from the hold of the ship onto the jetty.

  “I hope it will not be too much for your carriage?” she asked nervously.

  “I have brought a carriage with me that will carry it without any difficulty,” the Comte answered, “and I suggest that, as it is now twelve o’clock, we should send the carriage on to Vesonne and you and I will have something to eat here before I take you there in my chaise – that is if you don’t mind an open
carriage?”

  “I would love it!” Melita answered. “I would like to see the countryside. It looks very beautiful!”

  The Comte’s eyes were on her face and there was an expression in them that made her feel a little shy.

  She had a feeling, although it was quite absurd, that he wanted to say that she was beautiful too. Then she told herself that she was just being conceited and that he was still astonished that she was so young.

  The carriage was strongly built and drawn by two horses. There were two servants in attendance and there was plenty of room for Melita’s boxes on the top and at the back and for her hand luggage to go inside on the cushioned seats.

  The Comte saw it safely stored away and then he took Melita to where his chaise was waiting.

  It was very smart and dashing and not unlike the chaises she had seen the young men of Paris driving in the Bois de Boulogne.

  The Comte handed Melita in and took the reins and the groom who had been holding the horses jumped up onto the seat behind.

  Melita noted that he wore a livery with crested buttons and a cockaded hat not unlike those worn by their own servants at home.

  They drove along the streets and now Melita had a glimpse of the large building with two turrets she had seen from the ship, she had not been mistaken in thinking that it was the Cathedral. The Town Hall also was very impressive with a large clock over the front door.

  The homes all had red-tiled roofs and the windows were without glass as she knew was usual in tropical climates. Many of the streets were narrow and crooked, but the one along the waterfront was wide and shaded with trees brilliant with blossom.

  Everywhere there were flowers, the vivid red of hibiscus and the purple, pink and orange of bougainvillaea.

  “So! What do you think of it?” the Comte asked after they had driven a little way in silence.

  “It is – lovely – far more lovely than I expected,’ Melita replied.

  “You come from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you really think it compares favourably with such an awe-inspiring City?”

  “I was comparing it with Paris,” Melita answered. “I am told it is called ‘the Paris of the West Indies’.”