68 The Magic of Love Read online

  “It is a good imitation – but nevertheless an imitation!” the Comte declared.

  “You would prefer to be in Paris?” Melita asked.

  “At times,” he answered with a smile, “but at others I am quite content with the sunshine and the gaiety of Martinique.”

  “You have lived here for a long time?”

  Melita felt that she was asking a lot of questions, but she was very curious.

  “My father came to live in Martinique before I was born,” the Comte answered. “But I often visit Paris – in fact I was educated there.”

  Melita was about to ask him some more questions when she realised that it was hardly her place to show curiosity and that he should be asking her about herself.

  But, before they could say any more, he drew up outside a restaurant on the seafront.

  It looked typically French from the outside with gaily-coloured sunblinds. When they entered, it was to find that the tables were set out in a courtyard in the centre of which there was a small fountain and whose sides were banked with flowers.

  “How pretty!” Melita exclaimed involuntarily.

  “I promise you that the food is as good as it looks,” the Comte said with a smile.

  The proprietor hurried forward.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte! Your usual table is ready for you,” he said. “Bonjour, madame!”

  “My guest Mademoiselle Cranleigh has just arrived from England,” the Comte said, “and this is the first place she has visited. I would not like her to be disappointed.”

  “Mais non, Monsieur le Comte! It is impossible that she should be. Mademoiselle shall have the best repas that she has ever enjoyed.”

  They were led to a table in an alcove.

  The walls were bright with murals skilfully executed and the bougainvillaea trailing everywhere made it a bower of colour.

  “When I left England it was grey and cold and the fogs in November had been very bad,” Melita said in a wistful tone.

  The Comte smiled at her.

  He had set his tall hat down on an empty chair and put Melita’s bag beside it.

  It had been her mother’s and was very opulent-looking, made of crocodile skin with her initials on it.

  “What have you brought with you in this?” he asked. “The Crown Jewels?”

  “No, only my own, monsieur,” Melita replied, “and they are very small and almost non-existent.”

  “They are certainly contained in a very impressive case.”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “Was she beautiful – like you?”

  Melita blushed.

  “You make it – impossible for me to – answer that question.”

  “You must tell me all about yourself,” the Comte insisted. “I am still astonished at your appearance. Was I really very stupid in imagining that you would be very different? Or was your stepmother deliberately evasive as to your appearance and your age?”

  Melita was surprised that he should be so perceptive.

  “My stepmother – wished to get – rid of me,” she said in a low voice, deciding to be honest with him.

  “I can understand that,” the Comte replied.

  Again she thought how strange it was that he should be able to grasp the situation so quickly without detailed explanations.

  “So she sent you to the other side of the world!” he said. “I always thought that Martinique was especially favoured by the Gods!”

  “Are there Gods in Martinique?” Melita asked, anxious to change the subject because she felt embarrassed. “I thought there would be only Voodoo, which came with the slaves from Africa.”

  “We have that too,” the Comte answered. “Plenty of it, as it happens, but I like to think that the Gods who dwelt on Olympus also dwell on our high mountains. They have conical peaks and when the clouds are low they look mysterious and exciting.”

  “I shall look forward to seeing them,” Melita said.

  “I will show them to you,” he suggested.

  She looked across the table and found that her eyes were held by his.

  She had the feeling that once again the world she was moving in was unreal, only this time it was not a nightmare but a dream – a very exciting dream from which for the moment she had no wish to awaken!

  Chapter Two

  Like all Frenchmen, the Comte concentrated on choosing the meal with the greatest care.

  “First,” he said to Melita, “you must taste our Matoutou of crab.”

  “I like crab,” she answered.

  “In Martinique we eat land crabs,” he said. “They are kept for fifteen days in a barrel where they are fed with mangoes, pimento and corn. I think you will find them delicious.”

  He then went on to choose chicken with coconut served with ratatouille creole, which was a profusion of vegetables and herbs fried in oil and garlic. Melita found the dishes unusual, but as delicious as the food she had eaten in France with her father.

  “Now,” the Comte said, “as you are new to Martinique, you must eat bananas.”

  “I have often eaten bananas,” Melita replied.

  “Have you?” he questioned. “There are many sorts of bananas here, green served with salt, pepper and chutney, yellow, very ripe and simmered in wine to which is added cinnamon, uncle-bananas or bananes-cornes, which are bananas shaped like horns.”

  Melita laughed.

  “Please stop – I agree I have never eaten bananas!”

  They drank wine with the meal, but first of all the Comte insisted on Melita having a drink made with fruit juice and rum which she thought was cool and delightful.

  “Rum makes people happy,” the Comte said, “which is why you will find the Martiniquans are always smiling.”

  Melita had noticed as she came from the ship and as they drove along in the Comte’s chaise that everyone she looked at appeared to be showing a wide smile.

  “Does rum really make people feel happy?” she asked seriously.

  “Rum combined with sunshine and peace in one’s home,” he answered.

  There was something in the way he said the last two words that made Melita feel that they were said with intent and because she felt a little guilty that she had not asked before she said quickly,

  “Will you tell me about your daughter?”

  “Her name is Rose-Marie,” the Comte said. “She is eight years old and I think she is adorable and very attractive.”

  She would certainly be that, Melita thought, if she was anything like her father.

  She had never imagined that she would be having luncheon alone with a man who was not only so exceedingly handsome but whose expressive eyes seemed to change continually with everything he said.

  They were dark in colour and yet when something amused him they seemed to twinkle with lights that came from the sun itself.

  “Is Rose-Marie an only child?” Melita enquired.

  “I have no other children unfortunately,” the Comte answered. “When you see Vesonne-des-Arbres, you will realise that the place was made for a large family and I adored it when I was a boy.”

  “You had brothers and sisters?” Melita asked.

  “My brother unfortunately died when he was seventeen,” the Comte replied, “but I have four sisters, all of whom are now married and living in Europe.”

  “You must miss them,” Melita said sympathetically.

  “I do.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  Then Melita said a little nervously,

  “Will your – wife – Madame la Comtesse – think me too young to look after Rose-Marie?”

  She knew that ever since she saw the Comte’s astonishment at her appearance there had been a definite fear at the back of her mind that he and his wife might find her unsuitable and send her back to England.

  “My wife – died three years ago.”

  Melita was still.

  This, she realised, was something else her stepmother must have known but had not told he
r.

  Perhaps she looked apprehensive, for the Comte said quickly,

  “Her cousin, Madame Boisset, who is a widow, runs my house – and the estate.”

  There was a little pause before the last three words and now there was a definite shadow in the dark eyes and Melita felt in some way that the laughter had left his lips.

  “I am – sorry about your – wife,” she said nervously, “and will Madame Boisset explain to me what I am to teach Rose-Marie?”

  “I will do that,” the Comte said positively, “I have very definite ideas on the subject. I wish Rose-Marie to be brought up in the way that I have planned for her and I will not stand interference from anyone else!”

  He spoke sharply, but as he saw the apprehension in Melita’s wide eyes he said more quietly,

  “I am sorry. I don’t wish to make you nervous, mademoiselle. Suppose we start at the beginning and you tell me about yourself?”

  Melita dropped her eyes shyly.

  “There is really very little to tell,” she said. “My father, as I think you know, remarried and when he died last year he had spent all his money. There was nothing left for me.”

  “But your stepmother is rich?”

  Melita glanced at the Comte for a moment and then looked away again.

  “She is – young – she did not wish to – chaperone a stepdaughter.”

  “I can understand that, but is it really necessary for you to earn your living?”

  “Very necessary,” Melita replied firmly.

  “It seems strange,” the Comte said reflectively, “when I remember how important your father was in diplomatic circles and how warmly other diplomats spoke of him, that you should be obliged to seek employment as a Governess.”

  “I-I could think of nothing else – that I could do,” Melita said frankly.

  “You did not think of getting married?” the Comte asked.

  There was a little pause before Melita answered,

  “I have been in deep mourning this past year and have been nowhere, so I have not met any gentlemen who might have – offered for me.”

  There was a little silence between them. Then the Comte, as if he was at a loss for words, signalled to the waiter to fill up their glasses with wine.

  “No more, please,” Melita said putting up her hand.

  “You are sure?” the Comte asked.

  “I am not certain if it is correct for a Governess to drink at all,” she answered.

  “You are on French soil,” the Comte replied, “and, as you know, everyone in France from the lowest and poorest peasant has his bottle of vin every day.”

  “That is what Papa told me,” Melita said, “but it is strange to think that Martinique is French and retains French customs when you are so far away from France.”

  “Only if you measure it by miles,” the Comte replied. “Our hearts belong to our own country.”

  Melita smiled at him.

  “Perhaps it is the exiles that love their own land best,” he added, “and that is why we must do everything in our power to prevent you from feeling homesick.”

  “I shall try not to be,” Melita said seriously. “At the same time it is a little – frightening not knowing what to – do or how to – behave.”

  “I think you will find that all you have to be is yourself,” the Comte answered and the way he spoke was a compliment.

  She thought she should change the conversation from herself.

  “What do you grow on your estate, monsieur?” she asked. “The ship’s Officers told me on the voyage that the main crops on the island were sugar, bananas, coffee and spices.”

  “They were quite correct,” the Comte approved. “Actually on my plantation we mostly grow sugar cane, bananas and a little coffee.”

  “It sounds very interesting,” Melita said, “and can you manage to find labourers? I understood that Martinique does not have a very large population.”

  “At Vesonne-des-Arbres there are plenty of slaves.”

  “Slaves?” Melita exclaimed. “I thought – ”

  She stopped.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “I thought that the slaves on these islands had all been freed.”

  “They have been in Antigua and some of the other islands,” the Comte replied, “but not yet in Martinique.”

  “But, surely – ” Melita began.

  Then she realised that it would be rude to discuss slavery with a slave owner.

  She knew that her father had had very strong views on the subject and she had believed that practically all over the world it had been accepted that slavery was cruel and an offence against human dignity and that all slaves had been set free.

  As if once again the Comte knew what she was thinking, he said,

  “Slavery will ultimately be abolished in Martinique as it has been in other places, but at the moment it is being fiercely debated by the Government and until they make a decision, individual owners are powerless to do anything about it.”

  “I – understand,” Melita said in a low voice.

  “I hope you do,” he answered, “and when you see the slaves at Vesonne you will realise that they are in the main a happy community – at least I think so.”

  He spoke in a manner as if he was not directly concerned with them and Melita was puzzled.

  She thought perhaps there was some mystery about Vesonne and then told herself that she was just being imaginative.

  They finished their meal and Melita said,

  “Thank you for one of the most delicious luncheons I have ever eaten. It was exciting because it was so new.”

  “There are many new things I would like to show you – ” the Comte began.

  Then he stopped abruptly and Melita thought perhaps he had suddenly remembered that it would be a mistake for him to be on such intimate terms with his child’s Governess.

  ‘I must not forget I am only a superior sort of servant,’ she thought and tried to recall how her own Governesses had behaved.

  In retrospect they seemed to her rather dull unassuming women, who realised almost as soon as they arrived that they knew less about some subjects than their pupil.

  While they had taught her to the best of their ability, Melita had relied on her father for everything that appertained to literature, the Classics, especially poetry, and mythology.

  Languages she learnt automatically in the countries where they were posted, as her father always insisted upon her being taught by teachers in their mother tongue.

  But where French was concerned he had chosen teachers for her in London and in Vienna and it was a sense of relief for Melita to know that in that language if in none other she was bilingual.

  The Comte was looking at her and it seemed as if he read her thoughts since he said,

  “Shall I compliment you on your French accent, which is truly Parisian? Although it is after all what I might have expected from your father’s daughter.”

  “Thank you,” Melita said, “but I shall never be able to emulate Papa fully, who spoke seven languages perfectly and knew a great many of the Southern European dialects.”

  “You must start Rose-Marie on English,” the Comte said, “and I am afraid she is not very proficient at any of the essential subjects like arithmetic, geography and music,”

  “You consider music to be an essential subject?” Melita asked.

  “For a woman? Yes.”

  “Why more than for a man?”

  She was talking as she would have talked to her father, intently and perhaps provocatively, for they had loved to argue with each other.

  “1 think that music is part of a woman’s whole composition,” the Comte said. “She should talk rhythmically and move rhythmically. Music can harmonise not only her whole body but also her mind and character.”

  “I think you are right, although I never considered it from that angle before,” Melita said reflectively.

  “And yet you move as if you were compelled to
do so by a melody singing in your heart.”

  His voice was deep and low as he spoke.

  Melita looked at him, her eyes widened, and somehow it was hard for her to look away.

  She had never imagined a man’s eyes could be so dark and yet so expressive and at the same time irresistibly compelling.

  Very slowly the colour rose in her cheeks.

  Then there was the sound of laughter from an adjacent table and the spell was broken.

  “Perhaps we should be moving,” the Comte said, “it is fifteen miles to Vesonne-des-Arbres and even with my fast horses it will take us over two hours.”

  They left the restaurant and once they had started driving along the waterfront Melita found it very hot.

  The waves were rolling in onto the beach and there was a majesty about them which Melita found very impressive.

  Then they turned inland and very shortly she was shaded from the sun by the trees growing on either side of the road.

  The horses were climbing and the road was passing through strange exotic vegetation.

  Now at last Melita saw what she had been seeking – corossol, guava and mango trees, breadfruit and avocados. Then these were succeeded by what appeared to her to be a jungle.

  Now there were bamboo, filso and flamboyant, royal palms and tamarinds. White giant ferns grew to enormous heights forming at times almost a tunnel over their heads.

  When they went downhill into deep gorges, there would be a silver stream sparkling over rough rocks.

  Never had Melita imagined that vegetation could be so extraordinary or so profuse and the Comte pointed out the cheese plants, or ‘fromagers’, which he told her could reach sixty feet in height and the arborescent ferns that were often thirty feet long.

  He also showed Melita the parasite plants, vines and other epiphytes that entwined themselves round other plants and shrubs, eventually strangling them.

  “The law of the jungle!” the Comte said. “Even plants, like humans, live on each other and only the strongest survive.”

  He spoke almost harshly and Melita said softly,

  “It is all so enchanting. I cannot bear to think that where there is such beauty there must also be cruelty.”

  “Nature is cruel, human beings are cruel,” the Comte replied. “They suffer and inflict suffering.”