68 The Magic of Love Page 4

  There was a pain in his voice that was unmistakable and, as they ascended from a deep gorge, Melita glanced at him from under her eyelashes.

  ‘He seemed at first to be so gay and carefree,’ she thought, ‘a light-hearted man.’

  But now she was not sure.

  There was something that convinced her that underneath his light-hearted exterior, he was suffering – but why?

  ‘Perhaps I shall never know,’ she told herself with a sigh. ‘After all, it is not for a Governess to be curious about her employer’s emotions or feelings.’

  “You are very quiet,” the Comte remarked a little later. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking how strange this is,” Melita replied. “At the same time I am naturally a little – nervous about what lies ahead.”

  “You don’t feel like an adventurer exploring a new territory, thrilled at the idea of discovering what you have never known before?”

  “I try to feel like that,” Melita answered honestly, “but I am so afraid of failing – of making mistakes.”

  “I will help you not to make any,” the Comte said as if he spoke impulsively.

  Then he added,

  “If I am there.”

  “You mean you don’t live at your plantation? Is that the right word for it?” Melita asked.

  “It is the right word and I am there – part of the time.”

  “But, surely there is a great deal for you to supervise?”

  Coming over in the ship she had heard stories of how hard the planters worked and how difficult it was to get the crops to market at the right time and in the right condition.

  “I thought I already told you,” the Comte answered, “that my wife’s cousin runs the estate.”

  “A woman?” Melita exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes, a woman! She is in charge!”

  Now there was no mistaking from the tone of the Comte’s voice that the idea did not meet with his approval.

  ‘There is something strange here,’ Melita thought to herself.

  But she was too shy to question him further and after a minute or so, as if with an effort, he pointed out to her the vivid red of the anthurium flower. It looked not unlike an arum lily in shape, but was vividly scarlet with a white stamen.

  They drove on, moving inland and then for the first time Melita saw crops, great bunches of bananas hung from the trees and huge sugar canes with graceful sword-shaped leaves moved softly in the wind.

  Everywhere there were patches of colour, bougainvillaea climbing over walls and up the trunks of trees, large hedges of hibiscus vividly red or golden yellow and occasionally an orange lily, which the Comte told her was called ‘Sceptre aux Fleurs’.

  As if he wished to entertain her, the Comte told her amusing stories of creole life and how Louis XVI had granted Martinique the right to establish a Colonial Assembly.

  “We are very proud of our island,” the Comte said, “and if one is happy in oneself, I believe it could be a Paradise for most men and women.”

  Before she could prevent herself, Melita said,

  “You are not happy?”

  He turned his head to look at her as if he wondered why she had asked the question and she realised with a quick sense of relief that he did not think it impertinent.

  “No – I am not happy,” he answered, “and doubtless you will find out why after you have been at Vesonne for a short time.”

  She looked at him with a worried expression on her face and he asked gently,

  “Will you promise me something?”

  “Yes, of course,” Melita answered.

  “It would be wise to ask me what I wish you to promise before you give me your word.”

  “Then shall I say I promise – if it is – possible for me to do so?”

  “That’s better,” he said with a twist of his lips.

  “What do you want me to promise?” Melita asked.

  “That you will not be frightened or too perturbed by what you find at Vesonne. I want you to stay. I want you to realise that, although things may be difficult, I will always help you if I can.”

  He spoke very seriously and after a moment Melita said in a low voice,

  “Why should it be – difficult?”

  “You will find that out when you arrive,” he answered. “But I want you not to leave, although you may wish to do so.”

  “I want to stay,” Melita said, “and I have – nowhere else to – go.”

  She felt that the Comte did not find this answer particularly consoling in whatever was worrying him.

  He drove for some minutes without replying, his eyes on his horses moving ahead and then he said,

  “It may seem extraordinary that I should say this, but I know that coming here has been a momentous step for you and I think perhaps it will prove to be a momentous step for me as well.”

  “I don’t – understand,” Melita stammered.

  “I have a feeling,” the Comte said slowly as if he was thinking out the words for himself, “that you will make me fight for what I know is right and not just accept what is wrong because it is easier to do so.”

  Melita longed to ask him what was wrong and what was right, to explain what he was saying to her.

  But she was very sensitive to other people’s feelings and she knew instinctively that he did not want to answer such questions now.

  And yet in some strange obscure manner he seemed to be trying to prepare her for what lay ahead, to fortify her against the difficulties, whatever they might be.

  Now they were leaving the forest with its strange vegetation behind and moving through more cultivated land, although every now and then the road plunged down into a ravine.

  There once again there were the ferns, the tamarinds and the hot humid atmosphere, which smelt entirely different from the land that was cultivated.

  They had in fact been travelling for two-and-a-half hours when they turned off the road up a rough sandy track that had been washed by torrential rains until it was rutted and uneven.

  The chaise swung from side to side precariously until they passed over a bridge to find a plantation of bananas on one side of the road and a profusion of green coffee trees on the other.

  Melita looked at the Comte and after a moment he said,

  “You are now on the Vesonne-des-Arbres estate!”

  They drove for about a quarter-of-a-mile until ahead of them Melita saw a number of buildings.

  The first was long, low and built of grey stone and she had the idea that it was a storehouse.

  Bougainvillaea and vines were growing up the walls and a moment later she saw that beside it there was a huge waterwheel turning slowly, the silver water dropping iridescent in the sunshine into a narrow gully beneath it.

  There were more large buildings and then on the left a number of smaller ones with wooden roofs.

  She glanced at them with interest and the Comte explained,

  “The slave quarters!”

  Now Melita could see a number of small black children playing on the grass. Then on an incline surrounded by trees in bloom and overlooking all the other buildings she had her first glimpse of what she knew was the main house.

  It was two storeys high, built of red brick, with a tiled roof and a veranda and surrounded by a garden, which was a riot of colour.

  They passed through an archway and with a flourish the Comte drew his horses to a standstill beside the veranda.

  “Welcome to Vesonne-des-Arbres!” he said quietly.

  Melita wanted to tell him how attractive she thought it was, but before she could speak there was a cry from the doorway and a woman came running across the veranda.

  “Étienne!” she exclaimed. “I was not expecting you!”

  She was, Melita decided, perhaps thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age and, although she moved quickly, she had a thick figure and her face was not particularly attractive.

  Her eyes were dark and shrewd and her hair, although dr
essed fashionably with ringlets on either side of her face, was lank against a sallow skin.

  The Comte handed his reins to the groom before he replied,

  “I have brought Mademoiselle Cranleigh back with me.”

  “I imagined that was what you were doing,” Madame Boisset said in a very different tone of voice, “when the carriage arrived without her.”

  For the first time Melita realised that she had been expected to travel back to the house in the carriage and, although the Comte had met her at the ship, he had not actually intended to drive her to the plantation.

  Now Madame Boisset looked at Melita for the first time as she stepped out of the chaise and curtsied.

  “You are Miss Cranleigh?” Madame Boisset asked and there was an accusing note in her voice.

  “Yes, madame.”

  “That is impossible! You are far too young to be a Governess. This is ridiculous!”

  The expression on her face reminded Melita of the way her stepmother regarded her.

  She was not quite certain what words she should use to apologise for her youth and perhaps also for her looks.

  “I thought you said that Lady Cranleigh was sending a woman of a sensible age,” Madame Boisset said accusingly to the Comte.

  “I think, my dear Josephine, we would be wiser to discuss this matter, if it needs discussing, inside the house,” the Comte suggested.

  “It must certainly be discussed,” Madame Boisset said sharply.

  Nevertheless she led the way inside the building and Melita looked about her in surprise.

  The room they had entered was large and obviously a salon, for it had damask-covered sofas and chairs and a number of pictures on the walls.

  There was no glass in the windows and their covering consisted of large wooden shutters, which Melita was sure were only necessary in the event of a storm.

  The walls were papered and there were many attractive ornaments, Sevres china and bibliothèques of French origin standing on tables of the Louis XIV period.

  It was all very attractive and Melita wished to look about her with delight, but it was impossible not to be aware of Madame Boisset’s anger.

  Now she was saying to the Comte in a voice that rose high and shrill with her indignation,

  ‘This is quite absurd as you well know, Étienne! How can this girl possibly be a proper Governess of the sort we were expecting from England?”

  “I have talked with Mademoiselle Cranleigh,” the Comte replied coldly, “and I find her extremely intelligent. I think she would prove a capable and competent teacher for a child much older than Rose-Marie.”

  Madame Boisset made a sound that seemed to combine frustration and irritation in equal parts.

  Then she said rudely,

  “I cannot understand why Lady Cranleigh should have sent us anyone so young. She must be deranged!”

  “Lady Cranleigh is the stepmother of Mademoiselle Cranleigh,” the Comte said before Melita could speak, “and, as she is Sir Edward Cranleigh’s daughter, I am sure in her case that age has little to do with ability.”

  Madame Boisset looked Melita up and down and there was no doubt of the hostility in her expression.

  “Now I understand why we are honoured with your presence so unexpectedly,” she said unpleasantly.

  The Comte ignored her and said to Melita,

  “I would like you to come upstairs and meet my daughter.”

  With a nervous little glance at Madame Boisset, Melita followed him from the room and out into a hall where there was a carved wood staircase curving up to the floor above.

  There was no carpet on the stairs and it seemed to Melita as if their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud as they ascended, leaving Madame Boisset staring after them.

  Only as they reached the landing did Melita say in a low voice,

  “It was wrong of my stepmother not to explain who I was and my age. You would at least have had the chance to tell me not to come.”

  “Shall I say I am delighted that you have?” the Comte asked, “and I know Rose-Marie will be pleased too.”

  They went along the passage and at the far end he opened a door.

  It was a large room and seemed to Melita to be filled with expensive toys of all sorts and descriptions.

  There were dolls and teddy-bears, there were balls and bricks and skipping-ropes, a most elaborate doll’s house and, of course, a rocking horse.

  Sitting at a table having a meal with a black woman was a small girl.

  When she saw who stood in the doorway she gave a scream of sheer delight.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  She jumped up from her chair and ran towards him holding out her arms.

  He bent down to pick her up so that she could kiss him almost frantically as if she had been half-afraid that she would not see him again.

  “You have come back!” she cried between her kisses. “You have come back, Papa!”

  “Yes, I have come back,” the Comte replied, “and I have brought someone specially for you, someone I know you will like very much.”

  Rose-Marie looked at Melita with her arms still round her father’s neck. She was a pretty child with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

  “Who is this?” she asked after a moment.

  “It is Mademoiselle Cranleigh and she is going to give you some lessons, Rose-Marie, and teach you many things you need to know.”

  “Is she the Governess Cousin Josephine told me about?”

  “Yes, the Governess,” the Comte agreed.

  “But Cousin Josephine said she would be old and very strict and would make me do all the things I don’t want to do.”

  “I think you will find that Mademoiselle will show you how to do lots of new and interesting things which you have never thought of before,” the Comte said.

  Melita smiled at Rose-Marie who stared at her solemnly.

  The Comte looked over her head at the black woman she had been having tea with and who had now risen from the table.

  “How are you, Eugénie?” he asked.

  “Well, Master, I thank you.”

  “That is good!” the Comte said, “I shall want you, Eugénie, to help Mademoiselle Cranleigh and tell her where everything is.”

  “I help M’mselle,” Eugénie said with a glance at Melita.

  “Thank you very much,” Melita smiled. “It is very kind of you.”

  She held out her hand as she spoke and after a moment of surprise Eugénie took it and dropped a curtsey at the same time.

  “What a lovely schoolroom,” Melita exclaimed. “I have never seen so many toys.”

  “Have you brought me a present, Papa?” Rose-Marie enquired.

  “Not today,” the Comte replied, “at least I have – only her name is Mademoiselle Cranleigh!”

  Rose-Marie laughed.

  “That is a funny present and a very big one.”

  “You will find your new present is very engaging,” the Comte said, “Mademoiselle can play the piano and I am quite certain, although I have not asked her, that she can dance.”

  “I like to dance,” Rose-Marie said, “but I don’t like to practise my scales. They are dull – very dull!”

  Melita saw at the far end of the schoolroom that there was a piano and she went towards it, noting that it was a good make.

  “I hated scales too when I was your age,” she said, “but perhaps I can teach you to learn them another way.”

  Rose-Marie scrambled down from her father’s arms.

  “What do you mean – another way?” she asked.

  “In a tune.”

  “Show me! Show me!” Rose-Marie demanded jumping up and down.

  Melita flashed an apologetic little glance at the Comte and then sat down on the piano stool.

  She had taken off her gloves and now she ran her fingers over the ivory keys and remembered the little song she had learnt years ago which incorporated the scale as a child went upstairs and another scale when he came down.

&n
bsp; She played it but said the words, as she was too shy to sing them. Nevertheless it captured Rose-Marie’s imagination and after a moment she said,

  “I like that! I like it very much!”

  “Then that is what I shall teach you for the next time you play to your father and you can learn the words to sing them to him at the same time.”

  “That is fun – really fun! Play it again, mademoiselle, please play it again!”

  Melita was just about to oblige when the door of the schoolroom opened and Madame Boisset came in.

  “I cannot imagine what is happening,” she said, “there is much too much noise and it is time for Rose-Marie to be getting ready for bed.”

  She spoke in a loud voice and then said pointedly to Melita,

  “I hope, mademoiselle, you are not going to start by breaking the good habits I have already instilled into Rose-Marie. Health is the first consideration where a child is concerned.”

  Melita had risen from the piano stool and now she stood feeling a little uncomfortable at what she knew was a direct personal attack.

  “I am sorry, madame,” she said. “I am afraid that I had no idea of the time.”

  She wanted to say that it was far too early for any child of eight to be going to bed, but she thought that would be needlessly provocative.

  Madame Boisset looked at the table and said,

  “Finish your supper, Rose-Marie, and I imagine, mademoiselle, that you will wish to retire to your room and see to your unpacking. When you have finished, if it is not too late, I will give you instructions regarding Rose-Marie. Otherwise, they can wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “I shall do that,” the Comte said in a quiet voice.

  “You?” Madame Boisset ejaculated. “Why? Why should you wish to interfere?”

  “Because Rose-Marie happens to be my daughter,” the Comte said, “and I have, as you know, very definite ideas on how she should be educated.”

  “But if I am to bring her up – ”

  “You have been doing so while there has been no one else,” the Comte interrupted. “But now I have engaged Mademoiselle Cranleigh and I intend to discuss Rose-Marie’s future education with her.”

  “You have engaged Mademoiselle?” Madame Boisset said pointedly and it was a question.

  “As you know, I answered Lady Cranleigh’s letter and it was my idea to have an English Governess.”