68 The Magic of Love Page 8

  “But surely you could prove that?”

  “How?” the Comte asked. “Do you suppose I have not taken legal advice on the matter – of course I have! I consulted the best Attorney in the whole of St. Pierre. Do you know what he said to me?”

  “What did he say?” Melita asked.

  “He was a Frenchman. He said, ‘my dear boy, but you must marry your wife’s cousin. Why not? All women are alike in the dark!’”

  Melita was very still and then she said slowly,

  “I am sorry – more sorry than I can – possibly say.”

  “There is no reason for me to worry you with my troubles,” the Comte said almost roughly.

  Then he turned his head to look at her and added,

  “That is not true! There is every reason. You must know why I wished to tell you this. Why I had to tell you! But only God knows what I can do about it.”

  Chapter Four

  Melita could not reply. Any words she might have uttered were strangled in her throat.

  At the same time, because of the deep passionate note in the Comte’s voice, she experienced a sudden feeling of inescapable joy sweep over her.

  Then, as if it was impossible for him to remain still, the Comte rose to his feet and walked from the bank where they had been sitting towards the nearest tree. He stood with his hand against the trunk as if he needed its support.

  Then with his back to her he said,

  “It is too soon. I had intended to wait before I said anything to you, but it is impossible!”

  Melita looked at him, but she did not move or speak and he went on,

  “The moment I first saw you, as I walked across the deck, was as if you were enveloped with a white light and I knew absolutely and completely in the passing of a second what had happened.”

  In the silence that seemed to be part of the beauty of the Pomme d’amour blossoms above them Melita said almost in a whisper,

  “What did you – know?”

  The Comte turned then to look at her.

  “I knew,” he said slowly, “that you are what I have been seeking all my life, yearning for, needing, but who I had never found because – you were not there.”

  She looked up at him and, as their eyes met, she felt as if her heart turned over in her breast.

  Then she said, still in a whisper,

  “How could – you be so – sure?”

  “I was sure then and I knew it for an absolute certainty when we had luncheon together,” he replied. “Already you were a part of me, your thoughts were my thoughts, your mind was my mind and my heart was yours.”

  Melita remembered how surprised she had been that he seemed to know what she was thinking and anticipate what she was about to say.

  She knew too that he was expressing what she also had felt since she had first seen him and which she had known with absolute surety when she had gone into the garden the previous night. She had been drawn like a magnet towards his voice even before she saw him.

  “Do you mean,” she asked hesitatingly, “that you – love me?”

  The Comte smiled.

  “Love?” he questioned. “It is such an inadequate word to describe what I feel and what you mean to me. You are mine, Melita, mine, although I have not even touched you, you are mine, although for the moment I dare not ask you to marry me.”

  She was trembling as he went on,

  “But you are my woman, my real wife! Mine, because our souls have met across eternity and we have found each other after who knows how many centuries of seaching?”

  Melita clasped her fingers together.

  Everything he was saying to her was so moving and at the same time it seemed so absolutely right and true that she herself might also be saying the same words.

  For a long moment the Comte stood looking at her.

  Then he said very quietly,

  “Come here, Melita!”

  She rose to her feet, while he did not move.

  Step by step she crossed the soft grass until she was standing just in front of him, beneath the overhanging branches of the petal-laden trees.

  “You are so lovely,” he sighed, “so unbelievably entrancing, but it is not only your beauty which draws me, my darling, but your mind, your spirit and your heart which I knew belonged to me from the first moment I looked into your eyes.”

  He drew a deep breath.

  “I have nothing to offer you – nothing! And yet I feel that everything else except our love and us is unimportant. Am I right?”

  Now there was a hint of anxiety in his voice and in the expression in his eyes.

  He made no movement to touch Melita and yet she felt that irresistibly he drew her to him and she was already close in his arms.

  She knew he was waiting for her answer and, after a moment, in a voice he could hardly hear, she spoke,

  “I love – you too!”

  They stood looking at each other and it seemed as if the whole world stood still. Then very gently as if she was one of the pink and white blossoms on the tree above them, the Comte put his arms around her.

  For a moment he did not kiss her, he simply put his cheek against hers and held her close.

  “Melita! Melita!” he murmured. “Is this true? Tell me it’s not a dream we will both awaken from suddenly.”

  “It’s true,” she repeated almost as if she spoke to a child who wanted to be reassured.

  “I love you!” he said. “I love you overwhelmingly and I swear that I have never in my whole life felt like this.”

  There was something very solemn in the way he spoke and still he stood with his cheek against hers, his arms enveloping her, before he said, almost as if he spoke to himself,

  “Am I being unfair? You are very young, my precious, and I am so much older than you. God knows I want to protect and take care of you. I am so afraid of harming you.”

  “I have never felt so – secure – so safe, or so – happy since Papa – died,” Melita murmured.

  The Comte raised his head.

  “Is that true – really true?”

  “I have been so – afraid,” she answered, “very afraid of being – alone, of not knowing what to – do, or who I could turn to – and now there is – you.”

  As she said the last word, there was a sudden light in her eyes and a radiance in her face that the Comte could not misunderstand.

  Then, as if he could not help himself, he drew her closer still and his lips found hers.

  Melita had never been kissed before and for a moment she felt shy and a little uncertain.

  Then, as the Comte’s mouth held her captive, she felt a sudden streak of sunlight run through her.

  It evoked a sensation so wonderful, so rapturous, so unlike anything she had ever known before, that she knew it was part of the perfection of the Divine.

  She felt as if her body melted into the Comte’s and they became one person.

  She knew too that the beauty, the wonder and the ecstasy he aroused in her was what he was feeling too.

  It was all part of the sunshine, the blossom on the trees and the fragrance of the flowers.

  ‘This is love – this is life!’ Melita decided.

  Then she found it was impossible to think, but only feel a glory she had not known existed.

  How long the kiss lasted she had no idea, she only knew that, when at length the Comte took his lips from hers, she laid her head weakly against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  She felt that what she had experienced had left her depleted of everything except a wonder that came from Heaven itself.

  “I love you, ma belle,” the Comte said. “I love you until there is nothing in the world but you!”

  He looked down at her face, at her long lashes dark against the whiteness of her skin.

  “But we have to think, my precious one. I have to find some solution to the problem which besets me and, because it concerns you and our happiness, I swear I will find the answer, however difficult it may be.”


  Melita opened her eyes.

  “There must – be one,” she muttered softly.

  “There will be one,” the Comte said almost fiercely.

  Her lips were near to his and he would have kissed her again. Then deliberately he looked away from her even while he still held her close in his arms.

  “This is my land, my house, my home,” he said. “But how can I keep it going? How can I even pay the everyday expenses without money?”

  Although Melita thought it was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, she deliberately withdrew herself from his arms and faced him.

  “It would not matter being – poor,” she said, “if we were – together.”

  “Are you sure?” the Comte asked.

  “You know I am,” she answered, “and I cannot help feeling that somehow, if we work very hard, perhaps cultivating less land to start with, we could make enough at least to keep ourselves alive.”

  “Do you mean that? Oh, my darling, do you really mean that?” the Comte asked.

  “I mean it,” Melita answered. “I am very ignorant about such matters, but could you not obtain a loan – as Papa used to do, perhaps to – tide you over until you could pay the money back from your crops?”

  She was standing beside the Comte, but he had not attempted to touch her since she had moved from the shelter of his arms.

  Now he reached out and took her hand in his.

  “Could anybody be more perfect or indeed more sensible?” he asked.

  He kissed the back of her hand. Then he turned it over and kissed the palm, his lips making thrills ripple through her until, as her breath came quickly, he drew her once again close against him.

  “I excite you,” he said. “Oh, my love, tell me that I excite you a little as you excite me to madness?”

  There was no need for Melita to answer and it was impossible for her to do so, because the Comte was kissing her again wildly and passionately.

  Yet at the same time there was something spiritual in his kiss that made her know that their love came from God.

  “We will find the answer,” he said.

  Although he spoke resolutely, his voice was a little unsteady and she saw a glint of fire in his eyes.

  “We will find it – together,” she whispered. “Let me help you – I want to help you.”

  “Do you think I could do without you?” he asked. “This is what I have always missed – a woman I could share my difficulties and problems with.”

  “I want to share – everything with you.”

  He gave a deep sigh as if some of the pain and unhappiness left his body.

  Then he said,

  “I told you that I had a feeling that your arrival was a momentous step not only for you but also for me. The day after tomorrow there will be two wagonloads of sugar going to St. Pierre. I will go with them and I will visit the bank and see if, as you suggest, they will give me a loan.”

  As if the reason he needed money recalled Melita to her responsibilities, she said,

  “I think – I should go – back to the – house.”

  “Perhaps it would be wise,” the Comte agreed. “There must be as little unpleasantness as possible, for you at any rate, until we have the answer to anything that might be said.”

  They both knew who he was speaking about and Melita felt as if the shadow of Madame Boisset encroached upon their happiness.

  Once again she drew herself from his arms.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” the Comte said, “but I intend to leave very early in the morning to inspect the farthest point of the estate where I believe that things have been neglected for some time.”

  “I wish I could come with you,” Melita said with a wistful little smile.

  “One day,” the Comte said, almost as if he spoke prophetically, “we will ride everywhere side by side and the first thing we will restore to the people who work for us is happiness.”

  He saw how much his words pleased her.

  Then he said,

  “Go back to the house, my precious love. We must be careful at dinner that we don’t give ourselves away, but soon, very soon, we will be together and nothing shall ever separate us again.”

  “You are in my – heart,” Melita whispered, “as you will be in my – prayers.”

  She turned away as she spoke and resolutely did not look back until she was clear of the fruit trees and on the edge of the lawn.

  When she reached the shrubs with their crimson blossoms and found the little stream where Rose-Marie had searched for frogs, she thought perhaps it would be unwise, in case anyone was watching from the windows, for them to see the direction she had come from.

  So she turned and walked towards the left, climbing a little higher up the hill on which the house was built, until having reached the highest point, she came down towards it.

  To reach the garden door she had left the house by, she had to pass the part of the house where the kitchens were situated.

  There was a chatter of voices and laughter from the young black girls who cleaned the house.

  Melita moved past the windows and as she did so she saw that there was a large bin filled with refuse waiting, she supposed, to be collected and taken away to be burnt in some other part of the estate.

  As she drew level with it, she saw something lying on top of the bin, something she recognised.

  It was the doll that Philippe had made for Rose-Marie lying amongst the rinds of the pawpaw, the skins of the bananas and a dark soggy mass of tealeaves.

  ‘How could Madame be so unkind to the child?’ she thought.

  Then looking again she drew in her breath, for the doll was not only thrown away but had been deliberately torn to shreds.

  The pretty bright-coloured leaves that formed the skirt had been ripped into shreds, the handkerchief, which had covered the hair, torn and the head half-pulled from the coconut body.

  It was deliberate destruction and Melita remembered how pretty the doll had looked and how delighted Rose-Marie had been with it.

  She felt almost as if something live had been murdered.

  ‘How could anyone be so petty, so unnecessarily destructive?’ she asked herself.

  The action seemed, in fact, almost abnormally vindictive.

  *

  Her doll was the first thing Rose-Marie asked for when she awoke from her afternoon sleep.

  No one, Melita found to her relief, had noticed her absence, not even Eugénie, who, she realised, had also enjoyed a siesta.

  “Did you find my doll, mademoiselle?” Rose-Marie asked as Eugénie dressed her in a white muslin gown and combed her hair.

  “I am afraid not,” Melita replied.

  “But I left her in the schoolroom on a chair.”

  “Yes, I know,” Melita agreed, “but I think your cousin did not wish you to keep it.”

  “But Philippe made it especially for me,” Rose-Marie cried, “and I know Papa would have let me have it. I shall tell him to make Cousin Josephine give it back to me.”

  “Suppose you come and see what I have in my trunk?” Melita suggested. “There is a pretty little handkerchief sachet, all edged with lace. I thought we might embroider your initials on it and you can keep it on your dressing table with your handkerchiefs in it.”

  “I would like that!” Rose-Marie cried.

  Melita had managed to divert her attention from the doll, but when she had her supper she began to think about it again.

  “Where is Papa?” she asked. “I want to tell Papa about my doll.”

  “I think he is out on the plantation,” Melita answered. “As you know, Rose-Marie, there is so much work to be done at this time of the year.”

  “Cousin Josephine runs the plantation,” Rose-Marie answered. “It upsets Papa and that is why he went to St. Pierre.”

  Melita could not help smiling.

  Rose-Marie was too intelligent a child, she thought, not to realise what was happening and feel the turbulent emotions a
round her.

  “Perhaps your Papa will be back before you are asleep,” she said consolingly.

  “You will tell him to come and say goodnight to me?”

  “I will tell him,” Melita promised.

  She tucked Rose-Marie up. Then the child put her arms round Melita’s neck and pulled her head down to hers.

  “I love having you here, mademoiselle. It’s much more fun since you arrived.”

  “I am glad about that,” Melita smiled.

  Rose-Marie kissed her cheek.

  “You will not go away, will you?” she asked. “Everyone I love goes away, then I am left only with Cousin Josephine.”

  Melita felt her heart contract at the pathos in the words.

  Rose-Marie, having lost her mother, was now afraid that she might lose her father. There was nothing stable in her small life.

  “I will stay, Rose-Marie,” she answered. “I will not go away.”

  She felt it was a promise not only to the child but also to the Comte.

  Somehow they would win through. It would be difficult. They might have to endure hardship and perhaps much heartbreak, but at least they would be together.

  ‘That,’ Melita told herself, ‘is all that matters.’

  Rose-Marie pulled her a little closer.

  “If you stay I will be very good,” she said, “and, when Philippe makes me another doll, we will hide it so that Cousin Josephine will never find it.”

  “We will think about that,” Melita said, feeling that she must not intrigue openly against Madame Boisset.

  She kissed Rose-Marie and knew that the child was satisfied.

  She left the bedroom door open and when, she went to her own room next door, she left that open too.

  ‘When I hear the Comte return,’ she thought, ‘I will tell him that his daughter needs him.’

  But actually Rose-Marie was fast asleep and it was nearly dinnertime before she heard the Comte come up the uncarpeted stairs and walk along the landing to his own room at the far end.

  It was too late, Melita thought, to speak to him, so instead she concentrated on making herself look as attractive as possible for when she met him at dinner.