68 The Magic of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “I will fetch it for you,” Melita replied.

  They had left the doll in the schoolroom when they went down to luncheon and she knew exactly which chair Rose-Marie had put it on.

  But, when she reached the schoolroom, it was not there.

  She looked around, thinking that perhaps one of the servants had tidied it away or perhaps Eugénie had put it in a cupboard, but there was no sign of it.

  Finally there was nowhere else she could look and she returned to Rose-Marie’s bedroom.

  Rose-Marie was asleep. Eugénie put her finger to her lips and came out through the door, closing it quietly behind her.

  “I cannot find the doll,” Melita said.

  “Madame took it,” Eugénie replied.

  “Madame! But why?”

  “She not like la petite m’mselle visit Philippe. I would have warned you, but I not think M’mselle Rose-Marie go there. Big fuss last time he made her doll.”

  As they were speaking, Eugénie and Melita walked towards the schoolroom.

  Now, as they entered it, Melita said,

  “But why? What harm can there be in that poor crippled boy making those beautiful dolls for Rose-Marie?”

  “Madame not allow la petite m’mselle talk with slaves! She say if Philippe well enough make dolls he work in fields.”

  “But that would be impossible!” Melita exclaimed.

  “He extra mouth to feed, m’mselle. Madame want only workers.”

  “And the Comte”

  Melita could not help questioning Eugénie.

  There was a little pause before she replied,

  “When Monsieur look after us very different. Then everybody happy.”

  There was no need for the black woman to say any more.

  Her tone was expressive and Melita could hear the Overseers crack their whips and the sudden hush that had silenced the singing voices when Madame had entered the sugar refinery.

  Eugénie suddenly looked over her shoulder as if she thought somebody might be listening.

  “M’mselle must be careful – very careful,” she warned, “otherwise sent away.”

  Melita drew in her breath.

  She knew only too well that that was exactly what Madame was already planning – to send her back to England on some pretext or other.

  Even if the Comte tried to save her from such a humiliation, she had the idea that he might be powerless.

  Because she did not wish to seem to Eugénie to be prying or over-curious, she went from the schoolroom into her bedroom.

  She realised that this was the time of day when she would be on her own and she knew that, if she was sensible, she would lie down on her bed and read one of the books she had brought with her.

  She had in fact been looking forward to reading those that had been packed in her trunks and which she had not had with her on the voyage.

  But, because she was worried and upset by her thoughts and apprehensive once again about the future, she could not rest.

  She moved about her small bedroom and then decided that she would go into the garden.

  She thought that Madame would be lying down and doubtless the Comte like all other men in the tropics rested, so that no one would notice her if she slipped down the stairs and out through the door that led into the garden.

  It was very hot and the sun seemed to burn its way even through the silk of her sunshade.

  She hurried across the lawn to seek the shadow of the trees that lay beyond the flowering shrubs where Rose-Marie had found her frog.

  Yesterday evening Melita had been too bemused by the Comte to look around her, but now she realised that where the formal gardens ended there was a wildness of colour and beauty.

  Everywhere there were fruit trees and now she understood why it was called ‘Vesonne-des-Arbres’.

  She recognised the blossom of the avocado, the cherry and the guava, but there were others she did not know and one in particular was more glorious than any tree she had ever seen or could imagine.

  The pink and white blossoms, instead of having oval-shaped petals, were brush-shaped rising from a cone but soft and delicate like the feathers of an angel’s wings.

  It was so unusual, so lovely, that Melita stood beneath one of the trees entranced, her head thrown back to look up, the action revealing the long line of her throat.

  She looked so beautiful and so ethereal, almost part of the blossom itself, that the man who was watching her stood spellbound for a moment before he came to her side.

  She felt rather than saw him come and did not move.

  She only stood still with her head up-turned, the sunshine making patterns on her gown and glinting like living gold on her fair hair.

  “I have never seen a tree like it,” she said at length, as he did not speak.

  “Do you know what it is called?” the Comte asked.

  Melita shook her head.

  He raised his arm and picked several of the blossoms from the tree, placing them in the palm of her hand.

  “It is called ‘Pomme d’amour’.”

  “The Apple of Love,” Melita said almost beneath her breath.

  Then, because she could not help herself, her eyes met his and there was no need to guess the meaning in his voice when he had said the name of the tree.

  There was silence for a moment and then the Comte enquired,

  “Why are you here when you should be resting?”

  Melita answered truthfully.

  “I wanted to think, but somehow it was – impossible to do so in the house.”

  “That is what I felt too,” he said, “and, although I did not see you come here, I must have known instinctively that I would find you.”

  Again their eyes met and he added,

  “I feel I have some explaining to do. Let’s go a little further into the shade of the trees so that no one will find us.”

  It was unnecessary to put into words who they were afraid might do so and obediently Melita moved away from under the Pomme d’amour, feeling as if somehow its beauty had become a part of her and the man walking beside her.

  The Comte did not speak until the trees grew even thicker and the rays of the sun could barely percolate through their branches.

  Then he indicated a little rise in the ground covered with moss. Melita sat down on it and he lowered himself to sit beside her.

  She had no need of her sunshade and she laid it down beside her and put the blossoms of the Pomme d’amour in her lap, touching them with the tips of her fingers.

  “The blossoms of these trees, which are the most beautiful on the whole island, are like you,” the Comte said after a moment.

  She felt a little quiver run through her at the depth in his voice.

  Then with an effort he looked away from her and said,

  “I cannot allow you to remain in ignorance any longer of what is happening here at Vesonne.”

  “It is so entrancing,” Melita said softly, “the most beautiful place I have ever seen. I do not like to think that the people here are – unhappy and as you know – it is – bad for Rose-Marie to be in such an atmosphere.”

  She paused before she went on,

  “I made up my mind this morning that I would speak to you about it. Rose-Marie is a sensitive child and every time there is any unpleasantness she trembles and it is impossible for her to eat.”

  “Do you suppose I don’t realise that?” the Comte asked and there was an unmistakable bitterness in his voice.

  Melita looked at him and realised how attractive his profile was against the greenery around them.

  He was not wearing a hat and his dark hair, thick, shiny and luxuriant and with a slight wave in it, grew back from a square forehead.

  She found herself wondering how it would feel to touch and then blushed at her own thoughts.

  “When I thought it a good idea to accept your stepmother’s suggestion to employ an English Governess,” he said at length, “I considered only my daughter and what a benef
it it would be to her.”

  He turned to look at Melita before he continued,

  “I did not think of myself until I saw you standing on deck.”

  Melita’s eyes fell before the expression in his and she played with the blossom in her lap.

  “The reason why I was in St. Pierre,” the Comte went on, “was not only to meet you but also because I had left the plantation and sworn that I would never go back.”

  “How could you do that?” she asked.

  “I could stand it no longer,” he answered. “Even in the short time you have been here, you must have realised that the position is intolerable for me.”

  “But why? If the plantation bears your – name?” Melita asked in a small voice, “why is it not – yours to do with as you wish?”

  The Comte gave a deep sigh.

  “That is what I intend to tell you.”

  Suddenly he threw himself back in the grass and, clasping his hands behind his head, he said with his eyes closed,

  “I was brought up here. I love Vesonne. It is part of my blood and the memories of my childhood and the happiness my father and mother gave us all are unforgettable.”

  Melita thought he must have been a very attractive little boy and she could understand how proud his parents must have been of him.

  “My father was a bad manager,” the Comte went on. “I loved him, but it’s true. There was never very much money and, although we were happy, we often had to do without things other people would have considered essential. When I became twenty-one, there was a financial crisis.”

  There was a look of pain on his face before he continued,

  “My father decided the only way to keep the plantation going was for me to marry a girl with a fortune.”

  The last word was spoken sharply and Melita glanced at him, but she did not speak.

  “All the arrangements were made by my father and Monsieur Calviare, who was to be my father-in-law,” he continued. “I was not consulted and not until everything was a fait accompli did I actually meet my future wife.”

  Melita knew that marriages in France were always arranged, but she could not help thinking that it was almost barbaric as the Comte told her of it in a voice that expressed all too vividly what he must have felt.

  “I accepted the situation,” he went on, “and, if I did not look forward to my marriage with any enthusiasm, I realised that it was inevitable.”

  He drew in his breath.

  “I wanted to be free. I had tasted the delights of Paris and enjoyed myself in St. Pierre. I had no wish to settle down.”

  “You were very – young,” Melita murmured.

  “And, although you may not believe me, very idealistic,” the Comte replied.

  He looked up at her as she sat a little stiffly beside him, her back straight, her head bent over the blossoms in her lap.

  “I had always imagined that one day I would fall in love, one day I would find a woman who would embody all the ideals that I kept secretly in my heart. Then I would ask her to be my wife.”

  “I can – understand – that.”

  “But naturally,” he went on in a different voice, “I had to do what my father asked of me. And Cécile was very sweet and very pretty.”

  There was silence before he said,

  “Two things I did not realise until I was married. First was that Cécile had never grown up. She was a child, an attractive delightful child, but she was not a woman and secondly, that the most powerful influence in her life was her Cousin Josephine.”

  At the mention of Madame Boisset’s name, Melita felt almost as if a shadow blocked out the sunshine.

  “Josephine was not at home when I married,” the Comte went on, “because she was already the wife of Monsieur Boisset, who lived near Fort de France.

  “The family continually spoke of her and I learnt that she was an orphan who had been brought up by Monsieur and Madame Calviare as if she was their own daughter.”

  He moved restlessly before he continued,

  “She was twelve years older than her cousin, and it was, of course, understandable that Cécile should admire the older girl and try to emulate her in every way.”

  His lips met in a tight line.

  Then he forced himself to go on,

  “But that did not concern me because Josephine had her own home and Cécile and I came to live at Vesonne.”

  Melita made a little movement. Somehow – she could not think why – it hurt to think of him bringing his bride back to his home.

  “Shortly after our marriage my father and mother retired to St. Pierre,” the Comte continued. “He had always found the work on the plantation too much for him and he was content that I should take over his responsibilities and try to restore the estate to its former prosperity.”

  “You could – afford to do that?” Melita asked.

  “Cécile was a great heiress,” the Comte replied, “but Monsieur Calviare was a business man and he made one stipulation. Although he gave us a large sum of money to put the plantation in order, repair and redecorate the house and pay for a thousand other things that wanted doing, he insisted that Cécile’s money remained her own.”

  Melita glanced at the Comte. She was beginning to understand what he was telling her.

  “Of course, under French law a woman’s fortune becomes her husband’s on marriage,” the Comte said, “and, although I had control over Cécile’s income once she was my wife, there was one proviso.”

  “What was – that?”

  “Her capital was hers and remained in her name. Monsieur Calviare also made certain that the money he would leave on his death would be hers.”

  Melita waited for the inevitable conclusion.

  “When he died, he left Cécile a huge fortune and we spent it gaily. She never at any time during our married life ever made me feel that the money was not mine.”

  The Comte sighed again.

  “She was a child – a child who smiled if you smiled at her and who could cry as easily as the spring rains fall from the skies. She never questioned any action I took or any order I gave and I can say quite truthfully that I made her happy.”

  “I am sure you did,” Melita said, feeling somehow she must reassure him.

  She thought at the same time that what he left unsaid was very obvious.

  He was an intelligent clever man who had been married to an immature girl who might give him laughter, but could give him nothing else.

  “Then Josephine was widowed,” the Comte said, as if he sounded a knell of sudden doom. “She was left very little money. Her husband who had seemed to be well-to-do had many impecunious relatives, so she came to stay with us at Vesonne!”

  Now there was no mistaking the darkness in his expression and in the tone of his voice.

  “At first I welcomed her,” he said. “She was a companion for Cécile and she took over the running of the household, which had not been satisfactory. Then gradually I realised that two things were happening.”

  There was silence until Melita prompted,

  “What were – they?”

  “First that Josephine had complete ascendancy over my wife,” the Comte said. “Secondly, that she was in love with me!”

  It was what Melita had expected to hear and yet somehow it was a blow when he actually put it into words.

  “What – did you – do?”

  “It made me extremely uncomfortable,” he answered. “I suggested to Cécile that she should send her away, but she burst into tears at the thought and clung to Josephine as I realised she had clung to her when she had been a child.”

  “What – happened?”

  “I was so busy that I left the problem to solve itself,” the Comte answered. “I was working all hours of the day on the plantation, cultivating land, bringing in the different crops, making contracts for sales and taking the sugar, the fruits and the coffee to the ships to see that they were properly stowed away so that they did not deteriorate on the voyage.
”

  Just for a moment there was a note of elation in his voice as if the work had been enjoyable.

  Then he said dully,

  “Quite suddenly, without any explanation as to why it should happen, Cécile died!”

  “But how?” Melita asked.

  The Comte sat up, put his arms around his knees and stared ahead of him.

  “Even now I can hardly credit that it happened,” he said. “I went to St. Pierre with a special shipment of sugar which I had sold to Holland. I was away perhaps ten days. I returned to find that Cécile was dead and even the doctor had no explanation for her sudden demise.”

  “There must have been – one,” Melita suggested.

  “If there was, I did not receive it,” the Comte replied. “Josephine said Cécile had been ailing and complaining of headaches and pains in her stomach. But she had thought it was just a slight fever or indigestion and had not sent for the doctor until it was too late.”

  “How terrible!” Melita murmured.

  “As you can imagine, I was stunned,” the Comte replied, “but, when the funeral was over, Josephine produced Cécile’s will.”

  Melita waited and now there was no reason to ask a question.

  “When we were married and Monsieur Calviare had insisted that Cécile must retain her own fortune, we had both made wills in each other’s favour. I had left all my possessions to Cécile and to any children there might be of the marriage and she had left all her money to me unconditionally.”

  “And this had been – changed?” Melita asked, knowing the answer was obvious.

  “Cécile had made another will without my knowledge in which she left all her money to Josephine for her lifetime.”

  The Comte drew in his breath before he finished,

  “The only condition that could break this bequest was if I married Josephine, in which case the money would become mine.”

  Melita bit back the exclamation that rose to her lips.

  After a moment she managed to say,

  “The will was – valid?”

  “Completely valid. It had been witnessed by the Priest who comes to the plantation to say Mass and by another Frenchman of some standing who happened to be travelling in the vicinity.”

  “Madame Boisset must have – contrived it.”

  “Of course she contrived it,” the Comte said harshly. “I told you that she dominated Cécile absolutely, mind, body and soul and, when I was away, she must have persuaded my wife to sign that monstrous document, which was couched in phrases which Cécile herself would never have used.”