68 The Magic of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  She was speaking, Melita realised, for effect and to intimidate the listening slaves.

  “If this is a rebellion, which I very much doubt,” the Comte said, “I would like to know the reason why it is taking place.”

  He dismounted from his horse, signalled to one of the Overseers to take its bridle and walked towards the barricade.

  As he reached it, the man who had assisted Melita rose as he had done before to his feet.

  “What is the trouble, Frédérick?” the Comte asked.

  “We not let Léonore be whipped, monsieur. She too old. Her our Mambo.”

  “But of course she is too old,” the Comte expostulated, “and let me make this quite clear, I will not permit any whipping on my estate as long as it belongs to me.”

  For a moment it seemed as if the slaves did not understand what they had heard, then a cheer went up and they all started to their feet.

  “Will you let me through?” the Comte asked. “I wish to speak to my daughter.”

  Willing hands bent down to move the barricades of tree trunks and in a moment the opening was there.

  Rose-Marie jumped up from Melita’s side to run towards the Comte.

  “Papa! Papa!” she cried, flinging her arms round him. “You have been a very long time and I am thirsty. I want a drink.”

  “Then we must find you one,” the Comte said quietly.

  He looked over her head at Melita and their eyes met. Without words he told her how right she had been to send for him and how grateful he was.

  She moved to his side.

  “The slaves are hungry as well as thirsty,” she told him in a low voice. “They are not getting enough to eat. If you look at the children, you will see how thin they are.”

  There was an unmistakable expression of anger on the Comte’s face.

  Without speaking, but carrying Rose-Marie in his arms, he walked towards the Overseers who were standing waiting for him at the bottom of the mound.

  Madame Boisset had disappeared.

  “Issue treble rations to everyone,” he said, “and there will be no work until they have eaten. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  The Overseers were looking uncomfortable and found it difficult to meet his eyes.

  “You heard what I said,” the Comte went on in a stern voice. “There will be no whipping on this estate in the future.”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  He turned back towards the slaves, who were clearing away the barricade.

  “Leave that until you have received your food,” he said, “it is waiting for you now in the storehouse. And send the women for water. You all need a drink.”

  They cheered him again.

  Then he waited until Melita was beside him and still carrying Rose-Marie, they walked up the incline towards the house.

  “I came the moment I heard what had happened,” the Comte said. “I did not expect to find you in the slave quarters, but I might have guessed that you would be with Rose-Marie.”

  There was a caressing note in his voice, which made her feel as if she vibrated to music.

  “Mademoiselle told us exciting stories, Papa,” Rose-Marie told him. “Philippe enjoyed them too, although he could not say so.”

  As if she suddenly remembered why she had been there, she added,

  “Cousin Josephine took away my doll which Philippe made for me. You must tell her, Papa, that he may make me another. I like the dolls Philippe makes.”

  “I will tell her,” the Comte said and his tone was grim.

  But he was not to speak to Madame Boisset that afternoon.

  As they ate their luncheon, which was waiting for them when they returned to the house, there were only three of them in the dining room.

  Madame Boisset, they learnt, had retired to her own room.

  As they finished and Eugénie came to collect Rose-Marie for her siesta, the Comte said to Melita,

  “I cannot wait until tomorrow. I will leave for St. Pierre now. The sooner this intolerable situation is ended the better.”

  “You are right,” Melita replied.

  She felt that she could not bear to listen to another stormy scene between Madame Boisset and the man she loved.

  “I will come back as quickly as I can, you know that.”

  “I feel sure you will be successful,” Melita answered, “and however little you can borrow, we will somehow make it do.”

  He smiled at her and there was no reason for him to say in words how much he loved her.

  They stood looking at each other, until, as if it was hard for him to do so, the Comte turned away. Picking up his tall hat and his gloves, he walked across the veranda and in the direction of the stables.

  Melita went upstairs to her bedroom.

  Today she had no reason to go out into the garden or to look for the trees of the Pomme d’amour.

  There was love in her heart, love in every thought she had, in every breath she breathed. Love for a man had changed her whole world for her from the first moment they met.

  ‘I love him!’

  Her whole being seemed to move to a melody of the winds and the music of them sang in her ears.

  *

  When Rose-Marie awoke, having slept longer because she was so tired after the excitement of the morning, Melita played to her on the piano.

  Then they took a walk in the garden to see the parrots and to feed the monkey.

  Rose-Marie had many questions to ask and Melita had no intention today of giving her any formal lessons.

  Only as they were coming back to the house did the child say,

  “I wonder in what secret place Cousin Josephine hid my doll? Shall we try to find her?”

  “Not today, dearest,” Melita answered. “Let’s wait until your Papa returns and then we will ask him to tell Cousin Josephine that you may have another doll. There will then be no need to be secretive about it.”

  “That will give Philippe time to make me a very very special one, will it not?” Rose-Marie answered.

  “A very special one,” Melita agreed.

  Rose-Marie had her supper and then seemed quite content to go to bed.

  She kissed Melita goodnight very affectionately and asked,

  “Do you know lots and lots more stories, mademoiselle?”

  “Lots more,” Melita replied.

  “And you will tell them all to me?”

  “Not all at once and perhaps you will learn to read some of them for yourself,” Melita smiled.

  “I would like that,” Rose-Marie replied. “I do love having you here, mademoiselle.”

  “And I love being here,” Melita answered truthfully.

  *

  When she had changed for dinner, Melita felt nervous of going downstairs to the salon.

  She had learnt from Eugénie that Madame was expecting her to dine with her and she was sure it was going to be a very uncomfortable meal, but she could hardly refuse.

  She walked downstairs feeling that every footstep was an effort and her feet grew heavier and heavier as she neared the salon.

  To her astonishment Madame Boisset, who was standing by one of the windows, turned to face her with a smile on her lips.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle,” she said in quite a pleasant tone. “I felt that as we are to be alone tonight we might indulge ourselves. I have poured you out a glass of Madeira, I do hope you will join me.”

  If Melita was surprised at the pleasantness in Madame Boisset’s tone, she was even more surprised when she saw that standing on the satinwood table in front of the sofa there was a glass of Madeira.

  Another, which she knew was intended for her, was set in front of a hard upright chair on which she had sat the previous evening.

  She did not like Madeira, but felt that it was impossible to say so.

  Madame Boisset was just about to seat herself on the sofa when Eugénie came into the room.

  “Dinner is ser – ” she began.

  The
n with a little scream she pointed to the far corner of the salon.

  “A snake, madame! A snake!”

  Madame Boisset turned quickly.

  “Where? Where?” she asked. “Frighten it away, Eugénie!”

  She was looking into the corner where Eugénie had pointed.

  Then, to Melita’s astonishment, as the maid passed the satinwood table, she exchanged the two glasses of Madeira!

  It was done so swiftly that Melita could hardly realise a second later that Madame’s glass now stood in front of her and hers was in front of the seat that Madame would occupy.

  “I cannot see a snake!” Madame was saying.

  “It there, madame. I see it,” Eugénie insisted, “but no worry. Men kill in morning.”

  “They make me shudder!” Madame Boisset exclaimed.

  She turned round to seat herself on the sofa.

  “I expect, mademoiselle, you have been told that in Martinique we have some very poisonous snakes, especially the fer-de-lance, which is deadly.”

  “Dinner is served, madame,” Eugénie interrupted.

  “Then we must not spoil the first course by letting it get cold,” Madame said. “Drink your Madeira, mademoiselle, and we will go into the salon.”

  She finished the glass in front of her as she spoke and Melita forced herself to drink hers before she followed in the wake of Madame’s rustling gown.

  While they were having dinner, she found it difficult to believe that Madame was the same person who had been so rude and disagreeable to her ever since her arrival.

  Now she spoke conversationally of the island, of Melita’s father and his distinguished career. She talked about the Empress Josephine and described to Melita her home at Trois Ilets.

  “My aunt knew the family well,” Madame said, “and Josephine, I understand, always had a reputation even when she was a girl for being somewhat fast and flirtatious.”

  “She certainly had a very distinguished career,” Melita remarked.

  “Napoleon, for all his great success in battle, was only a Corsican,” Madame replied.

  There was the scorn in her voice of the blue-blooded Frenchwoman for what she always considered as those ‘inferior Corsicans’.

  Melita thought her father would have been amused at the snobbery of it.

  “Josephine, when she was ten, was told by a fortune-teller, who was descended from the Caribe Indians that she would be Queen of France,” Madame remarked.

  “Do you believe in fortune-telling, madame?” Melita enquired.

  “Sometimes,” Madame replied reflectively, “but many of them are just liars and charlatans.”

  “But where the Empress Josephine was concerned they predicted the truth.”

  “A fortune-teller once told me – ” Madame began, and then stopped.

  Melita waited.

  “It is of no consequence,” Madame said after a long pause. “It has not come true – yet!”

  Melita thought that she could guess what Madame had wished to know, but she dared not ask any more questions.

  The dinner, which was far less elaborate than when the Comte was present, was soon finished and, when they reached the salon, Melita curtseyed.

  “Thank you, madame. Bonsoir.”

  “Goodnight, mademoiselle, we have had a very pleasant talk.”

  “Very pleasant, madame,” Melita answered, but she was puzzled as she went upstairs.

  Why had Madame changed?

  It was impossible to believe that she had been pleased with her behaviour today when she had defied her orders and deliberately joined Rose-Marie in the slave quarters.

  It was also impossible for her not to have been infuriated by the manner in which the Comte had conceded victory to the slaves and had in fact rewarded them with extra rations and a promise of a future free from punishment.

  It was contrary, Melita thought as she went up the stairs, to everything in Madame’s character to accept such a humiliation.

  She could not help feeling, although she told herself it was absurd, that it was somehow sinister.

  It was obvious that Madame had wanted her dismissed and sent back to England. If anything could have provided an excuse for her to do so, it would have been the disobeying of her orders.

  And yet, Madame Boisset had been charming.

  ‘It’s extraordinary! It’s too difficult for me to understand,’ Melita told herself.

  She longed for the Comte’s return so that she could tell him what had occurred and ask him for an explanation.

  She knew that by now he would have reached St. Pierre and perhaps would have had an opportunity of going to the bank. The idea made her pray, as she had prayed while she was dressing for dinner, that he would be successful.

  Surely, as he and his family were so well known, the bank would trust him?

  It would be a mistake, however, to borrow too large a sum. That might prove to be a millstone round their necks.

  They would have to manage with a little and, although she knew nothing about crops, she could not help feeling sure that those she had seen when the Comte had driven her to Vesonne-des-Arbres had looked healthy and plentiful.

  With that money alone perhaps they could get through the winter, but of one thing she was certain, that however poor they were, they would never deprive the slaves of proper nourishment.

  Melita, having reached the top of the stairs, went first to the schoolroom to put away the toys and to tidy the music sheets on the piano.

  She peeped into Rose-Marie’s bedroom and saw that she was fast asleep.

  Melita bent over her to cover her bare arm with the sheet she had thrown off because it was hot when she first went to bed.

  Now it was cooler, so she covered her also with a fine blanket.

  When she had finished, she looked down at the sleeping child, then up at the portrait of her mother, which stood over the bed.

  She knew the faces of the two had a similarity about them that was inescapable.

  The voice she had heard coming from Léonore’s lips last night might have been Rose-Marie’s!

  Because the idea posed a dozen questions she had no answers to, Melita turned away and went quickly to her own bedroom.

  She lit the candles beside her bed and, when she had done so, she turned and was startled by what she saw. On a table at the other end of the room there was a doll!

  It was one of Philippe’s, decorated with leaves and she thought he must have had it put there for her to give to Rose-Marie. Then, as she moved towards it, there seemed something familiar about the gown.

  Startled, she suddenly realised that she had just been looking at the portrait of the person the doll depicted.

  It was Cécile – there was no doubt about that!

  There was a white leaf for the face and brown curls on either side to denote the hair.

  The off-the-shoulder gown with its wide bertha was exactly the same as the artist had painted in the portrait over Rose-Marie’s bed.

  The full skirts of her gown were fashioned of the white leaves, which came from one particular plant and were almost a replica of the shot muslin Cécile had worn.

  Melita stood looking at the doll and felt that she did not understand.

  Why had Philippe made a model for her of Cécile?

  She was sure that the idea had not come from the dumb and crippled boy, but from his grandmother, from Léonore, the Mambo from whom, Melita thought uncomfortably, nothing could be hidden.

  Why? Why?

  As she stood staring at the doll, the question kept repeating itself over and over again in her mind.

  Philippe’s artistry was unmistakable.

  The doll was exquisitely made and it was hard to think that in a week or so the leaves would fade and such a clever creation would wither away.

  Melita stood looking at the image Philippe had created for a long time and then, when she could find no solution to the question in her mind, she slowly undressed.

  She had meant
to read as she had come up to bed so early, but now she felt tired – tired after having slept so little the night before, tired with the emotions and anxieties of the day.

  Tired with the surprises that had followed one after the other, culminating in Madame Boisset’s strange behaviour this evening.

  It was hard to think any more and wearily Melita climbed into bed and turned to blow out the candles.

  She was vividly conscious as she did so of the Cécile doll on the other side of the room. Then deliberately she looked away from it and cuddled down against her pillow in the

  darkness.

  She awoke suddenly with a feeling that someone had called her.

  Instantly her thoughts flew to Rose-Marie.

  She listened, remembering as she did so how the night before she had listened to the almost imperceptible beat of the drum.

  Then, clearly and distinctly, although she was not certain whether it was that she heard it in her mind or in her ears, she heard someone say,

  “Look behind the picture – look behind the picture!”

  It was Cécile’s voice that spoke – the voice she had heard in the forest, coming from Léonore’s lips.

  Melita sat up knowing that her heart was pounding and she felt as if the throb of it was almost audible in the silence of the room.

  “Look behind the picture!”

  She had heard the words distinctly.

  They had been spoken – but by whom?

  She had a feeling that she must act immediately. It was the same feeling that had called her from the house the night before – out into the forest.

  Almost automatically she jumped out of bed.

  The shadows were dark in the room and through the uncurtained windows there was enough light coming from the sky for her to see the outline of the furniture.

  She opened the door, moved along the passage and into Rose-Marie’s room.

  There was a fragrance of flowers in the room Melita had not noticed before and, as she went towards the bed, Rose-Marie stirred and spoke drowsily as if she was still asleep.

  “Mama!” she muttered. “Mama!”

  Melita stood very still.

  The child’s eyes were closed and she did not speak to her.

  Then Melita’s eyes went up to the picture.