68 The Magic of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “They can have all those dishes when you return?” Melita asked.

  “Thanks to you, my darling.”

  “No, we must always be grateful to – Cécile – and Léonore!”

  The Comte did not reply, but she knew that in his heart he believed they had saved him.

  After a moment she said tentatively,

  “The slaves in Barbados are free.”

  “For eight years, since 1834.”

  “Why not here?”

  “Because, the French are very cautious. But I don’t think that their freedom will be long delayed now.”

  “I hope not!” Melita exclaimed.

  “The planters were convinced that to set their work force free,” the Comte said, “would mean financial disaster. However, in Antigua the very opposite happened!”

  “You mean they made money?” Melita enquired.

  “They became richer than they had ever been before.”

  When they left the veranda, Melita had carried with her both Cécile’s will and the letter she had left for Étienne.

  Now, as they spoke of money, she put them into his hands.

  “I think you should take these at once to an attorney and make sure that this will finishes for ever all the evil – that has emanated from the last one.”

  “I will do that,” the Comte agreed. “And I am certain that there will be no difficulty. The lawyer who looked after my father’s estates and mine was appalled at Josephine being left all the money, but there was nothing he could do about it.”

  “Did he try?” Melita asked.

  “It was useless, the will had been properly witnessed and Cécile had been left by her father in a position where she could do what she wished with her own fortune.”

  “Go and see him now,” Melita urged. “I shall not feel really happy until I am sure that this will is acceptable. After all, Eugénie and Jeanne could not write their names.”

  The Comte smiled at the anxiety in her tone.

  “A mark is quite legal here in this country where so few people are able to write,” he answered, “and I think the letter which Cécile left for me will prove quite clearly that Josephine must be deranged.’’

  He suddenly put his arms around Melita and drew her against him.

  “Oh, my precious darling, suppose she had succeeded in killing you too? How could I have gone on living, knowing that I should not have left you at Vesonne alone with that fiend?”

  “It was Eugénie who saved me,” Melita said. “Perhaps she has known all the time how Cécile died. I wonder why she did not say anything?”

  “I expect she thought, quite rightly, that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to believe her,” the Comte replied. “Josephine herself would naturally have denied most forcefully such an accusation and a white person’s word would always be accepted against that of a black.”

  He thought for a moment before he went on,

  “Eugénie must have decided that it was best to say nothing but look after Rose-Marie whom she has adored ever since she was a baby.”

  “She will be safe now?” Melita asked in sudden fear.

  “Eugénie would never allow anyone to hurt a hair of Rose-Marie’s head!” the Comte said positively, “and it will not be long before we return.”

  He did not kiss Melita, he only held her very close against him.

  She knew it would not have been right for them to express passionately their love for each other while he was still grieving for the child-like wife who had been murdered just because he was an attractive man.

  He laid his cheek for a second against her fair hair and then said,

  “I will go to the attorney now and at least I will not have to keep my appointment with the bank this morning.”

  “You have not yet asked for the loan?” Melita enquired.

  “I asked, but I was told there would have to be a discussion amongst the senior members of the staff and they would give me my answer this morning.”

  Melita knew by his tone that it had hurt his pride to have to beg for money.

  Now, she thought, unless something went very wrong, he was the possessor of a huge fortune.

  The Comte rose to his feet.

  “Come, my darling,” he said. “I will take you back to the house and while I am gone you must have a bath and rest.”

  He looked down at the habit she was wearing.

  “I wish I had seen you on the horse, but there will be plenty of time for that. I think you will find that my sister, when she was staying here last year left some gowns in her bedroom, which you could wear.”

  He smiled.

  “I remember her saying that they were too thin to take to her home in Sweden where she lives with her husband.”

  When they reached the foot of the stairs, the Comte kissed Melita’s hand and, as she left him, she heard him calling to the groom to bring round his chaise.

  It was only when she was in the bedroom that belonged to the Comte’s sister that Melita realised that she was indeed exhausted.

  It was not only the long ride it was also the anxiety she had felt and the fear that she now knew had been very real that she would not be able to escape from Vesonne.

  A young maid prepared her a bath and, after she had bathed and felt cool and clean, she dressed herself in an attractive flowered muslin gown, which had been hanging in the wardrobe.

  It was too large in the waist, but Melita drew it tight with a blue sash that matched the colour of her eyes and hoped that after she had arranged her hair that the Comte would think she looked pretty.

  She had taken a long time bathing and changing, but there was no sign of him when she went downstairs to the salon.

  By now it was growing hot even on the veranda, so she sat down on a comfortable sofa and feeling it was a sensible thing to do she put up her feet and laid her head against the silk cushions.

  She looked round the room. It was elegantly shaped and very French in its furnishings. But she was aware that the curtains and covers of the gilt-framed furniture were faded and the carpet almost threadbare.

  ‘The walls need painting,’ she thought. ‘Decorations deteriorate so quickly in the heat!’

  She gave a deep sigh.

  If only Cécile’s will was proved to be legal, the Comte would have the money to do everything he wished both at Vesonne and here.

  ‘He is so – wonderful,’ she mused.

  The next thing she knew was that she was being awakened by a kiss.

  As she opened her eyes, she found that the Comte was kneeling beside her and kissing her passionately and demandingly.

  She felt a warm tide of wonder seep through her whole body. Then, holding her so close that she could hardly breathe, he said excitedly,

  “My wonderful, marvellous darling! Everything is all right! The lawyers’ say that there is no question that Cécile’s last will supersedes everything she had signed previously. Oh, lovely one, how can I thank you?”

  He was kissing her again and it was difficult for Melita to think of anything but the rapturous sensation he aroused in her and the thrills that ran through her body, making her feel as if she vibrated to the sunshine.

  “I love you! I love you!” the Comte was saying.

  Then at last, as if he forced himself to do so, he released her and rose to his feet to stand looking down at her flushed cheeks, shining eyes and lips red and warm from his kisses.

  “Luncheon is ready,” he said. “It has been waiting for over an hour, but I had so much to do.”

  A little unsteadily Melita rose to her feet.

  She loved him so much that it was difficult to understand what he was saying.

  He put out his arms and drew her to him.

  “I have plans for this afternoon,” he said, “but first you must be hungry and I know I am!”

  “The maid brought me some coffee while I was having my bath,” Melita replied, “but I admit to feeling a little hollow inside.”

  “Th
en you will enjoy your luncheon,” he smiled, “and that is important because we have not a great deal of time.”

  “We are going back to Vesonne?” Melita asked.

  “Not today,” he answered. “We are being married!”

  “Married?”

  Melita stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Married, my precious,” the Comte repeated. “Do you think for one moment that I intend to let you out of my sight or indeed out of my arms? You have been through enough dangers already and I shall only feel safe when you are my wife.”

  He saw the radiance that transformed Melita’s face into a beauty that held him spellbound and then he said,

  “Am I moving too fast for you, my beloved? Perhaps I should have asked you first my lovely adorable sweetheart. Will you marry me?”

  “You know I – want to be your – wife,” Melita answered.

  “I was sure of it when I interviewed the Mayor,” the Comte said. “I was even more sure when I arranged that the religious Service should take place in the Lady Chapel of the Cathedral.”

  Melita laid her cheek against his shoulder. It was impossible to find words to tell him what she felt.

  “And because I know that a wedding is very important to a woman and she wishes to look her best,” the Comte continued, “one of the reasons why I have been away from you for so long is that I have bought you a wedding gown!”

  “A wedding gown?” Melita exclaimed.

  “I hope it will fit you,” he answered, “but first things first. Our luncheon, my precious, takes priority on this occasion.”

  He drew her into the dining room and they ate what Melita was sure was delicious food, but it was difficult for her to taste anything.

  All she was conscious of was the Comte’s eyes gazing into hers and knowing that every word he spoke expressed his love.

  They drank a little champagne and then they went upstairs side by side, their arms around each other, to change for the wedding ceremony.

  The Comte left her at the door of her bedroom.

  “Make yourself look very beautiful, my darling,” he said, “although I cannot believe it is possible for you to look more perfect than you do at this moment.”

  Melita laughed because she was so happy.

  When she went into the bedroom, it was to find the young maid who had brought her her bath and the old cook who was the wife of the manservant waiting to attend her.

  They had unpacked the gown that the Comte had bought in the town and it was, Melita saw at once, very lovely.

  The skirt was frill upon frill of white tulle billowing out from a tiny waist, the sleeves were also fashioned of narrow frills and the tight bodice revealed the curves of her figure.

  There was a veil of the finest Brussels lace, which the old cook told Melita had been in the Vesonne family for generations and for her head there was the conventional wreath of orange blossom made with real flowers.

  She knew that nothing she had ever worn had become her better.

  She realised too that, when she stared at her reflection in the mirror, there was a softness and spirituality about her face that had never been there before.

  “Let me look at you!” the Comte’s voice said from the doorway and she turned to appreciate that if she looked attractive he was positively magnificent!

  He was wearing the full traditional evening dress that Frenchmen always wore when they were married.

  His white shirt and muslin cravat seemed to give him, with his long-tailed close-fitting coat, a presence and an authority that had not been there before.

  He seemed somehow taller and she knew it was because for the first time for years he was not beset with anxiety and troubled about the future.

  “M’mselle est ravissante, monsieur,” the old cook murmured, as he moved across the room towards Melita.

  “Tout a fait ravissante!” the Comte agreed and to Melita he added in a low voice,

  “More beautiful than I imagined any woman could be!”

  He raised her hand to his lips and she felt a thrill run through her like quicksilver. Then he drew her, the full skirts of her gown rustling behind her, down the stairs to where outside the front door his chaise was waiting.

  It was open, but to protect them from the sunshine overhead there was a white canopy ornamented with a silk fringe.

  The Comte helped Melita inside and she found on her seat a bouquet of white orchids so lovely and delicate that she gave a little cry of delight.

  “They are exquisite!”

  “Like you, my adorable one,” the Comte said softly.

  The groom released the horses’ heads and jumped up behind.

  Then they were off, driving down the narrow streets to the Town Hall.

  Here they made a declaration of marriage before the Mayor, resplendent with his chain of office and wearing a tricolour sash.

  Then, after receiving his congratulations, because by law they were now man and wife, they drove to the Cathedral.

  It was cool and dim inside the great building, candles flickered in front of the statues of the Saints and there were a dozen high candles on the altar of the Lady Chapel, which was massed with flowers.

  A Priest was waiting for them and because Melita was not a Catholic the Service was very short.

  Yet she felt as if it was attended by a choir of angels and her heart joined with theirs in a paean of thanksgiving.

  She was being married to the man she loved!

  She heard the Comte repeat his vows very solemnly and she knew that he dedicated himself to her as she did to him.

  She hoped as she prayed that she would make him a good wife, that her father was near her and that he knew how happy she was.

  Then it was impossible to think of anything but the Comte kneeling beside her and his ring encircling the third finger of her left hand.

  They went out into the sunshine to find that quite a crowd had gathered on the steps of the Cathedral.

  A marriage was always an excitement, but most people in the crowd recognised the Comte and they cheered him, shouting their good wishes, while the women and children pelted Melita with flower petals.

  They drove back to the château and there the servants greeted them and there was champagne waiting in the salon.

  Only when they were alone did the Comte glance at the clock in the mantelpiece and, putting his arms around Melita, say,

  “Come, my darling.”

  She looked at him in surprise, wondering where they could be going. He took her across the hall, up the stairs and along the passage until he opened the door of a room at the end of it.

  They entered a very large room with three windows looking out over the garden towards the sea, but it was difficult at first to notice anything but the huge bed.

  Carved in gilt it was draped with silk from a corolla in the fashion of the Royal beds at Versailles.

  On the back, embroidered on Madonna-blue velvet, was the Coat-of-Arms of Vesonne with all its colourful quartering.

  “My father brought it with him from France,” the Comte explained. “When I was a child, it was at Vesonne and we will move it back to its rightful place.”

  He closed the door beside him and then walked to Melita’s side to take her in his arms.

  “At last,” he sighed. “I can tell you how much I love you and that you are mine as you have been from the first moment I saw you. Mine completely and absolutely. My wife!”

  His lips were on hers before Melita could reply and now his kisses were passionate, demanding and fiercely insistent.

  There was a fire in them that had not been there before and, while she quivered a little from the intensity of it, she knew that he awoke a flame within her and she longed for him to go on kissing her.

  She wanted him to hold her closer and closer still, but he took his lips from hers to take the wreath from her head and then the veil.

  He threw them down casually on a chair, then, drawing her to him again, his lips on hers, he began to un
do the buttons at the back of her gown.

  She looked at him questioningly and as usual he knew what she was thinking.

  “We are on French soil, my darling,” he said, “and do you know what le cinq à sept means in France?”

  Melita thought back into the past. Somehow it was connected in her mind with what her father had told her about Paris, but for the moment she could not remember.

  “We missed our siesta today,” the Comte said, “and to a Frenchman in Europe five to seven in the afternoon is always the time that is set aside for love!”

  “I thought it was a – time for – rest.”

  “Do you think I can let you rest?” he asked.

  He pulled her almost roughly back into his arms and after a moment she felt her gown slip from her shoulders and from her waist to the floor.

  Her petticoats followed, then the Comte lifted her in his arms.

  Holding her lips with his, evoking a wild ecstatic response from her heart and her very soul, he carried Melita towards the great ancestral bed.

  *

  It was much cooler and the shadows in the garden were purple on the grass when finally Melita stirred.

  “Are you – awake?” she whispered.

  “It would be impossible for me to sleep when I am so happy,” the Comte answered.

  “I have made – you happy?”

  “You know you have, my sweet darling.”

  Her long fair hair lay over her shoulders and he swept it back from her face to kiss very gently first her eyes, then her forehead and then one of her small ears.

  “Could anyone be more entrancing, more perfect?” he asked.

  “I did not know that – love could be so – wonderful.”

  “I have so much to teach you, my precious.”

  He gave a little sigh.

  “In fact we have so much to give each other that a thousand years would not be long enough.”

  “That is what I was – thinking,” Melita said, “and we must never – lose our – happiness.”

  “That would be impossible for us,” he answered. “As I have said before, you are a part of me and we are indivisible, joined spiritually as well as physically. Nothing shall separate us and even in death we shall be together.”

  He felt Melita shiver and he added,

  “Forget all that has made you afraid, at least for tonight. Tomorrow we will face anything that has to be faced courageously with kindness and understanding. Tonight is ours!”