Secret Harbor (9 page)

She was not disappointed when she saw the expression in the
Comte’s
eyes when he entered the Salon where she was waiting for him.

Although it was not yet dark she had lit some of the candles, and as he came in through the door she drew in her breath because he looked so magnificent.

She thought if he was smart and very elegant in his day clothes, in black satin knee-breeches and silk stockings with a long-tailed evening-coat and a frilled cravat no man could look more attractive.

If she found it difficult to find the words in which to greet him, it seemed as if the
Comte
felt the same.

For a moment they just stood looking at each other. Then as he walked towards her she felt almost as if he was enveloped with a light that came from within him.

It radiated out so that instinctively she wished to draw nearer and make herself a part of him.

“
Bon soir,
Grania.”

“
Bon soir, Monsieur le Comte
!”

“And now let us say it in English,” he said. “Good evening, Grania! You look very beautiful!”

“Good evening ...!” she answered.

She wanted to call him by his Christian name but the word would not come to her lips.

Instead, because she was shy she said quickly:

“I hope the dinner will not disappoint you.”

“Nothing could disappoint me tonight.”

She looked up at him and thought that in the light from the candles his eyes held a very strange expression and that they were saying something to her she did not understand.

Then Abe came in with a fruit drink which also contained rum and just a touch of nutmeg sprinkled on top of the glass.

Grania took it from the silver tray, then once again it was difficult to find anything to say, and yet there was so much unsaid, and she felt despairingly that there would be no time to say it all.

They ate dinner in the Dining-Room which her mother had decorated with very pale green walls and green curtains so that it was as if one was outside in the garden.

The candles in the silver candelabra lit the table and as dusk came and the shadows deepened it was a little island of light on which there were only two people and nothing else encroached.

The dinner was delicious, although afterwards Grania could never remember what she had eaten.

The
Comte
approved of the claret, although he drank it absentmindedly, his eyes on Grania.

“Tell me about your house in Martinique,” she asked.

As if he thought he must make an effort to talk he told her how his father had built it and how he had employed an architect who had actually come from France, to make it one of the finest houses on the island.

“There is one consolation,” the
Comte
said. “I expected it, and I subsequently learned that the English have made it their Headquarters, which means it will not be damaged or deliberately burnt as some of the other planters’ houses have been.”

“I am so glad.”

“And so am I. One day I will be able to show it to you, and you will see how comfortable the French can make themselves even when they are far from their native land.”

“What about your properties in France?”

The
Comte
shrugged his shoulders.

“I am hoping the Revolution will not have affected the South in the same way as it has the North. As Vence is a little fortified city perhaps it will escape.”

“I hope so, for your sake,” Grania said softly.

“Whatever happens, however,” the
Comte
said, “I shall never return to France except for a visit. I have made Martinique my home just as my father did and I shall wait until it becomes mine again.”

His voice deepened as he finished:

“Then I shall work to restore it to its former glory and make it a heritage for my children—if I have any.”

There was a pause before the last few words, and because they were so closely attuned to each other Grania felt he was saying that if he could not have children with her, then he would remain unmarried.

Even as she thought of it she told herself she was being absurd.

Marriages for Frenchmen were arranged almost from the time they were born and it was only surprising that the
Comte
was not married already.

When he did, he would choose a Frenchwoman whose family equalled his own, and it would be almost impossible for him to take a wife of another nationality.

Her mother had often told her how proud the French were, especially the ancient families, and how those who had been guillotined had gone in the tumbrels with their heads held high, scornfully contemptuous of those who executed them.

Suddenly Grania felt insignificant and of no importance.

How could the daughter of a drunken and impecunious Irish Peer stand beside a man whose ancestors could doubtless trace their lineage back to Charlemagne?

She looked down at her plate conscious for the first time that the paint was peeling from the walls, the curtains which should have been replaced years ago were ragged, and the carpet on the floor was threadbare.

To the eyes of a stranger the whole place must look, she thought, dilapidated, neglected and poverty-stricken, and she was glad the shadows hid what she felt was her own humiliation.

Dinner was over and the
Comte
pushed back his chair. “We have finished. Shall we go into the Salon?”

“Yes, of course,” Grania said quickly. “I should have suggested it.”

She moved ahead and when they entered the Drawing-Room the
Comte
shut the door behind them and walked very slowly to where Grania was standing by the sofa, feeling uncertain and unsure of herself, her eyes very large in her small face.

He came to her side and stood looking at her for a long time, and she waited, wondering what he was going to say, and yet afraid to ask what he was thinking. Finally he said:

“I am leaving now. I am going back to my ship and tomorrow at dawn we shall set sail.”

She gave a little cry.

“Why? Why? You ... said you would ... stay!”

“I cannot do so.”

“But ... why?”

“I think you are woman enough to know the reason,” he said, “without my having to explain.”

Her eyes widened and he went on:

“You are very young, but you are old enough to know that one cannot play with fire and not be burned. I have to go before I hurt you and before I hurt myself more than I have done already.”

Grania clasped her hands together, but she could not speak and he said:

“I fell in love with your picture when I first saw it, and I dare not tell you what I feel for you now because it would be unfair.”

“Un ... fair?” Grania barely murmured.

“I have nothing to offer you, as well you know, and when I have gone you will forget me.”

“That ... will be ... impossible.”

“You think that now,” the
Comte
said, “but time is a
great healer, and we must both forget, not only for your sake, but also for mine.”

“Please ... please ...”

“No, Grania!” he said. “There is nothing either of us can do about the position in which we find ourselves. You are everything that a man could dream of and thinks he will never find. But you are not for me.”

He put out his hand and took Grania’s in his.

For a moment he stood looking down at it as if it was a precious jewel. Then slowly with an indescribable grace he bent his head and kissed first the top of her hand then, turning it over, the palm.

She felt a sensation like a streak of lightning flash through her to be followed by a warm weakness which made her long to melt into him and become part of him.

Then her hand was freed and he walked towards the door.

“Goodbye, my love,” he said very quietly. “God keep and protect you.”

She gave a little cry, then the door was shut and she heard his footsteps crossing the verandah and going down the steps into the garden.

Then she knew this was the end and there was nothing she could say or do to prevent it...

A long time later Grania slipped into bed, and thought as she did so that this was where he had slept last night.

Abe had changed the sheets and they were cool and smooth, but she felt as if the impression of the
Comte’s
body was still on them and the vibrations that had always passed from him to her were there. So it was almost as if she lay in his arms.

She could not cry, but she wanted to. Instead there was a stone in her breast that seemed to grow heavier and heavier every minute that passed.

“I have lost him! I have lost him!” she said to herself and knew there was nothing she could do about it.

She closed her eyes and went over the day hour by hour, minute by minute; the things they had said to each other, what she had felt, then finally the feelings he had evoked in her when he had kissed her hand.

She pressed her lips to her own palm, trying to remember an ecstasy that had been so swift that it was hard to believe it had happened.

She wondered what he had felt. Had it been the same?

Although she was very ignorant about men and love, she was sure he could not evoke such a response in her without feeling the same himself.

“I love him! I love him!”

The words seemed to repeat themselves over and over again in her mind and she wished that she could die, the world come to an end, and there would be no tomorrow.

She must have dozed a little, for suddenly the door burst open with a resounding crash and she gave a cry of fright as she woke and sat up in bed.

There was a light in her eyes and for the moment she could not see what was happening, then standing in the doorway, holding a lantern in his hand she saw Roderick Maigrin!

For a moment Grania felt she must be dreaming, and it could not be true that he was there, big and solid with his legs apart as if he balanced himself, his face crimson in the light of the lantern, his blood-shot eyes black and menacing as he glared at her.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing,” he asked in a furious voice, “running away like that? I’ve come to fetch you back.”

For a moment it was impossible for Grania to reply. Then in a voice that did not sound like her own she asked:

“Wh-where is ... Papa?”

“Your father was not capable of making the journey,” Roderick Maigrin replied, “so I’ve come in his place,
and a great deal of trouble you’ve put me to, young lady!”

Grania managed to straighten her back before she said in a voice that was clearer:

“I am not coming ... back to your ... house. I want ... Papa to ... come here.”

“Your father will do nothing of the sort!”

He walked further into the room to stand at the end of the bed holding with one hand onto the brass knob of the bed-rail.

“If you hadn’t been such a little fool as to run away in that cowardly manner,” he said aggressively, “you would have learned that I have dealt with the rebels who I suppose frightened you, and there will be no more rebellions on my estate.”

“How can ... you be ... sure?” Grania asked because it seemed the obvious question.

“I am sure,” Roderick Maigrin replied, “because I made damned certain by killing the ring-leaders. They won’t be able to spread any further sedition amongst my slaves!”

“You ... killed them?”

“I shot them there and then before they had a chance to do any more damage.”

He boasted of it in a manner which told Grania he had enjoyed the killings, and she was sure without asking that the men he had shot had been unarmed.

She wondered how she could make him leave.

Then as she felt for words she saw the way he was looking at her and became uncomfortably conscious of the transparency of her thin nightgown and that she was only covered by a sheet.

As instinctively she shrank back against the pillows he laughed the low, lewd laugh of a man who was very sure of himself.

“You’ll look damned attractive,” he said, “when I’ve taught you to behave like a woman. Now hurry up, and get dressed. I’ve a carriage waiting for you outside,
although after the way you’ve behaved, I ought to make you walk.”

“You ... mean for me to ... come back with you now ... at this moment?” Grania asked, thinking she could not understand what he was saying.

“With the moonlight to guide us it’ll be a romantic drive,” Roderick Maigrin said jeeringly, “and I’ve a Parson waiting to marry us tomorrow morning.”

Grania gave a little cry of horror.

“I will not ... marry you! I will not ... come! I ... refuse! Do you understand? I refuse!”