Melita felt the Comte stiffen although he did not slacken the speed of his horses and she wondered with a sudden fear what could have occurred.
Then she saw their arms waving, their glinting white teeth and heard them cheering.
The Comte drew his horses to a standstill.
“Welcome! Welcome!”
The words seemed to be repeated over and over again, then Fredéric, the spokesman for the slaves, came forward to say,
“We wish, Master, offer congratulations! We know you very happy!”
Melita looked at the Comte in astonishment, but it was impossible to say anything above the noise of the cheers.
One of the small children brought to the side of the chaise a large bouquet of flowers almost as big as her.
Melita bent down to take it and, as she did so, she saw in the crowd surging around the chaise the dark eyes of Léonore.
She looked at the old woman and understood who it was who had known they were married and alerted everyone to cheer them on their return.
The Comte stepped from the chaise and walked round it to assist Melita to alight.
He drew her onto the steps of the sugar distillery and then, raising his hand for silence, he said,
“On behalf of Madame la Comtesse and myself, I thank you for your welcome.”
There was a burst of cheering at this and, when he could be heard the Comte, went on,
“Tomorrow will be a feast day, there will be roasted pig and everyone will enjoy their favourite dishes and afterwards my wife and I will wish to see you dance and hear you sing.”
Again there was a wild burst of cheers.
Then, having offered Melita his arm, the Comte drew her away from the crowd and up the incline towards the house.
When they were out of earshot of the chattering and excited slaves Melita asked,
“How did they know? How could they be sure that we were married?”
“News in Martinique is carried on the wind,” the Comte smiled. “There may be a dozen perfectly reasonable explanations, but I suspect that it was Léonore who was aware of it first.”
“That is what I thought,” Melita agreed simply.
They reached the house and now, as they stepped onto the veranda, Melita held her breath.
There was someone moving inside the salon and she thought that it must be Madame Boisset, until, as they entered the room, she saw that it was a man.
He gave an exclamation of surprise when he saw them and walked towards the Comte with his hand outstretched.
“You have arrived too quickly for it to be possible that you received my message, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Doctor Dubocq!” the Comte exclaimed. “Is anything wrong?”
“I am afraid there is,” the doctor replied.
He looked at Melita before he said,
“Pardon, monsieur, but I would prefer to speak with you alone.”
“That is unnecessary,” the Comte replied. “Melita, let me introduce Doctor Dubocq, who is an old friend of the family and has been our physician for some years. Doctor, this is my wife! We were married yesterday!”
The doctor looked surprised, but the smile on his face was warm.
“Your servant, madame,” he said to Melita giving her an old-fashioned bow, “and my heartfelt felicitations, Monsieur le Comte. I wish you every possible happiness!”
“That is what we have just been wished by the slaves,” the Comte smiled.
“It’s a pity that you could not have returned to Vesonne under more cheerful circumstances,” the Doctor said slowly.
“What has happened?” the Comte asked.
“Rose-Marie!” Melita ejaculated in sudden fear.
“No, madame. Rose-Marie is perfectly well and, because I did not wish her to see Madame Boisset being taken from the house, I suggested she went with a maid to visit the dumb boy who makes those dolls so cleverly.”
“You say that Madame Boisset has left the house?” the Comte asked quietly.
“That is what I have to tell you,” the Doctor replied. “I was sent for early this morning by the maid, Eugénie, who informed me that Madame was ill.”
Melita held her breath.
“It appears she had taken some poison, obviously inadvertently, which made her extremely ill with pains and nausea. That was understandable, but it also affected her brain.”
The Comte was tense, but he did not speak.
“You were of course aware, monsieur,” the doctor continued, “of the taint that existed in Madame Boisset’s immediate family?”
“What taint?” the Comte asked, looking confused.
The doctor looked surprised.
“I thought that Monsieur Calviare would have mentioned it to you.”
“He told me nothing.”
The doctor pursed his lips for a moment and then he said,
“Madame Boisset’s mother was, before she died, incurably mad!”
“Mad? I was never told that!” the Comte cried in astonishment.
“The family was ashamed of it and tried to keep it secret. It was an inherited affliction, neither her mother nor her grandmother died in full possession of their senses.”
“I should have been informed of this,” the Comte said harshly.
“Most certainly you should have been,” the doctor agreed, “but, although I have attended Madame Boisset only occasionally in the past years, she always seemed to me to be quite level-headed and normal.”
“And when you came this morning?” the Comte questioned.
“Then it was very different,” the doctor replied. “Not only was she ill with poison that Eugenie told me she might have taken in a glass of wine, but she was also mentally disturbed.”
The doctor paused and Melita could see that something was troubling him.
Then he said,
“I should be failing in my duty, monsieur, if I did not tell you that, while Madame was delirious, she averred over and over again that she had been responsible for the death of your first wife.”
For a moment there was silence.
Then the Comte said,
“What you have told me, doctor, confirms some evidence that has been brought to my attention only in the last twenty-four hours and I fear that she may have been speaking the truth.”
Again there was silence until the Comte said,
“I hope there is no reason for this to become public knowledge?”
“No, of course not,” the doctor replied. “I have taken Madame Boisset to the hospital where she will have every possible care, but quite frankly there is no question as far as I can see of her ever again becoming normal, nor is it likely that she will live long.”
He paused before he added,
“I am not a brain specialist, but in my experience the tumours that affect the brain usually grow very quickly and, if Madame Boisset survives for more than a month or so, I shall be surprised.”
“Thank you for being so frank,” the Comte said, “and thank you for arranging that these developments should not affect my daughter, nor, I hope, my wife.”
He glanced at Melita as he spoke and she realised that he did not wish her to stay any longer while he discussed the details of the case with the doctor.
She therefore laid her hand on his arm for one moment, expressing in that gesture her love, her understanding and her sympathy. Then she curtseyed to the doctor and left the salon.
She ran up the stairs and along the passage to the schoolroom.
As she half expected, Eugénie was there sitting sewing at the table and she jumped to her feet when Melita appeared.
“ You back, m’mselle!”
“I am back, the Comte is with me, and we are married, Eugénie!”
“Married?” Eugénie flung up her arms in an expression of elation and joy.
“That good news, m’mselle – I mean madame. Very good news. Now the Master happy and everything well for us all.”
“Everything will be very well,” Melita ans
wered.
She paused and then she said,
“I have to thank you, Eugénie. I realise that you saved my life.”
Eugénie nodded her head, but she did not speak and Melita continued,
“You knew that Madame was responsible for the death of Rose-Marie’s mother?”
Again Eugénie nodded.
Melita drew in her breath.
“The Comte and I cannot thank you enough for the love you have given Rose-Marie.”
“She my baby,” Eugénie said. “If I tell about Madame, she send me away. Best I stay and say nothing.”
“Yes, of course. You were right,” Melita agreed. “But now everything will be different and there will be no rows or angry words to frighten Rose-Marie.”
“That good, Mistress, very good.”
Melita smiled at the word ‘Mistress’. Now she knew that she was really accepted. Now she was part of the plantation with the Comte who was Master.
“Now you marry, I move your clothes,” Eugénie was saying. “Very pretty new gown, Mistress.”
“And there is a lovely wedding gown on the chaise,” Melita replied.
Automatically she moved along the passage towards her old room.
She opened the door.
It was just as she had left it, except for one thing – the doll that resembled Cécile was no longer there.
She stared at the table it had stood on.
Had she perhaps dreamt it? Had it just been an illusion?
She wanted to ask Eugénie where it had gone, then felt it was better if she said nothing. Let the past take care of the past. All that mattered was the future.
She walked to the window to look out over the plantation towards the sea.
It was the window where she had heard the beat of the drum calling her into the forest.
There was, however, no time for introspection, for she heard Rose-Marie’s voice calling for her and her footsteps running up the stairs.
“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! You are back!”
The child burst into the room and flung her arms round her neck.
“You are back and I missed you! Papa has come home too. I am so glad. So very very glad!”
“And I am glad to be back, darling,” Melita said truthfully.
She knelt down on the floor so that she was level with Rose-Marie’s face and said softly,
“I have something to tell you.”
“I know what it is,” Rose-Marie said. “Léonore told me. You are married to Papa and now you are my Mama!”
“Yes, I am, if you would like me to be,” Melita said, apprehensive in case Rose-Marie should resent her taking her mother’s place.
The child’s arms went round her neck again as she said,
“Now I have a Papa and a Mama like other children and you will never go away, will you?”
“Never for good,” Melita promised. “Sometimes your Papa and I must have a little holiday together, but we will always come home.”
Rose-Marie hugged her frantically and Melita felt the tears prick her eyes so she said quickly,
“If you run downstairs to the chaise, which by now must be at the front door, I think you will find that there is a special parcel for you. It is quite a big one and it’s underneath the seat on your Papa and I were sitting on.”
Rose-Marie gave a cry of delight and sped down the stairs while Melita took off her bonnet and smoothed her hair. For the moment she felt shy of moving into the other room where Eugénie was already carrying her clothes.
She had never seen where the Comte slept, but she knew it was what Eugénie and the maids called ‘The Master’s Room’.
She was aware that it consisted of two bedchambers and a sitting room with windows overlooking the garden at the back and the orchards sloping down to the forest where the Comte had kissed her.
Melita could not bear to think about Madame Boisset and what would happen to her. To not be in control of your own faculties – her mind shied away from dwelling on the horror of it. If it was not for the evil things that she had done to her vulnerable cousin and the trouble and anguish she had cause Étienne, not to mention her cruelty to the plantation slaves, she could almost feel it in her heart to feel sorry for the poor demented woman.
At the same time she was thankful with a feeling of inexpressible relief that there would not be the anger and recriminations she had expected on their return to Vesonne.
Now the Comte would not even have to explain that the will Madame Boisset forced Cécile to write was no longer valid, nor would he be obliged to accuse her of having caused her death. The family would not have to go through the legal process of prosecution and trial and all that it might entail.
It was as if the sunshine had swept away all the shadows and now there was not a single cloud in the sky.
It was not surprising that the slaves had cheered from sheer happiness because the Comte was once again in control and their Master, as he had been before.
Melita walked slowly down the stairs.
She did not intend to go into the salon where she thought the Comte and the doctor might still be talking, but into a smaller room next door to it and onto the veranda to find Rose-Marie.
But the door of the salon was open and the doctor had gone.
Rose-Marie, alone with the Comte, was drawing from the box the huge doll with eyes that opened and shut which they had bought for her in St. Pierre.
“She is sp pretty, Papa!” Rose-Marie was saying. “The prettiest doll I have ever seen! But I still love Philippe’s even though they don’t last for long.”
“I think Philippe made you a doll this morning, did he not?” Melita asked, stepping into the salon.
She saw the Comte’s eyes light up at the sight of her and she smiled at him as she waited for his daughter’s reply.
“Yes,” Rose-Marie answered. “He gave me a doll that he had nearly ready for me when I went to see him. He said it was to be a surprise for me and for you. Shall I fetch it to show you?”
“Yes, of course, dearest,” Melita said.
“I left it on the veranda when I came back to the house,” Rose-Marie explained. “I was frightened of dropping it as I ran up the stairs.”
She went from the salon onto the veranda and the Comte held out his arms to Melita.
She moved towards him feeling secure and safe in a way that she had never felt before.
Now she had come like a ship into harbour and the sea was no longer rough, nor was there any threat of a storm.
He held her close as if he understood what she was feeling.
Then Rose-Marie came back with her doll.
“Look, Papa,” she said. “Philippe has made me a bride!”
The doll was exquisite, all in the white leaves from a special shrub that Melita had seen in the garden. The face was white too and the hair was golden,
Melita’s fingers tightened on the Comte’s.
They said nothing in front of Rose-Marie and there were so many things to do during the day and so many things to see to that it was not until the evening after dinner that they had a chance to talk quietly together.
It was then that the Comte drew Melita across the lawn and she knew that he was taking her to the Pomme d’amour where he had first told her of his love for her.
She was wearing her white wedding gown and, in the light from the moon which was rising in the sky above them, she looked ethereal and yet somehow intrinsically a part of the flowers and the fragrance of the night.
Without speaking they moved downhill over the soft grass until they reached the tree where he had found her looking up into the blossom.
“So much has happened since we were here,” Melita said, speaking for the first time since they had left the house.
“My dreams have come true,” the Comte said. “You are my wife, Vesonne is mine again and we seem to be enveloped, my darling, in an aura of happiness.”
“That is what I feel too,” Melita said looking up at him.
It was possible in the moonlight for them to see each other’s faces and the Comte felt that the stars were reflected in Melita’s eyes.
“I am so grateful, I am afraid to question anything that has happened and yet so much remains unanswered,” she said. “So many things are strange and mysterious and for which there appears to be no explanation.”
“Does it matter?” the Comte asked. “We are together. You are mine and I love you beyond words!”
Melita gave a deep sigh and then she said,
“It is all wonderful, quite perfect, and yet perhaps I am a little – afraid.”
Once again he knew what she was thinking.
“Of Voodoo?” he asked. “Forget it, my precious. If, as the slaves believe, they can bring back the spirits of the dead, then the spirits they bring are those we deserve.”
He knew that Melita was listening intently and he went on,
“A good person will evoke good spirits and a bad person evil. Therefore Voodoo need not concern you, my darling, because you are good and there is no evil of any sort in your mind or soul.”
“It is – still – magic,” Melita murmured.
He laughed softly and turned her face up to his.
“The only magic we need concern ourselves with,” he said, “is the magic of love, the magic you have brought me and, because of it, I am bound to you by a spell that has captured me and made me your prisoner from now to eternity.”
Melita would have answered him, but his lips came down on hers and it was impossible to think of anything but the wonder of his touch and the thrill that ran through her like a fire.
She knew that she excited him and felt an excitement to equal his rising within her.
He drew her closer and still closer and now it seemed to Melita as if the whole world and the Heavens themselves disappeared.
There was no forest, no stars and no moon. There was only the wild ecstatic rapture of the Comte’s lips, the beat of their hearts and the need of their bodies and their minds for each other.
This was love.
This was the magic beyond all other magic – the love that casts out evil.
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