“I will get them back. One day they will be mine again.”
“In the meantime, please help us with ours.”
“I want to, for your sake,” the Comte answered, “but you must know it is impossible. All I can suggest is that you persuade your father to concentrate on growing nutmegs. They do well here, better than in other islands, and there is always a demand for them all over the world, as there has been since the beginning of time.”
“I think Papa finds the nutmegs unattractive because they take so long to bear fruit.”
The Comte nodded.
“That is true—eight to nine years. But they increase in yield until they are about thirty years old and the average crop may be three to four thousand nuts per tree every year.”
“I had no idea it was so much!” Grania exclaimed.
“What is more they produce two main crops,” the Comte went on. “You have quite a number of trees already, although unfortunately they are crowded by other fruits and of course the undergrowth is restricting and stunting them.”
He paused and realised that Grania was listening to him raptly, and said:
“Forgive me, I am lecturing you. But quite frankly it distresses me to see good land and what could be good crops wasted unnecessarily.”
“I wish you could talk to Papa like that.”
“I doubt if he would listen to me,” the Comte replied wryly, “but perhaps you can talk to whoever runs the estate for your father.”
“That was Abe, but Papa took him away because he could not be without him.”
The Comte said nothing and there was silence between them.
Grania gave an exasperated little sigh.
“You are making me feel helpless and it is too big a problem for me.”
“Of course it is, and it is unfair of me to talk to you like this. You should be enjoying life at your age and finding it all exciting and beautiful. Why should you have to worry about land that is unproductive and pirates who make use of your home when it is empty?” The Comte was speaking in a low voice as if he was talking to himself and Grania laughed.
“I find pirates very exciting, and one day it will be a story to tell my children and my grandchildren, and they will think I was very adventurous.”
She spoke lightly as she might have spoken to her father or mother.
Then as she met the Frenchman’s eyes she knew that if she had children they would be Roderick Maigrin’s and she wanted to scream at the very idea of it.
Instead because of the way the Comte was looking at her, she felt the colour rise slowly in her cheeks, and her heart began to beat in a very strange manner.
Then there was the sound of voices and they were both very still as they listened.
“It is Abe!” Grania cried in a tone of relief.
Jumping up from her chair she ran across the room and as she reached the hall she called out:
“Abe! Abe!”
He came from the kitchen-quarters followed by the French servant.
“What have you discovered?” Grania asked.
“Things very bad, Lady,” Abe replied.
Then before he could say any more the French servant went to the side of the Comte who had followed Grania from the Drawing-Room and burst into a flood of such quick French that it was impossible for her to follow everything he said.
Only when he had ceased speaking did she ask nervously:
“What ... has happened?”
“It sounds bad,” the Comte replied. “At the same time as the rebellion started in Grenville, Charlotte Town was attacked by another band of insurgents.”
Grania gave a little cry of horror.
Charlotte Town, which was on the West side of the island only a little way above St. George’s, was a place she knew well.
“Many lives have been lost,” the Comte went on, “and a number of British inhabitants have been taken prisoner.”
“Do they know who?”
The Comte questioned the Frenchman, but he shook his head.
Abe obviously understood what he asked, for he said:
“Dr. John Hay prisoner.”
“Oh, no!” Grania exclaimed.
“Doctor and Rector of Charlotte Town taken Belvedere,” Abe went on.
“Why Belvedere?” Grania questioned.
“That is where Fedon has made his headquarters,” the Comte replied. “The prisoners from Grenville have also been taken there.”
Grania clasped her hands together.
“What shall we do?” she asked, “and is there any news of Papa?”
Abe shook his head.
“No, Lady, I send boy find out if Master coming.” The French servant then said a great deal more and when he finished the Comte explained:
“There is no sign of any trouble so far in St. George’s, which is where the British soldiers are, so I think for the moment you are safe and when your father joins you you will not be unprotected.”
Grania did not say anything she only looked at him, and after a moment he added, as if she had asked the question:
“Until your father arrives, I will stay in the harbour.”
“Thank you.”
She hardly breathed the words beneath her breath but the expression in her eyes was very revealing.
“And now,” the Comte said, “as Abe has had no opportunity to cook luncheon for you and I believe like me you are beginning to feel hungry, may I invite you to what will be a simple meal aboard my ship?”
Grania’s smile seemed to light up her whole face. “You know I would like that.”
The Comte gave his servant some instructions and he left hurriedly by the front door, running across the garden towards the harbour.
Grania drew Abe to one side.
“Listen Abe,” she said, “I am safe with Monsieur Beaufort. He is not really a pirate, but a refugee from Martinique.”
“Know that, Lady.”
“You did not tell me!” Grania said reproachfully.
“Not expect him here.”
Grania looked at him sharply.
“You knew that he had ... come here before?” There was a little pause and she knew that Abe debated whether he should tell her the truth. Then he answered:
“Yes, Lady, he come, not do no harm. Fine man! While here he pay for what he take to ship.”
“Pay for what?”
“Pigs, chickens, turkeys.”
Grania laughed.
There was a remarkable difference between a pirate who paid for what he requisitioned and other pirates like Will Wilken who stole what they wanted and killed if interfered with.
“You and I trust Monsieur, Abe,” she said, “but Papa might be angry. Come and tell me if he is coming while I am aboard the ship so that I can be here in the house when he arrives.”
She knew Abe would understand he was to station two of their slaves to watch the road and the path through the forest.
She was not really afraid of what her father’s reaction would be, but rather of Roderick Maigrin’s if he was with him.
She was quite certain that he would shoot first and ask questions afterwards, and she thought that if she was instrumental in causing the Comte to be killed or wounded she would never forgive herself.
“Not worry, Lady,” Abe said. “When Master come we ready.”
“Thank you, Abe.”
Because it was much hotter now than it had been earlier in the morning she went upstairs to collect one of her new sunshades which she had brought back with her from London.
She came downstairs again to find the Comte waiting for her in the hall. She felt like a child who was being taken on an unexpected treat, and she had the idea that he felt the same.
Without speaking they walked out onto the verandah and when they started to descend the wooden steps which were slightly rickety as they needed repairing, the Comte put out his hand to help her.
Grania put her own hand into his and as he took it she felt again that strange vibration that she had felt before,
only this time it was more insistent.
His fingers closed over hers, and when the steps ended he still held her hand.
“I am looking forward to having a French luncheon,” she said.
“I am afraid you have not given me enough time to prepare what I should like to offer you,” the Comte replied, “but Henri, who has been with me for several years, will do his best.”
“I also want to see the rest of your ship. How long have you had it, and did you build it yourself?”
The Comte gave a little laugh.
“I stole it!”
Grania waited for an explanation and he said:
“When the English invaded Martinique I knew that I must leave and I intended to do so in my own yacht. But when I went down to the harbour I saw the ship which you have already seen lying at anchor, and as I looked at it one of my friends who was with me said:
“ ‘It is sad that the man whose company owns that ship is in Europe at the moment. It is too good a vessel to fall into the hands of the English.’ ”
“So you agreed with him and took it?”
“It seemed the proper thing to do.”
“I think it was very sensible and practical, which are two things you like to be.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, “and it meant that I could bring more people with me than I could have done otherwise, and I also transported a great amount of my furniture and my family pictures to a place where they will be safe until hostilities cease.”
“Where is that?” Grania asked curiously.
“St. Martin,” the Comte replied.
He said no more and she thought he did not wish to discuss it.
They walked in silence through the palm trees until when the ship was in sight she took her hand from his.
It was now very hot but there was a breeze from the sea.
The ship was still, only she noticed that the sails were no longer tied down, but ready to be raised at a moment’s notice.
“Once he is gone I shall never see him again,” Grania thought.
She felt these moments when she could be with the Comte were somehow very precious and something she would always remember.
They walked across the deck and down into the cabin. The port-holes were open and the sunshine came flooding in.
There was a table laid for two with a spotless white cloth and fresh flowers in the centre of it.
There was also besides the smell of bees’-wax a delicious aroma of food, and before she could say anything the French servant who had been with Abe came into the cabin, carrying a tureen in his hand.
They sat down at the table and Jean, for that was what she had heard the Comte call him, filled two beautiful porcelain bowls.
There was crisp French bread to eat with the soup and when Grania tasted it she knew it was made of stock, herbs, and other ingredients which she thought were fresh from the sea.
It was delicious and she realised that the aroma of it made her hungry and she and the Comte both ate without speaking.
The servant brought wine that was golden like the sunshine and poured it into the glasses and as they smiled at each other across the table Grania thought suddenly that she was happy.
For the first time since she had come home she was no longer worried or afraid.
When the soup was finished Jean brought them lobsters cooked with butter. They had obviously been swimming in the sea an hour or so earlier and Grania suspected they came from their own lobster-pots which had always been set in the bay when her mother was at home.
However she asked no questions, only ate eagerly because the lobsters were so tender and delicious and the salad which went with them was different from anything she had eaten while she was in London.
There was cheese and a bowl of fruit to follow the meal, but Grania could eat no more, so she and the Comte sat back and sipped their coffee.
Then at last the silence was broken, even though she thought they had been communicating with each other without words.
“If this is the life of a pirate,” she said, “I think I shall become one.”
“This is the moment,” the Comte said, “when a pirate rests with his Lady and forgets the danger, the uncertainty and the discomfort of travelling over the face of the earth.”
“At the same time it must be exciting. You are free to go where you want, to take orders from nobody, and to live on your wits.”
“As you have already said I am sensible and practical,” the Comte replied. “I want security, a wife and children, but that is something I can never have.”
He spoke as if he was telling her something of infinite importance, but because she felt suddenly shy she did not look at him, but picked up her spoon to stir her coffee, although there was no need for it.
“A pirate’s life is certainly no life for a woman,” the Comte went on, as if he was following his own train of thought.
“But if there is no alternative?” Grania enquired.
“There is always an alternative to every situation,” he replied firmly. “I could give up my piracy, but then I, and the people who are with me, would starve.”
There was silence—a silence that seemed full of meaning before the Comte said quickly:
“But why do we not talk of things that are interesting? Of books and pictures? Our different languages? And I have a great desire to hear you speak French.”
“You may think I speak it badly,” Grania replied in French.
“Your accent is perfect!” he exclaimed. “Who taught you?”
“My mother, and she was taught by a true Parisian.”
“That is obvious.”
“I also had lessons when I was at School in England,” Grania explained, “although French was unpopular, and they were surprised that I should want to learn such a ‘fiendish’ language spoken by the people who were killing their own kin.”
“I can understand that,” the Comte said. “But even though the English are at war with my country at the moment, I still want to learn to speak like an Englishman.”
“Why?”
“Because it might come in useful.”
“Your English is very good except for a few words which you mispronounce and you sometimes put the stress on the wrong syllable.”
The Comte smiled.
“Very well,” he said. “When we are together I will correct you, and you will correct me. Is that a deal?”
“Yes, of course,” Grania replied, “and to be fair we must divide our time together talking partly in English and partly in French, and there must be no cheating.”
The Comte laughed. Then he said:
“It will be interesting to see who will be the better pupil, and I have the feeling, Grania, that because you are more sensitive than I am you will take the prize.” Grania noticed that he called her by her Christian name and once again he read her thoughts as he said: “I cannot go on calling you ‘My Lady’ when already we know each other too well to be conventional.”
“We only met this morning.”
“That is not true,” he replied. “I have known and admired you, and talked to you for many nights, and your image has stayed with me during the day.”
The way he spoke made her blush again and she felt the colour burning its way up to her eyes.
“You are very beautiful!” the Comte went on. “Far too beautiful for my peace of mind. If I was sensible and practical, as you tell me I am, I would sail away as soon as I set you ashore.”
“No ... please you ... promised you would ... stay until my father ... returned,” Grania said quickly.
“I am being selfish and thinking of myself,” the Comte replied.
“I am being selfish in doing the same,” Grania admitted.
“Do you really want me to stay?”
“I am begging you to do so. I will go down on my knees, if that is what you want.”
The Comte suddenly bent across to the table and put out his hand. Slowly, because she felt shy, Grania put her h
and in it.
“Now listen to me, Grania,” he said. “I am a man without a home, without a future, an outlaw both to the French and the English. Let me go away while I am able to do so.”
Grania’s fingers tightened on his.
“I ... cannot stop you ... from going.”
“But you are asking me to stay.”
“I want you to. Please ... I want you to. If you ... go I shall be very ... frightened.”
Her eyes met his, and it was impossible for her to look away. Then he said:
“As you have just reminded me, we only met a few hours ago.”
“But ... time does not ... affect what I ... feel about ... you.”
“And what do you feel?”
“That when I am with ... you I am ... safe and nothing can ... hurt me.”
“I wish that was true,” he said.
“It is true. I know it is true!” Grania answered.
The Comte looked away from her down at her hand, then he raised it to his lips.
“Very well. I will stay, but when I do go you must not blame yourself and there must be no regrets.”
“I promise ... no regrets.”
But she had the feeling as she spoke that it was a promise she would not be able to keep.
They sat talking for a little until Jean came in to take away the coffee and the Comte said:
“Come and sit on the sofa and put up your feet. This is the time for a siesta and my crew will all be sleeping either on deck or below. I think it unlikely we shall be disturbed because your father will not travel in the heat of the day.”
Grania knew this was true, and she walked to the sofa as the Comte suggested and sat back against the cushions, putting up her feet.
He pulled up an armchair to sit beside her and stretched out his long legs in their white stockings.
Grania smiled.
“Can this really be happening?” she asked. “I think both the French and the English would be very surprised if they could see us now.”
“The English would certainly be very annoyed,” the Comte replied. “They dislike pirates because they challenge their supremacy at sea, and that is something which is uncertain at the moment with the rebellions both here and in Guadaloupe.”
He paused before he went on:
“At the same time they hold Martinique and a number of other islands, so undoubtedly the port of St. George’s will sooner or later receive reinforcements.”
Secret Harbor Page 6