Secret Harbor

by Barbara Cartland

  Grania knew this was true, but she thought until the soldiers arrived the rebels could do a great deal of damage.

  Stories of how on other islands they had tortured their prisoners before they killed them had lost nothing in the telling.

  She felt herself tremble as she imagined the indignities and perhaps the pain that Dr. Hay and the Anglican Rector might be suffering.

  The Comte was watching her face.

  “Forget it!” he said. “There is nothing you can do, and to keep thinking of such horrors is to bring them nearer and perhaps to make one’s self more vulnerable.”

  Grania looked at him with interest.

  “Do you believe that thought is transferable, and also strong enough to attract attention?”

  “I assure you,” the Comte replied, “I am not speaking of Voodoo or Black Magic when I say that the natives on Martinique know what is happening fifty miles away at the other end of the island, long before it would be possible for a messenger to travel the distance with the information.”

  “You mean they are able to communicate with each other in a way that we have forgotten how to do?”

  “I would never underestimate their powers.”

  “That is very interesting.”

  “As you are half-Irish it should be easy for you to understand,” the Comte said.

  “Yes, of course. Papa used to tell me stories about the powers of the Irish Sorcerers and how they could foretell the future. Of course I learnt about the Leprechauns when I was very small.”

  “Just as I learnt about the spirits that inhabit the mountains and forests in Martinique,” the Comte said.

  “Why could they not warn you before the English invaded the island?” Grania asked.

  “Perhaps they tried to do so and we did not listen!” the Comte replied. “When you come to Martinique you can feel them, hear them and perhaps see them.”

  “That is something I would love to do,” Grania replied impulsively.

  “You must trust to fate,” the Comte answered, “whichas you know has already brought you out of a very difficult situation, for which I am very grateful.”

  “As I am grateful to be here,” Grania said. “When I rode through the forest I had the feeling I was escaping from a terrifying danger to something very different.”

  “What was that?”

  She drew in her breath.

  “It is what I feel when I am sitting here talking to you. I cannot ... describe it exactly ... but it makes me feel very ... happy.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then the Comte said: “That is all I want you to feel for the moment.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE HOURS OF heat passed slowly. Sometimes Grania and the Comte talked and sometimes they sat in silence as if they communicated with each other without words.

  But she was aware that his eyes were on her face and sometimes he made her feel shy in a way that was half pleasure, half a strange embarrassment that seemed to have something magical about it.

  Then there was the sound of footsteps overhead and the whistling of a man who was happy while he worked, and the Comte rose.

  “I think I should take you back to the house,” he said. “If your father is going to arrive he should be here in perhaps under an hour.”

  Grania knew that was the time it would take if her father came to her by road and not through the forest.

  She wanted to stay longer and go on talking to the Comte or even just be with him, but she could think of no viable excuse that did not sound intrusive, so reluctantly she rose from the sofa.

  She had laid her head against a soft cushion, and now she patted her hair into place feeling she must be untidy and looked around for a mirror.

  “You look lovely!” the Comte said in his deep voice, and again she blushed.

  He stood watching her before he said:

  “I have to tell you how much it has meant to me to have you here and feel for the moment we have stepped out of time and are at peace with the world, or perhaps it would be better to say at peace with ourselves, for the world outside does not matter.”

  “That is what I think,” Grania answered, but again it was hard to meet his eyes.

  Reluctantly he turned to the cabin door and opened it.

  “Come along,” he said, “we must find out if there is any sign of your father, and you must be ready to talk to him and make him see your point of view.”

  Grania did not reply.

  For the time being the Comte had given her a sense of security and as he had said, peace, and it was hard to adjust her mind to what lay ahead, or even to feel menaced by Roderick Maigrin.

  The Comte was with her, the sun was shining, the sea was vividly blue, and the palm trees were moving with an inexpressible grace in the warm wind.

  When they were on deck she smiled at one of the men who was working at the ropes and he saluted her with a gesture that was very French and smiled back.

  The Comte stopped.

  “This is Pierre, my friend and neighbour when we lived in Martinique.”

  He spoke in French and he said to his friend:

  “Let me present you, Pierre, to the beautiful lady whose hospitality we are enjoying because Secret Harbour belongs to her.”

  Pierre sprang to his feet and when Grania put out her hand he raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Enchante, Mademoiselle.”

  She thought they might have been meeting in some Salon in Paris or London instead of on the deck of a pirate ship.

  She walked along the gang-plank and when the Comte joined her on the other side he said:

  “Tomorrow, if I am still here, I would like you to meet the rest of my crew. It is best for them to remain anonymous, which is why I address them by their Christian names, but they are all men who have given up very different positions in life to save themselves from coming under the harsh jurisdiction of the English.”

  “Are we so harsh when we are in that position?” Grania asked.

  “All conquerors seem intolerable to those who are conquered.”

  The Comte spoke roughly and for a moment Grania thought that he was hating her because she was an enemy.

  Without meaning to she looked at him pleadingly, and he said:

  “Forgive me, I am trying not to be bitter, and most of all, not to think of myself, but of you.”

  “You know I want you to do that,” Grania said in a low voice.

  But perceptively she knew that what he resented at the moment was that because their two countries were at war he could not offer her the safety of his estate in Martinique and they could not meet as ordinary people of different nationalities might do.

  They moved through the thickness of the shrubs and pine trees until the house was in sight, then Grania stopped.

  Everything was very quiet, and she was certain that her father had not returned home.

  Abe would have warned her if he had been sighted before he arrived.

  At the same time because the Comte was with her she had to be careful and make sure that she was not taking him into danger.

  She thought for a moment that he would leave her and return to his ship, but instead, when she moved forward again he kept beside her and they walked up the steps onto the verandah and in through the open door.

  It was then she heard Abe’s voice talking to somebody in the kitchen and Grania called his name.

  “Abe!”

  He came to her instantly, and she saw that he was smiling and that all was well.

  “Good news, Lady.”

  “Of the Master?”

  “No. No news from Maigrin House, but Momma Mabel come back.”

  Grania gave a little exclamation of delight. Then she asked:

  “To stay? To work?”

  “Yes, Lady. Very glad to be back.”

  “That is splendid!”

  She turned to the Comte and asked:

  “Would you, Monsieur do me the honour of dining here with me tonight? I cannot
promise you a meal cooked by a French Chef, but my mother always thought that Momma Mabel was the best cook on the island.”

  The Comte bowed.

  “Merci, Mademoiselle, I have much pleasure in accepting your most gracious invitation.”

  Grania gave a little laugh of delight.

  “Shall we dine at seven-thirty?”

  “I will not be late.”

  The Comte bowed again, then turned and walked back the way they had come.

  She watched him go until he was out of sight, then she said to Abe:

  “Let us have a dinner-party the way we used to do it when Mama was here with the candelabra on the table and all the silver. Have we any wine?”

  “One bottle, Lady,” Abe answered. “I hide from Master.”

  Grania smiled.

  Her mother when they had some really good wine, always kept a few bottles hidden for special occasions. Otherwise her father would drink it indiscriminately and share it with anybody who came to the house, whatever their status in life.

  Now she was glad she had what she was sure was a good claret to offer the Comte.

  “Make a fruit drink for before dinner,” she said, “and of course coffee afterwards. I will go and speak to Momma Mabel.”

  She went to the kitchen and as she expected Momma Mabel’s huge figure and wide smile seemed to fill the whole place.

  She was an enormously fat woman, but actually she herself ate very little.

  What she could do was to cook in a way which had made everybody on the island value the invitations they received to Secret Harbour.

  Grania could remember the Governor complaining that they could never find anybody to cook as well as Momma Mabel, and she knew her mother suspected that he tried to entice her away with higher wages than she was receiving at Secret Harbour.

  But Momma Mabel, like many of the other servants on the estate when her mother had been alive, thought of themselves as part of the family.

  As long as they had enough to eat, whether they received high or low wages or none at all, was immaterial.

  Grania talked to Momma Mabel in the kitchen for some time, then went to find Abe and as she expected he was cleaning the silver.

  She watched him for a moment, then said in a low voice:

  “If the Master returns you must warn Monsieur that he must not come.”

  Abe thought this over before he nodded and said:

  “’Morrow Bella come back.”

  “I thought she must have gone away.”

  “She not far.”

  Bella was the maid who had looked after Grania since she was small and when she grew older had made all her gowns.

  The Countess had taught her all the arts of being a lady’s-maid and Grania knew that when Bella returned she would be looked after and cosseted, and her clothes from London would last far longer than they would have done otherwise.

  Then she thought that she was being over-optimistic: and her father would make her go back to Maigrin House and marry its owner, and Bella would not go with her.

  Then she told herself that she must believe that when her father did arrive she would somehow convince him that she could not marry Roderick Maigrin, and that if they organised the plantation properly there would be enough money for them to live here quietly and be happy however much they might miss her mother.

  “Please ... God, make him ... listen to me,” she prayed. “Please ... Please ...”

  She felt her prayer wended its way towards the Heavens, and because she wanted to pray and also to look her best for her dinner-party she went upstairs to her bedroom.

  Her trunks had not been unpacked and she knew Abe was wise to leave them for Bella.

  Nevertheless, she searched until she found one of the prettiest gowns she owned.

  It was one her mother had made for her just before she grew ill, and although she was still ostensibly at School Grania was sometimes allowed to dine with her mother’s friends when there was a small party.

  She held the gown up, shaking the creases out of the full skirt and knowing that the soft bodice with its small puffed sleeves was very becoming.

  “I wonder if he will admire me,” she thought.

  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!”