Secret Harbor

by Barbara Cartland

  She wanted to cry out at the agony of knowing he had disappeared and there would be no one to help her.

  What was more, she knew despairingly, since her luggage had not been brought ashore, that she had no money and no possessions. But that was immaterial beside the fact that she had lost the Comte.

  Now she thought her agony was like a thousand knives piercing her heart and making her suffer in a way that was almost unbearable.

  Because her eyes ached from staring into the darkness she moved across the room feeling her way to a chair and sat down.

  She put her head in her hands, half-praying, half just suffering helplessly like a small animal caught in a trap.

  “Send him back to me ... please, God, send him ... back to me,” she prayed.

  She felt as if the darkness suffocated her and she was completely and utterly lost!

  Suddenly when she felt she could bear it no longer and must go to the bay and look for him, the front door opened and he was there.

  She could not see him, but she gave a little cry that seemed to echo round the walls and ran instinctively finding him.

  She threw herself against him, put her arms around his neck, holding onto him and crying as she did so:

  “You ... have come ... back! I thought I had ... lost you! I was frightened ... so desperately ... frightened that I would ... never see you ... again!”

  The words fell over themselves, and because she had been so frightened and her relief at his return was so overwhelming she cried not quite involuntarily:

  “I love you ... and I cannot ... live without ... you!”

  The Comte threw something he was carrying down on the floor and put his arms around her.

  He held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, then his lips came down on hers.

  As she felt his mouth hold her captive she knew that this was what she had been wanting, what she had been yearning for and what she thought she would never know.

  His kiss was fierce, demanding, insistent, and she felt as if she gave him her heart, her soul, her whole self.

  The agony of fear she had been feeling was gone. Instead there was an indescribable rapture, an ecstasy that seemed to fill the room with a light which came from within themselves.

  The wonder of it told her that this was not just human love, but something more perfect and part of the divine.

  When the Comte had kissed her until she felt that she was no longer herself but utterly and completely his he raised his head to say in a voice that was unsteady:

  “My darling I did not mean this to happen.”

  “I love ... you!”

  “And I love you,” he answered. “I fought against it and tried to prevent myself saying so, but you have made it impossible.”

  “I ... thought I had ... lost you.”

  “You will never do that as long as I am alive,” he replied, “but ma cherie, I have been trying to protect you from myself and from my love.”

  “You ... love me?”

  “Of course I love you!” he said almost angrily, “but it is something I should not do any more than that you should love me.”

  “How can I help it?” Grania asked.

  Then he was kissing her again, kissing her until she felt as if he carried her into the sky and there were no problems, no difficulties, nothing but themselves and their love. A long time later the Comte said:

  “Let me light the candles, my precious. We can hardly stay here in the dark for ever, although I want to go on kissing you.”

  “That is ... what I want ... you to ... do,” Grania said breathlessly.

  He kissed her again. Then with an effort he took his arms from her and walked a few steps to a table at the side of the stairs.

  He lit a candle and Grania could see him. She thought his face in the light was illuminated as if by some celestial fire.

  His eyes were on her but as if he forced himself not to take her in his arms he lit a taper from the candle and went into the Sitting-Room to light the candles there.

  Only when the room was illuminated and looking very beautiful did he say:

  “Forgive me for upsetting you, ma petite.”

  “What happened? What was the ... boat you went to ... investigate? Was it ... English?”

  The Comte blew out the taper.

  Then he walked towards Grania and put his arms around her again.

  “I know what you have been thinking,” he said. “It was an English boat which my crew had sighted but it constituted no danger to us.”

  Grania gave a cry of relief and put her head against his shoulder. The Comte kissed her forehead before he went on:

  “But in a way it may concern you.”

  “Concern me?” Grania asked in surprise.

  “There must have been a battle not far from here,” he said, “perhaps two or three days ago.”

  It was difficult for Grania to listen because she was so content to be in his arms.

  “He is with me and I am safe,” she kept thinking to herself.

  “I imagine,” the Comte went on, “that an English Man o’ War, H.M.S. Heroic, was sunk, because the boat which Jean came to tell us about was from that ship. It contained an Officer and eight ratings.”

  “They were ... English?” Grania asked nervously.

  “They were English,” the Comte replied, “but they were all dead!”

  It seemed wrong, Grania knew, but she could not help feeling relieved that they could therefore constitute no danger to the Comte and his crew.

  “There was nothing we could do for them,” the Comte continued, “except bury them at sea, but I took their papers which will prove their identity should it ever be necessary.”

  He paused before he added:

  “The Officer’s name, and he was a Commander, was Patrick O’Kerry.”

  Grania stiffened.

  “Patrick O’Kerry?” she repeated.

  “I thought he might be some relation of yours, and I have brought you his papers and also his jacket and cap in case you would wish to keep them.”

  There was a little pause. Then Grania said:

  “Patrick was ... my cousin ... and although I hardly knew him ... Papa will be very upset.”

  “We will have to let him know sometime.”

  “Yes ... of course,” Grania agreed, “and he will be upset not only because Patrick was his ... nephew, but he was also ... his heir ... and now there are ... no more O’Kerrys and the ... title will die out.”

  “I can understand how that would upset your father.”

  “There is certainly not much to inherit,” Grania said, “but Papa was the fourth Earl, and now there will never be a fifth.”

  “I am sorry about that,” the Comte said softly. “I did not want to upset you, my darling.”

  Because his arms were around her again and his lips were on her cheek, it was hard for Grania to feel anything but the joy that he was touching her.

  At the same time it seemed such a waste of life.

  Her Cousin Patrick who had called to see her mother when they were in London, had been so excited at being posted to a new ship and going out to the Caribbean. It seemed tragic now to think that he was dead.

  She remembered how he had talked to her mother about the West Indies and she had thought him a pleasant young man, but he had not paid her much attention as she was only a School-girl.

  “What I think very surprising,” the Comte said, “is that your cousin was dark. Somehow I expected that all your relations would be fair like you.”

  Grania gave him a faint little smile.

  “There are fair O’Kerrys like Papa and me, and there are also dark ones who are supposed to have Spanish blood in them.”

  She thought the Comte was surprised and explained: “When the ships of the Spanish Armada on their way to invade England, were wrecked on the south coast of Ireland many of the Spanish sailors never returned home.”

  The Comte smiled.

  “So they found t
he O’Kerry ladies attractive.”

  “I suppose they must have done,” Grania replied, “and they certainly left their imprint on the future generations.”

  “No wonder some are dark and some are fair,” the Comte said, “but I prefer you fair, and one day, ma belle, you can revert to looking English. But I am afraid whatever the colour of your hair you will be French.” Grania looked up at him questioningly and he said: “You will marry me? I thought I could pretend you were my cousin, and keep you at arms’ length, but you have made it impossible.”

  “I do not ... wish to be at ... arms’ length,” Grania murmured, “and I want ... to be your ... wife.”

  “Heaven knows what sort of life I can offer you,” the Comte said, “and you know I have nothing to give you but my heart.”

  “I do not want anything else,” Grania answered, “but are you quite ... quite sure I shall not be an ... encumbrance and you will ... regret marrying me?”

  “That would be impossible,” the Comte said. “I have been looking for you all my life and now I have found you, whatever is the right and proper or sensible thing to do, I know I cannot lose you.”

  Then he was kissing her again, and it was impossible to think, but only to feel.

  A long time later the Comte said with a sigh:

  “As soon as Henri arrives to prepare our dinner, I will go and see the Priest and arrange that we shall be married first thing tomorrow morning.”

  He kissed her before he asked:

  “You will not mind a Catholic wedding, my darling? It would look very strange if my bride belonged to another church.”

  “As long as we are married, I do not care what sort of Church it takes place in, but as it happens I was baptised a Catholic.”

  The Comte looked at her incredulously.

  “Do you mean that?”

  Grania nodded.

  “Papa was a Catholic, but Mama was not. They were married in a Catholic Church, and I was baptised in one.”

  The Comte was still looking astonished and she went on:

  “I am afraid Papa was not a very good Catholic even when we lived in England, and when we came to Grenada he realised that the British were very much against Catholicism because of their anti-French feelings and so he did not attend any Church.”

  She thought the Comte was shocked and went on quickly:

  “When Mama was in St. George’s she attended the Protestant Church and sometimes she took me with her on a Sunday, but it was a very long way to go and because it upset Papa when we left him alone it did not happen very often.”

  The Comte held her close to him.

  “When you marry me, my precious,” he said, “you will become a good Catholic, and together we will thank God that He has enabled us to find each other. I have a feeling that from now on He will protect us both and keep us safe.”

  “I feel that too,” Grania said, “and you know I will do ... anything ... anything you ask me to.”

  The way she spoke made the Comte kiss her again, and they only drew apart when they heard Henri come into the kitchen and knew he was preparing the dinner.

  When the Comte left to visit the Priest Jean arrived with one of Grania’s trunks and she started to change her clothes.

  She had a bath which was very cooling after the heat of the day, and although she protested to Jean that she should not be taking the Comte’s bedroom from him he told her that those were his Master’s orders and after that she did not argue.

  She only remembered as she undressed that tomorrow they would be together and she knew that God had not only saved her from marrying Roderick Maigrin but had given her the man of her dreams.

  “How can I be so lucky?” she asked herself.

  Then she was saying fervently Catholic prayers which she knew were the ones that the Comte said and which would be hers in future.

  When he returned she heard him go to another room where Jean had laid out his evening-clothes.

  By this time Grania had found a pretty gown into which she could change, and she arranged her hair in the smartest fashion she knew.

  She could not help wishing that it was fair again, but she knew nothing mattered as long as the Comte loved her and that she must remember what he had said to her, to think French and to be French, so that nobody would suspect for a moment that she was an enemy.

  “Once I am the Comtesse de Vence there will be no need for pretence,” she said to her reflection in the mirror, “for then I shall have the most beautiful title in the world.”

  She was still looking in the mirror, but thinking of the Comte when there was a knock on the door and he came into the room.

  “I thought you would be ready, my precious.”

  Then as she rose from the stool in front of the dressing-table he held out his arms and she ran towards him.

  He did not kiss her but there was an expression of infinite tenderness in his eyes.

  “It is all arranged,” he said. “Tomorrow you will become my wife. We will sleep together in the bed which belonged to my grandfather and was so much a part of my home that I could not leave it behind.”

  “I thought that was what it must be.”

  He came a little closer and Grania asked:

  “Are you really going to marry me?”

  “You will be my wife and we will face all the problems and difficulties together.”

  He looked around the room as he said:

  “I was thinking as I was coming back from the Church that at least for a little while we will not starve.” His eyes rested on the Boucher picture as he spoke and Grania gave a cry.

  “You do not mean that you intend to sell that picture?”

  “I shall get a good price for it from the Dutch on the other side of the island,” the Comte replied. “Being neutral, they have gained from the war rather than otherwise.”

  “But you cannot sell your family treasures!”

  “I have the only treasure which really matters to me now,” he answered.

  His lips swept away any further protest that she might have made.

  They went downstairs hand-in-hand, and Jean served them the delicious dinner that Henri had cooked and when it was finished and they were alone the Comte said: “I have arranged for the Housekeeper who looks after the Priest’s house to sleep here tonight so that you will be chaperoned. I would not want us to start our married life by shocking the French matrons of St. Martin whose tongues wag like those of women in every part of the world.”

  “You will sleep in the ship?”

  “In the bed in which you slept last night,” the Comte replied, “I will dream of you, and tomorrow my dreams will come true.”

  “And I shall be dreaming too.”

  “I love you!” he said. “I love you so much that every moment I think I have reached my fullest capability of love, suddenly I love you infinitely more. What have you done to me, my darling, that I should feel like a boy in love for the first time?”

  “But you must have loved so many women,” Grania murmured.

  The Comte smiled.

  “I am French. I find women very attractive, but unlike most of my countrymen I resisted having an arranged marriage when I was young, and I have never, and this is the truth, found a woman until now with whom I would wish to share the rest of my life.”

  “Suppose I disappoint you?”

  “You will never do that. I knew when I looked at what I thought was your portrait that you were everything I wanted in a woman, and when I actually saw you I knew that I had under-estimated both my need and what you can give me.”

  “You are ... sure of that?” Grania enquired.

  “Absolutely sure,” he replied. “It is not so much what you say or even what you think, my precious, but what you are. Your sweetness, which I recognised the first time I set my eyes on you, shines like a beacon and envelops you with an aura of purity and goodness that could only come from God.”

  Grania clasped her hands together.

 
“You say such wonderful things to me. I am only so desperately afraid that I will not be able to live up to what you expect of me then perhaps you will sail away and leave me.”

  The Comte shook his head.

  “You must know that I have now ceased to be a pirate. After we are married I will talk to my friends and we will think out some other ways that we can all make a living.”

  He thought before he went on:

  “As I have said, I will sell some of my possessions so that we will not starve, and because I know God will not fail us perhaps it will not be long before we can return to Martinique.”

  The way he spoke seemed somehow inspired so that the tears came into Grania’s eyes and she put out her hands towards his.

  “I shall pray and pray,” she said, “and darling, you must teach me to be good, so that my prayers are heard.”

  “I know that you need no teaching in that respect,” the Comte replied, “but there are many other things that I intend to teach you, my adorable one, and I think you can guess what those lessons are.”

  Grania blushed. Then she said:

  “I only hope you will not be ... dissatisfied with your ... pupil.”

  The Comte left the table and drawing Grania to her feet put his arms around her and they moved into the Sitting-Room.

  It looked so lovely in the candle-light that Grania thought they might be in a Chateau in France, or one of the Palaces that she had read about in the books which her mother had bought to make her more proficient in the French language.

  She wanted to say that she could not bear any of the things in the room to be sold, but she knew it would be a mistake to upset the Comte and make him realise even more fully than he did already the sacrifices he had to make.

  “At least I have some money,” Grania thought.

  She knew that English sovereigns when changed into French francs would amount to quite a considerable sum of money.

  She smiled because she was glad she could contribute to their life together, and the Comte asked:

  “What has made you smile, except happiness, ma petite?”

  “I was thinking I am so glad that I have some money with me. Tomorrow it will be yours legally but, before you tell me you are too proud to take it, I suggest it could contribute to what you have to spend on your friends and the other members of the crew. After all, it is my fault that they can no longer continue to be pirates.”