Authors: Barbara Cartland
He looked startled at her appearance and she thought also a little fearful.
“I have already talked to your Master,” she said. “He is dressing, and coming downstairs to make his apologies before he leaves.”
The little Frenchman looked relieved and moved towards the kitchen-table where Grania saw there was a large tin and beside it a tray on which there was a coffeepot.
She guessed that the Frenchman’s servant had been preparing his breakfast for him and with a faint smile she said:
“It would only be hospitable to allow your Master to have his coffee before he leaves. Where does he usually drink it?”
“On the verandah,
M’mselle
.”
“Very well. Take it there. And Abe, I too would like a cup of coffee.”
She knew both men stared at her with surprise, then smiling she walked towards the front door.
As she might have expected it was not bolted, and she guessed that was the entrance through which the Frenchman came into the house.
She went out onto the verandah and now in the distance over the palm trees she could just see the tops of two masts.
The trees were so high that unless she had been looking for them they would be invisible and she knew that Secret Harbour was the perfect place for a pirate ship to hide, and wondered why she had never thought of it before.
The small bay had been given its name which described it very aptly, by its former owner.
The entrance to it was at the side and a long tongue of land covered with pine trees faced the sea.
Once the ship was in the harbour it was almost impossible to see it either from the land side or from the sea.
Unless one was actually aware of its existence, one could pass and repass a dozen times without being aware there was a ship at anchor in the bay.
“I would like to see the ship,” Grania thought then chided herself for her curiosity.
She knew she should be feeling shocked, angry, and perhaps insulted that a pirate should use her home, and yet she felt none of these emotions which much surprised her.
When a few minutes later the Pirate joined her on the verandah she thought that he would have been more at home in the Drawing-Rooms and Ball-Rooms of London.
He was somehow too elegant and certainly too smart for the verandah with its over-grown vines and the dirty neglected windows behind them.
There was a table made of native wicker-work and two chairs and before the Frenchman could speak, the servants, Abe and his own man, appeared carrying a white table-cloth with which they covered the table and placed on it a silver tray containing two cups and saucers.
They were the ones her mother kept for best, Grania noticed, and now there was the aroma of coffee and the servants set down a pot and beside it a plate of croissants warm from the oven, a pat of butter, and a glass dish filled with honey.
“
Petit dejeuner est servi, Monsieur
,”
the Frenchman’s servant announced and then he and Abe vanished.
Grania looked at the pirate. He seemed about to speak, then suddenly she laughed.
“I do not believe this is happening,” she said. “You cannot really be a pirate.”
“I assure you that I am.”
“But I always imagined they were evil, dirty, greasy men who used rough oaths; men from whom women hid in terror.”
“You are thinking of one of your own countrymen—Wicken.”
“We are lucky he did not discover Secret Harbour,” Grania said. “I heard last night that he was pillaging further down the coast.”
“I have heard many things about him,” the Frenchman replied, “but may I suggest that the coffee is waiting?”
“Yes, of course.”
She sat down by instinct in front of the coffee-pot and as he seated himself opposite her she asked:
“Shall I pour out your coffee, or would you prefer to do it for yourself?”
“I should be honoured for you to act as my hostess.”
She tried to smile at him, but there was something about him that made her feel a little shy.
So instead she busied herself by filling his cup and passing it to him.
“You must have brought your croissants with you,” she said.
“My servant brought them,” the Frenchman replied. “They are baked fresh every day.”
Grania gave a little laugh.
“So even a pirate if he is French, worries about his food!”
“But of course,” the Pirate replied. “Food is an art, and the worst hardship of being perpetually at sea is eating what I have to instead of procuring what I like to eat.”
Grania laughed again. Then she asked:
“Why are you a pirate? It seems ... or perhaps I am being impertinent ... a strange occupation for you.”
“It is a long story,” the Frenchman replied. “But may I first ask why you are here, and where is your father?”
“I am here,” Grania explained, “because a revolution has broken out in Grenville.”
The Frenchman was suddenly tense, staring at her across the table.
“A revolution?”
“Yes. It started several nights ago, but we arrived only yesterday evening at Mr. Maigrin’s house. Then in the middle of the night Abe learnt that the revolutionaries had taken over Grenville and killed a number of Englishmen.”
“It cannot be possible!” the Frenchman said as if he spoke to himself. “But if there is a revolution it will have been started by Julien Fedor.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard that he was preaching sedition amongst the French slaves.”
“So you think the revolution is serious?”
“I am afraid it will be,” the Pirate replied.
“But surely you want the French to be the victors and take over this island again as they did twelve years ago?”
He shook his head.
“If the French take it over it will be with ships and soldiers, and not by a rebellion amongst the slaves. They may be successful for a short while, but English soldiers will eventually arrive to attack them and there will be a great deal of blood-shed.”
Grania sighed.
It all seemed so unnecessary and rather frightening.
The Frenchman rose to his feet.
“Will you excuse me for one moment while I speak to my servant? He must find out exactly how much danger there may be for you.”
He walked away into the house and she stared after him.
She could not help contrasting the lithe grace with which he moved with the uncouth unsteadiness of Roderick Maigrin.
His hair which was dark and thick was pulled back into a neat bow set in the nape of his neck, and his cravat was crisp and fresh, the points of his collar high over his chin in the same manner as the Beaux of St. James’s wore theirs.
His coat fitted without a wrinkle, his white cloth breeches revealed his slim attractive hips and his white stockings and buckled shoes were very smart.
“He is a gentleman!” Grania told herself. “It is ridiculous to call him a pirate ... an outlaw of the seas!”
The Frenchman came back.
“My man and yours are sending people to find out exactly what is known of this revolution. But Abe assures me that the information he received last night and early this morning is absolutely reliable, and there is no doubt that the rebels are killing the English in Grenville where a hundred slaves took everybody in the town by surprise.”
Grania gave a little murmur and he went on:
“As usual, they have plundered store-houses, dragged the frightened inhabitants into the street, and set them up as marks to be shot at.”
“Oh
...
no!” Grania exclaimed.
“Some escaped by swimming to the vessels that were tied up in the harbour. Others made their way south, and there were some who got as far as Maigrin House.”
“Do you think ... all the slaves on the
...
island will rise and join
...
them?” Grania asked in a low voice.
“We must wait and see,” the Frenchman replied. “If the worst comes to the worst,
Mademoiselle,
my ship is at your disposal.”
“Do you think that will be a safe place to hide?”
The Frenchman smiled.
“It may be a case of ‘any port in a storm’.”
“Yes, of course, but I am hoping that my father will join me today, and perhaps he will have other ideas of where we should go.”
“Naturally,” the Frenchman agreed, “and I should imagine both you and your father, and doubtless also Mr. Maigrin, will be welcome in the Fort of St. George’s.”
Grania could not disguise the expression in her eyes as he spoke of Roderick Maigrin.
Instead of answering, she ate without speaking the delicious croissant which she had spread with butter and honey.
There was silence. Then the Frenchman said:
“I have been told, although of course it may be incorrect, that you are to marry Mr. Maigrin.”
“Who told you that?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
“I learnt that was intended before your father went to England to bring you home.”
It flashed through Grania’s mind that even if her mother had lived her father might have insisted on his rights as her legal guardian and brought her back to Grenada.
Then as she thought of Roderick Maigrin the revulsion she had felt for him last night swept over her again.
Quite involuntarily without really thinking what she was saying she asked:
“What can I
...
do? How can I
...
escape? I cannot
...
marry that
...
man!”
The terror in her voice seemed to vibrate on the air and she was aware the Frenchman was staring at her intently, his dark eyes searching her face.
Then he said:
“I agree it is impossible for somebody like you to marry such a man, but it is not for me to tell you how you can avoid doing so.”
“Then
...
who else can I
...
ask?” Grania said almost like a child. “I did not know until the very moment we arrived that that was what Papa
...
intended, and now I am
...
here I do not know
...
what I can do ... or where I can
...
hide from
...
him.”
The Frenchman put his knife down on the table with a little clatter.
“That is your problem,
Mademoiselle
,”
he said, “and as you must be aware, I cannot interfere.”
“No ... of course not,” Grania agreed. “I should not have
...
spoken as I
...
did. Forgive
...
me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I want to listen. I want to help you, but I am an enemy, apart from the fact that I am also a criminal outlaw.”
“Perhaps that is what I
...
should be,” Grania said, “then even Mr. Maigrin would not
...
wish to marry
...
me.”
Even as she spoke she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent him wanting her for herself apart from her social position.
She saw again the look in his eyes last night and felt herself shiver.
She was frightened, desperately, horribly frightened, not of the revolution, not of dying, but of being touched by a man who she knew was evil, and whose very presence disgusted her so that she felt physically sick when he was near her.
Her face must have been very expressive, for suddenly the Frenchman asked harshly:
“Why did you not stay in England where you were safe?”
“How could I after Mama died?” Grania asked. “I knew very few people, and besides
...
Papa would have
...
insisted on bringing me back
...
whatever I
...
might have
...
said.”
“It is a pity you could not have found somebody to marry you while you were there,” the Frenchman remarked.
“I think that is what Mama wanted,” Grania answered, “she intended to present me to the King and Queen, then I would have been asked to Balls and parties. She had planned so many things but she became ill ... so terribly ill before Christmas.”
She paused for a moment before she went on:
“The weather was foggy and cold, and Mama had been living in the sun for so many years that the Doctor said her blood had become thin and she was too
...
weak to stand the English
...
climate.”
“I understand,” the Frenchman said in a low voice. “But surely you could tell your father that you have no wish to marry this man?”
“I have told him,” Grania replied, “but he said he had it all arranged
...
and that Mr. Maigrin was
...
very rich.”
She felt as she spoke that she was being disloyal, but it was, she knew, the whole crux of the matter, the real reason why her father was so insistent that she must marry.
Roderick Maigrin was rich, he could keep her father in the comfort he wanted, and the only way her father could achieve this was by handing over his daughter.
“It is an intolerable situation!” the Frenchman said suddenly in a voice that made her start.
“But
...
what can I do about it?” Grania asked.
“When I lay in bed and looked at your mother’s picture,” he said in a low voice, “I thought it would be
impossible for anybody to be lovelier, sweeter or more attractive. But now I have seen you I know that while outwardly you resemble your mother there is, perhaps because you are alive, something which the artist failed to portray.”
“What is it?” Grania asked curiously.
“I think the right word for it is that you have a
spirituality
,
Mademoiselle
,
which would be impossible to convey on canvas, except for a Michaelangelo, or a Botticelli.”
“Thank you,” Grania said in a low voice.