Secret Harbor by Barbara Cartland Page B

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