Rooted In Dishonour

Over Willard’s shoulder, the man’s green eyes sought and found hers, and it was with a sense of impotence she acknowledged that he had some grounds for his provoking expression. But it took all her self-control to stroll after her fiancé, and wait patiently for him to introduce them.

‘My dear,’ he turned to her almost immediately after assuring the other man that he was feeling fine, which wasn’t strictly true, Beth decided. ‘Let me introduce you to Raoul Valerian, my—right-hand man. Raoul, this is Miss Elizabeth Rivers. My fiancée.’

Beth forced a faint smile and held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Valerian,’ she said politely, and his long fingers gripped hers firmly for a brief moment. His hands were hard, and she could feel the callouses upon them, but his nails she saw were clean and well-shaped.

‘My pleasure, Miss Rivers,’ he acknowledged, with a mockery which was only apparent to her, and then he indicated the vehicle behind him.

Willard went towards it with evident relief, but Beth hesitated as Raoul Valerian went past them to attend to the unloading of their luggage. Two of the blacks who had greeted them were struggling towards the car with their suitcases, and Raoul went to help them, taking a case from each, speaking to them with easy camaraderie. Beth waited only a moment longer, and then, aware that her assistance wasn’t needed she followed Willard to the welcoming shade of the car. She had taken off her sunglasses as they landed, but now she pushed them back on to her nose again, glad of the anonymity they provided.

Willard had climbed into the back of the vehicle which Beth now saw was an old-fashioned station wagon. But it was in immaculate order, in spite of the dust, and she admired its flowing lines as she joined him. Briefly she looked at him over the rim of her glasses and saw the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks.

‘This has all been too much for you,’ she declared crisply. ‘You must rest when you get home. Promise me you will.’

Willard leaned back weakly against the upholstered seat. ‘I hope you’re not going to become one of those nagging women, Beth,’ he exclaimed, and then grasped her hand contritely when she looked hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but these are my people. They’re welcoming me home. I couldn’t ignore them.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you should,’ replied Beth stiffly, and he squeezed her fingers.

‘I know, I know. You’re only thinking about me.’ He gave her a rather rueful smile. ‘I just hate being made to feel I’m helpless!’

Beth turned to stare out of the window, and then started as several cases thudded into the rear of the vehicle behind them. Raoul thanked his helpers, and slammed the rear doors closed, then came round to lever himself behind the wheel. He was lean and muscular, but not thin, and Beth’s trained eyes noticed how the bones and sinews of his back rippled smoothly under his sweat-oiled skin. He might have put on a shirt, she thought distastefully, although her own shirt was clinging to her like a second skin, and she was glad of a bra underneath to protect her modesty.

As the station wagon left the quay, waved off by their welcoming committee, Raoul said: ‘Barbara asked me to come and meet you. She wasn’t—feeling well, and as I had to come down to the town anyway …’

‘… you volunteered,’ remarked Willard, nodding.

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s wrong with Barbara?’

There was silence for a moment, and then Raoul said: ‘One of her migraines, I guess. I don’t know. She sent Marya over with a message.’

Willard didn’t seem surprised, but Beth’s nerves tightened. Barbara might well have a headache—a migraine, even—but her father had been away more than two months. In her place she thought she would have had to have been very ill indeed to prevent her from meeting him. Still, Willard wasn’t concerned, so why should she be? But she was.

Willard roused himself to lean forward, resting his arms on the back of the empty seat in front of him.

‘How are things workwise?’ he asked Raoul. ‘Did you get the new rotor blade? What about that lime? Did you have it replaced? And what happened about Philippe’s arm——’

‘Don’t you think you ought to take it easy instead of getting uptight about things that were settled weeks ago?’ Raoul interrupted him tolerantly, glancing round. His eyes flickered to Beth. ‘What does your—er—nurse say? Does she approve of you jumping in with both feet the minute you get back?’

Beth guessed he had overheard what she had been saying to Willard while they waited for their cases to be loaded, and her lips tightened in annoyance. But Willard was unaware of her indignation, and casting an apologetic look in her direction, he replied.

‘Beth’s my fiancé first, and my nurse second. She understands how I feel, don’t you, darling?’

Beth’s smile was strained. ‘And you know how I feel,’ she countered tautly, causing Willard to wrinkle his nose affectionately at her. But he went on asking Raoul questions, and she determinedly turned her attention to her surroundings, trying not to look as put out as she felt.

They drove up through the narrow streets of the town, using the horn to clear a path between mule-drawn carts and bicycles. Children ran heedlessly in front of the station wagon, but miraculously they remained unscathed, due, she had reluctantly to concede, to the skill of the driver. The drawn blinds and striped canopies they passed reminded her a little of the South of France, but the high walls that concealed hidden courtyards were more Spanish in origin. She saw people of seemingly every race and colour, Indians sitting in shop doorways where exotically-woven carpets screened their shadowy interior, and Chinese women hand-painting lengths of wild silk with brilliantly-plumaged birds and flowers.

Beyond the town they skirted fields of tall, grass-like stalks that shaded in colour from a golden yellow through to an orangey-red. She realised this must be the plantation, and that what she could see was sugar cane, but it looked so different from how she had imagined it that she almost felt cheated. Towering above the station wagon, it looked coarse and disjointed, not at all romantic as she had expected.

Willard paused long enough in his conversation with Raoul to point out the start of the plantation, but Beth found the view of the coastline which could be seen from the other windows of the car far more appealing. They had climbed some way since leaving the harbour, and now the whole of Ste Germaine and its neighbouring beaches was spread out below them. It looked incredibly beautiful, and from this height one could not see the poverty Beth had glimpsed through the doorways of buildings that were little more than shacks, or smell the unpleasant scent of unwashed humanity which had pervaded the narrower streets. Her spirits rose again. It was foolish letting anything upset her when the sun was shining and she was here at last, on her way to her new home. If only Willard had been a little more understanding, and Barbara had come to meet them—and Raoul Valerian had not behaved as if he owned the island …

The road began to descend slowly through thickets of cypress and acacia trees that mingled with the palms which grew so profusely throughout the islands. The smell of damp undergrowth was not unpleasant, nor was the sound of running water from a cascading stream that tumbled over rocks at the side of the road. Their way was strewn with stones which made it rather uncomfortable riding, although the springs of the old station wagon seemed strong enough to weather it.

The sea was nearer now, and Beth breathed deeply, inhaling its tangy scent. She was going to be happy here, she told herself fiercely, and as if to confirm this belief, Willard left his forward position to relax back beside her, reaching for her hand and saying: ‘We’re almost home.’

CHAPTER THREE

BECAUSE of the trees, Beth was unaware that they had reached their destination until Raoul turned the station wagon between stone gateposts. Then, at the end of a curving sweep of gravelled drive, she saw it, and gasped her incredulity.

The ‘Big House’, as it was known locally, was a remnant of a bygone age, a pillared white house, with Doric columns supporting a balcony that swept majestically across the front of the building. The centre part of the house had double doors, which presently stood wide, and lines of graceful windows stretching on each side. These lines were repeated on the first floor, and above a second floor had slightly smaller panes. As well as this central portion, two wings extended at either side, dual-storied and probably later additions to the main body of the building. In spite of the fact that the drive needed weeding and the lawns that stretched before the house were not as smooth as they might have been, Beth was enchanted, and looked it.

Willard was pleased. ‘Welcome to your new home, darling,’ he smiled, and uncaring that Raoul might see them through the rear-view mirror, he leant across and bestowed a warm kiss on her parted lips.

Raoul brought the station wagon to a halt at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to the shadowed portico, and Beth thrust open her door eagerly and got out. As she did so, she glimpsed the ocean between the trees, and a shiver of anticipation ran over her. She longed to go down to the beach and allow the fine coral sand to curl between her toes, or plunge into the blue waters of the Caribbean and feel its refreshing coolness soothing her overheated body. But for the moment those longings would have to wait, and Willard was demanding her attention.

Raoul had helped his employer out of the vehicle and had gone to the back to rescue their luggage when an elderly black-skinned manservant came down the steps of the house.

‘Mister Willard!’ he exclaimed warmly. ‘Mister Willard, sir. Welcome home!’

Beth turned towards him shyly as Willard came round the car to greet him, saying emotionally: ‘Jonas! Jonas, old chap! I’ve looked forward to seeing your ugly old face again.’

Beth stood to one side, watching their greetings to one another, and became aware of Raoul watching them, too. There was a curiously cynical expression on his face as he hauled the cases out of the station wagon, and then he looked at her and she looked quickly away, not wanting him to think she had been interested in his reaction.

‘Beth, this is Jonas,’ Willard announced unnecessarily. ‘Believe it or not, but we were boys together here. His mother used to work for mine, and I’ve lost count of the number of scrapes we got into together.’

Beth was a little taken aback to think that Jonas was only Willard’s age, or perhaps a little older. He looked ten or fifteen years older, at least, and there were lines on his face and grey in his hair which was not evident in her fiancé’s. But then, she thought reasonably, no doubt Jonas’s life had been vastly different from Willard’s, and no matter how unfair this might seem to her, it was commonplace here in the islands. One didn’t need to have been born and bred here to know that.

Greetings over, a shy young maid appeared behind Jonas, and she came down the steps to help Raoul with the cases.

‘Marya,’ said Willard, off-handedly, and although Beth accepted that she did not warrant the affection shown to Jonas, she couldn’t help noticing that Marya’s interest was all centred on Raoul Valerian. As she followed her fiancé and his manservant up the steps and across the portico into the house, she had to stop herself from censuring the other girl’s actions. What was it to her if Marya made a fool of herself with every man she met? She hoped she wasn’t going to become one of those awful women who were always trying to place restrictions on other people’s behaviour. But then Marya laughed, and all her good intentions flew in the face of an angry feeling of resentment that owed little to tolerance or charity.

The hall struck chill after the heat outside, but it was a welcome coolness, accentuated by marble floors and pillars, and a high arched ceiling that focussed on a circular stained glass window two floors above. Arched doorways led into the apartments that opened from the hall, and immediately ahead of them, a fan-shaped staircase split at the first landing to coil around the outer wall to the second floor. The staircase, like the floor of the hall, was made of marble, veined and fluted, and elegantly mounted by an intricately moulded wrought iron balustrade.

Yet, for all its elegance, the house had a vaguely neglected air, Beth thought. The bowls that surmounted the pedestals set about the hall should have been filled with flowers, but they looked dry and dusty, and no one had bothered to sweep away the leaves that had been blown in through the open doorway and presently shifted underfoot.

‘Where is my daughter?’

Willard was speaking to Jonas, and Beth turned her attention to the elderly servant.

‘She’s lying down, sir,’ Jonas informed him, rather uncomfortably. ‘She wasn’t well this morning, and she sent Marya across to Mister Raoul——’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ replied Willard, rather tautly, and looking at his face, Beth saw that he was beginning to look drained again.

‘Willard——’ she began, and as if anticipating her words, he turned to Jonas and said half impatiently:

‘Has a room been made ready for Miss Rivers?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jonas nodded, and as he did so, Raoul and the maid came into the hall carrying the cases.

‘Where do you want these?’ he asked, but Beth moved forward at once and said:

‘I can manage my own cases. If you’ll leave them here, I’ll deal with them later.’

‘Marya can deal with them,’ stated Willard uncompromisingly, and Raoul’s dark eyebrows quirked mockingly.

‘I’ll take yours up,’ he commented, looking at his employer, and Willard nodded, saying shortly: ‘You know where to go.’

The maid was small and dark, not as dark as Jonas, but almost. Her gaze flickered half enviously over the other girl, and Beth felt the first unfamiliar pangs of knowing herself helpless in the face of Willard’s domination.

‘If you’ll follow me, miss?’ Marya asked politely, and Beth was bending to pick up her vanity case when Willard said:

‘Leave that, Beth. The maid will come back for it. Go with Marya now. She’ll show you your room. Which is it?’ he asked, transferring his attention to the maid. ‘The blue suite?’ Marya bobbed and nodded her head, and Willard looked satisfied. ‘Good. I’ll follow you up.’

Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, glancing first up the stairs to where Raoul had reached the first landing, and then back at her fiancé. ‘Willard——’

‘I’ve told you, I’m coming up,’ he insisted testily, and she had no other choice, but to follow the maid.

The rooms on the first floor were along a white-panelled corridor, the central area being given over to what appeared to be reception rooms. Beth guessed that in the days when servants were plentiful and the master of the big house had lived in some style, there had been balls and dinner parties in these echoing rooms which now accommodated only a widower and his daughter, and a handful of domestics. And his wife, she added silently to herself, remembering her own reasons for being here, but it seemed unreal. Right now, the noonday heat had created a somnolence that filled the house itself, and even her own advent seemed an intrusion.

Following Marya along the corridor they passed an open door and glancing in, Beth was disconcerted to find Raoul Valerian straightening after depositing Willard’s suitcases at the foot of a square four-poster bed. The action must have caused his hat to fall from his head, for he had bent to pick it up, and as he straightened Beth couldn’t help noticing how thick and smooth his hair was compared to Marya’s corkscrew curls. Then he turned his head and looked at her, and she found herself quickening her step to follow the maid.

Her rooms were, she found, next door to Willard’s. Marya showed her into a light, airy bedroom, with cream walls inset with blue silk panels, and a matching blue bedspread whose fringe trailed to the mosaic tiling of the floor. The bed itself was similar to Willard’s, but smaller, and there was a continental armoire in which to hang her clothes, and a pair of chests, in the drawers of which she could keep her lingerie. There was no dressing table as such, although the circular mirror which stood on one of the chests was obviously for that purpose. Everything about the room was old, but serviceable, and apart from a little dust here and there, evidence of careless housekeeping, it was very tasteful.

‘Thank you, Marya,’ Beth said now, as the maid put down her luggage. ‘This is very nice.’

‘The bathroom is through there, miss,’ Marya told her, her smile apparently reserved for someone else. ‘I’ll get the rest of your things.’

‘Just a minute …’ Beth had to ask. ‘Is—was this—I mean, did this room belong to the—the first Mrs Petrie?’

Marya shrugged. ‘I work here for two years only,’ she said, and left the room.

While she was gone, Beth wandered to the windows. Long chiffon curtains hid the handles of the french doors, but they were ajar, and Beth pushed the curtains aside and stepped out on to the balcony. As she had expected, these rooms overlooked the front of the house, and from here she had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. A sweep of white sand descended to waters that were white at the rim but deep turquoise further out. The beach seemed to shelve quite rapidly, and she thought of swimming out there, submerging her body in the water, drifting with the tide …

‘Is everything to your liking?’

Beth turned back into the room at the sound of Willard’s voice. He was standing rather heavily in the doorway, supporting himself against the jamb, and she hurried towards him anxiously.

‘Darling, everything’s perfect, but I have to say it—you do look tired. Won’t you rest for a while? I’m sure—everyone would understand.’

Willard drew a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he conceded with a faint smile. ‘You’re right, I do feel absolutely shattered. But Clarrie’s preparing lunch——’

‘Clarrie?’ Beth frowned, and then shook her head. ‘Well, never mind now, I’m sure you could have some lunch in bed if you’re hungry. I’ll fetch it up to you myself.’

‘You’re so good—and so beautiful,’ he breathed huskily, reaching out a hand to touch a coil of silvery silk which had fallen over one shoulder. ‘Do you like your room? It was Agnes’s, you know. Barbara must have known that I would want you next to me.’

Beth swallowed a momentary sense of unease. It was the first time Willard had mentioned his first wife by name. And as to Barbara’s motives for giving her the room … She found it harder to be charitable about that, too.

‘Come along,’ she said now. ‘Let me help you to your room. And you can tell me who Clarrie is.’

Willard went with her willingly enough, and Beth saw to her relief that Raoul had departed. She helped Willard on to the bed, and then began very efficiently to strip the clothes from him.

‘Do you have any pyjamas here?’ she asked, looking around, and he nodded towards the chest of drawers in one corner.

‘In there,’ he said wearily, and she was glad she did not have to start rummaging his suitcases looking for night-wear.

His room was very similar in design to her own, with yellow hangings instead of the blue. She folded back the bedspread and helped him between the sheets, then went to the wndows and closed the shutters, instantly cutting the illumination in the room to a filtered twilight.

‘Now,’ she said, approaching the bed again. ‘Shall I bring you some lunch, or would you rather rest a while?’

‘I’d rather rest,’ Willard confessed reluctantly. Then he reached for her hand. ‘Beth, I’m sorry about—about Barbara. She’ll come round, I know she will.’

It was the nearest he had come to admitting that anything was wrong, but Beth had not the heart to ask him questions then. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his forehead, saying softly:

‘You just rest. Everything will work itself out, you’ll see.’

But in her own room again, Beth couldn’t help conceding that she had sounded more confident than she actually felt. Yet anger was a great morale-booster, and it was with irritation she pondered the kind of woman who would let her sick father return home without making any attempt to greet him.

Marya had returned in her absence with the rest of her things, and with a sigh, Beth hoisted her largest case on to the bed and unlocked it. She was halfway through unpacking its contents when there was a knock at her door.

‘Yes?’ she turned automatically, and Marya’s face appeared again.

‘Clarrie says that lunch is ready, miss,’ she announced, her eyes flickering with evident interest over the shreds of underwear strewn across the coverlet.

‘Oh. Thank you, Marya,’ Beth nodded, and with a casual shrug left what she was doing. ‘I’ll come down now.’

‘Yes, miss.’

Marya went ahead along the corridor, her slim hips swaying suggestively under the plain white shift which appeared to be the only garment she was wearing. An apron was tied about her waist, but it only emphasised the sinuous limbs beneath the material, and Beth found herself resenting the girl’s careless sensuality once more. Even so, she had to admit that her own pants were clinging rather tightly to her legs and that the fastening of her bra dug uncomfortably into her heated flesh.

They descended the elegant staircase, and walking down it for the first time, her hand running lightly over the smooth wrought iron rail, Beth couldn’t help feeling a sense of achievement. She was to be mistress here, she thought disbelievingly, and a shiver of excitement feathered along her spine.

Marya crossed the hall and went through one of the arched doorways into an enormous open living area. Regency striped couches, their covers slightly faded with age, were set about the room, there were hand-carved chairs with velvet-cushioned seats, and a French escritoire with rose-leaf marquetry. There were tables, and stools, and more contemporary cupboards, and a vast open fireplace filled with logs for burning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Willard, in the robes of some university, painted, Beth suspected, some twenty years before.

They went through this room and out through double doors on to a patio, shaded by a canopy that extended from the wall of the house. It was here that lunch was laid on a square, glass-topped table, flanked by wrought iron chairs with attractively cushioned seats. The table was set for two, but Beth immediately explained that her fiancé would not be joining her.

‘I will tell Clarrie.’ said Marya at once, and went away, leaving Beth to admire the blossom-hung trellis that marked the boundary of the gardens which stretched away from the back of the house. Roses grew in wild profusion beyond the trellis, and she recognised other flowers that were common enough in England between the lush banks of semi-tropical vegetation. But nature had repossessed much of what had once been formal walks and arbours, and while the mass of shrubs and creepers was colourful, it was also untamed and uncultivated.

Marya came back with an extremely fat woman whose face nevertheless creased into a smile when she saw Beth.

‘So you are Mister Willard’s fiancée, are you?’ she asked, regarding the girl critically. ‘Mmm, a little young perhaps, but woman enough, I think.’

Beth’s cheeks flamed. ‘Are you Clarrie?’

‘That’s right.’ The fat woman dug a finger into the mound of flesh that swelled above her middle. ‘I’se the cook here. I used to be nursemaid to Miss Barbara, but now I’se the cook.’

Beth couldn’t take offence. ‘Did Marya tell you that—that Mister Willard doesn’t want anything to eat right now?’

‘She did.’ Clarrie nodded. ‘I seen him earlier. Jest after you come.’ She paused. ‘Miss Barbara says you was his nurse. How is he? Is he really better?’

Apart from Jonas’s evident affection, it was the nearest thing to concern that Beth had heard expressed, and she responded to it. ‘He’s still very weak,’ she admitted. ‘His heart is recovering from the shock, but the muscles are still strained. He must take things easily for a while. Maybe six months. Only time will tell.’