Rooted In Dishonour

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Clarrie was digesting this thoughtfully when on impulse Beth asked: ‘What about—Miss Barbara? When will I get to meet her?’

Clarrie’s generous mouth drew in. ‘Miss Barbara will come down in her own good time,’ she declared expressionlessly, turning towards the house. ‘I’ll get the food.’

The meal was delicious—melon balls served with ginger, a shellfish salad that filled her plate, and fresh fruit to follow—but Beth could not do justice to it. She tried to tell herself it was because she was alone, because she had no one to talk to, but it was more than that. She felt curiously vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience.

When the meal was over she waited for Clarrie or Marya to come and clear the table so that she could ask them whether they thought it would be all right if she went exploring. But after lingering over her coffee for more than half an hour, with the shadows on the patio lengthening all the while, she eventually left the table and walked back through the huge living room to the hall.

Beyond the archway which led into the living room, long corridors stretched away on either side which she guessed led to the two wings she had seen from the drive. Directly opposite the living room, another archway gave on to what appeared to be a formal dining room, with a long table hedged about with ladder-backed chairs. Here there were more portraits of Willard and his horses, but she was reluctant to venture further without his permission. She was not his wife yet, and besides, she wanted him to show her his home. Even so, it was borne in on her that they couldn’t possibly live in all the rooms of this echoing mansion, and the sense of space was somehow intimidating.

With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, passing Willard’s door on silent feet. The faintly droning sound she could hear indicated that he was sleeping, and a relieved smile curved her lips. At least he was home and at peace. Everything else would work itself out.

To her astonishment, someone had been into her room in her absence and unpacked all her cases, hanging away her pants, skirls and dresses in the armoire and folding all her lingerie into the drawers of the chests. Remembering Marya’s inquisitive interest in her clothes, she guessed it must have been her, but somehow the knowledge did not please her. Then she chided herself for her ingratitude, and resolved to thank the maid next time she saw her.

As if by a magnet, she was drawn to the windows once more, and she looked out at the ocean yearningly. Surely Willard wouldn’t object if she just went for a walk along the beach, she thought restlessly, but her damp clothes mocked her detachment. If she went down to the beach now she would be unable to resist going into the water, and that was something she did not intend to do.

She flicked a glance towards her bathroom, and then, coming to a decision, she opened the armoire and pulled out a simple cotton skirt and a sleeveless vest. Collecting clean underwear from the chest, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the shower.

However, the fitments of the bathroom proved to be more efficient than the plumbing. The water coughed and spluttered its way out of the pipes, and what was more it was icy cold. Beth gasped as the chilly spray probed her warm flesh like frozen needles, but at least it achieved her purpose. When she emerged from the shower to towel herself dry she was shivering, and the ocean outside no longer seemed so appealing. But the heat did, and after brushing her silky hair until her scalp tingled, too, she left her bedroom once more.

The house could have been empty. She saw no one, and she walked outside with a distinct feeling of isolation. The gravelled sweep of the drive curved into a shimmering haze, and she was glad she had put on canvas shoes instead of sandals as the stones crunched under her feet. She crossed the lawns that fronted the dining room she had seen earlier, and walked between the trees to where she could see the sparkling glitter of the water. The salty tang was stronger here, and she breathed deeply, looking along the curve of the bay that arched away to her left.

The house was set on a rocky bluff overlooking a lagoon, and in the distance she could hear the sound of the water breaking on the reef. Shading her eyes, she looked towards the horizon, and then allowed her head to move, taking in the whole sweep of sand that stretched away to her right. It was completely deserted, and while she had not liked the emptiness of the house, a beach had never looked so inviting. She felt like Robinson Crusoe must have felt, discovering that he was alone on the island, and unable to resist, she descended the rocky slope to the sand.

Kicking off her shoes, she allowed the grains to squeeze between her toes. It was incredibly warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she did a little dance of pure enjoyment. Then she ran to the water’s edge and allowed the creaming foam to wash the sand away, giggling as it ran away beneath her causing widening eddies as her weight made a deepening impression.

She turned and looked back towards the house. She thought she could pinpoint which windows were hers and Willard’s, and she wondered if he had awakened yet and was wondering where she was. But no, she decided. He would probably sleep for most of the afternoon, and he would not expect her to sit around in her room waiting for him to wake up.

She decided to walk along the shoreline for a while. It was hot, but she was not one of those people who burned easily, and considering her Scandinavian fairness, she tanned quite easily. A short walk would not harm her, she resolved, and at least the sea would keep her toes cool.

The beach curved, and ahead of her some distance away she could see the jutting arm of the headland. The colour of the water was greener around the headland, and she guessed it was much deeper there where the rocky outcrop made swimming hazardous. But she never tired of looking at the translucent shallows, catching her breath as tiny sandcrabs scuttled out of her path.

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