A Distant Sound Of Thunder

Thrusting these thoughts aside, she rose from her dressing-table stool and crossed the bedroom to the door. Down the hall, the lounge door stood wide and she was forced to look inside to find her employer. Adele was seated in an armchair now, sipping a glass of iced cordial, while Piers St. Clair stood before the broad stone hearth, one hand resting on the mantel as he drank from a glass containing an amber-coloured liquid which Rebecca assumed was whisky. Adele looked across at her as she hovered uncertainly by the door, and said:

‘Come in, come in, girl. Is lunch ready yet?’

Rebecca compressed her lips. ‘I—I don’t know. I—I just wanted to see if you had everything you needed. As you have Monsieur St. Clair here for lunch today, I’ll—I’ll eat in my room.’

Adele frowned. ‘Very well, Rebecca. You may tell Rosa we are ready when she is—–’

‘Oh, but surely Nurse Lindsay is welcome to eat with us if that is her normal practice,’ exclaimed Piers St. Clair, at once. He looked at Adele. ‘Our conversation is not confidential. I think we have had plenty of time for confidences, do not you, chérie?’

Adele raised her eyebrows. ‘Rebecca can make up her own mind,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘We usually are alone. This situation does not normally occur.’

‘I gathered that. That is why …’ He spread his hands in a continental gesture.

Rebecca managed to remain calm. ‘Thank you all the same, Miss St. Cloud, but I shall be quite happy to eat in my room.’

Adele’s expression altered and she looked at Rebecca rather curiously, sensing that her nurse did not want to join them for lunch. In consequence, she chose to be difficult, and Rebecca, watching the changing features, felt a sense of dismay. She should have known better than to express any preference. She knew of old Adele’s delight in thwarting her.

‘Why don’t you want to join us for lunch, Rebecca? she enquired challengingly. ‘I gather you don’t, do you?’

Rebecca sighed. ‘My reasons are quite simple, Miss St. Cloud. I naturally assumed you and your—your guest—would prefer to be alone.’

Adele studied her lacquered fingernails. ‘Now why should you imagine that, Rebecca? Do you suppose that Piers and I cherish some long-lost affection for one another? Do you think perhaps we were once lovers?’

Rebecca’s cheeks burned. ‘I—I’ll go and tell Rosa you are ready, Miss St. Cloud.’ She would not argue with her.

Adele chewed her lower lip impatiently. ‘Why do you persist in disregarding my questions, Rebecca?’ she exclaimed. ‘Am I a child to be humoured but never debated with?’

Rebecca heaved a sigh. She cast a fleeting glance in Piers St. Clair’s direction but looked away from the mockery in his gaze. Obviously he could not—or would not—help her.

‘I think it would be as well if I got on with my work, Miss St. Cloud,’ she said at last. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I am being deliberately obtuse, but it is not part of my duties to share my—my breaks—with you.’

‘You impudent little chit!’ Adele stared at her incredulously. Rebecca had never answered her back in this manner before.

‘Now, Adele,’ murmured Piers St. Clair quietly. ‘Perhaps Nurse Lindsay is right. Perhaps she does not have to spend all her time with us—with you! She has feelings, too, you know, and I think you have teased her long enough, oui?’

Rebecca stared at him now. Although she hated to admit it, his intervention was welcome, and his deliberate use of the verb to tease reduced it all to a playful confrontation and gave Adele the chance to get out of the situation without loss of face. In consequence, after a moment’s soul-searching, Adele accepted his directions, and said reluctantly:

‘Yes, that’s all right, Rebecca. You can go.’

With relief, Rebecca left the room, and after informing Rosa that her employer and her guest were ready for their meal, carried a solitary tray to her room.

When the meal was over, another problem presented itself. Adele usually slept for an hour after lunch, but how was Rebecca to arrange such a thing today? She wondered whether she should simply forget her instructions, but somehow her code of training was too strong, and therefore it was with an immense sense of relief that she heard, a few moments later, the sound of a car’s engine being started. She rushed to the window and looked out. Her room was on the side of the house, but by opening her window she could look out and see the further length of the drive. She was in time to see the blue convertible approach the gates and after slowing, accelerate into the road beyond.

She heaved a sigh, resting her elbows on the window ledge. So he had gone. And now she could go and settle Adele down for her sleep without complications.

But that was easier said than done. Adele was emotionally and physically stimulated by her visitor, and was in no mood to be amenable with Rebecca.

‘How—how dare you speak to me like that in front of a guest!’ she stormed, as soon as Rebecca appeared to take her for her rest. ‘Don’t imagine because Piers chose to champion you that I have forgotten it! A chit like you who doesn’t even know who her own father was!’

Rebecca controlled the angry retort that sprang to her lips. Once, in a moment of compassion for Adele, she had confided the circumstances of her birth to her employer and she had regretted it ever since. ‘My father was killed on his way to the church to marry my mother!’ she said, through taut lips. ‘I wish you would not speak to me about it again!’

‘I’ll bet you do!’ jeered Adele unkindly. ‘If your parents were such paragons of virtue, how did you come to be here?’

Rebecca flushed hotly. ‘They were young—and in love! I couldn’t expect you to understand that!’ She turned away abruptly, unable to prevent the lump that filled her throat when she thought of the agony her mother had suffered. Her grandmother had never understood either, and had taken every opportunity to deride her for it. The train crash which had robbed her mother of her life must have seemed a blessed release.

Adele seemed to sense that she had said enough, for almost conversationally now, she said: ‘It was quite nice, wasn’t it? Having a man dine with us? There’s the doctor, and old Blackwell, of course, but they’re not the same, are they?’ Andrew Blackwell was the local churchman, and although Adele was not particularly religious and grumbled about him continually, she was often glad of his company.

Rebecca composed herself and turned to help Adele into her wheelchair. Adele looked at her critically before saying: ‘Seriously, why didn’t you want to have lunch with us?’ She frowned. ‘You couldn’t have thought we wanted to be alone. Piers wouldn’t be interested in an old hag like me!’

‘You’re neither old, nor a hag,’ responded Rebecca quietly. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Adele sighed. ‘Once Piers and I knew each other very well. When I was younger and not paralysed as I am now. I used to be able to do a lot of things.’

‘You’re not paralysed now, Miss St. Cloud,’ Rebecca contradicted her gently.

‘Not actually, perhaps. But in every way that matters, I am. Tied to a wheelchair, unable to walk, or dance, or swim!’ Her face twisted bitterly, and Rebecca felt distressed. It was at times like this when she felt an immense sense of compassion for Adele.

‘Now then,’ she said, smiling a little. ‘You’re not tied to the villa. We have the car. We could drive to Navua tomorrow if you like. Dr. Manson says the trip up river from there is quite beautiful. Forests and waterfalls—and it would be refreshing on the water.’

Adele turned to her impatiently. ‘I don’t want to go on a river trip,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t humour me, Rebecca. I don’t want that. Just because you’re young and healthy, don’t try to fool me! I’m useless! A wreck of a woman, not even fit to be called a woman.’

‘That’s nonsense!’

‘What is nonsense?’ Adele clenched her fists. ‘Do you think I don’t notice the way men look at you? The way Dr. Manson looks at you. The way Piers looked at you!’

Rebecca’s cheeks were scarlet. ‘Please, Miss St. Cloud—–’ she began.

‘Why? Why shouldn’t I say it? It’s true, isn’t it?’ Adele’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you can’t fool me about that, either, Rebecca! Piers was the reason you didn’t want to lunch with me. Piers! I wonder why? What did he say to you last evening to cause you such anxiety?’

Rebecca began to wheel the chair into the corridor and from there to Adele’s room, but Adele was not finished yet. Twisting in her seat, she watched her nurse’s mobile face, and her own grew contemptuous. Turning round again, she went silent, and Rebecca was relieved. But as they reached Adele’s bedroom, Adele spoke again, this time in an entirely different voice.

‘Tell me, Rebecca, now you’ve had the chance to speak to him again, what do you think of Piers?’

Rebecca bit her lip. What did Adele want of her now? Searching for a suitable reply, she said: ‘He seems—quite nice.’ She helped Adele on to the bed and began to loosen the buttons of her dress. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘Most of my life,’ answered Adele, sliding her arms out of the dress. ‘‘His family and mine were always very close.’

‘I see.’ Rebecca bent to unfasten Adele’s shoes and Adele’s eyes narrowed.

‘At one time—it was thought that he and I—might marry,’ she said.

Rebecca looked up, hiding her surprise. But then, of course, Piers St. Clair would be about Adele’s own age. Something he had said came back to her: he had called her his sister-in-law! A strange feeling twisted her stomach. He was married, then. Married to Adele’s sister.

Adele watched Rebecca closely. ‘Why are you frowning?’ she asked. ‘Are you so shocked by that knowledge?’

‘Why, no!’ Rebecca answered quickly. ‘But—it was something Monsieur St. Clair said.’

‘Which was?’ Adele prompted.

Rebecca shrugged. ‘Only that he was your brother-in-law.’

Adele nodded, and lay back against the pillows. ‘That’s right.’ Her mouth twisted again. ‘He married one of my four sisters.’

Rebecca straightened, lifting Adele’s legs on to the bed. ‘So he’s married,’ she said, rather flatly.

Adele regarded her intently, and then a strange smile curved her thin lips. ‘My sister died,’ she said, closing her eyes.

Rebecca pressed a hand to her stomach. ‘I’ll get the sedative,’ she said.

Adele’s eyes flickered. ‘That won’t be necessary, Rebecca. I feel—very tired.’

Rebecca hesitated. Adele’s cheeks were still flushed with hectic colour, but she could not force her to take the capsule.

‘Very well,’ she said now, ‘I’ll leave you. But if you want anything, just call.’

‘I will.’ Adele closed her eyes again. ‘By the way, Piers is coming for dinner tomorrow evening. Do you think you could ask Rosa to use a little more imagination with the food than she usually does?’

Rebecca walked to the door. ‘I’ll speak to her,’ she agreed, and went quickly out of the room.

CHAPTER TWO

THE next morning Rebecca went down to the beach as usual to take her early morning swim. A faint mist cast gauzy nets across the horizon heralding another perfect day. Spiders’ webs among the palms were hung with dew which sparkled like diamonds, and the sand underfoot was cool and soft between her toes. Shedding her towelling jacket, she stood for a moment, poised on the shoreline, stretching her arms to the rays of the rising sun.

And so it was, silhouetted against the golden skyline, that the man saw her as he emerged from the trees and came walking panther-like along the sand towards her. As though suddenly conscious of the approach of an intruder, Rebecca swung round and gasped, as much with annoyance as with surprise, as she recognised the interloper.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ Piers St. Clair said casually, reaching her side. ‘Do you usually swim at this hour?’

Rebecca managed to control her colour. This man always seemed to put her at a disadvantage, and dressed only in a bikini, her feet bare, she felt somehow aware and vulnerable.

‘This is the only time of day I can call my own,’ she replied, rather pointedly. ‘Miss St. Cloud does not rise until nine—or thereabouts.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Piers nodded.

Rebecca hesitated, and then said: ‘I understood you were invited for dinner—not for breakfast.’

He smiled. ‘What a sharp little tongue you have, mademoiselle. It may surprise you to know that I did not intend calling at the villa. My hotel room was hot and I was not tired. I decided to drive for a while and as I passed Adele’s villa I saw you crossing the lawns towards the beach. I apologise if my arrival is something of an intrusion.’

Rebecca coloured now. He had successfully reduced her small attempt at sarcasm to mere pettiness. With an inconsequent shrug of her shoulders, she said: ‘As you are a friend—a relative, almost—of my employer, your presence on the beach could hardly be termed an intrusion when I am merely Adele’s employee.’ She bit her lip. She had not meant to say Adele, it had just slipped out, but she was just as sure that he had noticed it.

Piers St. Clair frowned. ‘I care less and less for your explanations, mademoiselle,’ he commented dryly. ‘As I have said, I did not intend coming here. I should not have.’

With a flick of his fingers against his dark trousers, he turned and walked away along the beach, and Rebecca pressed her lips together unhappily. For all she was sure he would not mention this incident to Adele, nevertheless she felt a sense of shame that she should have behaved so rudely. After all, it was not his fault that she found him disturbingly attractive. No doubt he was used to women finding him so. It was just that some inner sense warned her about becoming involved with him, without taking into account the fact that he might not feel attracted to her. Sighing indecisively, she stepped forward into the water, allowing the small waves to ripple round her ankles. She would not allow thoughts of him to mar these moments of the day. This was the time when she shed all the petty restrictions Adele imposed and became a sun-worshipper.

The water was delicious, and it creamed over her shoulders delightfully. There was a sensuousness about warm water that compared with nothing she had ever known back in England. Occasionally, late in the evening, when Adele was fast asleep, she came and swam without her bikini, but although this beach was private she would not dare to do so in daylight. Piers St. Clair’s unexpected arrival was indicative of what could happen.

Later in the morning Adele received a telephone call, and when she put down the receiver her face was hard and angry. ‘That was Piers,’ she said shortly, as Rebecca turned from arranging some flowers in a huge urn in the hall. ‘He has postponed our dinner engagement.’

Rebecca swallowed hard, forcing her face to remain composed. ‘Oh! Has he?’ she murmured quietly. ‘Did—did he say why?’

Adele chewed her lower lip. ‘Something to do with his business here, I believe,’ she snapped moodily, her manner denoting the kind of day Rebecca might expect from now on. ‘In any event, he’s not coming! Damn him!’

Rebecca couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though a small core of anxiety inside her told her that his reasons for rejecting Adele’s invitation were not wholly impersonal. But she successfully hid her own feelings and managed to put all thoughts of Piers St. Clair to the back of her mind.

It was three days before she saw him again. Although Adele expected a telephone call daily, none came, and Rebecca was beginning to believe that he did not intend returning to the villa at all. When his business in Suva was over and he went to Lautoka the chances of seeing him were much less obvious and she told herself she was relieved.

Even so, she could not deny that his intervention in their lives had been a disrupting influence from which it would take time to dissociate themselves. Thus it was quite a shock for Rebecca when she encountered Piers St. Clair again.

She had gone shopping in Suva for Adele, and had completed her purchases and was idly wandering among the market stalls, when a stall selling oil of sandalwood attracted her. The oil was being sold in cut glass jars and was obviously intended to attract the eye of the tourist. The dark-skinned islander who was in charge of the stall sensed her interest at once as she stood, fingering a jar with probing curiosity, and he began to extol the virtues of the product with rolling eyes and extravagant hand gestures. Rebecca was smilingly shaking her head when she became aware that a man had come to stand slightly behind her and casually she glanced round.

Piers St. Clair inclined his head solemnly, his face dark and serious. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he murmured smoothly.

‘Good morning.’ Rebecca managed a faint smile, and stood the glass jar back on the stall rather jerkily.

His eyes flickered to the oil and he said: ‘Are you going to buy it?’

Rebecca shook her head again. ‘No, I don’t think so. I—I—the glass jars caught my eye.’

‘As they were intended to do. Did you know that Fijians used to use this oil to anoint their bodies? It was very highly valued in that capacity. Nowadays, less so.’

Rebecca lifted her shoulders. ‘I like the fragrance.’

He raised his dark eyebrows, and then looked at the stall-holder with questioning eyes. ‘Cette essence,’ he said, indicating the jar Rebecca had put down. ‘Combien?’

Rebecca stared at him uncomfortably, and then before he could say anything she moved quickly away. She had the distinct feeling that he intended buying the oil for her, and she didn’t want that.

A ripple of apprehension running along her spine, she walked swiftly to the edge of the market area and waiting until the road was clear went quickly across. The noise of the traffic was deafening after the peace of the villa, and the sights and sounds of the city took some getting used to. As did the smell of dried copra that hung over the harbour on hot, humid days with intensity.

She had left the car parked in a side street. She knew the city area quite well, and had no fears for her safety among these big friendly people. From time to time she exchanged a greeting with a shopkeeper who was sitting outside his store, cross-legged in the sunshine. Many of these shopkeepers were Indians, and there was a variety of costume to be seen, from the calf-length sulus, worn by men and women alike, to the exotically draped sari, that seemed to enhance the femininity of all women, no matter what nationality. At this time of the year, too, Suva was thronged with tourists, and the tourist attractions did good business. Rebecca smiled to herself, as her surroundings temporarily banished all anxieties about Piers St. Clair, and she thought how lucky she was to live in such a paradise.

Reaching the car, she bent to unlock it, and then straightened to find the man she had been escaping from beside her. Containing her annoyance, she said: ‘Are you following me?’ in rather a tight little voice.

‘Yes,’ he said, almost negligently, and leaned against the car’s bonnet, his arms folded.

Today, in navy shorts, that drew attention to the brown muscular length of his legs, and a cream silk sweater that was unbuttoned almost to his waist, he looked somehow dark and alien, yet infinitely attractive. His thick dark hair was smooth against his head, and long sideburns darkened his cheekbones, while dark eyes surveyed her with enigmatic arrogance.

Rebecca, conscious of the formality of her uniform, was glad she had worn it. Somehow it added to the composure that seemed to be deserting her as it always did when he was around. Why did he persist in disturbing her in this way? Did it amuse him to make fun of her? Or was she a novelty to a man satiated by women of his own set? Whatever his reasons it could only spell disaster for her. Now she turned to him and said:

‘Exactly why are you following me, Monsieur St. Clair?’

He shrugged indolently. ‘To give you this,’ he said, offering her a parcel wrapped in coloured paper.

Rebecca did not take the parcel, but after putting her shopping bag into the car, put her hands behind her back. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want anything from you,’ she asserted jerkily. ‘Now—if you’ll excuse me—–’

Piers St. Clair regarded her coolly. ‘What do you suppose is in the parcel?’ he queried sharply.

Rebecca coloured. ‘I’d rather not say.’

‘You think it is the flagon of sandalwood oil, don’t you?’ he demanded.

Rebecca felt terrible. ‘Well? What if I do?’

He toyed with the wrapping on the parcel. ‘And what if I tell you you dropped something in the market—something I found and re-wrapped in this rather—well—colourful paper?’

Rebecca’s eyes went immediately to her shopping bag. Without taking it out and checking over the contents she could not be certain she had everything she had bought. Pressing her lips together for a moment, she said: ‘I’m sure I didn’t drop anything, monsieur.’ She ran a hand over her hair, checking that the chignon was secure with nervous fingers. ‘I think you are deliberately baiting me, for some twisted reason of your own.’

He raised his dark eyebrows, and with a deft movement he allowed the parcel to unwind in his fingers until a container of talcum powder fell into his palm, free of the wrapping. Rebecca stared at the talcum powder with disbelieving eyes. It was the cologne-scented talc she had bought for Adele. Her eyes lifted to his, but still his were guarded, revealing nothing.

Rebecca swallowed hard, and then said: ‘That is mine?’

‘If you say so,’ he remarked lightly.

Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t have dropped it without hearing it fall.’

‘What? In the noise of the market area? Don’t you think so, mademoiselle?’

Rebecca sighed. ‘I’m not sure.’ She ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Perhaps you took it from my bag.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘What have I done that you have such a low opinion of me?’ he questioned. ‘What has my inestimable sister-in-law been telling you?’

Rebecca opened the car door wider. ‘She has told me nothing, monsieur. Now, if you’ll excuse me—–’

‘Don’t you want your talcum powder, mademoiselle?’

‘Oh—oh, yes, I suppose so.’ Rebecca almost snatched the container from his hands and thrust it into the back of the car with the rest of her shopping. ‘Now I must go. Adele—I mean Miss St. Cloud—will wonder why I’ve been so long.’

He gave a negligent lift of his shoulders and straightened from the car’s bonnet. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If you insist.’

Rebecca got behind the steering wheel and then looked up at him almost appealingly. ‘I—I don’t understand you, monsieur.’

‘Non! I would agree with you there.’

Rebecca hesitated, biting her lip. ‘Are you—I mean—will you be coming to dinner before—before you leave?’

He regarded her with intense dark eyes. ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked softly.

Rebecca’s stomach contracted. ‘I—I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she stammered.

‘Is it not?’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I will come. I will ring Adele and arrange a time.’ His expression grew brooding. ‘And afterwards? Will you go for a drive with me?’

Rebecca’s eyes were wide and startled. ‘I—I—I am Adele’s employee. I cannot make arrangements like that. Besides,’ she fumbled for the ignition, ‘Adele would never agree.’

‘Adele need not know—need she?’ His eyes held hers.

Rebecca took a rather shaky breath. ‘I—I really think you—you are wasting your time, monsieur,’ she murmured unsteadily. ‘I—I am not like the—the women you know …’

‘I recognise that,’ he replied coolly. ‘I do have some perception.’

Rebecca shook her head helplessly. ‘I—I must go,’ she said. ‘Good—goodbye.’

‘Au revoir,’ he answered, and stepped back as she put the small saloon into gear, and drove rather erratically away.