A Distant Sound Of Thunder

‘Oh,’ she said, when she saw him. ‘I—I didn’t hear the car.’

He shrugged. ‘I left it outside the drive. I guessed Adele might be asleep and I didn’t want to disturb her.’

Rebecca began to wrap up the dead flowers in an old newspaper she had brought for the purpose. ‘If you knew Adele would be asleep, why have you come?’ she asked, rather unevenly.

His eyes darkened. ‘For obvious reasons. Look, Rebecca, I can imagine what Adele has told you about me, but please, don’t judge me so hastily!’

Rebecca stared at him. ‘It’s not my prerogative to judge anyone, Monsieur St. Clair,’ she said tautly. ‘I just feel that—well—you’re wasting your time, and your undoubted talents, on me!’

‘Be silent!’ His voice was harsh. ‘You know absolutely nothing of life—of my life!’ He clenched his fists angrily. ‘Rebecca,’ his tone changed, ‘get ready, and I will take you for a drive, oui?’

Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t do that, monsieur. Miss St. Cloud might need me.’

‘Not for an hour at least,’ he said huskily. ‘Is it so much to ask? Is my company so abhorrent to you?’

She turned away. All her senses cried out for her to accept; only common sense said no. But sometimes common sense must be overruled for the sake of sanity, and Rebecca moved towards the corridor which led to her room.

‘Well?’ he demanded fiercely.

‘I’ll get ready,’ she murmured reluctantly, and left him.

When she came back he was pacing the hall impatiently, like a caged animal, but his eyes brightened when he saw her. In a short white pleated skirt and a sleeveless ribbed sweater she looked quite lovely.

‘I’ve told Rosa we’re going out, just in case Adele wakes,’ he said, indicating that she should precede him out of the villa.

Rebecca nodded, and they walked down the drive together. At its foot, the dark blue convertible was parked, and Piers helped her inside before walking round the bonnet and sliding in beside her. His thigh brushed hers and she looked at him quickly before looking away again.

They drove north from the villa, taking the road into the hinterland which was still largely uncultivated and scarcely inhabited. Here the jungle ran riot, and at times the road itself was lost beneath the snaking creepers of the parasites that wound themselves in a death spiral round the trunks of the trees in the rain forest at the head of the valley. The atmosphere was moist and sometimes unpleasantly aromatic with decaying vegetation. Rebecca lay back in her seat and wondered with mild curiosity exactly where they were going.

It wasn’t until they had been travelling for almost three-quarters of an hour that she realised that wherever it was they were going was far too far to attempt in such a limited time. The silence that had stretched between them since they began their journey was such that she was loath to break it, but as it happened she did not have to.

They had been climbing for some time, up through the rain forest, but now they emerged on a plateau which gave a magnificent view of the whole valley, and where, amazingly, a waterfall fell in solitary splendour from some few feet above them away down the rocky slope.

Piers brought the car to a halt and opening his door he slid out. Hands on hips, he surveyed the panorama of the island spread out below him and then turned to look at Rebecca, still seated in the car. ‘Bien?’ he said challengingly. ‘Magnificent, is it not?’

‘Magnificent,’ agreed Rebecca unhappily. ‘But we must get back. As it is we will be late—–’

‘Oh, Rebecca!’ He came to lean on her car door, his eyes lazily caressing. ‘Are you always so concerned with what is right and what is wrong?’

Rebecca slid across the bench seat and climbed out at his side, escaping from his nearness. As usual he succeeded in disconcerting her.

With a sigh, he straightened, and then said: ‘Come here. We’ll sit down for a while. Do you smoke? I am afraid I have only cheroots.’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I don’t smoke.’ Her face was anxious.

Piers seated himself on a stretch of turf that was warmed by the heat of the sun and shaded by the outcrop of rock from which the waterfall tumbled. Taking out his cheroots, he lit one lazily, and drew deeply upon it. Then he looked up at her, shaking his head curiously.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is causing that anxious frown?’

Rebecca turned away, breathing swiftly. Suddenly she was remembering something she had thought long forgotten, the reason she had left England in the first place. Her grandmother had been dead before she finished her training, of course, and she had shared a flat with another nurse. Sheila had been engaged to a young houseman, Peter Feldman, and naturally Peter became a frequent visitor at the flat. Unfortunately, after a time, Peter became attracted to Rebecca, and she to him. It had been an impossible situation. Sheila had been such a nice girl, a good friend, too good to be hurt like that. As soon as Rebecca qualified, she had jumped at the chance of this post, thousands of miles away from temptation. For a time she had thought she had loved Peter, but in these new and exciting surroundings she had found it easy to forget. In consequence, she had been grateful for the discovery that what she had felt for him had been no lasting emotion. Piers St. Clair presented entirely different problems. This man aroused her in a way she had not believed she could be aroused. Without touching her, without any visible effort on his part, he could reduce her to a trembling mass of emotions.

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