Rooted In Dishonour

‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my attire,’ he retorted dryly, and as she strove for words to express herself, he swallowed half the orange juice in the glass.

‘Papa is coming home!’ she declared at last, and he wiped his mouth carelessly on the back of his hand.

‘That’s good news,’ he said laconically. ‘When? Today?’

‘No!’ She was impatient.

‘Then why the sweat?’

She winced. ‘Must you use those coarse metaphors?’

‘Was it a metaphor? I rather thought you were in a sweat down there on the beach.’ His lips curled mockingly. ‘Or was that due to my state of undress?’

Barbara regarded him coldly. ‘You transcribe everything to physical terms, don’t you? It doesn’t occur to you that there might be finer emotions——’

She broke off abruptly, aware that she had lost his attention and resenting it. It was true. He did disrupt her emotions, and she suffered agonies of jealousy knowing that he would rather spend his nights with Louise Pecarès than with her. Not that he suspected. He must never suspect. Not unless …

Again her thoughts made a swift recoil from the intimate meanderings of her mind. One day perhaps, when she was mistress of the island … But that was some way off. Her father was still a comparatively young man, and in spite of the heart attack that had forced him to remain in England longer than he had expected, he was a long way from dying. So far in fact that he was actually planning to marry again …

Her hands trembled in her lap as she recalled the cable she had received the previous afternoon. She had hardly been able to read it for the burning surge of rage which had clutched at her throat. Her father was cabling her that during his enforced stay at the hospital in London he had met a girl, a nurse, someone younger than Barbara herself, with whom he had become emotionally involved! It was unthinkable, unbelievable, disgusting! He had been a widower for almost twenty years. He could not be thinking of marrying a girl thirty years his junior.

She became aware that Raoul was watching her now as he buttered a roll and tore a piece from it to put into his mouth. Passing her tongue over her dry lips, she said without preamble: ‘Papa is thinking of getting married again.’

At last she had all his attention, and the curious green eyes revealed a reluctant curiosity. ‘Getting married?’ he echoed slowly. ‘To whom?’

‘A girl,’ said Barbara shortly, and then seeing his faint mockery added swiftly: ‘A young girl. Younger than me. His nurse!’

‘My God!’ Raoul’s ejaculation was half impatient, half admiring. ‘Well, well! Clever old Willie!’

‘Is that all you can say?’ Barbara glared at him angrily. ‘Clever old Willie, indeed! He must be in his dotage, and you know it! What girl of twenty-four would want to marry him for any other reason than the obvious one?’

‘Which is?’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know,’ she stormed. ‘His money, of course.’

Raoul lifted the coffee pot and poured some of the darkly coloured liquid into his cup. ‘You consider your father has nothing else to offer a woman?’ he drawled, and she gave him a contemptuous stare.

‘What else can it be? A—person like that!’

He looked up. ‘You’ve met her?’

‘Of course not.’ Barbara regarded him sourly. ‘How could I?’

He shrugged annoyingly. ‘You speak with such confidence. How do you know she isn’t madly in love with your father?’

Barbara shook her head. ‘He’s barely known her a month!’

‘What does time matter? There might have been a—mutual attraction.’

‘You would say that, of course.’ Her lips curled. ‘But don’t forget, all our positions here could change if Papa chooses to marry again—and produces a son!’

‘Ah, I see.’ His eyes narrowed sardonically. ‘The old “do on to others before they can do it on to you” syndrome!’

‘If you must be crude, yes.’ Barbara leant towards him eagerly. ‘Raoul, what are we going to do?’

‘What are we going to do?’ He finished his coffee and lay back in his chair indolently. ‘Don’t involve me in your schemes. If Willie chooses to saddle himself with some bloodsucking leech of a woman, what is it to do with me? I’ll just go on doing my job——’

‘So long as she lets you.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic, Barbara. Willie’s not likely to fire me, and you know it. No one else would do the job so efficiently—or so honestly. He knows he can trust me. And besides, half the Africans wouldn’t work for anybody else.’

‘You’re so confident, aren’t you?’ she sneered. ‘So conceited! It doesn’t occur to you that Papa might conceivably consider selling the island if—if this woman decides she doesn’t want to live here! You know he had that offer last year from that American company. Several million dollars can’t be overlooked.’

Raoul’s mouth thinned as he contemplated her agitated face. Obviously he had not considered that eventuality, and she was pleased that she had found the lever she needed.

‘Why should your father choose to sell now when he’s always despised those consortiums, buying up the out-islands and turning them into tourist paradises?’

‘I’ve told you. This woman he’s planning to marry is English. What will she care about the island? And if she is marrying Papa for his money, how can she spend it here? The shops in Ste Germaine don’t sell the kind of things she will want to buy.’

Raoul thrust back his chair and got abruptly to his feet, thrusting his thumbs broodingly into the back of his pants. He stood at the verandah rail, staring towards the shadowed line of the reef, watching the sun as it climbed above the mountains turning the surf to gold. This was his island, he thought fiercely, as much his as Willard Petrie’s. How dared the other man put in jeopardy the one thing he had ever really cared about?

He was aware of Barbara watching him, aware of her eyes upon him. He knew her motives were less pure than his own. All he wanted was freedom—to oversee the plantation, to care for the black people who worked for him, to live here, in his house, within sight and sound of the ocean. Perhaps his ambitions were narrow, perhaps the production from the cane fields was not enough to warrant his dedication; but he had seen enough of that other world when Willard sent him to school and subsequently university in England. He wanted no part of that rat-race society, and he had assumed when Willard retired …

Fool, he thought to himself now, fool! He should have known better than to trust a man like Willard. Hadn’t he had sufficient proof of his untrustworthiness in the past?

Barbara rose to her feet, too, and came to stand beside him at the rail. She put her hand on his arm, her fingers curling confidingly round the firm flesh, but his arm remained still and unyielding.

‘Raoul,’ she said softly, ‘don’t get upset. It need never happen. You know what Papa is like. You know how quickly he tires of people. All we need to do is show him that this—this woman is not suitable, would never fit in here …’

Raoul looked down at her. ‘If what you say is true, she may never need to,’ he pointed out dispassionately.

Barbara moved a little closer so that her rounded bare arms brushed his chest. ‘They’re not married yet.’

He made no reaction to her nearness, but said flatly: ‘When do they arrive?’

‘At the beginning of next week. They leave London on Monday morning and fly direct to St Lucia. They’re planning to stay there overnight, and come on here on Tuesday morning.’

‘Tuesday morning.’ He nodded. ‘And how is your father? Does he say he’s well?’

Barbara released him impatiently. ‘He says he’s never felt better. Can you believe it? A man of his age! And only four weeks since he had his attack!’

Raoul turned back to face the house, resting his hips on the rail. ‘Love conquers all, as they say!’ he quoted harshly.

Barbara snorted frustratedly. ‘Well? What do you think?’

He shook his head. ‘I think it’s getting late. I think it’s time I left for the mill.’

‘Damn you, Raoul!’