Rooted In Dishonour

She saw a car parked along the quay, and a man leaning against its bonnet. He was tall and lean and dark, dressed in rough cotton trousers and little else, and she thought at first he was a mulatto, but when he moved to push a drooping cotton hat to the back of his head, she saw that he was probably only darkly tanned. He was watching them with a curiously insolent expression, she thought, resenting the way he was staring, and deciding rather irritably that men like him were the same the world over. He probably imagined she was interested in him, she conceded impatiently, and looked away from his decidedly arrogant features. He looked cruel, she thought uneasily, and then chided herself for letting his attitude spoil what had been such a spontaneous welcome to the island.

She wondered where Barbara was. Surely she wouldn’t let her father return home after two months’ absence and an illness which had been severe enough to kill a weaker man without coming to meet him. If she had, it did not augur well for good relations.

‘Excuse me …’

It was the man from the car. He stood before her indolently, his thumbs pushed into the hip pockets of his pants, his weight resting without effort on one booted foot. This close she could see the shadow of beard already growing along his jawline, and the over-long darkness of his hair pushing out below the cotton hat. That same darkness was repeated across the width of his chest and followed an indeterminate path down to his navel. His eyes were a curious shade of green, unusual in one so dark, and shaded by thick dark lashes. They were slightly hooded eyes, but everything about him was aggressively masculine.

Beth glanced hesitantly towards Willard, but for the moment he had not observed the man’s approach, and she decided it was up to her to show him he was wasting his time on her. She had met men like him before, she thought contemptuously, men who imagined any woman would fall over herself to be friendly towards them.

‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ she said now, quietly but succinctly. ‘Do you mind?’

‘I mind,’ he returned annoyingly, and Beth squared her shoulders, for once glad of her five feet eight inches of height.

‘Get lost, will you?’ she said, her smile less than polite, and a mocking expression replaced the insolence.

‘If you say so,’ he agreed, and turning on his heel he sauntered lazily back to the dust-smeared vehicle.

‘Raoul!’ Willard’s startled voice arrested him, and Beth turned to stare open-mouthed at her fiancé as he excused himself from his audience and hastened after the other man. ‘Raoul!’ she heard him say again, and to her dismay he practically embraced him.

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 (#ue3c43a83-e339-5c13-b95b-b257fbd1539e)

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.