Stormy Haven (14 page)

“
Ask Elfrida!
”
The night vibrated with his anger.
“
If I got as near to her as
I
am to you, I
’
d choke her. In fact, if I stay here much longer it
’
s pretty certain I
’
ll do something entirely un-British. As for you—
”
He broke off, eyes glittering, his jaw taut.
“
Go right ahead and join up with your pot of gold. It
’
ll probably take you straight to hell!
”

“
Stephen!
”
she cried.

Breathing heavily, angrily, he took hold of her shoulders,
“
That was a filthy thing to say. But you
’
re so blamed foolish and gullible. I
’
ll see Senor Perez and tell him you can
’
t go through with it.
”

“
No!
”
in sudden terror. She strove to calm her tones.
“
I know what I
’
m doing and it
’
s no business of yours. This was arranged days ago.
”

“
With your full agreement?
”

An instant
’
s pause, then she nodded,
“
Yes.
”

“
Sure you
’
re not lying?
”
he demanded sharply. He jerked her elbow, swung her around to face him.
“
I
’
ve told you before that I
’
d help you out of a spot. I
’
m offering to lift you out of this one.
”

Suddenly furious, her face drained and her eyes like immense black pools, she dashed down his hand.
“
And how will you set about it—lend me my fare home? What makes you think I
’
d rather have your charity than Ramon
’
s? At least, anything from him is given with love.
”
As if wound up she hurried on,
“
Despise me, if you like, but if I
’
m never to be allowed to work properly, for a salary, I
’
d sooner accept my keep from someone who needs what I
can
give him.
”
Bitterly, in a breaking voice, she envied,
“
In the whole world there
’
s no one who loves me and wants me as Ramon does. For that alone, I could marry
him.”

But she spoke to the night. Stephen had gone and left only the dry rattle of leaves, the echo of a violent stride. She stayed still in the pellucid light of the stars, depleted and horribly sad.

She had counted on Stephen
’
s instinctive understanding, his swift appraisal of the whole situation and careful handling of Elfrida. But his reaction had been only anger, and still more anger. And she was tied, had given her word to Elfrida that she would not act against the marriage except with her cousin
’
s acquiescence
...
which would never be granted.

What had she done? Being cut off from Stephen was like being blind or paralyzed. She couldn
’
t live without knowing that he was near, that they would laugh together again, that he would scoff at her youth and force her to look every experience in the eye. Stephen was the cynical moon, the cool stars, the intolerant sun, the hot, ravaging wind.

Melanie shivered and compelled herself to walk. But Stephen was a hard, immovable knot in the very center of her heart.

As she neared the house Elfrida came down from the veranda.

“
Stephen
’
s already gone,
”
she said.
“
Isn
’
t it odd?
”

“
He
...
mostly pleases himself.
”

“
It
’
s odd, all the same. I haven
’
t spoken to him since dinner. And another thing. The
senor
is giving a picnic at Pointe Douce tomorrow, but Stephen declined to make one of the number.
I
heard him tell Senor Perez that he
’
s uncovered one or two interesting items and is moving out to the diggings tomorrow
—
Sunday!
”

“
Did he mention how long he
’
d be there?
”

“
A week or two. The
senor
chaffed him again about this being his holiday, but Stephen didn
’
t rise to it. He said he wanted to clear up and be away before the bad weather begins.
”

“
That sounds reasonable
”

She passed Elfrida and went into the house. It was later, when Melanie lay in her hotel bed, that she recalled the furious disgust and loathing in Stephen
’
s voice when he had spoken of her cousin. So Elfrida had nothing to hope for there; not that Melanie had really thought she had. Apparently no one had anything to hope for from Stephen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Jameson plantation
lay off the road between Port Fernando and a village called Pirree. About seven miles from the port a well-kept track that was signposted simply, H. Jameson, went off to the left, continued for some way between rice fields and coffee trees, and eventually curved through thickets of pungent, essence-bearing plants to the wide front porch of a white, thatched dwelling.

A car arriving at the homestead was evidently an occasion. The field coolies stopped gathering flower heads, two or three dogs set up a racket, a barefoot house servant appeared on the path, and two or three tiny brown
children peeped from the thatched summer house in which they had been playing.

Before Melanie could get out of the car, however, Mrs. Jameson came from the house and down the path.

“
I
’
ve seen you in town,
”
she said,
“
and Henry told me about you. You
’
re Miss Paget. Do come in.
”

She was no taller than Melanie and nearly as thin. Her eyes were hazel in color and kind in expression, and she had pleasant, birdlike features. Her speech had the trace of an accent, though her English was fluent. She was about thirty-eight.

“
Henry
’
s not far away—he
’
s at the sheds repairing the storm shutters for the house. I
’
ll send for him.
”

“
I don
’
t think you should,
”
protested Melanie.
“
I
only
came because
—”

“
Because he invited you,
”
the other woman took her up smilingly.
“
Therefore he must come and see you. He loves being interrupted, and it
is
Sunday.
”
She called to the servant.
“
Hussim, fetch the master.
”

She led the way into a stone-floored hall that contained nothing but a black carved table bearing a copper bowl of flowers, and on into a slightly outmoded but tasteful lounge. Here, too, the wood was black and the flower holders made of copper, but the fabrics were patterned linen and old tapestry. They were somehow typical of Mrs. Jameson herself, for she, too, wore a dress of figured linen of very plain style, and her brown hair was loosely brushed back into a bun.

“
Sit down,
”
she bade Melanie,
“
and we
’
ll have drinks. All our cordials are homemade but I
’
m sure you
’
ll like them. Can you stay to lunch?
”

“
I
’
m afraid not. I only borrowed the car for an hour or so. I
’
m due to start out on a picnic at twelve.
”

“
What a pity. Next time you must come for a whole day. Henry will fetch you and take you back.
”

He came in just then, middle-aged, kindly, but rather expressionless. An unemotional sort of man, yet Melanie was instantly conscious of the devotion of these two, one for the other.

“
Hello, Miss Paget,
”
he said.
“
We
’
ve been hoping you
’
d come to see the house that John built. That
’
s some automobile that brought you.
”

“
It belongs to Ramon Perez.
”

“
The young Spaniard? I thought he
’
d left the island, but I suppose he
’
ll go out the way he came—on a wave of drink parties.
”

A slight offhandedness in his tone made Melanie look at him curiously.
“
I thought Ramon had made himself popular.
”

“
He may have done so with his own set. You were with him the first time I saw you in Port Fernando at the Miramar. Did you notice how he snubbed me?
”

His wife said,
“
That incident isn
’
t worth repeating, Henry. Mix the drinks with ice water for us.
”

But Melanie
’
s curiosity had sharpened. She remembered Ramon writing off Henry Jameson as a mere
“
planter
”
who shouldn
’
t be able to afford a night out at the Miramar.
“
I
’
d like to hear about it, Mr. Jameson.
”

“
Then I
’
ll give you the details,
”
said his wife.
“
Henry is apt to get too hot over it. Have you seen the de Vaux chateau above the town?
”

“
Yes. The best view was from the boat as we came in.
”

“
So it is. The castle itself is a ruin; no one has lived there for
more than a hundred years. I
’
m the last of the de Vaux family. My mother and grandmother were English,
”
she laughed,
“
and they used to call the castle Frenchman
’
s Folly.
”

“
But it looks beautiful against the trees.
”

“
Yes, it does. It quite captivated Ramon Perez. He sought me out and made me an offer for the chateau. I told him it had to remain de Vaux property till it crumbled away.
”
She had paused to give Melanie a cherry-colored drink that tinkled with ice, and Henry Jameson supplied an acid comment.

“
I know what I
’
d have done if he
’
d put the offer to me!
”

“
Yes, darling,
”
she said equably.
“
We both know. How do you like the drink, Miss Paget?
”

“
It
’
s deliciously refreshing. Go on about the castle.
”

“
You find the story romantic? There isn
’
t much more. The young
senor
has reverence for buildings and customs, so he accepted my refusal gracefully. But he made me a different proposition. He wished me to permit him to have the place restored and furnished—at a colossal cost
—
and allow him the use of it.
”

“
Was he backed by his father?
”

“
I never met the old man, but I
’
ve heard that he dotes on his son and will procure for him whatever he desires.
”

A shadow flickered across Melanie
’
s face. She sipped her drink.

“
We
’
re forgetting that Ramon Perez is your friend,
”
said Henry.
“
Maybe it
’
s because I
’
ve not much family background myself that I cherish Lucille
’
s. Your cousin John was fascinated by the castle and its associations. During his last illness he liked nothing better than to hear my wife telling one of the tales from the journals of her ancestors.
”

“
John was good,
”
commented Lucille.
“
It hurt us deeply to hear that his wife didn
’
t care about him.
”
She stood up.
“
As you can
’
t spend much time with us this morning, shall I show you the rooms?
”

Henry went with them and lolled in the corridor while his wife did the explaining.

“
This is the dining room. This large bedroom is Henry
’
s and mine, and John had this smaller room next door. Here, at the end, are the kitchen and bathroom, and on this side we have a linen room, and—
”
she put a finger to her lips and
tiptoed through the last doorway
“
—
here is our little pigeon.
”
The baby lay sleeping in a mosquito-proofed bed close to the open window. She was a sturdy child, wheaten haired, red lipped and, judging by the eyelids and silken lashes, large eyed.

Lucille
’
s tones lowered to a murmur.
“
Henry married a woman who was past her first youth and often unwell. Somehow he found out about a specialist who might help me, and for eighteen months he gave up everything and stayed with me in the Europe. When we came back to Mindoa I gradually grew stronger and at last we had the baby.
”
She laughed again on a caught breath.
“
And what a baby! Awake at five every morning, exhausted by ten, and ready to eat the whole pantry at one. She has no time for regulations; she will not sleep in the afternoon!
”

When they emerged once more into the corridor, Henry
’
s head was poked into a cupboard. He turned around.

“
Talking of those episodes of your ancestors reminded me of the manuscripts. You shouldn
’
t have left them here, Lucille. They
’
ll get chewed up by insects.
”

“
That wouldn
’
t be such a bad thing,
”
she said serenely.
“
I
needed the drawer space.
”

“
You
’
re incorrigible. They
’
re probably the only historical record of the island. Besides, it
’
s our duty to carry out the instructions of your father
’
s will.
”
He gathered up a huge armful of yellowed paper tied in sections with faded tape and carried it into the lounge.

“
We
’
ll never get down to that task,
”
stated Lucille,
“
and there is no one in Mindoa who would tackle it. We should take it to the government offices and let them put it into a safe.
”
She shrugged away the matter, turned her attention once more to Melanie.
“
Tell us about yourself. What did you do in England, and how do you like our island of Mindoa?
”
For half an hour Melanie gave lengthy answers to her inquiries. They found a mutual interest in music, for Lucille also had been an only child and driven to the arts for companionship. There was something about Lucille and Henry that acted like a balm upon Melanie
’
s distorted nerves. The woman might never have been a stranger, she might have been an old friend just waiting for the moment of need. Lucille Jameson, half aristocrat, half plebeian, loved being
a planter
’
s wife. She cooked and sewed, preserved products that were plentiful, ran a small dairy and an essence-distilling plant. About the latter she was enthusiastic.

“
You must see it next
time—the big vat into which thousands of flowers are pressed and then heated, the filter, the little containers for the concentrate. It is not economical, but it is the way it has been done in the country districts of France for generations.
”

Henry grinned
at
her and said to Melanie,
“
Wonderful French accent when she gets excited, isn
’
t it?
”

They were dears, both of them; for some reason they made Melanie want to weep and smile together. Regretfully, she looked at her watch, got to her feet.

“
When can you come again?
”
Lucille was anxious to know.
“
Can we make a date?
”

“
I
’
m afraid not, but if I may, I
’
ll do this again sometime.
”

“
Is Mrs. Paget aware you
’
ve come here?
”
asked Henry.

“
No, but I wouldn
’
t care if she were.
”

“
Good for you,
”
he said quietly.
“
I told you before that you don
’
t belong with her kind. You
’
re like John, and he didn
’
t belong with her, either.
”

They went out to the car with Melanie, thrusting away the inquisitive dogs.

“
Next time you must make speaking acquaintance with our little Denise,
”
said Lucille.
“
Au revoir
, Melanie.
”

“
Next time
..
.
au revoir
.
”
The words had their own particular music. As Melanie settled in the car and it glided away she would have given anything not to be returning to Port Fernando.

What, she wondered, steeling herself to forget his savage withdrawal last night, would be Stephen
’
s opinion of the Jamesons? She felt he would like them. He loathed the false, the pretentious. Supposing she had been the daughter of a house like the Jamesons and Stephen had happened along. But no. In his travels and periods in England he had come into contact with all kinds of women, of all ages. He just wasn
’
t the marrying sort.

Alone in the back of the car with the silent Malay driving, Melanie felt heat rise from her throat into her face. Stephen
...
and marriage. She must be crazy.

It was ten minutes to twelve when the car pulled around to
the front of the hotel. The lounge was steeped in Sunday somnolence, and even
madame
, who sat like an overfed crow in the depth behind the reception desk, was hard pushed to keep open her heavy lids. As Melanie passed, however, she stirred ponderously.

“
Mademoiselle
!”

Melanie stopped, automatically smiled.
“
Yes,
madame
?
”