The Devil at Archangel (10 page)

having tea.'

'So he told me,' Mrs Brandon remarked. 'You seem to have made a

lasting impression on him,
mon enfant.'

Christina looked up startled. 'I would hardly say that,
madame,'
she

returned carefully. 'Perhaps boys of his age are particularly

impressionable.'

'Of his age?' There was a distract and disconcerting lessening of Mrs

Brandon's benign air. 'He is only a few months younger than yourself.

In fact, in appearance— with your hair on your shoulders like

that—you seem the . younger of the two.'

'Yes.' Christina knew she had to tread carefully. 'But they do

say—don't they?—that girls mature much earlier than boys of a

similar age.'

'Maybe.' Mrs Brandon's tone was short. 'I have not been acquainted

with many young girls, so I am unable to give an opinion. Do you find

Theo—young for his age?'

'Oh, no,' Christina hastened to assure her. 'He seemed quite

sophisticated—a man of the world.'

'Hm.' Mrs Brandon appeared mollified, she saw with relief. 'It is true

he has lacked for young company in the past. I am relying on you, my

dear, to rectify that to some extent. You will be ideal companions for

one another.'

Christina swallowed. 'But I thought I was to be your companion,

madame,'
she said at last, aware of how feeble the protest must sound.

'Do not take me quite so literally,
mon enfant.'
Madamegave a slight

frown. 'I am not suggesting that you are to work for Theo. I am

merely telling you—if you need such assurance—that you are free to

accept any invitations from him that he may see fit to make.'

Christina was blushing again, more hody this time. 'Thank you,

madame,
' she managed weakly.

Mrs Brandon gave her a shrewd glance. 'It embarrasses you that my

grandson should find you attractive?'

'No.' Christina gave a tiny shake of her head. 'He doesn't exactly hide

his feelings. But since you ask, I must admit I'm surprised that you

don't mind him going out with— the hired help. After all, I'm little

more than one of the servants here and ...'

'You are my guest and the goddaughter of my old friend.' Mrs

Brandon's eyes were suddenly glacial. 'We will speak no more, if you

please, of hiring or of servants. You speak as if we were still living in

the last century.'

Christina bent her head. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But ray position here

seems so ambiguous ...'

In spite of herself, an inward vision rose in her mind of scornful

silver-grey eyes in a tanned face—a harshly drawn mouth that

sneered at her as a parasite.

'You seem unduly sensitive about it,' Mrs Brandon chided her, but she

seemed to have recovered at least some of her good humour. She put

out her hand and gave Christina's cheek a slight tap. 'We shall have to

teach you to relax,
ma chere.
You are so tense, so lacking in

confidence. Now, ring the bell, and we will go down to dinner.'

Is spite of her disturbed emotional condition, not helped by the fact

that Theo hardly took his eyes from her during the entire meal,

Christina enjoyed her dinner of
calalou,
a Creole soup delicately

flavoured with herbs, followed by delicious stuffed crab with rice.

The fresh pineapple served for dessert provided a refreshing contrast.

Coffee, dark and aromatic with thick cream, was served in what Mrs

Brandon referred to as the
salon,
a
large and rather formal room
,

furnished in shades of gold and ivory.

While Theo and Mrs Brandon occupied themselves with a rather

desultory game of piquet, Christina wandered round the room

studying the pictures and ornaments on display. As well as the

expected family portraits of long- dead Brandons, executed with

varying degrees of competence, there were also a number of paintings

of the Impressionist school that she suspected were valuable

originals, including a probable Renoir.

Her tour of the room complete, she felt at a loss for an occupation.

She would have liked to have gone for a stroll in the grounds, but she

suspected that Theo would immediately offer to accompany her, and

she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She still felt that her original

instinct not to embark on a flirtation with him was probably the right

one, although she had no real objection to the idea of being shown the

plantation and the rest of the island in his company—but preferably

by daylight, she decided.

'Do you like music?' Theo's voice spoke close to her ear, and she

jumped slightly.

'Very much, although I don't play an instrument myself,' she returned.

He walked over to an imposing antique cabinet and opened it,

revealing a comprehensive built-in stereo unit and a large collection

of records.

'What do you like?' He motioned her over to look through the records.

'It is all classical music, I'm afraid. Grand'mere thinks "pop" is an

abomination. If you are dying for some dance music, there is a night

club of sorts in Port Victoire. We could go there one evening, if you

like.'

The invitation was casual enough to be acceptable, she decided, and

she could not pretend it was unexpected, so she smiled constrainedly

and thanked him.

'Oh.' Looking over his shoulder, she saw one of her favourites.

'Debussy—
La Mer.'

He wrinkled his nose slightly, but put the record on the turntable.

'You don't care for it?' she asked.

He shrugged. 'It is a little placid for me. Debussy never saw one of our

storms, that's for sure.'

'Take care, Theo.' Mrs Brandon, who was playing a complicated form

of patience, glanced up. 'You will make Christina nervous.'

Theo looked at Christina, his eyes dancing and his brows slightly

raised.

'Oh, I would think it would take more than that, Grand'- mere,' he said

softly.

The music had been an unexpectedly soothing conclusion to a strange

day, Christina thought later as she went up to bed in Mrs Brandon's

wake. Theo had been obviously disappointed at her departure, and

she was relieved that her employer had not suggested that she remain

downstairs to keep him company.

Her room was quietly welcoming. Someone had switched on the

shaded lamp at the side of the bed, and turned down her bed.

She grinned faintly. 'If I'm not careful, I could get to enjoy all this

luxury,' she thought.

That was the nub of her problem, of course. It was not hers to enjoy.

She was entitled to nothing here. She had come prepared to work for

Mrs Brandon, and if no actual job transpired, then she would leave.

She had meant what she had said back in England. She did not want

charity, however well meant, nor would she accept it. She had to earn

a living, and she must not allow herself to become too dependent on

the sheltered, comfortable background at Archangel.

When she got to bed, she found that sleep still evaded her. She was

over-tired and over-stimulated, she thought, and wished that she had

opted for the stroll instead of the music after all. Fresh air might have

had the required soporific effect.

After tossing and turning restlessly for some time, she got out of bed

and put on her housecoat. She walked over to the window and opened

the louvred shutters which closed off the balcony. It was much cooler

now, she thought, looking up into the velvet sky where a huge golden

moon swam. The air was' full of strange scents and sounds—the

exotic perfume of frangipani, the chirping of the ubiquitous cicadas.

She drew a deep, incredulous breath. It was all so totally alien to

anything she had ever experienced. No English night sky had ever

looked like that. No English night had ever filled her with quite the

same inexplicable yearnings, or the same sweet melancholy. It's a

lovers' moon, she thought, and immediately deprecated her own

fancifulness.

She. turned with a little stifled sigh to go indoors and paused, her

attention arrested by a movement below. The figure that emerged

from the shadows into the blaze of moonlight was instantly

recognisable, although the discreet dark uniform dress and white

apron had been replaced by something that clung revealingly to every

curve of her body. It was Eulalie, moving with the swaying grace that

seemed to be an inherent part of her. As Christina watched, she

skirted the swimming pool and walked rapidly over the lawns beyond

in the, direction of the shrubbery. Although she made no actual

attempt to keep herself hidden, there was, at the same time,

something strangely furtive about her movements, as if she had no

desire to be observed. Once she turned and glanced back at the house

as if to reassure herself that no one had seen her go and Christina

froze, although she knew she could not be seen from that distance.

She walked slowly back into her room and unfastened her housecoat,

tossing it over the dressing stool. Eulalie was plainly going to meet

someone. Perhaps it was a lover'smoon for her too, she thought with

an odd pang which did not lessen in the slightest when it occurred to

her that the fact that the girl was sneaking away from the house to

meet him indicated that he did not live at Archangel. And as she lay

alone, with the moonlight streaming over the bed, she found herself

wondering why she was so sure that Eulalie was going to meet Devlin

Brandon—and why she should be concerned anyway even if this was

so.

CHRISTINA slept restlessly that night and woke the following morning

with vague memories of wild and disturbing dreams. She felt drained

of energy when she first opened her eyes, but no one could remain

depressed for long with warm and brilliant sunshine spilling into the

room through the shutters.

A tap on the door signalled the arrival of Eulalie carrying a tray with

fruit juice, freshly squeezed, some warm rolls and a pot of coffee.

Christina felt embarrassed as she sat up. She had never had breakfast

in bed before unless she was ill and it seemed wrong to be waited on

in this way. Judging by the mutinous curve of Eulalie's mouth, she

was not entranced by the situation either, and her reply to Christina's

shy 'Good morning' bordered on hostility.

When she had gone, Christina glanced at the small alarm clock she

had brought with her from England. It was still quite early, she saw.

Mrs Brandon had warned her the previous evening that she was a late

riser, so Christina felt quite justified in regarding the next hour or two

as hers alone.

Her breakfast over, she found a pair of jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt

and showered and dressed. Her room tidied and her bed made, she

made her escape down the garden stairs leading from the balcony and

found herself wondering as she walked across the springy grass why

the word 'escape' had occurred to her. She was free to come and go

—of course she was. Never more so, in fact. At home with Aunt

Grace the day's work would already have begun.

As she approached the tangle of flowering shrubs and trees, she saw

that a path had been trodden deep into the shrubbery and guessed this

was used as an unofficial short cut to the beach. The air was heavy

with the hum of bees and other insects, and in the distance she could

hear the whisper of surf breaking on an unseen shore.

She hurried down the path, avoiding the roots which protruded from

the beaten earth to trip the unwary, and bending-her head to escape

tangling her hair in the low-hanging branches. It was a narrow path,

and the crowding bushes seemed to stretch ahead like a dark, green

tunnel where even the ever-present sun could not penetrate.

Blossoms, leaves and thorns brushed her body and caught at her

clothes as she passed through and ahead of her a splash of brilliant

colour told her that her goal was near.

A moment later she stood on silver sand sloping gently down to the

creaming water. There might have been no one else in the world, she

thought, lifting her face appreciatively to the sun. The only sound was

the cry of a bird, and the constant hiss and suck of the tide. Shading

her eyes, she could see far out where the great breakers crashed and

lost their force on the reef in a tall flurry of spray. But inside, the reef,

the sea was comparatively calm. Tomorrow she would bring her

bikini and swim, she decided. She slipped off her sandals and walked

down to the water's edge barefoot, revelling in the warmth of the

small waves that curled round her feet, soaking the bottoms of her

jeans. She began to walk along the beach, stepping in and out of the