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CHAPTER THREE

THE following morning Rebecca did not go down to swim as usual. In the early hours she was awakened by Adele calling weakly for her and throwing on her dressing gown she hurried to her employer’s room.

Adele was lying across the bed. She had obviously been to the bathroom but had collapsed on her way back and was now panting for breath, pressing a hand to her chest as though to break the pain which seemed to be tearing her apart.

Rebecca helped her on to the bed properly, and then hurried to the bathroom cabinet. A few minutes later, with the aid of a drug, and Rebecca’s soothing presence, Adele began to look more normal, and Rebecca ran to telephone for Dr. Manson.

When the elderly doctor arrived he endorsed everything Rebecca had done and chided Adele for behaving so recklessly the day before. ‘You should know by now that you cannot spend the whole day in a state of excitement, my dear,’ he told her, shaking his head reprovingly. ‘And then to eat the kind of rich food Rebecca tells me you have eaten …’ He sighed. ‘It’s lucky you have Rebecca here. I don’t know what might have happened …’

Adele, gradually recovering from the paralysing attack, gave her nurse an impatient look. ‘I’m all right,’ she said ungraciously. ‘There was no need to call you at all. Rebecca coped with everything that was needed. She only wanted to let you know that I’d been disobedient. God! I wish I was free of this—this—dependence!’

Dr. Manson looked at her compassionately. ‘Now you know as well as I do that you’ll never be free,’ he said quietly, ‘and it’s something you’ve got to live with, it’s something you’ve got to accept and take into account at all times. You’ve lived with it long enough to know that.’

Adele’s expression was bitter. ‘I’ve lived with it all my life!’ she exclaimed, in a tortured voice.

Dr. Manson turned away, looking helplessly at Rebecca, and Rebecca gave an imperceptible nod of her head. They were both aware of the dangers of the depression Adele was sinking into now that the attack was over.

After the doctor had gone, Rebecca gave Adele a sedative. The older woman objected, but Rebecca used the hypodermic and presently Adele closed her eyes and gave in to the inertia that was creeping over her. After she was asleep, Rebecca cleared the room, tidying away the garments which Rosa had left about the floor. In all honesty, she felt a terrible sense of guilt about the whole affair. Maybe she should have stayed up. Maybe she should have seen Adele into bed herself. Maybe she would have noticed the tell-tale signs that heralded an attack.

So many maybes, and none of them certain. Adele had seemed perfectly all right all evening, and might have been perfectly all right all night, too, if she had not got up to go to the bathroom. No doubt the rich food and the small quantity of drink she had consumed had been responsible for that little journey.

Sighing, she left the bedroom and went to her own room to get dressed. It was already after seven and there was no point in going back to bed. Adele might need her.

When she was dressed she went to the kitchen and begged some coffee from Rosa. The dark-skinned housekeeper looked anxious and asked troubled questions about her employer. Rebecca reassured her, and then said:

‘Did she seem all right when you put her to bed last night?’

Rosa considered. ‘I think so, miss. She wasn’t flushed or anything. Just tired, that’s all. I saw that she took her tablet like you told me, miss, and she seemed fine!’

Rebecca smiled. ‘That’s okay, Rosa. Don’t worry any more. She’s going to be as awkward as usual in a day or two. But she’ll have to stay in bed for today and possibly tomorrow, too. Dr. Manson said so.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Rosa handed her a mug of steamingly aromatic coffee. ‘Are you recovered this morning? Monsieur St. Clair told me you had a headache and had gone to bed.’

Rebecca coloured. ‘Monsieur St. Clair? When did you see him?’

‘He helped me to put Adele to bed before they left, miss.’

‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Rebecca bit her lip. ‘Were they late in leaving?’ She had not heard the car, but possibly that was because her room was away from the drive.

‘Not very, miss. Soon after you went to bed really.’

Rebecca nodded, and taking the coffee she walked to the wide kitchen windows which looked out on the tropical plantation-like growth which encroached almost to the lawn at the back of the house. There was a bitter-sweet ache inside her which could not be denied. Why did Piers St. Clair affect her like this? Why couldn’t she just put him out of her mind altogether?

Adele’s unexpected illness at least prevented her from exerting too much effort in her condemnation of Rebecca’s actions on the night of the dinner party. When she was fit enough to talk normally towards the end of the following day she merely contented herself with some sneering comments about Rebecca’s inadequacy, and Piers St. Clair’s name was not mentioned. Even so, Rebecca had the distinct impression that Adele chose not to bring his name into it for some devious reasons of her own, and she wished she knew a little more of what her employer was thinking.

Adele objected strongly to having to stay in bed, but perhaps the attack had served a purpose in that it had made her a little more chary of disobeying her doctor’s instructions, and she remained where she was. Rebecca’s job was a little harder in consequence, as she had to do everything for her, including giving her a blanket bath, and although Adele was thin her bones were heavy and required all Rebecca’s strength to lift her.

By the evening of the second day after the attack, Adele seemed almost normal, and Rebecca took the opportunity to go down for a swim after she had settled her employer down for the night. It was the first opportunity she had had to leave the villa, for the previous evening she had been too conscious of the possible dangers of a second attack.

It was a beautiful evening, and Rebecca put on her white bikini and her beach jacket, and ran eagerly across the grass and down the slope to the beach. The air was soft and velvety, and the sky above was a dome of midnight blue studded with diamonds.

Shedding the beach jacket, she allowed the wavelets to ripple round her toes, their chill wholly welcoming after the heat of the day. Then she plunged into the water, and swam strongly out to where she could no longer reach the bottom with her toes. Her limbs felt revitalised as the damp heat of the day was washed away, and she spread her legs and floated, staring up into the arc of sky above.

When she swam back to the shore, she felt cool and refreshed, and shedding her wet bikini she put on the beach jacket, wrapping it closely about her. But even as she did so, she heard the sound of a twig being trampled underfoot, and she swung round in startled expectation. The figure of a man emerged from the shadows of the palms, and her first instinct was to run, but although she was trembling, she stood her ground.

‘Are you aware that you are trespassing?’ she enquired, summoning all her confidence. ‘This is a private beach!’

‘And you are crazy bathing here alone!’ snapped a husky voice, with an unmistakable accent. ‘Mon Dieu, Rebecca, have you no sense?’

Rebecca stared up at Piers St. Clair with mutinous eyes. ‘Have—have you been spying on me?’ she asked tremulously.

Piers uttered an exclamation in his own language. ‘Of course I have not been ‘‘spying’’ on you. I admit I came here in the hope that I might see you, but the sight of the naked female frame is no novelty to me!’ His tone was hard and angry. ‘God in heaven, Rebecca, what would you have done if I had been an intruder? Do you imagine you could offer any defence, dressed like that?’

‘This—this is a private beach,’ she said again, shakily.

‘But it is not sealed off, is it?’ Piers raised his eyes skyward. ‘You constantly enrage me! When I speak to you—when I attempt to be friendly with you, you turn on me like a—a—she-cat! Yet you come here, alone, without taking any precautions for your own safety!’ He snapped his fingers angrily. ‘I—I lose patience with you!’

‘I don’t—recall asking for your indulgence!’ said Rebecca shortly. ‘Now, if you’ll stand out of my way—–’

Piers stood still, staring down at her, and when she moved to walk round him, he moved also, blocking her path. Rebecca looked up at him angrily, using her anger as a shield against his undoubted attraction.

‘Please!’ she said tightly. ‘Get out of my way!’

Piers stared at her for a long moment, and then without a word, stepped out of her path. The relief was such that Rebecca found it incredibly difficult to move at all. But at last, on rather stiff legs, she walked up the beach and crossed the grass to the villa. She didn’t look back, but she was aware of his eyes upon her the whole of the way.

The next few days passed uneventfully. Adele improved considerably and was able to get up and about again. Rebecca knew she had had a telephone call from Piers, but what he had said she was not to know. Later in the week, Adele deemed it necessary to inform her that her brother-in-law had gone to Lautoka, but if she expected some reaction from Rebecca she was disappointed. Rebecca had schooled herself not to show any emotion, and consequently Adele soon grew tired of baiting her.

At the end of the week, Rebecca surprised Adele making a telephone call herself; surprised because Adele always had Rebecca get her calls for her. However, as Adele obviously wanted privacy, Rebecca left her, but she could not help wondering who she had been calling so secretly.

Two afternoons later, after Rebecca had settled Adele down for her nap, Piers St. Clair made another appearance. He came walking into the wide tiled hall, just as Rebecca was gathering the dead flowers from their vases preparatory to adding new ones. In cream pants and a navy silk shirt that hung open, he looked cool and dark, while Rebecca, in her high collared uniform dress, was feeling the heat of the day.

‘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.

She was startled out of her thoughts when suddenly Piers spoke in her ear. She had been so absorbed that she had not been aware of his moving, but now he said: ‘Why are you afraid of me, Rebecca?’

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. It was true after all. She was afraid of him; or at least afraid of the power he could exert over her.

As she would have moved away, his fingers curved round her upper arm, and he sighed heavily. ‘Dear God, why did I have to meet you?’ he murmured huskily.

Rebecca quivered in his grasp. ‘We must go back,’ she insisted weakly.

‘Must we?’ He regarded her intently, his eyes dark and yet disturbingly caressing. ‘I don’t want to go back. Do you?’

‘Oh, Piers!’ she said pleadingly. ‘This—this is—–’

‘Crazy?’ He shrugged, stroking her cheek with his free hand. ‘But sometimes we have to do crazy things.’ He bent his head and put his mouth against her arm, caressing it insistently. ‘Such soft skin,’ he murmured, against her flesh. ‘Childlike. But you’re not a child, are you, Rebecca? You’re a woman, and you are wanting me just as much as I am wanting you.’

‘No!’ Rebecca pulled herself away from him. ‘No, you’re wrong!’

He didn’t attempt to detain her and she looked back at him almost fearfully, a hand pressed to her mouth. He watched her for a long disturbing moment, and then he dragged his gaze away from her and stared out across the island to the sea in the distance. There was a moment when she wanted to go back to him, to slide her arms about him and press herself against the hard length of his body, but before it could manifest itself he moved, striding abruptly towards the car. ‘Allons!’ he snapped commandingly, and with stumbling steps she hastened to join him.

The drive back to the villa was accomplished as silently as on the outward journey, and when they approached the entrance to Adele’s drive Piers stood on his brakes, almost throwing Rebecca forward into the windscreen. Leaning past her, he thrust open her door and on trembling legs she climbed out. Without a word, he slammed the car into gear and drove away.

To her surprise, Adele was still resting when she returned. She was awake, and her bright, birdlike eyes turned expectantly, Rebecca thought, as she entered the bedroom. ‘Well?’ demanded the older woman impatiently. ‘Where have you been, miss?’

Rebecca closed the door, smoothing her skirt. She had hastily donned her uniform, hoping that with it would come the assurance of her profession.

‘I’ve been driving with Monsieur St. Clair,’ she responded quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I’m late. How do you feel? Did you have a good rest?’

‘Now wait a minute!’ Adele surveyed Rebecca’s withdrawn features and the flickering evasion of her eyes, and her own expression became curious. ‘What’s the matter with you? Surely you realise you can’t produce a statement like that without explaining yourself? How did you come to go driving with Piers?’

Rebecca sighed. ‘He came while you were asleep. He invited me out for a while. I accepted. I’m sorry if you object—–’

Adele plucked impatiently at the bedspread. ‘Now wait a minute, wait a minute! I didn’t say I objected did I?’ She frowned, and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘What happened?’

Rebecca’s colour deepened. ‘What do you mean—what happened? What could happen? Nothing, of course.’ She began to fold back the bed-covers, preparatory to getting Adele out of bed.

Adele looked disappointed. ‘Did he say why he’d invited you out?’ she asked persistently.

Rebecca sighed. ‘I imagine he was at a loose end,’ she remarked, as casually as she could. ‘Is it important? He’s not likely to ask me again.’

Adele stared at her. ‘Why? What happened?’

Rebecca strove to keep her temper. She knew Adele was avid for any information she could get, but in this instance she could not satisfy her. She could not discuss what had occurred between herself and Piers St. Clair as though it were an experiment that had been carried out and the results were to be analysed. Besides, she didn’t altogether care for this amount of interest to be shown. There was something unhealthy about it and it was the first time Adele had ever sanctioned such a relationship. It was as though through her Adele was gaining a certain amount of vicarious enjoyment, and Rebecca wondered suddenly whether that was why Adele was so inquisitive. The idea was repugnant, and she tried to change the subject, but Adele would not be diverted.

‘For heaven’s sake, girl,’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t I show a bit of interest when my nurse attracts the attention of a man like Piers St. Clair?’

Rebecca helped Adele out of bed and began to fasten her garments. With deliberate emphasis, she said: ‘I should imagine, from what you’ve told me, that any reasonably attractive female would attract the attention of Piers St. Clair.’

Adele looked up at her, her expression malicious. ‘What’s the matter, Rebecca?’ she asked spitefully. ‘Are you jealous?’

Rebecca stared back at her angrily. ‘No, of course not—–’ she began indignantly, and then stopped, pressing her lips together. She would not allow Adele to arouse her. That was exactly what she wanted, and she refused to give her the satisfaction. Instead, she picked up the comb and began to do Adele’s hair, smoothing the brittle, brassy strands into gentle waves.

Adele hunched her shoulders sulkily when it became obvious that Rebecca would not be drawn and found fault with everything Rebecca did for her. She refused to wear the shoes her nurse produced for her approval and demanded sandals instead. Without rancour, Rebecca smiled, and putting the offending articles away, fetched the sandals Adele wanted from her wardrobe. Then she wheeled Adele’s chair through to the lounge where Rosa was already serving afternoon tea. Adele insisted upon pouring and deliberately spilt some of the hot liquid on to the soft rug at her feet. Rebecca was forced to fetch a cloth and wipe it up and she felt sure Adele would have liked to have spilled the burning liquid on her.

At last, when it became obvious that Rebecca was not to be aroused, Adele grew tired of the effort, and picked up a magazine. Rebecca excused herself and went to tidy the bedroom Adele had just left and her own room. She had little heart in the task, and losing patience with herself she sank down on to her bed staring blindly at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

If only she had never met Piers St. Clair, she thought despairingly. How much simpler life had been ten days ago. She had been content then, content with her life, even content with Adele’s idiosyncrasies. But Piers had spoiled all that, aroused in her a realisation of what life could be like with a man like him. Was she a fool to reject what was offered even if there was no permanency in it? She knew little about him except that he was rich, that he had been married, and that his wife was dead. And Adele had told her all that. He had actually told her nothing about himself. Had he any family? And if he had—where were they? She sighed. He was an enigma, and enigmas were unfathomable, weren’t they? …

The next morning Rebecca encountered Piers St. Clair on the beach.

She had been down for her swim as usual, and was just walking, dripping, out of the water when he came down the beach towards her. Immediately Rebecca slid her arms into the sleeves of her towelling jacket, wrapping it almost protectively about her. Piers halted a couple of yards from her, taking out a case of cheroots and lighting one deliberately. The golden haze of dawn still hung about the sky, and the smoke from the small cigar curled upwards to join the faint mist above the palms.

Rebecca wrung out her hair, and endeavoured to smooth it behind her ears, but small curly tendrils insisted upon falling forward beside her cheeks. For a moment she considered walking away and leaving him, but suddenly he said:

‘I came to apologise, Rebecca. For my actions yesterday. Mon Dieu, I am not usually so ill-mannered.’

Rebecca stared at him in surprise, wondering whether he was serious or merely using this as another attempt to amuse himself at her expense. But his dark face was perfectly serious and there was a rather remote detachment in his eyes.

She spread her hand expressively, lifting her shoulders in a helpless gesture of acceptance. ‘It’s all right,’ she said inadequately. ‘There’s no harm done.’

‘Isn’t there?’ Piers watched her broodingly. Then he raked a hand through his hair and turned away. ‘How is your employer this morning? Or is she still asleep?’

Rebecca frowned. ‘Adele sleeps until nine or thereabouts. I told you.’

He glanced at her, long lashes veiling his eyes. ‘So you did.’ He shrugged. ‘I was merely making polite conversation, that is all.’

‘Oh!’ Rebecca bent her head. ‘It’s—it’s a lovely morning, isn’t it? What do you plan to do today?’

There was silence for a while and then he said: ‘I have to meet the minister later this morning. This afternoon—–’ he shrugged. ‘Who knows? I might take a trip to the islands. I only have another week here, and I ought to visit the tourist attractions.’

‘Another week,’ murmured Rebecca, looking up. ‘And then—what?’

He drew deeply on his cheroot. ‘Paris, I suppose,’ he replied indifferently. ‘I have a house there—just outside of the city.’

‘You have only one home?’ she enquired, with interest.

He gave a wry smile. ‘Home? I have no —home!’

Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not serious, of course.’

‘I am perfectly serious,’ he returned harshly. ‘I have four houses, however. That is really what you wanted to know, isn’t it?’

Rebecca turned away. ‘I’m not interested in your possessions, if that’s what you’re implying!’ she exclaimed hotly.

He hesitated, and then sighed. ‘Are you not? Then you are indeed unique, mademoiselle.’

Rebecca bent her head, studying the ovals of her nails with intensity. Why didn’t she leave now? Go before anything more was said?

She felt, rather than heard, him move. He came round her with his panther-like stride, and regarded her bent head solemnly. ‘Forgive me again,’ he said, rather bleakly. ‘I seem adept at saying and doing the wrong things where you are concerned.’

‘It’s not important,’ Rebecca said, twisting the belt of her jacket tortuously.

‘Obviously not, to you!’ observed Piers rather harshly. ‘And of course, it never occurred to you that our frequent meetings are anything more than coincidence!’

Rebecca looked up at him with startled eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I think I’d better go—–’

Piers uttered an ejaculation in his own language, raking a careless hand through his hair. ‘Yes, yes!’ he snapped coldly. ‘Go! That is what you always do when the situation becomes too difficult to handle, isn’t it?’

Rebecca bit her lower lip hard. ‘I just don’t see any point in this conversation,’ she began.

‘Do you not?’ He ran a hand round the back of his neck, flexing his muscles. ‘Or is it not perhaps true that you are afraid to continue with it?’

Rebecca hesitated, and then she sighed. ‘All right, all right,’ she said tautly. ‘I have realised that I have been singled out for attention by the powerful Piers St. Clair. I’m flattered.’ Then as his expression hardened, she went on: ‘But I just don’t see any point in discussing it. What do you want from me? I’m not one of your society women. I’m not versed in the intricacies of selling myself to the highest bidder, and nor do I want to be!’

‘Tu chienne!’ Piers had paled a little under his tan. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’