Читать книгу Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees - Anne Mather - Страница 8

“THAT is correct,” Edge St. Vincente was saying now. “Who were you expecting?”

Sophie gathered her scattered wits. “I – I thought – my grandfather –”

“Oh, I see.” Edge inclined his head. “Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my father seldom visits Port of Spain. He doesn’t care for the – er –” he glanced round expressively, shrugging, “– the atmosphere of the place.”

“I see.” Sophie pressed her hands together.

Edge returned his attention to her, studying her intently, bringing the hot colour to her pale cheeks. “So you’re Eve. You don’t look much like your mother.”

Sophie tried to return his gaze. “I suppose I must take after my father.”

“I suppose.” His expression had become brooding. “Well –” He looked towards the bar. “Shall we have a drink?”

Sophie hesitated. “I don’t – drink much.”

“Don’t you?” Again the dark brows were lifted. “I thought all newspaper women enjoyed the social side of their work.”

“Newspaper women?” Sophie was really shocked now and she couldn’t hide it.

“Yes.” Edge turned back towards the bar and she had perforce to fall into step beside him. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? Or is that some other Eve Hollister?”

Sophie felt shattered. In one sentence Edge St. Vincente had destroyed the whole image Eve had so painstakingly built around her. They ought to have realized that a family like the St. Vincentes would not accept a stranger into their midst without first checking up on her. But how much checking up had been done? And by whom?

She chanced a swift sideways glance at her companion. He seemed relaxed enough. There had been no censure in his remark. But how could she tell? All her old fears came to haunt her. She should not have given in to Eve; she should not have agreed to come. She ought to have known that she could never get away with it.

They had reached the bar and Edge indicated that she should take one of the tall stools while he attracted the attention of the barman. Sophie climbed on to the stool with some misgivings, trying desperately to think of some reply to make.

Edge sat easily on the stool beside her, his arms resting on the bar. He was much taller than she was and had not had the difficulty getting on to his seat that she had had. He summoned the bartender and when he came he ordered himself another Bacardi and Coke and then looked quizzically at Sophie.

“Well?” he urged her. “What’s it to be?”

Sophie ran her tongue over dry lips. “Perhaps – a sherry?” she suggested.

“Sherry?” He sounded amused. “All right. And a sherry, too, Gene.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. St. Vincente.”

The bartender grinned and moved away to get their drinks. Sophie rested her hands on the bar to stop them from fidgeting. She glanced nervously round the dimly lit area, and shifted rather awkwardly on her stool. She wondered whether he was aware of her extreme state of tension. She thought it was likely.

He drew out a long case of cigars and regarded them thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cigarette, but Gene can give you some if you need them.”

“I – I don’t smoke.”

“Don’t you now?” His eyes narrowed as he placed a thick cigar between his teeth. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Sophie was convinced he was playing some sort of cat and mouse game with her. She opened her mouth to say that he had no need to say anything else. She admitted the truth; she was not Eve Hollister and she intended leaving Trinidad as soon as she could possibly get a flight.

But the words were never uttered, because he said: “I suppose you should call me Uncle, shouldn’t you?”

Sophie’s fingers curled into her palms. “I – I – if you like.”

Edge St. Vincente was serious now, the mockery gone from his eyes. “It’s what my father will expect,” he stated quietly, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter. “But whether or not you choose to use the definition is, I suppose, up to you.”

The bartender, Gene, returned with their drinks. He put them down and then rubbed the bar nearby with a damp cloth as though waiting for something more. Edge nodded his thanks, and then said: “You tell your brother-in-law to give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes, sir.” Gene’s face broke into a wide grin. “I’d sure be grateful, Mr. St. Vincente.”

“That’s okay.” Edge gave a gesture of dismissal and the bartender moved away to attend to another customer. Then Edge turned his attention back to Sophie. “Now: tell me. Did you have a good flight ?”

Sophie’s fingers curved round the stem of her glass as though it was a lifeline. “Yes, thank you,” she replied quickly. She was about to go on and say that she had not done enough flying to know what was good and what was not, but she was wary now of what he might know and Eve was used to taking trips to the continent. “I – the flight landed late last night.”

“Yes.” Edge swallowed a mouthful of the Barcardi and Coke. There was a slice of lemon cut and draped to the side of his glass and he took it off and squeezed its juice into the spirit. The action drew attention to his hands, long-fingered brown hands, totally unlike the hands of any farmer Sophie had ever seen. But then the St. Vincentes were not ordinary farmers, were they? “My father was delighted to receive your telegram. You should have let us know the time of your flight and someone could have met you at the airport.”

“I – I knew it would be so late in arriving. I thought it would be easier ...” Sophie’s voice trailed away. She sipped her sherry. This was only the beginning, she told herself severely. It was going to get much harder than this.

“Never mind.” Edge let her off the hook. He drew on his cigar, exhaling a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco around them. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sophie wished she felt as confident. “I – er – how far is it to – to your home ?”

“Pointe St. Vincente?” He shrugged. “About thirty miles; north of here and along the coast.”

“Oh, yes.” Sophie looked into her drink. “I – I’m looking forward to meeting my – my grandfather.”

“I expect you are.” Edge’s eyes were unnervingly penetrating. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Now?”

“In a few minutes.”

Sophie thought of the hotel bill, made out in Sophie Slater’s name. Her heart thumped uncomfortably loudly. Couldn’t he hear it too?

“If – if you’ll wait here, I’ll go and collect my things,” she said.

“All right.” Edge finished the Bacardi and Coke, and summoned Gene again. “I’ll have another.”

Sophie slid off the stool. “I shan’t be long.”

“You haven’t finished your sherry.”

“Oh! Well, I’m not very thirsty.”

His eyes narrowed. “Very well. I’ll wait here.”

Sophie nodded and hurried out of the Kingston Bar. In the hotel foyer she looked hopefully towards the reception desk and her silent prayers were answered. The Indian receptionist had gone and in his place was a dark-skinned West Indian girl she had not seen before. Sophie went up to her and explained who she was and that she would be leaving in a few minutes. The girl was polite and understanding. She agreed to have the bill ready and waiting when she came downstairs again after collecting her belongings.

The lift seemed to take aeons to reach the seventh floor and her key stuck in the lock and wouldn’t immediately turn. It seemed to take her ages to gather her things together and reach the foyer again, and she was amazed to discover she had only taken fifteen minutes.

Leaving her suitcase in the charge of a bellhop, she quickly crossed the foyer to the reception desk. A swift glance around had assured her that Edge St. Vincente was nowhere to be seen, and when the girl presented her bill Sophie paid it without even bothering to check it. Then she turned back towards the bar.

Edge St. Vincente was still seated at the long bar, but now he was not alone. A woman was draped on the stool which Sophie had previously occupied, a slim red-haired woman dressed in a long chiffon gown in shades of yellow. Sophie approached them nervously. Neither of them appeared to have noticed her presence and she didn’t quite know whether she ought to interrupt. The woman had her back to the entrance, but Edge had not, and just when Sophie was considering turning away he caught sight of her and slid abruptly off his stool. Casting a wry glance at his companion, he said: “Here is my niece now, Sandra. Eve Hollister. Eve, come and be introduced to an old friend of mine.”

As Sophie approached the woman turned rather languidly in her seat, resting an elbow in the bar to support herself. She was older than Sophie had at first imagined, about thirty, she thought, but maturity had added to rather than detracted from her beauty. There was something vaguely oriental about her classically moulded features, and she gave Edge a slanted glance from between slightly almond-shaped lids that belied a wholly European ancestry.

“I didn’t know you were an uncle, darling,” she murmured.

“Didn’t you?” Edge half smiled. “Well, one learns a little something every day.”

“Does Piers know he has a cousin?”

“I imagine he’s as aware of that fact as anyone,” returned Edge smoothly. Then, as though realizing that Sophie was standing listening to this with a certain amount of perplexity, he said: “Eve, allow me to present Mrs. March. Her husband and I share an interest in a small company on the southern coast of the island.”

“How do you do?”

Sophie shook hands with Sandra March rather reluctantly. There was something about the older woman which repulsed her a little, although she wasn’t quite sure what. It couldn’t have anything to do with the rather proprietorial looks she was bestowing on Edge St. Vincente. His private affairs were nothing to do with Sophie. All the same, she didn’t think it was right that a married woman should treat any man but her husband with such provocative intimacy.

“So you’re Jennifer’s daughter.” Sandra March spoke consideringly. “And is Brandt killing the proverbial fatted calf in your honour?”

“Brandt?” For a moment Sophie felt blank. “Oh, you mean – my grandfather.”

“That’s right. He must be softening in his old age. He always swore he’d never forgive your mother for what she did.”

“That’s enough, Sandra.” Edge’s tone was incisive, and Sophie was amazed at the way his words could explode Sandra’s bubble of confidence. “Now, you must excuse us. We have to be going.”

Sandra put long fingers with purple lacquered nails on the fine material of his sleeve. “Oh, Edge darling, surely you can stay in town for dinner,” she appealed.

“I’m afraid not.” Edge moved so that her hand fell to her side.

“But it’s ages since I’ve seen you –”

“I’m sorry, Sandra.”

Sandra compressed her lips and looked coldly in Sophie’s direction. “Aren’t you lucky you’re only his niece,” she asked, with scarcely veiled sarcasm. “He’s such a pig where women are concerned, aren’t you, darling?”

Edge ignored her and looked compellingly at Sophie. “Are you ready?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes. One of the bellboys is looking after my suitcase in the foyer.” She spoke quickly, wanting to get away, conscious of the other woman’s humiliation, almost pitying her for it.

“Good. You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

As she walked towards the doorway, Sophie heard the brief interchange between them. She heard Sandra’s almost tearful appeals and Edge’s cruel rejection, and then he was beside her, walking carelessly through to the foyer, and when she stole a glance in his direction he seemed totally indifferent to what had just occurred. She shivered. If ever any man spoke to her as Edge had just spoken to Sandra March she felt she would want to curl up and die. And yet Sandra was married. Didn’t her husband mean anything to her?

The bellboy willingly carried Sophie’s suitcase out to where Edge’s car was parked, and Sophie realized why when Edge handed him a five-dollar bill. She wondered whether she should have tipped the boy, but then forgot about it in the other interests of the moment.

Dusk had fallen while they were having their drinks in the bar and now the coolness of evening had a velvety warmth about it. Even the traffic in the busy street seemed to have ebbed somewhat, although there seemed no lessening in the crowds of people thronging into the shops where silver and wood-carvings, Indian silks and Chinese jewellery attracted attention.

Edge’s car was an enormous Mercedes station wagon, sleek and powerful, despite its covering film of dust. He unlocked the passenger side door, threw her case inside on to the back seat, and then indicated that she should get in. Sophie did so willingly. She would be glad to get away from the hotel and all the pitfalls it represented. Edge slammed the door behind her and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her. He held on to the roof of the vehicle as he got in, sliding into his seat with lithe, supple movements. He pressed the keys into the ignition, but before starting the motor he said:

“You don’t have to act as if I were some kind of monster, you know. I assure you, Sandra is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

Sophie’s cheeks flamed and she was glad of the shadows in the car to hide them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –”

“Oh yes, you do.” He adjusted his clothes more comfortably. “I do have some small knowledge of your sex, and I’m quite aware that you feel a certain amount of sympathy for her.”

“It’s nothing to do with me.”

“I agree. It’s not. Nevertheless, save your sympathies for someone who deserves it!”

He flicked the ignition then and the powerful engine roared to life. He turned the wheel with smooth expertise and the large vehicle moved smoothly out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic.

Now Sophie could hear the rhythmic beat of a steel band playing somewhere close at hand, and the pulsating sound caused a sudden and uncontrollable surge of anticipation to run through her body. There was something wholly primitive about that drumming, a wild and stirring penetration of the depths of her consciousness arousing a desire to keep time with the music. She was used to modern music at home, used to moving to the thrumming of electric guitars, but this was different. This was the real thing played by people with generations of African culture behind them. She turned her gaze in Edge St. Vincente’s direction, but he seemed totally unaffected by the sounds that came clearly even over the roar of the traffic. No doubt he had heard it all many times before and it was no novelty to him. But to Sophie it was all new and exciting and for a few moments she forgot that she was the interloper here and sighed in pure enjoyment.

The sound drew Edge’s attention. “You’re tired?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head. “No.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “Isn’t that music marvellous?”

Edge’s lips twisted slightly. “I wonder if you’ll be saying that in a few weeks’ time.”

“Why?” Sophie frowned.

“It’s Carnival in three weeks. You’ll hear so much pan you’ll wish it had never been invented.”

“Pan?”

“Sure. That’s the common name for the steel bands. You know the instruments were fashioned out of empty oil drums, don’t you ? Steel pans?”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie was interested. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“That rather depends on what you find fascinating,” remarked Edge dryly. “I gather you like that kind of music.”

“I like all kinds of music,” retorted Sophie defensively. “Don’t you?”

Edge shrugged. “I’ve no doubt you’ll have more in common with my son in that respect,” he returned, rather sardonically, and Sophie stiffened. His son! Eve hadn’t mentioned that Edge had a son!

And then, unwillingly, she recalled something Sandra March had said and which at the time had made no impression on her. She had asked whether – Piers – knew he had a cousin! Of course. She ought to have realized. If he was Eve’s cousin, he had to be Edge’s son.

She swallowed hard. “Piers?” she managed, rather chokily.

“Yes.” Edge looked her way for a moment. “How old did you say you were?”

“I – I’m twenty – five.” She felt a wave of sweat break out on her forehead. She had almost said twenty-two!

“Twenty-five,” echoed Edge, shaking his head, “You don’t look it.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” She was trying to sound flip, but couldn’t. “H – how old is Piers?”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“He – he may have done. I – I’ve forgotten.” That was reasonable, wasn’t it?

“He’s seventeen.”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie bent her head. Seventeen! Only five years younger than she was. So how old did that make this man who was Eve’s uncle? And why was she interested anyway?

Edge swung the car out of the bright lights of the main streets into a shadowy suburb where palm trees looked exotic in the glare of the headlights. They were gradually climbing higher and higher out of the town into the hills around, and glancing back Sophie could see the fairyland of lights spreading out below them. She felt an unwelcome twinge of apprehension. Down in the town she had still felt in a sense in command of her own destiny, capable of escaping back to England and denouncing her position if things got too difficult. But no longer. She was here, she was committed to the role she had agreed to play, and she knew instinctively that Edge St. Vincente would brook no uncertainty on her part. He was not the kind of man to play games with, and if ever he found out that she had been deceiving them ...

The coolness of the breeze through the opened windows of the car had a sea-salt tang about it now. Sophie guessed they were near the sea, but apart from a pale sheen in the moonlight, she could discern nothing. In spite of the difficulties of her position, she found herself eager to see the coastline in daylight. Everything she had seen so far on the island had been almost larger than life in colour and exuberance, and she was convinced the white coral beaches and green surf would be no less exciting. If only she could just think of these things and stop worrying ...

The silence between them stretched and Sophie felt it was up to her to make some effort to break it. Trying to sound casual, she said: “Tell me about – Pointe St. Vincente. Is – is that the name of your father’s house?” Belatedly, she realized that she should have said my grandfather’s house, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

Happily, however, Edge seemed not to have observed any slip. “No,” he replied. “Pointe St. Vincente is the name of the peninsula where the house is situated. The house has no name, except perhaps that it’s known locally as the St. Vincente house.”

“It – it sounds wonderful!”

“Does it?” Edge’s lips twisted. “I shouldn’t have thought it would have appealed to you.”

“Why?” Sophie was taken aback.

“Surely it’s obvious. You must have known of our existence for twenty years, but you’ve never made any effort before now to contact us.”

Sophie flushed. “I – I understood my – my grandfather refused to have anything to do with – with my father.”

“So he did. But he would have welcomed some word from you. You are his granddaughter, after all. The innocent party in the affair.”

Sophie moved awkwardly. “I – we never talked about it.”

“Didn’t you?” Edge’s lean hands tightened on the wheel as the road swung sharply round a hairpin bend. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You don’t understand.” Sophie warmed to her subject. She had heard Eve’s side of the story and could appreciate her dilemma. “My father never got over my mother’s death. He – he had loved her very much. He was unable to forget that I was the unwitting cause of her dying. I – I don’t say he blamed me exactly, but I must have constantly reminded him. I – well, don’t you see? I couldn’t have contacted my grandfather in the circumstances. It would have seemed – disloyal.”

Edge considered this. “I can see what you’re trying to say,” he remarked. “I don’t say I agree with it.”

“Well, my – my grandfather wasn’t an innocent spectator in this affair, was he? I mean, he was responsible for the rift in the first place.”

“Maybe so. I can remember he was pretty cut up about it himself. Jennifer had always been the apple of his eye. It was a great shock to him when she chose to ignore everything he had done for her – everything he hoped to do for her – in favour of a penniless engineer!”

“He – my father that is, wasn’t penniless!”

“Compared to the wealth my father controls, he was.”

“I suppose he would have had her make a marriage of expediency?”

“If, by expediency, you mean he wanted her to marry someone more suitable, then yes –”

“Expediency has other meanings,” Sophie broke in, unable to help herself. “It also means more politic than just!”

“Howard Fleming would have made her happy.”

“How can you say that?” Sophie was stung by the coolness of his tone. “She obviously didn’t love this – this Howard Fleming or she wouldn’t have run away with James Hollister!”

Edge’s eyes narrowed and as he looked at her she saw the thickness of long black lashes. “James Hollister?” he repeated. “That’s a curious way to speak of one’s own father.”

Sophie knew she had to bluff it out. “Why?” she challenged him. “My father’s name was James Hollister, wasn’t it?”

Edge returned his attention to the tortuous bends in the road. “If you say so,” he commented quietly, and Sophie wondered rather desperately whether she was imagining the note of scepticism in his voice. Surely he must believe she was who she said she was. He couldn’t have brought her here otherwise, could he ?

Changing the subject entirely, she said: “How much further is it to Pointe St. Vincente?” determinedly forcing herself not to stammer.

Edge flicked back his cuff and consulted the gold watch on his wrist. “About another fifteen minutes,” he replied, and Sophie sank more deeply down into her seat, her fingers curving tightly about the soft leather upholstery. Soon they would be there and she had to prepare herself for the ordeal to come.

The moon had risen by the time they reached the curving drive which led down to the St. Vincente house. In its pale glow, Sophie could see tree-clad slopes, leading down to a natural harbour below the house where shadowy buildings indicated boathouses. But the house itself was what held her spellbound, the floodlit gardens giving its white-painted façade unnatural colour. It was a split-level dwelling, seemingly welded into the hillside itself with shallow stone steps leading down between pergolas laden with bougainvillea and other climbing plants to a stone-paved area for cars. The various sections of the building spread themselves comfortably in all directions with a complete disregard for balance or design, and yet for all that it was one of the most beautiful buildings Sophie had ever seen.

Edge brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt in the paved courtyard which was slightly to the side of the house, and as Sophie thrust open her door and climbed out she heard the unmistakable hiss and thunder of the ocean on the rocks below. She thought it would be very easy for someone to get an inflated opinion of themselves in such surroundings, but Edge St. Vincente seemed to take it all for granted.

He got out of the car too, and as he reached into the back for her suitcase someone came hurrying down the steps towards them. As the newcomer drew nearer, Sophie saw it was a black-skinned manservant dressed immaculately in dark trousers and a white jacket and he grinned at Edge with easy familiarity.

“Your pa’s getting mighty anxious about you, Mr. Edge,” he said, taking the suitcase from his master’s hand automatically. His gaze flicked to Sophie. “Is this here Miss Jennifer’s daughter?”

Edge’s lips twitched. “That’s right, Joseph. This is – Miss Eve Hollister.”

Joseph nodded warmly in Sophie’s direction. “Mr. Brandt, he’s gonna be sure glad to see you, Miss Eve. Ain’t been no young women around the St. Vincente house in many a long day!”

Sophie looked up at Edge, standing so indolently beside her. He had hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants and was regarding Joseph with lazy resignation. She thought that everything he did had an unconscious grace about it. He moved lithely, lazily even; and yet she could sense the latent strength that lay just below the surface, the sinuous power that had an almost sensual tangibility. It was this quality he possessed which disturbed her so. She was consciously aware of him, and the knowledge troubled her somewhat.

Joseph became aware that he was delaying them and drew back to allow Edge to urge Sophie up the steps to the house. As they walked she could hear the sound of the crickets like a steady hum above the sound of the sea, and she had to squash the feeling of intense excitement that seemed to be welling up inside her and choking her throat.

When they reached the top of the steps and she stopped at the entrance to the house, Edge bumped into her and for a moment his hand was on her arm, supporting her, as he apologized.

“It – it was my fault,” said Sophie jerkily, pulling herself away from him. She was unnecessarily abrupt, but for a moment his flesh had burned hers and she couldn’t help but be aware of it. She had felt the hardness of his lean body, her arms had brushed against the soft silk of his shirt beneath which the muscles of his chest had been disturbingly firm, and she had known an intense, and wholly incomprehensible desire to remain there against him. She wasn’t used to experiencing feelings like this, and she chided herself for being stupidly imaginative. Heavens, she was supposed to be his niece! What would he have thought of her if he had been able to read her thoughts just then?

Edge led the way through a mesh door into a cool tiled hall. The hall appeared to run from front to back of the building with several other passages leading from it, while a curved wrought iron staircase led to the upper floors. A tall stand supported a vase of gorgeously coloured lilies, their fleshy stamens protruding in a totally alien fashion. The hall was illuminated by a copper-based lamp that had a painted Chinese shade.

Sophie looked about her a trifle bemusedly. There was so much colour and beauty to absorb, but Edge was urging her forward, taking her across the hall and up a short flight of stairs to halt before a dark blue panelled door.

“This is my father’s study,” he remarked, in explanation, and then pressed the handle and swung open the door.

Sophie stepped forward into a comfortably furnished room, with skin rugs on the floor and a desk dominating the central area. She saw walls lined with leather volumes, filing cabinets, and a low couch, and a small table on which stood a couple of filing baskets and a typewriter. Clearly it was from here that Brandt St. Vincente conducted the affairs of the estate.

But then a man rose from behind the desk to greet her; and all further impressions of the room ceased as the man commanded her whole attention.

Brandt St. Vincente was nothing like she had imagined. After Eve’s appeals to her to come here to Trinidad to assuage the needs of an old man, Sophie had expected him to be in his seventies, frail and ill, living every day without really knowing how much time he had left.

The real man was totally different. Like his son, he was years younger than she had expected, in his early sixties, she estimated. And what was more, he was a man in his prime, tall and vigorous, more heavily built than his son but very much like him, with thick hair that was greying now, and strong handsome features.

He came round his desk to greet her, holding out both hands, and she put hers into them automatically, unable to deny the welcome he was showing her.

“So you’re Eve!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “My Jennifer’s girl! I can hardly believe it.”

“Why?” The word was scarcely more than a whisper, but it was all Sophie could think to say.

Brandt squeezed her hands tightly. “It’s been so long,” he said, rather emotionally. But then he seemed to gather his composure again, and he went on: “I don’t suppose you knew anything about your mother.”

“Not a lot,” admitted Sophie, nervously. “She – er – my father seldom spoke of her. It – it was too painful for him.”

At the mention of James Hollister’s name, Brandt’s face changed. His lips tightened perceptibly and his brown eyes lost some of their warmth.

“I think it would be as well if we forgot the past and concentrated on the present, don’t you? I mean, it’s obvious that there are things which if said would be painful to both of us. It’s no use resurrecting past grievances. And we’ve both had our share of grief, believe me. I suggest we begin afresh, learn to know one another without the distorting influences that were created by other people so many years ago.”

Sophie nodded slowly. “I – I’m willing,” she murmured, looking down at her hands clasped in his.

“Good! Good!” Brandt’s expression softened again. “You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me. I’ve so looked forward to your coming here, to meeting you. We’re your family now, this is where you belong. Oh, I know you’ve got your career, but surely the family should come first, in spite of everything!”

Sophie stared at him. She didn’t quite know how to answer him. But to her relief, she didn’t have to.

“Relax!” he exclaimed. “Don’t look so nervous! We won’t bite, I promise you. On the contrary, it will be delightful to have a young woman about the place again.”

Sophie glanced behind her. All the while his father had been speaking Edge had been standing silently near the door, watching them, a lazy smile playing about his lips. But now he stepped forward and said: “Joseph said practically the same thing. If I’d know you were both so eager for feminine company ...”

His voice trailed away insinuatively and Brandt looked impatiently at his son. “Don’t be sarcastic, Edge. If this is any example of the welcome you’ve given your niece, I’m not surprised she looks nervous!”

Edge looked speculatively at Sophie. “Well, perhaps we’re not what she expected either.”

“What do you mean?” Brandt glared at him.

Edge shrugged. “Oh, nothing.” He looked away from Sophie and drew his cigar case out of his pocket. “I think I’ll go and change for dinner. I feel rather – hot and uncomfortable.” His eyes flickered over Sophie again. “Perhaps – my niece would like to shower and change, too.”

Brandt released Sophie’s hands apologetically and went to pull a long velvet cord hanging near a screened fireplace. “Of course, of course,” he exclaimed. “In the excitement of meeting you, my dear, I’m forgetting common courtesy. Of course, you must be tired and hungry. I’ll have Violet show you to your room and we’ll dine in – say –” he glanced at his wrist watch, “– say – thirty minutes? Do you think that will be long enough for you to get ready?”

“Of – of course.” Sophie cupped her hands together. “I – I’d just like to say I’m – I’m very happy to be here.”

Edge, a cigar between his teeth, walked to the door. “Oh, well said,” he remarked mockingly, and Sophie’s hands clenched into fists.

“Ignore your uncle,” advised Brandt, giving his son a reproving glance. “Edge has a very cynical mind.”

Edge swung open the door and leant against the jamb for a moment. “You always said we had a lot in common, Brandt,” he remarked lazily, and the door closed behind him with a definite click.

After he had gone the room seemed suddenly empty. Sophie looked awkwardly at Eve’s grandfather. “You – you have a beautiful house,” she murmured. “I – I’m longing to see it in daylight.”

“Indeed, yes.” Brandt seemed to relax and came towards her again smiling down into her eyes. “I’m sure you’re going to be happy here, Eve. If you’re not, it won’t be through the fault of not trying on my part. I intend to make your stay so enjoyable that you won’t want to leave us again. We have so much here to interest you.” He spread and encompassing hand. “Swimming; sailing; skin-diving, if you’re adventurous enough. Edge and Piers would teach you. They spend hours out in the boat. Then, of course, the island itself is a veritable paradise for nature-lovers. We have so many different species of birds. We must take you to the Caroni bird sanctuary to see the scarlet ibis. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it in its natural habitat.” He sighed. “You see, my dear, already I’m anticipating the weeks ahead with a great deal of satisfaction.”

Sophie was saved the need of responding to this small speech by a knock at the door. At Brandt’s bidding a black-skinned servant appeared, and he smiled.

“Ah, Violet,” he said, putting an arm round Sophie. “Eve, my dear, allow me to introduce you to our treasure, Violet.” The black woman chuckled and he went on: “She smoothes all our lives without us really appreciating it, don’t you, Violet?”

“If you say so, Mr. Brandt.” Violet’s dark luminous eyes shifted to the girl at his side. “How do you do, Miss Eve. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Hello, Violet.” Sophie managed a smile.

“Will you show Miss Eve to her room, Violet?” added Brandt, propelling Sophie forward. “Then we’ll have dinner in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Brandt.” Violet stepped back into the corridor behind her. “Will you follow me, miss?”

After receiving another encouraging smile from Eve’s grandfather, Sophie accompanied Violet back along the passage to the hall. They crossed to the wrought iron staircase and had just begun to climb when a young man came in through the mesh door and saw them. He was tall and very lean, his bony body accentuated by close-fitting hipster jeans and a collarless sweat shirt. When he saw them he looked up in surprise, his gaze moving over Sophie as Edge’s had done. Sophie guessed that this must be Piers, but he was not as dark as his father and his hair was longer. However, he had lazily attractive features, less aggressively masculine than his father’s.

“Well, well,” he commented, moving to the foot of the stairs. “You must be Eve, am I right?”

Sophie saw that Violet had halted ahead of her and was obviously waiting for her to respond to Piers’ informal introduction. She nodded. “Yes, I’m – Eve. And you, of course, are Piers.”

“I do have that dubious distinction.” Piers laughed. “Aren’t you coming down to say hello to your long-lost cousin?”

Violet leaned over the balustrade. “Mr. Brandt said dinner was to be served in half an hour, Mr. Piers. Miss Eve needs time to wash and tidy herself before then.”

Piers made a face. “Family dinner,” he mocked. Then: “And have you met our family, Eve?”

Sophie hesitated. “All except Great-aunt Rosalind, I believe.”

“Rosa?” Piers’ lips twitched. “Ah, well, that’s a treat in store.”

“Mr. Piers!” Violet sounded reproving.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of my elders, but really ... Don’t take too much notice of what she says, will you, Eve?”

Sophie was saved from replying by Violet’s expressive snort and when the servant continued on up the winding staircase, Sophie followed her without looking back.

But a smile was touching her lips, too. She liked Piers. He was nice and – uncomplicated. She thought she could understand him. But she’d never understand his father; never in a million years ...