Читать книгу Born Out Of Love - Anne Mather - Страница 6

CHARLOTTE regarded the bus which was to convey them from the little township of San Cristobal to Avocado Cay with dismay. She had not known such buses existed outside of museums. Jutting bonnet, thick-spoked wheels, wood-framed seats; was the fact that it was painted in a kaleidoscope of colours intended to distract attention from its less favourable attributes?

‘Hey, Mum, what a fantastic machine!’

Robert evidently had no such misgivings, and Charlotte turned to her eleven-year-old son with faint resignation. ‘Fantastic is right,’ she agreed dryly. ‘I wonder if the brakes work.’

‘Come on, Mum, of course they will.’ Robert was optimistic. ‘These old bangers were built to last.’

‘And last and last …’ declared his mother, smiling her thanks to the dark-skinned West Indian who had hefted their cases out of the launch and into the luggage compartment of the vehicle which was to transport them the last few miles to their destination, before following Robert’s lanky figure up the steps. Tall for his age, and with an appetite which would not have disgraced a weightlifter, Robert still remained as thin as a lath, she reflected ruefully.

There were few other passengers, fortunately, and at least they were not to be crushed by the press of humanity, Charlotte approved with some relief, subsiding into the seat beside her son. It was just as well. The contours of the bus did not allow for expansion, and although all the windows were open, the air inside was still and humid.

Through the windows, they could see the quay, and the launch which had brought them from Tortola rocking at its mooring. The stones of the quay were bleached hite by the sun, which was presently beginning its downward sweep towards the shadowy rise of the densely wooded hinterland, and the water beyond was clear turquoise shading to deepest blue. Whatever else San Cristobal lacked, there was no shortage of colour, Charlotte had, reluctantly, to admit. White-painted buildings, overhung with flowering creepers were dazzling without the protection of dark glasses, and she searched her bag for the polaroid lenses she had bought in St Thomas. A station wagon was coming fast down the narrow road towards the harbour, throwing up a cloud of dust in its passing, drawing attention to the precipitous climb ahead of them, and she hoped Robert was right in his casual assertion that these vehicles were built to last.

Then, realising how tense she was becoming, she forced herself to relax. There was no point in letting the situation play on her nerves. It was too late for that. She was here now; she was committed; and providing Madame Fabergé found her work acceptable, here they would stay.

All the same, it was impossible to rid herself of the bitterness she had felt these past few weeks since Matthew’s death. Without it, she might never have considered taking a post in such an out-of-the-way spot, might never have given in to the eagerness to escape from the triumphant condescension of Matthew’s relatives. What had they said? That it was only right that he should have left his house and property to his family; his real family, that is, not the girl he had taken into his home when she was seven years old, and whom he had had to marry ten years later because she was pregnant with another man’s child. The child he had grown to hate …

Charlotte shivered and looked despairingly at her son. Was this Matthew’s way of reaping his revenge, leaving her without even a roof over her head, and only her brief experience of nursery training to fall back on? Had he really lost all feeling for her? Had he allowed his brother and sister-in-law to influence him to that extent?

Of course, she had always known that Malcolm and Elizabeth had disliked her. They had made that plain in a dozen different ways, not least by forbidding their own two sons to associate with her. As far as they were concerned, Matthew had been mad to take responsibility for her in the first place, and when she had found herself pregnant, she had merely confirmed their opinion of her. But it hadn’t been like that …

She sighed now. How many times during those months before Robert was born had she longed to be able to destroy the child inside her? She hadn’t wanted a baby, not this baby, and by no means had she wanted to marry a man almost thirty years older than herself.

But Matthew had been adamant. He wanted to care for her, he said, and how could she expect to care for herself? People would talk if she went on living in his house as the mother of a baby, he said. They would suspect it was his, so why shouldn’t they convince them of it? Only Malcolm and Elizabeth had known that Matthew was not Robert’s father, could never have been, and they had never let Charlotte forget it.

In the early days, she used to wonder why a man with money and influence like Matthew Derby should have wanted to take in the orphaned daughter of one of his saleswomen. Those had been innocent days, before she had learned that years ago Matthew had cared for her mother, had wanted her, and had been thwarted when she met and married the young airman who had been Charlotte’s father. In those pre-war months Matthew had been an eligible bachelor, elder son of Andrew Derby, who had opened the first of two department stores from which the Derbys had made their money. He had found it incredible that anyone in her mother’s position should have preferred a penniless airman to someone with his social advantages, but then the war had overtaken them all, killing Matthew’s parents in an air raid and destroying for ever his own hopes of ever fathering a child.

Charlotte had learned the story gradually, through Elizabeth Derby’s barbed comments and from the things she had overheard the housekeeper saying. But then she had not really understood the connection between that history and herself. That had come later, and with adolescence came the rude awakening to Matthew’s true purpose in putting her in his debt. Even so, she had not taken his advances seriously until her involvement with Robert’s father …

Logan Kennedy had been studying marine biology. His home was in Brazil, but he had come to study for a while at a London institute, and Matthew had met him through a colleague of his at the university. Because Matthew was always interested in something new, he eventually invited Logan to dinner at High Clere, his house in Richmond.

From the beginning, Charlotte had been fascinated by the dark South American. Tall and lean and muscular, with the kind of uneven good looks and deep tan that went with the outdoor life he led, he was totally outside her realm of experience. She was used to spending time with older people, and Logan was much younger than Matthew’s circle of friends. Even so, she had never expected him to become interested in her.

Logan only came to High Clere that one time. Whether Matthew sensed he had made a mistake in bringing him there, Charlotte never knew for certain, but what she did soon learn was that Matthew did not approve of her associating with the young Brazilian.

She had left school the previous summer and because she liked children, she had decided to train as a nursery nurse. Brought up without children of her own age, she found working with the toddlers a delight, and that was how Logan had come upon her that afternoon when he had come to the nursery to meet her—with her arms full of children.

To say she had been surprised to see him would have been an enormous understatement. But that had quickly been erased by her very real excitement at his appearance. Because she had been afraid that if she went home and asked Matthew his permission he might refuse, she had telephoned Mrs Parrish, the housekeeper, and explained that she intended having a meal with a friend, and allowed her to draw her own conclusions.

Of course, when she had gone home she had told Matthew the truth, and because he had been surprisingly non-committal she had assumed he had no objections. But she had soon found this was not so. Engagements she couldn’t remember accepting were sprung on her at the last minute, forcing her to ring Logan and cancel whatever arrangements they had made. Matthew developed curious aches and pains whenever she was going out, and she found it almost impossible to relax at times, knowing he was sitting at home, waiting patiently for her.

Naturally, Logan began to get impatient. He had so little time in England, and although she began to see what it was Matthew was trying to do, she couldn’t help the feelings of guilt he managed to arouse inside her.

Besides which, her relationship with Logan was developing too quickly for her peace of mind. She had had boy-friends before, but never anyone like Logan, and when she was with him she seemed to lose all control over her emotions. She could think lucidly enough when they were apart, but when she was in his arms, sharing kisses and caresses which were all the more passionate because of their brevity, she knew they were rapidly becoming not enough. Sooner or later his own need would break through the iron control Logan kept upon himself, and then …

Even so, the inevitable might not have happened had it not been for Matthew. Charlotte came home from work one evening in early autumn to find him sunk in a mood of deep depression, seated beside the fire in his study, the bottle and empty glass beside him bearing silent witness to the number of drinks he had already swallowed.

It was then he had broached the subject which in recent weeks she had forgotten—that of the eventual outcome of their relationship. He wanted to marry her, he told her, staring at her through slightly bloodshot eyes, and she had tried to make light of his proposal. But Matthew was not in the mood for levity, and for once in his life he made an entirely uncalculated move. He got up from his chair and jerked her into his arms, pressing his wet mouth to hers. Charlotte could still shudder at the remembrance of that revolting embrace, and she wondered again how she had succeeded in escaping from him. He was a strong man—but he had been drinking, and she fought herself free with all the power of her healthy young body. She went straight to Logan, of course, and there, in his hotel room, in the heat of indignation and the passion which always flared between them, he made love to her.

Afterwards, she had been shocked and tearful, drained of all emotion, and then when Logan would have comforted her, a call had come in from the university and he had gone off to see the principal without even saying goodbye. Charlotte waited, but as time passed she grew cold and frightened, and eventually she returned to High Clere.

The following day Matthew apologised for his behaviour, and ever afterwards she could never remember him imbibing too freely. On the contrary, in the eleven years they were married he seldom took more than a glass of wine with his dinner.

Charlotte waited for Logan to contact her, and when he didn’t she rang his hotel, only to be told he had checked out the morning after … after …

Time ran together after that. Disillusioned and unhappy, she was horrified when she discovered the results of her recklessness. But Matthew had been surprisingly sympathetic. He rang the university on her behalf and elicited the information that Mr Kennedy had returned to Rio de Janeiro some weeks previously. Charlotte remembered how distraite she had felt not knowing what to do, where to turn, contemplating the possibilities of abortion, all the emotional trauma of an unwanted pregnancy.

Then Matthew had renewed his offer of marriage, with the proviso that she could keep her own room, that things would go on exactly as before. Even so, she had been reluctant to accept. Deep inside her, she had not been able to rid herself of the feeling that perhaps there was some explanation, that perhaps Logan would come back. But he didn’t, and as the days and weeks went by, her hopes dwindled and died.

So she married Matthew, as much for his sake as hers, although his family would never accept that. But he had so much more to lose than she did by a scandal, and she knew there was some truth in his assertion that people would suspect that he was responsible.

When Robert was first born, Matthew seemed delighted to have a son, and those early years were happier than even Charlotte could have imagined. But as Robert got older, things changed. Perhaps it was his obvious lack of resemblance to Matthew, or the fact that he got more pleasure out of outdoor pursuits than showing an interest in his father’s stores. Or maybe it was simply that like fatigue eating into metal, his brother and sister-in-law’s maliciousness got through to him. Whatever it was, Matthew began picking on the boy, chastising him at every opportunity, until Robert himself rebelled and turned on his father.

Until then, Robert had accepted Matthew as his father without inquiry, but suddenly came a spate of questions about how Charlotte came to marry a man so much older than she was, and why when all the other boys at school had young, athletic fathers, his was already an old man.

She parried his questions as best she could, not wanting to make him any more insecure than he already was, but once again it was Matthew who precipitated disaster, throwing his mother’s wanton behaviour at him, insinuating that she didn’t really know who his father was, destroying for ever any lingering trace of affection Robert might have felt for him.

Whether the bitterness which had corroded his soul was responsible, Charlotte did not know, but two days later Matthew had a heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and six months later he was dead.

Even so she would not have believed he could be so vindictive. The house, the property he owned, all his securities and the interest he had in the Derby stores went to his brother and his family, while Charlotte was left with a little over three hundred pounds in cash, and the small amount of jewellery she possessed.

Naturally, Malcolm and Elizabeth were jubilant. It was nothing less than she deserved, they said, and Charlotte had suffered their taunts in silence. Mr Lewis, Matthew’s solicitor, was obviously more sensitive, however, and a few days after the funeral he had come to her with this offer of employment as nursemaid to the small son and daughter of a Madame Fabergé, whose husband was living and working on San Cristobal in the Virgin Islands.

Charlotte had her doubts at first. It was a tremendous step to take, leaving the country to live on a remote Caribbean island with people she had not even met. But Mr Lewis’s persuasions and Robert’s enthusiasm, allied to her own desire to put both of them out of reach of the influence of Matthew’s relatives, eventually swayed the balance. So far, Robert had not questioned her about his real father, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he would want to know. To tell him his father had been a student was not enough, and perhaps, away from England, she could think of some acceptable substitute.

The terms of her employment seemed reasonable: she was to travel out to San Cristobal for a month’s trial, at the end of which time both parties would have the option to terminate the contract. Hours of work would be agreed between her employer and herself, and she and Robert would live independently in their own bungalow, a few yards from the Fabergé house. Charlotte had had to admit it sounded ideal, except that Robert would not receive the standard of schooling to which he was accustomed. Before Matthew’s death he had been attending a small preparatory school, not far from their home in Richmond, but Charlotte had known that sooner or later she would have to remove him from there. She didn’t think Robert would object. He was an easy-going boy, and had the capacity to adapt to circumstances. Which was just as well, she thought wryly.

‘Do you think there are sharks out there?’

Robert’s eager question diverted Charlotte, and she determined to put all thoughts of Matthew, and the Derbys, out of her mind.

‘Well, I expect there are sharks,’ she conceded doubtfully, realising this was something else she had not considered. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s dangerous to swim or anything like that.’

‘Mmm. Pity,’ her son remarked disappointedly, and she gasped. ‘Robert!’

‘Well…’ His grin was rueful, and the memories she had succeeded in stifling moments before came flooding back. Robert’s resemblance to his father might not be too obvious yet, but his sense of humour was purely Logan’s—that, and his darkness, the sallow cast of his skin after spending too long in northern climes, and the angular leanness of his body which would later acquire the muscular hardness of his father’s. ‘That would be really something,’ he added. ‘Seeing a shark!’

‘It’s something I can do well without,’ retorted Charlotte, her tone sharpened by emotion.

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘if—and I emphasise the word if—you do get the opportunity to go swimming, I shall expect you to remain within your depth.’

‘Seventy per cent of shark attacks on bathers occur in two to three feet of water,’ Robert observed casually.

‘My God!’ Charlotte stared at him aghast.

Robert shrugged. ‘It’s true.’

‘Did you have to tell me that?’

His eyes teased hers. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Where did you get this information?’

‘From an encyclopaedia. When that film faws was showing, we did this project—–’

‘Yes, well, I’d rather not know.’

‘All right.’

‘Oh no—no, that’s not true.’ Charlotte felt frustrated. How could she explain to her independent son that he meant more to her than anyone else in the world? How could she describe the need she felt to protect him when she knew that Robert would regard her anxiety with typical male impatience of feminine weakness? ‘I mean—if that’s so, then—you’ll have to take care, won’t you …’ her voice trailed away.

‘I will, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Robert turned to look out of the window again. ‘I say, do you think this is our driver coming now? Gosh, have you ever seen anyone so fat?’

‘Robert!’ Charlotte reproved quietly, although she had to admit he was right. The man approaching the bus must be easily sixteen stones. ‘Don’t make personal comments.’

But as the man caught hold of the handrail to haul himself aboard, the station wagon Charlotte had noticed earlier, making its descent to the harbour, swung sharply across the sun-bleached stones of the quay and ground to a halt beside him.

Immediately the fat man turned, a broad grin splitting the deeply pigmented lips, and he nodded his head in greeting as the driver of the station wagon thrust open his door and got out. Tall, lean almost to the point of thinness, in close-fitting denim jeans, with roughly cut dark hair overlapping the collar of a faded denim shirt, the man who emerged grasped the hand the fat man extended. They exchanged a few barely audible words, and then they both turned to examine the occupants of the vehicle with close scrutiny.

Charlotte, who had been watching the encounter with only scant interest, suddenly felt her breath catch in her throat, and all the blood drain away from her face. The resemblance between the newcomer and the man who had been occupying her thoughts for the past few minutes was startling. There again was the darkness which had been duplicated in Robert’s intelligent features, the lithe economy of movement that reminded her of the sinuous grace of a feline, the detached, appraising stare from eyes which she knew could change, as his emotions changed, from coolest hazel to burning amber.

But she was imagining things, she told herself sickly and without much conviction. She had to be. The man with the undisguisedly cynical expression who was presently surveying the passengers aboard this ancient conveyance could not possibly be the same man who had abandoned her almost twelve years before, without even troubling to find out whether she had recovered from his assault. It was too great a coincidence. That she should travel half across the world to escape from one situation only to find herself facing something even worse was nothing short of disaster.

Realising she had been holding her breath, she expelled it sharply, unwillingly attracting Robert’s attention. He frowned when he saw how pale she had become, and said, with what for him was an unusual show of concern: ‘Are you feeling all right, Mum? Your face is all sort of grey-looking. You’re not going to pass out or anything, are you?’

Charlotte managed to shake her head. ‘I just felt a little dizzy for a minute,’ she replied hastily, looking down at her hands, their dampness moulding them together in her lap. ‘Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be fine.’

Robert was more shrewd than she had given him credit for being. ‘Who’s that guy who keeps staring at us?’ he demanded in a whisper, bending his head so that no one could read his lips, and Charlotte made the excuse of reproving him for using the Americanism to give herself time to marshal an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ she denied, impatience giving an edge to her tone. ‘Robert, stop behaving like a poor imitation of James Bond! He’s probably a government official or something, come to check out the hired help.’

Robert lifted his head to return the man’s stare, and then grimaced. ‘Blimey,’ he gulped. ‘he’s coming aboard ! Did we contravene Customs regulations, do you think?’

Charlotte never failed to be amazed at Robert’s grasp of vocabulary. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ she was saying, when the dark man came down the aisle between the rows of seats and stopped beside them.

‘Mrs Derby?’ he queried politely, and she looked up into Logan’s critical gaze.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

He inclined his head. ‘Will you come with me? I’m here to escort you to Avocado Cay.’

Charlotte’s mouth was dry. For several seconds she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, remaining in her seat, staring at him through mists of confusion. It was Logan. She had no doubts about that now. Older, of course—he must be thirty-seven now—with lines etched upon his tanned features which had not been there before, but unmistakably the man who had ravaged her emotions and abandoned her. She ought to feel angry, she thought. She ought to feel resentful and cheated, capable of returning the contempt she could see glinting in those tawny eyes.

Instead, she felt shaken, and apprehensive; terrified of the complications he could create. She glanced anxiously at Robert, half afraid her expression revealed the turmoil in her brain, but he seemed quite relaxed at this unexpected turn of events, obviously just waiting for her to make the first move.

She took a deep breath. What could she do but go with Logan? If Madame Fabergé had asked him to pick them up she had no valid reason to refuse his offer, and certainly Robert would think it strange if she showed a preference for the bus now.

She wondered what Logan was thinking, wishing she could see behind that cool mask he was presenting. Had he decided not to acknowledge her? Were they to behave as if they were the strangers Robert believed? Her heart thumped and she cast another covert look in her son’s direction, mentally trying to reassure herself that Logan could never suspect their relationship. Why should he, after all? She had been married, and so far as he was concerned, Robert was the son of that marriage. Yet if he had guessed who she was, why hadn’t he made any attempt to stop her from coming here? He must surely have as little desire to see her again as she had to see him.

‘Avocado Cay?’ she said now, stupidly she realised, and Logan nodded.

‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. We’re going to Avocado Cay.’ Robert spoke up with his usual confidence. ‘But Mum’s feeling a bit funny, aren’t you?’ He smiled encouragingly at her before transferring his attention back to the tall man beside them. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Robert—–’

Charlotte’s hasty reproval went unacknowledged. ‘I’m Logan Kennedy,’ he answered the boy evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, your mother and I have met before—years ago.’ His lips twitched briefly. ‘I live at Avocado Cay, too.’

‘You do?’ Robert pushed back a lock of dark hair, his frown mirroring his confusion. ‘But Mum—–’

‘I expect your mother’s forgotten all about our brief encounter,’ Logan interposed smoothly. ‘I was an—er—associate of your father’s.’

‘Oh.’ Robert looked as though he might be about to say something about that too, but to Charlotte’s relief he gave in to other questions: ‘What’s Avocado Cay like? I can’t wait to see where we’re going to live. Is there a beach? Will I be able to swim in the sea?’

A faint trace of humour touched Logan’s mouth. ‘There are miles of beach,’ he reassured him. ‘And swimming in the sea is possible. But perhaps your mother would prefer you to use the lagoon.’

‘The lagoon!’ Robert looked intrigued. ‘What’s that, Mr Kennedy?’

Charlotte made a supreme effort and got to her feet. ‘Robert, Mr—Kennedy’s not here to answer your questions.’ She forced herself to look at Logan. ‘I’m ready when you are. Our luggage is stowed somewhere at the back of the bus.’

‘I know.’ Logan’s expression hardened as he looked at her. ‘Miguel is presently loading it into my car.’

‘Miguel?’ Charlotte glanced round in time to see the overweight bus driver closing the rear flap of the station wagon and her lips tightened. ‘You were sure we would agree, then?’ The words would not be denied.

Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘Why not? The journey is rough, whatever the conveyance, and I’d hazard a guess that physically you’ll feel safer with me.’ He turned. ‘Come.’

‘Mum wasn’t looking forward to riding in this!’ agreed Robert, apparently unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation. ‘It’s a museum piece!’

Following Logan along the aisle to the exit, Charlotte was aware of Robert’s voice carrying clearly to the man standing at the foot of the steps, and she wasn’t surprised when Miguel pulled a face at him.

‘What is this? You are calling my beautiful bus a museum piece!’ he exclaimed in mock fury, and Robert grinned widely.

‘I’d like to ride with you, Miguel,’ he offered placatingly, ‘but I don’t think Mum could stand the pace!’

Miguel roared with laughter, and Charlotte, prepared to remonstrate with her son once again for his casual use of the man’s name, bit her tongue. She saw Logan watching Robert with a curious expression on his face and her heart turned over. What if he should guess the truth? she thought agonisingly, and turned back from the inevitable outcome of such a consequence.

‘Perhaps you might prefer to travel in the bus—er—Robert?’ suggested Logan quietly, and Charlotte’s nerves jangled at the terrifying possibility of having to make the journey to Avocado Cay alone with this man.

But Robert took one look at her pale features and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. Not today anyway. I think I ought to stick with Mum, if you don’t mind.’

Logan shrugged and swung open the nearside door of the station wagon. ‘De nada,’ he said indifferently, reminding Charlotte that in spite of his perfect English he was not European, and at his silent indication she subsided into the passenger seat with unconcealed relief.