Читать книгу Born Out Of Love - Anne Mather - Страница 7

THE road up from the harbour was little more than a dusty track, that in wet weather might well become dangerous, Charlotte surmised. Within minutes, the harbour had fallen away below them, a natural basin, which from this height revealed light and colour invisible from the quay. As they climbed higher, the air grew fresher, and the wind through the open windows tumbled Charlotte’s hair about her shoulders.

The palm groves which fringed the coastline had given way to dense undergrowth which was crushed beneath the wheels of the station wagon where it encroached on to the road. The trees, Charlotte could see, were overgrown with creepers, and their progress sent birds winging into the air, noisily indignant at being disturbed. They could hear water, clear rushing water, that revealed itself in streams and tiny waterfalls tumbling down the mountainside. Ferns and mossy rocks determined its course through pools and cascades, flowering plants clinging to its path for survival.

They followed the curve of a ridge until the harbour was hidden by the shoulder of the island and thick vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.

Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’

‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’

Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’

‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.

‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’

‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’

‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’

Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’

Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’

‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’

‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’

‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’

A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’

‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.

‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.

Logan’s long, narrow fingers slid effortlessly round the wheel. ‘Quite well,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause.

Charlotte forced herself to go on. ‘I believe Madame Fabergé’s husband is working here on the island. Does he work with you, by any chance?’

Logan turned to look at her and for a moment their eyes met and held. But the coldness in his was chilling and she looked away as he answered: ‘Madame Fabergé’s husband is dead, Mrs Derby. I thought you knew that.’

For a moment, Charlotte’s brain spun dizzily. She tried to remember what it was Mr Lewis had said, and she could almost swear that he had told her that her employer’s husband was living and working at Avocado Cay.

Grasping the frame of the open window for support, she said faintly: ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Kennedy. How could I?’

Logan shrugged. They had been descending a steep slope for some minutes, and below them stretched the serried ranks of a plantation of some kind. Thick leaves disguised their fruit, but Robert recognised the fleshy green fingers beneath.

‘Hey, they’re bananas,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Rows and rows of banana plants!’

Logan gave him an inscrutable smile, his benevolence fading when he again encountered Charlotte’s troubled gaze. But he went on to explain that this was the only crop grown in any quantity on the island. They had an unusual amount of rainfall, he explained, and its hilly contours were not suitable for acres of sugar cane. The island was not overly populated either. Apart from the village they could see ahead of them, and Avocado Cay, the small township of San Cristobal was its main settlement.

The village was a thriving community, with weatherboard houses and stores fronting a narrow main street. Charlotte saw the schoolhouse and beside it the Episcopalian church, the churchyard incongruously ordered among such tropical disorder. She wondered how many other white people lived on the island. She had seen mostly black faces.

Logan was instantly recognised, and their progress was slowed by his casual exchanges with passers-by. Occasionally, someone would approach the car to take a look at the newcomers, and once a child clung to Logan’s open window, cheekily demanding when he was going to be taken sailing again.

‘You ought to be in school, Peter,’ Logan retorted, smiling to take the edge off the reproof, and in the moments before his features hardened again, Charlotte glimpsed the man who had awakened her to an awareness of her own femininity.

‘Will I go to school there?’ asked Robert, as the outskirts of the village were left behind, and they passed beneath the hanging branches of a belt of thickly rooted trees.

‘That depends,’ Logan replied quietly, and Robert, seizing on something else he had heard, went on:

‘Do you sail, too? What kind of a boat do you have?’

Charlotte licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you thought I should have known Madame Fabergé’s husband was dead,’ she suggested tautly, ignoring Robert’s impatient sigh.

Logan reached forward and pulled a case of cheroots from the glove compartment, expertly flicking the pack until his lips could fasten round one slender stem and withdraw it. Then he felt in his pocket for a lighter, and applied the flame to its tip before replying.

‘Surely the conditions of employment were made clear to you, Mrs Derby,’ he said at last.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte endeavoured to keep the nervous tremor out of her tone. ‘I was sent here to take charge of Madame Fabergé’s small son and daughter.’

‘Philippe and Isabelle. Yes, I know.’

‘Then you must also know that I would assume Madame Fabergé had a husband. Why else would she be living in such an—an out-of-the-way place?’

‘Is that how you see San Cristobal? As an out-of-the-way place?’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Are you denying that, too?’

‘I am neither admitting nor denying anything, Mrs Derby,’ he returned smoothly.

Charlotte controlled the almost overwhelming desire to scream her frustration at him, and continued carefully: ‘You know that San Cristobal is hardly the usual haunt of a widow with two children, Mr Kennedy.’

He frowned. ‘No,’ he conceded at last, with what she felt was deliberate provocation. ‘But don’t dismiss these islands too lightly, Mrs Derby. They, like the great rain forests of my own country, make me acutely aware of my own minute contribution to the scheme of things.’

Charlotte breathed a sigh. ‘Mr Kennedy, I do not require a lecture on my own insignificance. I accept that. All I wondered was why Madame Fabergé should choose to live here.’

Logan’s nostrils flared. ‘Pierre Fabergé died of yellow fever six months ago in the Amazon delta!’ he stated grimly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte moved her shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I—I gather you knew him.’

‘He was my best friend,’ replied Logan harshly. ‘Lisette—his wife—had no one else.’

Now Charlotte understood. And with understanding came a feeling of withdrawal that had nothing to do with cool common sense. It was easy to see how Mr Lewis had confused the issue. Madame Fabergé’s husband had no doubt been a marine biologist, too. That would account for his friendship with Logan. And because of Logan’s occupation, it had been assumed that he was her husband.

‘You—Madame Fabergé lives with you?’ she ventured faintly, and was rewarded by a contemptuous glare.

‘Do not judge everybody by your own standards!’ he retorted cruelly, and it was fortunate that Robert chose that moment to distract their attention by pointing out the ocean ahead of them.

The road emerged from the trees above dunes of fine coral sand, where creaming waves spread a necklace of white lace. The sand looked pure, and unblemished by human endeavour. Before them lay the calm waters of the lagoon, deepening perhaps to no more than twenty feet, and beyond, maybe a couple of hundred yards out from the shore, the surging waters of the ocean tore themselves to pieces on the barely submerged crenellations of a reef.

‘Gosh!’ Robert was briefly speechless as he stared at a scene that was straight out of a travelogue, and then he shook his head as he turned to Logan again. ‘Is the water warm?’

‘Is seventy degrees warm enough for you?’

‘Seventy degrees!’ Robert hunched his shoulders disbelievingly. ‘Man, that’s warm!’ Then he sat up as signs of habitation signalled their proximity to their destination. ‘Where’s the lagoon? Is it far from the beach?’

Logan shook his head. ‘That’s the lagoon, Robert. The calm waters before the reef.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’ Robert was excited. ‘But why is it called a lagoon? I thought that was a lake or something.’

Logan hesitated. ‘Without the protection of the reef, these waters would be accessible to the biggest and most dangerous fish in the Caribbean.’

‘Sharks!’ said Robert, not without some satisfaction, and Charlotte shivered.

‘Yes. Sharks,’ agreed Logan flatly. ‘But barracuda, too.’

‘Have you ever tangled with a shark, Mr Kennedy?’ Robert asked eagerly, and Charlotte saw Logan’s mouth turn downward at the corners.

‘There are many types of shark, Robert,’ he told the boy quietly. ‘And not all of them are dangerous. The largest fish in the sea is a whale shark, and it’s quite harmless.’ He cast a strange look in Charlotte’s direction. ‘But some sharks—like some women—are unpredictable, and until you learn to recognise the species, you should leave them alone.’

Avocado Cay was a collection of dwellings bordering the ocean. Here and there, attempts at cultivating gardens had been made, but the rioting undergrowth and off-shore winds had almost defeated them. They were verandahed buildings, mostly, with corrugated roofs, set in clearings between flowering shrubs and ubiquitous palms. A few goats grazed on the outskirts of the village, and hens scattered before the wheels of the station wagon. They could smell the sea, its sharp salty tang coming strongly through the windows of the vehicle. The clarity of the air was startling, and only the blown spume on the reef misted the distant horizon.

Logan drove through the village, following a narrow track which led down through a belt of palms and eucalyptus trees almost to the water’s edge. Ahead of them, Charlotte could see the roofs of several single-storied buildings, and beyond, a wooden landing jutting out into the lagoon where a sailing ketch was moored. It all looked very beautiful and very peaceful, and without the presence of the man beside her, she would have felt a greater sense of relief.

‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ demanded Robert, voicing the question which had trembled on his mother’s lips, and Logan nodded.

‘Yes. That bungalow directly ahead of us belongs to Madame Fabergé.’

‘And where is our house?’ Robert persisted, but Charlotte again intervened.

‘I expect—Madame Fabergé will explain where we’re going to stay, Robert,’ she told him quellingly, avoiding looking at the man beside her. Then: ‘Now what are you doing?’

Robert grinned. ‘Taking off my sandals. I can’t wait to try the water.’

‘Robert! At least let’s meet my employer first.’

Logan slowed the station wagon as they neared the sand-strewn slope beside the bungalow. ‘Didn’t I explain?’ he asked with deliberate irony: ‘You already did—meet your employer, I mean. I employed you, Mrs Derby. Didn’t I make that clear?’

Charlotte’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the fact before gasping distractedly: ‘You know you didn’t!’

Logan’s thick lashes shaded his eyes, but his expression was unmistakably smug. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I am. Does it make any difference?’

Charlotte’s breathing felt constricted. ‘You—you—–’ she began chokingly, and then became aware of Robert’s startled eyes watching her. Pressing a hand to her throat, she moved her head in a helpless gesture of defeat, and the station wagon slowed to a halt as a small boy came darting round from the back of the building to meet them. The child’s face was tear-stained, and his tee-shirt and shorts were grubby with sand.

‘Uncle Logan! Uncle Logan!’ he yelled excitedly, and Logan swung out of the vehicle to catch the small figure up in his arms.

‘Olà, Philippe!’ he exclaimed, one long finger tracing the marks of tears on his cheek. ‘What have you been doing now?’

‘Nothing.’ Philippe looked sulky for a moment, and then his attention was attracted by Robert getting out of the back of the station wagon. ‘Who’s that?’

‘That’s Robert,’ answered Logan easily, turning towards the older boy. ‘Perhaps he might be persuaded to play with you sometimes. Providing you remember you are only four years old.’

Robert grinned. ‘Hi, Philippe,’ he said, somewhat self-consciously. ‘How are you?’

Philippe wriggled down from Logan’s arms, surveying the newcomer’s five feet from half that height, and Charlotte deemed it time she made her presence apparent. She pushed open her door and got out just as a plump woman of medium height came down the verandah steps to join them.

It was reasonable to assume that this was Lisette Fabergé. She was carrying a baby of perhaps nine months, a fat little thing wearing nothing but a nappy, and she was obviously in some distress. Her dishevelled appearance matched the dishevelled appearance of her son.

‘Oh, Logan, thank goodness you’re back!’ she exclaimed, with evident relief, ignoring Charlotte standing beside the car and going straight to the man.

Logan turned towards her, sparing a smile for the baby before his concern made itself apparent. Tall and masculine, he dwarfed Lisette, and Charlotte felt an ugly feeling of resentment stirring inside her. So much solicitude for Lisette Fabergé’s widowed state, while she had had to cope alone with the fears of her unwanted pregnancy! Watching Lisette’s fingers curving possessively round the muscular flesh of his forearm, her eyes turned up to him in appeal, made her feel physically sick, and she slammed the car door with unwarranted force.

Immediately Lisette’s wide blue eyes switched in her direction, appraising her and dismissing her in one scornful stare. She was an attractive girl, somewhere around her own age, Charlotte guessed, but there the resemblance ended. For years Charlotte had been accustomed to dressing in styles suitable to the wife of a man with Matthew’s money while Lisette’s clothes were stained and unpressed and obviously cheap. She was not at all the chic Frenchwoman Charlotte had expected.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said indifferently, and Charlotte realised she was not French at all, but English. Then she turned back to Logan. ‘Phil swallowed one of Isabelle’s safety-pins just after you’d left, and I’ve been frantic!’

‘Was it open?’ asked Logan at once, a fleeting trace of resignation crossing his face.

‘I don’t know,’ cried Lisette, and Philippe started to cry again.

Logan crouched down beside the boy. ‘Now stop that,’ he said gently. ‘You must know whether the pin was open or not.’

Philippe sniffed. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Philippe nodded, and Logan straightened again. ‘So where’s the problem?’

Lisette’s jaw trembled. ‘He didn’t tell me that!’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘No. He just ran away when I tried to catch him, and Isabelle was screaming for her tea, and—–’

‘—and you shouted at him and frightened him,’ finished Logan patiently. ‘I know.’

‘Oh, Logan, you’re so good with him!’

Charlotte turned away to stare across the stretch of sand to the water’s edge. Dear God, was there no end to her punishment? she wondered bitterly. Eleven years of living with a man she did not love should have been enough for anyone.

Fortunately, Robert was unaware of her feelings. His own thoughts lay in an entirely different direction, and it only took Philippe’s tentative indication towards the ocean to send them both charging across the sand to the water’s edge. Charlotte opened her mouth to call her son, and then closed it again when Logan spoke.

‘This is Mrs Derby, Lisette,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find her assistance a great help with the children.’

Charlotte turned reluctantly and approached them. Isabelle was wriggling impatiently in her mother’s arms, and glad of anything to divert her awareness of Logan’s penetrating gaze, she held out her arms towards the baby. Isabelle hesitated only a moment before returning the invitation, and with a shrug Lisette dumped the child on to her. Isabelle was wet, among other things, but Charlotte had never liked the cream silk dress she was wearing, and decided ruefully that at least now she had a reason for getting rid of it. She knew Logan was watching her with guarded eyes, but now she felt less vulnerable.

‘I can’t imagine why a woman like you would want to come out here,’ remarked Lisette by way of an opening, obviously as aware of the differences between them as Charlotte was. She was looking down at her own grubby shirt and pants with dislike, clearly favouring the dress Charlotte was so willing to discard.

‘Needs must,’ Charlotte said now, deciding to be honest about that at least.

‘Really?’ Lisette looked sceptical. ‘I would have thought a job was the last thing you’d need.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ replied Charlotte, more easily, pulling Isabelle’s sticky fingers out of her hair. Then, realising something more was expected of her, she added: ‘What a beautiful place this is!’

‘It’s all right.’ Lisette looked reflectively at Logan. ‘Are you coming in?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Not right now. I think I should show—Mrs Derby where she and her son are going to sleep.’

‘That’s your son?’ Lisette asked Charlotte thoughtfully. ‘You must have been very young when he was born.’

Charlotte could do without questions like that. Equally, she could do without Logan showing her where she was going to sleep. ‘I—if there’s anything you would like me to do now—–’ she began hastily, only to be silenced by the look Logan cast in her direction.

‘Well—–’ Lisette started, but Logan broke in flatly: ‘Not tonight, Lisette. Mrs Derby’s had a long day. I think something to eat, a bath, and an early night is indicated, don’t you?’

Lisette shrugged, half sulkily, looking very like Philippe had done earlier. ‘What shall I give her to eat?’

‘I had Carlos take the liberty of providing Mrs Derby and her son with a ready-made meal earlier in the day,’ Logan stated evenly. ‘Relax, Lisette. Everything’s been taken care of.’

‘Except Philippe.’

‘What about Philippe?’

‘Have you forgotten the pin?’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ Logan told her tolerantly. ‘The pin will make its reappearance, don’t worry. Just keep your eyes open for the next couple of days.’

Lisette pursed her lips and turned back to Charlotte, clearly not altogether suited by his proposal. ‘You’d better give Isabelle to me before she ruins your dress completely,’ she said, half sullenly.

‘It will wash,’ Charlotte reassured her, handing the child over with faint regret, and Lisette uttered an angry imprecation as Isabelle began to protest noisily.

‘Everything around here has to,’ she stated shortly, and marched back up the steps and into the bungalow, leaving Charlotte to face Logan alone.

He seemed rather preoccupied just then, his eyes intent on the two boys splashing in the shallows along the shoreline. Looking at him unobserved, Charlotte felt something uncurl and expand inside her, something that sent the blood more thickly along her veins and probed without sensitivity at her inflamed emotions. He was still the only man she had ever known to exude that aura of raw masculinity, and whether it was in a lounge suit or the revealing jeans he was presently wearing, the way he moved aroused feelings she had long forgotten. Had they really once been that close to one another? she asked herself incredulously. Had she lain beside him and ached for his possession, run her fingers over the smooth brown skin of his body and exulted in the trembling passion he had found impossible to control in her arms? Moisture prickled all along her spine, even though the air was much cooler now as the sun sank lower. Oh God, she thought wretchedly, it was more than eleven years ago. She must not think of that now!

Then Logan turned and encountered her eyes upon him, and his expression banished all traces of tremulous emotion. ‘Come with me!’ he commanded harshly, and she followed him obediently down the dusty slope to where a second bungalow was situated in the shade of a clump of gnarled coconut palms.

Shallow steps led up to a verandah, which ran right round the house and would no doubt give access to the beach from the other side, but Logan threw open the door leading into the living room, and Charlotte had, perforce, to follow him inside. He stood in the middle of the sparsely furnished room, with its chintzy upholstery and rug-strewn floor, a darkly malevolent accuser, and when the fugitive wind slammed the door behind her, she knew that the moment of truth had come.

‘Well, Charlotte,’ he said coldly, and she had to steel herself not to show her fear of him. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Yes.’ The word came out squeakily higher than was normal, and she cleared her throat nervously.

‘You’ve changed,’ he went on critically. ‘You used not to be so sophisticated.’

‘I’m older, Logan,’ she answered, achieving a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘You—you’ve changed, too.’

‘Have I?’ His lips curled. ‘You married Derby.’ It was almost an accusation.

‘Yes.’ Again the single word stuck in her throat.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Charlotte stared at him lamely, reduced in a moment to trepidation again.

‘Yes, why?’ Logan demanded grimly. ‘A simple enough question, I should have thought.’

He would have thought … Charlotte’s teeth clattered together. If he only knew! But he mustn’t—he shouldn’t. She licked her dry lips. ‘Why do two people usually marry?’ she ventured faintly, and was shocked by the reaction this evoked.

‘Don’t pretend to me that you married Derby because there was any trace of emotion between you?’ he snarled savagely, coming close to her so that his breath was a searing draught of air against her forehead. She was a tall girl, five feet seven in her stockinged feet, but Logan had always towered over her. He did so now, the hard muscles of his legs almost brushing her skirt. ‘I was there, remember,’ he added. ‘I know how you regarded him, and it wasn’t in that way!’

‘Cir—circumstances—can alter cases,’ she began, but his angry imprecation silenced her.

‘Sure they can,’ he agreed contemptuously. ‘Particularly if the circumstances are governed by those pretty little pieces of paper with green backs!’

Charlotte gasped indignantly. ‘Are—are you implying that I—I married Matthew for his money?’

Logan’s lips twisted. ‘No, I’m not implying it, Charlotte. I’m stating it! What a pity the old man found out too soon and changed his will!’

Charlotte’s reaction was swift and instinctive. If she had stopped to consider what she was about to do, she might never have done it. But she didn’t think. Her hand moved almost of its own volition, connecting with Logan’s cheek with stinging accuracy.

For a moment he stared at her, his hand raised almost disbelievingly to the injury. And then he reacted as she had done, ruthlessly delivering a painful slap to the side of her face.

‘Mum!’

The door to the bungalow had opened without their becoming aware of it, and now Robert stood motionless in the doorway, staring at them through dazed, accusing eyes.

At once Logan turned aside from Charlotte, raking back his hair much as Robert himself might have done, confronting the boy with evident regret.

‘I’m sorry you had to see that, son,’ he said wearily, and her heart plunged at his casual use of the word that to him had no meaning. He glanced round at Charlotte, but she avoided his gaze, her eyes watering from the blow on her cheek. ‘Your mother and I—well, we had some unfinished business—–’

Charlotte had thought Robert’s immobility was due to fear or apprehension, but now she realised how wrong she had been. He was pale, it was true, but with anger, not alarm. Gathering his forces, he charged at the man who had so abused his mother, kicking and punching at him with all the wiry strength he possessed.

Logan held him at bay without too much difficulty, but still Robert managed to kick out with his bare feet, and quickly Charlotte intervened. ‘Robert!’ she cried, grasping his arm and trying to drag him away from Logan. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right! Please—stop this before someone gets hurt!’

It was difficult, but eventually she separated them, shaking Robert gently, forgetting her own pain, both mental and physical, in an attempt to reassure the boy. ‘Listen to me,’ she exclaimed, forcing him to look at her. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I don’t want to!’ retorted Robert, half tearfully now, as emotion got the better of valour. His lips trembled. ‘If I was older, he wouldn’t dare to touch you!’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Logan heavily, behind him. ‘I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Robert. I promise you, it won’t happen again.’

The boy tore himself away from his mother and faced the man fearlessly. Watching them, Charlotte was appalled at how alike they were. ‘You bet it won’t!’ he muttered childishly, and Logan’s eyes sought and found hers above her son’s head.

‘I’ll show you the rest of the bungalow,’ he said, in a curiously flat voice, but Charlotte declined.

Drawing herself up to her full height, which in cork-soled sandals was a couple of inches more, she said: ‘We can manage, thank you. We shan’t need your assistance.’

Logan inclined his head wearily. ‘As you wish.’ He turned towards the door, and she wondered why her victory suddenly felt so much like defeat. ‘There are provisions in the kitchen, and the meal my man, Carlos, prepared for you earlier is in the refrigerator. The sanitary arrangements are, I think, self-explanatory.’ He paused, one hand on the lintel. ‘Carlos will fetch your cases from the car, and I will see you both in the morning.’

Charlotte nodded, but Robert muttered: ‘Not if we see you first!’ in a distinctly audible undertone.

Logan’s look narrowed. ‘If you need—anything else, my house is just a dozen yards away along the beach,’ he added quietly, and stepped through the door. ‘Goodnight.’

Robert turned his back and said nothing, but Charlotte acknowledged his farewell with a quick nod, going to the door as he crossed the verandah, and closing it securely behind him. There was a key and she turned it, uncaring whether or not he heard her.