Читать книгу Innocent Invader - Anne Mather - Страница 6

THE pearly, early morning light stole like a wraith across the island, lifting the wreaths of mist from the trees, and, as the sun rose higher, gilding the fleecy clouds with a golden glow. Jason had seen many such sunrises, but they never failed to move him by their complete detachment from the toils and rigours of the world they so beautifully illuminated.

Leaning against his balcony rail, he saw the shadows disappear among the palms that fringeed the coral beach, and the white-surfed breakers that creamed on the sand sparkled iridescently. This was the time of day he liked best, when everything was fresh and unspoilt, and for a few hours at least, before Irena awoke, he was free from the sound of her hysterical recriminations.

He looked inland, over the fields of waving sugar cane, the brightness of the crop interspersed here and there by the dark brown thatched roofs of the huts belonging to the plantation workers. Beyond the estate, below the terraces where the white population of the island lived in luxury, was the small town of El Tesoro, the treasure, so called because of the legend that one of the many Spanish galleons, loaded with gold and precious stones, had floundered on the reef on its way to Cordova.

The town, which hugged the small harbour, was densely populated, and living conditions for many of the West Indians were squalid. The birth rate continued to rise and consequently, although Jason tried to help them, little was achieved. Jason's money was tied up in the estate, and besides, they did not always welcome help. They were poor but independent, with the kind of contentment found only among people who have never known the urge for power and money and position in society. At times Jason envied them.

Education was gradually being brought to the people, but as yet the schools on the island accommodated only a small proportion of the children. Those children that did attend were restless and dilatory, only waiting for the bell to be free so that they could swarm into the warm sea, or go out with their fathers in the fishing boats as they had done for generations. Whether it was all worthwhile was a problem that Jason sometimes pondered; would they be happier knowing the outside world and its problems, or was it more sensible to leave them in ignorance to live a life which, if narrow in outlook, was broad in experience?

His family, the Cordovas, had governed the island since the first white settlement was made there over three hundred years ago. Only sixteen miles by twelve at its widest point, it had provided little interest for the French or the English, and gradually the white population had increased and today there were over thirty white families on the island. The rest of the near seventy thousand population was made up of Africans, Indians, and Creoles, with a fair proportion of mulattos amongst them.

During the tourist season, a time Jason abhorred, day-trippers from St. Vincent or Grenada came to the island, but as there were no hotels suitable for their accommodation they were forced to leave at nightfall. For this Jason was grateful. He intended that as far as possible the island should retain its individuality. He wanted no neon-lighted, chrome-plated monoliths turning Cordova into another Martinique or Trinidad.

Jason turned now from his contemplation of the view, and reached for a cigarette which he lit before shedding the white bathrobe which was his only garment. He dressed leisurely in the tight cotton trousers and loose shirt which were the usual garb of the planter at his work. He pulled knee-length leather boots on to his feet and after running the comb through his thick black hair which was over-long and brushed his collar, he opened his bedroom door silently, and crossing the wide landing descended the stairs.

The stairs were marble, as was the mosaic floor of the cool hall below. From this hall, corridors led off to the various regions of the house, while the cooking and servants’ quarters were at the rear of the building in a separate one-storey dwelling. Everywhere was painted white, and at this early hour of the morning the scent of beeswax filled the air. The floors of the living rooms were wood, and Beulah, the African housemaid, polished them religiously until they shone like the polished surface of a table.

Jason walked along the corridor to the dining room which he and Irena used, and seated himself at the long refectory table. His place had been laid as usual, with the fruit and rolls and coffee he always enjoyed at this time. Romulus, the elderly manservant, came to see whether there was anything else he required, but Jason shook his head and the man bowed and left him.

The wide french doors were open, and through them he could again see the beach and the shadowy blue horizon. A breeze blew in, ruffling his hair, and he ran a hand lazily round the back of his neck, stretching for a moment.

His thoughts turned to the argument he had had with Irena the previous evening, and his expression darkened. As always, to mar the beauty of the day, the problem of Irena was fresh in his mind. He finished his breakfast, shrugged his shoulders as though to lift the thoughts that plagued him and, leaving the table, he went out of the french doors and stood on the verandah for a moment breathing deeply. Then he turned and walked round to the rear of the building, where, beyond the pool, and hidden among trees was the stable where he kept his horses. He kept two hunters, and three ponies for the children.

Apollo, his black stallion, was being saddled in readiness for him as he approached, and he patted the horse encouragingly, and produced an apple for it from his pocket, holding it in the palm of his hand, and allowing Apollo to nuzzle the fruit with his soft mouth.

Jacob, the stable boy, stood back to admire his handiwork, and said: “Mucho bello, señor!” in a satisfied voice.

Jason straddled the animal, and nodded down at the boy. “Si, Jacob. Esta bien. Gracias,” and pressing his heels into the animal's sides he rode out of the stable yard.

The air was like wine as he rode down the steep incline to the beach, and then, giving the horse its head, he galloped swiftly along the damp sand. Apollo, sensing his master's mood, sped on winged feet, until Jason slowed him to a canter and finally to a trot. Wheeling the horse round suddenly, he rode up the bank and into the shade of the casuarinas. Dismounting, he flung himself down on the sand and stretched before reaching for a cigarette. After lighting the cigarette he lay back, looking upwards through the tracery of leaves to the blueness of the sky above him. It was going to be another perfect day. Although he had visited many foreign countries in his lifetime, and had attended school in England, nevertheless there was nowhere to compare with Cordova.

But, as always, when he had time to think, his thoughts turned to Irena and the terrible argument they had had the previous evening about Serena and the children. Their arguments of late were always about Serena and the children. If only Antonio were still alive, things would not have been so bad. As it was, with his brother dead, he felt responsible for his brother's widow and their three children.

The children were aged eight, seven and five and urgently needed a governess. The schools on the island were only for the West Indian children. All the white families employed tutors or governesses until the children were old enough to attend boarding schools. If Antonio had been alive things would have been different. He would have seen that the children were properly educated. As it was, Irena's attitude towards Eloise, Ricardo and Marie forestalled Jason from acting in the matter for the sake of a peaceful life. But finally he had decided that he could not be responsible any longer for their education. He had tried to instil a little knowledge into their heads, and although Spanish was the most widely used tongue on the island, the children could speak English quite fluently already so that later they could attend an English school as he had done. But the short time he had to devote to them every day was not enough and mostly they ran wild. Serena, child that she was, had no idea how to maintain discipline, and her indifference only made them worse. If only Irena had been a normal, healthy human being, kindly disposed to her nephew and nieces, she could have done so much for them. But Irena refused to acknowledge their existence except in moments of anger, and although they all lived in the same house, there were two separate households. For Jason and the children the situation was intolerable, and the children were most frequently to be found down in the cane fields, playing with the children of the plantation workers. But now Jason had decided it could not go on. They must be taught; not only elementary lessons but how to behave, before it was too late.

He rolled on to his stomach and stubbed out his cigarette in the sand, watching a sandfly flitting across the ground in search of some interesting article on which to settle himself. Its steady progress was relaxing.

If only Serena had been the daughter of one of the Spanish families here on the island, things might have been different, more tenable. But his brother had married a beautiful young Creole in Trinidad and had brought her back to Cordova. That was nine years ago, and Serena had been sixteen at the time. Irena had been outraged. Although at that time Antonio had had his own house, it had been near Jason's own, and Serena had thought she would be as welcome there as in her own home. In consequence, she had often appeared at the villa while the men were at work, until Irena and she had had such a row that neither of them had spoken since. Serena had been eight months pregnant at that time, and it had disturbed her so much that the baby was premature. For a time it had looked as though both Serena and the baby would die. Miraculously both had survived, but Antonio had not entered Jason's home from the time on. He remained friends with Jason, and Jason was always welcome at their home, but there was no social life between the two families. It had caused quite a stir on the island, and Jason had despised the whole affair.

And now he was faced with a much greater problem, a problem which had grown worse during the two years it had been his. Antonio had been killed while on a business trip to the United States two years ago. He had left Serena a widow with three young children, and little money of their own. Antonio had only worked for Jason. He had not had any share in the company. He had forfeited that years ago when he left home to live in Trinidad.

After Antonio's funeral Jason had told Serena that he wanted the four of them to come and live at the villa. To begin with she had refused, but circumstances had forced her to see reason, and that was how things stood today, except for the fact that he had advertised for a governess, and had obtained one.

“You must be mad! Stark, staring mad!” Irena had raged at him the previous evening, when he had presented her with the fait accompli. “Bringing some strange woman into my house. Isn't it enough that I have to live in the same house as that witch and her brood?”

“Irena!”

“Well! Do you want a stranger in the house? Is there no end to your generosity towards these people …?”

Jason had shrugged expressively. “No, Irena, I do not want a stranger in my home, but those children are turning into savages before my eyes. It's for them I'm prepared to have this woman here.”

“They're savages!” Irena had clenched her fists in fury. Her temper at times was quite uncontrollable, and Jason had tried to pacify her.

“Irena, please! This will be someone for you to talk to. She's been brought up in a convent – surely that's recommendation enough?”

“She's a Catholic?” Irena was curious. “You're sure of this?”

Jason spread wide his hands. “That I can't say. But what else can she be? After all, convents are not run by Protestants.”

“That's true. Nevertheless, Jason, I will not have it. She must go back. You must give her her return fare. You say she's coming from England? She can go back there.”

“No.” Jason was adamant. “In this I refuse to be countermanded. This woman will come and take charge of the children, and you will accept her. Goodness knows, her situation here will be far more difficult than she has any idea it will be.”

Irena had argued for a long time and finally, in weariness, Jason had left her screaming and maligning the fates that had brought her to live in this house.

As he remembered, Jason's fingers sought the scar on his right cheek. A livid thing, it stretched from high on his cheekbone, almost to his jawline. Whenever he was emotionally disturbed, the scar throbbed painfully, and with a muffled oath he got to his feet, determinedly putting all thoughts of Irena out of his mind. There was no more time for soul-searching; it was time to go down to the distillery.

The island's main exports were sugar cane and the rum distilled from the molasses, and Jason himself kept an expert eye on the day's work. It was not always necessary; his staff were reliable and efficient, but it kept him out of the house most days until lunch time and saved him the trouble of trying to find excuses for Irena's ill-temper.

He rode back to the house, and leaving the stallion for Jacob to groom, he went and retrieved the Land Rover from the garage. He drove smoothly down the drive, between the neatly laid-out lawns and flower gardens that Irena found so pleasing, and which the children avoided meticulously. The artificiality of it all did not appeal to Jason; he preferred the rather flamboyant confusion to be found in abundance on the island; bougainvillea rioting gloriously with hibiscus and wisteria; the scarlet beauty of immortelles, the oleanders.

An arched gateway in the high stucco wall which surrounded the villa bore witness to the Moorish influence on all the larger dwellings. Balconies, courtyards, fountains, wrought ironwork; all reflected the Moorish artistry predominant in Spain itself.

The hard track wound down towards the town, its surface throwing a film of dust over the Land Rover. As Jason neared the town, stray animals ran heedlessly across his path, and the colourful African women in there floral cotton dresses became more numerous. Dozens of children swarmed about their legs, and waved excitedly as Jason drove by; they all knew Jason.

Before driving to the Cordova distillery, he drove down to the harbour. This was the only part of the island accessible by sea. A coral reef surrounded the island with only a narrow channel that gave access to the small port of El Tesoro. Here a weekly steamer brought mail and supplies, and the occasional passenger, and in return took the export trade of the island. Besides the sugar cane and run, there was a small bottling and canning plant, which was owned by another of the Spanish families. This was only a small concern, as most of the fruit grown was used by the islanders themselves.

To reach the quay Jason had to leave the Land Rover and walk the remaining distance. Adjoining the quayside was a busy open market, where all the commerce of the island was executed, and he had to press his way through the crowds of early traders and shoppers. The scents of the market, always aromatic and sometimes overpowering, were none the less exciting, and the throng of people and the noise gave him an exhilarated feeling. Everywhere was the feeling of suppressed vitality, a steel band practising for the coming fiesta adding their sound to the din. Sometimes the sound of drums reverberated round the shallow hills above the harbour and the pulsating rhythm fired the blood and stirred the primitive emotions of the body. The African ancestry, superstitious and tribal, brought its own kind of mystery, and Jason knew that many of the practices in the villages owed their origin to the dark gods of Africa. But this was something the white population had to accept, and Jason knew there were few who would go against the voodoo. Its power was absolute.

The harbourmaster's office which was his destination was a low wooden building, occupied by Abe Smith, a massive Negro, with ebony skin and a thick moustache. He and Jason were the best of friends; and Jason usually found time to have coffee with him at this hour of the morning.

He entered the wooden office, stretching as he came through the door. Abe was sprawled in a chair, smoking a cheroot, and he grinned amiably as Jason came in and seated himself on the side of his desk. “Morning,” he said, wrinkling his huge nose. “Coffee?”

Jason nodded and helped himself. “Thanks. I could use some.” After pouring a blue striped beaker full of the black liquid, he turned back to his friend and re-seated himself, idly stirring the brew.

“How goes it?” Abe straightened up, and poured himself another mug of coffee. “Have you told her?”

Jason raised his dark eyebrows. “Yes, I've told her.”

“I can guess what she said!” Abe grimaced, and raised his eyes heavenward.

Jason shrugged. “What I expected I got.” He took a long drink of his coffee, savouring it.

Abe smote one fist into the palm of his other hand. “Madre mia,” he exclaimed, “that woman is not human!”

Jason lit a cigarette. “The governess arrives on the steamer tomorrow,” he remarked, changing the subject.

Abe sighed heavily. “She does, eh? Another woman to cause trouble?”

“Let's hope not.” Jason rose to his feet. “I'll meet her.”

Abe grinned suddenly. “And how will you recognise her? If she's not the only woman to arrive tomorrow?”

Jason bit his lip thoughtfully, and his fingers sought the line of his scar. “She's a governess. My only criterion is the other governesses on the island. She'll be like them.”

Abe chuckled. “Ah, I see! A little grey and long in the tooth!”

“I didn't say that,” replied Jason mildly, his eyes smiling. “But yes, that will suit us very well.”

Abe walked to the door of the office, and leaning against it, his bulk blocking out the light from the room, he said harshly:

“How long is this to go on, Jason? How long are you going to exist in this manner? No one could call it living!”

“Enough,” said Jason, abruptly, but Abe was not to be denied.

“Enough is what you've had,” he exclaimed. “You forget I've known you since you were knee-high! I've seen you change these last fifteen years from a man who laughed and enjoyed life, lived it to the full, to a stranger who interests himself only in his work, in business – must you sacrifice yourself in this way? You need a woman in your bed –”

“Abe!” Jason's face was like carved granite, the scar like a pale slash against the dark tan of his face.

Abe moved away from the door, shaking his head. He was genuinely disturbed for his friend, but Jason could not allow him to say such things. He was married to Irena; she was his wife; if anyone was to blame it was him….

As the steamer Celeste neared Cordova, Sarah wondered for the thousandth time whether indeed she was being as impulsive as Reverend Mother had stipulated. After all, here she was thousands of miles away from England and the convent which had been her home all her life, with nothing to commend this man who was to be her employer but a letter from Father Dominic Sanchez, the Catholic priest on the island.

The solicitors in London who had interviewed her on Jason de Cordova's behalf had seemed singularly out of touch with the situation on the island, and Sarah could only assume that they did not have many dealings with her proposed employer.

But when she had read the advertisement in The Times, it had sounded so exciting and different that she had not thought before replying and offering her services. She was always acting impulsively, and in any case she had been sure there would be so many applications her own would not even be considered. But her application had been considered, and a letter had arrived for Reverend Mother, asking for her references. It appeared her convent upbringing was a recommendation in itself, and Sarah refrained from mentioning that she was not herself of the Catholic faith. She was afraid this would influence her case, for it seemed that this was a Catholic family requiring a governess, capable of teaching three infants elementary lessons. And, she had argued with herself, elementary lessons were not religious instruction, so why should she not be suitable anyway?

It had been too good a chance to miss. The West Indies had long been a place Sarah found utterly fascinating, and to live, even for a short while, on an island there sounded marvellous. Besides, she knew she was fast losing the will to leave the convent, and that if she did not leave soon she would never leave at all. Orphaned as a baby and adopted by the nuns at St. Teresa's, Sarah had found a home so completely understanding that many times she had been tempted to become a novice herself. But her parents had not wanted it and the nuns refused to let her decide until she was over twenty-one. They had sent her to a training college in the town after she left school, and she had become an infant teacher. Then she had returned to the convent school and taught the pupils there for the last eighteen months.

At the time she read the advertisement she had been at a crossroads. Unlike most girls of almost twenty-two, Sarah had never bothered about boys. She had never had a date, and she had never been even mildly interested in any male. The priests who visited the convent school were kind and friendly, and that was all she felt she ever needed from any man.

Only Father Donahue had seen things differently. “Sarah, my dear,” he had said, “you've seen nothing of the world outside this town. Even the convent walls provide a barrier to you. It's my belief that you need to be taken from this atmosphere to a place so different that you'll discover for yourself whether you really have a vocation.”

He it was who had pointed out the advertisement in The Times. And it was he who had persuaded Reverend Mother that Sarah should be freed to find her own destiny. Thus it was she was now only minutes from her arrival in Cordova and she felt as scared as a kitten. She was being accepted on a month's probation, and likewise, if she should find the work unsuitable, she would be provided with her return fare at the end of that period. She had flown to Barbados and this steamer was the last leg of the journey. It had all been immensely exciting and thrilling, and even now, with the azure blue waters of the Caribbean lapping the sides of the vessel, she could hardly believe she was here. But the sun was warm upon her shoulders, and the scenery was more spectacular than any technicolor film, so she had to believe it, and she hugged herself for a moment in anticipation. She was so glad Father Donahue had shown her that advertisement. He was right – she was naïve and inexperienced. And now she was to find life an adventure instead of a pilgrimage.

She leaned against the rail of the steamer as the Captain skilfully negotiated the narrows of the reef, and looked across the stretch of calm water to the ant-like activity on the quay ahead of them. This then was Cordova; her home for the next four weeks at least.

From this distance the island was like a green, fertile mound rising out of the sea, its fringing of coral beaches and creaming surf providing a lace-like fragility to the shawl of greenery. It was still comparatively early in the morning, but the glare was strong after an English winter, and Sarah drew a pair of dark glasses from her bag and placed them on her nose. Then she turned to the tall, dark-skinned Barbadian who had left his bridge and joined her at the rail.

“Almost there,” he said, indicating the harbour. “Are you ready to face your new employer?”

Sarah smiled. “I'm terribly nervous,” she confessed candidly. “I'm not very used to dealing with strangers, and the little I know of the family sounds quite intimidating.”

“Intimidating? Jason? No, I don't think Jason is intimidating. The children … well, who can say? They've been allowed free licence since their father was killed. There's no one to care for them.”

Sarah frowned. “But surely, I understand from the solicitors that the children's mother was still alive.”

“Yes, she is.” The Captain touched his cap politely. “We'll be there shortly. I must have a word with my mate.”

Sarah watched him go and shrugged her shoulders bewilderedly. It seemed the Captain did not wish to discuss the Cordova family, and perhaps she had been a little indiscreet asking questions. She sighed. She was not used to subterfuge of any kind. At the convent there had been no secrets and she saw no harm in obtaining the facts about the Cordova children. As she understood it, Jason de Cordova was the children's uncle and their widowed mother lived in the same house. What could be more simple than that? Shaking her head, and shaking thoughts like this from her mind, she turned again to the colourful quay alongside which the channel had been dug to take the steamers passage.

The Captain, from his bridge, watched her interest thoughtfully. In truth he considered the girl might prove rather a responsibility on Cordova. She was so fair she could not fail to cause a stir among the dark-skinned Africans and swarthy Spaniards. Although she was not strictly beautiful she had very large and luminous eyes, black-lashed and blue as sapphires, and her hair was long and plaited and wound round her head in a classical style. It was silvery in colour and in her demure blue poplin dress with the white collar she looked more like a novice than a governess. She had told the Captain of her upbringing in England, and privately he had thought the convent a fitting background for her. What she would make of the intrigues and passions of Cordova, he did not dare to think.

As the Celeste drew alongside, a gangplank was run out to her by several of the dark-skinned boys on the quay, and Sarah experienced a thrill of apprehension as she moved forward to disembark. Her arrival in Barbados had not prepared her for this absolute absence of order, and the hustle and bustle on the quay unnerved her.

She looked above the heads of the jostling crowds on the docks to the town of El Tesoro climbing up the shallow hills above the harbour. Above the flat-roofed dwellings of the African population she could see, set among flowering shrubs and clematis-hung stucco walls, the villas of the white population of Cordova, and she felt a sense of relief. For a moment she had wondered whether she would ever see a white person again. Inwardly chastising herself for her lack of worldliness, she moved to the gangplank, and met the Captain again.

“There are no customs on Cordova,” he said kindly. “Go ahead. Jason is waiting for you on the quay. He won't mistake you.”

Walking down the gangplank, Sarah was aware that almost every eye on the quay had turned in her direction, and she blushed in confusion, and looked about her self-consciously, searching for a white face. Somewhere was this Jason de Cordova; but where?

As she stepped on to the hard surface of the quay, she felt some of the nervousness leave her. The sound of the steel band, playing its own welcome to the steamer, reassured her somehow. Already she could feel a kind of magnetism about the place; the pull of the islands. This was where she had wanted to live and now she had her wish. The passing thoughts of hurricanes and storms, lack of civilisation and ritual magic, all swelled her determination to stay here and make a success of her work. Later, maybe, she would return to the convent and take her vows, confident in the knowledge of having lived life to the full and found the life of seclusion more worthwhile.

Suddenly she felt a hard hand grip her arm, and a deep, attractive male voice said: “You surely can't be Miss Sarah Winter?”

Sarah swung round to face the speaker, her cheeks flushed, her breath catching in her throat when she saw his face, and the livid scar which disfigured his cheek. She saw his eyes, strange yellowish, tawny eyes, like the eyes of the tiger, harden as they recognised her sudden withdrawal, and she immediately felt a sense of contrition that even for one moment he had thought she was repelled by it. Instead, as she took in the other details of his appearance she realised that the scar did not detract from his powerful, attractive features, but rather added to them. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean hard body. She realized he was most probably a Spaniard, his hair, thick and black, lying close to his head. He was simply dressed in cotton trousers and a light blue shirt. Who could he be? Not her employer, that was certain! He must be someone Jason de Cordova had sent to collect her. Her eyes returned to the scar, and then she looked swiftly away.

“Yes,” she said clearly, “I'm Sarah Winter.”

Jason stared at her incredulously, and then he moved his shoulders helplessly. She was nothing at all like the woman he had expected. She was young, much too young, and how could she possibly be expected to handle those three wild things that were his nephew and nieces?

As he stared at her, Sarah felt half amused suddenly. Brought up as she had been, supremely conscious of the presence of both heaven and hell, she thought that this man must surely as closely resemble her imaginings of the devil himself as was humanly possible. She wondered what Sister Theresa would have made of him. She thought the gentle nuns might have found him even more overpowering than she did herself.

“Well,” he said at last, “you're certainly much younger than we expected. As I recall it, your age was not questioned. The fact that you'd had experience with young children pointed to your being older.”

“Does it matter?” asked Sarah, beginning to feel uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. “I am experienced, and if you've come to meet me, I suggest we go on up to the Cordova residence and ascertain their views on the matter.”

Her voice was cool now and detached, and Jason admired her veneer of assurance. For that was all it was, he was certain. He could tell from her revealing eyes that she was far from relaxed. And she did not realise to whom she was speaking, that was obvious.

“Very well,” he agreed easily. “Let's go!” It amused him to keep her in ignorance of his identity for the time being. She would learn soon enough.

The market was a mass of moving humanity, and Jason went ahead, forging a way through to the Land Rover. The laughing greetings of the West Indians were acknowledged casually, and Sarah wondered who he could be to be known so well, and to arouse such apparent respect among these people.

He helped her into the seat beside the driving seat, and then walked lithely round the vehicle to slide in beside her. Sarah found herself admiring the rippling muscles of his back and thighs as he walked, and the smoothness of his long legs as he slid in beside her. There was something wholly masculine about him that she had never encountered before in her associations with men. It embarrassed her to think this way. For so long she had considered herself immune from the desires of the flesh.

Forcing her thoughts into more innocent channels, she began to look about her with interest as the Land Rover drove up the curving main street of the town. There were shops, but few shop windows, and the goods for sale were displayed outside the stores. Indians sat in the shop doorways, smoking and drinking, and showing little concern for their progress. The flamboyant colours of material hung outside one store caught Sarah's eye, and she said impulsively: “I should have brought my sewing machine. I can see I must make myself some dresses from these gorgeous materials.”

Jason looked at her briefly, and then said: “I imagine the seamstress who sews for my wife could run you up anything you required.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wouldn't dream of it. Does she have a machine?”

“I'm afraid not. The Indian women prefer to do everything by hand. They produce works of art, believe me!”

“Oh, I do.” Sarah shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to do likewise, I like sewing.”

Jason smiled a little. “You may find your time a little limited. You haven't met your charges yet.”

“That doesn't worry me. I've been used to handling a class of almost forty children, so three on their own shouldn't provide much difficulty.”

Jason refrained from commenting. Already he was thinking that at the end of this trial period of one month, he would have to start all over again in finding a governess.

They were driving now between the high walls of the villas of the white families, and between the wrought iron gateways, Sarah could see the paved courtyards and fountains, the swimming pools and tennis courts, so removed from the squalid little huts down in the town. The swarming children there had appalled her. However could they all be taught?

“So,” said Jason suddenly, “what do you think?”

“About the island?” Sarah gave an involuntary gesture. “I can hardly take it all in. It's very beautiful, but the poverty disturbs me. I think if I lived here I would try to do something for these people. Ignorance is a great breeder.”

Jason nodded his assent, surprised at her remarks. He had not thought she would be any different from the rest of the white population. Particularly the women; they, for the most part, acted as though they knew nothing about the squalor beneath their windows.

“You're right, of course,” he said now. “But they don't welcome help. They're too used to this kind of life. You may be surprised to learn that they've very happy, in their way. And very contented, a word that's gone out of use in so-called civilised countries.”

Sarah frowned. “Are you content?”

“Me?” Jason laughed, amused at her candour. “I suppose you would think I ought to be.”

“Why not? In such idyllic surroundings? After all, the sun can ease a lot of heartache.”

“Are you a philosopher, Miss Winter?”

Sarah laughed now, and looked at him in sudden liking. “You might say that. But I'm afraid I've always been told that talking is not acting, and I do an awful lot of talking.”

As the Land Rover curved round a promontory, Sarah gasped at the precarious angle of the road, and looked down breathlessly on the harbour below them, the steamer much smaller now from this height. “My luggage!” she gasped suddenly, “I forgot all about it!”

“Abe, the harbourmaster, will have it sent up to you,” said Jason easily. “There were no other passengers on the Celeste, so there'll be no cause for concern.”

“Thank you.” Sarah lay back in her seat, and in doing so looked upwards, her eyes caught by the sight of the ruined walls of a house, just visible on a high, jutting headland above them. “What's that place? That ruin?”

Jason did not look up but kept his eyes on the curving road ahead. “That was the old Cordova house,” he replied quietly. “It was burned out about fifteen years ago.”

“Really!” Sarah was intrigued. “That must have been some spectacle, high above the island like that.”

“It was.” Jason's fingers tightened on the wheel, and Sarah, glancing at him, wondered why his expression had darkened in that way. Surely it was no concern of his.

The road was curving down again now, and the sea was getting nearer. They ran down a final incline and turned between wrought iron gates, which were the entrance to the drive of the Cordova house. Sarah saw a cream, colour-washed house, over-hung with pink bougainvillea, with balconies to all the upper windows, the doors of which stood open to the clean air. Storm shutters were bolted back and a stout pair of doors with wrought iron hinges guarded the entrance. A porticoed walk stretched round the building, and its white pillars gave a Grecian touch to an otherwise Moorish-styled dwelling.

Jason stopped the Land Rover at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance, and without waiting for any assistance Sarah clamberd out. After the drive up the dusty road, she felt travel-stained and sticky, and she wished she might have a wash and brush-up before meeting her prospective employer. The blue poplin dress which had been so crisp and fresh on the ship was now limp, and clung to her body, outlining the curves of her rounded figure. She was a tall girl, but had always been taught that any self-adulation was wrong, so consequently had no idea how attractively moulded she was. But Jason was aware of it, and knew without a doubt that Irena would find her completely unsuitable. But in this, Irena's views were immaterial. The girl was to teach Sarah's children, and if Serena liked her, and the girl herself wanted to stay, she should stay.

As Jason walked round to join her, the front doors opened and three children appeared at the top of the steps. They were all dark-haired and olive-skinned, the two girls wearing their long hair in plaits, and they were all dressed alike in red and white striped shorts and red tee-shirts. They looked remarkably clean and smart, and Jason half-smiled as he studied Sarah's reactions.

“Make the most of it,” he said, dryly. “You'll rarely see them in this condition. I left orders that they should be here to meet you on my return – that's the explanation.”

Sarah moved her shoulders deprecatingly. “I hope in future you'll often see them tidily turned out,” she remarked. “Am I to understand that they usually run wild?”

Jason grimaced. “You might say that,” he agreed smoothly. “Shall I introduce you?”

The children descended the steps slowly, eyeing Sarah cautiously. They had never had a governess before, but they knew children who did, and they were unimpressed.

The youngest, Maria, lost her composure and flung herself exuberantly at Jason, chattering furiously in Spanish, and Jason said: “No, Maria, speak English. This lady has come to improve your English among other things, and I want you always to speak English in her presence, right?”

Maria made a face at Sarah, and Sarah gave Jason a startled glance. But he shook his head slightly and stood Maria on her feet. She guessed he meant that she should take it slowly with them, and with a sigh, she turned to the others. “Now,” she said, taking their hands, “you are Eloise and Ricardo.”

The children were silent, turning mutinous faces to Jason, and Sarah felt the first trepidation about these children. She did not know what she had expected, but used as she was to being liked instinctively by young people, she was unprepared for this antagonism. Particularly as they did not even know her yet!

They quickly released themselves from her hands and as Maria had done, flung themselves upon her companion. Watching them, she wondered again who he could be. He certainly did not act like a paid employee, and yet he dressed like one of the Africans. It was all most disturbing, and she was curious to have it explained to her.

“Come,” said Jason, at last. “It's time we were going into the house. It will soon be lunch time and Miss Winter needs time to shower and freshen herself.”

The children looked up at him. “Can we go now?” asked Ricardo.

“No. You may go to your rooms until lunch is ready.”

The children stared at him, and Eloise began to talk in Spanish again, and although Sarah could not understand all she was saying it was obvious it was something very rude, and Jason looked angry. He resorted to Spanish at last, and told them they were spoiled and unpleasant sometimes, and they must learn to do as they were told.

Sarah understood a little Spanish, and could speak it in like manner, but she did not expect to be able to talk with the children, for they spoke too fast and in this mood would not alter their speech to assist her. She foresaw quite a battle in the next few days.

As they mounted the steps to the house, Jason said: “Would you prefer to have a shower before meeting the children's mother?”

Grateful for his understanding, Sarah nodded. “May I?” she asked eagerly. “I do feel hot and sticky now.”

Jason nodded his head, and led the way into the house, into the wide marble hall which Sarah admired silently. The outside of the house had been beautiful, but this was very impressive. The wrought iron rail of the staircase wound into the upper regions of the house, and the scent of flowers was everywhere. There were great vases and bowls of them placed on every available table and in every corner the gentle perfume of roses mingling with the more exotic fragrance of oleander and hibiscus. The colours, too, were startling against the mosaic of the floor and the light panelling of the walls.

Sarah's curiosity about her companion was heightened when a Negro manservant appeared through an archway behind the staircase and said: “May I show the young lady to her room, señor? And the señora is waiting to see you.”

Jason's face darkened for a moment, and as he looked at Sarah, his fingers sought the line of the scar on his cheek. Then, as if becoming conscious of his action, he drew his hand away, and bowing politely, he said: “Allow me to introduce myself, señorita. I'm Jason de Cordova.”

Sarah's face suffused with colour. She was astounded. This man then was her employer, the man who had contacted Reverend Mother; the man she had thought to be merely an employee!

A cool, amused voice broke into her reverie, and she looked up in surprise. A small but startlingly beautiful figure had walked through another archway which led to the apartments to the right of the huge hall. She was dressed in an elegant silk dress of various shades of purple which suited her dark colouring to perfection; her small dainty feet were encased in very high-heeled sandals and on her fingers and wrists and round her throat sparkled a veritable fortune in diamonds.

“My dear,” said the voice, tinklingly but icily, “I can see from your expression that you thought my husband was one of his own employees!” Sarah blushed anew in confusion and embarrassment, and the woman went on: “It's quite understandable, of course. He dresses like a peasant because he is a peasant, aren't you, querido?”