The Shrouded Web

by Anne Mather

  When she came back he was pacing the hall impatiently, like a caged animal, but his eyes brightened when he saw her. In a short white pleated skirt and a sleeveless ribbed sweater she looked quite lovely.

  ‘I’ve told Rosa we’re going out, just in case Adele wakes,’ he said, indicating that she should precede him out of the villa.

  Rebecca nodded, and they walked down the drive together. At its foot, the dark blue convertible was parked, and Piers helped her inside before walking round the bonnet and sliding in beside her. His thigh brushed hers and she looked at him quickly before looking away again.

  They drove north from the villa, taking the road into the hinterland which was still largely uncultivated and scarcely inhabited. Here the jungle ran riot, and at times the road itself was lost beneath the snaking creepers of the parasites that wound themselves in a death spiral round the trunks of the trees in the rain forest at the head of the valley. The atmosphere was moist and sometimes unpleasantly aromatic with decaying vegetation. Rebecca lay back in her seat and wondered with mild curiosity exactly where they were going.

  It wasn’t until they had been travelling for almost three-quarters of an hour that she realised that wherever it was they were going was far too far to attempt in such a limited time. The silence that had stretched between them since they began their journey was such that she was loath to break it, but as it happened she did not have to.

  They had been climbing for some time, up through the rain forest, but now they emerged on a plateau which gave a magnificent view of the whole valley, and where, amazingly, a waterfall fell in solitary splendour from some few feet above them away down the rocky slope.

  Piers brought the car to a halt and opening his door he slid out. Hands on hips, he surveyed the panorama of the island spread out below him and then turned to look at Rebecca, still seated in the car. ‘Bien?’ he said challengingly. ‘Magnificent, is it not?’

  ‘Magnificent,’ agreed Rebecca unhappily. ‘But we must get back. As it is we will be late—’

  ‘Oh, Rebecca!’ He came to lean on her car door, his eyes lazily caressing. ‘Are you always so concerned with what is right and what is wrong?’

  Rebecca slid across the bench seat and climbed out at his side, escaping from his nearness. As usual he succeeded in disconcerting her.

  With a sigh, he straightened, and then said: ‘Come here. We’ll sit down for a while. Do you smoke? I am afraid I have only cheroots.’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I don’t smoke.’ Her face was anxious.

  Piers seated himself on a stretch of turf that was warmed by the heat of the sun and shaded by the outcrop of rock from which the waterfall tumbled. Taking out his cheroots, he lit one lazily, and drew deeply upon it. Then he looked up at her, shaking his head curiously.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is causing that anxious frown?’

  Rebecca turned away, breathing swiftly. Suddenly she was remembering something she had thought long forgotten, the reason she had left England in the first place. Her grandmother had been dead before she finished her training, of course, and she had shared a flat with another nurse. Sheila had been engaged to a young houseman, Peter Feldman, and naturally Peter became a frequent visitor at the flat. Unfortunately, after a time, Peter became attracted to Rebecca, and she to him. It had been an impossible situation. Sheila had been such a nice girl, a good friend, too good to be hurt like that. As soon as Rebecca qualified, she had jumped at the chance of this post, thousands of miles away from temptation. For a time she had thought she had loved Peter, but in these new and exciting surroundings she had found it easy to forget. In consequence, she had been grateful for the discovery that what she had felt for him had been no lasting emotion. Piers St. Clair presented entirely different problems. This man aroused her in a way she had not believed she could be aroused. Without touching her, without any visible effort on his part, he could reduce her to a trembling mass of emotions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  In truth, Rebecca didn’t know that either. Her words had seemed to run away with her and now she felt ashamed. ‘I’m—I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I—I don’t know what came over me.’

  Piers ground out his cheroot with his heel in the sand. ‘It is obvious we have both been mistaken in our judgements,’ he said in controlled tones. ‘I will bid you au revoir, mademoiselle.’

  He turned abruptly and walked away along the beach and Rebecca sto
od looking after him unhappily. Her whole being longed to run after him and beg him to forgive her. She wanted to tell him that everything she had said had been the result of tortured emotions stretched to breaking point, but how could she? And if she did no doubt he would laugh at her. After all, his reasons for wanting her were vastly different from her reasons for wanting him.

  Taking a deep breath, she began to trudge miserably up the beach. She felt certain now that she would never see him again and the realisation was terrifying. She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she did not see the sand crab in her path until she stood on it and sharp pincers punctured her foot before the creature scuttled away sideways to the safety of the water.

  Letting out a cry of dismay, she sank down on to the sand, gripping her injured foot tightly, and bent to examine the damage. Blood oozed from the lacerations and as she tentatively allowed her foot to rest on the sand it mingled with it. The incident seemed the last straw so far as Rebecca was concerned. Her injuries were only slight, but allied to her depression they were sufficient to reduce her to tears.

  With an aching sob, she lay back on the sand and allowed the scalding tears to run unheeded down her cheeks.

  Her arm shading her eyes, she did not immediately notice the shadow that came to lie across her, and only when she sensed someone’s scrutiny did she look up. Then she sat up abruptly, rubbing vigorously at her cheeks to banish the betraying marks.

  Piers looked down at her with distant eyes, and said: ‘What is wrong? What have you done? I heard you cry out.’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘It’s nothing,’ she denied, sniffing.

  Piers’ eyes surveyed the length of her body with disturbing intensity, and then came to rest on the blood-stained sand beside her foot. With an exclamation, he went down on his haunches and lifted her foot experimentally. Rebecca suffered his examination, and when he looked up, said: ‘I told you. It’s nothing. I stood on a crab, that’s all.’

  ‘You must put some antiseptic salve on it when you get back to the villa,’ he said, smoothing the sand from her skin. Then he bent his head and sucked hard at each of the punctures, spitting the blood and sand away. Rebecca watched him, resting back on her elbows, her brows drawn together incredulously. When he had finished, he said: ‘Don’t you know that that is the most effective way to prevent poison from entering the body?’ He shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Primitive, perhaps, to someone with your nursing experience, but effective nevertheless.’