Island in the Dawn

by Averil Ives

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CONTRARY to her usual custom the following morning, Felicity did breakfast in her room, but that was because she hadn’t the courage to go down and breakfast on the veranda with her husband.

  The two of them sharing the usual table, with the electric fan cooling the air and the lawns lying bright and green and splashed with sunshine beyond the whiteness of the veranda rails, and no Cassandra to monopolize the conversation, struck her as too much like an ordeal. And she remembered that he hadn’t seemed particularly keen to have her join him at breakfast.

  So she had coffee and some fruit in her room, and then dressed herself with rather more than her usual care in a lilac dress. The dress was crisply laundered, and it had a deep white collar that lent her a Quakerish appearance. Because it promised to be a very hot day she looped a lilac ribbon through her curls to keep them from bobbing about on her forehead, and when she went downstairs at last she also looked very young. Very young, and a little apprehensive.

  She encountered Paul in the hall. He was looking out through the open door into the sunshine when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Long before she reached the last tread he was standing looking up at her, but his expression was quite unreadable when she finally stood beside him on the cool floor of the hall. “You slept well?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, I slept very well!”

  But she simply could not meet his eyes, and she knew that the color rushed up over her face and neck, staining the creamily-gold skin almost painfully.

  Although she didn’t realize it, his blue eyes seemed to find it difficult to remove themselves from her face.

  “You were wise not to hurry things this morning. You probably didn’t wake very early?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered, lifting her eyes to his at last, and fighting to banish the confusion from them, “I woke at my usual time. In fact I had my breakfast rather earlier than usual. But I thought perhaps it would be a good plan if I started to have breakfast in my room, because I—we...”

  “Yes?” he said, as he watched her.

  Her cheeks burnt as if they were on fire.

  “You’ll see quite a lot of me in the daytime, and it isn’t as if Cassandra was here, and—and you might find it a bit boring!”

  “To face you at breakfast every morning for the rest of my life?”

  Her brown eyes reflected something like a deep hurt, and she felt an actual pain in her heart. It seemed to him that she winced.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to bear it?”

  He answered very gravely: “You and I are committed to sharing everything for the rest of our lives and in time, no doubt, we’ll get used to it! And that provides me with an opening for something I want to say to you, Felicity—something that must be said! Will you come out here on to the veranda?”

  She followed him on to the veranda, and he pressed a bell for Michael.

  “Shall we have some more coffee?” he asked. “Or would you prefer a long drink?”

  “Some coffee, I think, please.”

  The coffee was brought, and there seemed to be an extra deference in Michael’s manner as he set the tray down at the new Mrs. Halloran’s elbow. Felicity didn’t dare to look up into his expressive Irish eyes, but she suspected that they were twinkling a little. She felt sure he attributed her nervousness to an overwhelming consciousness of being a new wife.

  “If there are any changes you’d like to be bringing about here, madam,” he said, before he withdrew, “perhaps you’ll let us know.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” she answered, with her heart fluttering, “but I’m sure I shan’t want anything changed.”

  “Moses bad it in mind that you would wish to be visiting him in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of interfering with Moses’s arrangements!” she almost gasped.

  The Irishman’s eyes twinkled more noticeably.

  “Ah, ‘tis early days, madam,” he agreed; “but in time—in time, no doubt, you’ll be wishful to make a few alterations.”

  And he withdrew like the polished manservant he was, only sending one glance in his master’s direction which told the latter that, so far as the staff were concerned, the new mistress was an entirely acceptable addition to the place, and she had their permission to make changes if she wished.

  Paul accepted his coffee, and then leaned a little towards his wife.

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about,” he said quietly. “This is your home now, and you must turn it into the sort of home you want, if it isn’t that already. I’ve lived here for two years now, end during the past year—” he meant, she knew, since he had recovered his sight—“I’ve attempted to improve things. But from a feminine viewpoint there may still be very much to be done, and I’d like you to tell me if you feel that is so.”

  Felicity twisted the wedding ring on her finger, but desisted when she realized what she was doing.

  “There honestly aren’t any improvements I could make,” she told him, and her heart wasn’t merely fluttering now, but pounding heavily, because he was watching her closely as if determined to get her reactions. “I don’t know what this house was like when you took it over from Mr. Menzies, but it is delightful now.”

  “I had a lot of stuff brought from Italy.” He lighted a cigarette with much deliberation. “My flat there was closed after—after my accident. Michael made a trip to Rome and sorted out my things. He had instructions from me to select those that he thought I would like to have here, and arrange for their transportation. Michael is completely dependable about such matters—in fact, I find him dependable in every way—and the house such as it now is more or less his creation.”

  “Then I think he ought to be congratulated.” She paused. “What happened to—to your other things? The things he passed over? Are they still in Italy?”

  “No, they were sold,” rather shortly. “My flat in Rome was a large flat—actually much too large for a bachelor—and by the standards of this house almost oppressively luxurious. But, then, my way of life in those days demanded that my background should be impressive, and of course there was always an enormous amount of entertaining.” She wondered whether the tightness of his lips was due to the fact that he was regretting those days, or whether he had never really enjoyed entertaining. “Michael did everything in those days, just as he now supervises the running of the house. He has an instinct for making people comfortable, and can be safely left to see to it that no one is ever uncomfortable.”

  “Then I certainly shan’t dream of interfering in any way,” Felicity repeated. “It would be like offering an insult to Michael!”

  “It would be nothing of the kind;” He frowned. “This is your home—it may be your home for many years, if we don’t decide to live elsewhere, and it is what you want that counts from now on. I mean that, Felicity.” His voice was quiet, but earnest. “Florence has been pestering me about the big bedroom that Menzies planned as a main bedroom in this house. It is only right that you should occupy it. In any case, you are no longer a guest, and a guest-bedroom is hardly suitable. So if you and Florence like to go into the matter, and discuss furnishings, and so forth ... All we shall have to do after that is to get the things you want shipped to us, and Michael will make himself responsible for the decor,” with a tiny smile lightening the tautness of his lips.

  “Oh, but ... Please!” she sounded agitated. “The bedroom I have is all that I want, and—”

  “Nonsense! As I’ve said, you are no longer a guest. You are Mrs. Paul Halloran.” His blue eyes held hers deliberately.

  “Even so...” She felt like a swimmer who was getting out of her depth ... “Even so, I can still choose what I want—can’t I?”

  “I’ve said that you can.”

  “Then I want—I would prefer!—to remain in the room I’m occupying now.”

  “Very well.” He looked down at his cigarette, which had burnt almost to his fingers. “If that is
what you really wish; but sooner or later I imagine there will have to be changes.” She dared not think what he meant by that. “In the meantime you mustn’t hesitate to give orders, and you must never forget that you are mistress here. The servants have instruction to look to you as their mistress, which of course you are.”

  “Th-thank you!” She bit her lip nervously, and wondered how she could change the subject. “How long have you known Michael?” she asked, not because of any red curiosity concerning Michael, but because it was the only thing she could think of to say just then.

  “For about ten years, I should say.”

  “He was with you in the—the days of your triumphs?”

  “If you can call them triumphs—-yes!”

  There was no doubt about the slight bitterness in his voice, and impulsively she flung at him: “Of course they were triumphs! ... Cassandra says you were marvellous! Just to watch you!...” She looked away, and her breath caught, and then she sighed. “I wish I’d been able to watch you just once!”

  “Why?” he asked, curiously.

  “Oh, because...” Her whole being was palpitating with a desire to be closer to him—if not physically, then mentally, spiritually. To have shared his past; to have known his triumphs and witnessed the way he reacted to all the applause; to have been with him when it was all over, been a part of the quiet times when, perhaps, he was exhausted and needed the solace of quiet companionship and someone who wanted to be with him above everything else, and shared in all his interests—that was something that could never happen to her now! She had known him too late. Not merely because apparently there would never again be musical triumphs for him, but because she had come into his life too late to be loved by him.

  “Because?” he echoed.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, rather feebly. “Only Cassandra—Cassandra made it all sound very wonderful.”

  His eyes grew strangely narrow as he studied her. “You were not much more than a schoolgirl when I first received the plaudits of the crowd. In fact, you were a schoolgirl.”

  Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face.

  “But I’m not a schoolgirl now.”

  “No, you’re not a schoolgirl now—you’re my wife.” Hurriedly she poured herself another cup of coffee, not because she wanted it, but because she had to do something with her hands. It was the first time he had called her his wife, and looked at her in quite that way, and she felt confusion spreading through her.

  “I know you’ve been on one tour of the island,” he remarked suddenly, as if he sensed her acute agitation—since it was acute she realized he could hardly miss it—“but it has occurred to me that you might like to go for another! Just a short tour this time, and not in the jeep. Would you care to go for a drive this afternoon?”

  “With—you?”

  “Since you are my wife, perhaps it would be as well if I accompanied you.” But there was a sudden gentleness in the smile he sent her, and also it was such an unexpected smile that it set her trembling a little inside. “What do you say?”

  “Oh, I’d love it!” She tried to keep the shine out of her eyes. She would love a drive with him in the sunshine of the island, knowing that whatever the relationship between them—whether or not it was strained and unnatural—she had a right to be with him. When they returned to the house no power on earth could order her to part from him, and live away from the shelter of his house. Legally he was hers, just as—legally—she was his; they had a right to be together, and the very thought of being together on a drive in his long cream car made her feel a little dizzy with gratitude for the random thought that had entered his head, for some reason or other. “I’d love it!” she repeated.

  “Then I suggest we have an early lunch, and set off soon after,” Paul said. “We won’t call on our friends on the other side of the island, because they might think it a little strange when we‘re supposed to be—on honeymoon!” His teeth actually gleamed a little quizzically. “But another afternoon, or morning, we might drive over and see them, as you seem to have taken quite a fancy to Miss Menzies. It will give you a feeling of reassurance to know that you’re not altogether cut off from other human and social contacts, although you live on an island with me!”

  “I don’t want social contacts...” she was beginning. And then she decided to say no more. She had already given herself away hopelessly, she thought, in her display of eagerness to go for a drive with him, when only the night before she had made up her mind that she could never forgive him for his cold treatment of her on the one day in her life that should have mattered more than any other day. As it was, she had only a memory that hurt...

  But so weak is human flesh that she couldn’t banish the pleased light from her eyes, and if he recognized it as such, her reward was in the increasing softness of his own eyes.

  “Like Menzies, I’ve a few plans for our side of the island,” he admitted. “We’ll discuss them as we go along, shall we? Perhaps one day we’ll make the desert blossom like the rose!”

  But as the big car wound upwards, Felicity thought it was already blossoming like the rose. Both the cultivated areas and the natural growth of the island were enough to gladden anyone’s heart on such an afternoon, and she realized that her heart was very ready to be gladdened. Even such a little thing as a piccaninny’s head-scarf flashing brightly amongst green com stalks sent a look of appreciation into her eyes. When they rolled through a village and saw babies playing in the dust, and mothers beaming at them approvingly beneath protecting palm leaves, her heart actually seemed to expand a little.

  The island was not large, and one could not travel inland for many miles and leave the sea behind. The sea was always there, either behind them on the horizon, or waiting just ahead. It was so blue it made the eyes ache a little, and Felicity thought of the morning of her arrival, and Cassandra’s complaint about her dark glasses. Cassandra, like film stars seeking to disguise their identity, loved to wear dark glasses with striking frames that drew the attention to the mat perfection of her skin. When she removed them she expected people to blink a little, because the loveliness of her eyes was all at once revealed.

  But Felicity wanted to take in all that there was to take in without hindrance, and she wasn't interested in impressing people with the quality of her eyes. At least ... When she turned sideways occasionally and caught her husband’s eyes on her, she knew that he had been actually studying the length of her silky dark eyelashes, and the way her small nose turned up slightly at the tip. She wondered whether the one or two freckles still adhered to it that she had noticed in the mirror a few days before, and hoped—with a tremendous lurch of her heart—that he had no particular objection to freckles. Then she couldn’t help but be aware that it was her mouth he watched sometimes. Her mouth was one of her best features—even she knew that. It was soft, and scarlet, and vulnerable ... She wished he wouldn’t go on staring at it, as if it fascinated him.

  She drew his attention to the blaze of growth. She spoke rapturously about the delicate mixture of greens in spite of the fact that the island seemed always to be drenched with sun, and he nodded and agreed that there was very much to be said for this corner of the world in which they were proposing to begin their married life.

  She was thankful for the fact that he didn’t dilate upon the beginning of their married life; from the way he spoke, they might have been a couple of partners thinking of expanding a business that had immense possibilities. He had great faith in Harry Whitelaw, whom he was thinking of sending on a course that would improve his knowledge of the citrus fruit industry. One day the fruit they exported might become world famous. Like everything else in these days science entered into it so much that one could not ignore it—not if one wished to expand and go on improving quality.

  “And that’s what you do really wish to do?” Felicity asked, as Michael drove them as smoothly as the rutted surface of the roads would permit, and they sat shoulder to shoulder. “You’ve quite made up your m
ind that—that things that interested you once no longer do so?”

  “I think so—in fact, I’m fairly certain of it,” Paul answered, realizing that she was referring in an oblique way to his music.

  Felicity sat quietly for several minutes, and then said as if she really meant it: “It seems a pity!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She noticed his hands out of the corner of her eye—beautiful musician’s hands that had fascinated her from the first. Would such a man ever be really happy cut off from the things he could do so well that people flocked to be there when he lifted a baton—flocked from all corners of the globe? He wasn’t a lotus-eater—he wasn’t even a sun-worshipper who could give himself up to this sort of life and be content with long, lazy days—surf bathing, sailing a yacht and competing with others who sailed for the sheer delight of it in that part of the world! True, there were other islands near, green jewels like this on the surface of the Caribbean, and if they had a launch they could make contact with them. But would that sort of thing satisfy Paul, year after year? Playing his piano in the watches of the night, and just drifting through the days, entrusting even the glowing of citrus fruit to Harry Whitelaw?