by Marie Evelyn
A few lonely frogs whistled at the unfairness of it.
Initially he was tentative, as if testing her reaction, but as soon as Becky put her arms around his neck, his kissing became more urgent and his hands slid under her top. Soon they were playing with her bra strap.
Becky drew back slightly to catch her breath and take the time to look at Matthew’s face. She could see he was so full of longing that, at the slightest encouragement, he would be happy to make love on the floor of the veranda. But after their long day there was a good chance they would then fall asleep and the prospect of being discovered by Clara or Cook in the morning …
Becky put her head on Matthew’s shoulder and tried to stifle a yawn.
‘Is the gardener’s boy boring you?’ he murmured.
‘Absolutely not,’ she whispered. ‘But I think things have caught up with me. I’m just desperate for sleep suddenly.’
Matthew sighed. ‘Probably just as well. I’m not sure you should be stripped naked on the veranda. Which would have been my next move.’
He sighed again, then turned, unlocked the door and quickly punched some numbers into the keypad. ‘I know you think I’m a – what did Richard call me? – a fusspot but with my mother and Cook here alone –’
‘I didn’t call you a fusspot,’ whispered Becky. ‘I just wish Richard cared more about security.’
Matthew chuckled then tried the impossible task of bolting the door quietly, grimacing exaggeratedly as each one creaked and squeaked its way into place. ‘Remind me to oil these tomorrow,’ he hissed.
They crept up the stairs, hand-in-hand like naughty teenagers. Outside her door he kissed her lightly on the mouth then walked off towards his room.
Chapter Twenty-one
Becky slept well for a couple of hours but then went through stabs of nightmares: the front door of Copper Mill was wide open and men were making their way up the stairs to her room. Then she was falling from a height on to her father’s grave, which was smothered with black flowers. No amount of pillow turning could induce sleep of more than a few seconds before some uncomfortable image jolted her awake again.
She wished she could talk to Joe and tell him about the night’s events. She could imagine his reaction – furious on her behalf that she’d been put in that position and totally unsympathetic towards Richard who he would, no doubt, proclaim sounded like a ‘prize pillock’ who got what he deserved for trying it on. But she couldn’t share any of this in an email to him. Not only would it burden him with knowledge that he’d have to keep from their mother but she would have to share her relief at Matthew riding to the rescue – and she hadn’t quite come to terms with the change in her feelings towards him.
Which was another issue: how would she and Matthew act when they saw each other later today? He had seen her in a very vulnerable state.
Becky finally fell into a dreamless sleep and woke to hear the sound of clapping and happy hymns riding the wind. It was a cheering sound to listen to. The next she knew a car was driving into the yard below her window and she could hear Clara and Cook chatting. Clara must have brought Cook back from church.
Becky got up, showered and dressed, and went downstairs to the veranda. Evidently Matthew had already relayed the news to Clara and Cook for Clara put down her paperback and rose to give Becky a huge hug. Cook must have decided that a special breakfast was the best way of soothing troubled nerves, as – for the second day running – she placed a plate of pancakes in front of Becky.
‘Thanks, Cook.’
‘The Lord will get them if the police don’t and the Lord will get them if the police do.’ Cook patted her shoulder and went back inside. Becky wondered if Cook had prayed for her that morning – she probably had; it was a strange feeling. She told herself she had no right to dwell on last night’s events any more: she had prayers and pancakes on her side.
‘So, you’re OK?’ said Clara.
‘Yes, fine thanks. Matthew turned up so quickly.’ Becky looked at the yard and saw his car was not there. ‘Has he gone to work?’
‘Something to sort out at the hotel. Nothing serious.’
‘Not much of a weekend off then?’
Clara laughed. ‘I was delighted that he took yesterday off. Though I think Alex is on duty tonight and Matthew wanted to spare him having to come in this morning as well.’
‘I guess Alex’s wife doesn’t see much of him.’
‘Nor his children. And what with Francesca’s – well – Matthew’s birthday party, I can’t imagine they’ve seen much of poor Alex this weekend.’
Becky wondered if Matthew was avoiding her after their dalliance on the veranda. He’d asked if he was in with a chance but he’d probably just said it to boost her spirits after such a dreadful night. They’d both been in a state of heightened emotion. Maybe he was embarrassed now. Or maybe he had really had to dash to the hotel because the air-conditioning had packed up and he was having to hose down overheated guests.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Clara asked.
Becky nodded and started eating her pancakes.
‘By the way,’ said Clara. ‘I had a look at the French notes that you’ve typed up. I’m afraid there isn’t much there. I scribbled them so long ago I’d forgotten they were nothing but a few scraps I’d collected from here and there. I can’t see any name come up more than once.’
‘To be honest I’m not surprised. I don’t think there are any personal records anywhere apart from dates.’
Clara sighed. ‘Maybe I need to accept that this is a hopeless mission. As you said we need the stories of individuals – some continuity from England to life in Barbados – but the information just doesn’t exist.’
‘Clara, I have to disagree with you. We have evidence of continuity right in front of us.’
‘Pitcher?’
‘Him, as well, of course. But I meant Matthew. Matthew Randerwick.’
‘My Mr R?’
‘Yes. Randerwick would have been the real family name.’
‘So where does Darnley come from?’
‘It’s possible Matthew’s ancestor took the name of the plantation owner he was assigned to. Maybe that helped him to get married to Sarah Thomas since rebels weren’t officially allowed to marry. I don’t know.’
Clara gazed out at the garden. ‘Does Matthew know this?’
‘Yes. I told him yesterday. He seemed quite cheerful about it. And interested too.’
‘And you can trace both of his ancestors – this Sarah and Randerwick back to England?’
Becky sighed. ‘I can trace Randolph Randerwick back to England but not Sarah Thomas – she just magically walks off the boat in Barbados.’
It occurred to Becky now that Randolph and Sarah’s first meeting could have been aboard the Betty and that, amidst the horrors of that journey – during which they would have witnessed Thomas Gehalgod and others die and be tossed overboard like animal carcasses – love could have blossomed. Amazing.
‘How mysterious,’ said Clara.
‘Give me time,’ said Becky. ‘I’ll figure it out.’
‘You can have all the time you want.’
That wasn’t quite true, thought Becky, as she was due to return home in a month but she didn’t point this out to Clara.
Feeling much better after a plateful of Cook’s delicious pancakes, Becky fired up the computer and was delighted to see an email from Joe. There was no news on the home front – but in his continuing saga Thomas Gehalgod had not only swum ashore and made his way back to his village, he had also passed his NVQ in sheep dipping with distinction. Evidently Joe had been doing some research of his own: he said that ‘Judge Jeffreys had been pissed throughout the court cases, as he drank brandy to deaden the pain of kidney stones. The gaols had been chaotic, crammed with men, full of cholera and smallpox. The authorities barely knew who was who.’
Although Joe’s interest in horrible history was morbidly entertaining it did make Becky wonder if any coherent
record of the sentencing had been kept. If Judge Jeffreys was handing out sentences in an alcoholic haze would Sarah Thomas even get a mention or would her fate have been decided en masse with that of other Monmouth rebels? Had she even had anything to do with the rebellion or was she simply rounded up with them for convenience in a judicial job lot?
She thought for a long time about her response to Joe. In the end she thanked him for the details about Judge Jeffreys but kept her own news short, only mentioning that she had found their father’s grave and laid flowers and their card on it.
When she got back she would tell him about the card she had found. She realised now that both of them had silently resented their mother’s lack of emotion over their dead father but, with her new awareness of his ‘other life’, she would help Joe appreciate their mother had just cause to be ambivalent about the marriage.
Despite trying numerous internet searches, she had not found out anything more about Sarah Thomas before the phone rang at lunchtime. Becky answered it as both Clara and Cook were busy and braced herself for Francesca’s querulous voice.
‘Becky?’ said Matthew. ‘You sounded a bit – resigned.’
‘I thought it would be – never mind.’
‘Did you sleep OK?’ he asked.
‘A little, thanks. A few silly nightmares. How about you? You couldn’t have got much sleep.’
He laughed. ‘As it happens I didn’t sleep at all well. Your fault entirely.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Becky. ‘Sorry about that. Anything I can do to make it up to you?’
‘Maybe. Do you fancy dinner tonight? We’ll leave about seven?’
‘That sounds great,’ said Becky, pleased he wasn’t avoiding her.
‘I want your opinion on some cuisine.’
That was typical of his sense of humour, making a date sound like a business excursion. ‘My working life is so tough,’ said Becky. ‘I might have to join a union.’
Come seven o’clock Becky was in the smart blue dress she’d worn to the kite competition and waiting on the veranda. Matthew came out of the house, showered and dressed casually, and led her down to the car. ‘Madam,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her with a mock bow. She giggled and got in.
He got in the driving seat and drove them out of the yard. ‘I have some gossip for you. Something I forgot to tell you yesterday.’
‘You? Gossip?’
‘Yes. From the UK. That guy you were with at the hotel – Ian what’s-his-name?’
‘Ian Watt?’
‘Yes him. Chris bumped into him in a pub one night where he was moaning he’d been sacked from his job. He said – and this was his side of the story – he’d been showing a new girl how to use her computer and she’d mentioned it to her boyfriend, who was a complete nutter and was waiting for him after work. There was a bit of scuffle and the police were called and the boyfriend said Ian had tried to molest his girlfriend. Anyway Ian got sacked, which, according to him, was very unfair. It seems he was particularly bitter that the women in the office ganged up on him and told the editor he was always sexually harassing the new girls.’
Becky laughed. ‘Justice, finally.’
Matthew looked sideways at her. ‘So you really didn’t know he’d booked a double room for you both in the hotel?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then you must have thought I was a bit of a jerk.’
‘Actually, I thought you were a complete jerk.’
Matthew whistled. ‘Hope that opinion’s changed.’
Becky giggled again. ‘I’m working on it. Anyway, how’s Chris?’
‘He’ll be fine. Effectively he’s been demoted to assistant manager – I’ve got someone else acting as manager – but he seems happy with that. I’ll go back and check on things in a few weeks but, for now, emails and Skype are all I need.’
He turned off the air-conditioning and opened the windows so they could let the warm air rush through the car. Becky loved it: it was rare in Britain to feel warm on a grey, overcast day. The closest she felt to this in the UK was just before an autumn storm.
‘Does Barbados have seasons?’
‘Sure. Fine weather, more fine weather, ditto, ditto, bit of rain, sometimes lots of rain, fine again. We’re just about at the end of the rainy season now.’
Becky recognised the turn-off to the Monmouth but to her surprise they drove past it. ‘Oh, I assumed we were eating at your hotel.’
‘Certainly not. Even if Alex’s there, if the staff see me they’ll keep interrupting, badgering me with problems they’re paid to resolve themselves. Or guests I’d hate to upset will feel affronted if I don’t linger to chat.’
‘We’re not going to a Carrington hotel, are we?’
‘No. We’re going to one in St Joseph, further down the east coast. Their restaurant has a new chef – he’s supposed to be a master at seafood so I’d like to check it out.’
Becky felt mildly deflated. Maybe he really did just want a second opinion on the food. On the other hand, it took the pressure off – they could just chat as friends and not worry about that other ‘stuff’. ‘So will they know who you are or are we in deep cover?’
‘That would have been more exciting but I’m afraid I reserved a table in my own name.’ He laughed. ‘In the name of Darnley, that is. Anyway, I know it sounds boring but everyone who owns a restaurant expects to see their rivals there occasionally. And not only to check out the food; sometimes we just want to have a nice meal without being involved. I find it impossible to eat at my hotel and not feel responsible for whether other guests are enjoying themselves.’
Becky sensed that Matthew was driving inland but as the only light was from his car lamps and the scenery was cloaked in darkness she had no idea if she had been this way before.
After driving for about half an hour after leaving Copper Mill they pulled up at the St Joseph hotel – a smaller affair than the Monmouth but equally sedate. The restaurant was separate from the main building, with most of the tables inside and a few under the covered decking outside. The maître d’ showed them to one of these, lit the candles and removed a small ‘Reserved’ sign. He stood back while they sat down and Matthew consulted the wine list.
‘White OK? Or do you prefer red?’
‘White sounds good,’ said Becky.
If the restaurant staff were aware Matthew was checking out the restaurant, far from resenting it, they seemed pleased to have his patronage – almost anxiously pleased. After the chilled white wine was brought to the table and he approved it, Matthew pleasantly, but firmly, discouraged any more fussy attention so they could study the menu without feeling rushed. It turned out Matthew was particularly interested in the lobster dishes so Becky elected to have some sort of salad with lobster and mango. He chose a lobster pie. She thought it prudent to avoid mentioning Richard had cooked her lobster last night.
‘I suppose Richard won’t get his bid in now if he’s in hospital.’
‘His brothers will. When Richard says he’s doing something business-wise it’s really his older brothers who are doing the actual work. Richard just sits on their coat-tails for the ride.’
Matthew’s mobile rang. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d switched it off.’
‘Don’t worry, go ahead,’ said Becky.
He answered the call and listened to the person on the other end, giving Becky a pained look. ‘Well, don’t poison them then.’ He ended the call and pointedly turned off the mobile.
‘What did I tell you? That was the headwaiter at the Monmouth in a panic because Derek Carrington – that’s Richard’s oldest brother – has taken a friend there for a meal. What do they expect me to say? Poison the potatoes? Do him in with a steak knife?’
Becky laughed. ‘I assume Richard can’t be that poorly if his brother is eating at the Monmouth.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. His family would pay whatever they had to to get him the best treatment.’
The maître d’ arrived
with their dishes just as a dam above was breached: rain pouring down with such force that it seemed to bounce off the ground and collide with itself. Becky watched, bemused, as a few other diners pushed back their chairs and started the chaotic procedure of collecting their bags, drinks and, in some cases, their half-finished meals, to take into the restaurant.
‘Would you like to move inside?’ the maître d’ asked. Matthew looked at Becky who grinned and shook her head. They were perfectly dry and the rain crashing down just a few feet away charged the air with energy.
‘We’re fine here, thanks,’ Matthew said and the maître d’ told them to enjoy the meal and went back inside.
‘Do you mind if we share?’ asked Matthew. ‘I’d like to taste both dishes.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Becky.
They each helped themselves to some of the other’s meal before trying their own and neither could decide which was the nicer dish. ‘Yummy,’ said Becky. ‘However are you going to compete?’
He took the teasing good-humouredly. ‘No problem. I can match it – at least my very fine young chef can. But I have to admit this is really excellent.’
‘Is everything OK?’ The maître d’ reappeared, looking anxious.
‘The lobster pie is absolutely superb,’ said Matthew, ‘and my companion has pronounced the salad – what did you call it?’
Becky winced. ‘Um, I said “Yummy”.’
‘So please pass on our compliments to the chef.’
The maître d’ looked relieved and promised to pass on the comments verbatim.
The rain continued as they finished their main course making conversation a little difficult but they were both so relaxed in each other’s company it didn’t matter.
The waiter took away their empty plates and brought them the dessert menus.
‘It all looks lovely,’ said Becky. ‘But I don’t think I can manage more than a coffee.’
‘Same here.’
Matthew ordered two coffees and the waiter nodded and went inside.
‘We must do this more often,’ he said.
‘That means,’ she said wryly, ‘that you’ve got a busy day tomorrow and you want to go home now. I can read your mind.’