Stormy Haven

by Rosalind Brett

  The following Saturday, Senor Perez gave a dinner party. Melanie prepared for it with her usual care but she did not give the occasion much thought; part of her was still frozen and unbelieving.

  She and Elfrida arrived first at the villa. The senor, whom they had not seen since taking tea with him some days ago, bowed ceremoniously to them both and held Melanie’s hand.

  “Well, my dear, you make us very happy. You, too, are happy?”

  “Of course, senor,” she said, almost inaudibly.

  “But somewhat nervous, yes? Marriage is a big thing to any young girl and for you there is the difference of race, of country.” He smiled with infinite kindness. “We will be tender with you, Melanie, and when you come to Cadiz my wife and daughter will have an equal affection for you. Come ... a little drink.”

  His manner warmed her. Here, at last, was a friend—albeit one in the enemy camp.

  The next guests to arrive were Colonel and Mrs. Davidson, and shortly afterward came a Monsieur Fournay and his dark, vivacious wife. And then, into the circle of drinking, chattering people, walked Stephen.

  Melanie saw his tall figure come into the lounge as if he owned the place, the faintly cynical smile with which he bowed to the other guests, the half-wink that he afforded her, reminding her of the evening they had passed in secret on the coral reef, perhaps even of the educational kiss. She went clammy with sudden anguish, swiftly turned to converse with Ramon.

  Dinner was announced. Couples moved into the big dining room and were seated, the servants began their duties. The table was round. From between Ramon and the colonel, Melanie viewed Stephen as if from a great distance. The width of the table was between them, the silver and glass, the mass of scarlet and saffron blooms.

  The meal progressed through its stages, till finger bowls were used and glasses filled up. The senor was on his feet, his aristocratic features benign.

  “Now, my friends, I have a duty to perform that touches me very closely. I have known most of you for many years. You, Stephen ... well, our friendship is not so old but I like to think it is firm. And, since you arrived at Mindoa in company with our little Melanie Paget and her cousin, you will have some interest in my announcement.”

  Expectant murmurs filled the pause. Melanie, her head down and a stone where her heart should be, felt Ramon seize upon her wrist under the table.

  “With the greatest pleasure I inform you that Melanie has consented to become Ramon’s wife.” A raised hand stilled the exclamations. “They are not officially betrothed, you understand. That must take place in Cadiz in the midst of my family. But I desire my friends in Port Fernando to share in my joy and to wish them all happiness for the future.”

  The only thing of which Melanie was conscious during the next five minutes was Elfrida’s cool, triumphant smile and her whispered, “Well done, Melanie. I trust you.”

  The ladies went to one of the bedrooms, and when again they joined the men the stereo was playing Scarlatti. Melanie sat down beside Mrs. Davidson, woodenly answered eager questions. She looked up, caught a cold, contemptuous glance from Stephen, who was smoking in the doorway to the terrace, and had an impulse to jump up and run away, to run and run till she dropped unconscious from exhaustion.

  Presently she was drawn outside by Ramon. They moved along the garden paths in the dark, with his shoulder behind hers, his mouth murmuring his happiness into her ear. Beneath a cypress he stopped and grasped her hands.

  “We must be correct, Melanita—but it is still correct for me to say how much I adore you, how impatient I am to make you my wife. I comprehend that it is not yet discreet for you to confess you love me, but your consent to marry me has made me the most fortunate man in the world.”

  Thinly, she said, “Women change their minds, you know, Ramon. I may let you down.”

  “Not my Melanie! I would trust you with my life. I am trusting you with my life.”

  “I trust you,” from Elfrida, and now the same sentiment from Ramon. How could one be faithful to both! And what about the old injunction, To thine own self be true’? What were the demands of her own heart?

  “Ramon, may I borrow your car tomorrow morning?” she asked shakily. “I’d like to go for a drive, without Elfrida.”

  “Then you must also mean that you wish to go without me.” For, naturally, they could not be quite alone together.

  “Do you mind?”

  “I mind nothing that you do. I realize that you are English and accustomed to go unchaperoned. I will instruct the chauffeur to present himself at the hotel at ten o’clock. Bueno?”

  “Bueno,” she agreed wearily.

  A branch rustled, a white dinner jacket made a blur in the darkness, and became clear-cut. Stephen stopped beside them, spoke in cool accents.

  “Your father needs your assistance over some matter, Ramon. I’ll escort Melanie to the house.”

  “Very well.” Ramon clicked his heels and vanished into the trees.

  Stiffly, mechanically, Melanie turned as if to follow him. Stephen’s fingers detained her, hard fingers that could contract inflexibly about an arm or twitch cruelly at a necklace.

  “No haste, is there?” he said. “I’m your countryman, after all. I have a right to congratulate you on a game excellently played, both by you and Elfrida.”

  “Elfrida?” she echoed, staring up at him.

  “You didn’t do it alone, my child. You’re not cold-blooded enough to wade in and grab a man for his money.”

  His icy distaste stung her. “You forget that Ramon is in love with me.”

  “There are ways of dealing with a young hothead who fancies himself in love. That little fire might have died if Elfrida hadn’t kept it ventilated. What if he does love you?” he stated grimly. “You’re not in love with him, only with the glamor of his riches, his foreignness!”

  Not even with those, she could have told him bleakly. It wouldn’t bruise her heart if she never saw Ramon again.

  “You’re not very complimentary,” she said. “I hoped of rather better from you.”

  “Why should you? I’ve given you no reason to believe I’d condone your marrying Ramon Perez. I suppose you do understand what’s happening?” he said roughly. “You’re tying yourself to the Perez family, to Spain, for all time. Ramon is by no means the man his father is, and if he doesn’t tire of you, you’ll certainly have had enough of him in a short while. What then?”

  Recklessly, full of pain at his obtuseness, she said, “I shall leave him! Is that plain? I shall leave him and live on the marriage settlement. Oh, yes, there’s a wonderful settlement.”

  “Shut up,” said Stephen curtly. “You’re overwrought and frightened. You think the money will buy you independence of Elfrida, but it won’t. While you’re well-off she’ll be near, have no doubt of that. You’ve put your head straight into the trap she set for you, you damned little idiot. And all for money!”

  Her pulses were knocking. “There’s no trap, Stephen. Elfrida has been candid with me. I can’t divulge her affairs, but she’ll tell you, if you ask her.”

  “Ask Elfrida!” The night vibrated with his anger. “If I got as near to her as I am to you, I’d choke her. In fact, if I stay here much longer it’s pretty certain I’ll do something entirely un-British. As for you—” He broke off, eyes glittering, his jaw taut. “Go right ahead and join up with your pot of gold. It’ll probably take you straight to hell!”

  “Stephen!” she cried.

  Breathing heavily, angrily, he took hold of her shoulders, “That was a filthy thing to say. But you’re so blamed foolish and gullible. I’ll see Senor Perez and tell him you can’t go through with it.”

  “No!” in sudden terror. She strove to calm her tones. “I know what I’m doing and it’s no business of yours. This was arranged days ago.”

  “With your full agreement?”

  An instant’s pause, then she nodded, “Yes.”

  “Sure you’re not lying?” he demanded sharply. He jerked h
er elbow, swung her around to face him. “I’ve told you before that I’d help you out of a spot. I’m offering to lift you out of this one.”

  Suddenly furious, her face drained and her eyes like immense black pools, she dashed down his hand. “And how will you set about it—lend me my fare home? What makes you think I’d rather have your charity than Ramon’s? At least, anything from him is given with love.” As if wound up she hurried on, “Despise me, if you like, but if I’m never to be allowed to work properly, for a salary, I’d sooner accept my keep from someone who needs what I can give him.” Bitterly, in a breaking voice, she envied, “In the whole world there’s no one who loves me and wants me as Ramon does. For that alone, I could marry him.”

  But she spoke to the night. Stephen had gone and left only the dry rattle of leaves, the echo of a violent stride. She stayed still in the pellucid light of the stars, depleted and horribly sad.

  She had counted on Stephen’s instinctive understanding, his swift appraisal of the whole situation and careful handling of Elfrida. But his reaction had been only anger, and still more anger. And she was tied, had given her word to Elfrida that she would not act against the marriage except with her cousin’s acquiescence ... which would never be granted.

  What had she done? Being cut off from Stephen was like being blind or paralyzed. She couldn’t live without knowing that he was near, that they would laugh together again, that he would scoff at her youth and force her to look every experience in the eye. Stephen was the cynical moon, the cool stars, the intolerant sun, the hot, ravaging wind.

  Melanie shivered and compelled herself to walk. But Stephen was a hard, immovable knot in the very center of her heart.

  As she neared the house Elfrida came down from the veranda.

  “Stephen’s already gone,” she said. “Isn’t it odd?”

  “He ... mostly pleases himself.”

  “It’s odd, all the same. I haven’t spoken to him since dinner. And another thing. The senor is giving a picnic at Pointe Douce tomorrow, but Stephen declined to make one of the number. I heard him tell Senor Perez that he’s uncovered one or two interesting items and is moving out to the diggings tomorrow—Sunday!”

  “Did he mention how long he’d be there?”

  “A week or two. The senor chaffed him again about this being his holiday, but Stephen didn’t rise to it. He said he wanted to clear up and be away before the bad weather begins.”

  “That sounds reasonable”

  She passed Elfrida and went into the house. It was later, when Melanie lay in her hotel bed, that she recalled the furious disgust and loathing in Stephen’s voice when he had spoken of her cousin. So Elfrida had nothing to hope for there; not that Melanie had really thought she had. Apparently no one had anything to hope for from Stephen.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE JAMESON PLANTATION lay off the road between Port Fernando and a village called Pirree. About seven miles from the port a well-kept track that was signposted simply, H. Jameson, went off to the left, continued for some way between rice fields and coffee trees, and eventually curved through thickets of pungent, essence-bearing plants to the wide front porch of a white, thatched dwelling.

  A car arriving at the homestead was evidently an occasion. The field coolies stopped gathering flower heads, two or three dogs set up a racket, a barefoot house servant appeared on the path, and two or three tiny brown children peeped from the thatched summer house in which they had been playing.

  Before Melanie could get out of the car, however, Mrs. Jameson came from the house and down the path.

  “I’ve seen you in town,” she said, “and Henry told me about you. You’re Miss Paget. Do come in.”

  She was no taller than Melanie and nearly as thin. Her eyes were hazel in color and kind in expression, and she had pleasant, birdlike features. Her speech had the trace of an accent, though her English was fluent. She was about thirty-eight.

  “Henry’s not far away—he’s at the sheds repairing the storm shutters for the house. I’ll send for him.”

  “I don’t think you should,” protested Melanie. “I only came because—”

  “Because he invited you,” the other woman took her up smilingly. “Therefore he must come and see you. He loves being interrupted, and it is Sunday.” She called to the servant. “Hussim, fetch the master.”

  She led the way into a stone-floored hall that contained nothing but a black carved table bearing a copper bowl of flowers, and on into a slightly outmoded but tasteful lounge. Here, too, the wood was black and the flower holders made of copper, but the fabrics were patterned linen and old tapestry. They were somehow typical of Mrs. Jameson herself, for she, too, wore a dress of figured linen of very plain style, and her brown hair was loosely brushed back into a bun.

  “Sit down,” she bade Melanie, “and we’ll have drinks. All our cordials are homemade but I’m sure you’ll like them. Can you stay to lunch?”

  “I’m afraid not. I only borrowed the car for an hour or so. I’m due to start out on a picnic at twelve.”

  “What a pity. Next time you must come for a whole day. Henry will fetch you and take you back.”

  He came in just then, middle-aged, kindly, but rather expressionless. An unemotional sort of man, yet Melanie was instantly conscious of the devotion of these two, one for the other.

  “Hello, Miss Paget,” he said. “We’ve been hoping you’d come to see the house that John built. That’s some automobile that brought you.”

  “It belongs to Ramon Perez.”

  “The young Spaniard? I thought he’d left the island, but I suppose he’ll go out the way he came—on a wave of drink parties.”

  A slight offhandedness in his tone made Melanie look at him curiously. “I thought Ramon had made himself popular.”

  “He may have done so with his own set. You were with him the first time I saw you in Port Fernando at the Miramar. Did you notice how he snubbed me?”

  His wife said, “That incident isn’t worth repeating, Henry. Mix the drinks with ice water for us.”

  But Melanie’s curiosity had sharpened. She remembered Ramon writing off Henry Jameson as a mere “planter” who shouldn’t be able to afford a night out at the Miramar. “I’d like to hear about it, Mr. Jameson.”

  “Then I’ll give you the details,” said his wife. “Henry is apt to get too hot over it. Have you seen the de Vaux chateau above the town?”

  “Yes. The best view was from the boat as we came in.”

  “So it is. The castle itself is a ruin; no one has lived there for more than a hundred years. I’m the last of the de Vaux family. My mother and grandmother were English,” she laughed, “and they used to call the castle Frenchman’s Folly.”

  “But it looks beautiful against the trees.”

  “Yes, it does. It quite captivated Ramon Perez. He sought me out and made me an offer for the chateau. I told him it had to remain de Vaux property till it crumbled away.” She had paused to give Melanie a cherry-colored drink that tinkled with ice, and Henry Jameson supplied an acid comment.

  “I know what I’d have done if he’d put the offer to me!”

  “Yes, darling,” she said equably. “We both know. How do you like the drink, Miss Paget?”

  “It’s deliciously refreshing. Go on about the castle.”

  “You find the story romantic? There isn’t much more. The young senor has reverence for buildings and customs, so he accepted my refusal gracefully. But he made me a different proposition. He wished me to permit him to have the place restored and furnished—at a colossal cost—and allow him the use of it.”

  “Was he backed by his father?”

  “I never met the old man, but I’ve heard that he dotes on his son and will procure for him whatever he desires.”

  A shadow flickered across Melanie’s face. She sipped her drink.

  “We’re forgetting that Ramon Perez is your friend,” said Henry. “Maybe it’s because I’ve not much family background myself t
hat I cherish Lucille’s. Your cousin John was fascinated by the castle and its associations. During his last illness he liked nothing better than to hear my wife telling one of the tales from the journals of her ancestors.”

  “John was good,” commented Lucille. “It hurt us deeply to hear that his wife didn’t care about him.” She stood up. “As you can’t spend much time with us this morning, shall I show you the rooms?”

  Henry went with them and lolled in the corridor while his wife did the explaining.

  “This is the dining room. This large bedroom is Henry’s and mine, and John had this smaller room next door. Here, at the end, are the kitchen and bathroom, and on this side we have a linen room, and—” she put a finger to her lips and tiptoed through the last doorway “—here is our little pigeon.” The baby lay sleeping in a mosquito-proofed bed close to the open window. She was a sturdy child, wheaten haired, red lipped and, judging by the eyelids and silken lashes, large eyed.

  Lucille’s tones lowered to a murmur. “Henry married a woman who was past her first youth and often unwell. Somehow he found out about a specialist who might help me, and for eighteen months he gave up everything and stayed with me in the Europe. When we came back to Mindoa I gradually grew stronger and at last we had the baby.” She laughed again on a caught breath. “And what a baby! Awake at five every morning, exhausted by ten, and ready to eat the whole pantry at one. She has no time for regulations; she will not sleep in the afternoon!”

  When they emerged once more into the corridor, Henry’s head was poked into a cupboard. He turned around.

  “Talking of those episodes of your ancestors reminded me of the manuscripts. You shouldn’t have left them here, Lucille. They’ll get chewed up by insects.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” she said serenely. “I needed the drawer space.”

  “You’re incorrigible. They’re probably the only historical record of the island. Besides, it’s our duty to carry out the instructions of your father’s will.” He gathered up a huge armful of yellowed paper tied in sections with faded tape and carried it into the lounge.