Romance Classics

by Peggy Gaddis

  Marisa nodded. “Which means, of course, that she is in love with him and is probably insanely jealous of you.”

  “But why should she be? My relations with Leon are strictly professional. That’s the way we both want it to be,” Kristen said curtly.

  Marisa eyed her for a moment.

  “You’re not even just the tiniest bit in love with Lee?” Marisa persisted.

  “Marisa, unless you keep your eyes on the road, so help me, I’ll get out and walk!” Kristen gritted through her teeth.

  “Oh, did I frighten you? Kristen, I could drive this road blindfolded.”

  “Well, for goodness sake, don’t!” pleaded Kristen. “Now that we’ve left the highway and started climbing this mountain—”

  “Oh, this isn’t a mountain, Kristen dear. It’s only a small hill.” Marisa laughed. “I’ll show you a mountain—old Peleé himself, the villain that wiped out a whole city one fine May morning and left only one survivor.”

  “Someone told me about that. Can you really climb Peleé?” asked Kristen.

  “Oh, yes, occasionally. Of course, you have to choose the time and the day very carefully and be sure the weather is just exactly right, but it can be done,” Marisa told her lightly. “We’ll go see what’s left of St. Pierre, too. It’s a rather gruesome sight, of course. Volcanoes don’t leave much behind, and the disaster sort of blunted people’s desire to live there.”

  “I should think it would,” Kristen agreed.

  “I wish you could be here during the carnival season, Kristen,” Marisa chattered. “You’d love it. The main one is on Ash Wednesday.”

  “I was in New Orleans once during Mardi Gras,” Kristen told her.

  “But this one is so different. In most places the celebrations end the night before Ash Wednesday. Here, the people sing and dance and shout through the streets, really whooping it up, until nightfall on Ash Wednesday. They have a huge figure they call Val-Val, which is supposed to represent the carnival spirit, and they burn that when it gets dark, and of course there are fireworks. It’s quite a show.”

  Kristen was so absorbed in the narrow, winding road that seemed to leap-frog from hill to hill that she scarcely heard Marisa’s chatter.

  “This is my first trip to Beau Rivage in two years,” Marisa said suddenly. “I’m really ashamed of myself. But the lessons with Lee made it impossible for me to get away.” Suddenly she laughed joyously. “Now isn’t that a silly thing to say! You’d think I was dancing with him professionally, under contract, wouldn’t you?”

  “Would you like to be?” Kristen asked curiously.

  “Would I like to be?” Marisa cried, shocked. “Kristen, what an idiotic thing to ask! Even if I were good enough as a dancer—why, Kristen, I wouldn’t leave Martinique again even for a career in the movies!”

  “I just thought you seemed to enjoy dancing.”

  “I do,” admitted Marisa. “And don’t be shocked if I say I’d love it better with just about anybody but Lee. Heavens, that man drives you! Oh, I adore him, of course. He’s the best-looking thing that ever walked or danced! But dancing should be fun not work!”

  Kristen laughed. “Don’t ever say that to Leon. He’d think you’d lost your mind.”

  “Funny,” observed Marisa, her attention and her eyes now on the road. “I call him Lee, and you call him Leon. He said all his friends call him Lee. Why don’t you?”

  “Because, I suppose, as I told you before, our relations are strictly professional,” Kristen answered dryly.

  “You sound as if you didn’t even like him!”

  “I do like him, Marisa. But—” Kristen shrugged and braced herself for the flying descent of the hill they had just climbed.

  “And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it?” Marisa smiled at her and added, “We’re almost there now. It’s just beyond that next hill and across the river. By the way, we’ve followed a short cut. It’s much farther around by the road that Dad and Eileen use, so we may be there ahead of them, though they left at the crack o’ dawn, just about.”

  They were climbing another of the hills now. Below them was a green valley, then a swooping curve, and the house was there before them. It was a stately, very old house that looked serenely off over a magnificent panorama of the tortuous hills and valleys they had traversed.

  As the little car swept up the drive and came to a halt, Eileen came out on the terrace and descended the steps to meet them, smiling warmly as she greeted Kristen.

  “Oh, so you and Dad did get here ahead of us,” Marisa said cheerfully.

  “Considering the fact that we left a good three hours before you did, that’s not so strange, is it?” Eileen answered. “Did she frighten you, Kristen?”

  “Now, I resent that!” protested Marisa, as dark-skinned servants emerged from the house, smiling a wide welcome to her. “I’m a very fine driver, as you well know. Oh, hello, all of you! It’s grand to be home.”

  There were eager murmurs of assent, and Eileen put an arm about each of the girls and guided them back up the wide, sweeping stairs.

  “Where’s Dad?” demanded Marisa.

  “Oh, I dropped him off at the factory,” answered Eileen matter-of-factly. “There was some trouble among the cane-cutters, and Malvern, the superintendent, felt George was the one to straighten it out.”

  “And how right he was!” Marisa nodded. “Everybody that works on the plantation just about adores him, and if he says ‘black is white’ they solemnly agree.”

  “This is your room, Kristen,” Eileen opened the door to a large, airy room, its walls of age-old wood paneling, its floor of a pale yellow tile. A giant mosquito net hung above the huge mahogany four-poster bed.

  “Have we time for a swim before lunch, Eileen?” asked Marisa.

  “Of course not,” Eileen answered briskly. “Lunch is almost ready now, and your father’s coming home for it. You have time to wash your face and brush your hair, no more than that.”

  “Oh, well, we can swim this afternoon,” said Marisa. She drew Kristen to the small balcony opening through a French window from the bedroom and pointed down below. “That’s where we swim.”

  Kristen looked down and gasped, because it was a sheer drop from the balcony to the shining black beach, laced with the foam of slowly rolling breakers.

  “But how do you get down there?” she demanded.

  “Oh, we go down on a rope, hand over hand,” Marisa told her gravely.

  “Now, Marisa, stop teasing Kristen. Do you want to chase her back to town before she’s more than barely arrived?” protested Eileen, and smiled at Kristen. “We drive down the hill, and there’s a path that leads to the beach. It’s a bit steep, but these youngsters don’t seem to mind.”

  “But I thought all beaches were white, or at least yellow,” said Kristen, staring down at the black sandy beach below her.

  “Oh, there are some even on Martinique, but this close to Peleé, they are of black volcanic ash,” answered Eileen.

  “But don’t worry; the black doesn’t rub off.” Marisa laughed, and turned as a maid came in with Kristen’s luggage. “See you downstairs in half an hour, Kristen.”

  Eileen smiled warmly and spoke to the maid, who nodded and answered in the same language. And then Eileen, too, went away, saying over her shoulder at the door, “Don’t bother to change for lunch, Kristen. We live very informally here.”

  Kristen looked about her at the lovely old room, the furnishings that she knew must be very valuable, and hid a smile. With a staff of eager smiling servants, a house filled with such beauty and luxury, they lived very informally!

  When she came down the stairs, George was emerging from the vast drawing room. He greeted her, tucking her hand through his arm as he guided her out to the dining terrace, overlooking the sheer drop to the beach below.

  “Of course”—he smiled at her across the glass-topped table—“I’m sorry about Westerman’s accident, but I’m delighted it gave you the chance to visit
us. There is so much I want you to see.”

  “Now, look, Dad, you’re not going to cart her off to do a lot of sight-seeing,” Marisa cut in. “She’s here to have fun.”

  “But I’d like to hear about the historical things, and see as much as I can,” Kristen protested. “It’s not a bit likely I’ll ever have the chance again, because Leon and I won’t be coming back to Martinique for a long time, perhaps never.”

  George smiled at her. “Oh, but you will. Remember what I told you the island is called?”

  “The Island of Those Who Return. It’s a lovely name,” Kristen answered, smiling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whether or not Eileen had told George that Kristen was beginning to weary of the incessant fun-seeking activities of Marisa’s crowd, Kristen had no way of knowing. But when, one morning, he suggested that she might like to visit the factory with him, she jumped at the chance. Marisa never appeared at breakfast, and Eileen said lightly, “Do go, Kristen. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  “You don’t think Marisa will mind? I’d love to, but I wouldn’t want to upset any of Marisa’s plans.”

  “Plans? Marisa? That one doesn’t make plans; she simply acts on the spur of the moment, and expects everything and everybody to fall in line,” said Eileen. “Run along, Kristen. I think you’d find it quite interesting.”

  “I’m sure I would,” Kristen replied eagerly, and went out with George to the battered jeep that he used on his trips to and from what he called the factory, the base of operations for the plantation’s activities.

  It was a glorious morning, the rising sun just piercing the mists that spread a blue-gray haze over the valleys.

  George drove up the steep, winding trail, pointing out to her interesting sights, explaining odd formations, identifying trees, and Kristen listened absorbed and fascinated.

  She didn’t quite know what she had expected the factory to look like, but when they came to it, she was wide-eyed with surprise. The main part was a huge, roofed platform where a conveyor belt brought great bunches of green bananas down to rows of women in bright-colored garments and head bandanas. As she stood at the edge of the platform, fascinated, she saw that they were busily wrapping the stems of the bunches individually, and looked up at George, puzzled.

  “The bananas will be shipped abroad to France, Holland, in refrigerated ships,” he explained. “Wrapping the stems will prevent their being damaged by ripening en route. The island ships about ninety thousand tons of fruit a year, in good years. But a great deal of it, about seventy percent, is grown by farmers who find it easy to plant a few trees in their own back yard and have a small cash crop. We go in mostly for sugar cane here; and most of our cane goes into rum!”

  He smiled at her and added, “But don’t think our people suffer because of any lack of food. I insist that Martiniquais are among the best fed in the whole island group. We even have a citrus belt.”

  “I notice that just about everybody looks happy and well-fed,” Kristen agreed as she walked with him back toward the jeep.

  The narrow road was bordered on either side by acres of cane, and the cutters were busy in it, slashing the cane near the roots, stripping their leaves and trussing them into bundles, which women and boys hoisted on their heads and carried away toward waiting trucks to be hauled to the mill.

  Kristen was within a few feet of the jeep when a cane cutter shrilled a loud cry and leaped forward, his machete poised. Kristen gasped, and found herself swept up into George’s arms and lifted to the jeep as the machete flashed down and down and down again. Then the cutter leaped back, and his white teeth made a broad slash in his dark, sweating face.

  “My darling, oh, my darling!” said George, his voice no more than a murmur as his arms held her so tightly against him that she could feel the hard, uneven thudding of his heart.

  “What was it?” she asked faintly, when she could speak. “What did I do to make him attack me?”

  “Attack you? My dear girl, it was a fer-de-lance and he killed it,” George told her. “You almost stepped on it.”

  She caught her breath and hid her face against him, and heard him say something to the cane cutter; then George put her into the jeep.

  “I’ll take you straight back to the house,” George said hoarsely. “You’ve had a terrible shock. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. The foul thing was flushed from the cane when the men started cutting. They were after it, and it darted right across the path.”

  Kristen shuddered as she sank down on the seat, her shaking hands over her white face.

  “I wasn’t looking where I was going. It was stupid of me.”

  “It wasn’t at all; it was all my fault. I should have warned you,” George said brusquely. “I knew about them; you didn’t.”

  And Kristen remembered Madam Chapin’s story on the ship coming down. Marisa’s mother, whom he had adored, had been killed by one of these deadly creatures. How it must have brought back to him all that bitter, heartbreaking experience! And when he had held her close and had said, “My darling, oh, my darling!” those words had been addressed to the memory of another woman who hadn’t been as lucky as she.

  He turned to the cane cutter, said something to him in the native patois, and the man turned, relieved, to resume his work. As George got into the jeep, he looked down at Kristen anxiously.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Just feeling terribly foolish,” she admitted with a valiant attempt at a smile. “I didn’t even see the snake! I just saw that man rushing toward we with that awful knife, and I thought he’d gone berserk. I’m sorry I was such a fool.”

  “Don’t say that!” George seemed angry. “It was perfectly natural. I should have warned you—I’m the fool!”

  “Please,” Kristen pleaded. “Madam Chapin told me about—what happened to Marisa’s mother. I know how all this must have brought that dreadful experience back to you.”

  Swiftly, as though he resented the reminder, he said, “Don’t even think about it. Fernand was smarter than I am. And now I’ll take you home.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The girls came floating down the stairs, looking gay and lovely in their light summery dresses, and Eileen and George stood at the landing of the outside steps and watched them drive off.

  Eileen watched George anxiously as he turned and went back into the house. In the drawing room, she saw him go to stand at the French window, looking down at the black volcanic beach against which the surf was flinging great misty curtains of lacy white.

  “She’s a very lovely girl, isn’t she?” Eileen broke the taut silence.

  “Very,” George said over his shoulder.

  “And you’re more than a little in love with her.” Eileen’s tone made it a statement, not a question.

  George wheeled about as though she had struck him. She saw the amazement in his eyes, the sudden tautness of his jaw.

  “In love with Kristen?” he asked as though he found the idea completely fantastic. “What a ridiculous—why, she’s my daughter’s age!”

  Eileen shook her head, smiling faintly.

  “She’s twenty-four, George.”

  “And I’m forty!”

  “And she is by no means indifferent to you.”

  “That’s utter, arrant nonsense!”

  Eileen shook her well-groomed, handsome head.

  “Is it?” she asked gently.

  “Well, but of course it is. A young, radiantly lovely girl like Kristen—and an old codger like me—why, it’s indecent!”

  “Oh, I don’t say that she is in love with you—yet! But she’s poised on the brink, George. Just the smallest, gentlest bit of wooing from you—”

  “Which I shall never offer, I assure you.”

  Eileen was silent for a moment, and then her eyes met his squarely.

  “Do you think that’s quite fair?” she asked gently. “Either to yourself or to her?”

  “Eileen, I think you must be out of your mi
nd.”

  “I have eyes, George, and I’ve watched her. She is very much attracted to you; and I know that you must care for her. I know you so well, you see, darling. She’s the first woman you’ve really looked at in ten years.”

  “But she’s not really a woman, Eileen. She’s just a young girl.”

  “You don’t really believe that, George.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and walked the length of the room and back again.

  “When I held her in my arms this morning,” his tone was low, husky, and she sensed that he was scarcely conscious that he was speaking aloud, “she was soft and warm.”

  “And you are very lonely,” Eileen said gently. “Don’t you suppose I understand, darling? Don’t you suppose I’m lonely, too?”

  He turned sharply and looked down at her where she sat, came to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s a very long and lonely road you and I have walked, George,” she told him softly. “I am so very glad that perhaps the road is going to be shortened for you.”

  “But not for you?”

  She shook her head, her smile tremulous, and then she shrugged.

  “Who can tell?” she mused. “That’s something only the future can show us. I’ve always thought that if you married again, I might go back to England. I do have ties, there, you know. Clyde’s family were very good to me; they’d be so glad if I’d come back and root the tenants out of the Manor, and settle down there again.”

  “If you want to go back, Eileen, you must.”

  “If you marry again—”

  “That’s nonsense! Marisa is practically grown up now.”

  “Marisa is at an age when she needs the restraining hand of an older woman more than at any other time in her life.”

  George’s smile was faint, untouched by mirth.

  “I hardly think Kristen would have much influence over Marisa.”

  “Because they are so much of an age? That’s where you’re wrong, George. Marisa adores Kristen and, what’s more, respects her. Kristen is many years older than Marisa in all the ways that count.”

  Suddenly George straightened and gave a mirthless laugh.