Teachers Must Learn

by Nerina Hilliard

  TEACHERS MUST LEARN

  Nerina Hilliard

  Everyone on the tropical island of Ladrana thought that Laurel Shannon and Stephen Barrington should make a match of it—everyone, that is, except Laurel—and Stephen.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Laurel drew in her breath sharply, then let it out slowly in a sigh of sheer enchantment. The island, dreaming in the sunlight, cradled in sparkling waters and roofed with benevolent blue skies, was so unbelievably beautiful.

  ‘It’s like something out of a fairy tale,’ she said softly.

  Her companion, whose cynical gaze was also focussed upon the island, shrugged her elegant shoulders slightly.

  ‘I thought that when I first came here,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose most people are slightly bowled over when they see Ladrana for the first time. But the pity is that one gets accustomed to places, and the magic fades.’

  Laurel was affected by her cynicism in the same way that she was affected by the sudden lowering of the temperature on a hot summer’s day. But she had not come all this way to have an otherwise magical moment marred by a lack of enthusiasm on the part of a fellow passenger aboard the small coastal freighter. So while Beryl Cornish disappeared inside the single public saloon behind them she went closer to the rail and gripped at it eagerly.

  Beryl called out to her a trifle mockingly before she disappeared:

  ‘Let’s hope you’ll find everything on Ladrana just what you expected ... And let’s hope you’ll always think of it as a fairytale island!’

  Laurel frowned as she gazed out over the sparkling sea and the distance between her and her destination lessened with every passing second. Even now she was not sure whether she liked Beryl Cornish. Her cynicism was sometimes repellent, but for all that there was something vaguely attractive to the total inexperience Laurel somewhat ruefully knew to be hers in complete sophistication and rather world-weary confidence. It mocked at her own youthfulness, but it also seemed to hint at things, as yet undreamed of, that could be wildly exciting. Only she hoped that if ever she discovered those things the result would not be total boredom, as in the case of Beryl Cornish.

  For a very brief period she dwelt upon the possibility that she might one day, too, be jaded and slightly sad, and then she dismissed it as she recollected that this was the glorious present. For her the whole of life was breathlessly exciting, and round every corner that she encountered there was likely to be something new and completely fascinating. At any rate, from now on.

  For twenty-two years she had been Laurel Shannon, to whom nothing very much had ever happened. She was labelled ‘schoolmarm’, which in itself seemed to preclude the possibility of anything out of the ordinary happening to her. Journeys to romantic parts of the world simply did not happen to girls in such prosaic occupations, even when they were still in their early twenties and were blessed with the trimmest and slenderest of figures, with the added accompaniment of tobacco brown hair that curled delightfully and naturally, a mouth that quirked upwards engagingly at its enchanting corners, and eyes that were neither blue nor green but some mysterious shade between the two set between long, curling eyelashes a few shades darker than her hair.

  Laurel herself did not consider her physical appeal was very much more than average, but she did know that she had one important thing that was not likely to desert her for several years yet ... the freshness of youth. And youth was a powerful weapon to possess when one had virtually nothing else. It meant that one could still look forward, and looking backward was not in the least painful. Anything and everything that happened was a novelty, and for that she was supremely grateful.

  Her sea-green eyes continued to smile as she looked out over the sea, and she knew that the smile was largely due to the letter inside her handbag. She resisted the temptation to re-read it while the island was drawing so rapidly closer, for apart from the fact that it was not an ideal moment she already knew the contents of it off by heart.

  ‘Dear Brat,’ it began with affectionate insult, and continued in Kennedy’s bubbling, irrepressible style. ‘Believe it or not, the prodigal seems to have made good. Don’t ask me how it happened—but the plantation is paying its way—and more—at last.’ There followed a long, incomprehensible description of the various pests that attacked tropical crops, lapsing at times into total illegibility, and concluded with the amazing information: have forwarded enough to the London bank to cover your passage. A holiday away from the other brats will do you good, and I’m looking forward to showing you off to the chaps on the island. Don’t let me down.

  Ned

  P.S. You might even make the redoubtable Stephen Barrington fall flat on his face!

  Well, of course, she had no desire whatsoever to make this unknown Stephen Barrington fall flat on his redoubtable face, even if she had the ability, which she very much doubted, whatever he was like. From that postscript he sounded just a little aloof and perhaps even formidable. Something told her that Ned did not like him—or was not particularly sold on him, at any rate—and loyalty to her brother, whom she had always adored, set the hackles of antipathy bristling at the thought of a man she had never met, whom she had not the smallest desire to meet, and who obviously occupied a very low place in the esteem of the prospering Ned. When the moment arrived that brought them face to face she would probably look at him in such a way that he would realize immediately she had been warned in advance, and she hoped he was the type who could take a snub.

  She was the friendliest soul when people were friendly to her, but she didn’t want any man falling for her who apparently found it difficult to fall for other people.

  The tap of high heels sounded behind her on the deck, and she turned from the rail with new purpose in her slender body, although she hoped it was disguised enough as she smiled up at Beryl Cornish.

  The elder woman had thrown a light, matching linen coat over her sleeveless blouse and linen skirt. She was going on beyond Ladrana, but apparently intended to go ashore during the freighter’s stay at the island.

  Beryl leaned on the rail at her side, watching the feathery fronds of the island palms approach.

  ‘How long is it since you last saw your brother?’ she asked, without turning to look at the girl.

  Laurel sighed, with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Over seven years.’ She glanced up at the woman. ‘I’m afraid we all thought he was quite crazy, wanting to come out here. Mother and Father were killed suddenly, in a train crash, while he was away. They would have loved to know he was successful in the end.’

  Perhaps they did know, somehow. She hesitated a moment, then asked baldly, in complete change of subject:

  ‘Who is Stephen Barrington?’

  Beryl’s pencilled eyebrows flickered upwards in surprise, then she lowered them over narrowed, cautious eyes.

  ‘Now you’re getting on dangerous ground, my child.’ Her voice had a guarded drawl as she added, ‘What do you know about Stephen Barrington?’

  Laurel attempted to shrug nonchalantly. ‘Nothing, except what I gathered from one sentence in my brother’s letter.’

  Something faintly mocking glowed in the other woman’s eyes. There was a hint of warning in her tone, though, as she advised:

  ‘Don’t start getting interested in Stephen, my child. It wouldn’t be wise, and for another thing, it might be dangerous—not that I think Stephen would really give you more than a passing glance,’ she added, but Laurel somehow felt that the deliberate cruelty was not directed at herself, but at the world in general.

  Nevertheless, her chin went up with unconscious pride and defiance.

  ‘I have no particular interest in this Stephen Barrington, whoever he is. From what I’ve heard about him so far I don’t find h
im at all likeable. I merely inquired because I gathered from his letter that Ned doesn’t like him.’

  ‘And you want to know what he’s like, so you can be a loyal little sister and dislike him too?’ Beryl suggested, but this time she was smiling without any unkindness. She was silent for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. ‘It would be rather hard to say just what he’s like, because I don’t think any woman has ever really got underneath that mocking exterior of his. He’s English, of course, but he’s acquired quite a few Portuguese mannerisms, probably due to the fact that his family have lived out here for centuries. He owns over half the island, quite apart from holdings in other parts of the world,’ she added casually, as if it was the man who had interested her to the exclusion of everything else, even the fabulous fortune he apparently possessed. ‘I think that’s about all I should tell you. You can make up your mind about the rest yourself.’ She slanted a quizzical glance at the girl. ‘I don’t think you’ll find it hard. Stephen has quite a forceful personality. He doesn’t leave a person in doubt as to how they feel about him.’

  She turned back to look out over the sea, at the fast approaching island, and Laurel forbore to ask any more questions, feeling that she had heard quite enough about this Stephen Barrington to make him sound rather detestable. In any case, Ned’s judgment was rarely at fault.

  Was that him there? She started and leaned forward eagerly over the rail. Surely nobody else would have that shock of blond hair. Yes, it was Ned. In quite uncontrollable excitement, she waved enthusiastically, bringing an amused and envious smile to the lips of the woman at her side.

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Laurel threw her a swift, smiling glance and waved again to the figure on shore. This time the man started to vigorously return her greeting.

  The ship pulled in at a weathered stone quay and she was able to clearly recognize the tall, blond man who was looking up at her with the familiar grin on his lips that had always, in the old days, managed to get her to do whatever he wished, from carrying his school books to helping clean down his first ramshackle old car.

  Nevertheless, when at length she did step down on to the quay, their greeting was restrained, because both were naturally reticent in front of an audience. Only the fervent clasp of her brother’s fingers on her own told Laurel how much the meeting meant to him as well.

  One eyebrow, startlingly fair against the suntan of his face, jerked upwards quizzically.

  ‘You’ve grown.’

  ‘You’d expect me to, wouldn’t you?’ Laurel retorted, her mock indignation hiding her pleasure and excitement at seeing him again. ‘After all, I was only fifteen when you left.’

  The irrepressible grin that was no whit different from years ago turned his lips up at the corners.

  ‘All right, don’t nag me, schoolmarm,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not one of your ink stained and grubby little pupils.’

  ‘My pupils were not grubby,’ Laurel contradicted, but her eyes were smiling and saying how good it was to be with him, and his eyes were smiling down into hers and saying the same thing.

  There seemed to be no difficulty with Customs on the island and very soon Laurel found her bags being transferred to a well-kept little car which stood outside the official port buildings. Ned drove slowly through the town, to give her a chance to indulge her desire to look round and goodnaturedly answered the questions that tumbled out like a pent-up flood. Once he did glance sideways at her with an amused grin.

  ‘I somehow can’t visualize you handling a bunch of rowdy youngsters.’

  ‘They were not rowdy,’ Laurel retorted, in instant defence of her class, yet nevertheless remembered young Tommy Marsden, who invariably caused trouble of some sort immediately her back was turned. A bubbling laugh welled up, destroying all vestige of gravity. ‘You haven’t seen me when I’m really roused,’ she added, completely contradicting her previous statement.

  Ned grinned as he swung the car away from the last straggling buildings of the town and on to a side road, leaving the other better kept and smoother one to continue on into the mysterious depths of the island.

  Clouds of dust rose from the dirty ground as the car bumped over the ruts and penetrated even through the closed windows, so that the atmosphere became absolutely stifling and Laurel wondered whether it might not be better to open the window and at least have some air in the car, since they seemed doomed to have the dust in any case. She tried it, and hastily decided otherwise, aware of Ned’s grin as she wound up the window again.

  ‘You’ll get used to the dust,’ he informed her callously.

  Laurel coughed and felt it tickling its way up her nose and did not think she would ever get used to it. At least, she knew she would never be able to say truthfully that she liked it.

  They passed neatly set out rows of sisal and agave and Ned informed her proudly that on the other side of the plantation were planted pawpaw, bananas and tea, as well as cotton.

  Laurel threw him a puzzled, laughing glance. ‘Do you grow everything here?’

  ‘Nearly everything,’ Ned replied, with an expansive wave of his hand that nearly sent them off the road and into a group of thatched, conical native huts, where naked piccanins played outside baked mud walls.

  Beyond a grove of wide-branched tamarisk and mauve-flowering Judas trees, the house at last came into view, flanked by scarlet flowering gums and vivid flowers. The house itself was like some English cottage, defiantly nestling among tropical trees and flowers and looking quite pugnacious about it.Laurel could not restrain an almost childish giggle. ‘It looks as if it’s going to pick a fight!’

  ‘I’ve often thought that myself,’ Ned agreed. ‘It was built originally by a very belligerent Irishman, who would start up a fight at the drop of a hat. He must have left some of his personality behind.’

  Laurel opened the door before he could cross to her side and stood looking round delightedly.

  ‘I’m going to love living here, Ned,’ she said with a happy sigh, and Ned grinned in that indulgent, affectionate way.

  ‘I’ll be seeing that you don’t leave yet awhile, either.’ He caught her hand and led her inside. ‘Like it?’

  Laurel nodded eagerly. The cottage was completely English inside except for the tropical flowers in a tall bronze vase that stood upon a stone pedestal, and had apparently left its belligerent Irish facade outside.

  Ned led her through the rooms, pointing out different acquisitions with obvious pride of ownership, the gay curtains in the living-room that he had bullied the native women into making, cushions on a leather couch that lay there like bright butterflies come to rest on its dark surface. Finally he took her through to the kitchen and introduced her to a middle-aged Portuguese woman, who bobbed a shy curtsey and roused two young coloured girls into frenzied activity with a flood of instructions in their own language, so that by the time Ned and Laurel had come down from upstairs, where she had been shown her own room, tea was laid for them in the delightfully cool dining room.

  As Pepita went out, Ned indicated the tea-tray. ‘Will you pour out? Now that I have a perfectly good sister here, I might as well make use of her!’

  Laurel suddenly threw her arms around his neck and hugged him in an excess of youthful affection, feeling as if she had grown several years younger since coming to Ladrana. She could not possibly be the same person who had waxed stern to the impish Tommy Marsden.

  ‘I’m going to love being here,’ she said again.

  Ned put his own arms around her and gently ruffled her hair. ‘I’m going to love having you. Don’t go leaving me too soon.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Both of them started as a voice spoke from the doorway. As Ned released her, Laurel turned quickly, feeling embarrassed to find a total stranger watching them from the doorway and, all in that one instant, decided that she did not at all care for eyes that were dark grey and held a distinctly mocking light. In fact she was conscious of a tingling along her spine
that betokened the birth of antagonism, especially when the piercing eyes left her to go to Ned with an upward twitch of a jet black eyebrow that was positively diabolical.

  Ned grinned, not in the least embarrassed, it seemed. ‘Come in, Steve,’ he invited. ‘You’re not interrupting any tender moment.’

  As the newcomer left the doorway and came nearer, Laurel noticed that he somehow managed to dwarf the little room and overwhelm them with his height and arrogant assurance. Ned drew her forward, but she really did not need his introduction. She had already guessed who the man was.

  ‘This is my sister, Laurel,’ he said, and his smile was not at all the expression she had expected him to wear when introducing a man he disliked. ‘Laurel—the great man of the island, Stephen Barrington,’ he added with the grin that had won him so many friends.

  Laurel held out her hand reluctantly and found it engulfed in the strong brown fingers of the man. A quick, all-encompassing glance took in his height and the dark, virile tan of his skin against which the parting of thin, cynical lips showed strong, white teeth. Added to that thin, aquiline features, thick black hair with a tendency to wave slightly, and those piercing dark grey eyes that seemed as if they could look right through you, into the secret recesses of mind and heart, made it simple for Laurel to accept Beryl Cornish’s opinion of this man. He was undoubtedly both dangerous and experienced, and far from likeable. He might improve on acquaintance, but she doubted it.

  She withdrew her fingers somewhat hurriedly after his had closed round them ... Not that his seemed disposed to linger, but because she was afflicted all at once with a most unusual breathlessness, even while instinctive antagonism put a sparkle into the eyes that met his mocking grey glance.

  ‘Of all things, believe it or not,’ Ned put in, not apparently aware of the veiled hostility between them, ‘she’s a schoolmarm.’

  Again that diabolical black brow jerked upwards in a fashion that made Laurel’s fingers positively itch to strike that attractive, mocking face.