Teachers Must Learn

by Nerina Hilliard

  They moved smoothly away from the quay and, as they passed the moored Rosaritos, Manoel waved to them from the stern rail. They both waved back and Stephen called out something to him in Portuguese.

  Laurel glanced at him curiously as he manoeuvred the craft out into clearer water. He caught her look and quirked that irritating eyebrow.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I was just wondering how much Portuguese there is in you.’

  ‘Enough.’

  And just what was that supposed to mean? she thought exasperatedly. Enough for what? Enough to know that the blood could sing hotly in a man’s veins, but not enough for it to become out of control?

  They were clear of all the other craft now, the needle nose of the launch was pointed towards the headland and the open sea. Stephen’s fingers were playing gently on the controls, the sound of the engine rising and falling, as if it was eager to be gone.

  ‘Afraid of speed?’

  She frowned dubiously. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He opened up the throttle and the song of the engine mounted, the needle nose lifted from the water and the wake creamed frothily behind them. Higher the song of power mounted and with it the slender part of a ship thrust her nose arrogantly farther from the sea.

  For a moment, as the launch had jumped forward under the surge of released power, she had felt the very faintest of qualms, but it was gone almost instantly and a heady thrill took its place.

  ‘Faster!’ she demanded impetuously.

  Stephen glanced at her and grinned. Her oilskin was wet with spray and the short clustered curls were soaked, but her lips were parted in an eager smile and excitement danced in her eyes. His fingers closed almost caressingly on the throttle and opened it wide, so that the ship became a screaming devil of unleashed power, howling defiance at anything and anyone who chose to listen.

  She flashed him a quick look as he took her hand and held it beneath one of his on the wheel and found him looking just as she had imagined he would when she had first heard this boat screaming into the harbour all those days ago, dark buccaneer face intent and assured, a tiny smile playing around his firm mouth, strong ruthless hands gripping the wheel—and her own hand—battling with a living demon of a ship that tried to get away from him and could not. In that moment, with the heady intoxication of sheer speed joining them, she felt nearer to him than ever before. It did not seem to matter that their engagement was only a farce, that its true reality would return when the demon song ended, for a little space of time he was hers in a way that Roberta could never share, because she could not imagine the sophisticated soignée Roberta Fransom being caught up in such thralldom. For this moment, so fleeting in the passing pageant of time, she could let herself believe that he was really hers.

  They dropped the medical supplies at a wooden landing-stage, where a half-caste boy was to take them further inland to the plantation house, then swung round an outjutting promontory, along an almost straight stretch of coastline until they rounded another rock spur and came to a tiny bay, where the blue water murmured gently on a silver pale beach. Back of it was a flat, grassy stretch of land for about a hundred yards, gradually merging into wooded country. Arms of rock enclosed the little bay on both sides, almost as if they wanted to hide it, and on the side a ledge formed a natural stone quay.

  Stephen snagged the rope around a narrow spur of rock and sprang out on to the ledge. From where he reached down a hand to help Laurel up, gripped hard on her wrist and almost lifted her to his side with effortless strength. Then he unfastened her oilskin and tossed it down into the boat, to be followed by his own.

  ‘Well?’ he swept a hand around him. ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s a lovely little place.’

  She privately thought it one of the loveliest places she had ever seen, but her voice might have sounded stilted because she was trying to stop herself from being over-effusive. Any spot would have seemed beautiful when she was with Stephen.

  He grinned at her teasingly, reading a different meaning into her cautious voice.

  ‘What’s the matter—frightened of being here alone with me?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ she retorted with a good attempt at airy unconcern.

  She jumped lightly down from the rock on to the grass below and a soft thud behind her told her that he had done the same thing, but she would not turn round to him and pretended to be interestedly surveying the ground in front of her, even though she was acutely aware of him close behind her. When he put his arms around her from behind, as he had in Ned’s garden, she was unable to stop herself stiffening.

  ‘There’s no need for pretence as we don’t have an audience.’

  Her voice sounded very prim and prudish, but at least that was better than being as tremulous as she felt inside—not that it seemed to have any effect on Stephen. If anything, his arms tightened, drawing her closer against him.

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t afraid.’

  She turned her head to protest indignantly and instantly realized her mistake when his lips brushed hers in a mocking kiss that was as light as a butterfly’s wing, then he released her, with no sign of the reluctance he would no doubt have shown had she been Roberta.

  She busied herself with opening the picnic hamper he had dropped down on the grass, hoping that she looked as cool and unperturbed as he did, but wishing that he would not stand there regarding her so speculatively with those uncomfortably perceptive grey eyes.

  To cover her too acute awareness of him, she handed him a wrapped bundle.

  ‘Here, make yourself useful, Stephen Barrington.’

  ‘Yes, teacher.’ He grinned as he dropped down at her side and took the package from her, unwrapped it to disclose a small chicken, which he neatly dismembered and set out on one of the plates the hamper contained, then covered the pieces with a white linen napkin until they were ready.

  ‘Can I clean the blackboard now?’ he asked.

  She gave him a startled glance, then laughed. ‘What makes you think that merits cleaning the blackboard?’

  He pulled out one of her short curls and watched it spring back again.

  ‘I thought teachers always allowed the good little boys to clean the blackboard.’

  ‘I doubt very much whether you would have been one of the good little boys,’ she retorted dryly.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, and pulled out another of her short curls, seemingly intrigued by their elastic ability to wind themselves up again. ‘This reminds me of spring wire,’ he commented after a moment, pulling out a third one and letting go to watch it rewind itself tightly.

  ‘Thank you, Stephen,’ she retorted sweetly. ‘I can think of nothing better than having my hair compared to wire.’

  He grinned again. ‘Don’t fish for compliments. You know it’s like silk.’ He was threading both hands through it now, his fingers light and caressing. ‘Smells fresh, like pine.’

  ‘It’s the shampoo I use.’ She sat very still, willing her absurdly thrilling senses to order, then said very evenly, ‘Are you trying to flirt with me, Stephen?’

  ‘I never just try.’ She refused to look at him, but nevertheless received an impression of mocking amusement. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Have a sandwich,’ she countered, and perforce he had to drop one hand to take the plate she held out, but he laid the other arm negligently about her shoulders—at least it might be negligently to him. She felt the contact all through her.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘I thought you liked your women experienced,’ she parried swiftly.

  ‘That’s a point—but even schoolteachers can learn.’

  She debated whether she should object very strongly at that point. Quite obviously he was only amusing himself with her until he made up his mind about Roberta, but she could not decide just then whether she should whip up what pride remained and tell him to find someone else to fill in time with until he did make up his mind. She had no doubt that he wou
ld be able to do so and the question remained whether she should be weak enough to sink pride and just follow her stupid senses which yearned even for crumbs like this. In the end she decided to leave the matter to progress of its own accord for the moment.

  She bit determinedly into a sandwich, as if to show that she was really more interested in lunch than philandering, finished it and leaned forward to reach into the basket for a piece of fruit, so that his arm fell away from her shoulders.

  Stephen gave her a dryly quizzical glance. ‘An adroit move, my child.’ Up went that irritating eyebrow again, as he saw her expression. ‘Are you about to object to being called a child again? How will querida do instead?’

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Maybe I’ll tell you some day.’

  ‘It’s Portuguese, isn’t it?’ When he nodded, she added, ‘Then maybe I’ll ask Manoel.’

  For a brief moment the very faintest suspicion of a frown came over his face, then he grinned with his usual exasperating amusement that seemed to suggest lazy toleration of her youth and inexperience.

  ‘Better wait until you know him a little better.’

  Laurel smiled, but made no answer to that. Privately she considered she knew him quite well enough by now to ask the meaning of one simple word, whatever it might be, after all the conspiring she had gone about Barbie.

  Stephen watched her with the lazy amusement still playing around his firm mouth and dancing in the grey eyes.

  ‘Perhaps I might ask you what that smile means.’

  ‘Perhaps you might, but I doubt whether you would get an answer,’ she retorted, a spark of independence squaring her small, determined chin. Really, did Stephen think that a make-believe engagement even gave him the right to inquire into her most private thoughts?

  ‘All right. Don’t go all prickly,’ he said calmly, in such a manner that she felt as if she had been indulging in a childish tantrum.

  ‘Oh, you ...!’ She broke off, biting her lips, and reached crossly for a piece of chicken to add to her varied diet, only to find that it contained the wishbone, a circumstance which she considered most incongruous. She knew what she wished for, but she knew equally well that it could never come true, so she went to toss it away after she had eaten the tender white meat.

  Stephen’s hand caught her wrist. ‘Aren’t you going to wish?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know it won’t come true, so why bother?’

  ‘Defeated from the start!’ He picked up the piece of bone and held it out to her. ‘Come on, you little coward, take a chance.’

  Love him? She eyed him with positive dislike. ‘Stop calling me a coward!’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’ he asked derisively. ‘Afraid of life, afraid of falling in love. Even afraid to wish in case it comes true.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ She flushed indignantly. ‘I merely know that what I want to wish for is impossible and I refuse to wish for something that’s only second best.’ With a defiant movement she caught hold of a forked branch of the wishbone and jerked violently, to find herself left with the smaller piece, which she was quite certain only confirmed that her wish was useless. ‘Well, does that satisfy you?’ she demanded.

  Stephen grinned. ‘You don’t need to worry. I have the part that counts.’

  And it would be so easy for his wish to come true. She had no doubt at all what he would have wished for. All he had to do was restrain his impatience for a little while, until this mock engagement could be played out, then he could just reach out a hand and take what he really wanted.

  She watched him scoop out a little hole in the sand and carefully bury the piece of broken wishbone, and it sent the stabbing pain of longing through her heart again, because the simple, almost childish action told her once again how very human the assured, worldly and exasperating Stephen Barrington really was under his sophistication.

  She forced a smile she hoped was natural. ‘You’re burying that as if your wish means a lot to you.’

  He looked up and momentarily his dark face was more serious than she had ever seen it before.

  ‘I’ve just realized how much it does mean to me,’ he said quietly.

  Again pain stabbed through her heart, because she knew that he must have realized, perhaps at the very moment that her fingers snapped the wishbone, how much Roberta meant to him and how little her previous defect counted.

  ‘I hope it comes true, then,’ she replied generously, and tried to believe that the stab of pain would not always be there when she thought of Roberta in his arms.

  A tantalizing smile curved his lips and there was something puzzling in his eyes, a challenging amusement she could find no reason for.

  ‘Thank you, querida. If it comes true, I’ll tell you what it was.’

  ‘Good. I’ll keep you to it.’ She spoke briskly, to stifle a mad urge to cry out wildly that Roberta would never make him happy, that he deserved somebody who could give him a finer and far less selfish love, even if it was not herself.

  After they had emptied the flask of coffee, Stephen decided they had better start on the return journey and Laurel watched the little bay dropping behind her, knowing she would always remember it, because here she had known happiness and pain, here she had had Stephen to herself for a short space of time—and here also he had finally come to the conclusion that he must have Roberta, whatever she was like under her beauty.

  As they moved out, through the outjutting arms of rock, she looked back at the pale crescent of beach that sloped upwards to grass and woodlands. There was a wistful little smile on her lips as she decided that she would never go back there, whoever offered to take her, because it was unlikely that she would ever go there again with Stephen.

  They swung round the spur of rock and the little bay was lost from sight; the engine opened up with a powerful roar and they were skimming along the straight stretch of coastline, round the promontory to see the wooden landing stage in the distance, where they had dropped the medical supplies, and the sight of it seemed somehow to make the journey already at an end, even though they still had a long way to go.

  When they did at last come in sight of the harbour, she was almost glad of it—though not so glad when Roberta appeared at the stern rail of Firebird.

  ‘Come and join me for coffee,’ she called out. ‘I’ve just had some made. The others have gone in to town. I was hoping somebody would come along, so I wouldn’t have to drink it alone.’

  Stephen glanced round at the girl at his side before answering. ‘Want to go up, or are you in a hurry to return home?’

  Laurel’s first inclination was to say she would not step on board the yacht that had brought Roberta to the island, not if she could possibly help it, then she realized that not only would it sound outrageously rude, but that Stephen probably wished to go.

  ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ she said instead, and steeled herself to meet the hidden dislike and warning she knew would be in Roberta’s beautiful green eyes.

  When they climbed aboard, Roberta immediately contrived to make her feel a total wreck. Laurel knew that her white shorts, which had been so fresh and clean when she started out in the morning, were crumpled now and even grubby in places, where she had sat on the sand and grass, and her blouse was stained at the neck with seawater where she had not fastened the oilskin properly. Luckily nothing could affect the natural curl in her hair, so it did not hang down limp and bedraggled after its soaking in sea-water, but she was well aware that it was stiff with salt and wild with the effect of the wind. Roberta on the other hand looked trim and crisp in spotless white slacks and a cool, green blouse, her wonderful red hair coiled smoothly about her finely shaped head.

  She held out both hands to Stephen with a smile that showed perfect and gleaming teeth. To Laurel’s eyes Stephen seemed to take them with perfect composure, but she wondered if Roberta’s touch affected him as much as his did when he made her the recipient of one of his light, mocking caresses. She wanted to
believe that he took her hands so unhesitatingly because it would have been rude to ignore them, but she knew quite well it was not so even though he did disengage himself almost immediately.

  ‘I watched you go by this morning,’ Roberta said. ‘I hoped you would have a good day.’

  Was that a gentle reproach to Stephen for not having invited her?

  ‘It looks as if you did enjoy yourself,’ she added, which remark immediately made Laurel feel like a grubby schoolchild who had come home with sticky paws and clothes rather the worse for wear.

  ‘We did,’ Stephen replied equably. He slanted a glance at Laurel. ‘Didn’t we, darling?’

  ‘Lovely,’ she agreed.

  Roberta led the way into a well-appointed lounge that Laurel decided she did not like half so much as the one she had been in on Manoel’s yacht. It was tastefully furnished, but she told herself that she did not like all the modernistic chromium fittings, even while she knew quite well the real reason for her dislike.

  As Roberta had said, coffee was already waiting upon the table, either from lucky chance or she had sighted them the moment they entered the harbour and instantly ordered coffee made. She seemed quite at home issuing orders on the yacht, even though it did not belong to her. A steward brought in two more cups at her instructions and Roberta poured out the fragrant, steaming liquid and handed their cups across the table to them.

  Laurel sipped hers slowly, and even though Roberta appeared to be making them welcome, she wished she was on the Rosaritos with Stephen sitting opposite her instead of Manoel, much as she liked the young Portuguese, or on Stephen’s own yacht—anywhere where Roberta would not be present.