by Anne Mather
‘Yes, you could. But I somehow doubt that you would attempt such a journey again, having experienced it once.’
Her eyes were stormy. ‘That’s not fair!’
‘No, it’s not. But what you did wasn’t entirely fair either, was it?’
‘I love my father. I wanted to be with him—’
‘—and you thought it would be a pretty adventure, didn’t you? Something to brag about when you got back to school? Not the life and death survival it turned out to be!’
‘I could fly back,’ she retorted. ‘I didn’t know about that air-strip before.’
His eyes were cold and forbidding. ‘The air-strip is private. It belongs to me.’
‘Oh, well…’ she said defeatedly, but he wasn’t finished.
‘Make no mistake, Alexandra, I am a man of my word. Believe me, your father’s wrath is nothing compared to mine.’
Alexandra lifted her slim shoulders. ‘Have—have you sent word about my father to Aunt Elizabeth?’
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Should I have done?’
‘Oh, no,’ she breathed more freely. ‘No. She would only worry.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Is that settled, then?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you have any objections if I go to bed now?’
Declan shook his head. ‘Of course not. I’ll be along in a few minutes to examine you.’
‘Examine me?’ A faint note of hysteria lifted her voice.
‘Of course. The leech—remember?’
Alexandra’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘I thought you had.’ He moved to open the door for her. ‘I’ll see you later.’
She hesitated in the doorway. She was strangely loath to leave the comfort and security of the warm room. It had been a curiously unreal day, and the delayed shock of discovering that her father was in hospital was only now beginning to take effect. She felt totally alien in this alien place, and this man suddenly seemed her only link with the world she had known. She felt young and inexperienced and chokingly vulnerable.
As though sensing her highly emotional state he put a reassuring hand to the curve of her cheek. ‘Relax,’ he adjured gently. ‘No one will hurt you here. And when your father comes back…’
Alexandra drew away. She didn’t want his sympathy. She didn’t trust herself not to break down under it and make a complete fool of herself. With a brief nod she walked quickly along the hall to her room, going inside and closing the door firmly behind her.
Then she leaned back against it, aware of a peculiar weakening in her legs. For a moment there she had been tempted to give in to tears, had wanted to do so, had wanted him to put his arms around her and draw her close against him. Her lips parted. She must be crazy thinking thoughts like that! Just because last night…
She moved determinedly away from the door and began to unbutton the caftan. She was allowing her natural anxiety about her father to colour her reason. She had always been brought up to be independent, to look after herself. She had never had anyone to mentally pick her up in times of trouble. Aunt Liz had always been in the background, of course, but she was a spinster lady who had grown accustomed to hiding her feelings. Her brother, Alexandra’s father, had frowned upon demonstrations of what he termed ‘lack of control’, and Alexandra had learned to hide her tears and always put on a brave face in her father’s presence. Which all made this weakness she was feeling now even more incomprehensible.
The nightdress Consuelo had unpacked earlier was laid out on the bed and while she had been having dinner the rest of her things had been unpacked for her. She shook her head helplessly. What to wear, that was the problem. She could hardly put on a nightdress when he expected to look at her midriff!
She eventually decided to remain dressed, but in suitable garments, and an inspection of the drawers of the chest produced a cotton midi-blouse which conveniently left her midriff bare. There didn’t appear to be any reddening of the flesh around the plaster, she decided thankfully, as she buttoned the waistband of a pair of blue cotton trousers, and when, a few moments later, there was a knock at her door, she went to answer it with the intention of dismissing his attentions.
‘Going somewhere?’ he greeted her dryly, looking down at the midi-blouse and trousers.
‘No.’ She ignored the way he could embarrass her at will. ‘But there’s no need for you to examine me. It looks perfectly all right now, thank you.’
Declan propelled the door open without apparent effort. ‘Really?’ He entered her room uninvited. ‘I’ll decide what does and what does not require my attention, if you don’t mind? Or do you want to end up in hospital, too?’
Alexandra sighed. ‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ she exclaimed.
‘Let us hope not.’ He glanced round. ‘I suggest you lie on the bed. It won’t take a minute.’
Alexandra was about to protest again, but with a look at his unyielding countenance she acquiesced. ‘Oh, well, if you insist…’ she muttered, with ill grace, and obediently sat down on the soft springing mattress.
His expression enigmatic, he indicated that she should lie back, and then he knelt on one knee and swiftly removed the plaster. Alexandra winced as it clung to her skin, but then his probing fingers were moving against her flesh and other, more disruptive, sensations replaced her frustration. His hands were firm and cool, and as he bent his head to examine the puncture minutely she could smell the faint aroma of his after-shaving lotion. His hair fell thick and smooth against his forehead, apparently requiring no hair-dressing, and she had the most disturbing urge to touch it.
‘Hmm,’ he murmured at last. ‘I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble with that if you do as you’re told.’
He brought a packet containing a wedge of cotton wool and a tube of ointment out of his pocket and smeared the ointment liberally over the area. Then he produced another wider plaster from his other pocket and sealed it in position.
‘All right,’ he said, straightening. Alexandra sat up. ‘I’ll keep an eye on it. But for God’s sake, if you scratch yourself while you’re here, tell me!’
Alexandra nodded, summoning her resentment at his air of command over her to dispel the awareness of herself that he inspired in her.
He stood for a moment just looking down at her, and then he said impatiently: ‘What is it? Why didn’t you want me to touch you?’
Alexandra stiffened. ‘I don’t know what you mean—’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘I didn’t say that…’
‘Not in so many words perhaps, but that was what you meant. And this elaborate display of modesty—what’s it all for? Don’t you suppose I have a memory?’
Alexandra’s cheeks burned. ‘Don’t be crude!’
‘Why not? It’s what you appear to expect. What kind of society have you been moving in, Miss Tempest?’ He shook his head mockingly.
Alexandra got to her feet, hating his cynicism. ‘I’m tired, Mr. O’Rourke. Will you please leave my room?’
He looked down at the ointment-smeared cotton wool in his hands. ‘Of course.’ His smile was not pleasant. ‘Forgive the intrusion.’
And with that he left her, closing the door behind him with a definite click.
Alexandra moved after him as though putting her weight against the door would dispel his lingering mockery. She felt she had never disliked anyone as she disliked him. and the tears which she had tried so hard to suppress refused to be denied any longer.
CHAPTER FIVE
ALEXANDRA spent the first half of the night fighting her way through hordes of imaginary tarantulas and plunging down the mountainside from the silver streak of the aircraft in which Declan had flown her to Paradiablo. She was unaccustomed to the confinement of the bedcovers and not until she had freed her legs and discarded her pillow did she fall into a deep slumber.
She awakened reluct
antly to find sunlight streaming through the slats in her shutters. She lay for several minutes absorbing her surroundings and enjoying the sensation of waking without the recently familiar crick in her back, and then remembering what Declan had said about being away all day she reached for her watch.
She saw, to her astonishment, that it was after eleven, and she flopped back on the mattress, realising that he would be long gone. The knowledge aroused a sense of unwilling disappointment inside her and rather than acknowledge such an unpleasing revelation she thrust her legs over the side of the bed and encountered the cool wooden tiles of the floor.
She padded across to the windows taking care to look for any unwelcome visitors, but apart from a wall lizard which scuttled away at her approach the room was thankfully un-invaded. She unfastened the shutters with their meshed lining and thrust them open taking her first real look at the fantastic garden. It was just as she remembered it from the night before, a confusion of exotic shrubs and flowering trees, the scents mingling in the heat to produce an intoxicating fragrance.
She was suddenly eager to be dressed and out in the day. She walked quickly to the bathroom, thrust open the door, and then halted, aghast, at the sight of half a dozen enormous black beetles crawling round the bath. She stepped backward and closed the door, shuddering uncontrollably.
‘Ugh!’ she moaned, feeling almost sick. Where on earth had they come from?
She stood for a moment, undecided what to do, and then rushed across to pull open the hall door and call: ‘Consuelo!’
Her voice sounded quavery even to her ears and she stamped her foot irritably. Good heavens, what was she? A woman, or a mouse? Or simply a rather silly girl?
‘Consuelo?’ she called again, more firmly this time, but the little woman did not appear.
‘Damn!’ Alexandra hesitated in the doorway. ‘Oh, damn, damn, damn!’
A sudden draught of air behind her caused her to turn in alarm; but it was not Declan entering the house through the door at the end of the passage but a woman, in her late twenties, Alexandra guessed, with curling auburn hair and vividly attractive features.
‘Such temper!’ she observed, by way of a greeting, her hazel eyes assessing Alexandra very thoroughly. ‘What’s wrong? Have you lost something?’
Alexandra was intensely conscious of the scarcity of attire afforded by a pink cotton nightdress when compared to well-fitting cream slacks and a scarlet shirt which should have clashed with the woman’s hair but somehow didn’t.
However, Alexandra had been taught to be unfailingly polite, and as she recalled that Declan had told her that the missionary and his wife were the only other white people in the district, this woman had, amazingly, to be the mission- wife. So she crossed her arms rather protectively across her breasts, and said: ‘How do you do? No, I haven’t lost anything. On the contrary, I think I’ve found something.’
The woman raised dark eyebrows. ‘Really? What?’
Alexandra sighed, wishing Consuelo would appear and rescue her from this awkward situation. But she didn’t, and Alexandra was forced to say: ‘Actually, there are several beetles in the bath.’
The woman nodded knowingly. ‘Oh, I see. I suppose you didn’t replace the plug after using it.’
‘Why no, I—I didn’t.’
‘I thought as much. They crawl up the waste pipe. You’ll have to remember in future.’ She frowned. ‘I’m surprised they got up so quickly, though.’
Alexandra looked blank. ‘Quickly?’
‘Well, if you’ve just had a bath—’
‘No. I had it last night.’
‘Oh! You’re just getting up, then.’ The woman made it sound like the height of self-indulgence.
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Alexandra was beginning to think she was going to get no help here. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—I’ll go and deal with them.’
‘Would you like me to do it?’ the woman offered. ‘You were shouting Consuelo for that purpose, weren’t you?’
Alexandra wondered if she appeared so transparent to everybody. After Declan O’Rourke’s behaviour, and now this … She shrugged a little ungraciously. ‘If you like.’
The woman gave a faint smile and brushed past her, crossing the bedroom with loose easy strides. One look encompassed the ugly intruders in the bath and quite callously she took off her shoe and massacred them all. Then she ran water into the bath, rinsed the mess away, and turned back to Alexandra.
‘There you are. I should have Consuelo disinfect it be- fore you use it again. I’ve put in the plug, as you can see.’
Alexandra tried to feel grateful, but there was something about the woman’s attitude that jarred. She didn’t know what it was, whether it was her air of command, or the way she walked unannounced into Declan’s house, or simply the way her eyes appraised the younger girl and clearly found her wanting.
‘Thank you,’ she managed, accompanying the woman to the door. ‘Er—I’m Alexandra Tempest. You must be the missionary’s wife.’
‘I’m Clare Forman, yes, and I know who you are. Declan told us all about you. He called this morning on his way out and asked me to come up and see that you weren’t running into difficulties.’
Her patronising air was more pronounced than ever and Alexandra was tempted to tell her that she was perfectly all right, that she needed no one to watch out for her, and that she was going back to bed!
But of course, it wasn’t her nature to be downright rude even though she now bitterly regretted letting Clare Forman get rid of the beetles. She would be able to tell Declan that within a couple of hours of his departure, she had been literally shouting for help!
‘It was very kind of you to take the trouble, Mrs. Forman,’ she got out through tight lips. ‘But now I really must get dressed.’
‘Yes. That would be a good idea.’ Clare flicked a speck of dirt from the immaculate creases in her slacks. ‘I’ll go and rout Consuelo, and when you’re ready we can have coffee together.’
Without giving Alexandra any time to protest, she walked away down the hall and the girl turned and went back into her bedroom, slamming the door with frustrated irritation behind her. She didn’t want to have coffee with Clare Forman, but there was nothing she could do to prevent her from staying.
By the time she had washed and dressed in brief denim shorts and the cotton midi-blouse she had put on for Declan’s examination the night before, she was feeling a little better. Her skin was naturally a honey colour and she thought with satisfaction that several days of this heat would tan her a golden brown.
When she entered the living room a few minutes later, she found the mesh door to the verandah open, and Clare Forman talking to Consuelo outside. However, when the little housekeeper saw Alexandra she left the other woman and came hurrying through to greet her.
‘The senhorita is looking much better this morning,’ she said with satisfaction, viewing the brief shorts with a little giggle. ‘Ay, ay, is this what they are wearing in London?’
Alexandra could not take offence at her interest. ‘Do you like them?’ she asked, doing a quick turnabout. ‘I’ve got some orange ones which would suit you beautifully!’
Consuelo clasped her hands together mirthfully. ‘Me? In such things?’ She burst into blissful laughter, and for a moment they shared the joke. Then she sobered and said: ‘The Senhora Forman is here. You have met her, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Alexandra caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘There were some beetles in the bath.’
‘Sim, the senhora say so,’ Consuelo nodded. ‘Consuelo was outside when you call. I did not hear you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, really.’ Alexandra gave a rueful glance towards the verandah.
‘I get coffee,’ said Consuelo, patting her arm. ‘And perhaps you would like os paozinhos?’
‘Os paozinhos?’ Alexandra struggled to remember what few words of Portuguese she knew.
‘She means rolls, croissants,’ stated Clare Forman from the
doorway. ‘Yes, Consuelo, I’m sure Miss Tempest is hungry.’
Alexandra was, but rather than allow Clare Forman another victory, she said: ‘Thank you, Consuelo, but coffee is all I need.’
Clare Forman shrugged and turned back to the chair she had been occupying on the verandah, while Alexandra smiled conspiratorially at Consuelo before going to join her.
It was very pleasant in the shade of the verandah. Beyond the courtyard the garden was a constant source of interest with huge butterflies with the wing-span of a man’s hand and patterned in the most gorgeous colours vying with their feathered neighbours in brilliance. There were redheaded blackbirds, a species Santos had pointed out to her at Los ermanos, kingfishers the size of wood pigeons, and tiny humming birds whose wings beat so rapidly they actually sang. Alexandra was entranced. Everything was so much larger than life somehow, and she would have been quite content just to relax and watch what happened.
But once Consuelo had served the coffee, Clare was disposed to talk, and Alexandra had no choice but to answer her.
‘Tell me,’ she said, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her brimming cup, ‘whatever possessed you to come out here without warning anyone of your plans?’
Alexandra rested her elbows on the circular bamboo table. ‘I wanted to surprise my father,’ she replied simply.
‘You’ll do that without a doubt,’ remarked Clare, her tone dry.
‘Perhaps I will.’ Alexandra resented the other woman’s attitude. ‘However, my reasons for being here are pretty obvious. How about yours?’
Clare was taken aback. ‘Mine?’
‘Yes. What brought your husband to a place like Paradiablo?’
Clare hesitated. Then she said slowly: ‘My husband is the stuff of which pioneers are made. He sees his work here as a challenge. Naturally, I accompanied him.’
‘And have you been here long?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Quite a long time.’ Alexandra made an involuntary gesture. ‘What do you find to do?’
Clare shrugged, clearly not altogether happy with this line of questioning. ‘I manage,’ she replied shortly. ‘And of course, Declan has made things so much easier for me.’
