Winds of Enchantment

by Rosalind Brett

  She heard the scrape of a match, saw its orange petal leave a red glow on the tip of Nick’s cigarette before it described a dying arc over the veranda rail. A thin scarf of smoke drifted upward on the gently moving air.

  A minute longer she stayed while her senses regained their balance, and then she turned and slipped quietly into the house.

  The hush of the jungle at Makai had a regal quality, like the slumber of a sated leopard. In the dark hours especially there was a sense of impending crisis which did not entirely lift with the dawn. The quiet of the rubber trees was less forbidding. Leaf-carpeted earth discouraged snakes and the daily tapping of the trees disturbed curious monkeys. A few chattering beasts inhabited the short belt of cocoa and coffee trees that led to the river, and from the landing stage it was apparent that the tall thick bush that bounded the far side of the river was vibrant with life.

  Pat grew intimate with that stretch of river. A mile farther up she discovered a busy little timber station controlled by a European. The logs were poled down from Cole’s plantation, manoeuvred through the shallow rapids visible from this spot, and stacked on the bank to await the barge.

  Beyond the rapids—an expanse of silt ridges, many of them rising to several feet—the river narrowed to a fast-running stream. It bore so little resemblance to the usual jungle river that Pat visited it quite often. The water was clear and sparkling and free from the usual ghostly growths below the surface. She discarded caution and swam, ate a small tasty lunch and swam again. It was a pity to have to keep it dark, but she was sure Nick would not approve.

  Occasionally she accompanied him on the daily tour of inspection. The precision of those trees still faintly annoyed her. Each trunk was numbered, each had its triangular healing wound and a fresh one dripping the precious latex into the little cup with a cap over it. A tree neglected for a day would seal over and have to be recut.

  One day when they had stopped for food on a path between the trees, Nick himself alluded to the rubber pool.

  “When Reynolds was trying to rope me in for the merger,” he said, “he persuaded me to visit a plantation south of the river, it was small and could easily have been run by a manager and one assistant. The fellow who owned it had his wife helping him. He took the farther end of the plantation and she the other. It didn’t work, of course.”

  “I should think a woman could quite comfortably superintend the daily routine,” Pat remarked.

  “Some women might. This particular woman was hopeless—sick half the time. My heart bled for those trees.”

  “For the trees?” Pat stopped biting into a sandwich and felt herself frowning. “The trees, Nick?”

  “I did pity the woman, of course,” he admitted. “And I was sorry for the man. Even with prices at their present level he couldn’t afford to send his wife to England and pay an assistant. He was very anxious to sell out and go home.”

  “Surely there are buyers for plantations?” Pat had relaxed with her sandwich.

  “Not in that condition. Our waste is a better buy than the stuff he turned out. His trees were diseased, he’d never got around to cleaning the plant and he was so keen to push the stuff on the market that often smoking was omitted altogether.” Nick shrugged. “What else could you expect? When he wasn’t down with malaria himself, he was nursing his wife.”

  He held out his cup for more coffee, and she emptied the thermos and passed him the sugar before commenting: “I thought you were heart and soul in Kanos province?”

  A wary note crept into his voice. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

  “Reynolds told me that Kanos rubber could become famous if you took charge.”

  “Kanos rubber is already famous, under our name.”

  She said earnestly: “If I thought your convictions were opposed to the merger I wouldn’t say another word, but you do agree with it, Nick, and there’s not another man in Kanos—in West Africa—who could make it go as you could.”

  “You must be prejudiced.” He smiled a little and scanned her earnest, youthful face between wings of corn-gold hair that caught a ray of sunshine through the trees. “Wouldn’t it hurt to see the name Brading ripped off the sheds?”

  “You’ve never cared for the trading side of things,” she argued. “That was Bill’s doing.”

  “Bill’s money is still in the business—so is his daughter.”

  “I—I am your wife now,” she faltered.

  “We’re not breaking up the partnership to line Reynolds’ pockets,” Nick said crisply.

  “Don’t sidetrack.” She watched an ant scurry over her riding boot. “You could do a lot for the native population once you were in a position of power.”

  “It’s still no go, child. Our own work people are fairly fed and doctored. Even if I had the will, I haven’t the time to give to this venture.”

  "But, Nick...”

  “But, Pat...” He bent upon her a rather sharp grin. “Stop looking obstinate.”

  “I had a talk with Madden before he went on leave.” She faced Nick squarely. “We owe him a lot, Nick.”

  “I know it,” curtly, “and that’s why I gave him a bonus cheque before he left.”

  “Money won’t buy him a change of district when he comes back.”

  “If Madden doesn’t like it here, he can clear out.”

  Her eyes widened, shocked. She drew back a little.

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I wouldn’t have—only I thought I was connected in some way with your refusal to enter into Reynolds’ scheme.”

  Slowly the set of his mouth softened. He flipped open the lid of the tin-lined hamper. “Any nuts left?”

  Pat decided that the matter be allowed to rest for a week or two. But two weeks later she was incapable of discussing anything with anyone.

  It started strangely, a weight in the limbs and a floating sensation in her head. Privately she blamed the everlasting tinned food. She was used to the best that could be procured from the Kanos market, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to fast for a few days.

  In the middle of that same night she awoke sweating and gasping, her skull bursting with heat and confusion. She dragged aside the net and reached for a drink. The carafe met the floor with a splintering crash, which only seconds later brought Nick pell-mell into her room. She tried to tell him that she wanted a drink, that was all, but her tongue was thick and clumsy, and as she raised herself such a pounding set up in her temples that she had to close her eyes, and slip back on to her pillows.

  She thought his hand pressed over her face.

  “Lie still and keep covered,” he said. “I’ll get you a drink.”

  One instant her body was like fire, the next it ran with ice. She shivered uncontrollably, yet for some reason her teeth remained clenched. She moaned at the cruelty with which he forced her jaws apart, and choked back the incredibly bitter liquid that was seeping down her throat.

  He was gone again and she had to get up, for air. She stood on the mat beside the bed, swaying, groping for support, but when he came in with a clean towel and another carafe, she was thankful to collapse into his arms. Of what happened next she was not fully aware, but a little later, just as dawn pencilled between the slats of the blind, her mind cleared.

  Through the net she saw his outline near the table. He was sitting very still, his chin propped on one hand, the other hand was closing and unclosing on the table. “Nick,” she whispered.

  He came at once and looked in at her. His mouth distorted into a smile.

  “Is it—fever, Nick?”

  “Fever, hell. A touch of the sun.”

  She knew he was lying. She had never had sunstroke even from the vindictive glare of Kanos.

  “Just the same,” he was saying in those clipped, unreal tones, “I’m going to give you a shot. It’s only quinine—a precaution.”

  “Have I a temperature?” she asked.

  “A bit. Not too bad.”

  “Should my body ache with sunstroke?�
��

  “It’s a common symptom.”

  “And my throat hurt?”

  “That’s because you’re talking too much.”

  He was supporting her, dabbing just above her elbow with cotton wool soaked in flavin. With the vicious plunge of the needle came his muttered, “Darling!” And then she slipped back, a long way it seemed, and her brain clouded, and she was floundering in the hot seas of fever.

  For the next few days she lived in a world of her own, a secret chaos of past hopes and fears and future uncertainty, interspersed with scenes from her childhood. At intervals, when her temperature lowered and she renewed contact with the present, she was aware that someone was always near, mostly Nick, but sometimes the houseboy. Nick would stroke her forehead and say: “All right, child. It’s wearing itself out.” And the boy would nod and smile. “Soon no much ill, missy,” he would say.

  She would rouse and even ask a few questions before the sweats and rigours once more closed in and she was again at the mercy of pain and a disordered mind.

  On the sixth day her temperature dropped right back to normal. She emerged weak but sane, to feel Nick bathing her brow with eau-de-Cologne.

  “Did I waken you?” he said.

  “I was ready to wake up. Might I have a drink?”

  He inserted an arm under her shoulders and placed an extra pillow behind her before putting the glass to her lips.

  “How are you feeling, child?” he murmured.

  “Empty. But it’s nice to be with you again. How long was I like that?”

  “Nearly a week.”

  “The fever caught up with me.”

  “Two and a half years without it must be a record,” he smiled.

  “You’ve been neglecting your work for me, haven t you, Nick?”

  “The men are well-trained.” He laid a hand on her forehead. “It’s a relief to feel you cooler. I nearly called in Dr. Piers from Kanos, but he couldn’t have done any more than I did. I sweated a little with the responsibility—I’ve never had a woman on my hands like that before.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t fetch Dr. Piers.”

  “Are you? Trust me that much, eh?”

  “Yes, I trust you with my life, Nick,” she said huskily.

  She studied him in the muted light of the lamp. Except for a darkness beneath his eyes which might have been due to lack of sleep, he looked unchanged. He was smiling now with his usual assurance, and rasping the bristles that darkened his chin and jaws.

  “Do you think you could eat something?” he asked.

  “Not yet. I’m all right now. Get some rest, Nick.”

  “Don’t you bother about me. All I need is a shave and a meal.”

  Two days later Pat got up. It had been a bad dose, Nick conceded; worse than any he had yet suffered himself. But she was not to worry. The next bout, if it ever came, might be so light that she wouldn’t even have to take to her bed.

  Pat listened and nodded, and felt a strange little fear gnawing at her heart. She knew that Nick had gone through quite a lot of worry on her account; she felt that he blamed himself for the fever in bringing her here—and that he might send her away!

  The fever had cut down her young strength for the present, absorbed some part of her reserve of nervous energy, and she spent the next couple of weeks close to the house, reading and sewing on the veranda, listening to the whooping calls of monkeys in the forest, and watching their amusing antics when they played in the compound trees.

  Nick sat with her in the evenings, quietly smoking cigarettes or a cigar, watching keenly, she knew, for her strength to come back in full. The morning it did they rode together; she on her grey filly, he on a chestnut she much preferred him to ride to Black Adam. The nightmare of the fever receded; the days here were good, shot through with little spirals of joy she did not attempt to analyse.

  Then one evening, for no particular reason except that she felt really well again, she prepared a rather nice meal and wore a cream chiffon dress with a floating amber sash that matched her eyes. She had arranged flowers in bowls, made everything spick and span, and when Nick came from his room the saffron-shaded lamps were aglow and a bottle of wine stood on the table.

  “What are we celebrating?” he smiled, and held her hands.

  “Nothing in particular,” she smiled back at him. “Bill and I used to do this now and again, have a party just for the fun of having one.”

  “Oh—I see.” Nick released her hands and went to the table to look at the wine.

  “It would be nice if we had king-crab legs and oyster stew,” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, we’ve fresh pineapple salad.”

  “I’m sure the dinner will be very pleasant,” he said formally. “Excuse me a moment, Pat. I have something for you—you might as well have it tonight, as this is a party.”

  She watched him stride into his room, and a sharp-sweet pang of anticipation quickened her heart. He returned, came to her and took her wrist in his hard brown fingers. He latched about her fine-boned wrist a silver bracelet with a figurine clasp, and she caught her breath as she studied the gift. It was exquisite, perfect, just the kind of thing she loved.

  “Dear Arkyros,” she murmured. “I love it.”

  “Why do you call me that?” He spoke deeply above her fair bent head.

  “It means—keeper,” she said quietly. “Dear keeper. It’s Greek.”

  “I see.” He held her away from him and scanned her, the hazel tints drowned out of his eyes by the green. “You look pure as a Greek nymph in that white gown, with sleek golden hair, and your unawakened eyes of amber. Isn’t it a Greek custom for a much older man to marry a young girl?”

  “You aren’t all that much older.” She had never spoken so shyly to Nick—to Nick of all people!

  “Not in years, perhaps, but in other ways, my dear.” He bent his dark head and brushed a kiss across her cheek. She felt the warm smokiness of his breath, and then sudden panic running through her, as it might had she suddenly seen fire spreading between them. She pulled away sharply from him.

  “H-here comes the boy with our soup,” she said quickly. “We mustn’t let it get cold.”

  “No, we mustn’t let the soup get cold,” he agreed drily.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WITH only a week of the three months at Makai to go, Pat was superintending the cleaning, polishing and provisioning of Madden’s bungalow. She put up new curtains and re-covered the cushions, replaced the worn grass mats and a worm-eaten chair. The books and gramophone records she had brought were transferred to his shelves. She had meant to do so much for Madden, but her good intentions had had to fall back on superficial improvements to make the house more homey.

  A boy brought over the lunch she had ordered. Wheat biscuits with tinned butter, soft cheese, a few raisins and lime juice. When she had eaten she lay in Madden’s lounger staring at the damp stains on ceilings and walls, wondering yet again that men could bear to tuck themselves away for solitary months in the jungle. One could willingly face it for a year or two, but to go on and on surely required a peculiar outlook and boundless stamina.

  Her ear caught the irregular thud of hoofs and she raised herself to listen. A horseman meant Nick, but he had particularly stated this morning that he was unlikely to be back before sundown. She stood up and as she looked through the window the horse appeared from the trees and she recognized the thick young figure of Cole. He swung down from his horse and spoke to a boy, and a minute later the native came running to the bungalow.

  Pat went out to meet him, and Cole, seeing her, threw the reins across the saddle and came towards her.

  “Hullo, Mrs. Farland,” he smiled. “Working a few of your feminine miracles on Madden’s domain?”

  “Something of that sort.” She smiled back at him. “Have you eaten?”

  “I had a break mid-morning. I could go a drink and a sandwich—after I’ve had a wash.”

  “Go ahead and clean up, Mr. Cole. I’ll put you out s
ome eats.”

  “The fact is,” he told her over the drink, “my mail came up yesterday and I want to ask Nick a favour.”

  “He’ll be late back. Would you prefer to leave a message?”

  Cole’s rather heavy features broke into a smile. “I don’t think he’ll mind my staying the night.”

  An hour later she persuaded him to take a walk down to the river, and they talked about England, and Pat sensed a simmering excitement in this otherwise plodding young man. But she didn’t probe. Nick was the boss and he must be the first to hear what Cole had to say.

  When dinner was over that evening, Pat said brightly: “You two men can talk business while I take my coffee on the veranda.”

  “Please don’t go,” said Cole. “It isn’t business, and I’d like to unburden to both of you, if I may.” He leaned forward, more young and eager than she had known him. “I’m going to ask for a short leave, Nick—about a fortnight, starting the day before the next liner gets in.”

  “That can be managed,” Nick said at once. “Got relatives on the boat?”

  “My fiancée.”

  “I didn’t know you had one. What are you going to do—marry the girl?”

  “Yes, at the church in Kanos.”

  “And then what?” Nick’s brows lifted enquiringly.

  “Your house wasn’t meant to be a cottage for two.” Cole hesitated. “I know that. Helen and I weren’t engaged when I came out two years ago. She was only nineteen and her parents wanted her to wait. I thought they were right. You see, I’m eight years her senior.”

  “A frightful discrepancy,” smiled Nick. “I suppose you proposed by letter? But tell me—you’re not really thinking of taking her up to the plantation with you?”

  A dark flush stole up from the young man’s collar. “Only a short stay—a sort of honeymoon. Then she’ll go home and I’ll join her when my time’s up.” His voice lowered. “I’m sorry, Nick. I shan’t be renewing my contract with you. I’ll go on and finish the three years, but that’s all.”