Eight
The Athena docked at Montego Bay, Jamaica, on schedule. The passengers were able to watch the island draw nearer from their tables in the dining room. Maura was breakfasting alone. She had overslept this morning after a restless night. Even so, she had dawdled in her cabin, hoping Nikolaos would have left the dining room before she arrived. Though the strategy had worked, it had also caused her to be caught at the table as the ship entered the harbor. The view from there was much too restricted. Maura hurried through her omelet and fruit compote in record time so she could get up on deck to watch the ship being brought up to the dockside.
They were not going to have to use the tenders this time, but were to have a berth alongside the quay. According to the grapevine, their cruise ship was supposed to have had that convenience the day before at Grand Cayman. They had been denied it by the breakdown of a Panamanian ship that had been unloading in their usual space, making it impossible for it to vacate and allow them access.
The sun was bright already on the promenade, a portent of the heat to come later. The Athena had swung around until they were facing back out to sea once more. Their engines had stopped. They were parallel to the dock, though still several hundred feet from it. As Maura reached the railing, a small motorboat was taking a line from the bow of the ship to the quay. When the cable had been fastened, the boat returned for a stern line. Slowly, with crackling communication between the bridge and an officer stationed both fore and aft, the great ship began to take up the slack in the lines with huge power windlasses, reeling the vessel up to the dock. The stirring of mud from the bottom of the bay gave an indication of why the maneuver was necessary.
One of the officers giving directions with a hand-held radio transceiver was Alexandros. He was much too busy at the moment to notice the passengers; still Maura did not look at him again after the first glance.
The embarrassment of the night before was vivid in her mind. She and Nikolaos had drawn apart at the interruption caused by the Greek officer. She had apologized for failing to remember her appointment, an explanation that, far from mollifying Alexandros, had only incensed him further. Nikolaos had stepped in then. Maura, from a combination of nerves, the night wind, and the sudden withdrawal of his warm embrace, had begun to shiver, and he suggested it was time she went inside. She and Alexandros could, he had said, make up their differences another time. It was a recommendation the officer did not quite dare to dispute.
Withdrawn, thoughtful, Nikolaos had walked beside her in silence all the way to her cabin. He had said in abrupt good night at the door. Once she was alone, Maura had been ready to concede that it was a relief to be spared any comment Nikolaos might have made concerning the officer’s conduct, or her own. And yet, in some obscure way, she was also disappointed.
In any case, this morning was no time to invite Alexandros’s attention. She would have to listen to him sometime, she supposed, but not now. It was always possible that if she put off the confrontation long enough, he would forget, even look around for a girl who might welcome his advances.
Jamaica. It was a musical name, conjuring up images of tropical splendor and Caribbean magic, a place where in years past Englishmen had lived like feudal kings on sugar-cane plantations that ran from the sea to the mountains, while the voodoo drums of their African slaves had echoed in the misty gorges of the hills. Now an independent state, its richness and variety had not changed.
Montego Bay was a wide, curving inlet, giving good protection for shipping. Around its shores was an array of luxury hotels, condominiums, and beach houses, warehouse space, construction sheds, and near the docks a small duty-free shopping center. The town that took its name from the bay was a short distance from the wharves, though its houses and hotels could be seen among the green-clad terraces of the mountain slopes.
Green and blue, those were the colors of Jamaica. From the azure Caribbean, the luxuriant emerald vegetation rolled upward to the mountains. Palm trees, swaying in the northeasterly trade winds, edged calm white beaches. From the island drifted the scent, recognizable after days at sea, of flowers and virulent new growth. And over all the sun poured down its golden light.
There was something immensely satisfying about the prospect Maura saw before her. At last she knew what it was. Montego Bay, with its combination of seashore and high land, looked as a tropic port should.
By the time the passengers were cleared to go ashore, Maura was lined up with the others, ready to disembark. She checked her linen tote bag for the dozenth time. She had her landing tag and tour ticket, her camera, notepad and pencil, sunscreen, beach towel, a paperback novel, and her billfold. She was wearing a sleeveless top in cream cotton knit piped with rust, with a pair of cream slacks and natural straw sandals. In place of underclothing she wore a pale yellow bikini of a nylon satin-finish fabric that would dry within minutes of leaving the water. Her hair was drawn back at the nape of her neck with her tortoiseshell clasp for coolness, and her sunglasses were perched on top of her head. There was no use worrying; she was as ready as she was going to be.
The line moved forward, though at no great pace. The holdup was the ship’s photographer snapping souvenir pictures at the foot of the gangplank.
On request, Maura summoned a smile, pausing briefly behind one of the Athena’s life preservers. The camera flashed. At the photographer’s murmur of “Good, good,” she moved on. She was going to have to remember to go by the photographer’s office this evening. There should be several shots accumulated by now, not only this one, but also those taken at the Captain’s cocktail party, the lifeboat drill, and one as she finished the line at the Grand Buffet. She did not care that much about having them, but Aunt Maggie might be able to cull some small indication of shipboard life from them.
There was a shuttle bus waiting to take the passengers to the duty-free shopping center where they would board mini-bushes with guides for the different tours. Maura was going first to the legendary plantation house, Rose Hall, one of the best-known restorations of its kind in the world. She had been directed not to miss it by her great-aunt, not the least reason being because of its lurid history. Its former mistress, Annee Palmer, was a famous voodoo priestess and murderess, having killed three husbands and a number of lovers within the walls before being throttled herself.
Maura stepped down from the shuttle bus. There was a lily pool in front of the small shopping center. Around it was planted umbrella plants, palmetto palms, vividly marked crotons, and hibiscus in a half dozen colors. There was a flame tree, with red flowers so bright they seemed to glow, not far away. Bougainvillea in crimson, lavender, and orange-gold cascaded from the end of one of the buildings. Almond trees with their shiny round leaves were everywhere, and the lot where the mini-buses were parked was enclosed in a fence of oleanders crowned with pink and white heads of bloom.
“Miss O’Neal?”
Maura turned to face a man in the vivid gold shirt-jacket of the Jamaican tourism bureau. “Yes?”
“Come this way, miss, if you please?”
None of the tour buses were loading yet. The drivers stood around laughing and talking as they waited for the shuttle to transfer all the passengers taking the tours to the embarkation point. The man did not wait for questions, however, but set off across the crushed oyster shell of the parking lot.
Maura followed with some trepidation. They rounded the end of a mini-bus. She stopped abruptly. Before her was a small white sports car. Leaning against the door with his arms folded across his chest was Nikolaos Vassos.
He straightened as he saw her. Moving around to the passenger door, he opened it and stood waiting. From his appearance, he had reached the limits of his wardrobe. This morning he wore tropical white, the shirt and trousers, without insignia, of one of the ship’s officers. It was most likely they belonged to Captain Spiridion himself, since he was the only one near Nikolaos’s height.
“What is this?” Maura asked.
“I am following grandmot
her’s advice. She recommended that I hire a car and take you sightseeing. The best way to persuade you to come, she said, was to present you with the accomplished fact, without giving you the chance to refuse in advance. I ought to warn you that she also recommended force if you tried to reject the offer.”
The quizzical look in his dark eyes and the grave amusement in his tone affected Maura strangely. It was with great effort that she suppressed the urge to return his smile. “I have a place reserved on a guided tour.”
“I think I can undertake to give you a closer view of the points of interest, and at a slower pace.”
“But it isn’t necessary, especially when your grandmother may need you.”
He shook his head. “According to the doctor, she is recovering nicely, and should be able to get up for lunch. She can’t bear to think that she is inconveniencing anyone. She will fret less if I do as she suggests than she would if I stood around at her elbow all day, picking up her knitting every time she drops it.”
Maura did smile. “Your grandmother doesn’t knit.”
“A figure of speech. Seriously, she can rest or do as she pleases if I am not around, instead of extending her strength to show me how well she feels.”
There was something in what he said. “You still don’t have to take me sightseeing. You could go off on your own.”
“I’m beginning to see the wisdom of my grandmother,” he said with a scowl. “Force it will have to be, then.”
Maura watched his advance, aware at the same time of the unconcealed delight of the tourist official watching the byplay between them from a short distance away. “Wait,” she exclaimed, holding up a hand to ward him off. “Oh, all right!”
It was too late. Nikolaos swooped down upon her, and catching her with a hard-muscled arm beneath the knees and across her back, lifted her against his chest. He strode to the car. Bending, he placed her on the seat. There was an instant when her arm was still across his shoulder and his face close to hers. Then he stepped back and closed the door.
Shaken, Maura sat still as he moved to the driver’s side, slid in, and turned the key. The car roared into life. They reversed and eased out of the parking lot, turning in the direction of the town.
A car came hurtling toward them, its horn blaring. With a muttered imprecation, Nikolaos swerved to the left. As Maura lifted a hand to her mouth, certain they would be hit, the car passed harmlessly by on her right, the passenger side of the car.
“For God’s sake, help me remember that Jamaicans drive on the left like the crazy Englishmen, instead of the right like any sane American or European,” Nikolaos grated.
“I will certainly try!” she answered, her voice tart.
He sent her a tight grin, but made no answer as he familiarized himself with the rented car. Maura glanced at him. The starched white he wore was a strong contrast against the dark bronze of his skin. For some reason, it made him seem a stranger, more Greek than at any time she had known him. His hands on the wheel were strong, handling the vehicle with ease.
“What happened to your turtle shirt?” Maura asked after a moment. “I rather liked it.”
“And I was so certain it was uniforms you preferred.”
His sarcasm struck sparks. “The uniform doesn’t make the man.”
“Yes, my darling Maura, and you would tell me so whether you meant anything by it or not, wouldn’t you?”
“I might at that,” she admitted, and found to her surprise that the atmosphere between them was suddenly easier.
They entered a traffic circle, swinging around to the left, in a clockwise direction, instead of keeping to the right as in the United States. They sped on toward town. Glancing back, Maura saw the Athena sitting at the dock. From their vantage point on a slight ridge, the bay could not be seen, only the long finger of land that closed the inlet behind the ship, and the blades of a field of sugar cane in front. The white vessel looked as if it was landlocked, floating on a sea of waving green.
They passed through town, taking the coast road that led past the big international hotels and the American chains, the marina and the golf course. In the residential area, they saw houses faced with stone and enclosed with bougainvillea trimmed into a hedge. They saw the ruins of an ancient sugar mill, and on the sides of the road, bony cows with cattle egrets perched on their backs or following at their heels. Women, carrying baskets filled with woven straw goods for the tourist trade on their heads, strolled beside the highway, and everywhere there were banana and citrus trees and endless fields of cane.
Maura turned this way and that in her seat, trying to see everything. It was some minutes before she realized they had left the town behind and were several miles out in the countryside.
She turned to stare at Nikolaos. “If it isn’t too much to ask, where are we going?”
“You did say you wanted to see Rose Hall?”
“Yes.”
“It’s ten miles out of town, on this road.”
“How can you be so positive?”
He sent her an amused glance. “I checked out the island several times while we were planning these New Orleans-based cruises. What did you think? That I was kidnapping you?”
“You never mentioned having been to Jamaica before.”
“You never asked.”
“I never asked you about a lot of places!”
“Never mind, I expect you’ll get around to them in time.”
“We haven’t got that long,” Maura said quietly.
“Who can say?” he answered, and changed the subject by pointing out the mansion called Rose Hall where it stood stark and stolid against the green hillside.
The impression gained from a distance did not hold true on closer inspection. It was the tropical garden with its tree-shaded walks and reflecting pool that was the softening influence. Color was everywhere — yellow, pink, rose, red, and purple — in the ever-present bougainvillea, in poinsettias and crotons and chenille plants, and in a dozen other unnamable varieties of tropical foliage and flowers.
A stone pathway led to a side entrance that gave access to the bottom floor of the house. These lower rooms, like the raised basements of similar houses along the Mississippi River, had once been used for storage and staff quarters. They were now fitted out as an office, gift shop, and a refreshment center. Here was served cool fruit drinks, and also a potent rum punch named after the house, in a setting of rustic tables cooled by the breezes from the sea that was spread out below the house. While they sipped at their drinks, they were entertained by a two-man calypso band, featuring a guitar and a boxlike instrument that managed to serve as drum and general rhythm section. The combined voices of the two were pleasant, though untrained. Nikolaos and Maura did not have long to listen, however. The buses carrying the ship’s passengers would be arriving soon. If they wanted to take the private tour Nikolaos had arranged they would have to hurry.
The house was built out of mellow, golden stone that, carefully cut and marked for ease in building, had been sent out from England as ship’s ballast. The exterior was a heavy, square Georgian style with deep-set windows, a balustraded open terrace, and arched openings that formed an arcade around the lower floor.
A flight of stone steps led up to the second, or main, floor where a pair of great mahogany doors stood thrown back. Inside was a spacious hall of typical Jamaican design. Laid out in the shape of a cross, it ran the entire length and breadth of the house in order to funnel every breath of air through this main reception area. The floors in this hall were polished to a dazzling gloss on which lay Persian rugs in vibrant, glowing colors. Antiques of obvious quality and costliness sat around the room; William and Mary chairs, a Chippendale mirror, a Louis XV table. An eighteenth-century chandelier of crystal and French ormolu hung from the twenty-foot-ceiling, and a matching candelabra sat on a side table. The carved woodwork was of Jamaican mahogany, and on the walls was brocade wall cloth in a design of green and gold palm trees for a flavor that was both tropic
al and of the Far East. The remaining rooms of the second floor were done in the same taste and style. And in them all, in the entire house, there was not a sign of that structure so important in less-tropical climates, a fireplace.
Beyond the reception area was a stair hall where a magnificent staircase ascended to the bedrooms on the third floor. It was here that the tale of Rose Hall and its white witch was unfolded.
The house was built in the decade between 1770 and 1780 by John Palmer after his marriage to a much-wed widow, Rosa Kelly Fanning Ash Witter. The union consolidated his own holdings with hers, which included the acreage where Rose Hall was eventually built. In due course, the Palmers died, and after some twenty years of neglect and absentee ownership, a nephew of John Palmer, named John Rose Palmer, inherited. In 1820, this young man married Annee May Robertson, the child of an English couple who had made their home on the island of Haiti. Befriended by a woman who was a voodoo priestess, the young girl was initiated into the mysteries of this ancient African sorcery, taught the ways of creating fear, of practicing black magic and manipulating the death wish. On the death of her parents and the priestess, Annee traveled to Jamaica where at the age of eighteen she met and married John Rose Palmer.
She was a woman of great beauty, but ungovernable temper, who flew into sudden excesses of rage during which she had her slaves whipped and was said to conjure up visions of doom and ghostly apparitions of the living dead. The slaves of Rose Hall lived in fear of her. And then her husband died. She said he drank himself to death; the slaves whispered that he was poisoned. She married again. Her second husband went insane, she declared; the slaves said he was stabbed. Once again she took a husband. She claimed he beat her, that he had married her for her money. He disappeared. The slaves told of a strangling ordered by the mistress of the house and carried out by a voodoo priest, a practitioner of obeah who was also her lover.
Time passed. Annee Palmer ran Rose Hall plantation, now consisting of more than five thousand acres, with only the help of a series of overseers of brutal disposition. They came and went so quickly none could be sure whether they left of their own accord, or whether they were carried out lifeless in the dark of night. Then came a young intelligent overseer, a man fresh from England. Annee, at the age of twenty-nine, fell in love for the first time. The man took a slave girl as his mistress, the daughter of the obeah priest. In a jealous rage, Annee had the girl killed. It was a mistake, for only the priest was not afraid of her. In revenge, the voodoo priest crept into the bedroom of the white witch one midnight and strangled Annee Palmer.
Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets) Page 28
