'It was on my twenty-first birthday,' she said haltingly, 'and my mother was making over some stocks and shares to me. She told me then what she should surely have let me learn when I was a small child— that she and the supposed "Daddy" I'd loved so much, been so proud of, were not my real parents. That when I was taken from the home where I had been placed as a tiny baby, she and her husband had agreed to ask no questions about the circumstances of my birth.'
'You poor sweet!' His arm closed more tightly round her. 'It must have been a terrible blow— coming out of the blue like that. But hundreds of children are adopted every year, and lead happy lives, make successful marriages.'
'I don't want to marry,' she said, her lips trembling. 'To have to admit to a man who asked me to be his wife that there was a slur on my birth————————————————————————- '
'That's sheer nonsense,' he exclaimed. 'We're not living in the days of Queen Victoria. It's far more important that you should have money behind you, to give your marriage a good start.' And then he went on thoughtfully: 'I can't understand, though, why you want to take on a ghastly housekeeping job with this bear of a doctor chap, if you don't need the money. Even if you haven't a fortune—'
'Which I certainly haven't,' she put in drily.
'—you could afford to pick and choose. Domestic jobs of all sorts are sheer slavery. And working for Peregrine Gray won't be much catch, I'm certain, from all I've heard.'
'You seem thoroughly biased where the poor man's concerned.' Into her mind there had floated a memory of that brief interview with him in the Chelsea flat, and though he had seemed rather stiff and forbidding, it was only natural, surely, that he should be set on keeping his distance. If he had been too forthcoming, she had to admit to herself, he might well have frightened her off.
Hugh laughed a little now.
'All the more, since I've met you—and digested the fact that you'll be seeing each other day in, day out. While I, unfortunate wretch, will be lucky if I get a few hours with you on my return via Trinidad. Incidentally, I suppose you will be allowed an occasional day off!'
'Of course I shall. But I thought you were not sure about touching Trinidad on your way home.'
'Whatever put that into your head? I'm definitely coming to Port-of-Spain on my return journey.'
She was certain in her own mind that she was making no mistake over what he had said. And just for a second the tiny doubt she sometimes felt about him flickered up.
But the next instant his warmth and charm extinguished it. She felt ashamed of herself for being, as she phrased it, 'mean-minded'. And a few moments later was responding with more feeling than ever before to his good-night kiss.
Unwise, perhaps. He might well begin to think she drew no lines—might resent it when he found he was wrong. But with the prospect of acting with spinsterish discretion for the next twelve months, in her capacity as housekeeper and chaperone in Dr. Gray's household, she was surely entitled to behave occasionally now in carefree fashion.
She must not, however, give grounds for gossip by spending too much time alone with Hugh. Quite a few passengers were Trinidad residents, and some might very well be Peregrine Gray's patients. If they were to tell tales on her when they got home, describe her as flighty, and these tales reached his ears, he could hardly fail to be prejudiced against her. If she were to succeed at all in this difficult job, it was essential to get off on the right foot.
Her quiet insistence that she and Hugh should join in all the social activities on board, mixing with friendly people of all ages, proved the right course. Through it she not only realised the folly of giving cause for scandal; she learned that Hugh's opinion of Dr. Peregrine Gray was a minority one. As the voyage went on she had made no secret of the fact that she was going to work in his household; and two of the pleasantest of the older couples whom she had come to know were loud in his praise. They did not profess to know him apart from his work. He engaged hardly at all in social activities. But though he was said to have a very short way with people who merely imagined themselves ill—whatever their social position or financial circumstances—he gave devoted attention to those who needed it.
She did not carry this back to Hugh. She would have every chance to make up her own mind about Peregrine before long. Meanwhile there was so much —so very much—to enjoy.
'I'm not falling for Hugh seriously!' She could say that to herself quite sincerely. 'I'm fond of him, and he's been very good for me.'
But she gradually discovered that Hugh did not share these comfortably detached feelings. The very fact of spending less time alone with her increased, so it seemed, his desire for her company. He admitted, grudgingly, that she was probably sensible in her attitude—a ship of this sort always being a hive of gossip. But there was no more sentimentally resigned talk from him of 'good-byes' when the voyage ended. They must continue their friendship, write to each other, keep in touch. And perhaps one day——————————- !
Surely———- !
The day came at last for an end to living-in-the-moment. No more brief, enchanted excursions to this or that little island. No more fancy-dress balls and gala dinners, no more gay, laughter-filled mornings by the swimming-pool, or starlit evenings, when pressure of hands and lips meant more than words. The ship, passing the Bocas, rocky guardians of Trinidad, came to rest and dropped anchor at Port-of-Spain, the pastel-coloured city sprawled in its setting of high green hills.
There was the usual flurry which accompanied the arrival at any port. Directions over the loudspeaker in several languages—to passengers disembarking with their luggage—to those intending to go on a tour of the island—to people wishing to stay on board while the ship remained at anchor.
Almost at once the people for whom Trinidad was the end of the journey were changing their personalities. Groups of friends dissolved into streams of bustling strangers, intent on their own concerns, eager to pass through all the formalities, on board and ashore, find the friends and relatives who were meeting them and make their way home.
Swept up in this business of landing, and half deafened by the various noises, Bryony decided not to join the crowd pressing ahead. She would land just as soon if she held back.
Separated from Hugh by all this milling around, she was glad that their good-byes had been said last night in moonlight and silence. But while she loitered outside the open door of her deserted cabin—a safe refuge, the friendly steward declared, for at least ten minutes—he appeared, to tell her desperately that he had been looking for her everywhere, that he couldn't bear, after all, to lose her until the last possible minute.
'Please leave me alone, Hugh,' she pleaded. 'Surely you understand. I mustn't meet the Gray family looking and feeling all het up—on the verge of tears.'
'My darling!' His arms were round her tightly and he was kissing her hard on the lips. 'My sweet! It's unbearable, this!'
And then the awful thing happened.
She heard the steward say, 'Mees Moore—she Cabin Two Hunderd-free, sir.' And breaking away from Hugh's embrace she found herself looking into the angry, astonished face of her new employer—Dr. Peregrine Gray.
CHAPTER THREE
Later that day she was to think, accusing herself of hardness: 'If I were in love with Hugh, I would have been kinder to him, not cared whether Peregrine Gray was furious or not.'
But now she was caught up in a wave of anger with both men. With Hugh for disregarding what she had said to him the previous evening about the necessity of getting off on the right foot in this difficult job she was undertaking. With Peregrine Gray for his priggish disapproval of what most people would regard tolerantly as perfectly natural behaviour between a man and a girl at the end of a glamorous voyage.
She gave Hugh a curt 'Good-bye!' and to Peregrine Gray an equally short 'Good afternoon'.
Hugh melted away, but Peregrine Gray, giving her, not surprisingly, perhaps, no word of welcome, asked her to f
ollow him closely and have her passport and ticket ready: the keys of her luggage, too, though he didn't think she was likely to have much trouble with the Customs. Formalities over at last, he led her out to his waiting car, a black Mercedes.
'The girls are at home. There's a tennis party on or something.' He had installed her in the car now and was superintending the placing of her modest baggage in the boot. Then, as he got in beside her and started up the engine, he remarked: 'It's a damned good thing they didn't come out to the ship with me, as I originally suggested. If they'd seen this highly romantic little scene, it would have put paid to your having the slightest influence over them.'
'You were bound to say that, of course. But I'm afraid I've no intention of trying to explain, or make excuses. You're my employer now, certainly. But you weren't, ten minutes ago.'
They were going through crowded streets now— colourful streets, filled with people of every shade of complexion, some in great cars, some on foot—and Peregrine Gray had to concentrate on his driving, but once on a wider road he observed drily: 'Just the sort of retort my young sisters would make. You'll certainly understand them, even if you seem hardly qualified to teach them discretion.'
It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that he arranged to send her back on the next boat. After all, she wasn't penniless. Those stocks and shares her mother had given her—for so she still thought, instinctively, of her 'adoptive' mother—could be turned into cash, used to pay for the double journey.
But before she could speak, he was saying, frowning reflectively: 'Incidentally, I know that fellow by sight. Travels for a firm of wholesale chemists—and is said to have some profitable sidelines.'
'Nothing wrong with that, is there?'
'So far as I know! The main thing is that he doesn't start hanging around. As I made it clear to you in London, I'm sure—even if I didn't put it like that—I can't have a honey-pot as companion to two flighty young girls, nor, indeed, as my housekeeper.'
'I'm perfectly capable of behaving discreetly,' she exclaimed. 'Just because you happened to see a fellow- passenger kissing me good-bye—————————————————— '
He made no attempt to suppress an ironic laugh.
'What I actually saw was an impassioned embrace,' he observed. 'However, I've only myself to blame. Having been rash enough to take on a girl of twenty- three, I should have had the sense to bring her out by plane, instead of by ship. There would have been less time for highly coloured romances to develop!'
She was too annoyed to reply to this, and they subsided into a mutually exasperated silence.
But she could not concentrate completely on her feelings of vexation and humiliation. There were too many distractions.
In the outskirts of the city, through which they were now passing, there was this same startling mixture of people in every variety of costume, with complexions that varied from white to olive, from brown to black. It was unbelievable. There were prosperous Chinese ladies and gentlemen in enormous cars; Indians, too, the women often in graceful saris; handsome men and girls, of proud carriage, to whose striking personal beauty many races must have contributed; Africans, soberly dressed, in the way of professional folk everywhere, or flaunting brilliant shirts and frocks that seemed the perfect foil to their warmly brown skins; people, too, of many European stocks.
The buildings, too, fascinated her. Great blocks of flats and beautiful modern houses, white- or pale- coloured, cheek by jowl with little old-fashioned villas of wood, with fretwork trimmings and roofs of corrugated iron painted to resemble tiles. Here a mosque, there a square-towered church, there a Hindu temple —there seemed no end to the variety of life.
And then they were out on to a country road, where buildings were fewer and smaller, and the people, Africans and Indians mostly, often of shabbier appearance. It was a green and lush countryside, of meadows where strange-looking white birds clustered round the grazing cattle, of emerald hills, splashed with bright flowering trees, red and pink and golden. Most beautiful of all the flowering trees, though, to her mind, were those bordering the sides of the road, tall and stately, their blossoms coral-coloured.
She could not, at last, refrain from remarking on these to her companion, and he seemed more relaxed, even amiable, as he explained that they were planted not only because they were beautiful but as a shade for the delicate cocoa plants, hardly visible from the car, which they were sheltering.
At last, after passing what seemed the West Indian equivalent of an English village, they turned down a lane and came on a low white house, set in what seemed a sizeable garden. There were a few other similar houses in the near distance, but this, it seemed, was the Gray home, and down the curving drive edged with flowering shrubs they went, Bryony now in a sudden panic of nervousness.
She told herself that it was absurd. She was used to meeting strangers, goodness knew, working at her mother's hotel—people of all sorts, to whom one must find the right thing to say, from the very first encounter.
And when, having dropped her cases in at the front door, Peregrine Gray led her straight out to the tennis court, she found the introductions not too much of an ordeal.
A mixed doubles was in progress, but only one of the Gray girls, it seemed, was taking part in this. The younger came quickly to greet her with: 'I'm Sally. Nice to know you, Bryony. We've heard all about you from my married sister in London.' And she followed this up with a friendly: 'Was it a good voyage? Did you have fun?'
Then, without waiting for an answer, or noticing Bryony's rise in colour—for Peregrine was standing near and looking at them—she took her to some people sitting at the shady side of the court.
A silver-haired, aristocratic-looking lady proved to be Miss Fanier—the Aunt Isabel of whom Bryony had heard. Her welcome to the newcomer was gracious, but her glance seemed to take in every detail of her appearance. Whether she approved of the tailored suit in turquoise linen, the matching bag and shoes in cream-coloured plastic, Bryony couldn't tell. That she was ready to be friendly was evident: that was what mattered.
Room was made for Bryony to sit next to her, and Peregrine brought her a cold drink.
'Christopher and Anne-Marie will be along when this set is finished,' he said. 'Meanwhile this lady on your right is our friend and neighbour, Mrs. Forrest,' and he indicated a tall woman in her late thirties, with reddish hair, very light blue eyes and well- corseted figure.
A brief nod and stare and Mrs. Forrest turned aside with the clear intention of continuing her conversation with the middle-aged man next to her. But his manners were in better order. He got up and introduced himself pleasantly as Dr. Leonard, 'one of Peregrine's partners', adding that he hoped she would enjoy her year in Trinidad.
Other younger folk came up with friendly greetings, which brushed away the memory of Mrs. Forrest's rudeness, and as soon as the set was over Anne-Marie and Christopher came over to speak to her.
Christopher was very much like Peregrine in appearance, with the same lean, rangy look. Obviously shy, he had not much to say, and soon slid off. But Anne- Marie, full of chat, insisted on taking Bryony to see her room, confiding in a whisper as she bore her off: 'None of my very special friends are here this afternoon. Peregrine is so stuffy over the boys Sally and I invite to the house. Yvonne wrote and told us you were young and pretty, so we're hoping you'll put a bit of sense into Perry.' And then she added: 'Mrs. Forrest pretends to be on our side, but she isn't really. Whatever Perry thinks and does is perfect in her eyes.'
'How does she come into the picture?' Bryony could not refrain from putting the question.
'She did dispensing, down in Port-of-Spain, before she was married—she's a widow now—and she helps Perry and his partners out when there's an emergency. I believe she's first rate at the job, much quicker than May Wicker, the regular dispenser. And living just down the road she doesn't mind working late sometimes.'
There was something about Anne-Marie with which Bryony felt i
mmediately in sympathy. Like her sister, Sally, she bore a strong resemblance to Yvonne Gilbert, their married sister who had interviewed
Bryony in London. All three had brown, curling hair, bright hazel eyes and deep dimples; whatever qualities her two charges lacked, a sense of fun would hardly be among them.
The house was cool and spacious, designed for life in a hot climate. There was not a sign of a fireplace, and the great window-frames were fitted not with glass but with very beautiful wrought-iron screens.
'This is yours,' and Anne-Marie flung open a door of thin wood to reveal a room painted in pale magnolia, with light modern furniture but innocent of draperies and pictures. 'It doesn't look much,' the girl said, 'but when you get your things unpacked it will seem more homely. People from England are apt to find our houses a bit bare, so Yvonne says, but once they've experienced the trade winds they understand.'
'I've heard about them,' Bryony ventured.
'And tomorrow morning, round about eight, you'll have the joy of them. And a joy they are, especially after a hot night, even if they send everything flying.'
She offered to help unpack, but Bryony prevailed on her to go back to her guests.
'If you desert them,' she said, 'I'll probably get the blame for not encouraging you in correct behaviour. Because that's one of the things I'm supposed to do.'
Anne-Marie gave her a penetrating look.
'We're not going to play you up,' she said. 'We're too thankful that Laura Forrest hasn't got her way, and wormed her way into the household. For that was her scheme, we're sure. But you've got to be on our side.'
Bryony gave a non-committal smile and, Anne- Marie disappearing with a cheerful, 'See you later,' she set about unpacking, not, as on board ship, taking from her cases such things as she was likely to need in the very near future, but emptying them completely.
Maybe she was over-optimistic to do this—maybe there were tensions in this job which would defeat her. But one thing was certain. She would never make a success of it if she were to be poised all the time for flight.
Juliet Armstrong - Isle of the Hummingbird Page 3
