Born Out of Love

by Anne Mather

  Charlotte looked up at him apologetically. ‘We were both awake early,’ she explained smilingly. ‘But thank Mr—Logan—just the same. I toasted a couple of the rolls we had left from yesterday, and you’d provided us with plenty of fruit.’ She paused. ‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the salad. It was delicious.’

  Carlos looked unconcerned. ‘Glad you liked it, ma’am.’ His eyes flickered over Robert, who was standing near the open doorway. ‘I’ll leave the rolls anyway. You might like them later.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Carlos hesitated. ‘Mr Logan also said to ask you whether you’d prefer me to prepare your meals for you. I mean, naturally, I’ll keep your cold store stocked in any case, but it would save you—–’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, thank you, Carlos.’ Charlotte rose to her feet now, shaking her head. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I think Robert and I can manage.’

  ‘Mr Logan seemed to think you wouldn’t be much used to making your own meals, ma’am,’ Carlos added, with an unexpected lack of tact, and she could feel her spine stiffening.

  ‘Mr Logan doesn’t know me very well, Carlos,’ she replied tartly, and the black man shrugged his bulky shoulders indifferently.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed, and moved towards the door.

  ‘Carlos!’

  Her impulsive summons made him turn again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I—have you known Mr Logan long?’

  She could feel Robert’s eyes on her, and was relieved when Carlos’s bulk came between them. ‘Fifteen years, ma’am.’

  ‘Fifteen years? That’s a long time.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Charlotte nodded, and he took her silence as dismissal. So, she thought ruefully, he had known Logan before she did. How much did he know of their previous relationship? How much might Robert inadvertently hear from him?

  Robert left the door open and came back to the table to finish his orange juice. ‘The men are big around here, aren’t they?’ he commented, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then grimacing at his mother’s expression. ‘First Mr Kennedy, then Carlos. Are all West Indians tall?’

  ‘He’s not a West Indian,’ said Charlotte unthinkingly. ‘He’s Brazilian. They both are, I should think.’

  ‘South Americans!’ murmured Robert thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, that explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’ Charlotte was not really in the mood for his chatter.

  ‘Why they’re so big. I read once that the bigger the continent, the bigger the men. You know—room to expand, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, Robert!’ Charlotte gathered their dirty dishes together and carried them to the sink. ‘You can’t generalise like that.’

  He shrugged, and picked up a tea towel. ‘Why not? That’s how statistics are reached. Through generalisations. Mr Hendry was telling us—–’

  ‘Well, I’m sure there’s more to it than that,’ retorted Charlotte, with asperity, and then felt contrite when he hunched his shoulders and shut up.

  It was still only eight-thirty when Charlotte left the bungalow to walk the few yards to the Fabergé house. She had left Robert sitting moodily on the steps of the verandah, kicking his toes in the sand, under orders not to swim out of his depth without supervision. This instruction had created some argument, and with the memory of the previous evening’s unpleasantness still hanging over her head, Charlotte wished she had not had to be so firm. But it was no good. She would never have any peace if she was worrying about him, and she owed it to Lisette Fabergé to give her whole attention to her job. Perhaps later on in the morning, she might bring the two younger children down to the beach, thus giving Robert his chance to swim where he pleased.

  As she walked up the slope, Charlotte saw Logan’s house. It was a single-storey beach house, standing on cross supports at the edge of the dunes, with a wooden walkway leading down from it to the landing. She couldn’t see Logan, but the station wagon was parked to one side, its bonnet open, and only the rear half of Carlos’s body could be seen as he tinkered about inside. He was far enough away from her not to be able to hear what she was doing, and the peaceful scene was somehow reassuring.

  Mounting the steps, she knocked at Lisette Fabergé’s door. There was no sign of life, and now that she came to notice it, the shutters were still closed at the windows. Frowning, she tried the door, but it was locked, and she shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other, wondering what she ought to do now. Surely Lisette was up. Perhaps she had already gone out. But somehow that didn’t seem so likely.

  She was hovering there uncertainly, hands pushed into the seat pockets of her jeans, when she saw Logan walking up the slope towards her. This morning he was wearing nothing but a pair of fraying denim shorts, and she could see the fine dark hair that partially obscured the brown expanse of his chest. The hair ran down in a vee to his navel, and she looked down deliberately at the open toes of her sandals, aware that staring could be too revealing.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, halting below her, one bare foot raised to rest on the verandah steps, his eyes coolly assessing her. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Charlotte saw no reason to lie to him. ‘Not very,’ she conceded shortly, noticing the shadow of the unshaven chin. Then: ‘Do you know where Madame Fabergé is?’

  ‘As I haven’t spent the night with her, I can’t be sure, but I’d hazard a guess that she was still in bed,’ he remarked insolently. ‘Would you like me to find out?’

  Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘She can’t still be in bed! Not with two young children! The baby—–’

  ‘Lisette doesn’t sleep very well,’ Logan retorted, straightening and flexing his shoulder muscles. ‘As for Isabelle, no doubt she’ll be putting up a protest any time now.’

  ‘But Philippe!’

  ‘I don’t expect that young man’s still in bed. He’s probably up and out by now. He spends a lot of his time with the doctor’s children up the road.’

  ‘You have a doctor here?’ Charlotte coloured at his interrogative stare. ‘I mean—I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he agreed dryly. ‘So? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You? I don’t want you to do anything.’

  ‘Where’s that son of yours?’

  Charlotte’s mouth went dry. ‘Why?’

  ‘No particular reason. I just wondered. Isn’t he going to get bored while you’re working?’

  Charlotte pulled her hands out of her pockets to put them on her hips. ‘And what would you suggest I do with him? Bring him here? He’s not a baby. He can look after himself. Heavens, lots of children back home have to look after themselves all day while their parents go out to work!’

  Logan held up a hand to halt her tirade. ‘All right, all right,’ he exclaimed. ‘I only asked a perfectly innocent question. It occurred to me that—well, that he might find Carlos’s company better than none at all.’

  Charlotte stilled the tremor in her voice. ‘He—he’s quite used to entertaining himself. My—my husband didn’t give a lot of time to him, so there’s no need for you to concern yourself on his behalf.’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Surely he had friends in England,’ he suggested quietly, and she sighed frustratedly.

  ‘What does it matter to you?’

  ‘I like him,’ replied Logan flatly.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t like you!’ retorted Charlotte childishly, and completely ignoring what she had said to Robert earlier added:

  ‘So please—leave him alone!’

  Logan’s lips thinned. ‘Very well. If you insist. But I think you’re allowing prejudice to get in the way of common sense. However …’ He rubbed absently at the hair on his chest. ‘We shall see.’

  Charlotte turned her back on him, and went to knock more vigorously at the door, and this time, much to her relief, she heard definite sounds of activity inside. A few seconds later the screen door opened, and Lisette Fabe
rgé appeared, scantily clad in a broderie cotton wrapper and little else. Her hair was untidy from the pillow, and a streak of the previous day’s mascara ran down one cheek. She looked at Charlotte with disgruntled eyes, and then caught sight of Logan. Immediately her expression softened, and she even managed a smile.

  ‘Have I overslept?’ she exclaimed dramatically, and Charlotte knew that she was only pretending concern. ‘Oh, heavens, and on your first day, too, Mrs Derby!’

  ‘It’s all right, really—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

  ‘Is there anything you want from San Cristobal today, Lisette?’ he asked. ‘I have to go over to the harbour to see Dan Herbert, so if there’s anything you need …’

  Lisette frowned consideringly, and then a howl from Isabelle brought an exclamation of impatience from her lips. Charlotte glanced briefly round at Logan, and then she said: ‘I’ll attend to her, shall I?’ and brushed past the other girl before she could make any objection.

  The smell of stale food in the bungalow was nauseating, but after the first grimace of distaste Charlotte pressed on. As she had guessed, Lisette’s bungalow was identical to her own, and besides, Isabelle’s noisy whereabouts were not difficult to locate.

  The children’s bedroom contained a single bed and the cot Isabelle was using. As Logan had surmised, there was no sign of Philippe, and a pair of pyjama trousers tossed carelessly on to the floor indicated that he had dressed before leaving. The room was filled with the acrid aroma of Isabelle’s wet nappy, and the little girl was sitting miserably among a pile of tumbled bedding, chewing at her fist between yells.

  Charlotte flung open the shutters, flooding the room with light and fresh air, and then she turned to the cot and lifted the unhappy infant into her arms. ‘It’s all right,’ she reassured her gently, as Isabelle cast a rather doubtful look at her rescuer, and then she grimaced again at the disordered room. Toys were strewn everywhere, and no attempt had been made to fold the clothes that were tossed about on bed and dressing table alike. Whatever qualities Lisette Fabergé possessed, tidiness did not appear to be one of them.

  Isabelle was starting to whimper again, and guessing the baby was hungry, Charlotte decided to get her a biscuit at least before tackling anything else. But when she emerged into the hall again, with the baby in her arms, Logan had come up on to the verandah, and was leaning against the doorpost talking to Lisette. His eyes lifted to encompass her slim presence, and the years sped away and she was sixteen again and back in the garden of the nursery in Richmond, with Logan standing there waiting for her. As if his thoughts corresponded with hers, his relaxed indolence disappeared, and the coldness of his eyes was chilling. Then he straightened, bade Lisette a curt farewell and turned away, descending the verandah steps without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WELL!’ Lisette allowed the screen door to slip from her fingers. ‘That was sudden, wasn’t it?’

  Charlotte evaded a direct reply. ‘Do you have any biscuits?’ she asked, gesturing towards Isabelle. ‘I—I think she’s hungry.’

  Lisette wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m sure she is, but don’t you think she needs changing first?’

  ‘I’ll change her. And give her a bath. But surely she can have a biscuit meanwhile.’

  Lisette shrugged. ‘There are some in the kitchen, I think. Make yourself at home. You might as well. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’

  Ignoring the insolence in the other girl’s voice, Charlotte carried the baby into the kitchen, staring, appalled, at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. She looked round despairingly. Where would one find anything here? The remains of the previous evening’s meal still reposed on the table, and the flies crawling over it made her feel positively sick.

  Isabelle began to whimper, and balancing her on one hip, Charlotte began opening cupboard doors. She eventually found a half empty packet of digestive biscuits, and the baby took the proffered sweetmeal eagerly. There was a high chair pushed against one wall, and Charlotte pulled this out and put Isabelle into it while she cleared the table and scraped the decomposing food into the wastebin. By the time Lisette reappeared, again dressed in the grubby shirt and pants she had been wearing the day before, Charlotte had the dishes half done, and the kettle was boiling.

  ‘Three cheers,’ observed the other girl dryly, ‘what a busy little bee you are.’

  Charlotte finished drying the dishes. ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘Do you want me to make you some tea—or coffee?’

  Lisette drew a packet of cigarettes out of her trousers’ pocket and put one between her lips. ‘No,’ she said at last, applying the flame of a match to her cigarette. ‘I think I can just about manage that. You go ahead and deal with Isabelle. I’ll appreciate the chance to smoke a cigarette without interruption.’

  As Charlotte was sure Lisette smoked a good many cigarettes without interruption, she made no comment, but as she was carrying Isabelle through the door a thought struck her.

  ‘Philippe?’ she asked. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What about him?’ demanded Lisette irritably.

  ‘He’s not had any breakfast, has he?’

  Lisette lounged into a chair. ‘Oh, I expect the Stevens’ will feed him,’ she remarked indifferently. ‘If not, he’ll come back when he’s hungry.’

  Charlotte stared at her. ‘Aren’t you worried about him?’

  Lisette looked up at her, her blue eyes challenging. ‘Why should I be? He can’t get lost. Not here. And the people who live in Avocado Cay all know who he is. No one would harm him. They have too much respect for Logan.’

  Charlotte would have turned away then, but now Lisette detained her. ‘You knew Logan before you came here, didn’t you, Mrs Derby?’

  Not knowing how much Logan had told her, Charlotte nodded. ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Was that before or after your marriage?’

  Charlotte’s hesitation was only momentary. ‘After,’ she stated definitely. ‘Some years after. If you’ll excuse me …’

  Bathing Isabelle was both a pleasure and a release. The uncomplicated task of soaping the baby’s chubby body, and sharing in the delight she gained from kicking her fat little legs, helped to erase the knowledge of her own duplicity, to justify the defensive lie she had just told. It was for Robert’s sake, she told herself fiercely, and refused to consider it further.

  There were clean clothes in the drawers in the children’s room, and she dressed Isabelle in a cotton top, with a scalloped edge, and matching panties that concealed the ugly disposable nappy. With her quiff of reddish hair combed into a curl on top of her head, she looked adorable, and it was all Charlotte could do to keep from cuddling her. It was so long since Robert had allowed such a show of emotion, and there was so much comfort to be gained from a child’s embrace. But she controlled her feelings, realising as she did so how accustomed to doing so she had become.

  Lisette was still sitting in the kitchen when she returned, but embarrassment or plain common decency made her assert herself when Charlotte reappeared, taking Isabelle from her and saying: ‘I’ll give her her breakfast, Mrs Derby. You make yourself a cup of coffee or something.’

  ‘Not right now, thanks.’ Charlotte had no desire for a cosy těte-à-těte with Lisette. ‘I’ll go and tidy up the children’s bedroom, and sort out the dirty clothes for washing.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to do the washing,’ remarked Lisette laconically. ‘Carlos does ours along with his and Logan’s. He’s quite a handy bloke to have around, as no doubt you’ll find out.’

  ‘Oh, but—–’ Charlotte opened her mouth to say that surely the baby’s things should be washed separately, and then closed it again. It wasn’t her business, after all.

  Lisette seemed to guess what she had been about to say, however, and gave her a wry look. ‘I’m no liberationist, Mrs Derby, but I see no reason to work myself to a shadow when Carlos can just throw them all into his automatic, okay?’


  ‘Of course.’ Charlotte lifted her shoulders in assent, and went back along the hall to Philippe and Isabelle’s room.

  She began to see later that morning why Lisette was so lethargic. In spite of the sea breeze the bungalow became very warm, and she was sweating freely by the time she had cleared up all the toys and made the beds. On impulse, she had entered Lisette’s bedroom and found it to be in just as much of a state as the children’s, and although she wasn’t being paid for housework, she felt obliged to make the bed and fold the discarded clothes.

  It was twelve o’clock before she knew it, and all hopes of going down to the beach to see Robert had been banished. However, when Philippe arrived back, grubby but unharmed, from the Stevens’, and Lisette began opening tins of soup for their lunch, Charlotte suggested that she might go down to her own bungalow to see her son.

  ‘Of course. Go ahead,’ said Lisette indifferently, spooning Isabelle’s baby dinner into another saucepan. ‘You needn’t hurry back. We all take a rest in the afternoons. If you come back around four, that should be time enough.’

  Charlotte made no objection, although she couldn’t see that it was good for a woman of Lisette’s age to spend so much time in bed. Still, that was not her concern, and she hurried down the slope to her own bungalow with a lightening heart.

  The place was deserted, however, and there was no sign of Robert. Trying not to give in to the panic that threatened to engulf her, she sluiced cold water over her face and neck, and set off to look for him. He had to be somewhere about, she told herself firmly. Philippe had been absent all morning without Lisette turning a hair. Robert was seven years older, and therefore that much safer.

  All the same, this was a new environment for him, she thought uneasily, remembering their argument that morning about swimming out of his depth. Accidents could so easily happen, and there might be currents in the lagoon that he didn’t know about.

  The beach stretched away to a wooded headland in one direction, and towards Logan’s beach house in the other. Logan, she thought, with a mixture of relief and apprehension. That was where she would find him.