Born Out of Love

by Anne Mather

  She tramped determinedly along the sand, kicking off her sandals to make walking easier. In other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the feeling of the fine coral sliding between her toes, but right now she was in no mood to enjoy anything. She was hot, and tired, and entirely out of countenance with herself.

  As she approached Logan’s beach house, she began to drag her feet. What if Robert wasn’t there? What if they hadn’t seen him? But they must have done, she told herself impatiently, before the absence of the station wagon reminded her that Logan had intended going over to the other side of the island that morning. But there was still Carlos. In fact, her feet quickened again, Carlos was a much easier proposition than Logan.

  There were chairs set on the verandah of the beach house, and the steps which led down to the beach were set at the side of the building. Louvred doors stood wide revealing ranch-style timbering, and an assortment of junk littered the floor. Oxygen tanks and rubber aspirators stood cheek by jowl with photographic equipment, huge spot-lights indicating work done after dark. There was snorkelling equipment, too, and face masks, looking like the accoutrements of some latterday monster.

  But right now Charlotte wasn’t much interested in the tools of Logan’s trade. With every passing minute her anxiety for Robert was growing, and Carlos’s sudden appearance at the top of the steps brought a shocked gasp from her lips.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, putting the palm of one hand over her mouth. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ Carlos was apologetic. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’

  Charlotte’s heart sank. ‘You mean—you don’t know why I’m here?’ she protested weakly.

  Carlos frowned. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Robert’s not here, then?’

  ‘That would be—your son?’

  ‘Of course. Of course, my son. Have you seen him?’

  Carlos came down the steps towards her. ‘Not lately, ma’am.’

  ‘You saw him earlier on?’

  ‘Well, he was on the beach this morning. I saw him just after Mr Logan left for San Cristobal.’

  ‘Just after?’ Charlotte swallowed convulsively. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t before?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He paused. ‘Mr Logan wouldn’t take him off somewhere without your permission.’

  Charlotte sighed. Was she so transparent? ‘Then where is he?’ she cried desperately, turning to survey the whole beach.

  And then she saw him, trudging nonchalantly towards them from the direction of the headland, something which looked suspiciously like her sponge bag dangling bulkily from his fingers.

  ‘Isn’t that your son coming now?’ Carlos pointed, as his eyes simultaneously picked up the small figure foreshortened by distance, and Charlotte had to agree.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s him,’ she said ruefully. ‘I—well, I’m sorry I troubled you.’

  ‘No trouble, ma’am.’ Carlos’s dark eyes were amused. ‘But he looks to me like a young man who can take care of himself.’

  ‘Oh, he can.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘Better than I can, I sometimes think.’ She began to move away. ‘Thank you, anyway.’

  ‘Any time,’ Carlos nodded, and went back up the steps.

  Charlotte crossed the sand to meet Robert with scarcely concealed irritation. Because of him she had had to go to Logan’s house and humble herself before his servant, knowing full well that when Logan returned it was the first thing he would hear. In addition to which he might misconstrue her motives, particularly as it appeared that Robert had been doing nothing more dangerous than shell collecting.

  In consequence, her tone was sharp as she demanded: ‘Where have you been? And what have you got there?’

  Robert, his bare shoulders already showing signs of tanning, stared at her in surprise. ‘What does it look like I’ve been doing?’ he countered cheekily, and she clenched her fists.

  ‘It might interest you to know that I’ve been half out of my mind with worry!’ she snapped, turning back to the house, and heard his sigh of resignation.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  ‘Don’t “Oh, Mum” me! And who gave you permission to take my toilet bag?’

  ‘It was the only thing I could find.’

  ‘For what?’

  He held up the bulky bag. ‘Rock samples.’

  ‘Rock samples?’ Charlotte’s echo of his words was exasperated. ‘Why do you want rock samples?’

  Robert gave her an outraged look. ‘They’re fascinating! Those limestone cliffs over there …’ he gestured towards the headland, ‘they’re very old. I might have some fossils among these, and volcanic rocks. If the islands are as old as Mr Kennedy says, there should be heaps of mineral samples. Who knows, those cliffs might once have been the ocean floor, before some great eruption thrust them away.’

  ‘Where did you get all this?’ inquired Charlotte suspiciously.

  ‘From books.’ Robert was indignant. ‘I’m not making it up.’

  ‘I never thought you were.’

  ‘I think I’d like to be a geologist when I grow up. Our physics master, Mr Turner, used to say that man’s whole evolution could be traced through studying the earth’s crust.’

  Charlotte reached the shade of the bungalow with relief and climbed the steps. ‘Well, the next time you intend going on a geological expedition, do you mind leaving me a note?’ she tossed at him over her shoulder, and Robert dug his fist coaxingly into the small of her back.

  They had a simple lunch of scrambled eggs, and then while Robert examined his rock samples, Charlotte put her feet up on the couch in the living room.

  ‘Did you go swimming?’ she called, wriggling her toes, and Robert looked back at her from the verandah.

  ‘Some,’ he admitted briefly. ‘Did you have a good morning? What’s Madame Fabergé like?’

  ‘Madame Fabergé is English, did I tell you?’ She lifted her eyebrows interrogatively, and he shook his head. ‘Well, she is. And I don’t think she’s very happy here.’

  ‘Why not?’ Robert frowned.

  Charlotte sighed. ‘I don’t know. I think she probably misses the trappings of civilisation. And of course, with her husband dying like that, and leaving her with two young children …’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert was thoughtful. ‘I heard Mr Kennedy say her husband was dead.’ He paused. ‘Is he going to marry her, do you think?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Charlotte evasively, playing for time.

  ‘Mr Kennedy.’ Robert stared at her impatiently. ‘I mean, why else is she here?’

  Charlotte pretended to adjust the cushions behind her. ‘I believe neither she nor her husband have any family, and as—as Mr Kennedy was her husband’s best friend …’

  ‘… he’s taking care of her,’ finished Robert consideringly. ‘Well, perhaps he is.’

  Charlotte chose to ignore the suggestion behind her son’s words, and closed her eyes. There was still a couple of hours before she was due back at the Fabergés’. Time enough to relax for a while, if she could …

  She must have slept because the sound of voices awakened her to the fact that they were no longer alone. She sat up jerkily, vaguely disorientated, to find Philippe squatting beside Robert on the verandah, discussing the merits of his finds with him. The sudden transition to consciousness was unnerving, however, and she got up unsteadily from the couch to make herself a cup of tea.

  But it was almost four, and she gulped the tea too hotly for enjoyment, and leaving Robert with instructions not to get into any mischief, made her way back to the Fabergé house. The sea beckoned as it had not done earlier in the day, and she thought how marvellous it would be to submerge her overheated body in its cooling depths. Maybe later, she promised herself with a sigh, and pushed open the bungalow door.

  Lisette was sitting reading magazines on the verandah at the back of the house, from where it was possible to see Logan’s beach house and the wooden landing where the ketch rocked on its mooring. A tray of tea beside her, plus an
ashtray overflowing with stubs, indicated she had just had refreshment, but she didn’t offer the other girl any tea.

  ‘Where’s Isabelle?’ asked Charlotte, looking about her, and Lisette gestured carelessly over her shoulder.

  ‘She woke up a little while ago, so I gave her a biscuit and a drink of orange juice, and now I suppose she’s playing,’ she replied in a bored voice. ‘You can go and bring her out if you like. Oh, and there’s a pram in the living room, you know, if you feel energetic.’

  Loath to make criticisms, nevertheless Charlotte couldn’t resist asking: ‘Do you take her for walks?’ and Lisette’s lips thinned.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she retorted brittlely. ‘I’m not the type to enjoy cosy domesticity. I married Pierre to escape from all that. What a mistake that was!’

  The temptation was to linger and ask her exactly what she meant, but Charlotte decided she had heard enough. She was not here to listen to Lisette’s complaints, particularly when she did not honestly get the impression that the young widow mourned her husband’s death. Perhaps she blamed him, for leaving her unprovided for, although she was lucky in having Logan to care for her. Charlotte’s resentment flickered. Lucky indeed …

  Isabelle was standing on her wobbly little legs, happily throwing the contents of the cot on to the floor. The sheets and pillowslip had been separated and lay scattered round the bedroom, while the remains of the biscuit her mother had given her had been squeezed into a gooey mess all over the bars of the cot.

  Charlotte retained her patience with difficulty. The room which only that morning she had restored to order looked almost as messy now as it had done before she began, and Lisette was to blame. If she had lifted Isabelle after her sleep instead of leaving her to her own devices all would have been well. As it was, Charlotte felt obliged to tidy up again.

  Isabelle began to protest at her continued confinement and closing the door, Charlotte lifted her out of the cot and set her on the floor while she remade the cot, replacing the rubber sheet and spreading a clean sheet over it. With new frontiers to explore, the little girl crawled about happily, getting under Charlotte’s feet but otherwise causing little trouble. It was obviously a new departure for her, and Charlotte wondered at the selfishness of a mother who could disregard her children’s needs so entirely. No wonder Logan had decided to hire a nursemaid. If only it had not been her!

  She collected a damp cloth from the kitchen and was endeavouring to clean the bars of the cot when she heard the sound of a car’s engine. Guessing it was the station wagon, she continued with what she was doing, hoping Logan would be gone before she emerged. She could hear their voices, Lisette’s, raised an octave higher, as it always was with him, and Logan’s huskier baritone. She was probably offering him tea, thought Charlotte wryly, lifting a box of tissues out of Isabelle’s grasp, and she jumped almost guiltily when the bedroom door opened to admit Logan’s lean figure. Grim eyes surveyed the scene in one sweeping glance, and she wondered uneasily what it was she had done wrong now. Isabelle created a brief diversion by crawling rapidly towards the open doorway, but Logan anticipated her action and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he demanded without expression, and she knew he was not addressing the child.

  ‘I’m just tidying up,’ she replied, annoyed to hear the note of conciliation in her voice. Then, more aggressively: ‘Why?’

  ‘You were not employed as housekeeper,’ stated Logan, evenly, but she could tell he was restraining a harsher tone. ‘You’ve only just arrived on the island, and my instructions were that you should take things easily for the first few days.’

  ‘Your instructions?’ Charlotte’s temper was rising.

  ‘I am your employer,’ he reminded her coldly. ‘You would do well to remember that.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do when I find that Isabelle has stripped the cot and smeared chewed-up biscuit all over it?’ she inquired pleasantly.

  ‘That is Lisette’s—Madame Fabergé’s—affair. Your only task is to take care of the children.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlotte jeered at his lack of perception. ‘And you think I should have gone out to—to Madame Fabergé just now and asked her to come and clear up the mess in here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh—–’ She could think of no suitable retort. ‘Do you think she would have come?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ exclaimed Charlotte angrily, ‘that has everything to do with it! Your—your—Madame Fabergé would probably tell me to go to hell, and with every justification. In my experience, servants do not tell their mistresses what to do.’

  ‘You’re not a servant!’ snapped Logan, equally angrily. ‘All right, perhaps you shouldn’t suggest Lisette clears up the room, but if you left it, she would have to.’

  ‘Would she?’ Charlotte turned away as Isabelle bumped her head on the corner of a chair and started to cry. Picking the child up, she added: ‘If I don’t mind what I do, why should you?’

  For several seconds, her gaze locked with his, brown eyes faltering before blazing amber. Then with a stifled oath, he wrenched open the door again and left her.

  When Charlotte eventually deemed it safe to emerge, Lisette was alone. She looked round maliciously as the other girl appeared however, and said accusingly: ‘Nobody asked you to clear up after Isabelle, you know.’

  Charlotte gasped. ‘I know that.’

  ‘So why did you go complaining to Logan? For God’s sake, leave the bungalow alone. It will be just as bad tomorrow whatever you do today.’

  A thought for the week, thought Charlotte dryly, but she didn’t say it. ‘Look, I don’t know what—what Mr Kennedy has been saying to you, madame,’ she was beginning, when the other girl interrupted her.

  ‘Call me Lisette, for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘I never did go much for that Madame Fabergé bit. It’s not me. And I’m pretty sure you don’t call Logan Mr Kennedy when you’re alone either.’

  Charlotte couldn’t prevent the wave of colour from sweeping revealingly up her face. ‘I haven’t been complaining,’ she insisted, and Lisette shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

  ‘All right, I’ll take your word for it.’ But her eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Come and sit down. It’s time we got to know one another. Both being widows, we ought to have something in common.’

  Charlotte shied away from the implications behind this gesture. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking I might take Isabelle to paddle,’ she suggested uncomfortably, and saw the way Lisette’s lips drooped.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she muttered, reaching for another cigarette. ‘Go and play nanny. But don’t imagine I don’t know there’s something fishy going on, because I do!’

  Robert and Philippe were in the water, and Charlotte hoped anxiously that her son was not overdoing it. Too much sun was worse than too little, and although it was cooler now, to his vulnerable skin it was still quite hot. To her surprise, the younger boy could swim like a fish, and Robert waded into the shallows to explain that Logan had taught him.

  ‘Mr Kennedy’s also told him that when he’s older, he’ll teach him snorkelling,’ he added with evident envy. ‘I wish he’d teach me.’

  Charlotte bent to Isabelle to hide her expression. ‘I thought you didn’t like him,’ she murmured, as Robert kicked frustratedly at the creaming ripples. ‘My, isn’t the water warm!’

  Robert hunched his shoulders. ‘I wish you’d tell me what you and Mr Kennedy were rowing about,’ he muttered.

  Charlotte straightened to look at him. ‘Why? So you could justify making friends with him?’ she challenged, and then felt a pang at Robert’s pained expression.

  ‘No. No,’ he protested, in a muffled voice. ‘Only—–’

  ‘Robert, what you decide to do about Mr Kennedy is your own affair!’

  ‘Is it?’ He looked at her uncertainly.

  Charlotte si
ghed, feeling mean and petty, but she couldn’t help what she was about to say. She was tired. It had been a long day, and Robert’s words were the culmination of all her fears.

  ‘Look,’ she said tensely, ‘if you want to be friends with the man who in the past has hurt and humiliated me, then go ahead! I shan’t stop you! If learning to snorkel and skin dive means more to you than supporting your mother, then don’t let my feelings stop you!’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Robert’s cry revealed the basic insecurity behind his confident facade and Charlotte was immediately ashamed of her outburst. But the words could not be withdrawn, and she could see from his expression that she had hurt him deeply by suggesting he might betray her.

  Shaking her head, she lifted Isabelle into her arms, and turned back towards the bungalows. ‘I’m tired, Robert,’ she said, by way of an explanation. ‘Don’t stay in the water much longer. And take a shower when you get back to the house.’

  Philippe decided to walk back home with her, and once his initial shyness had been breached, he chattered on quite happily about what he had done that day.

  ‘You haven’t swallowed anything you shouldn’t, have you?’ Charlotte asked, forcing a lightness she was far from feeling, and the little boy giggled.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head definitely. ‘Uncle Logan said if the safety-pin had been open, I’d have had to eat cotton wool sandwiches to stop it from hurting my tummy. Ugh! I wouldn’t have liked that.’

  ‘No, I imagine not,’ agreed Charlotte dryly, wishing she had Philippe’s facility for reducing everything to basics.

  By the time she returned to her own bungalow, shadows were deepening over the sand dunes, and a velvety dusk scented the air with a musky sweetness. She could hear the sound of crickets in the rough grass that grew between the palm trees, and from the village drifted the evocative rhythm of a small combo. It could be on record, she guessed, or more likely there was a bar where one could go and take a cool beer.

  Robert was in the living room when she went in, the swim trunks he had been wearing earlier in the day exchanged for the inevitable jeans and a tee shirt. He was flicking through the pages of a comic he had brought with him from England, and barely glanced up when she arrived.