Follow Thy Desire

by Anne Mather

  Morgan was watching her reactions to his daughter and she met his gaze bravely. It was as if he was challenging her with the problems facing her, maybe even chiding her for imagining she could help the girl, feeling a stirring regret that he had given in to her demands to come with him.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then Helen said carefully: ‘How far is it to Nrubi, Andrea? I’m looking forward to seeing your home.’

  Andrea looked at her father for guidance, and then, bending her head so that the words when they came were low and mumbled, she replied: ‘Sixty-three miles.’

  Again Morgan’s eyes were challenging hers and Helen wondered for the first time whether she had been too ambitious in imagining she could help the girl. She was obviously selfconscious and painfully shy, but worse than that, she was antagonistic towards this intruder into her home. Why? Helen asked herself. Andrea knew nothing about her, other than what her father had told her. Unless she was jealous…

  Fortunately, James Oneba chose that moment to put in his appearance, resplendent this evening in ceremonial robes embroidered in shades of blue and red and gold. He looked like some latterday potentate with his wives and older children about him, but at least his colourful presence ensured there would be no awkward silences thoughout the rest of the evening.

  The food was rich and exotic, but Helen had little appetite. She found Morgan’s eyes upon her from time to time, but mostly she spoke to James Oneba, dismissing Morgan’s earlier mockery about their host’s propensity for acquiring wives. Sarah and Mariana spoke little in his presence, and only when spoken to, but Morgan at least attempted to keep them entertained. Andrea said nothing, picking at her food without interest, her head bent over her plate. An older son of the Onebas who had been introduced as Jonathan endeavoured to make her laugh, but although he coaxed a smile from her lips, she remained silent.

  When the meal was over, James suggested that Helen might like to see his botanical garden, and although she looked back longingly at Morgan and the others taking coffee in the huge withdrawing room, she was obliged to go with him.

  A long corridor gave on to the back of the house, and here a glass-covered orangery was filled with all kinds of plant-life. Ferns and orchids, herbs and spiky cactus; there were specimens there from every continent, and adjoining them was a small laboratory where James said he experimented with herbal remedies.

  ‘A kind of twentieth-century witch doctoring, I suppose you might call it,’ he laughed humorously. ‘But no, I am not competing with our friend inside, merely experimenting like a small boy with a chemistry set.’

  ‘It’s very well equipped,’ said Helen admiringly, stroking her nail along a row of burettes, and James turned to face her, folding his arms.

  ‘And are you?’ he enquired, so softly that at first she thought she had imagined the question. But the interrogative lift of those dark eyebrows was unmistakable, and she moved her shoulders in a gesture of uncertainty.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said—are you well equipped also? To cope with whatever is to come?’

  Helen realised he was referring to Andrea, and faint colour stained her cheeks. ‘I hope so,’ she said quickly. ‘Er—what’s this?’

  ‘A retort—Helen!’ He made an extravagent gesture. ‘Helen, I want you to promise me—if there’s anything I can do—at any time…’

  Helen shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t altogether understand what he was getting at, unless she suspected that Andrea might make life difficult for her, but all of a sudden what Morgan had said did not seem so fantastic after all. With a feeling of unease, she moved towards the door, and he was there before her, smiling and opening it for her, making a mockery of her ridiculous fears.

  * * *

  A maid awakened Helen next morning, drawing back the curtains from the long windows, letting in the filtered rays of the sun through the slatted blinds. The aroma of coffee alerted her to the awareness of the tray on the table beside her, and after thanking the girl as she smiled and made for the door, she asked what time it was.

  ‘Nine o’clock, Miss Raynor,’ the girl answered politely, and Helen was horrified to realise she had overslept.

  The night before, Morgan had indicated that he intended to leave early in the morning, before the sun gained its noonday heat, and the unearthly hour of seven o’clock had been mentioned. Now it was long past that time, and Helen wondered in agony if he and Andrea were impatiently waiting for her to join them. But the maid had gone, departing in the wake of Helen’s anxiety, and hardly glancing at the glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice, the warm rolls under their perspex cover, or the jug of strong black coffee, she got hastily out of bed.

  She had slept surprisingly well in the circumstances, particularly as her final memory before submitting to oblivion had been of Morgan’s face when she returned from the orangery with their host. His expression had displayed coldness and disapproval, and an underlying interrogation, and she wondered if he suspected that James had used their time alone together to his advantage. What else could account for that brooding enquiry, that brought a chilling glitter to his eyes and a certain harshness to his speech? James was his friend. Surely he could not conceive of him speaking in a derogatory fashion of either himself or his daughter?

  Brushing aside the slats of the blind, she stole a moment’s glimpse at the gardens of the house. As she had seen the night before, there was a profusion of exotic growth, their blossoms almost too rich and swollen to someone used to the gentler colours of a temperate climate. Beside the dripping petals of jacaranda and flame trees, the slender canes of papyrus grass seemed almost commonplace by comparison, but the birds that swooped across the lawns were almost as brilliantly coloured as the flowers.

  The temptation was to linger, taking in all the sights and sounds with bemused concentration, but the awareness of the passage of time sent her hurrying into the bathroom.

  Regretting she had not used the bath the night before when she had had the chance, Helen quickly took a shower and dressed in pink cotton dungarees over a plain, short-sleeved denim shirt. Her hair needed little more than a swift brushing and she decided not to bother with make-up at all. Then she looked longingly at the breakfast tray. The orange juice was delicious and refreshing, and she poured herself some of the aromatic coffee as she bit into a flaky roll. She would have liked to have lingered over her breakfast, too, having several cups of the strong black beverage, but again time was against her.

  It only took a minute to repack the few items she had taken from her suitcase the night before, and after locking it again, she left the room. Running down the stairs, she noticed the scents of the flowers pervading the atmosphere, and the more pungent aroma of beeswax polish. Already the servants had been about their duties and there were fresh flowers in the hall, replacing the orchids residing there the night before.

  There seemed to be no one about in the house, although she could hear the sound of children’s voices echoing from outside, and she was hesitating at the foot of the stairs, doubtful of what she ought to do, when Andrea appeared from the back of the house. Her eyes flickered when she saw the other girl, but she would have passed her without a word if Helen had not spoken:

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you and your father waiting,’ she apologised quickly. ‘I’m afraid I overslept.’

  Andrea halted with evident reluctance, one hand on the baluster at the foot of the stairs, indicating her intention to go up. In a sleeveless dress of printed cotton and white ankle socks and plimsolls, she looked younger than she had done the night before, and her hair plaited into a single braid added to the illusion.

  ‘You haven’t kept us waiting,’ she muttered now, head bent as usual. ‘Excuse me…’

  Helen watched her as she ran lightly up the stairs, her face troubled. What had Andrea meant? Wasn’t Morgan ready to leave after all? She shook her head perplexedly, and as she did so, Mariana came out of a room to the right of the stairs. She
smiled when she saw Helen, and then, as her eyes followed the other girl’s and she glimpsed Andrea’s slight figure disappearing round the corner of the gallery, she made a sympathetic gesture.

  ‘Poor Andrea,’ she said. ‘She so desperately wanted to go home today.’

  Helen didn’t attempt to hide her confusion. ‘Are we not leaving for Nrubi after all?’ she asked, blankly.

  Mariana hesitated, frowning. Then she moved her lissom shoulders uncertainly. ‘Perhaps later,’ she conceded slowly. ‘Do you drive, Miss Raynor?’

  Helen sighed. Despite her request that Mariana should call her Helen, the African girl persisted in addressing her more formally, but right now she had more important matters on her mind.

  ‘Yes, I drive,’ she admitted quickly. ‘Why?’ A pause. ‘Is—is Morgan ill?’

  ‘Ill, no.’ Mariana shook her head, twisting her hands together, seeking for words. ‘From time to time, he has these—headaches, you understand? Unfortunately, he awakened with one this morning.’

  ‘I see.’ Helen felt a twinge of anxiety. She remembered another occasion when Morgan had had a headache, and she had taken him to the flat…Licking dry lips, she hastened: ‘Where is he? May I see him?’

  ‘I do not think that would be a good idea at this moment,’ declared Mariana pleasantly, but firmly. ‘He is still—in his room. James has been to see him, and he has taken some medication. I suggest you join the children and their nursemaid on the patio outside. I will ask one of the servants to fetch you some coffee.’

  Helen’s expellation of her breath was frustrated. If Morgan had migraine, and that was what it sounded like, they were hardly likely to leave for Nrubi today, and much though she appreciated the Onebas’ kindness, she was eager to see Morgan’s home.

  Mariana smiled now, and after giving her directions to reach the patio, she went away to attend to her own duties. Helen moved unwillingly towards the sound of the children’s voices, looking back longingly towards the stairs. No doubt that was where Andrea had been going, she thought. To see her father. She wanted to see Morgan, too. There was a ridiculous ache inside her at the thought of him being ill, and she wanted to assure herself that he was only suffering from a headache.

  On impulse, she turned back, and after reassuring herself that Mariana had disappeared, she ran swiftly up the stairs. The long gallery curved away in either direction and the futility of her efforts hit her. How could she find Morgan when she had no idea which room he occupied? He could be anywhere, and the row of doors stretched away endlessly, each one as anonymous as the first.

  She walked to the edge of the gallery and looked down. The architecture of the inner courtyard looked Moorish in the light of day, the arches of the lower gallery protecting its sanctuary. A pair of brightly-coloured birds squabbled in the leaves of the trellis and a lily pond glinted coolly in the heat of the sun.

  A sound from along the gallery alerted her to someone’s presence, and glancing round she saw Andrea again, just emerging from a room some doors along from that which Helen had occupied. Her room, or Morgan’s? speculated Helen doubtfully, but before she could summon the words to enquire, Andrea was gone, hurrying in the opposite direction, obviously unwilling to enter into any further conversation.

  With a sound of impatience, Helen walked hesitantly towards the door Andrea had just closed. It mightn’t be either her room or Morgan’s she thought irritably. It could even be a bathroom.

  There was only one way to find out. Stepping to the door, she tapped lightly on the panels, and hearing no response, projected the door inward. The room beyond was still shuttered, but by the filtering light she could see an unmade bed, with the sheets tossed carelessly to one side. But the bed was empty, and she was just digesting this fact when a man came through the door at the left of the room, saying wearily: ‘What do you want now, Andrea? Can’t it wait—’

  He broke off abruptly when he saw Helen and even in the half light she could see the sudden hardening of his features. He had obviously just finished shaving, and was wiping the remaining soap from his face with the towel about his neck. His only apparel was his cream Levis, hanging low on his hips. Despite her disconcertment, Helen saw that his body was indeed brown all over, the muscles moving smoothly beneath the texture of his skin.

  She sensed his involuntary withdrawal, but the words of denuciation did not come. Instead it was she who hurried into speech, saying awkwardly: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come barging in on you like this, but—but Mariana told me you—you weren’t well…’

  Morgan dropped the towel on to a chair and reached for the shirt lying waiting for him on the bed. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he enquired harshly. ‘Surely you didn’t ask Mariana!’

  ‘No, I—as a matter of fact, I saw Andrea—’

  ‘And you asked her!’

  He sounded furious, but she shook her head. ‘No! I—I saw Andrea leaving this room.’

  ‘So you waited until she’d gone, and then investigated for yourself,’ he charged bitterly, and put like that it sounded damning.

  ‘No,’ she protested again. ‘Andrea didn’t speak to me. I—I was going to ask how—how you were.’

  Morgan buttoned his shirt with brooding impatience. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly all right now, so—’

  ‘Morgan!’ Her use of his name was a plea for understanding. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you by coming here but—’

  ‘Annoyed me?’ His tone was coldly incredulous. ‘Why should it annoy me if you’re seen coming to my bedroom? I expect James and his family consider it only natural that the girl I have employed to be a companion to Andrea should enter the room where I’m supposed to be in bed without anyone around to act as chaperon!’

  ‘To act as chaperon!’ Helen echoed disbelievingly. ‘Why should I need a chaperon?’

  ‘Because this is a Muslim household and certain moral codes are adhered to!’ he retorted, pushing his shirt into his pants. ‘And in any case, whether or not I have a headache should be of no concern to you.’

  All this time, Helen had been standing half inside the room, holding on to the door handle as if for support. Now the brutality of his words caused an actual physical pain in her stomach, and with a sound of protest, she put herself outside the door and closed it before he could hurt her again. Yet her fingers still lingered on the handle, and when the door was wrenched inward seconds later, she jerked away in dismay, afraid of the wrath to come.

  Morgan emerged, looked up and down the gallery, and then, with iron-hard fingers biting into her upper arm, propelled her inside his room again. Her breathing was so shallow, she felt almost faint, trembling with fear and anticipation, and when his free hand closed on her shoulder, her heart palpitated wildly. It was two weeks since that never-to-be-forgotten night in her father’s study, but her flesh responded to the demands of his fingers with humiliating eagerness.

  However, Morgan’s intentions were not what she had foolishly imagined them to be. Instead of pulling her towards him when the door closed, he pressed her back against it, glaring at her in a way that offered only rejection, not desire, and made a mockery of her weakness.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his tone controlled but savage. ‘Obviously I didn’t make the situation plain enough before we left England. I thought I had, but it seems not.’ He paused, his cold eyes raking her without liking. ‘I brought you out here for Andrea’s benefit, do I make myself clear? Any fantasy you’re entertaining concerning our relationship is purely that, do you understand me? Fantasy! Not fact. There is nothing between us. There can be nothing between us. And all this exaggerated concern about my health is nothing but a waste of energy. The sooner you accept that fact the easier it will be on all of us!’

  Helen was trembling so badly, she thought if he had not been supporting her she might well have lost the use of her legs and collapsed in an ignominious heap at his feet. As it was, she managed to get some semblance of control into her voice as she replied
, albeit unsteadily:

  ‘You—you can’t accept that—that I might feel concern for—for anyone in similar circumstances, can you?’

  ‘Concern?’ His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes, concern.’ Her voice gathered strength. ‘After all, I’ve suffered from migraine occasionally myself. I—I know how—how unpleasant it can be.’

  ‘Unpleasant?’ he echoed, and a curious expression crossed his lean face. ‘Yes, it is—unpleasant, isn’t it?’ he agreed. His fingers unclenched, allowing the blood to flow back into her arms again. ‘So your concern was only—objective.’

  Helen looked down at her feet, willing the hot colour to drain from her cheeks before replying. Objective! she thought hysterically. If only that were so!

  Now, he straightened, looking down at her with that brooding concentrated regard she had felt before. Then he said quietly: ‘It seems I—over-reacted. I apologise. Naturally, you were—concerned about your position here. Fortunately, that has been resolved now. We’re leaving for Nrubi as soon as I’m dressed.’

  Helen nodded, still not trusting herself to speak, half turning to reach for the door handle. But politeness forced Morgan to forestall her, and his arm went past her to perform the small duty. It was an involuntary thing, an action borne of years of such courtesies, but Helen’s confusion set her in his path and his arm brushed sensuously across her breasts. She at once recoiled, but not before her startled gaze had encountered the smouldering passion of his, and as her lids lowered she sensed the revealing tautness of the muscles beneath his close-fitting clothes. His arm was withdrawn as swiftly as it had been projected and his balled fists thrust into the hip pockets of his denim pants, but the situation had subtly changed, and they both knew it.

  ‘Morgan…’ she breathed, but this time there was no mistake. He jerked the door open, and stepping aside, said harshly: ‘Wait for me downstairs!’ and she had no alternative but to obey him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BEYOND the environs of Charlottesville, before the coastal plain gave way to the purple-shadowed valleys of the higher altitudes, stretched an area of open bushland, a semi-desert area, largely unsuitable for human habitation but entirely habitable for the herds of wildlife which had made this country a vast reserve. To Helen, unused to seeing giraffe and zebra outside of a zoo, it was a fascinating safari, and her interest in her surroundings succeeded, for a while at least, in banishing the confused anxiety of her feelings towards Morgan. She saw deer and wildebeest, and once she thought she saw the rump of a rhino as it ambled away into a stand of low scrublike trees that were indicative of the area. It gave her a slightly uneasy feeling knowing how vulnerable the station wagon might be if faced with a charging rhino, but she had also noticed the rifle slung carelessly into the back of the vehicle, and guessed that in these surroundings one had to be prepared for anything.