Teachers Must Learn

by Nerina Hilliard

  Manoel leaned against a table and smiled down at her. ‘You find my ship interesting?’

  ‘Very.’ She smiled herself, but it was a rather rueful one. ‘I was just stalling for time, actually, as I don’t quite know how to begin.’ She paused and then decided to go straight into the matter. ‘You see, I’ve come about Barbie.’

  Manoel sat down in a chair opposite her, still smiling, but his manner had changed indefinably.

  ‘Yes, I saw her myself with her mother this morning.’

  Laurel nodded. ‘Yes, she told me. That ... that is one of the things I came about.’ She broke off, hesitating whether to say what was in her mind, but for the second time decided it was best to be blunt. ‘What you said to me the other night, about Barbie, I mean—did you really mean it?’

  ‘That I fell in love with her that day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I meant it—and I am still in love with her, if that makes it easier for you,’ he added, still smiling.

  Laurel gave a sigh of relief. ‘It makes it a lot easier. Barbie came to see me this morning. She ... she was rather upset.’

  His smile died instantly. ‘There is nothing wrong with her, is there?’

  She wanted to assure him that there was nothing wrong, but as Paul Brenton was very definitely wrong for Barbie, she could not do so.

  She made a deprecating little movement of one hand. ‘You may have noticed that Barbie’s mother is very anxious for her to marry—somewhat naturally, I suppose.’

  ‘I had noticed,’ Manoel admitted dryly.

  ‘Barbie thought you had. That’s what upset her. She hates her mother throwing her at men’s heads, as she puts it.’

  Manoel laughed softly and said something in Portuguese, with a tender light in his very dark eyes.

  ‘I would like to assure Barbie that I would be very glad to have her thrown at my head, but I think that I must tread very lightly yet.’

  Laurel thought of an old adage and mentally altered it to ‘devils jump in where angels fear to tread’.

  She repeated more or less verbatim her conversation with Barbie and was not surprised when she saw his expression darken at mention of Paul Brenton’s name.

  He nodded. ‘I too have heard of him, in other places besides Lourengo Marques. I could not quite think where I had seen him before, when I met him at your engagement party, but now I remember.’

  ‘What are we going to do about him, then?’

  Manoel frowned. ‘It does present a problem. Had this situation arisen in the past, I could either have challenged him to a duel or kidnapped her, neither of which would have really solved anything. Killing the man she thought she loved would not have made her love me.’

  Laurel smiled at his wry expression. ‘You could still kidnap her, of course.’

  He laughed slightly. ‘The idea is tempting, I admit. However...’ His shrug seemed to indicate that it came a few centuries too late, but not that it would have been altogether out of the question had the era been the right one—which made Laurel wonder which side of the family the buccaneer Nicholas Barrington had received his bride-kidnapping ideas from.

  There was an interruption as the seamen came back, this time bearing a tray on which were set out cups, tiny sweet cakes and a silver pot that gave out a pleasantly unfamiliar aroma. He set it down on the table and went quietly out again.

  Manoel himself poured her out a cup of steaming liquid and handed it to her with his attractive smile.

  ‘Portuguese chocolate. I hope you like it.’

  Laurel sipped tentatively, then nodded. ‘Lovely.’ She wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. ‘I think it might be an idea if I invited you to lunch tomorrow, if you’re free to come. Barbie will be there,’ she added as inducement.

  ‘Matchmaking?’ His dark eyes were twinkling.

  Laurel gave a shudder. ‘Heaven forbid!’

  ‘I would be a very willing victim, I admit. I shall be very glad to accept your invitation.’ He grinned with sudden boyishness. ‘I feel like a conspirator.’

  He looked so attractive at that moment that she wondered how on earth Barbie could prefer Paul Brenton’s rather dissipated, deliberate charm to Manoel de Valente’s far higher worth. All in all, she felt quite satisfied with her afternoon when she at last left the yacht to return home. If she could arrange other such meetings Manoel and Barbie would be able to get to know each other without Mrs. Bertram-Smythe’s overdone tactics—and then she directed a mental grimace at herself and decided not to be so exasperated with Anthea’s own matchmaking penchant in future, since she seemed to be more or less guilty of the same thing herself.

  If her conscience bothered her at all about interfering, she quietened it with the assurance that Paul Brenton could not possibly be allowed to get away with breaking Barbie’s heart, which she was quite sure he would do once the novelty of her had worn off. Barbie was worth a far better fate than that.

  When Barbie came to lunch the following day, she bore little resemblance to the dusty, tear-stained object that had confronted Laurel the previous afternoon. Her neat white dress was crisp and fresh and her short hair gleamed in the sunlight. She was wearing light make-up as an indication that she had followed Laurel’s advice to make her peace with her mother.

  The chauffeur-driven Bertram-Smythe car dropped her there and went off again, leaving Barbie directing a curious glance at another car, sleek and black and powerful, that stood in the driveway.

  Laurel came to the front door as she heard the car door slam and smiled a greeting at Barbie.

  ‘You look a lot happier than you did yesterday.’

  ‘I feel it.’ She directed a slightly apprehensive glance at the other car. ‘I didn’t know you were having anyone else to lunch.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t intend to, but he insisted on coming too, so that he could set your mind at ease himself,’ Laurel lied quite unblushingly.

  ‘He!’ Barbie’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘You mean Manoel?’ She did not wait for any answer, but actually turned away, as if she was going to refuse to enter the house.

  Laurel caught her arm. ‘Wait a moment,’ she said laughingly. ‘You’re not going to run away?’

  Barbie shook her head, then nodded. ‘I can’t possibly see him,’ she said frantically.

  ‘Why not?’ Manoel asked, appearing in the doorway himself.

  ‘Oh!’ Barbie went a vivid scarlet and just stood where she was. ‘I ... I mean Mother...’ She broke off, quite unable to go any further, then covered her confusion by turning indignantly to Laurel. ‘I thought you said you’d explained everything.’

  ‘I have, so you needn’t start attacking me,’ Laurel retorted equably. ‘I suggest we go inside and discuss it sitting down. There’s just time for a drink before dinner.’

  In the cool little lounge she served Barbie and herself with chilled lemon squash and Manoel with something stronger. Barbie sipped her drink, still patently uneasy, darting surreptitious little glances at Manoel every now and again, while the other two carried on a light, friendly conversation to give her time to recover her aplomb.

  Finally Barbie set her glass down on the table as if she had come to a decision.

  ‘You ... you did understand, didn’t you? That I ... I mean Mother...’

  Manoel’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Yes?’ he inquired politely. Barbie shot him a scowling glance and appeared to recover quite considerably in what she no doubt deemed justified annoyance.

  ‘You needn’t be so obtuse. If Laurel explained, you know quite well what I’m talking about.’ She stuck her small chin out pugnaciously. ‘It’s all Mother’s idea. I wouldn’t chase a man for anything.’

  ‘Pequena, you would not know how to if you tried,’ Manoel laughed. ‘You need have no worries. I know the situation well. Don’t you think that I have parent troubles of my own?’

  ‘Do you?’ Barbie gave him a wondering glance. ‘You mean that your parents do it too?’ she asked unbelievingly.

  He m
ade a negligent gesture with one slender, brown hand. ‘It seems to be the way of parents, only I do not have your courage. When it becomes too much, I jump on my yacht and run away. You manage to stay and face it.’

  Barbie suddenly grinned, as if struck by the absurdity of someone as sophisticated and worldly-wise as Manoel certainly was, in spite of his slight air of reserve and shyness, being forced to flee from parental intrigue.

  Then her gamin grin died. ‘Still, it does make things so awkward sometimes,’ she sighed. ‘I know Mother means well, but I wish she wouldn’t.’

  Manoel murmured something in Portuguese and Laurel saw the younger girl’s lips drawn down in a return of the impish grin usually so characteristic of her.

  ‘Careful, Manoel,’ she said laughingly, in case he made any unguarded remark. ‘She understands Portuguese.’ She rose to her feet, deeming it safe to leave them now that the first hurdle of Barbie’s discomfort had been overcome. ‘I’ll go and see what’s happened to our lunch and leave Barbie to try her accent out on you,’ she added as she went out of the room, and heard Barbie say that she would not dare to as it was probably dreadful.

  Round one to Manoel, she thought, as she entered the small, compact kitchen. Mr. Paul Brenton might think that he had secured Barbie’s young heart, but he would find before long that he had very dangerous competition. Manoel might appear reserved and somewhat shy, but he doubtless had all the Latin’s inherent knowledge of how to win a girl’s love, added to which he was wise enough not to rush his fences.

  Just try to beat that, Mr. Paul Brenton! she thought in great satisfaction. Experience was one thing, but genuine love was another, of far greater power.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Laurel was arranging flowers in an earthenware vase when the telephone rang. She crossed the room and lifted the receiver. Instantly, when she recognized Stephen’s voice, her fingers tightened involuntarily on the insensate black material of the receiver.

  ‘Laurel speaking,’ she said carefully, disturbed that her reaction should be so intense, when she had thought she had herself well under control.

  ‘Good. Look, darling, I’m going down-coast this morning. Like to come?’

  His voice was everything that a fiancee’s should be and she wondered at it for a moment, until she remembered Ned mentioning that the telephonists often listened in. No doubt about it, when Stephen undertook anything, he made an excellent job of it, guarding against even gossiping telephone operators receiving the wrong impression. Partly for the same reason, but more because she was delighted at the prospect of being with him, she answered in the same tone.

  ‘I’d love to!’

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up in about fifteen minutes. We’re going by boat. Better wear shorts. Can you be ready by then?’

  ‘Easily.’

  She rang off, stood there for a moment with one hand pressed to her mouth, telling herself again and again that it was just foolishness to feel so happy, when he had only invited her to go with him for the sake of appearances.

  Nevertheless, she took particular pains with her appearance in the short time at her disposal, and at the very moment that his car drew up outside, she was standing on the step, looking young and attractive in tailored white shorts and a sleeveless blue blouse, the sun glinting on the short curls that clustered all over her head.

  Stephen himself was also wearing white shorts, and a short-sleeved white shirt that proved an effective foil for his tanned skin and black hair. He looked so attractive that she felt her heart give its usual little foolish skip that no amount of admonishment could ever control, but his grey eyes had an appraising look as they deliberately took in every detail of her own appearance.

  ‘If you make any remarks about schoolteachers, I shall slap you,’ she said, forestalling the remark she was certain he was on the point of making.

  ‘You know what happens to little girls who do that,’ he drawled, as he had once before.

  ‘I’ve been finding out,’ she retorted, ‘without having to slap you.’

  Stephen grinned and held open the car door. ‘Console yourself, my child. At least you’re still alive.’

  Too much alive, she thought grimly. Too much alive and aware of him close at her side as he slid into the driving seat and started the engine.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, deeming that a safe topic of conversation.

  ‘I’m taking some medical supplies to a small plantation down coast. There is a road of sorts, but it’s easier by sea.’

  Laurel gave him a quick, curious glance. ‘One of your own plantations?’

  He quirked one infuriating eyebrow, without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘Inquiring into my financial status already?’

  ‘No, I was not,’ she snapped crossly. ‘And I’m not even curious now.’

  ‘Really?’ He shot her a provocative side glance. ‘I thought you might want to know for this breach of promise case you were talking about.’

  Laurel held on to her temper with difficulty, telling herself that she had known quite well he would still annoy her, even if she did love him now. The only way out seemed to be to try to meet him on his own ground.

  She nodded with a contemplative smile. ‘Yes, I suppose a full statement of your financial status would be an essential exhibit,’ she agreed academically, ‘but I’m afraid your threat to make me marry you would be quite enough to deter me right from the start.’

  He was silent for so long after that remark that she at last dared a quick glance at his face, to find him smiling faintly. He chose that moment to turn his head and catch her glance and the smile grew rueful.

  ‘You pack quite a punch, don’t you?’

  ‘You asked for it,’ she told him quickly.

  He made no reply to that, but for a time concentrated on his driving as they were coming to the outskirts of Milton. Probably he personally considered he was entitled to make whatever remarks he chose without retaliation, she decided, and added to herself that she was not going to let him get away with it, whatever she felt about him. As she gazed about her, she was struck again by the Portuguese atmosphere of many of the buildings.

  ‘I sometimes forget the island was originally Portuguese, until I see some of the older buildings,’ she commented idly. ‘How was it acquired by England?’

  ‘By nothing so adventurous as fighting for it.’ Again she felt that provocative glance on her. ‘A little gold poured into Portuguese coffers acquired it as a base for trading ships. The new English governor of the island sealed the bargain by marrying old Dom Miguel’s daughter.’

  ‘And their son was Nicholas Barrington, Anthea’s favourite ancestor,’ Laurel said with a smile.

  ‘So you’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Very much so,’ she laughed. ‘Anthea would apparently like to be carried off by someone like him.’

  ‘No doubt she would,’ Anthea’s brother agreed dryly. He shot her another of those aggravating side glances. ‘What about you?’

  Despite what she had said to Anthea, she had no intention whatsoever of admitting the same thing to Stephen. She had no doubt at all that it would lay her open to some jibing remark.

  ‘He’s very much like you, except that he has red hair,’ she replied carefully, hoping that would be ambiguous enough.

  ‘Meaning that you’d play safe.’ He grinned as he swung the car into the kerb and drew up at the esplanade that fronted the harbour. ‘I’m surprised you agreed to come this morning, knowing my ancestor’s reputation.’

  ‘I can swim quite well,’ she countered demurely, and climbed out on to the footpath before he could come round to her side.

  ‘Touché!’ he acknowledged, and slammed the car door. ‘Sure you didn’t teach fencing at school, or is this the result of handling small boys?’

  ‘Could be,’ she retorted, and added daringly, ‘perhaps there isn’t much difference.’

  Stephen shot her a quizzical look. ‘I might ask you if you still think so
later on,’ he warned her as he took a wicker picnic basket and a large parcel from the back seat of the car.

  ‘I might even give you an answer,’ Laurel told him sweetly, and felt a rush of that reckless gaiety she had experienced on the first night of that mock engagement, the defiance she had known when Roberta’s cold green eyes had met hers, glittering their message of icy dislike and the challenge to get back the man she had once possessed so completely.

  She knew quite well what caused the feeling this time. The esplanade was fairly crowded and Stephen had been forced to leave his car some yards farther along from where his own yacht was moored—right opposite to a trim white hull emblazoned with the name Firebird.

  That was the yacht which had brought Roberta to Ladrana, the yacht where perhaps, even now, she watched Stephen walk away towards his own craft—but he had not asked Roberta to go with him. She had that much out of this mock engagement. It would be she, Laurel Shannon, and not Roberta, who would go down-coast with him. She had a very human desire that Roberta would be watching, but almost instantly she decided that she wished otherwise, in case the beautiful, red-haired woman spoke to them and Stephen invited her to come as well. She could not help feeling that in that event she would be the unwanted third.

  Moored alongside Stephen’s yacht she saw the slender dart of a launch, more like a speed-boat than anything else, that had brought him into the harbour on her second day in Ladrana, the day she had been hating him so much and exasperated with Ned for blindly going off and leaving her with a man she had felt her brother should have recognized as being the type she would not have been left with from choice. A little whimsically she reflected on how much her ideas had changed since that day. Now her happiest choice would have been to be left with him for always.

  There was only room for two in the powerful launch, which seemed to be all engine apart from the tiny seat space in front and a locker at the back.

  Bending down, he picked up an oilskin that was lying on the seat and handed it to her.

  ‘Better put this on. You’re liable to get wet.’

  While she drew it on, he opened the locker behind the seat and drew out a second oilskin, then placed the hamper and parcel securely in position, closed the snug-fitting door and drew on his own oilskin. The boat rocked slightly as she stepped down into it, then he had switched on the engine and it came to life with the coughing grunt of some primaeval monster awakened out of a deep sleep, then became muted to a deep, waiting throb. To her imagination it seemed to sing a song of restrained power, longing to get away from the confines of the harbour to the freedom of the sea.