Island of Secrets

by Karen Abbott

  She sighed. She’d just have to make the most of this opportunity of employment—after all, she had nowhere else to go right now. She shivered and glanced at her watch. Someone should have been here to meet her by now ... unless she had mis-heard the time? Numbers seemed to be spoken so quickly, she didn’t have time to work out the first one before more had been added.

  Twenty minutes later, thoroughly chilled and more despondent by the minute, she decided that she had better set out to make her own way to the island before rigor mortis set in. She would ask for further directions once she was across the viaduct.

  She re-hitched her rucksack onto her back, swung her hold-all over one shoulder and hooked her shoulder-bag over the other. What wouldn’t she give for a nice cup of tea!

  The viaduct seemed just like an extension of the road when she first turned her steps onto it, but as the incline began to rise steeply, her heart sank. Just how long was it? The threatened rain began to fall again before she had had reached the highest point of the viaduct ... and the rain fell in torrents. Within minutes she was soaked to the skin.

  Her steps faltered. What had happened to the sea, sun and holiday fun that had appealed to Fiona? Sea? … maybe, if she could decide where the rain ended and the sea began. Sun? … not a glimmer. And holiday fun seemed as remote as home. Grimacing ruefully she plodded on, head bent against the rain and wind.

  Very few cars had passed her.

  None stopped. It was one-lane traffic each way—and she probably looked like a half-drowned scarecrow. Enough to deter anyone who wasn’t a dedicated knight-errant, she ruefully thought.

  Then, as if to prove her wrong, a pick-up truck, travelling more quickly than seemed safe, bore down on her out of the rain. She had hardly time to press herself against the metal railings that bordered the viaduct.

  To her surprise, the truck slewed to a stop barely inches from her side, spraying the water from a puddle all over her. As if she wasn’t drenched enough already!

  “You could have killed me!” she yelled at the driver, as he reached over and opened the passenger door. “Do you always drive like a maniac?”

  “Only when I have to,” the man retorted grimly, in accented English. “Get in! We’re blocking the road!”

  Christi backed away. “Indeed not! You’re going the wrong way and I don’t know you! Anyway, from what I’ve seen of your driving, you’d likely kill us both in an instant!”

  “Stop arguing and get in! What do you imagine I might do to you?”

  He grinned disarmingly for a moment, running his glance over her soaked figure. “Though I have no doubt that you’ll look pretty good when you have dried out.”

  As she continued to press herself against the railings, glaring at him, the grin left his face and was replaced by an exasperated grimace.

  “You are Christabelle Davies, aren’t you?”

  She nodded warily, her brain slowly working out that if he knew her, then ...

  “I thought so! I have come to collect you. Swing your bags into the back and get in!”

  Christi felt foolish. How was she expected to know that madame St. Clare would send out a homicidal psychopath to meet her? And he was late!

  She tried to step forward but the weight of her bags, now drenched in rain, hampered her movements. She was cold and thoroughly soaked … and didn’t have the strength to swing her bags off her shoulders and into the back of the truck, let alone climb up into the cab. She stared miserably at the young man.

  “I … I can’t …,” she began.

  With a hasty look in his mirror and an impatient grunt, the man leapt down from his side of the cab and was at her side in seconds. He swiftly unhooked the straps from her shoulders, slid the rucksack off her back and slung her bags into the back of the truck in one fluid movement. His glance took in her wet, shivering form.

  “Turn round,” he said curtly. “I’ll help you in.”

  Before she could protest, he placed a hand beneath her trim rear end and practically lifted her into the cab. With an undignified scramble that nearly had her on her nose in the driver’s seat, Christi managed to position herself in the passenger seat.

  The man slammed the door shut and quickly returned around the front of his vehicle. He leapt in with agile ease and, before Christi had succeeded in fastening her safety belt, the truck was lurching forward. Fuming with indignity, she glared at him.

  “Do you always treat women with so little respect? I thought the French were more chivalrous than that.”

  He glanced at her briefly, before returning his gaze to the road ahead.

  “I’ll spread my cloak next time. I’m sure the driver of the large vehicle behind us would appreciate the gesture.”

  Christi looked over her shoulder through the rear glass panel. The whole space was filled by the vehicle that was riding on their tail.

  “Oh! … I’m sorry!”

  She returned her gaze to the front. Only the chattering of her teeth broke the frigid silence between them. A tentative sideways glance revealed that his clothes, all of which had seen better days, were muddy and as wet as hers. His jet-black hair hung in dripping waves over his forehead. A most peculiar smell caused her nose to wrinkle. What had he been working at?

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled again. “You’re wet, too.”

  He didn’t even glance at her. They were back on the mainland now and he was signalling to turn left across the traffic into a small side road so that he could turn round to go back over the viaduct. His manoeuvre completed, he belatedly replied, “It’s raining … or hadn’t you noticed?” His eyes were fixed on the road ahead through the blurred arc cleared by the far-from-new wipers.

  She winced at his sarcasm; then was suddenly angry.

  “I’m trying to apologise,” she snapped. “Don’t blame me because your boss sent you to pick me up! I didn’t choose the weather, you know!”

  He glanced briefly sideways at her, before returning his gaze to the road ahead.

  “I apologise. It isn’t your fault that this old truck wouldn’t start … or that I was pulled away from a collapsing ditch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  Slightly calmed, Christi attempted to smile, though she felt sure that her thin-lipped attempt looked more like a grimace. She was so cold that she could barely restrain the violent shivers that wracked her body.

  Her driver briefly glanced sideways at her. “Why didn’t you do as you were told and stay on the bus until you were on the island? I wasted valuable time making enquiries about you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to have put you out,” she tartly replied. “You can always blame me if your boss complains, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. How much nicer his olive-skinned features were. “It would not be the action of a gentleman—to blame the lady.” For a second or two his steel-blue eyes sparkled—then, his right eyebrow arched slightly, the action both sending a tingle down her spine and making her feel like a misbehaved child at one and the same time.

  “But, you don’t consider me a gentleman at all, do you?” he continued.

  Christi flushed at his accurate deduction of her assessment of him. The man was silent, his attention back on the road. She stole a glance at him. His face looked grim. He must hate having been sent out to collect her in this atrocious weather.

  Her mind suddenly caught up with what the young man had said about where she had got off the bus, trying to reconcile his words with her supposed translation of the barely-intelligible telephone conversation. “Anyway, I was told to get off the bus at Bourcefranc,” she defended her self, “so I did. The woman I spoke to said something about a castle. So I knew I was right when I saw it down there in the channel.” She indicated down to it through the side window.

  Her driver glanced sideways. “That is Fort Louvois, a look-out tower from earlier times to warn of danger of invasion from the mainland. You were told to get off the bus at Le Chateau. Th
at is the name of the town we are heading towards.”

  Christi was puzzled. “I thought chateau was the word for castle.”

  The man smiled. “It is ... but it also the name for the town—taken from le citadel that you can now see on the headland. Look.”

  Christi looked—and could see the shape of a fortification forming through the mist and rain. “Well, how was I to know!”

  The man smiled faintly at her protestation. “How indeed? You made no enquiries about the place you were about to visit?”

  Christi had the grace to look slightly ashamed. She had been too busy trying to find an alternative place to live, not leaving much time to spend researching Samantha’s chosen destination for her. She shrugged. “There wasn’t much time.”

  The man looked sceptical but Christi didn’t feel like going into an explanation about her cousin’s sudden decision to go to live in London. Nor about her previous lack of knowledge of the St. Clare family; so she kept her glance on the outline of the citadel.

  As they drove off the viaduct, she glanced sideways at the man. He had rugged features and a strong chin. She supposed some would regard him handsome, in a rough sort of way. And, when he smiled, the warmth in his eyes made her feel … what? … All woman? Her lips parted slightly at the thought and the tip of her tongue lightly moistened her lower lip.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He paused for a moment. Christi wondered if the workmen weren’t encouraged to be over friendly with family visitors—for that is what she was, really. Then he answered briefly, “Jean-Claude.”

  “Oh. I don’t know that name. How do you spell it?”

  He spelled it for her and she made a mental picture of the word, as she repeated it. “Jean-Claude,”

  She had never known anyone who was French—and yet she must be nearly as old as her great-grandmother had been when she came here during the war. Has she felt homesick? She supposed many young women as well as the hundreds of thousands of men had to leave their families to fight in the war. And many hadn’t returned.

  She involuntarily shivered ... and then couldn’t stop shivering.

  Jean-Claude glanced at her and, for an instant, his expression softened. “We’ll soon be there. You need to get out of those wet things before you catch a chill.”

  She nodded, trying to control the shivers. Maybe if they talked she would be able to stop her teeth chattering.

  “Do you work on the farm?”

  He gave her a studied look.

  “We all work on the ‘farm’, as you call it. We don’t carry passengers.”

  She supposed he was directing that remark at her ... though it was a summer job she had come out to do, wasn’t it? She hadn’t come expecting a holiday!

  “I can work,” she said sharply. “I won’t mind helping. It should be fun.”

  “I am glad you think so. You might think differently in a day or two.”

  He reached out his right hand towards her and picked up her left hand, turning it over with his roughened fingers. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers and palm.

  She snatched her hand away. His touch made her feel … what was it? Vulnerable? As if he could see into her life.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “These hands haven’t worked much up until now. What do you do for a living?”

  “This and that,” she parried. “I am trained in office-work … but I can turn my hand to other things ... anything, really.”

  She glanced out of the window. They were now were passing by a series of rectangular water-ways separated by narrow strips of land.

  “What are those?” she asked curiously, aware that she was changing the subject.

  He followed her glance.

  “Les salines? They used to be salt marshes. Now, many are used as oyster beds. It is one of the main sources of income on the island. You will be finding out more about that … if you decide to stay, that is.”

  She met his gaze briefly, before he turned away to concentrate on his driving again. If she decided to stay? She had no choice at the moment, did she?

  They were passing through a small town, its roads almost deserted—and its pavements likewise, giving it an almost derelict air. Crumbling ramparts above the working port indicated that it had been a fortified town at some point in its history.

  “This is Le Chateau,” Jean-Claude volunteered. “It isn’t usually this quiet—and in another month, we won’t be able to move for traffic and people. Once May is here, the island is no longer our own until October—but the tourists bring income and so they are welcome. They like what we have to offer—and we like the money they bring. A good partnership, yes?”

  Christi looked at him blankly.

  “I suppose so.”

  She was finding it difficult to concentrate.

  They were through the small town and now driving along by the inland coastline. The sea was grey and choppy, with foaming waves rolling up to the beach, one row after another. They did nothing to lighten her spirit. She could see a large group of tall trees ahead, with a cluster of buildings amongst them. An avenue of trees led to the road, where a large metal arch, enclosing the words, ‘Domaine de St. Clare’, spanned the entrance.

  With a grating of gears, the old truck slowed down and they swung in through the archway. At the far end of the tree-lined avenue, was a long, low cream-washed building, its walls covered by trailing ivy leaves. To the right was a courtyard, bounded on three sides by stables and other farm buildings. To the left, a stone archway, over a wrought-iron gate, led into a large garden, surrounded by more cream-washed buildings. They pulled up by the gateway.

  “Jump out and run,” her driver directed her. “I’ll get this under cover and bring in your bags … Oh, and, a propos, apart from the two youngsters, I am the only one here who speaks English. I hope your French is better than you have so far revealed!”

  Chapter Two

  It was only the desire to escape from the pouring rain that propelled Christi through the doorway and into the warm farm-house kitchen.

  Its sole occupant, a lady of middle years, leapt to her feet. Though obviously startled by Christi’s abrupt entrance, her immediate actions were of concern at the wet state of their visitor. A torrent of words tumbled forth as she drew Christi nearer to the open fire, none of which Christi understood but their meaning was clear. She was to get the wet clothes off herself at once.

  Teeth still chattering and her whole body trembling, she did as she was bidden. Where her numbed fingers were unable to function, the task was done for her. Once her outer clothes were off, a large warm towel that had been airing above the fire was placed around her shoulders.

  What blessedness! Never had warmth been so appreciated. Even her underwear was soaked. She wriggled out of her bra and hung it on the end of a huge clothes maiden that stood to one side of the fire. Amidst another volley of words, she was guided to a low fire-side stool and gently pushed downwards upon it.

  Her befuddled brain dredged the depths of her memories of her school-day French. “Merci, madame. Vous êtes tres …” What on earth was ‘kind’? It didn’t seem to matter. Within a moment or two, a cup of hot coffee was placed into her hands. She took tentative sips of the scalding liquid and eventually the internal shivers eased. As her body temperature rose, so did her spirit.

  Still clutching the hot cup in her hands, she looked around her with interest. The kitchen had a lived-in air. The open fire was flanked by cast iron ovens; beautifully carved oak panels adorned the kitchen walls and cupboard fronts; the work surfaces were of some light-coloured hard wood, worn smooth by many years of scrubbing and were pristinely clean. The windows were small, divided into even smaller panes, some with the bevelled round shape of ancient glass-manufacture. Christi found it hard to judge whether or not they would let in much sunlight on warmer days. Today, the meagre light coming through them was enhanced by a central light-fitting.

  Herbs and dried flowers hung in bunches from
ceiling hooks and burnished copper-bottomed pans cast the reflected glow from the fire and light-fitting around the walls to the corners of the room. A huge casserole dish sat on top of the stove and the smell of freshly baked bread emanated from the oven, suddenly making Christi aware of how long it was since she had last eaten.

  As if sensing the source of her interest, the woman crossed over to the oven with a folded cloth in her hands and removed a tray of golden domes of bread.

  “Avez vous faim, mademoiselle?” she asked, nodding towards the tray.

  Hungry? You bet she was!

  “Oui, madame.”

  A thick crust was already being sliced off the loaf and a liberal amount of butter deftly plastered upon it, melting immediately from the heat. Christi gratefully took it as it was offered.

  “Merci, madame.”

  At least she knew how to say thank you!

  About to introduce herself, in the hope of discovering the woman’s name, she was forestalled by a masculine voice and heavy footsteps from within the house. She was sure the voice was her driver’s. He was obviously familiar enough to be allowed free access to the house. Her bags, so wet that they dripped a trail of water across the clean floor, dangled from his hands as he stepped into the warm kitchen.

  “Salut, tante Marie.”

  He nodded towards Christi but immediately turned his attention back to the woman, who returned his greeting. A rapid conversation followed. Christi heard her name and knew that they were discussing her. Didn’t the man have the good manners to speak in English in her presence? She belatedly remembered him saying only he and the children spoke English. Hmm, she would have to hope she learned to speak some French as soon as she could!

  Jean-Claude’s lean body moved with restrained strength as he crossed the kitchen. It took all of Christi’s self-control not to wilt visibly under the intensity of his gaze.

  Determined not to show her helplessness, she thrust her chin forward. “Merci pour mes …” Oh, heavens, what was the word for luggage? “… er … mes baggages,” she adlibbed. “Vous can … er … put them there.”