Winds of Enchantment Page 10

He came in straightening the open neck of his shirt, his expression baffling, a new tired look in his eyes. Her glance flew to his temple. The rough dark hair was less tidy than usual and it dipped a little to the left of the point, partially disguising a wide strip of plaster.

  “Mr. Madden came to tell me you had been hurt, Nick.” Her eyes met his with concern. “Is it bad?”

  “I’ve had worse. Sit down, won’t you?”

  She sat on the very edge of a chair, as unrelaxed with him as she had been at the very beginning; aware that she was being held off, excluded from something private to himself. She might have been a mere acquaintance calling to enquire after his health, rather than someone who had sparred with him, hated him, and liked him on and off.

  “You look pale under your tan, Nick,” she said. “Are you in any pain?”

  “It’s good of you to sound concerned.” His smile was a baffling flicker, as though her concern hardly touched him. “I gave Madden specific orders not to go telling you about this—scratch. Well, Patricia,” he lounged against a table and surveyed the cream suit she was wearing, “how are you feeling?”

  But instead of answering the question, she said: “Nick, was it you who sent for Steve? Did you cable him to come out here?”

  “It seemed a good idea,” he replied lazily. “I thought you needed him, Pat.”

  “Did you?” Her eyes were fixed on his hard, rugged, expressionless face. “You must have wanted me off your hands a terrible lot, Nick, to go to the trouble of sending for Steve. I’m sorry to have been such a drag on you all these months. I realize that I’ve come between you and your work, but that’s all over with. I’m standing on my own feet again. I don’t know when I started to— maybe when Steve went home and it hit me, hard, that people were putting themselves out to help me and I was doing little to help myself.”

  “Pat,” he leaned sideways to a cigarette box and extracted one, his profile turned to her, “we all realized what a shock it was for you, losing Bill, clawing your way through silt and banks of mud to get to him—and then not finding him. We were only too happy to help—”

  “And I’m grateful, Nick,” she said coolly. “Sorry your plan with regard to Steve didn’t come off ... but your patient is making progress. Convalescence has started, and she’ll not be needing you for a crutch any longer.”

  He puffed a wreath of smoke and it half-concealed his eyes. “That’s excellent news, Pat. The best reward for—anything I’ve done is for you to get back to the spirited, kitten-quick Pat Brading I used to know.”

  She stood up, fingers clenched on her handbag. “I don’t think I shall ever be a kitten again, Nick.”

  “That kitten was cute—ah, well.”

  She flushed a little, pushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. “You need rest, Nick, so I’ll be cutting along. Are you sure...”

  “I’m fine,” he cut in. “Run away, child, and learn how to play again. The rains are over, the sun has broken through, and the parties are beginning. Go to them. Dance and flirt. Be happy.”

  “I’ll try,” she promised. “Goodbye, Nick. Take care.” As the days passed, she gradually regained something of her former self. Her sleep was not entirely dream-free, and sometimes very late she wandered down to the shore to gaze at the sea—the cruel sea. A diaphanous veil of moonlight lay over the bay one night, and standing all alone she was aware of an ache at her heart and wondered if she had been wrong to let Steve go out of her life.

  Well, regrets were hopeless things, and determinedly, steadily she was losing her lassitude and welcoming the spirited warmth of the sun.

  The house was distempered inside and out. The boys set to work repolishing the furniture and generally repairing the ravages of the last few months. Each day she took a ride on the grey filly, cantering through the casuarinas, feeling the flowing back of her youth and resilience.

  Mrs. Ewart Reynolds called at the villa. “My dear, you look so much better,” she smiled. “You’ve stayed away from us all for too long, and I’m going to remedy that. You can’t persist in missing all the fun of the season. There’s so much going on all the time, garden parties and tea dances, and soon the Governor’s Ball. I thought I’d let you know that we consider it time you were back on the invitation lists.”

  “You’re very kind.” Pat felt genuinely grateful.

  “For a start,” said Mrs. Reynolds, “will you come to my ladies only tea on Thursday?”

  Pat stilled a qualm. She must overcome this reluctance to leave her own house. “Thank you. I’d love that.”

  “And in a week or two we’ll give an informal party for you.”

  Pat said impulsively: “I wonder if you and Mr. Reynolds would come here to dinner before then?”

  When her visitor had gone, Pat smiled to herself and crossed to a wall mirror. She saw a heart-shaped face, still a bit thin but with a pink bloom curving over the cheekbones and a delicate firmness round the chin. The corn-gold hair fell silkily to the shoulders of her flowered silk dress. She flattened the tilted tip of her nose with a forefinger. A pity to have to go through the whole of one’s life with a nose like that. She grinned to herself, and was beginning to feel confident again, almost happy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PAT’S small dinner party for the Reynolds was quite a success. Ewart Reynolds was rather pompously aware of his power in Kanos society and politics. His conversation was always guarded, though tonight he seemed to have discarded caution and descended to the usual sporting level of dinner talk. Pat was pleased with him, and with herself. Later, when he brought in rubber, she realized without chagrin that there was reason in his bestowing one of his valuable evenings on the villa.

  “Miss Brading,” he said, “has Farland ever discussed with you the question of a rubber pool?”

  “I’ve heard about it,” she admitted, “but it’s hardly a matter on which he would consult me.”

  “You’re partners. Surely he’d ask your opinion? Did he tell you about the meeting we had the other day?”

  “I haven’t seen Mr. Farland for three weeks.” Her fingers played with the stem of her wine glass. “But he’s against the pool, and that’s enough for me.”

  Reynolds leaned forward confidentially. “Farland’s principles are not against it—far from it. I believe he’s refusing on private grounds—your partnership.”

  “Nick’s not a sentimentalist,” she said quickly. “But he’s an individual—not a cog. That’s probably why he finds the idea of a pool repugnant.”

  “As head of Kanos Rubber Plantations Limited he would be even more of an individual, controlling not only his own plantation but those of the whole district.” Reynolds nodded firmly. “I’m convinced that rubber can make us the wealthiest and most modern province in West Africa.”

  “Would it mean the break-up of the Farland-Brading Company?” she asked.

  “You would both retain your interest in shares, and Nick would take a salary besides.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, why are you so keen on this idea of a pool?”

  He coughed. “One motive is purely selfish. Within a couple of years I leave West Africa. I hope to settle in England, and it would be useful to have an independent income.” He paused. “My chief reason is altruistic. I agree with Nick that the lot of the West African Negro would be vastly improved by the partial elimination of private enterprise—especially in the case of rubber. If you’d seen other plantations beside your own, you’d know what I mean. Disease among the trees and appalling waste. Perhaps it’s significant that all the rubber planters, except Nick, are anxious to sell out to a combine.”

  “Why not merge them and leave out the Farland-Brading Company?” She put this question in a queerly breathless voice.

  “Because we want Farland,” was the blunt reply. “With him at the top, Kanos rubber would become famous. Will you be on our side, Miss Brading?”

  “Against Nick?”

  “With Nick.”

  She smiled. “I’ll talk to him
about it, but I doubt if my opinion will move him.”

  Reynolds became genial. “An attractive woman can always move a man, Miss Brading,” he chuckled. “Nick is no exception, surely?”

  “Nick is a power unto himself,” she replied.

  Later that night, when alone, she realized that it felt good to be back out of the shadows and warmed by other people’s liking and admiration. It was also good to feel powerful with people like the Reynolds. It cured the sense of insecurity with which she had lived too long. The fact that something she owned was coveted by the Governor’s secretary—possibly by the Governor himself—helped to restore her social balance and, in a way, her sense of humour. It was a situation which would have tickled Bill pink.

  Mrs. Reynolds went ahead with the arrangements for the small dinner party she had promised to give for Pat. It was easy, now, to see why she was taking so much trouble, but Pat was not ungrateful. The long, sad months alone at the villa had bred in her a faint distaste for its beauty and luxury, and she knew this would pass the quicker if she sought a fresh background, among people. She did not yet feel up to large-scale entertaining. Perhaps the strangest of her new reactions was a disinclination to meet Nick.

  One morning she put on linen slacks and a shirt and sauntered through the casuarinas to the beach. A haze shimmered over the water, muting the brilliance of the islands and banishing the skyline. By comparison the nearby palms and the bleached sand, the opalescent edge of the sea and the burnished bodies of the natives were strikingly vivid. She turned and surveyed the city, white and emerald in its halo of dark jungle, and a curious pleasure knotted between her chest and throat.

  She continued her walk along the beach to the river mouth. A few natives were unloading produce from the hinterland. Clay pots and beaten metal boxes, grass mats, gourds and fibre hardware. She remembered the bright glory of the first morning when the rubber boats tied up.

  As if in completion of her thoughts a faint rumbling attracted her up on the road. Soon the convoy came in sight, ten lorries packed tight with the creamy layers of rubber, each taking the bend to the sea road in a squelchy, marshy curve.

  Pat returned to the villa, a little afraid of the pleasure that ran warm in her heart, but thankful, too.

  Pat felt a faint uneasiness as she dressed for the dinner party at the Reynolds’. A smallish gathering could be more of an ordeal than a ball, but she was relying on her hostess’s good taste in the way of guests to help her through. With riding and fresh air her cheeks and arms had tanned a light gold and she did not hesitate to wear the new white dress embellished at the shoulders and corsage with brilliants. But she was not entirely content as she drove along to the Boulevard. At the back of her mind was a niggling fret that she could not pin down.

  The Reynolds’ house was next in size to the Governor’s Residence. It was saved from square ugliness by a circlet of palms and a charming front terrace across which, tonight, streamed primrose light from the windows and doors of the reception room. Pat regarded them with lifting spirits. Those lights meant that later many more guests were expected for dancing.

  She was greeted warmly and given a cocktail in a small room adjoining the dining-room. The half-dozen others already there drew her into their conversation, the men instantly attentive. In a while Pat found herself seated at the dinner table between Mr. Reynolds and an empty chair, till one young officer, with his hostess’s permission, dodged round the bank manager and filled the vacancy. It was a merry meal and, for Pat, tinged with the excitement of male admiration and feminine glances.

  Later, when games and dancing began, she slipped out to the terrace and breathed in the night scents. She leaned on a rail, half frightened of the melting delight that filled her body.

  A car door slammed and her head turned swiftly towards the drive. She knew the big striding figure, the lithe ease with which the man leapt the steps. He threw a brief look at her, carried on for a few paces, then twisted suddenly and approached her.

  “Well, Nick?” she said quietly.

  He came quite close and looked down at her. His teeth flashed in a quick smile. “I wondered who it was alone out here. Come to the light of the window and let me look at you. Is the blush for me?”

  Her smile flickered at him. “It isn’t a blush. I’m glad to see you, Nick.”

  “You could have asked me to dinner some time.”

  “I’m sorry. It had to be like that for a while. You know too much about me.”

  His voice lowered. “You’re quite wrong. I’m entirely unacquainted with this new creature. Do you feel as good as you look?”

  “I feel splendid but a little afraid. You haven’t minded, Nick, that I’ve been distant?”

  “You said you would be, and I always respect a lady’s wishes.” He spoke quizzically. “I hear you ride now and again with a young officer.”

  “Yes. Peter’s nice.” She caught his keen glance. “Come in and have a drink.”

  Immediately they entered the room Peter was at her elbow. “This is our dance, Pat,” he said eagerly.

  Nick turned down his mouth in a mocking smile. She tilted her chin at him and turned with willowy grace into Peter’s arms. After their waltz, she glided demurely with other men. At midnight she took a drink with Doctor and Mrs. Piers. As the music began for the final dance she felt the empty glass taken from her fingers and a hand upon her wrist compelling her out on to the floor. A steely arm closed round her.

  “It’s usual to ask,” Pat murmured.

  “But more satisfactory to take. I’m driving you home, too.”

  “I came in my own car.”

  “I’ve sent John away.”

  “You’re being very masterful, Nick.”

  “You’re being the Honey Brading of the old days. Congratulations on winning your battle.”

  “Thank you, Nick. Did your head heal up all right?” Her glance lifted to his temple and she saw the white edge of a scar. “You’re a trifle battle-worn yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Is it beginning to show?” he drawled. “The worn look?”

  She studied him, then smilingly shook her head. “You’ll always look the same, tough, teak-brown, master of your own destiny.”

  “It’s good to be that way. You don’t get hurt—or hurt other people. Tired, honey?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I seem to be carrying both of us. Don’t stiffen. I can take it.”

  She laughed vexedly. “I have been dancing rather a lot—for a beginner,” she acknowledged. “Sorry you got the left-overs of the vitality I came with.”

  “I’m not,” his grin was wicked. “It’s pleasant to have you leaning on me and not resenting my shoulder for once.”

  She immediately drew her head away, and heard him laugh deep in his throat. Still the old enigmatic Nick—unchanging, as she had said, in looks and outlook.

  Half an hour later she sank into the front seat of his car, grateful for the cool night air.

  “You’re a member of the Kanos society now,” he said, as they started to move down the road. “Did you know that your name is on the list for the Governor’s Ball?”

  “Mrs. Reynolds said so—but they want something in return.”

  “Most kindness is like that, but you might as well have the fun—however you get it.”

  “Mr. Reynolds wants me to persuade you into the rubber pool.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t presume. The rubber’s yours...”

  “Ours. Did he explain that the pool means the end of Farland-Brading?”

  “Only the name. He seemed to think that you agreed with the merger in principle.”

  Nick speeded, and said no more till he had pulled in outside the villa. He moved and she laid a hand on his sleeve. “Don’t come in, Nick—not tonight.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask it here.”

  He turned and met her eyes. “Have you thought any more about going home?�
��

  “No—no, I haven’t.”

  “If I asked you to go, would you?”

  She glanced down at her twisting fingers. “It would depend on your tone and manner. Where Africa’s concerned you’re wiser than I am. But I feel so much better and I still haven’t had a fever. I—don’t want to go home, Nick.”

  She heard him take a long breath. “Well, there’s Reynolds’ answer. Farland-Brading stays—for a while, at any rate.”

  “Goodnight, Nick.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “If you like. I ride most mornings.”

  “I’ll be up for you at about nine. And don’t date up with the dashing army officer for the evening—that’s mine, too.”

  They dined alone at Winterton Terrace. Coffee was served in the lounge near the door that opened on to the veranda and, so as not to attract the pests, the light was out. Nick had pulled round the divan, and he sat beside her, long legs thrust out in front of him, the fingers of one hand inserted into the top of the black cummerbund about his waist. For a long time they smoked in silence. Then Nick flicked his cigarette stub across the veranda and into the bushes below.

  “Well, Patricia,” he drawled, “are they worth a penny—or more?”

  “I was thinking about—Steve,” she admitted.

  He scarcely moved, yet a tension had sprung between them. “Why?”

  “I treated him badly. What must he be thinking of me?”

  “Does it matter? He had his chance and mishandled it.”

  “I made him unhappy,” she said.

  “He’s probably got over that by now.” Nick’s tone took an edge. “You’re not in love with him again, are you?”

  “I haven’t considered it that way yet.”

  “Then I shouldn’t if I were you. He couldn’t stand Africa, and you say you don’t want to go home. You’re growing up, Patricia. Getting as perverse as all females.”

  “How that must irritate your one-track mind,” she said, with a touch of mischief. “Seriously, Nick, I feel I ought to write to Steve.”