Stormy Haven Page 5

  “For Pete’s sake! This is no place for you—there’s a sale on.” Stephen firmly took her arm and marched her across the road to the shade of a tree. “Don’t tell me you’re shop gazing again.”

  “No. Just strolling. Port Fernando is so fascinating.”

  He was sharply examining her face. “You’re pale. Had a fright?”

  She smiled, for the first time today. “Of course not I’m always pale.”

  “Not so pale as this, and you’re tired as well. What is it—a hangover from the heavy dinner date?”

  “You get to know everything, don’t you,” she said.

  “Not quite. I happened to dine at the Miramar last night with Colonel and Mrs. Davidson.”

  “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Why should you? The black, passionate eyes of Ramon were much nearer,” he said indifferently. “Come and have some tea.”

  “I ought to go back to the hotel.”

  “All right. We’ll have tea there.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were in the corner of the hotel lounge, and Melanie was pouring from a flowered china pot. Automatically she added cream and two lumps of sugar to Stephen’s cup before placing it near him.

  “I don’t take cream,” he said.

  “I remember now. Have mine.”

  “I’ll brave it.” He rested back in his chair, regarding her shrewdly. “Feeling the heat?”

  “Don’t stare at me as if I were a monkey in a cage. The tea was your suggestion.”

  “You didn’t answer. Are you feeling the heat?”

  “No, I’m not.” She couldn’t explain that she was weary from Elfrida’s tantrums, worried about Mr. Jameson.

  “There’s nothing bothering you?” he persisted.

  “You’re doing a spot of bothering.”

  She saw his mouth compress with incipient anger, and felt even worse than before. What did she expect of Stephen? Soft phrases, a brotherly arm about her shoulder and a secure repository for her troubles? He just wasn’t that type.

  “Have a cigarette,” he said coolly. “It may steady those hot nerves of yours.”

  For several minutes nothing was said between them. Stephen’s next remark was disconcerting. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  After a few seconds she said, “You prefer to be disliked. It gives you good grounds for disliking in return.”

  “You’re mixing up dislike with distaste. I do have rather an antipathy for the callow and naive, and I’m not very tolerant of fools. But I admire intelligence, and I’ve never yet refused to help anyone. You might keep that in mind.”

  She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, cast him a quick look. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll get through.”

  His shoulders lifted, the high-bridged nose drew in slightly at the nostrils. “Please yourself. But if you get into a romantic tangle with the young Spaniard you’ll find it a hell of a job to wriggle clear again.”

  “I won’t get into a tangle. Ramon is a friend, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure that’s his viewpoint, too?”

  “I don’t see what it matters whether it is or not.” She was impatient of the topic and annoyed to find that her throat was rough and salty, as if with tears. It was an unpleasant and unfamiliar sensation. She didn’t intend to drop a tear in front of Stephen, though.

  “You’d better assume the obedient smile,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Elfrida has just come into the lounge.”

  He pushed up out of his seat and signaled, brought forward another chair. Elfrida reached them, tall and slender in a swinging black skirt and a matt-white blouse that swathed her closely and was caught together at her breast with a large brooch of opals and seed pearls; her smooth, creamy cheeks and long brow showed no signs of this morning’s migraine.

  She sent a brief, spearlike glance from Melanie to Stephen and moved her thin red lips in a smile.

  “Will you have some tea?” Stephen asked.

  “They brought mine to my room. Didn’t Melanie tell you I was up there?”

  “No, but I guessed you were.” He offered cigarettes, winked mockingly at Melanie when she politely declined. “I met this child in town and brought her home. I was coming here anyway at about cocktail time. There’s a bit of a show on tonight—Indian juggling and dancing. I thought we three could have dinner and go along to see it.”

  In spite of her preoccupation Melanie’s eyes brightened. “Indian dancers! I’d love that.”

  “But it wouldn’t be wise for you to go,” said Elfrida. “You were out late last night, and you’re dark under the eyes. I think you should have a light dinner in your room and go to bed early. Don’t you, Stephen?”

  “Maybe. Don’t look so dashed, Melanie. There’ll be other nights.”

  Elfrida inhaled and tapped away ash. Having reversed the order of things for tonight as compared with last night, she was disposed to be expansive. But apparently Melanie was definitely in the way. “If you’ve been sightseeing you’ll need to tidy up, my dear,” she murmured casually.

  Melanie left the lounge with her head averted. She knew that neither her cousin nor Stephen had any inkling of the hurt they had inflicted. She thought of Stephen’s taunting gray eyes and felt her heart move uncannily. She was plunged into a desperate unhappiness that seemed as unreasonable as it was sudden. All because Elfrida wouldn’t let her go with them to see the dancers, she told herself. How utterly absurd.

  That evening she went to bed early, and being young and exhausted she slept soundly. It wasn’t too easy to listen docilely to Elfrida’s languid description of the dancing and feats of Eastern magic next morning, but the hours passed and Ramon turned up as if by accident to lunch. He bore an invitation to the Perez villa that Elfrida, upon learning that there would be other guests from the upper ranks of Port Fernando society, accepted.

  A couple of days passed before she referred again to the plantation.

  “I’ll go over alone on Saturday,” she said in hard tones. “I’ll take some time because I shall have to examine the accounts. In my opinion a plantation on Mindoa should do splendidly—anything grows here. If I discover that Jameson has been underhand I’ll take him to the civil court.”

  Before Saturday came around, however, something happened. On Thursday evening Elfrida was dusting specks of powder from her green cocktail suit and Melanie was rearranging the pots and jars on the dressing table, when one of the messenger boys knocked at the door.

  “Memsahib.” He jerked a bow at Elfrida. “There is a sahib to see you. He waits in the small private room at the end of the lounge.”

  “A man? Did he give a name?”

  “His name is Mr. Jameson.”

  Elfrida stared at him, then abruptly told him to go. She twisted, and Melanie saw that her whole face had tightened with an icy rage.

  “Jameson!” She swept up a lace handkerchief from the bedside table, walked purposefully and regally to the door. “So he has the nerve to come here. He’s heard of my arrival and decided to ingratiate himself. Well, we’ll see!”

  The door thudded. Melanie, rooted in the center of the room, gave a shiver of foreboding.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN ELFRIDA SAILED into madame’s private sitting room, Henry Jameson had his back to her. He was studying a Mogul miniature on the wall. The glass door, heavily veiled with lace curtaining, snapped shut behind her, and he turned to survey her with the same speculative appraisal that he had given the miniature. Had she been less angry she would have recognized his calm as something threatening, almost deadly.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Paget,” he said, and gestured toward an armchair. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Mr. Jameson. In fact, I resent your coming here unasked. I intended to drive out to the plantation on Saturday.”

  “I’ve saved you the trouble.” Uncompromising and even, his voice went on, “You’d better sit down. What I have to say may take a little time.”

&
nbsp; “What you have to say! No doubt you’ve concocted a string of glib excuses, but I want facts.”

  “You’re going to get them. Sit down.”

  She let out a short, furious breath, dragged one of the straight-backed chairs from its place against the wall and sank onto it. He hitched his trousers and lowered himself to the center of a long sofa. There was no air of command about him, none of the dominance that was characteristic of Stephen; only a quiet doggedness of purpose.

  “You know why I’ve come to Mindoa?” she asked.

  “I have a pretty good notion. Your income has dwindled; I might say it’s petered right out.”

  “You dare to speak to me like that!”

  “I always think that frankness pays dividends.”

  “So you’ve decided to be insolent!” Her teeth snapped and she whitened. “Brazenness won’t pay dividends, Mr. Jameson. My husband created the plantation, worked at it till it produced wonderful results. Even after his death the profits were good … the profits from his endeavors, not yours. I dread to imagine what has happened to the ground he cleared and planted.”

  “You needn’t. The whole estate is in excellent shape—quite as good as the best on the island.”

  This pulled her up for a second. “If that’s true, what have you been doing with the money. For the past two years you’ve ignored my demands for a statement and details of crops and sales. I have actually had to go to the expense of a trip from England to find out just what your game is.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I’ll see it’s put right financially. That’s the part that stings, isn’t it?”

  Elfrida sprang up. In the molded green suit she had a feline beauty. Her eyes glittered at him, her mouth worked. Henry Jameson remained seated, watching her.

  “John told me you were beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful and without a heart.”

  “Get out,” she flung at him. “I’ll instruct a lawyer to deal with you.”

  Unmoved, he replied, “If you’ve finished I’ll give you the story—the bit of it that you’ve never known.”

  The tip of a pink tongue stole out to moisten her lips. She was shaken by his immobility but kept her outward composure. Slowly, she settled again in the chair. He bent forward with his arms along his thighs; his features jutted, all angles.

  “I was John’s friend for many years—long before he knew you. I managed a plantation at Carimari on the other side of the island, and when he bought land he and I planned it together. I’m not taking credit that’s due to him—there never was a worker like John. The plantation prospered amazingly and prices were so good that he eventually took a vacation to England and left me to run things. As soon as he had met you he wrote that his return to Mindoa was improbable, and that he would like me to manage the estate permanently. “Well,” he took an interest in the toes of his shoes, “I was newly married myself and circumstances prevented my accepting his proposition.”

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “John was your husband, wasn’t he? That makes it your business. Besides, it has a bearing on what came after.” He was looking at her again from under straight, shaggy brows. “I found a young man who knew a little about planting and was forced to leave him to it. My wife was ailing and I had to take her to a European specialist. We were away for eighteen months, and when I got back John’s land was in a sorry condition. I let him know at once, and some while after that he came back. And here’s an item he should have told you, but wouldn’t; he arrived here incurably ill.”

  Elfrida took a long and rather unsteady breath. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true enough. There’s a doctor here who will prove it.”

  “Why didn’t you write to me about it?”

  “John wouldn’t have it. He said that you and he were estranged, that you wouldn’t care a damn if he did die.”

  “That wasn’t so. I’d have come to him.”

  “Would you?” The query was put softly and needed no answer. “You don’t enjoy this raking up of the past, do you, Mrs. Paget? I’m afraid you’ll care even less for what’s to come. You see, John was in no state of health to work, so I gave up my job, and my wife and I went to live with him on the estate. I offered to go into partnership with him, but he knew he hadn’t long. He was still in love with you and fretted about leaving you penniless. At last he consented to sell out to me.”

  “To sell out?” she echoed stupidly. This was incredible. Jameson the owner of the plantation! Jameson in the position of power and herself a ... a pauper? It wasn’t possible. “Are you implying that John was fool enough—”

  “I’m not implying anything.” From his pocket he extracted a bulky envelope that he placed on the table between them. “In there are sworn copies of all the documents. We engaged an independent valuer and abided by his statistics. It was agreed that the purchase price be paid in four installments, half-yearly, and sent to you as normal income. That idea was John’s. I didn’t really agree with it, but he thought that within two years you would have married again.”

  Elfrida sat aghast. It must be true. This man couldn’t lie; he was another like John, plodding, transparently honest, sincere to the point of fanaticism. For years she had lived in a lunatic heaven, boasted of possessions that did not exist, wasted money on people who would have no use for her without it. She had chanced her last few hundreds on a final throw, but the well-endowed men of the Riviera already had wives, and the rich of Mindoa were transients, on their way elsewhere. Except Stephen. He wasn’t overloaded with wealth, but he had plenty, more than John had ever had. He was handsome, too, and in his thirties. Sometime, surely, she would pierce his impregnability. But meanwhile ... what?

  “Four installments,” she said mechanically. “But John has been dead for more than three years. What about the last payments you made—one of five hundred pounds, and two of three hundred?”

  “You were John’s wife and you hadn’t remarried. I could afford those.”

  Elfrida choked. “You were being charitable—had the audacity to send me your own money.”

  “I did it for John,” he told her flatly. “I promised him that with the final installments of those four I would send you a letter setting out how matters stood and enclose these documents. Well, by then I had a few things to be grateful for in my own domestic life and I put off giving you ill news. Apparently I put it off too long.”

  She jumped to her feet, ranged to the window and back again. “I won’t be in your debt. You can keep your virtuous sentiments and your donations. According to you, I owe you eleven hundred pounds. I’ll pay it back!”

  “Now, look—” he, too, was standing “—I didn’t come here to argue with you but to clear up this business. In my opinion the plantation was worth every pound I’ve sent you. Let’s leave it there.”

  Her lip curled. “Saintly sort of creature, aren’t you, but I’m not ripe for conversion. I had enough of John’s priggishness. I want nothing more to do with you or your type. Now go!”

  It seemed as if he had more to say; obviously he loathed to quarrel with a woman. But she stood aloof from him with her teeth tight and nostrils dilated, as bitter-looking a woman as he had ever seen. So he shrugged, inclined his head in farewell, and went out.

  Melanie saw him before he saw her. She was leaning against a pillar, her hands behind her on its cool plinth, and with some apprehension she was wondering what would be the outcome of Elfrida’s interview with Henry Jameson. When he came out she instinctively pressed back in an attempt to merge into the whiteness of the pillar. But his head turned sharply her way and the next instant he had diverted his footsteps.

  “Hello,” he said. “I hoped I’d see you again. Are you distressed about your cousin?”

  “A little. Where is she?”

  He nodded back over his shoulder. “In there somewhere and not too chirpy. I brought her bad tidings.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “Elfrida migh
t not wish me to know.”

  A smile lessened his gauntness. “You’re a Paget all right, which is more than she is. It beats me how you ever came to join up with her.”

  “She’s been kind to me—given me a home, brought me here.”

  “That sort of business is easy when the money flows in from nowhere. Besides,” his eyes were knowledgeable, “I’ll bet she gets good measure from you in practical gratitude. But I’m rather afraid she won’t be so kind to you from now on. Will you come out one day to meet my wife?”

  “Without Elfrida?”

  “Can’t you manage it? We’ve a baby daughter just over a year old. A grand kid. My wife was fond of John and I’m sure she’d like to meet you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “If you’re ever in a fix,” he said, and allowed her to gather the rest. Briefly he clasped her hand. “Goodbye, then.” Melanie watched him slip into an unostentatious two-seater and glide away into the night. She thought, if Elfrida gets nervous again I’ll go crazy and walk right out. Right out to where? She was completely stuck, without even sufficient money to cover her fare home. Entirely at Elfrida’s mercy, for on Mindoa no white woman worked. But she didn’t want to go back to England for months yet. Port Fernando was still new and exciting and the rest of the island unexplored. Something frightening and lovely had begun and she had to see it through, find out just what it was.

  Torn by conflicting emotions, she crossed to the vestibule and made her way along the lounge to madame’s sitting room. The glass door was ajar, the room empty. She turned toward the stone staircase and went up to Elfrida’s room. It was as neat and untenanted as she had left it. She came down again to sit in a chair that commanded a view of the several doors. Guests were taking sherry and cocktails, talking over the day’s events in French and English.