Winds of Enchantment Page 9

“Well, child,” with a hint of the old mocking drawl, “everything is set for the happy ending. Don’t fool with it. Steve will do for you all that I’ve tried, and failed.”

  “How can he?” She stared at Nick.

  “You care for each other. Being together will do the rest.” He tasted his tea and shuddered. “Pass the sugar.”

  For a long time they stayed silent.

  “Nick, if I could only feel happy about his arrival,” she said at last.

  For the first time since coming in he looked directly across the table at her. “What exactly do you feel, Pat?”

  “I’m quite cold inside, Nick ... quite cold.”

  “Don’t talk rot. You need him—badly. That’s enough to start with.” He got up and came over to her chair, bent over her with determined earnestness. “I told you to hang on to me because all I thought you needed was an anchor. I was wrong. You must have someone to put in place of your father, and your mother. Apart from parents, Steve’s the closest relation you’ve ever had. He’s coming to you because he loves you—he’ll maybe help you to live again. I hope so.”

  “If I did—live again,” she said slowly, “I’d be vulnerable. Things would hurt, and I couldn’t bear that.”

  He sat on the arm of her chair and smiled, giving her shoulder a shake. “Let’s have some Brading talk for a change. Think of all the happiness you and Steve Holman have had together, through the years.”

  “I’ll try,” she said dully, “if only to relieve you of responsibility. With Steve here you won’t mind going back to Makai.”

  “Too true,” he drawled.

  Nick came for her at half past nine on Friday morning. The liner had just been piloted in and he thought it would be more than an hour before the passengers emerged from the customs shed. He stared at her critically. “Go and change your frock,” he said. “Wear blue, and tie a ribbon in your hair like you used to.”

  She caught at the back of a chair. “I can’t go with you!”

  “Afraid?” he jeered.

  “You can’t bully me into this, Nick. Please go down to the boat for me. Have a talk with Steve. Tell him...”

  “I’ll tell him nothing,” he said brusquely.

  “Nick, I beg of you—”

  “I like you better when you’re fighting me, Patricia.” He came forward and gripped her arms. “He’ll take you home to England, child. You’ll spend the summer in that cottage by the sea. There’ll be English flowers and cool winds and you’ll be back where you were a couple of years ago. Promise you’ll give it a chance, Pat. Promise.”

  “I wish I could,” she muttered. “I—I wish I could.”

  “You’re going to!” He let go of her and called to the boy to bring her sun-helmet.

  Within ten minutes he had her in the back of his car, the boy driving. They slipped along the tree-lined road redolent of damp and growth; Pat’s eyes hurt with the reflected glare of the morning sun. Houses advanced, a staid row of bungalows facing the beach; a shorter stretch of trees on one side and sand on the other. Then the wharves, gas-tarred wooden structures about which a few natives dawdled, making good the damage from a recent squall.

  The car drew in alongside the iron barrier. Fifty yards ahead, at the entrance, a small group was gathered, awaiting expected friends. Inside the yard natives heaved crates and trunks on to their shoulders and carried them out to waiting vehicles. Of the ship only the funnels and deserted upper deck were visible. The brass gleamed yellow-hot against an array of gun-metal cloud which was moving slowly in from the sea.

  “More rain,” commented Nick.

  Pat made no answer, withdrawn and pale in the nearside corner of the tourer. Nick leant forward, the better to see a thickset man and a woman come into the blinding light of the yard. A cheer went up at the barrier.

  “They’re coming out,” Nick grunted. “Look—would that be your Steve?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, that’s Steve. Are you going to bring him here?”

  “No. You’re going to meet him?’ He bent across her to open the door. “Out you get, child. It’s no use pleading—I’m not in the mood for it.” He gave her a little push and she stepped out, holding on to the door. “Good luck, Pat,” Nick said behind her.

  As she went towards Steve, she was hating Nick—hating him!

  She and Steve halted within a foot of each other. He grasped her wrists and looked down into her face, slipped his hands along her elbows and lowered his head to kiss her.

  When Steve came back with her to the car, Nick had gone and the boy had been given orders to drive Pat and her visitor wherever they wished to go. Mr. Farland was lunching with a friend.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “DON’T you mind the storms?” Steve asked.

  “They were rather alarming at first, but I’ve grown used to them. Africa’s like that,” she gave him a faint smile from her curled up position on a cane lounger, “if it doesn’t send you home within a few months you can stick it for years.”

  “Like Nick Farland,” he grunted. “What a tough proposition he is—and what a relief for both of us that he’s gone back to that plantation of his.”

  She uncurled her legs and wandered to a window, where she gazed abstractedly through the slats. “This downpour looks like lasting some time,” she said.

  “Does the lightning cause much damage?” he asked. “It strikes the palms. Their bare trunks attract it.” “Remember the night a bolt fell on Caystor Rock?”

  She nodded. “Celia screamed, remember?”

  They were silent for a few moments, as though reference to Celia made them uncomfortable, then he said quickly, “Do you really like Kanos?”

  “It’s as good as anywhere else,” Pat replied.

  “Not England—surely? The heat and damp—I find them pretty appalling.”

  “They’re Kanos,” she shrugged. “Did you expect to find small-town England in the jungle?”

  He smoked and stretched his legs. “I was too engrossed with coming to you to ponder it. Come over here and sit down, Pat. You’re so restless—you never relax.”

  She obeyed him, letting her head sink back against his shoulder and feeling his lips in her hair. Thunder crashed and echoed over the sea and the churning waves, and Pat tautened into almost a listening attitude.

  “What is it, Pat?” he whispered urgently. “What do you hear out there?”

  “Just—the storm,” she answered, and drew out of his encircling arm.

  By lunch time the weather had quietened. The sky still flickered but the thunder had rolled on over the jungle and the rain had thinned to the usual torrent of the past week. Steve fussed a bit because she didn’t seem to eat much, and insisted that she drink some of the wine he had brought from home. Before he went back to his hotel he held her in his arms.

  “Darling Pat, we need each other,” he said gently. “I so want to take care of you and make you happy again. Happiness is your natural environment, and I know we can find it together if you’ll only lean on me and let me do what I think best for you. I’ll love away the hurt and the heartbreak.” His voice shook. “My dearest girl, for both our sakes you must come home to England.”

  “I’ll see you for dinner,” she said. “Here, not at the club.”

  “All right, darling.” He put a kiss against her cheek. “I like it here best of all, the place is so lovely and pleasantly removed from everyone.”

  Pat found that the effort of making conversation with Steve demanded a lot of her. She had to restrict his visits to one a day, and that in the evening, when they could sit on the veranda and listen to the sea.

  Despite her affection for him, she saw a man thoroughly out of place in the tropics, who asked much more of her than she had the inclination or power to give.

  One evening she was sitting outside, reading while she waited for Steve to arrive for dinner. She wore a new soft green dress that Bill had ordered from England—oh, so long ago! Its moulding enhanced her youth and its gent
le folds curved over her knees, almost reaching the small white sandals crossed before her on the stone floor of the veranda.

  She heard a step on the path and raised her head. It wasn’t Steve who confronted her but Nick, tall in white drill, teak-skinned, lazy eyes roving over her green-clad figure. “Hi there,” he said.

  “Hullo.” Her smile was restrained. “Makai still flourishing?”

  He nodded, pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. “The trees are in leaf and looking marvellous, and disease among them is almost nil. How are you?”

  “How you see me.”

  “A green nymph with mysterious eyes.” His smile flickered. “I take it you’re expecting Steve any minute?”

  “Any minute,” she agreed. “Will you have a drink?” “I’ll wait and have one with Steve. When do you sail?”

  “For where?” Her eyes scanned his face. “Have you come back hoping to hear that I’m heading for England very shortly?”

  “Yes, Pat, that’s why I’ve come back. We’re partners and there’ll be legal matters to settle before you go.” His face grew stern. “Your father put in a heap of money and I can’t buy you out yet. If you’d rather sever all connections, I know someone who’ll buy your shares and pay cash, but that means my joining up with a different partner, which I don’t much fancy. Would you be willing to take a good income for a couple of years till I can pay up?”

  “I’m not going home.” She closed her book with a snap.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course you’re going.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her,” came Steve’s voice from the lounge doorway.

  The men exchanged guarded greetings and followed Pat into the dining-room. They talked horses over dinner, polo and racing.

  “That grey filly suit you, Pat?” Nick wanted to know.

  “She’s pretty nice to handle.” Pat felt moved to give him a smile. “Thank you for giving her to me.”

  “Can you find stabling for her in England?” He was gazing at the lamplight in his wine, cradling the bowl of the glass in his large brown palm.

  “Nick, I’ve told you...” She gave him a glare. “Why will you persist...”

  “All right, child, quieten down.” His eyes flashed to meet hers. “And finish your sweet, it’ll help fatten you up.”

  He left as soon as dinner was finished, and Steve remarked that he didn’t seem to spend a lot of time at the plantation.

  “The rubber comes through just the same,” she said. “Nick’s got everything well organized up there.”

  Steve suggested a drive along the sea road to the river mouth, and she went to fetch, a wrap. Beyond the harbour, as they drove, the marsh spread silver and shining in the moonlight. When Steve stopped the car, he slipped an arm round her. “We’ll do this in Devon,” he whispered. “Our own red cliffs and green headlands. Bathing in the moonlight and making wreckwood fires on the beach.”

  He drew her even closer, and sudden, inexplicable pain filled her heart. “Don’t, Steve!” She pushed him away.

  “I’m sorry.” He straightened behind the wheel. “I love you, Pat—but you’ve changed towards me, haven’t you?”

  A few minutes passed before she replied slowly: “I’m not the Pat Brading you knew at Caystor. Surely you can see that?”

  “I know you could be my Pat again—if I took you away from this place.”

  “Oh, let’s be honest, Steve,” she pleaded. “You know I could never again be the girl you were in love with. Try to forgive me, Steve. Go home and forget me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking!” he exclaimed. “I can’t leave you here all alone, grieving for your father, not wanting the happy things, like singing and dancing—and loving. Pat, your father has been dead for months. He wouldn’t want you to go on like this.”

  “I loved him,” she said dully. “I saw him die, and love died in me. I’m sorry, Steve.”

  After that there was little more for either of them to say. Pat turned her head away from him, and a few minutes later he started the car.

  Steve gave up all attempt at making love to her and tried hard to regain the old footing of banter and brotherly affection.

  Then about this time, and it came as an intense shock to Pat, Cliff Grey, not yet thirty, suffered a heart attack and died alone in his house on the shore. Barker brought the news to Pat before Nick could intervene, and that evening when he arrived with Steve the villa was in darkness but for the pale radiance of a lamp turned low in the lounge. As they entered a boy brought a light into the hall.

  “Is Miss Brading in the lounge?” Nick asked quickly.

  “Yas, massa,” the boy nodded amiably. “Missy there on divan.”

  Nick strode into the room, and there she was, her face partly dug into a blue cushion, her pale hair fanning round her. She didn’t move when Nick touched her shoulder. He bent over her, while Steve stood helplessly watching. “Honey Brading,” Nick said quietly, “this is your old sparring partner. D’you hear?”

  She turned her head and looked at him with big, empty amber eyes. “They’re all going, one by one, Nick,” she said huskily. “Bill—now Cliff. Poor Cliff. So unhappy.”

  “He’s a little happier now, my dear.” Nick pressed the tousled hair back from her hot forehead. “How long have you been lying here like this?”

  “Since Barker came with the news.” She gave a sad little sigh. “He was so young—I believe he died of a broken heart.”

  “Pat,” Nick sat down sharply beside her and caught at her shoulders. He gave her a determined shake. “Snap out of this, child, or I’ll give you that spanking I once promised. People don’t die of broken hearts. Cliff Grey misused his with too much liquor. Do you hear me?”

  “Farland, don’t shout at her,” Steve said angrily. “The poor kid has had a shock.”

  “Pour her a peg of whisky,” Nick crisped, “Hurry, man.”

  Nick forced her to drink the whisky, then he went and got a coat, wrapped her in it and, along with Steve, took her back to Winterton Terrace for dinner. He drove her back to the villa well after midnight, and it wasn’t until the following morning that she learned he had spent the night in a chair on the landing near her room.

  He was gone when she got up; it was one of the boys who told her about his vigil, there in that cane armchair, smoking cigarettes through the night.

  The rains were ending early, and the beach resumed its air of unrestrained bustle. Loaded surf-boats negotiated the banks to the bar and back again. An endless string of carriers plied between sheds and the boats, their ebony skins glistening with sweat, their chant mingling pleasantly with the fluid lisping of the sea.

  Kanos was regaining its magic. Gardens became flooded with purple and scarlet bougainvillaea. Trees, leaning from recent squalls, drooped ranches heavy with leaf and blossom. Houses sprang white and sparkling from fresh coats of distemper, their roofs jade set in a metal sky. Beyond the city the jungle swarmed up, lustrous and living.

  Steve appealed again to Pat to come home with him to England. “I’m going home, quite definitely, on the next boat,” he told her one evening. “Please go with me, Pat.”

  “Where’s home?” she asked, tilting her head.

  “England—Devonshire. Don’t make me go without you.”

  “This is my home—this villa here in Kanos.” Pat faced him, and stood unmoved when he caught her to him and forced a kiss upon her lips.

  “You didn’t even feel that, did you?” he spoke defeatedly.

  “No, Steve. I didn’t feel a thing.”

  It was eight days to the next boat, and during that time he did not return to the villa. His boat sailed at noon on the Friday. Pat heard the last blast on the siren as the ship headed into the bay. Steve had gone ... and it was as though he had never been here.

  It was just after nine that evening when Nick’s car pulled into the drive. He came in, his mouth compressed into a straight line. “So you sent him away,” he said harshly. “The man y
ou said you cared for.”

  “Love changes, or dies, or doesn’t get born at all,” she said. “Steve hated it here in Africa, and I no longer belong to the life he’s going back to. It’s as simple as that, Nick.”

  “You have to live on here with a memory, huh?”

  “I—I couldn’t possibly leave here—for anyone.” Her eyes had gone dark in her pale face. Then she said diffidently: “You stayed here, Nick, the night after Cliff Grey died. I’m grateful.”

  “You dream about Bill, don’t you?” Nick’s face was a hard mask there in the lamplight.

  A faint spasm compressed her features. “Sometimes,” she said.

  “I looked in on you, that night I stayed here. You called me Bill.”

  “Did I?” She gazed at him in perplexity. “How funny. You’re not a bit like Bill—though you think like him.”

  “You’re groping in the dark after Bill, my dear, and he isn’t there any more. He never will be there.”

  A few days later Nick drove back to Makai.

  She didn’t get to hear about the accident up at the rubber plantation until Nick was brought back to Kanos by Madden for proper medical treatment. A tree had been badly felled and Nick had received a nasty blow on the head. Madden called in to see Pat on his way back to Makai.

  “Nick didn’t want you to know, Miss Brading,” he said. “But I thought you should be told. He was knocked unconscious, you see, and we thought he must have concussion.” Madden then broke into a slow grin. “The doctor said he was too hard-headed for that, but he’s been stitched up and is resting at Winterton Terrace.”

  When Madden had gone, Pat changed her dress and told the boy to get out the car. Ten minutes later she was driving quickly to Nick’s house. The houseboy opened to her knock and took her hat. He would tell his master she was here. She scribbled a note: “Nick, please don’t send me away.”

  The boy returned and led her into the lounge. She looked round at the grey furniture and wine-red cushions, recalling vividly that first time she had come here—then he had been hurt. He and Bill had got into a fight...