Eclipse

Eclipse Lynne Pemberton A sparkling saga from the author of Platinum Coast.Lucinda Frazer-West: daughter of Lord Nicholas and Lady Serena, a young actress with a glittering future beckoning.Luna Fergusson: daughter of West Indian businessman Royole, reluctantly accepted by his wife Caron, and developing a high-flying business career.Two successful young women, unaware of the bond that links them. They are twins, the product of a one-in-a-million biological chance, following a liaison between Serena and Royole: twin sisters, one white, one black.Now, twenty-seven years later, events are destined to bring them together, and to unmask the secret of their birth. LYNNE PEMBERTON Eclipse Dedication (#ulink_7db415a4-24cc-5767-926c-5f615d8b14e5) To my husband Mike, who made dreams possible, all My Love. Contents Cover (#u2554838a-4ba6-5a12-84bc-e7c4aefad470) Title Page (#uf16df021-78d7-5e01-8381-804b266e8f5c) Dedication (#u84d5ac3a-a0b3-5e5e-9e6f-3fda68289d32) Book One (#ub3ffc18a-4e3e-55b0-8999-b75ce9e827a0) Chapter One: PORT ANTONIO, JAMAICA. JULY 1966. (#uf629622f-4231-5f05-9c0a-33b4fcd68917) Chapter Two (#uf70328b7-3398-5b31-a50e-65a47039088d) Chapter Three (#ubc532975-685b-5a1a-881a-94ba538e4fde) Chapter Four: ENGLAND, MARCH 1967 (#udd400784-937d-58c3-8a9d-81eec3d9c4ce) Chapter Five (#u520e6033-e4ed-543e-a6cc-2d08efc07e68) Chapter Six (#u474f61bf-c7ef-5a37-9dc1-0e50fca41c0a) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Book Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine: CAYMAN ISLANDS 1980 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Book Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen: LONDON 1993 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen: PELHAM CRESCENT, SW7, 1994 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen: NEW YORK CITY (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen: JUNE 1994 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen: THREE MONTHS LATER (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) Praise (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Book One (#ulink_31391d9b-07ae-5577-b346-4c71f37485d1) Chapter One PORT ANTONIO, JAMAICA. JULY 1966. (#ulink_c371c1cd-6059-5b27-a9b4-90dbd0dead73) A shiver ran through her as the wind outside rose to an agonized howl, rattling the shutters on the chalkstone house with a ferocity that threatened to rip them off their hinges. The storm had begun. Feeling relatively secure inside the drawing room of the sturdily constructed beach-house, Lady Serena Frazer-West was quite enthralled by the prospect of experiencing a Caribbean storm first-hand. Overcome by curiosity, she carefully prised open a tiny gap between the louvres of the floor-to-ceiling shutters and, bending forward, strained her eyes to see through the blanket of dark silver rain. She had never seen such a downpour. A solid sheet of water was teeming out of a sky the colour of charcoal. Serena remembered the first time she had come to Jamaica on her honeymoon two years previously. It had been raining then. A flicker of a smile crossed her face as she recalled the three-hour drive across the island from Kingston the capital, to the sleepy little town of Port Antonio. She had laughed, and Nicholas had complained loudly, when they had been squashed into the back of a broken down Morris Minor with four pieces of luggage, and a box of rotting paw-paw belonging to the chattering driver. As the old car approached the rushing Rio Grande, the sun had made its first appearance over the top of the soaring blue mountains. Submerging the lush green valley in a translucent pinkish light. The avenue of flamboyant trees lining the roadside, rain dripping from their tightly packed blossoms, had reminded Serena of a mass of scarlet umbrellas. It was a sight she’d never forgotten. Now the wind was roaring across the island at more than eighty miles per hour, driving the rain violently, soaking everything in its path. And with it came a veil of mist which seemed to hang over the ground, covering the huge Cannonball tree at the foot of the garden in a ghostly cloak. Serena’s eyes travelled across the covered terrace, then down the garden path, littered now with fallen branches, and on to the dark sea beyond. Through the gloom she caught sight of a huge wave, almost the same height as the ubiquitous coconut palms. Within seconds, it had smashed a small fishing boat to smithereens, the splintered fragments whirling on a great gust of wind before being swallowed up by the blackness of the sky. Serena was fascinated. She found the untamed beauty of the storm exhilarating and the wildness of the scene stirred her senses. How could she know that for the rest of her life she would always look back on this day, thinking that if it hadn’t been for the storm things would have been so different. Suddenly an involuntary gasp exploded from her lips when, stretching on tiptoe to scan the far side of the garden, she spotted something or someone moving behind the thick trunk of a date palm. A figure stumbled out into the open. It was a man, his shirt flapping wildly like the wings of some huge prehistoric bird. As the full force of the wind hit him he dropped on to his belly and with his head curled into his chest, he crawled across the sodden ground towards the shelter of the house. Serena shared his discomfort, afraid for him, as she watched his painfully slow progress. Every few yards he was forced to lie flat, covering his head with his hands as meagre protection from flying branches and other debris. As he drew nearer he seemed to shout for help, but his voice must have been lost in all the chaos. She snapped out of her state of mental paralysis and jolted herself into action, running across the large drawing room, down two wide steps and into an internal courtyard that led to the hall. She could hear the stranger’s muffled shouts as she flung open the heavy wooden door. He was slumped against the stone wall of the covered walkway which crossed the front of the house. Staring at him, speechless, she noticed how his broad chest heaved as he turned to face her. He was panting. Unable to take her eyes off the man it suddenly struck Serena that she must look totally stupid, standing there gaping. But just as she was about to say something, a particularly ferocious gust of wind lifted him and hurled him forward. She raised her hands to ward him off but the heavy weight of his body fell clumsily, crashing into her right shoulder. She cried out as her ankle twisted and she slid to the floor. A second later the man was kneeling beside her, his strong hands cool on her bare shoulders. She could smell his wet clothes and a musky aroma coming from his skin, or was it his hair, she wasn’t sure which. ‘Are you OK?’ His voice was very deep. A sharp pain shot through her ankle. It hurt like hell but Serena forced herself to suppress her tears. ‘It’s not much, I don’t think.’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘Let me look at it,’ he said, gently lifting her right foot. Supporting her ankle with one hand, he tenderly ran his fingers over her skin, delicately searching for any signs of serious damage. Closing her eyes, Serena sat very still whilst he completed the examination. ‘No bones broken, thank God,’ he announced, his dark head glistening in the dim light. As he spoke he blinked rapidly, several times, to clear his vision of the tiny drops of rain which fell from his eyelashes. Serena was shocked by the intense green of his eyes. And when a gleaming smile lit up his dark face, she suddenly felt that she’d known him for a very long time. Holding those eyes for what seemed like an age, she marvelled at the unpredictability of love at first sight. ‘Serena darling, what on earth is going on?’ Lord Frazer-West was striding towards them, dressed in a long cotton shirt and jeans; closely followed by Joseph, the butler, in starched white shirt and bow tie. Reluctantly Serena dragged her eyes away from the stranger. ‘I’m not absolutely sure myself,’ she responded, glancing briefly in her husband’s direction before reverting her full attention to the other man. It annoyed her that neither Nicholas nor the butler made any move to help the soaked stranger as he struggled to close the solid mahogany door behind him. Instead they looked on in silence, each gazing at him expectantly. ‘I apologize for bursting in on you like this, but my car broke down.’ Serena thought he looked extremely uncomfortable as he glanced from face to face. ‘I could have been killed out there,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Well, you almost killed me,’ Serena commented with a hint of amusement in her voice, glancing down at her ankle which was beginning to swell. ‘What happened, darling?’ asked Nicholas, stepping in front of the man to approach his wife. ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘I’m fine,’ she said casually, not wanting any fuss. ‘It’s nothing much. I tripped and twisted my ankle, that’s all.’ Nicholas immediately spun round, confronting the stranger, his dark eyes clouded. The man was smiling apologetically. ‘It was my fault entirely. Well, the real fault lies with the wind actually. I was literally lifted off my feet and thrown at the good lady. In my opinion the damage is only a slight sprain. Some ice on it, with a strapping, should do the trick.’ For some inexplicable reason Lord Nicholas Frazer-West found the man’s perfect diction disconcerting. ‘What on earth were you doing out in the storm, man! There was plenty of warning.’ His impatience showed in the tight line of his mouth, whilst he looked the intruder up and down with obvious distaste. Noticing several muddy footprints on the marble floor, he consoled himself with the thought that at least the culprit wasn’t standing on the Chinese washed rug in the drawing room. ‘I had my reasons, believe me,’ came the answer. ‘But I’ve experienced storms like this before. They are capable of uprooting trees, and I thought I should take shelter. You were the closest house.’ ‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ said Nicholas matter of factly. Serena raised her eyes, mildly irritated by the fact that her husband could always be relied upon to state the obvious, whatever the situation. ‘Of course he’s wet Nicholas! So would you be if you’d just been outside,’ she retorted. And without waiting for a reply she spoke briskly to the butler. ‘Take the gentleman into the guest room Joseph, find him some dry clothes, and later set an extra place for supper.’ The butler didn’t move. He inclined his head and waited, glancing in Lord Frazer-West’s direction. Nicholas was too intent on observing his wife to notice. He was frowning as he recognized the all too familiar thrust of her chin. Her sapphire blue eyes were challenging him, and he swiftly decided it would be futile to argue. ‘Do as the mistress says, Joseph.’ Lord Frazer-West spoke with the voice of one who’d been accustomed to servants all his life. Joseph nodded, still not saying a word. ‘Cat got your tongue, Joseph?’ Serena teased. ‘Serena,’ snapped Nicholas. The butler lowered his eyes and then mumbled, ‘No mistress, ain’t bin no cats around here today.’ She grinned in spite of herself, then turned her gaze to the stranger. She guessed he must be feeling increasingly ill at ease, caught up in domestic tensions that had nothing to do with him. And his next words proved her right. ‘Listen folks. I can shelter in the kitchen, out of your way, until the storm eases up. I really had no intention of disturbing anyone’s evening; I just didn’t feel like being injured out there.’ Serena came to his rescue. ‘You’re not disturbing anyone’s evening; is he Nicholas?’ Nicholas didn’t reply, but his belligerent body language said it all. Serena continued unperturbed. ‘We were going to have an early supper; play cards and wait for the storm to pass. You might help to break the monotony. We would be delighted to have you join us.’ Nicholas, stony-faced, declined to confirm his wife’s insistent welcome and the refugee from the storm was still unsure. ‘I’ve been wet before and it didn’t kill me. I really don’t need fresh clothes.’ Rivulets of rainwater trickled down the back of his neck as he shook his head. Then, lifting his arm, he raked long fingers through his matted, curly hair and, as he did so, his shirt fell open to expose a muscular torso. A sudden rush of heat filled Serena’s entire body as she watched him. Certain it would show on her face, she quickly lowered her head and stepped back into the shadows before replying. ‘Well, it might just kill you this time, and we’d hate to be responsible for that.’ She was unable to keep the teasing tone out of her voice; and, when the man looked at her, she flashed him a smile that was both mischievous and inviting, half woman and half child. It made her look like someone about to embark upon a reckless adventure. ‘I’m sure Nicholas has an old tee-shirt somewhere, and a pair of shorts.’ Serena looked enquiringly at her husband, who was studying the man’s enormous frame. ‘I doubt I’ve got anything to fit you, Mr … ’ Nicholas paused. ‘Fergusson. Royole Fergusson the second, at your service.’ Royole bent forward, mockingly sweeping one big arm in front of him in a parody of a bow. He was grinning from ear to ear. There was an untamed air about him which Serena found irresistible. She stretched out her hand, bubbling with laughter, and responded in kind. ‘Lady Serena Frazer-West, at your service, sir.’ Nicholas stepped in front of Royole before he had an opportunity to take his wife’s hand. Looking up into the taller man’s face, he was as surprised as Serena had been by the intense green of the eyes; eyes which held his own so firmly. ‘Come along then, Mr Fergusson. Let’s see if we can at least get you rigged out in something dry.’ Nicholas then nodded to the butler, and Joseph led the way out of the small hallway into a fifty-foot square central courtyard, laid in pure white terrazzo. Serena had to be supported by her husband as she limped along. The house had been designed around the courtyard and all the rooms led off it. It was dark. The windows were shuttered against the storm and an enormous antique brass lantern, hanging on a heavy chain, was unfit. Only a small amount of light, flickering from four carved wall-sconces, cast an eerie glow upon the pale stone. Royole jumped as a frog croaked loudly, then plopped into the small ornamental pool in the centre of the courtyard, disappearing under a perfect, yellow lotus lily. A pair of old, stone urns, inlaid with the Frazer-West crest, stood at the foot of a wide sweeping staircase. Serena, leaning against one of the urns, admired Royole Fergusson’s broad back as he ascended the stairs holding the curved mahogany handrail. Only when he was out of sight did she limp barefoot into the drawing room, where the butler had lit several long candles, just in case the electricity failed. They flickered brightly under gleaming hurricane lamps, shadows dancing across the darkened walls. Earlier in the day Joseph and the gardener had stacked all the terrace furniture into one corner of the room, which now resembled a warehouse. The air felt heavy, with a cloying dampness. It was oppressive and Serena longed to do what she did in the mornings; which was to throw open the tall windows leading on to the terrace, let in a fresh sea breeze and enjoy uninterrupted views of the coastline from every angle. She noticed that the wind noise had changed. It was deeper now, more aggressive. She was momentarily startled as the large limb of a mahogany tree crashed down on to the roof of the house. But settling comfortably on the deep sofa, she popped a cushion behind her head and another under her ankle. She was thinking about Royole Fergusson, when Nicholas joined her, immediately destroying the moment. ‘Was it really necessary to invite a total stranger to join us for supper, Serena?’ he complained through clenched teeth as soon as he entered the room. She didn’t reply. ‘Serena, answer me! I was looking forward to a quiet evening; just you and I.’ She studied her husband’s back as he poured himself a large gin and tonic. ‘Might it have been OK to invite him for dinner if he was white, Nicholas darling?’ His back stiffened as she pursued her point. ‘Or another householder perhaps; someone you went to school with; an old chum from your club; even someone who knew someone who went to Eton. If he was someone more … how shall I put it, Nicholas, of our class?’ He whirled round, almost spilling his drink. Serena confronted him defiantly, but sank a little deeper into the sofa, anticipating his angry reaction. Nicholas’s brown eyes were shadowed, so she couldn’t see what they said, but there was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice. ‘I hear your contempt, my sweet, and I’ll have none of it. How dare you accuse me of prejudice!’ Serena didn’t feel like arguing. It was such a waste of time with Nicholas. He invariably overreacted and she found it extremely tedious. She often did it purely to be perverse, but for once she decided to placate him. ‘Because, my darling Nicholas, you are a bigot; an absolute snob; insular to the core and I adore you.’ She was smiling sweetly as he crossed the few feet that separated them and sat beside her. Wrapping her slim arms tightly around his neck, Serena planted a kiss on his cheek and savoured the smell of his expensive after-shave and lemon-scented soap. ‘Let’s not argue Nicky, please. I felt sorry for the man, that’s all.’ She pecked his nose, wetting the tip with her tongue, and watched his anger melt way. Unable to resist, he kissed her on the mouth, whispering, ‘And I adore you, my Lady Serena.’ They both turned at the sound of an embarrassed cough, intended as a polite interruption. ‘Er, will I do?’ asked Royole. He bent his head self-consciously as they surveyed his ill-fitting clothes. Serena looked at him standing awkwardly at the entrance to the elegant drawing room: he was incongruous in big white tee-shirt, cut-off shorts held together with an old leather suitcase strap, and no shoes. ‘You look wonderful,’ she said. And she meant it. Royole responded with a wink. ‘Well thank you kindly, mam. I mightily appreciate that.’ He made her laugh with his mimicry of a drawl from the American Deep South. ‘Dinner is served I believe.’ Nicholas’s curt voice cut crisply through his wife’s laughter as he stood up and left the room. Serena shrugged, pulling a long face at her husband’s back. ‘Don’t take too much notice of Nicholas. He’s a pussy cat really.’ Royole was certain that Lord Frazer-West was anything but, however he had absolutely no desire to argue with his host’s beautiful wife. Instead he said, a little hesitantly. “The storm will be over soon, and I can leave. By the way, how’s the ankle?’ He walked over to where she lay and leaned forward to look at her foot. Her ankle was already turning a delicate shade of bluish black. She smiled. ‘I’ll live. Come on, let’s go and eat or risk my husband’s wrath.’ ‘Let me help you.’ He offered her a muscular arm and she took it willingly. Struggling to her feet, she forced herself to suppress the desire that rose within her at the touch of his flesh. Then she indicated the way back through the courtyard; down a dimly lit hallway which ended in a stone archway encased in coral vine. Together they entered the dining room, where Royole paused on the threshold, his eyes absorbing every detail. He had never seen such a beautiful room. Champagne-coloured stone walls rose majestically to a domed ceiling where hummingbirds and yellow warblers flew across richly stocked flowerbeds, alive with colour. Industrious insects, painted in the most minute detail, crawled across the long, swaying leaves of a traveller’s palm. For an instant Royole had the illusion that he could actually smell the bright petals of the lilac bougainvillaea that framed the beautiful creation. It was exquisite. ‘My father commissioned two Venetian artists to paint the ceiling, they spent several months here in 1958 when the house was built,’ Nicholas informed his visitor casually, as if speaking of an everyday occurrence. A French glass chandelier, ablaze with two dozen candles, hung dramatically above a Regency dining table set with gleaming crystal and antique silver resting on a white linen tablecloth. In the centre of the oval table there was a carved, marble dish filled with sparkling water, on top of which floated pink and white hibiscus. Tall, glass doors covered one entire wall of the room and arched fanlights touched the ceiling. Tonight they were tightly secured against the storm, but Royole could picture them open to the prevailing breeze on a calmer evening – when the murmur of the sea would mix softly with the sound of conversation and laughter. Royole wanted a room like this for himself. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything like it before.’ Lord Frazer-West adopted his most patronising tone. Royole was aware of the small hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. It angered him that this pompous man could make such assumptions about him on sight. He looked directly into the eyes of his unwilling host and replied with deliberate courtesy. ‘This house is extremely beautiful and you are a very lucky man to own it.’ He paused, allowing Nicholas the satisfaction of a smug smile before continuing, ‘l am a well-travelled man, Lord Frazer-West; and I’ve seen many spectacular homes. I’ve met lots of different people all over the world,’ his voice deepened, ‘and I’ve seen sights you could only begin to imagine. Things for which there are no words.’ Nicholas merely grunted, making no comment. He was disconcerted; irritated by this intrusion into his home. More than that, he felt somehow threatened by the stranger. It made him edgy and bad-tempered. He turned to Serena who, to his extreme annoyance, was looking at Royole with a triumphant glint in her bright eyes. He muttered something under his breath before picking up a bell from the table and ringing it loudly. Joseph appeared. ‘Pour me some white wine,’ Nicholas ordered grumpily. Serena indicated the chair next to her, patting it. ‘Please sit down, Mr Fergusson.’ Royole made no attempt to move. ‘I didn’t ask to join you for dinner, Lord Frazer-West, and if you would rather I left, please feel free to say so now.’ Nicholas offered a formal smile and spoke resignedly, as if quite bored by the whole thing. ‘I believe all men, at any given time,’ he paused, staring vacantly over Royole’s shoulder, ‘are victims of fate. A storm has chosen that we dine together this evening and, on that note, I welcome you to my table Mr Fergusson.’ To Serena’s delight and Nicholas’s chagrin, Royole Fergusson proved to be a very stimulating dinner guest; both articulate and amusing. As the Ch?teau Margaux flowed, then so did his deep voice. At once intense and passionate when expounding a favourite theory, yet so readily slipping into a frivolous, easy wit when teasing his hosts with an amusing anecdote. At thirty, he was the same age as Nicholas and had indeed lived a full and exciting life. ‘Have you always lived in Jamaica?’ asked Serena, holding his emerald-green gaze for far longer than necessary. He fascinated her. She was powerless to stop staring at him, even though she was aware that she was virtually ignoring Nicholas. It was just that she had never before met anyone like Royole Fergusson, and as the evening progressed she found herself more and more drawn to him. It was as if he had cast a spell and she was bound up in it. ‘No, I was born in St Vincent, in the Grenadines, to a negro father who claimed direct descendancy from a Royal Zulu tribe. Hence my name. My mother’s half-French Caucasian and half Guyanese, and at …’ he paused, calculating in his head, ‘… fifty-three she’s still an exceptionally beautiful woman. I have a brother and two sisters. We moved to Port Antonio, when I was three years old, and six years later to Boston, where my father practised as a doctor until his death two years ago.’ Serena said that she was sorry about his father, then continued to listen avidly; learning that Royole had won a scholarship to Harvard, where he had studied law for two years before dropping out in favour of his long-cherished dream of coming back to live in the Caribbean. ‘And you, is this your first time in Port Antonio?’ Royole addressed his question to Serena. ‘No, the fifth trip, the first time was on our honeymoon.’ She sighed, ‘Our stays are never long enough for me, I feel like I want to become a West Indian,’ she laughed lightly. Royole agreed, his voice impassioned. ‘The Caribbean’s like that. It kind of gets into your blood, there’s nowhere on earth quite like it.’ Nicholas addressed him directly for the first time in little under an hour. ‘That I must say is only your opinion, yet you do speak with rare perception.’ The compliment was delivered with a feigned sincerity, intended to disguise the disdain Nicholas actually felt for the charming and charismatic individual sharing his table who seemed to threaten everything he stood for. During the course of the evening Royole had not only dominated the conversation, debasing many of Nicholas’s hard-held principles, but he had also captivated the wife he cherished. In two years of marriage, even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas had never once seen Serena look at him the way she was looking at the animated and handsome face of Royole Fergusson this evening. After dinner Joseph served strong, Colombian coffee in demitasse china cups. Royole tried gamely to get his finger through the handle but failed, and finally settled for holding his cup in the palm of his hand. It was exactly ten-thirty when they suddenly noticed that the incessant clattering of the rain beating against the shutters had ceased. ‘Listen,’ Serena whispered. A hush had descended. Even the wind had dropped to a dull murmur. Nicholas stood up and strode across the stone floor to throw open one of the tall windows. He unhooked the shutters and craned his neck outside to look upwards into the overcast sky. It was still raining a little but the calabash trees in front of the dining room were now swaying a lot less violently. The air was damp and it smelt heavily of sea water and sodden earth; that peculiar combination so typical of the Caribbean Islands. ‘I think the worst has passed,’ Nicholas called out before pacing back towards the table, giving an elaborate yawn. ‘I’m exhausted, don’t know about you?’ He directed his words deliberately at Royole. Serena glared at him, as Royole stood up, saying, ‘I think it’s time for me to leave.’ Less than five minutes later Royole was on the doorstep, holding his original clothes in an untidy, damp bundle. ‘Thank you both for a wonderful evening. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and I would very much like to return your hospitality.’ He looked expectantly between the two dimly lit faces before him; Serena’s animated and eager, her husband’s incomprehensible and closed. Nicholas wanted to say that once was more than enough, but he prided himself on being a gentleman with impeccable manners. ‘The pleasure has been all ours, albeit an unexpected one. You must call us soon, and we’ll see what we can fix up.’ He sounded bored and Royole, as he had done several times that evening, wondered what a beautiful young woman like Serena could see in the obnoxious Lord Frazer-West. Serena held out both her hands. Royole noticed that they were shaking very slightly as he enfolded them securely in his own. His desire to pull her close was difficult to resist. He longed to feel the softness of her skin again. A sensation he had felt so briefly, but enjoyed so much, whilst examining her ankle. Sensing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he was determined to see her again. ‘Goodnight Royole,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely. I really have enjoyed your company.’ It was impossible to read anything in her shadowed eyes, yet her slow smile held a promise. Of that he was certain. Nicholas quietly inched his way back into the darkened hall, suddenly feeling like an intruder, aware of a strange sort of intimacy between his wife and Royole Fergusson. Royole was pleased to be alone with her and reiterated what he’d said earlier. ‘I meant what I said; I want to invite you to my home.’ Dropping her hands reluctantly, he looked around. ‘Nothing as grand as this; but my house is full of warmth and laughter. And Caron cooks the best red snapper you ever tasted.’ Serena felt a reaction at the mention of the name ‘Caron’. Forcing her voice to sound indifferent, she asked, ‘Is Caron your wife?’ She was ridiculously pleased when he shook his head; less so when he went on to say, ‘Not yet.’ ‘Serena darling, Joseph is waiting to drive Mr Fergusson home,’ Nicholas shouted from the depths of the house. There was no mistaking his impatience. ‘Goodnight Lady Serena and, once more, thank you. Perhaps you have saved my life tonight.’ He kissed his fingertips, placed them softly on her slightly parted lips and before she had a chance to reply, Royole Fergusson turned and strode off down the drive to where the butler was waiting with the jeep. Serena watched him go, fighting a dangerous impulse to call him back. Within seconds his tall figure was swallowed up by the dark, velvety night. Chapter Two (#ulink_593eb2f4-9b1f-5acf-ac35-0e51f14b3024) ‘No Serena, I will not go.’ His mouth closed to a narrow line, Nicholas Frazer-West was adamant. His wife glared at him. ‘You’re being ridiculously stubborn, Nicholas.’ Serena was experiencing great difficulty controlling her temper; but control it she knew she must, if she was to win the day. They had been arguing intermittently ever since Royole Fergusson’s note had arrived two days ago, thanking them for their hospitality, and inviting them to dinner at his house. Staring up at the sky, she yawned and watched a lone egret wing its way across a cloudless brilliant blue horizon. Pale pink hibiscus flowers swayed across her vision. She reached out to pick one, almost toppling out of the hammock she had been snoozing in for the last two hours. Tickling her left ear with the stem of the flower, she sat up; and, with one long, tanned leg lolling over the side of the hammock, she deliberately fixed a cajoling smile on her face. ‘For me Nicky, darling.’ She hated herself for pleading, but had no alternative. ‘At least think about it,’ she added in a hopeful voice. ‘I might think about it, but that won’t change my mind.’ An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. ‘You’re impossible Nicholas.’ ‘I’m sorry, my devious little darling, but this time you cannot have your own way. I flatly refuse to spend another evening in the company of Mr Royole Fergusson the second. How he has the bloody audacity to call himself the second,’ he snorted. ‘He probably has the audacity because his father was called Royole Fergusson,’ Serena quipped. Jumping out of the hammock, she joined Nicholas in the white-painted, wooden gazebo, where he was stretched out full length on a day-bed with an assortment of cushions stuffed behind his head and under his bare feet. Serena perched on the edge of the bed and studied her husband. He was pretending to read Tolstoy, but she knew that he would much rather be reading a good spy thriller. Why not simply admit that he wasn’t an intellectual, she wondered. After all, Nicholas had everything that mattered: the advantage of good breeding; the best schools; and a shrewd father who had held on to his inherited wealth before conveniently dying five years ago, leaving everything to his only son. She knew her parents had been delighted, and relieved, when the newly titled Earl of Ettington, Lord Frazer-West, had proposed marriage to their beautiful yet totally irresponsible daughter on the eve of her twenty-first birthday. Eager to escape both her boring job in Christie’s and the tyranny of her over-protective father, Serena had gladly accepted. She didn’t love Nicholas, but had the advantage of knowing that he adored her. And marriage to him meant she could do exactly as she pleased; which she duly did … most of the time. ‘Anyway, I think that your Mr Royole Fergusson is a fraud. I don’t believe all that stuff he told us the night of the storm.’ Nicholas spoke from behind his book. ‘Joseph told me the man’s a philanderer and a notorious womanizer; got girlfriends all over the place apparently.’ ‘Joseph’s such an old woman,’ commented Serena. ‘Always gossiping about something or other. I’d take anything he says with a pinch of salt.’ ‘No smoke without fire, darling.’ Nicholas dropped his book. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, my na?ve little wife, that he probably wants to ingratiate himself with people like us for all the wrong reasons?’ ‘Oh for goodness sake, Nicholas,’ she snapped, irritated. ‘Royole Fergusson simply wants to reciprocate our hospitality; no more, no less. Can’t you see that?’ She stood up. Two angry red spots had appeared on her lightly freckled cheeks. Nicholas tried to grab her by the waist. ‘Come on Bunty, let’s forget all this nonsense. Come and lie down next to me.’ He kicked a cushion on to the floor and, wriggling to one side, made space for her on the day-bed. Irritated by the use of his pet name for her, usually a prelude to lovemaking, Serena took a step back and out of his reach. Standing with legs apart and hands firmly clasped by her sides, she took a deep breath before she spoke. ‘I am going to dinner at Royole Fergusson’s house this evening, Nicholas, with or without you. I’ve made up my mind. Now you can join me if you wish; if not, I do hope you have a wonderful evening doing whatever you choose to do.’ She turned to walk away but Nicholas leapt up and grabbed her by the shoulders. His face had suddenly drained of colour, the muscles around his mouth were taut, and she knew that she had pushed him too far. ‘Why is seeing this man so important to you, Serena?’ he demanded, as his fingers pressed into the flesh of her upper arm. ‘Stop it Nicholas, you’re hurting me!’ Serena cried out in pain. He didn’t hear her. A vacant look had entered his eyes and he began to shake her furiously, uttering a name she had never heard before. ‘No Robbie, please don’t hurt me Robbie.’ Nanny Roberts was holding both his arms so tight that he thought he would pass out from the pain. He was sobbing and begging her to stop but she continued, repeatedly telling him what a bad boy he had been and how she was going to have to punish him. ‘Nicholas, stop it please!’ Serena screamed, shaken. In the two years they had been married she had never seen him like this. Wrenching one arm free, she slapped him hard across the face. He desisted immediately, dropping both hands by his sides. ‘I’m so sorry, Serena.’ Nicholas hung his head; his long, straight hair fell in a blond curtain, hiding his face. ‘Please forgive me.’ He had adopted his ‘little boy’ voice; childish and penitent. Neither of them spoke for several seconds until Serena broke the silence. ‘I do forgive you Nicholas, but only on condition that you take me to supper at Royole Fergusson’s house tonight.’ The humid West Indian night was overcast and blacker than black, making the journey down the unmade road towards San San beach all the more difficult. There was no welcoming moon, no twinkling stars to light the narrow dirt-road. Nicholas cursed as the jeep hit a jagged pothole, and he had to swerve violently to avoid careering into a gully. ‘This is bloody treacherous,’ he swore, and gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles shone white. ‘I think we’re almost there,’ Serena said with more confidence than she actually felt. Nicholas slowed the car down to a crawl as the road narrowed. Dense vegetation pressed in on them and thick tamarind branches thrashed the windscreen, dropping brown, lumpy pods on to the bonnet. ‘I think we might have made a wrong turning,’ confessed Serena eventually, looking at him helplessly. ‘Now she tells me,’ Nicholas bellowed. She was about to tell him not to shout, when the road turned abruptly and the jeep bumped into a clearing, where an old Triumph sports car was parked at the end of a gravel drive leading to a long, low dwelling. ‘Is this the place?’ Nicholas asked as he cut the engine. ‘I think so.’ Serena looked unsure, then catching sight of Royole at the doorway she exclaimed, ‘Yes it is!’ then added quickly. ‘Thank you for bringing me, Nicholas.’ Serena grabbed his hand. It was hot and clammy, nevertheless she held it very tight for a few seconds before saying, ‘I really appreciate it.’ A raffish expression crossed her husband’s pale face, and he winked. ‘You know me; I’d do anything for you.’ He meant it, and the rangy smile he gave her was full of love. They both climbed out of the jeep. Tiny, circular stepping-stones threaded a path through thick clumps of allamanda and frangipani to the entrance of Coralita Cottage, where Royole Fergusson stood, a dark silhouette in the light from the open door. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, holding out his hand to Nicholas, who felt tempted to ignore it. Serena stood on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on Royole’s cheek. Built into the side of a bluff and spectacularly, but precariously, suspended 150 feet above Turtle Cove, the entire house was constructed of wood. Intricately carved fretwork, painted bright blue and pastel pink, hung over sun-bleached shutters. Exposed limestone boulders bordered the living room on two sides, and a deep verandah ran the full length of the house, overlooking the sea. It crossed Serena’s mind that she would love to come back during daylight hours, to enjoy what she knew would be a wonderful view of Alligator Head and Monkey Island. All the furniture was painted white; big, beige cotton cushions in various shapes were heaped casually on the timber-decked floors, next to several low Indonesian carved tables and an assortment of earthenware pots, each containing tropical flowers of every hue. The house was lit by huge candles, flickering under glass hurricane lamps. The air seemed heady with the scent of incense and marijuana. Royole led them out on to the terrace, where his girlfriend Caron was browsing through a well-thumbed copy of Vogue. She rose to greet them; a tall, elegant figure swathed in a long off-the-shoulder dress in cream. ‘Caron, I’d like you to meet Lord and Lady Frazer-West.’ Royole introduced them formally. A warm breeze drifted on to the terrace, stirring the flowers and lifting the hem of Caron’s flimsy dress. ‘Delighted to meet you both! Welcome to Coralita Cottage. Royole tells me you were wonderful hosts the other evening, sheltering him from the storm.’ Her voice, as soft as a caress, had an unusual accent, with only a slight hint of Jamaican intonation, and the hand she held out to them was the colour of dark honey. Her face, especially when she smiled, had an almost feline quality; and her small, even teeth were as white as pure ivory. Serena thought she was very beautiful. Caron opened her arms and gestured them to sit on the deep cushions that acted as sofas. Sliding into a cushion herself, she curled long, slender legs under her body, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was completely naked under her dress. ‘What would you like to drink?’ Royole asked, his voice bubbling with obvious pleasure. Serena watched him carefully. He seemed agitated or excited, she couldn’t decide which, and hoped it was the latter. She sat down next to Caron and asked for dry white wine. Royole turned to Nicholas, who shrugged and refused the offer. ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’ve got to try and get us back to Mango Bay in one piece. The road was bad enough sober.’ Nicholas looked stiff and uncomfortable, out of place; like a bit-part actor who’d wandered on to the wrong set. He refused to sit down and, instead, chose to stroll to the far end of the terrace, which was suspended at least twenty foot out from the cliff. He felt slightly dizzy as he looked down to where the Caribbean was breaking below. Suddenly a feeling of vertigo gripped him and, taking a deep breath, he stepped back, almost bumping into Caron who had walked across to join him. Silver beads gleamed in her long, black braided hair, and a scent of patchouli clung to her. Her amber eyes held steady as she absorbed every detail of Lord Frazer-West’s aristocratic face; alien in its insipid colouring, yet extremely attractive in contrast to her own. His strong chin didn’t fit with the rest of his thin, almost gaunt face; and his brown eyes to her revealed a haunted look. Caron had noticed his eyes as soon as she’d seen him. Nicholas Frazer-West was not what he seemed, she decided. There was a hidden depth; the bland surface, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his dark side. She was quite sure of that. ‘Do you smoke?’ She offered him the joint she was holding. He shook his head. ‘Like I said, I’ve got to drive.’ Caron insisted. This won’t hurt. It’ll make you relax; might even help you get through the evening.’ She paused. ‘Without it, I fear this may be quite an endurance test for you.’ Smiling wryly at her perception, he nodded slowly. Several strands of long silky hair fell across him as she placed the cigarette between his lips, a glazed expression on her exotic face. Nicholas inhaled deeply. It was strong grass; the smoke burned the back of his throat and his mouth felt dry. She gestured for him to have more. ‘I’ll be stoned,’ he warned. ‘That’s the general idea.’ Caron laughed; a low, throaty sound. ‘Go on, finish it,’ she urged. Nicholas nodded and gave her a languid smile, now relishing the attention of this intensely sensual woman. ‘I feel much better already.’ Caron returned his smile. ‘I thought you might,’ she said, before excusing herself to prepare the finishing touches to their dinner; which she then served on a low table, set with an assortment of chopsticks and hand-painted bowls depicting Oriental scenes. One long-stemmed white anthurium decorated the centre of the table, and the wine was served in pink frosted glasses. They ate Akee souffl? followed by three types of local fish: snapper, grunt and butter fish; each one prepared differently, and each with a distinctive flavour. Warm banana bread accompanied two different rice dishes and baked paw-paw with a subtle hint of ginger. It was all delicious. Serena struggled with her chopsticks. Royole helped her, and they both laughed as she repeatedly dropped her food. Nicholas and Caron giggled during the entire meal, much to Serena’s annoyance; she was pleased when Caron disappeared into the kitchen to collect the dessert and Royole went to open more wine. As soon as they were both out of earshot, Serena hissed: ‘You’re being very silly, Nicholas.’ She had admonished him as a schoolteacher would a child. He fixed a comic grin on his face and retorted by sticking out his tongue. ‘I’m enjoying myself. I didn’t want to come here, and now I’m jolly pleased I did, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.’ ‘You’re stoned, that’s why.’ She was angry and a little confused. This was not quite how she’d imagined the evening would develop. ‘Are you having a good time, my darling Serena?’ He slurred the ‘darling’, and she glared at him as Royole returned, carrying a freshly opened bottle of Chablis and a bottle of local cane rum. He was closely followed by Caron, bearing a tray of china dishes containing fresh mango and papaya soaked in rum and coconut juice. ‘Mmm, this mango is wonderful,’ enthused Serena, between mouthfuls of the succulent fruit. ‘The entire meal was a triumph,’ Nicholas announced. His eyes firmly fixed on Caron, he raised his glass in a toast. ‘My compliments to the chef.’ In response, a warm flush crept into Caron’s face, enhancing the lustrous, honey tones of her flawless skin. Serena drank silently and looked across at Royole who, to her chagrin, was also looking at his beautiful girlfriend. She stood up and, excusing herself, went to the bathroom. Returning a few moments later, she found Nicholas and Caron curled up together in deep conversation, oblivious to anything but each other. Serena joined Royole who was leaning over the side of the terrace, staring out to sea. She stood next to him, studying his profile. The incessant whistling of the tree-frogs mingled with Royole’s words, and a scent of jasmine filled the air as he spoke of his surroundings. ‘Quite beautiful, don’t you think?’ he asked, as if he was speaking about his very own piece of heaven on earth. Without waiting for a reply, he went on ‘The West Indies is in my blood. I have this great love for the Caribbean and, of course, a dream.’ He turned to face her and she was just about to ask him about his dream when something in his expression made her decide to bite back her curiosity. His next question came as a total surprise. ‘Would you like to go swimming, Lady Serena? The sea’s fantastic at this time of night.’ Glancing in her husband’s direction, she watched him light another joint; then, throwing back his head, Nicholas burst into private laughter. ‘I’d like that very much,’ Serena replied. Before she could change her mind, Royole had ushered her out of the cottage, making no noise. An earlier shower had cleared most of the clouds and a fat, full moon now lit up the sky. Holding her hand tightly, Royole picked his way down an overgrown pathway towards the sea. He was as surefooted as a mountain goat and knew the path backwards. Serena was fascinated by the sight of hundreds of fireflies, twinkling amongst the trees like a host of dancing candle-lights. She had never seen so many together at the same time. At the foot of the hill they had to jump from a grassy ledge on to the beach. Royole went first, and then turned to hold out his hands for Serena, conscious of the ankle that she had injured a little over a week ago. She landed awkwardly, but fell into the soft sand with no further mishap. Rolling over and laughing, she clambered to her feet and ran into the warm shallows, gasping as the salty sea-spray stung her face, and the wind whipped her long hair across her glowing cheeks. ‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea Royole,’ she called to him, ‘the sea looks very rough.’ He smiled and shouted above the waves, ‘Not where I’m going to take you. Come on.’ He led her by the hand to the end of the long white beach, not stopping until they reached a tightly packed rock formation covered in rambling seagrape bushes. Here, they had to turn sideways to slide through a narrow space between the rocks. Scrambling over a few slippery boulders they eventually emerged on to a crescent-shaped cove lying on the edge of a small circular lagoon. ‘It’s amazing,’ gasped Serena, staring at the completely calm surface of the water; so flat that it resembled a sheet of gleaming, black marble. Undoing the buttons on the thin shoulder straps of her cotton dress, she let it fall in soft folds on to the sand. She then stepped out of it, and slipped her panties swiftly down her legs; hooking them with her big toe, she gave them a little flick. She aimed well and they landed where she had intended, on top of her dress. She was aware of Royole’s probing gaze eating into her naked flesh, yet felt no embarrassment nor, strangely enough, arousal. Instead she felt like a child again; free and uninhibited. Diving sleekly into the lagoon, her body cut neatly through the glassy surface of the water, sending out ripples in ever-growing circles. The water was very warm and came to just below her neck. She stood very still on the sandy ocean floor, watching Royole take off his cotton shirt and trousers. Unabashed, she stared at his body; he was so tall and perfectly proportioned. His skin, a golden mahogany colour, gleamed in the moonlight. A moment later he was at her side, towering above her. She ducked underwater and held her breath, before emerging to his laughter. With sensitive fingers, he gently lifted her hair up and out of her face, smoothing it flat to her crown. His hand then caressed their way slowly down the length of her back, stopping at the base of her spine; lingering there, as if undecided, before spanning her tiny waist and pulling her body towards his own. He could feel her resistance. ‘Don’t you want me, Lady Serena?’ he asked, and seemed surprised. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you did.’ His voice, in soft enquiry, was neither passionate nor pressing. ‘Yes I do; but not here and not now,’ she replied firmly. Pushing him gently away, she dived under his arms and with long, smooth strokes swam towards the lagoon’s one jagged rock that rose spectrally out of the water. By the time she reached it, Royole was already there, lying in wait to catch her. As she swam past, he grabbed both her ankles and pulled her beneath the surface. Kicking and spluttering, she managed to fight free and find her feet. She was still giggling when he burst from the water like a huge whale, letting out a loud roar. ‘Careful, you’ll wake the neighbours,’ she squealed, and splashed him with long sweeps of water before swimming back to the shore and running on to the beach, panting, and shaking with laughter. ‘That was wonderful,’ Serena told Royole, as she wriggled into her dress, struggling with the awkward straps. Royole helped her with the buttons. His fingers longed to linger; to trace the pointed tips of her erect nipples, rising and falling under the gauzy fabric. Forcing himself to stifle his feelings of arousal, and holding her chin in the palm of one hand, he moved several wet strands of hair out of her face with the other. ‘You must call me soon, Lady Serena. I have to see you before you leave Port Antonio.’ He placed a fleeting kiss on her brow, as a father would a child. She said nothing, not wanting to break the mood, and they both walked back in silence, lost in their own thoughts. It was after midnight when they slipped quietly into the cottage. Nicholas was sleeping like a baby, curled up on several cushions, in a cramped foetal position. And Caron had left a scrawled message on the messy dinner table, to inform Royole that she’d call him tomorrow. ‘Caron works as a hotel receptionist; she has to get up early,’ Royole explained to Serena. ‘She rarely stays with me.’ Serena shrugged and, looking at Nicholas, said, ‘It looks like I’ll be the one driving back.’ Royole nodded and began to clear the dirty dinner plates. ‘I think there’s little doubt about that.’ Nicholas woke twenty minutes later, whilst Royole was busy making coffee in the kitchen. Serena was sitting on the opposite side of the terrace; her hair, freshly washed, hung several inches past her shoulder blades, shining like newly spun silk. Nicholas was still trying to focus as she slid down on to the cushions next to him, snuggling close to his warm body. ‘So, my darling, awake at last? Royole and I were debating as to whether we should put you to bed here …’ Blinking, he noticed how her skin glowed, and a subtle teasing light danced in her eyes. He touched her cheek, tracing a line with his index finger across her mouth and down to her throat. He was about to tell her that she looked beautiful when Royole walked into the room, carrying a tray containing three steaming mugs. ‘Coffee is served,’ he announced with a flourish, placing the tray on a low table next to them. Nicholas stood up, a little shaky on his feet. Running his tongue over parched lips, he asked, ‘Could I have a glass of water, please. I’ve got a rather dry throat.’ Serena looked at her dishevelled husband and grinned. ‘I really can’t think why.’ It was almost one-thirty when they said their goodbyes and left Coralita Cottage. Serena drove slowly and sedately back to Mango Bay, whilst Nicholas snored and muttered unintelligibly for the entire twenty-minute journey. She was pleased to have the time to herself. It allowed her to think about Royole Fergusson, and the fact that in four days’ time her holiday would be over and she would have to leave Jamaica. Chapter Three (#ulink_a8697830-65c9-5733-9d54-e87160bfa299) ‘Do you mind terribly Serena, my darling? Charlie’s such an old chum, I’d hate to miss his stag night.’ Nicholas’s laugh had a definite lecherous undertone, and Serena groaned inwardly, imagining her husband and his best friend drunk and disorderly, in some sleazy Miami bar. But she answered brightly. ‘You know I don’t mind.’ They were sitting at a breakfast table positioned on the very edge of the terrace. This spot was shaded by the overhanging branches of a frangipani tree, yet still afforded expansive views of the sparkling waters of the Blue Lagoon. ‘Fancy, the old rogue decides to up and marry an American model; just like that, completely out of the blue.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Only met her two weeks ago. God would I love to be a fly on the wall when he takes her home to Atherton Hall to meet the in-laws. They had him lined up for The Hon. Arabella Seymour.’ Oh, not that awful Arabella with the buck teeth and acne?’ asked Serena. Nicholas nodded, laughing. ‘That’s the one.’ ‘Well then, I’m pleased he’s upped and found this American girl. The best of luck to him,’ said Serena, whilst throwing a few crumbs towards a cheeky Doctorbird intent on joining them for breakfast. Nicholas changed the subject. ‘I thought, since we’re going home in a couple of days, it doesn’t make much sense coming back here.’ Serena, dressed in a simple batik sarong, idly sipped at her orange juice. ‘I shall stay and pack up the house, Nicholas,’ she said in a firm voice. She could sense his disappointment, and knew she would have to tread carefully. ‘But I rather thought you might like to come to Miami with me’ … He paused, then added hopefully, ‘You could do some shopping.’ Her forehead furrowed, dark eyebrows almost meeting above her straight nose. ‘I’ve got lots to do here. I promised to go and see Thomas at Frenchman’s Cove. He’s got some mail for me to take back to England, and there are some outstanding bills to pay. Et cetera, et cetera,’ she sighed. A playful smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘Anyway, what would I do whilst you’re out on the town all night with Charlie and co?’ He glanced at her over the rim of his coffee cup and noted the obstinate glint that flashed through her eyes. It left him in no doubt that if he forced her to accompany him, she would probably be a bloody nuisance and ruin his entire evening. ‘You’re quite right. You can pack up the house and sort the staff out, whilst I get thoroughly smashed with Charlie boy.’ ‘Well, just make sure you behave yourself with all those girls on the loose over there.’ Serena chided him, playfully. ‘Steady on darling. I’d never do anything like that. There’s no other woman in the world that could take your place. You know that.’ ‘Yes Nicky; but I also know the old West Indian proverb that says “A hot iron will cool in any old dirty water”.’ Nicholas shook his head in mock disapproval. Serena awoke at six the following morning. Wherever she was in the world, or however tired, she always awoke at the same time. Nicholas joked about travelling with a beautiful and efficient alarm clock. She had never bothered to explain that the habit had started at the age of seven. After a week at boarding school, she had trained herself to wake early. It had become a ritual, her own space; one solitary hour of peace and privacy before the first bell and the ensuing mayhem. She was about to slip out of bed for her routine early-morning swim when she felt Nicholas stir, his arms reaching out to encircle her waist. She tried unsuccessfully to wriggle free. ‘Stay with me,’ he whispered into the side of her neck. She could smell his hot breath, an unsavoury mixture of spicy West Indian pepper sauce and cigarette smoke. The combination was mildly nauseating. Pulling her closer, hands gripping her hips, he thrust his erect penis into the cleft of her buttocks. Serena groaned inwardly, and felt like screaming. ‘Nicky please, not now. Later. After I’ve had a swim.’ She tried to make her voice sound promising, at the same time squeezing her thighs together as she felt the tip of his penis pushing, insisting. He heard the sharp intake of her breath as his fingers struggled to prise her open from behind. ‘Open wide for me, Bunty. Please.’ There was no mistaking the urgent demand in his hushed voice; and she knew that if she resisted it would only excite him more. Facing her back, Nicholas couldn’t see the expression of resignation on his young wife’s face as she dutifully opened her legs. With an anguished moan he entered her body. ‘Tell me Bunty, tell me please,’ he implored. His voice, with its childish undertones, grated on her nerves. She knew exactly what he wanted to hear. It was always the same. Slightly sickened, Serena complied. ‘Nicholas has been a very, very naughty boy, and is going to have to be punished.’ She forced her voice to sound stern. ‘I’m going to have to …’ She didn’t finish the sentence. As soon as his thrusting quickened, his whole body shuddered and he shouted her name, before releasing his grip on her hips and rolling away to the other side of the bed. He lay there on his back; his laboured panting the only sound in the room. After a few moments, he stretched one arm across the bed to stroke Serena’s shoulder gently. ‘That was wonderful,’ he whispered. ‘Not for me,’ she muttered lamely under her breath, and jumped out of bed. ‘What did you say, Serena?’ Nicholas lifted himself into a sitting position. ‘Same for me,’ she lied, from the darkness of the bathroom, where he couldn’t see her face or read her eyes. ‘I’m really looking forward to this evening, and seeing Charlie again,’ he shouted through the open door. Not listening, she stepped into the sanctuary of the shower where the tepid water drowned his words and cooled her sticky flesh. Washing Nicholas’s semen off the inside of her thighs, she prayed, as she had for the last six months, for pregnancy. Serena desperately wanted the security of a Frazer-West heir; and a valid excuse not to make love to her husband, at least for a while. Nicholas almost missed the one and only flight to Kingston later that day. Halfway to the airport, he realized he’d forgotten his passport. Serena, who was driving, had to make a mad dash back to the house. By the time they eventually returned, the DC3 was fully loaded and about to take off. Nicholas jumped out of the jeep, face flushed, looking for all the world like a very excited teenage boy on his first illicit trip out of school. ‘Have fun, and give Charlie my love,’ Serena called as he ran across the tarmac to board the tiny, six-seater plane. He blew her a kiss before he climbed aboard and shouted back, ‘Take care. See you in London the day after tomorrow!’ His words were drowned in the roar of the propellers. Serena watched the aircraft taxi down the short runway, and waved until it was out of sight. She then drove slowly and sedately to Coralita cottage, praying that Royole would be at home and alone. The house looked different in daylight. Much smaller, yet less intimate. Perhaps it was one of those mystical houses that only came to life at night, or in dreams, Serena thought idly as she stepped up to the open front door. A fluffy, black and white cat yawned lazily, and looked her up and down out of eyes almost the same colour as Royole’s. She bent down to stroke it, but it moved off with a contemptuous flick of its bushy tail. ‘She only likes me,’ said Royole, appearing in front of Serena and pointing to the cat. He was wearing a long, white cotton shirt which barely skimmed his knees. Thick fingers of dusty sunlight snaked across his body, and it was obvious that he was naked beneath the fine, translucent garment. The cat, on hearing his voice, stopped in her tracks and turned, prowling slowly back to where he stood. She brushed her body against his bare legs. Stooping to pick her up, he patted her head and she nestled into his arms, a contented purring the only sound as he stroked her soft neck. They both looked at the cat, then at each other simultaneously. Serena could hear her own heart thundering in her ears. ‘Nicholas has gone to Miami,’ she blurted out. ‘I …’ she hesitated, ‘I came on the off chance that you might be here.’ She noticed for the first time that his eyes, the colour of wet ivy leaves, were also flecked with gold. She became aware of her own vulnerability, but knew she could not turn back now. ‘I wanted to see you, before I left Port Antonio.’ ‘When do you leave?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow night.’ Her voice was constricted, husky, barely more than a whisper. Royole dropped the cat. It landed with an indignant shriek, before racing off past Serena. He didn’t speak; just opened his arms wide, and she fell slowly into them. She found the pungent smell of musk overwhelming, an alien smell, yet strangely enough she felt totally at home. She nuzzled close to his neck. It was slightly prickly, and very warm. ‘You didn’t shave today,’ she whispered. ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Does it bother you?’ ‘It depends,’ murmured Serena. He held her at arm’s length, then touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger, tracing the line of her full mouth. She noticed his fingers were long and tapered, and the lines on his palm shone white. ‘You’re very beautiful, Serena.’ He nodded emphatically, as if confirming his statement. ‘That first time I saw you, the night of the storm, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.’ Serena blushed profusely and lowered her eyes. She was used to compliments from men, but this man was different. She registered that the hand he held out to her was unusually cool. As if reading her thoughts he said, ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’ ‘Not always,’ Serena responded, thinking of the many cold hands she had touched with cold hearts to match. He raised his thick eyebrows, and lowered his voice. ‘A cynic, so young.’ ‘No, just a realist,’ she replied, a smile crossing her face. Suddenly she did look very young, yet there was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite fathom; a mixture of maturity and innocence. He found it very stimulating. Dropping his head to one side, he squeezed her hand gently. ‘Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ The change in her facial expression answered the question for him long before she spoke, ‘I want to be with you, Royole. In fact I’ve thought about little else since I first set eyes on you, but we haven’t got a lot of time.’ ‘Well, in that case let’s make the most of what little we have.’ He laughed and she protested with a squeal as he gathered her into his arms, as easily as he’d picked up the cat earlier, and carried her to his bedroom. He laid her on top of his unmade bed. Her eyes roamed around the room. Its floor-to-ceiling shutters were flung open to the late afternoon sun, allowing pale streamers of soft, golden light to dapple the interior. The dull thud of the sea could be heard below the house, and the slow swish of an old paddle fan gently stirred a flimsy mosquito curtain, loosely draped above the low bed. ‘This certainly won’t deter any little pests,’ Serena commented, poking her finger through a hole in the net curtain. ‘They never attack me,’ Royole smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. ‘My mother always teased me when I was a child; telling me that mosquitoes only liked naughty boys and, if I was very good at night and went to bed when she told me, I would never get bitten.’ He shrugged. ‘I never did.’ ‘What? Get bitten or go to bed when you were told?’ He winked; instantly reminding Serena of a film star, she tried to remember his name, a second later it came to her. ‘You look like Sidney Poitier,’ she said. He held up his hand. ‘Please don’t tell me that, I’ve heard it so many times. In fact when I was living in the States, I was constantly asked for my autograph.’ ‘I bet you loved it,’ she teased. He grinned, and shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I must admit I was flattered.’ They both smiled, and their eyes locked for a brief yet potent moment. Serena clasped her hands together to stop them shaking, while a hundred questions raced through her mind. What compulsion had brought her to this house, and into the arms of this man, a virtual stranger? ‘Are you OK?’ Royole’s question interrupted her reverie. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Because you’ve suddenly gone very pale, and you look distracted.’ She flinched as he placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘What is it, Serena?’ He searched her ashen face. Serena, usually bolstered with confidence, found herself struggling to articulate. She sat up swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, and she took a deep breath, ‘To be totally honest, I’m scared. I feel so out of control.’ She searched for the right words as he sat down next to her. ‘I suppose it’s because you’re so different, Royole. You’re from another world, so far from mine.’ With a shaking hand she stroked his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. ‘Yet, strangely enough, I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.’ ‘You’re right Serena, we are different, and not only in skin colour. But surely mutual attraction transcends all that stuff. Forget about who we are and where we come from, just enjoy being together. Don’t worry about the consequences.’ He lifted a strand of her hair and looped it around her ear. ‘You make it sound so simple,’ she sighed. ‘But that’s just what it is. What’s more natural than a man and a woman who want to make love to each other.’ He then knelt in front of her, and she watched him intently, her eyes never leaving his face, as he untied the thin straps of her canvas sandals. They slipped easily off her feet. He raised her left foot and tenderly licked each of her toes in turn, before gently nibbling her heel. ‘That tickles,’ she squealed. Stopping at once, he stood up and gently placed both of her feet back on the bed, then lifted the hem of her cotton shift dress. It came off in one fluid movement. She was naked underneath. His eyes slowly travelled the full length and breadth of her body. He adored the way her hair, a shower of gold, tumbled off her shoulders and fanned across her small, firm breasts tipped with pale pink nipples. He could feel his own response as he focused on her golden triangle of pubic hair. ‘I’m almost afraid to touch,’ he murmured, staring at her in undisguised awe. Observing his face, Serena was struck by his obvious sensitivity; so unlike the hunger she had seen on the faces of other men. He stroked the inside of her thigh, delighting in the warm, soft feel of her skin; finally allowing his fingertips to continue their highly sensuous journey across her flat stomach, between her breasts and on to the nape of her neck. He pulled her head forward, then traced her mouth with his warm tongue. She bit his lower lip. ‘I want to eat you.’ ‘You can, with pleasure,’ he said, and stood up. Loosening the buttons at the front of his shirt, he pushed it over his shoulders and let it float down his back and on to the floor. ‘Stay as you are please, Royole, don’t move.’ Her tone was urgent. He did as she asked. Silently she stared at him for several minutes, before whispering, ‘You’ve got the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.’ Right then she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never forget that moment for the rest of her life. Having acknowledged this, she stroked his hairless chest and taut stomach; her fingers at last teasing the coarse hair curling across his groin. Royole basked silently in his pleasure, until a loud sigh escaped his lips as she took his erect penis in both her hands. She marvelled at the size. It was very hot, and the skin was as smooth as velvet. He continued to stand very still in front of her, for what seemed an age. ‘You can move now. Come on Royole, what are you waiting for …’ He touched her hair and a slow smile entered her face, it was both inviting and teasing. He joined her on the bed, biting the side of her ear. ‘Tell me what you like, Serena.’ She felt a blush infusing her face. Nicholas had never asked her, nor had the few boyfriends she’d known before him. How could she tell Royole, a virtual stranger, her sexual preferences? ‘Tell me Serena,’ he urged, ‘I can’t give you pleasure unless I know.’ Bending her head, she whispered into his ear. ‘I would love to,’ he said in a hoarse voice. Her blush deepened as he lowered his head and gently opened her legs. They made love until the sun, a perfect dark orange orb, had descended from the blue mountains into a darkening horizon and the lengthening shadows of dusk slowly turned to evening. The hour before nightfall found them sitting on the terrace, naked and wrapped in each other’s arms; they sipped Royole’s specially made planters’ punch, and watched the tangerine glow of sunset finally fade. Eventually, Serena broke the silence. ‘I really wish I could paint. I would so love to capture this particular sunset; or, better still, your beautiful face.’ She sighed, pecked the end of his nose, and continued. ‘I can’t remember ever feeling quite this content.’ A cool breeze had begun to drift across the terrace. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, pulling her closer. ‘No, I feel better than I’ve felt in my entire life.’ Lifting his free hand, she kissed the inside of his palm; it tasted of lime. ‘I don’t ever want to go back to London, or for that matter back to England. I want to stay here with you.’ When he didn’t reply, she continued unperturbed, in a calm, clear voice. ‘I mean it. I know now that I love you. Given the chance, I’d be with you for as long as you wanted me.’ The sea was calm. There was no sound save the ever-present chirping of the tree frogs and crickets, mingled with a faint rustling from the thick leaves of the Mussaenda trees overhanging the terrace. After a few moments Royole spoke. ‘I would love you to stay here with me, Serena, but I think we both realize it’s not possible. Like you said earlier, we’re different, from different worlds; and just as I would never fit into yours, nor would you fit into mine.’ ‘I’m not asking you to fit into mine, Royole. But why can’t I fit into yours? It’s happened before; we’re not unique.’ She looked like a trusting child, and he felt his chest tighten. ‘I’ve got plans and dreams. The Caribbean is changing; I want to be part of that change. There’s so much to achieve, such a lot I want to do. This is the dawn of a new era in tourism, and there are fortunes to be made. I intend to make mine, but at the moment I’ve got very little money, and nothing to offer you.’ He paused. Then, eyes darkening, he added. ‘Not even time.’ Serena blinked back tears, she looked up as a wispy cloud flitted across the full moon. Half of her was pleased that at least he hadn’t mentioned Caron, but as the soft white lunar light touched her face, in a choked voice she said, ‘Money isn’t everything, Royole.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I’m aware of that but it’s easy for you to say that when you’ve never been without it. You’re very young, Serena, and if you don’t mind me saying, just a little na?ve.’ She stemmed any further conversation by covering his mouth with short, wet kisses, murmuring between them. ‘Shut up Royole, and make love to me again. Time is running out.’ The following morning Serena awoke to the soft pattering of rain on the wooden roof. She made no sound as she slid out of bed. Not finding her dress close to hand, she quickly slipped on Royole’s cotton shirt, tiptoed out of the room, and left the house barefoot. Her jeep was parked under a huge frangipani tree. Its abundant leaves, heavy with rain, were drooping over the bonnet. Starting the engine as quietly as she could, she moved off slowly down the drive, allowing herself one last glance at Coralita cottage. Now that it was shrouded in ominous, grey clouds, she couldn’t help thinking how desolate and sad it seemed. Not looking where she was going, Serena drove off the track. She cursed the jeep as its wheels spun dangerously in the sodden earth, then ground to a halt. ‘Shit! That’s all I need.’ She could only ram her foot hard on the accelerator, imploring the vehicle to move. ‘Come on, get going. I beg you.’ Her prayers were answered a moment later; the jeep budged an inch and then suddenly shot forward, out of the mud. Within five minutes she was on the A4 road leading to Blue Lagoon. And by the time she pulled into the drive of Mango Bay the rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark and foreboding. The house looked different this morning; or was it simply that she felt different? Serena wasn’t sure. Wandering around the elegant rooms, she realized for the first time how much there was of Nicholas and his family in Mango Bay, and how little of herself. She wondered why it had never occurred to her before today. Frazer-West family paintings adorned the walls; and a vast array of exquisite collectibles, all chosen by Nicholas’s mother, covered several antique tables. Even the fabrics had come from his cousin’s country estate. She had to shower and pack but first she hid Royole’s shirt in a drawer at the bottom of her dressing table; consoling herself as she did so, that it would be an excuse to meet him again when she returned to Jamaica in the winter. She stepped out on to the small terrace leading from her bedroom. A chink of bright blue punctured the otherwise gloomy sky as the sun tried hard to poke through. Memories of the last few hours flooded her mind; memories to be stored, and savoured through the long, boring nights ahead with Nicholas. Serena had never experienced such lovemaking; so erotic and yet so tender. She even blushed as she thought of her own uninhibited passion. Mr Royole Fergusson had certainly left an indelible mark. She desperately wanted to see him again and, whilst she showered, her mind was occupied with schemes of how she could come back to Port Antonio without Nicholas. The remainder of the morning was spent on last-minute chores, her mind so preoccupied with thoughts of Royole that she almost forgot to collect Thomas Laynes’ mail from Frenchman’s Cove, and to cancel the weekly delivery of fresh eggs and vegetables. Her flight was scheduled to leave Port Antonio for Kingston at four-thirty, and at twenty-five minutes past three she was ready, dressed in black cotton slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, a woollen sweater draped over her arm. The butler was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. ‘Go long, Lady Frazer-West. Don’t you worry none bout de house. I can look after every ting.’ Joseph accompanied this assurance by puffing out his chest, grinning from ear to ear; looking as if he couldn’t wait to be left in charge. She handed him the leather grip she’d packed – thinking how much she’d love to be a fly on the wall, to see exactly what Joseph would get up to after she’d left. ‘I’m sure you can, Joseph. And you know to contact Thomas at Frenchman’s Cove if anything goes wrong.’ ‘What go wrong in Port Antonio, mistress? Nothin’.’ Then he added for good measure, ‘Nothin’ at all.’ They arrived at Ken Jones Airport just as a small island-hopper cut through thick cloud to make a bumpy landing, before taxiing to a halt only a few feet from the terminal. Jumping out of the jeep, Serena said, ‘I’ll be fine now Joseph, you can go.’ She smiled and, in a firm voice, went on, ‘No drinking; and if I hear of you driving the jeep, there’ll be trouble. Do you understand?’ He dropped his head. ‘Ah don drink de rum no more, mistress.’ This time his voice had lost its jaunty confidence. She knew he was lying, but didn’t have the heart to pursue the issue. ‘Goodbye then. Thank you for everything. Take good care of yourself and take care of the house.’ The butler waved enthusiastically, before driving out of the airport. Serena watched the jeep until it disappeared from view. She then turned and walked to the far corner of the small terminal, where immigration was located. Her ears pricked as she heard her name and she recognized his voice instantly, it was unmistakable. Her stomach turned a sickly somersault as she turned to face Royole. He was dressed in white shorts and a faded powder-blue shirt; and he carried a bundle in his left hand. ‘This is your dress and shoes.’ He handed her a small package, tied with string. Their hands met for a split second, yet he made no attempt to bridge the few feet that separated them. Nor did she. ‘I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye, Serena.’ ‘Oh Royole, I’ll be coming back to Port Antonio in a few months’ time; it doesn’t have to be goodbye for ever.’ Glancing over her shoulder, towards the plane, she saw a solitary passenger about to board. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be in few months’ time though.’ He then fished in the back pocket of his shorts and pulled an envelope out, which he thrust into her hand. ‘This is my sister’s address in America, she forwards all my mail, so if you ever feel like writing, or need to contact me for anything at all …’ The co-pilot approached them. ‘Lady Frazer-West; if you’d like to board the plane now, please. We’re ready for takeoff.’ ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’ A nerve twitched in the corner of her eye, and she suddenly found herself chewing her bottom lip; nervous reactions that she thought she’d got rid of years ago. Royole was looking her straight in the eye. ‘Safe journey and take care, Lady Serena. Try to think of me sometimes.’ He smiled. A smile bright enough to light up a whole room she thought, and longed to touch him. She forced her voice to sound light and frivolous. ‘Yes, I will think about you, Mr Fergusson.’ She winked, ‘If I can find the time.’ He shrugged and took a step towards her, beginning to open his arms. ‘By the way, I do want you to know that yesterday was one of the best days of my life … so far.’ Serena stepped back. She doubted she could stay in control if he kissed her. ‘It was pretty good for me, too,’ she managed to say, biting hard on her lip to stop it quivering. He was about to say something else, when she held up her hand. ‘Don’t ask me why, Royole Fergusson, but I’m sure we will meet again.’ Then, without any backward glance, Serena ran towards the plane. Chapter Four ENGLAND, MARCH 1967 (#ulink_67e18cca-aee5-5105-a23d-6d898a57f0e2) Lady Serena Frazer-West checked the clock in her new Range Rover. It was almost ten p.m. She had been held up for the last hour. A quick calculation made her realize that at this rate she’d be lucky to reach Redby Hall, the Frazer-West Wiltshire estate, by midnight. She began to wish she’d rung to let the staff know of her sudden decision to leave London for a spot of country peace; still, at least it meant no one would be expecting her and fretting about her non-arrival. A serious collision, between a minibus and an oil tanker, had resulted in the bigger vehicle overturning and spilling most of its contents on to the icy road. The consequent mayhem was further exacerbated by freezing fog, so that traffic was now at a standstill, apart from police vehicles and several ambulances. Suddenly the traffic began to move, albeit slowly; a mass of steel creeping forward, with the artificial eyes of car headlights burrowing through the swirling fog. As the sign for Junction Thirteen loomed into view, Serena indicated left and followed several other cars on to the slip road. Pulling into the nearest lay-by, she consulted a map and decided that it would be simpler to take the road across country towards Swindon, then rejoin the motorway for the remainder of her journey to Castle Coombe. This plan would have been fine if she had not taken a wrong turn at the village of Lenchwick Cross, becoming hopelessly lost on the Lambourn Downs in a maze of twisting lanes and tiny villages that all looked exactly the same. To make things worse, it was very dark – with only the occasional yellow light from a semi-curtained cottage window to remind her she was not totally alone in the world. Her spirits lifted as she entered the small village of Letcombe Bassett and spotted a dim light behind the grimy windows of the Plough Inn. Parking at the rear of the pub, she was relieved to hear muted voices and laughter as she walked towards the bar. The door was locked. She knocked several times; then, stepping to one side, she peered through the dusty window to see three faces staring back at her. One man was leaning across the bar top and appeared to be the publican. ‘I’m lost,’ Serena mouthed plaintively. No one spoke or moved, they just continued to stare. She shivered, deciding that it might be better to get back into the car and drive to the next village. She was about to turn away when the landlord moved from behind the bar and walked towards the door. He opened it a couple of inches, so that she could just about see a long nose and one dark eye. ‘There was a bad crash on the M4. I’m trying to get to Castle Coombe.’ Her words tumbled out. He opened the door a few more inches. ‘Yer a long ways off course, miss,’ he said, his beady eyes probing every detail of her body before eventually resting on her huge stomach, heavy with advanced pregnancy. Serena felt uncomfortable; she shuddered, pulling her coat closer to her body. ‘If you could just point me in the right direction I would be very …’ Her voice trailed off as she became acutely aware of a wetness between her legs; a slight trickle at first, but followed seconds later by a gush of warm secretion, streaming downwards and forming a small puddle on the stone step. ‘Oh my God, no! My waters have broken.’ The man stared at her as she cradled her distended belly with both hands. Then the pain came. The first contraction felt much stronger than she’d ever imagined. She clutched the side of the wall, her hand slipping on the frosty stone, panting until the pain gradually subsided. ‘You’ve got to help me, I’m in labour. Where’s the nearest hospital?’ Her desperate appeal finally stirred the landlord into action. ‘Come in miss.’ He moved to one side and she shuffled gingerly into the bar. Through a thin film of smoke, she could now see the faces of the two other men. One of them, Tom Bayley, was beside her in a single, long stride. ‘Sit yerself down here, miss.’ He was a big man and held her as she slid down into the nearest chair. He smelt of tobacco and manure, not a particularly comforting mixture. ‘Here, tell her to drink this Tom, it’ll help.’ The landlord had poured a large brandy. She swallowed it gratefully, just before a further rush of warm discharge trickled down the inside of her thigh, followed by another contraction slicing across her lower back; this one even more intense than the last. Holding on to Tom Bayley’s hand, she squeezed so tightly he winced. He watched the colour slowly drain from her face, leaving it ashen; and he still thought that she was the prettiest girl ever seen in the Plough, or roundabout for that matter. ‘You’re going to be fine. I’ll take you to Mrs Neil, she’ll see to you.’ ‘Who’s she?’ Serena panicked. ‘I don’t want to go to any Mrs Neil, I must get to a hospital. You don’t understand!’ Hearing the hysteria creep into her own voice, she told herself to keep calm as no good would come from getting in a state. ‘My babies are four weeks premature. I need special medical care.’ ‘The nearest hospital is more than twenty-five miles from here. With this fog we might not make it at all.’ The publican had spoken with authority and both other men nodded in agreement. They continued nodding as he went on. ‘Old Radley’s wife had her baby on the way to the hospital only last week; happened in a lay-by. Almost lost the little mite.’ He pointed to the big man. ‘I think Tom here’s right. We’d best get you to Mrs Neil. You’ll be fine with her, she’s by far the best midwife in the county. All the mothers swear by her. They won’t go near a hospital if they can have Mrs Neil.’ If Serena had been able to find the strength she would have screamed. As it was she had to conserve her energy for the next contraction that was about to begin. She realized with growing fear that the contractions were coming every few minutes. ‘OK, take me to this Mrs Neil. Anything’s better than a damned lay-by.’ ‘Good girl,’ said big Tom, promptly lifting her effortlessly into his arms and carrying her out of the pub. ‘I’ll call Mrs Neil and tell her you’re on yer way,’ the publican shouted after them. Tom settled Serena gently into the passenger seat of her own car, took the ignition keys from her, and then adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his long legs. ‘It’s not far,’ he reassured her, as the car purred into life. ‘No more than about half a mile down the road. Can you hang on?’ ‘I don’t have much choice,’ she mumbled, relieved when the Range Rover pulled smoothly away. The road to Mrs Neil’s was a treacherous, unmade lane, and Tom had to swerve suddenly to avoid a pothole. Careering off the road he bumped along for few moments, the overhanging branches of a huge sycamore tree slashing the windscreen and obscuring his view. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he apologized in his thick Gloucestershire brogue. Serena thought the pothole would have been preferable, but said nothing. Holding her stomach, she ground her teeth together, half in discomfort and half in anger. She was thinking about Nicholas. He was out of the country on a business trip. She had begged him not to go but he’d insisted, reassuring her that it was only for a couple of days. But the thought of how guilty and remorseful he was going to feel at least made her feel marginally better. Finally they reached the end of the lane and Tom stopped the car. ‘We’re here!’ he announced, jumping out and running round to the passenger side with the agility of a sixteen-year-old. He helped her down to the ground, bearing all her weight, and then opened a three-bar gate at the bottom of the pathway to Saddlers Cottage. ‘Lean on me,’ he urged, as they struggled towards the front door, their feet crunching on the gravel path. ‘Mrs Neil!’ hollered Tom, rapping sharply. ‘Mrs Neil!’ There was no reply; the only sound being Serena’s laboured breathing. He tried again. ‘Mrs Neil, are you there?’ A neighbouring dog barked, then stopped abruptly. A few moments later they could hear a voice, muffled and thick with sleep, speaking through the letter box. ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s Tom Bayley, Mrs Neil.’ ‘What on earth do you want at this time of night?’ she demanded. ‘It’s gone twelve, man!’ ‘Did Jack from the Plough not call you?’ ‘No, he did not!’ she snapped, then added grudgingly, ‘Well, he may have tried, but my phone’s been playing up the last few days. I can dial out; it’s in-coming calls that are the bother. Still waiting for the blasted engineer to come; the rate they—’ Tom interrupted. ‘I’ve got a woman in labour with me, Mrs Neil. I don’t think she’s got long to go.’ With that the door was flung open and the midwife appeared in her nightclothes. ‘This lady,’ Tom glanced in Serena’s direction, ‘came into the pub earlier, asking for directions. She was lost.’ His eyes opened wide. ‘She started her labour right there and then in the bloody Plough.’ A stupid grin covered his face, making Serena think he looked slightly simple. Just my luck, she told herself, to get stuck with an ageing midwife and the village idiot. Then she felt the now familiar pain beginning its steady rise. Gasping for breath, she grabbed Tom’s arm, her hand as white as bone upon his black donkey jacket. The contraction peaked and small beads of perspiration broke out on her brow. Struggling to stay on her feet, the panic in her voice was obvious. ‘I think you’ll have to be quick, the contractions are coming fast.’ Instantly alert, Mrs Neil took charge. ‘Come on, let’s get the poor woman in out of the cold Tom Bayley, instead of you standing there like a big oaf,’ she ordered briskly. Tom nodded, ushering Serena inside. ‘Take her into the back bedroom, you know where it is.’ ‘I should do.’ He grinned again, this time in Serena’s direction, and by now she was convinced that he was simple. ‘Mrs Neil here delivered my boy last year. Nearly lost him an’ all,’ he added. ‘Thanks Tom,’ Serena commented sarcastically, ‘that’s very encouraging.’ He dropped his head on one side to concentrate before helping her upstairs, and into a sparsely furnished room that smelt strongly of lavender and damp. It contained a washbasin, a high delivery bed and battered medical trolley. Serena couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sight of the antiquated trolley holding an assortment of ominous-looking instruments. Tom sat her down in the one and only chair. Seemingly reluctant to leave, he held on to her hand. ‘You’re shaking,’ he said, ‘Can I get you something warm to drink?’ Serena shook her head. ‘I’m terrified. I don’t want to give birth here.’ Catriona Neil entered the room at that point. Overhearing what had been said, she addressed her patient in a businesslike tone, ‘First time is it? Well, I’m afraid you may not have any choice, my dear. How often are you having the contractions?’ ‘Every few minutes.’ ‘When you have the next one, tell me,’ instructed Mrs Neil as she walked to the small sink in the corner, where she washed her hands vigorously. She had changed from her nightdress and dressing gown into a more suitable outfit: tailored blouse; tweed skirt and court shoes, all in exactly the same shade of donkey brown. ‘Tom, now that you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Go and boil some water, and get fresh linen from the cupboard under the stairs.’ Tom looked helpless. ‘I’ve got to be off Mrs Neil, my missus will be worried sick, and it’s a long walk from here.’ ‘It’s Friday night Tom Bayley; your Lucy will be fast asleep, confident that you’re holed up in the Plough as usual. So go on, do as you’re told.’ She pushed him towards the door. Serena watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Mrs Neil lifted a small scalpel off the trolley and placed it in a kidney bowl. Shifting in her seat, she suddenly gasped. ‘The pain! It’s coming again.’ The thickly set midwife, who looked cumbersome but was actually extremely agile, reached her side in an instant and placed her hands either side of Serena’s stomach. There they remained until the contraction had subsided. At that point Mrs Neil stood bolt upright, with a knowing look in her eyes. ‘Is this your first?’ Serena nodded as Mrs Neil went on. ‘I see you’re carrying twins.’ After a slight pause she continued. ‘Don’t worry lass, you’re in good hands. I’ve been delivering babies long before you were even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.’ There was something about Mrs Neil that instilled confidence. For the first time since her labour had started, Serena felt a little less afraid. A faint smile crossed her face. ‘I’m just a bit scared, that’s all.’ ‘Well, I’m sure you didn’t plan to have your babies in the middle of the country, with a couple of strangers in tow. But you’re young and healthy; I foresee no problems whatsoever. Now, let’s get you out of those clothes and into bed.’ When Serena didn’t move immediately, the midwife had to click her tongue. ‘Where do I undress?’ Serena scanned the room. ‘Well, here for heaven’s sake! No point in being shy, you’re about to give birth.’ Rummaging in a cupboard to her left, Mrs Neil pulled out a long, cotton nightdress. ‘Here, put this on, and get into bed. We’ve got work to do.’ She chuckled, and went downstairs to chivy Tom. Serena could’ve sworn the midwife was enjoying herself. Well, I’m glad one of is, she thought. She pulled her woollen maternity dress over her head. Dropping it on to the floor, she was standing in her bra and panties, shivering, when Mrs Neil came back. ‘Not ready yet, miss? And by the way, hadn’t you better tell me your name?’ For some reason Serena did not want the midwife to know who she really was. She muttered the first name to come into her head, that of her housekeeper in London. ‘Mrs Boyd. June Boyd.’ When she looked up into Mrs Neil’s eyes they held the same knowing look she had noticed earlier. For a split second their mind’s met; Serena could see that the midwife knew she was lying. ‘Come on then, June, let me help you out of your underwear and into the nightie.’ Serena smiled meekly as if she were a child, when she heard Tom’s footsteps approaching the door. ‘Don’t you be coming in here yet, big Tom,’ Mrs Neil shouted. ‘Just wait a minute.’ She lifted the nightdress above Serena’s head and pulled it roughly over her naked body, leading her towards the bed. ‘Now young lady, you’ve got a tough job to do, so you’d better pull yourself together. You and I have got to bring these babies into the world.’ Mrs Neil’s obvious authority soothed Serena a little. As she lay on the hard bed with her eyes closed, she could have been listening to her first housemistress at boarding school, the much loved Mrs McKenzie whose bark had always been far worse than her bite. For some reason, not knowing that she couldn’t have been more mistaken, Serena suspected that Catriona Neil was the same type. Stretched out on the bed, she stared up at the ceiling and submitted herself to an internal examination by Mrs Neil. A fringed, floral lamp-shade covered the overhead bulb. She tried to concentrate on counting its faded rosebuds, while the midwife probed inside her, pressing hard into her groin. She’d got to fourteen when the intruding fingers slipped out. Mrs Neil pulled off her transparent gloves and announced: ‘They are well on their way; it won’t be long.’ Serena sighed and muttered a relieved ‘Thank God!’ under her breath. A knock interrupted them, followed by Tom’s voice. ‘Shall I come in now?’ Even Serena managed a weak smile as Mrs Neil opened the door, chuckling, ‘Sorry Tom, we almost forgot about you in all the excitement.’ Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Serena prayed for her babies and herself; in that order. She had read somewhere that it helps if you focus the mind on anything but the pain. She tried thinking about the new curtains in the nursery at Redby. She imagined herself floating in the warm Caribbean sea; reliving the day in Port Antonio when Nicholas had capsized their hired catamaran, and she had lost her bikini top. But nothing worked. For the next five hours, the excruciating pain banished every other thought and eventually she gave herself up to all of its agony. Wild, dislocated noises tumbled into her head – her own moans – and she thought she might die. ‘Push harder, June, push!’ Serena wished she had the energy to yell back that she was already pushing as hard as she could. She really felt like telling the other woman to fuck off; but when she did manage to speak her voice found the right words. ‘Please help me.’ ‘Come on love. I can see the head, you’re almost there. One last push.’ Big Tom was holding her hand, constantly whispering encouragement, for what it was worth. His voice, with its strange accent, didn’t help; she actually longed for him to shut up. The pain inhabited every fibre of her being, it was all she could register. Finally, taking a deep breath, she summoned a new surge of energy and pushed as hard as she could. Then she gathered every last ounce of strength and pushed again. One minute later the first of her twins was born. Ten minutes later the second baby followed. ‘You have twin girls,’ shouted Mrs Neil in triumph. Serena, panting, soaked, gave a final push to expel the afterbirth which slipped out easily. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered. Aware only of a profound rush of relief, she made no attempt to stem the tears that slipped down her cheeks, trickling across her parched lips. Mrs Neil was visibly bubbling with excitement, smiling joyfully at Tom – who looked equally delighted, his face beaming with such pride that he could have been the father himself. ‘Are they all right?’ Serena asked the question that all mothers ask. Mrs Neil nodded emphatically. ‘They’re very small, but absolutely fine,’ she confirmed, smacking each baby’s bottom in turn. With the first cries of her offspring filling her ears, Serena sat up. Turning to Tom, she pointed in the direction of the sink. ‘Could you pass me some water, please.’ ‘Of course miss, you must be mighty dry after all that effort.’ She swallowed the ice-cold water thirstily, thinking it tasted better than anything in her entire life. Handing back the empty glass, she turned to face Mrs Neil. ‘Can I see my babies?’ It was then that she first noticed a strange look on the midwife’s face. She didn’t know why, but it frightened her. And Mrs Neil had whispered something to Tom that she couldn’t hear. He left the room immediately, and this frightened her more. ‘What’s wrong?’ Serena’s panic was echoed in her voice. ‘Are my babies OK?’ she demanded. Leaning as far forward as possible, she desperately searched the older woman’s face, trying to discover why she was shaking her head in disbelief, her eyes firmly fixed on one particular baby. ‘Your babies are f … fi … fine,’ Mrs Neil stammered, ‘It … it’s … it’s just—’ She could not contain the shock registering in her voice. ‘It’s just what?’ Serena’s own voice rose. ‘Is there something wrong?’ The midwife didn’t look up. She was still staring at the baby closest to her. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this.’ When she did lift her face, it was filled with a look of astonishment that Serena wrongly interpreted as fear. Voice faltering a little, Mrs Neil eventually explained. ‘You have given birth to one white baby, and one black.’ There was no mistaking her total incredulity. Serena’s mouth dropped open; she was stunned. She continued to stare at the midwife whose features were frozen in an expression of horror. ‘Have you gone mad!’ she shrieked, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Mrs Neil shook her head and wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘I only wish that I had. I really don’t understand what’s happened.’ The woman sounded almost apologetic, as if in some way she was responsible. She lifted one of the babies and, cradling her carefully, carried her to Serena. ‘Here, look for yourself and you will see that this baby is most definitely not one of us.’ ‘I don’t want to look.’ Serena was shaking her head, holding her hands tightly clenched in her lap. ‘You must. She is your child,’ insisted the midwife, holding the tiny bundle right in front of Serena’s face. The baby was still attached to the umbilical cord, her body crouched in the foetal position, with string legs curled up into her chest. Serena stared at the top of the baby’s head. It was slippery wet with blood. Suddenly, the newborn infant began to wail, arms and legs thrashing out in every direction. Tiny hands were thrown up in protest and, for the first time, Serena had a clear view of her daughter’s face. Instantly, visions of Royole Fergusson flooded her mind. It was then that she began to scream. Chapter Five (#ulink_ba0a5b13-3ab2-546a-a4a8-08938995fda2) ‘I’m Mr Wilcox. I believe you want to talk to me urgently.’ ‘Yes I do.’ Mrs Neil shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was wearing the same brown clothes that she’d worn the previous night to deliver Serena’s babies. Dressing hastily, she had merely thrown a Barbour jacket over the top and pulled on the felt hat bought for her sister’s wedding. She hadn’t slept, so her eyes were puffy. The consultant thought she looked a little odd. He glanced at his watch with obvious impatience. ‘I’m due in theatre very soon, please Mrs …’ The doctor read a note on his desk, ‘… Neil.’ The booming voice was not lost on Mrs Neil who twisted her mouth into a polite smile before she continued, ‘What I have to say won’t take long, sir. I’d just like to know whether there’s ever been a case of a white woman producing twins, where one child is black and one white?’ If Mr Wilcox was surprised he didn’t show it. ‘Do you know of such a case?’ he asked. ‘Because if you do, I’d be very interested.’ ‘Yes, I do; but it’s somebody who lives abroad.’ The excuse came out far too quickly, and the consultant knew immediately that it was a lie. But the stubborn set of his visitor’s jaw, and the determined ring to her voice, dispelled any hope he might have of persuading her to identify the mother involved. He doodled on a note-pad for a few seconds, pondering his reply. ‘Conceiving and giving birth to mixed-race twins – non-identical I presume – is an extremely rare phenomenon. To my knowledge it’s been recorded only a few times in Europe. It’s very unusual for a mixed-race couple to have twins where one baby is pure Caucasian and the other black. A million-to-one chance in fact.’ Mr Wilcox seemed to warm to his subject and added, ‘Actually about five years ago, a Jamaican colleague of mine delivered black and white twin boys to a white woman who had a West Indian husband and a relationship with a white man. ‘It means, of course, that two entirely separate eggs are fertilized by two men. It can only occur if the woman has intercourse with the men concerned within a period of approximately eighteen hours. ‘For this to be possible she would need to be in natural ovulation during intercourse with the first man, and that could lead to fertilization of the first egg. Then, what we term as a “spontaneous ovulation” during orgasm with the other man could produce a second egg, and if that’s also fertilized, non-identical twins, or more to the point siblings, could be conceived within hours of each other.’ ‘Thank you, doctor. As a midwife, I just wanted to understand how such a phenomenon was possible.’ Her chair scraped across the polished oak floor as Mrs Neil stood up. ‘And thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’ ‘You gave me very little choice,’ Mr Wilcox replied. Then he offered, ‘Are you sure the lady concerned can’t be persuaded to come and see me? I’d be more than happy to talk to her. I might even be able to help.’ Mrs Neil had reached the door, and turned to face him. ‘I don’t think she’s ready to see or speak to anyone just at the moment. Goodbye Doctor.’ When Serena awoke she thought she’d wet the bed. Slowly she slipped a hand between her legs, touching her inner thigh, before lifting her fingers to her face. They were sticky and covered in blood. The sedative that Mrs Neil had given her earlier had started to wear off; the realization of where she was, and what had happened, was creeping slowly into her consciousness. She shut her eyes, and replayed the images of the last few hours in her head: Mrs Neil screaming for her to push; her baby daughters covered in blood; one crumpled, dark face; one equally crumpled white face. She was only vaguely aware of the footsteps on the stairs. It was the sound of knocking that finally grasped her attention. Pulling her blanket up to her ears, she fiddled with it nervously, staring at the door as it slowly opened. A tentative smile flickered across her face when Mrs Neil’s red curls appeared. ‘I see you’re awake.’ The midwife sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled the blanket away, a little roughly Serena thought. Serena looked at her and said, ‘I seem to be bleeding rather a lot.’ ‘I know, I’ve got you some sanitary towels, and here’s some stuff for the little mites.’ She gestured to the occupied cot by Serena’s side. ‘Look at them sleeping soundly. That’s because they’re well wrapped up all nice and warm.’ ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Neil. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’ ‘Plenty of time to talk about that later, dear. Got to get you cleaned up first. Now … let’s look lively because it’s four-thirty and I’ve got to make us both some tea.’ Something about her manner placed Serena on her guard, but she allowed herself to be helped out of bed and sat down in the nearby chair while Mrs Neil stripped the sheets. ‘I think you should bathe and put your clothes back on now,’ suggested Mrs Neil, handing her a clean towel and her own things. ‘You can use the shower-room, next door.’ She indicated the direction with her eyes. ‘Off you go.’ Serena wrapped the towel around her aching body and, picking her way past several boxes on the landing, headed for the shower. She was very weak and her legs shook as she washed herself from top to toe. This left her feeling more refreshed, but not much stronger. After managing to dress, she emerged and almost bumped into Mrs Neil at the top of the stairs. The midwife was cradling the sleeping babies, one in each arm. ‘Come on down to the living room, if you can manage, and I’ll give us both that tea.’ Serena accepted gratefully, following Mrs Neil downstairs, holding on to the wall for support. ‘Sit yourself in that chair, Mrs Boyd, and I’ll put the babes in this one next to you. Just rest whilst I get the tea. I won’t be a tick, the kettle’s already boiled.’ Serena sat down carefully in the overstuffed chair, which was upholstered in dark green brocade, and very comfortable. It seemed as though Mrs Neil had moulded it to the shape of her own ample bottom. She looked at the twin bundles next to her, but then she thought of Royole, thought of Nicholas, and felt overwhelmed, almost panicky. She had to look away again and concentrated on her immediate surroundings instead. ‘Home is where the heart is.’ Serena smiled sardonically at the mass-produced sampler. There was also a reproduction coffee table which was chipped and badly stained, and a pine cabinet containing an assortment of books. Behind a brass fireguard, the fading embers of a dying fire flickered occasionally. She glanced at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed what looked like a young Mrs Neil. It all made her aware that she was sitting in someone else’s house; and what she really wanted was to call home and get a message to Nicholas. Except that she’d have to work out what on earth to say first … ‘There you are, a nice cup of tea! The remedy for all ills,’ chimed Mrs Neil as she walked in, and then poured from a teapot covered in a red knitted cosy. Handing Serena a steaming brew, she sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Now, I think we should have a little chat.’ Serena peered over the rim of the cup, eyes raised in anticipation. ‘Go ahead, please.’ ‘First of all, young lady, we both know that you’re not Mrs June Boyd.’ Sipping hot tea, Serena considered telling Mrs Neil the truth, then hesitated. Fate had brought her to this anonymous place, and who was she to argue with fate? With warning bells ringing loud and clear in her head, she replied in a firm voice. ‘Does it matter who I am? You’re a midwife and your job is to deliver babies. You did just that for me last night. I know that I would’ve been in dire straights without you, and I’m very grateful. Naturally I intend to thank you generously.’ Serena noticed that Mrs Neil’s body language had changed, albeit subtly. There was a strange tension in her that had not been present before. ‘My dear, you’ve had mixed-race babies; that’s a rare phenomenon, one in a million, have you any idea how it happened?’ Serena smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I’ve got a good idea.’ ‘Well, I can tell you exactly how it happens, medically, so to speak. You have to have intercourse with a black man and a white man, within hours of each other.’ Mrs Neil made no attempt to disguise the contempt creeping into her voice. ‘That, young lady, is how it happens. So, what do you have to say?’ she asked. Serena closed her eyes, rested her head on the back of the chair, and made an effort to compose herself. ‘Only that it was the most wonderful day of my life. He was—’ her voice trailed off. Mrs Neil was certain she could see a glimmer of tears in the younger woman’s deep blue eyes. ‘I loved him, you see. I would have stayed with him, but he didn’t want that.’ There was a profound sadness in Serena’s voice, yet Mrs Neil felt no sympathy for her. If anything, she was actually irritated by this obviously wealthy and beautiful young woman, who sat twisting her wedding ring as she talked of one-day love affairs. What did she know of life? Real life. Of hardship and loneliness? The aching kind of loneliness that never went away. It clung like shit to a blanket, so her old mother used to say. Mrs Neil was staring straight through Serena, her voice odd and detached. ‘Your sort will never be able to understand my sort.’ Serena shivered, in spite of the heat in the stuffy room. She desperately wanted to go home, back to the warm security of familiarity. Both women sat in uncomfortable silence, until Mrs Neil spoke again. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult for me to find out who you really are, you know.’ Serena returned the midwife’s probing gaze, a knot of fear tightening the pit of her stomach. Suddenly Mrs Neil stood up and gestured at the twins. A smile flashed across her face. ‘Please don’t worry, I’m only trying to help.’ Serena was feeling bewildered now, not sure whether or not she could trust this woman to whom she owed so much. ‘Come on, let’s give you a good look at them.’ ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Serena replied nervously. The babies were still sleeping, each one snugly wrapped in a woollen blanket. Serena eased herself from her chair and knelt forward tentatively. She was totally unprepared for the rush of love that filled her entire being as she stared at Nicholas’s daughter. The child was perfectly formed. As if on cue, she had begun to stir and her perfect fingers, capped with the whitest nails Serena had ever seen, fluttered in front of her pink, oval face. She had a mass of fine hair, the colour of old gold. Although her eyes were tightly shut, her mouth, the shape of a rosebud, was moving as if she were blowing kisses. Serena gasped, awestruck by her own tiny creation, and she pulled at the blanket to get a better view. It was at that moment that the baby opened her eyes. Serena could see that they were the exact image of her own. Transfixed, she held her daughter’s gaze, convinced that the little girl could see her. ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’ prompted Mrs Neil. ‘Absolutely,’ Serena whispered, eyes never leaving her daughter’s face, voice filled with longing. ‘I want to hold her.’ The midwife recognized the wonderment of motherhood. ‘Well, I think you should look at your other daughter first; she’s a little smaller and …’ ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Serena replied sharply, reluctant to move her eyes for a moment, but turning her head towards the second baby with a sense of apprehension. The baby had sensed the attention and wriggled free from her blanket, kicking her legs furiously. They seemed ridiculously long, completely out of proportion to her narrow torso and neat head. A wave of nausea swept over Serena. Looking at the child’s skin, so dark in comparison to that of the other one, she felt as though she might faint. She breathed deeply, noting the shiny black hair curling on to her daughter’s brow. The small features were almost identical to those of her sister, a fact which for some inexplicable reason filled Serena with dread. Uncurling long, thin arms, the baby reached out towards her mother. But this frail, human gesture was too much for Serena. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she bit her palm so hard that it drew blood. She looked up and stared out of the dirty living-room window, but saw only the image of Royole Fergusson. Suddenly she knew exactly what she had to do. If it worked, it would be the ultimate solution for her mulatto love-child, and herself. Chapter Six (#ulink_ea364152-fb01-5fdc-884d-6ad43e74cc4d) ‘Darling, how are you?’ Nicholas’s voice was very faint; Serena could barely hear him. ‘I’m fine.’ She struggled to keep her own voice light and carefree. ‘Can you speak up, Nicky, this is a bad line.’ ‘Where are you? I’ll call you back,’ he offered. ‘Oh, I’m just about to go out for the day,’ she got in quickly. ‘Anyway, what I have to say won’t take long. Your mother’s invited me to one of her boring charity luncheons on Friday. I said I couldn’t go because you were due to arrive home, so I just wanted to confirm …’ Nicholas interrupted her. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be back on Friday. I was going to ring this evening and explain. Something important’s cropped up and I have to fly down to Brazil for the weekend. I’ll probably get back Tuesday, with a bit of luck.’ Serena couldn’t believe her own ‘bit of luck’. Forcing her voice to sound disappointed, she managed to say, ‘Oh Nicholas! I was so looking forward to us spending the weekend together.’ ‘So was I, darling. You know where I’d much rather be.’ Nicholas sounded depressed. Serena was ecstatic. ‘Never mind Nick, I’ll have a quiet weekend in the country.’ ‘So, how are those twins of mine behaving?’ She could hear him chuckling. Serena took a deep breath. ‘Still kicking me.’ ‘Never mind, it won’t be long now, only another few weeks. I’m really looking forward to the birth.’ Nicholas sounded so excited that Serena felt a pang of guilt. ‘Must dash Nicholas, I’ve got an appointment with the doc.’ ‘It might be rather difficult telephoning from Sao Paulo so, unless it’s urgent, I’ll see you on Tuesday morning. Judith in the London office has all the flight details.’ A loud crackling interrupted the conversation and the line went dead for a few seconds. ‘Nicholas, can you hear me, are you still there?’ ‘Yes, I can just about hear you.’ Serena had to shout. ‘Don’t worry about calling me, darling, I’ll be fine. See you Tuesday, take care.’ She was about to put the phone down when the line suddenly cleared, and his voice was loud and very distinct. ‘I love you Bunty.’ ‘You too,’ replied Serena, hoping it sounded sincere. Replacing the receiver, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror above the telephone table; dark ringed eyes stared back from a face that appeared to have shrunk visibly in the last twenty-four hours. She sensed, rather than saw, Mrs Neil come up behind her. Then one side of the midwife’s head appeared alongside her own in the mirror. ‘Talking to hubby were we?’ Serena turned sideways, her heart was thumping. She had to overcome an urge to turn and run out of the house. ‘Yes, I was as it happens. Overseas, I’m afraid. I’ll leave you some money,’ she blurted out. ‘If you don’t mind, I have a couple more calls to make.’ It was then that she noticed something in Mrs Neil’s hand. She gasped as she recognized her own wallet. It contained her driver’s licence, passport and credit cards. Holding the wallet in front of Serena’s face, Mrs Neil grinned broadly. ‘Make as many calls as you like, dear. I’m sure you can afford it, Lady Serena Frazer-West.’ There was a long silence before Serena, determined not to be intimidated, adopted the voice she usually reserved for her staff. ‘Yes, I am Lady Serena Frazer-West, and I can afford to pay your telephone bill, Mrs Neil. That’s if I may have my wallet please …’ The other woman ignored her and, clutching the wallet, she started to walk down the hall, not stopping until she reached the kitchen door where she turned to face Serena. ‘You go ahead, milady. Make as many calls as you like. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. And later on, why don’t you make yourself comfortable in front of the fire. I’ll check on the babies and make us a nice, fresh pot of tea.’ The smile on her face was completely void of warmth. ‘Then we can talk business.’ ‘Serena darling, what on earth has happened? You look absolutely ghastly.’ Rachel Sawyer had opened the front door of her mews house, shocked to be confronted by her best friend leaning heavily against the garage door. Serena’s face was as white as if it had been newly cast in plaster. Her usually brilliant blue eyes were dulled and partly hidden under drooping lids, and there was a distinctly dishevelled look about her. In all the years Rachel had known Serena, she had never once seen her look even remotely untidy. Ordinarily she was very fastidious about her appearance. They had been friends since starting boarding school together at seven, and Rachel knew her as well as she knew herself, if not better. It was therefore patently obvious that there’d been some crisis. ‘Come in quickly, and tell me what’s going on.’ Serena didn’t move, she began to tremble. ‘Rachel, I can’t even start to tell you.’ Her hand, pale and shaking, pushed a lock of stray hair out of her eyes. Rachel at that point noticed that Serena was visibly slimmer. Pointing excitedly to her friend’s stomach, she squealed, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d had the babies when you rang?’ ‘I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.’ She shuddered. ‘There was too much to tell.’ Immediately concerned, Rachel stepped forward into the street, opening her arms wide. ‘What is it darling, what’s wrong?’ Serena, stumbling on the wet cobblestones underfoot, fell into the warmth of her best friend’s embrace. Rachel was secure, comforting, familiar; she felt good. ‘Come inside, and I’ll fix us both a large drink.’ Serena answered this in a distant voice, ‘I’ve got something in the car I want to show you.’ She was glancing towards the Range Rover parked on the opposite side of the street. Rachel, wearing a fine silk shirt, velvet trousers and open-toed shoes without stockings, was beginning to feel cold. She started to propel Serena towards the door. ‘No. It’s something that won’t wait.’ ‘OK, let’s see what won’t wait.’ Rachel started to follow her friend across the road. As they reached the Range Rover, Serena opened the hatchback and handed over a small, cardboard box containing what looked like a bundle of rags. It was not until Rachel reached the hall and the bundle moved slightly, that the realization of what it actually contained dawned upon her. ‘Serena, this is a bloody baby!’ Serena was right behind her. ‘Yes, and I’ve got her sister here. Quickly Rachel, premature babies have to be kept very warm.’ She pushed her astonished friend through her own hall and up the one flight of stairs into a small dining area at one end of a vast space. The whole room was awash with flowering plants, all in an eclectic assortment of pots. A circular, teak dining table and six chairs also filled the room. Rachel gingerly placed the box she was carrying on top of the table, then waited for Serena to put her own package down next to it. She began to speak, but Serena placed her index finger to her lips and signalled to her, ‘Shushhh.’ Very gently she opened the tight cocoon of blankets, slipped her hand carefully inside, and felt each tiny body in turn. Satisfied that they were alive and warm, she turned to Rachel. ‘I could do with that drink now.’ ‘You and me, both!’ stressed Rachel, as she disappeared into the kitchen to pour two large brandies. Serena crossed over to an L-shaped sofa at the other end of the room; here she draped her coat and then finally sat down. Rachel joined her, holding out a brandy goblet. It was half full. ‘I thought you might need it straight. I suspect that I will. Cheers!’ She took a deep gulp of the smooth Hine, enjoying the warm glow that quickly followed, and then flopped down into a wing-backed Charles Eames chair opposite Serena. ‘Well, come on. How is it you’ve arrived on my doorstep looking like something the cat dragged in, carting your babies about in cardboard boxes?’ After only her third swig of brandy, Serena had almost emptied the glass. She placed it on the coffee table, leant back and began to speak. She told Rachel the whole story, leaving nothing out at all. Serena explained how she had fallen in love with Royole Fergusson the first moment she’d looked into his dark green eyes, that night of the storm in Port Antonio. And she described to her friend, in exquisite detail, the one day they had spent together. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lynne-pemberton/eclipse/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.