The Devil at Archangel (18 page)

hein,
because you did not think it could ever happen. But we will not

rush you. You shall have time to think—to consider. Now leave me,

ma chere,
I wish to get dressed. You may send Eulalie to me.'

Almost without knowing how it had happened, Christina found

herself back in the sitting room. Her head was whirling. What had she

got herself into? she asked despairingly as she made her way back to

her own room. She had gone to Mrs Brandon that morning, intent on

handing in her notice, only to have it waved aside as if it were some

momentary aberration. And now she was being slowly but surely

pressurised into marrying Theo. The appalling thing was that Mrs

Brandon made it all sound so sane and reasonable. Just for a moment,

if you were not very careful, you might find yourself thinking that

one's objections were very trivial in the light of the broader issues

involved.

She closed her bedroom door behind her and leaned back against the

panels, trying to regain control of her suddenly shaking limbs. At

least, she had been allowed a breathing space. She had time to

marshal her arguments, let them see she could not be coerced,

however subtly. But it brought home to her even more forcibly that

she needed to get away. If she could just get as.far as Martinique, she

could surely find some sort of work—something that would keep her

and enable her to save for her fare home—that is if Mr Frith was

unable or unwilling to help her.

The imminent problem was how to get to Martinique. She could, of

course, ask Louis to drive her to the harbour where the ferry stopped,

but she had to remember that he was in Mrs Brandon's pay and might

well report any such request. And though she might tell herself

defiantly that she was a free agent and that the Brandons could not

stop her leaving, she could not convince herself that this was the

whole truth.

She toyed with the idea of appealing to Clive and Lorna Maynard.

Lorna would help, she was sure, if she knew what the position was.

And yet was it fair to ask her? Clive was also an employee of the

Brandon family and it was wrong to expect him to perhaps put his job

in jeopardy.

With a groan, she wandered over to the dressing table and sank down

on the stool, burying her face in her hands. There was another

alternative, of course, an obvious one if she could only bring herself

to accept it.

Devlin Brandon had a boat—p boat in which he had presumably

sailed single-handed back from Martinique, because he had certainly

not been on the ferry with them. More than that, he had made no

secret of his wish that she should leave Ste Victoire. Would he be

prepared to give the practical help in achieving this end that she so

badly needed? Certainly there was no obvious reason why he should

deny it. He owed no loyalty to his aunt—he had made that clear.

But she—she was in his debt already. Had she any right to ask him for

help? What had he told her?
'Don't come crying to me when things get

rough.'
She shivered. Now
She
was considering doing precisely that,

and she would have no one but herself to blame if he turned her away.

She got up stiffly and walked across to the window. He wouldn't turn

her away, a little voice inside her was insisting, but he might charge a

price for his help—this time. She pressed her hands over her ears,

resolutely shutting it out. She couldn't let herself think about that or

she might lose her courage altogether.

Without stopping to consider the wisdom of her actions any longer,

she slipped out on to the gallery and down the steps to the garden.

She was breathless and her side was hurting by the time the beach

house was in sight. She stopped and shaded her eyes, suddenly

uneasy. The place had a closed, shuttered look that she did not

remember, and then, with a rapidly sinking heart, she noticed

something else.
Moon Maiden
was no longer at her mooring.

She paused irresolutely. Her obvious course was to go back to the

house and wait for his return, whenever that might be. That was the

thing to do, she told herself, even as her feet began to carry her

steadily forward again.

The door was shut, but it wasn't locked. Perhaps he wouldn't be gone

for long—or maybe he had left some clue as to when he would be

back, she argued against her conscience as she pushed the door open

and stepped inside.

The shutters were closed; and the air inside hung, heavy and still and

full of silence. The shack was obviously empty. Christina made her

way over to one of the windows at the far end of the living room, and

opened back the shutter, letting the sunlight swarm in, dust motes

dancing in its beams.

It was all very neat. There were no unwashed dishes, and in the next

room the bed had been tidily made. There was nothing to suggest that

the owner had left in a hurry and would soon be back. It was, far more

indicative of the leisured preparation for a journey. She glanced

round a little uncertainly. She wasn't sure what she expected to see

—a note, perhaps, with an address or even a telephone number where

he could be reached? She knew she was being ridiculous. Devlin

Brandon was accountable to no one for his actions. And she had no

excuse at all for being here—prying like this, now that this was

established. No excuse at all.

As if she was being manipulated by unseen strings, she turned back

towards the work bench. This, presumably, was where Devlin

worked at his woodcarving. She was curious, to the point of

compulsion, to see the kind of work he produced. He didn't seem to

have any samples on open display. She guessed these must be his

current works, shrouded by the covering sheet.

Still she hesitated. What would she do—what could she say if he was

suddenly to return and find her here like this, so obviously snooping

through his things like this? She glanced warily towards the open

door, but it was filled by nothing but sunshine and the murmur of the

sea.

Feeling like Bluebeard's youngest wife, she lifted the corner of the

sheet, and picked up the first carving. It was a bird—some kind of

hawk, she thought, but so acutely observed that she half expected it to

take flight from her hands as she held it. She was no connoisseur of

the medium, but she could recognise artistry when she saw it. His

aunt might dismiss his talent with a casual wave of her hand, but that

could not diminish it. She looked eagerly at the other carvings. They

all seemed to have this same individual mastery of touch—the same

vivid life as the hawk.

There was just one more to see. She pulled it free of its wrappings and

stared down at it, her mouth suddenly dry. It was a small statuette—a

girl kneeling. A typical enough subject, she supposed, and it wasn't

even finished. Yet it was unmistakable. The girl was Eulalie, and she

was naked. Again, there was nothing in that. All artists used nude

models, she supposed. But it was the way she was posed— on her

knees, arms slightly extended. Every line of that voluptuously bare

body sang surrender—an offering which no virile man could have

either, mistaken or refused.

Her hands shaking, she put the figure down. How many times, she

found herself wondering, had Eulalie been here for this to be

achieved? Her mind went back to that first night at Archangel when

she had seen the girl creeping off through the garden. Her guess as to

her destination had been right, it seemed. But it hadn't mattered

then—or at least not much. It shouldn't matter now. She ought to be

able to look at the figure quite objectively as if she had looked at the

others and assess its artistic value. Devlin would have little trouble in

selling this, she told herself, trying to be casual. It was an utterly

sensuous piece with a delicate eroticism all its own. A woman's body

carved in wood by a man who knew it well.

She felt hot tears burning at her eyelids—a kind of tormented rage

welling up hysterically inside her. My God, she thought, I'm jealous.

It was nonsense. It was ludicrous. She had no right—no reason. He

had kissed—more than kissed her once—that was all. At all other

times they had been adversaries. With a little choking sob, she turned

and ran for the door, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes with a

scrap of handkerchief as she went, and thrusting it wildly back into

her pocket before slamming the door behind her.

Today she had learned something about herself. Something

unpalatable but a fact nevertheless. Somehow, she had fallen in love

with Devlin Brandon.

She shook her head violently in repudiation as she stumbled along the

beach. It wasn't love—it couldn't be. She had too much sense to

confuse liking and tenderness and respect with the sheer physical

desire that Devlin aroused in her. It was a primitive—an animal

thing—and she wasn't like that.

She wasn't, she repeated agonisedly, she wasn't. And found she was

still saying the same phrase over and over again like an incantation all

the way back to the comparative sanctuary of her room at Archangel.

For the next two days, Christina felt that she was existing in a kind of

limbo. Her duties for Mrs Brandon had never been onerous; now they

were practically non-existent. She was expected to appear at meals,

and little else. Theo was on his best behaviour. She could recognise

this and almost be amused by it. She had forced herself to endure his

emotional apology for his behaviour the other night and had made it

clear that she expected no repetition of it. He had reverted to being the

undemanding companion again, only a little more anxious to please.

She accepted his attentions with an indifference which only seemed

to prompt him to exert himself more. He obviously felt he was on the

shortest road to her good graces, and there seemed little point in

disillusioning him.

It was strange how the worry over her developing relationship with

Theo had retreated from the forefront of her mind under the impetus

of this new and shattering discovery. Yet it all came to the same thing

in the end— she had to get away from here. All she needed was the

means.

She could no longer turn to Devlin for help. That would be like

rubbing salt in a self-inflicted wound. The only thing that would

preserve her peace of mind would be to make her escape while, he

was still away. From the security of the adjoining cove, she could

make sure that
Moon Maiden
was still missing from the mooring.

While he was gone, she felt absurdly safe as if, on his return, one

glance at her face would tell him all she was so desperately trying to

conceal.

Her thoughtfulness, her pallor and the shadows under her eyes might

have been remarked by Mrs Brandon, but they were not commented

upon. Perhaps her employer felt she was merely making heavy

weather of considering her options. There was an air of almost

tangible satisfaction about the older woman these days as if it was

only a matter of time before all her designs were accomplished and

she knew it.

Sometimes, Christina allowed herself a wry smile. If Mrs Brandon

really knew! she thought. But it was just as well she didn't, or her

position here would be truly untenable.

The hardest thing of all to bear was the presence of Eulalie, she

found. Christina wondered if she was being over-sensitive, but there

seemed to be an air of secret knowledge, of triumph almost in the

girl's demeanour these days—especially when she came anywhere

near herself. With Mrs Brandon she presented her usual demure,

submissive appearance. It was as if she guessed the unhappy secret

that Christina nursed and was exulting over her. There was an extra

sway to her hips and a thrust to her full breasts whenever she entered

Christina's room. She seemed to be flaunting her exotic

beauty—reminding Christina, if she needed any such reminder, of

how intimately it had been displayed at the beach house for Devlin

Brandon's delectation.

Once she had even entered the bathroom while Christina was taking a

shower, even though the sound of the running water must have

warned her that the room was occupied. She had apologised instantly

and withdrawn, but Christina had been aware of and embarrassed by

her swift but thorough appraisal of her slender contours, and left with