Born Out Of Love. Anne Mather
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vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.
Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’
‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.
‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’
Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’
‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.
‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’
‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’
‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’
Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’
Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’
‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’
‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’
‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’
A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’
‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.
‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.
Logan’s long, narrow fingers slid effortlessly round the wheel. ‘Quite well,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause.
Charlotte forced herself to go on. ‘I believe Madame Fabergé’s husband is working here on the island. Does he work with you, by any chance?’
Logan turned to look at her and for a moment their eyes met and held. But the coldness in his was chilling and she looked away as he answered: ‘Madame Fabergé’s husband is dead, Mrs Derby. I thought you knew that.’
For a moment, Charlotte’s brain spun dizzily. She tried to remember what it was Mr Lewis had said, and she could almost swear that he had told her that her employer’s husband was living and working at Avocado Cay.
Grasping the frame of the open window for support, she said faintly: ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Kennedy. How could I?’
Logan shrugged. They had been descending a steep slope for some minutes, and below them stretched the serried ranks of a plantation of some kind. Thick leaves disguised their fruit, but Robert recognised the fleshy green fingers beneath.
‘Hey, they’re bananas,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Rows and rows of banana plants!’
Logan gave him an inscrutable smile, his benevolence fading when he again encountered Charlotte’s troubled gaze. But he went on to explain that this was the only crop grown in any quantity on the island. They had an unusual amount of rainfall, he explained, and its hilly contours were not suitable for acres of sugar cane. The island was not overly populated either. Apart from the village they could see ahead of them, and Avocado Cay, the small township of San Cristobal was its main settlement.
The village was a thriving community, with weatherboard houses and stores fronting a narrow main street. Charlotte saw the schoolhouse and beside it the Episcopalian church, the churchyard incongruously ordered among such tropical disorder. She wondered how many other white people lived on the island. She had seen mostly black faces.
Logan was instantly recognised, and their progress was slowed by his casual exchanges with passers-by. Occasionally, someone would approach the car to take a look at the newcomers, and once a child clung to Logan’s open window, cheekily demanding when he was going to be taken sailing again.
‘You ought to be in school, Peter,’ Logan retorted, smiling to take the edge off the reproof, and in the moments before his features hardened again, Charlotte glimpsed the man who had awakened her to an awareness of her own femininity.
‘Will I go to school there?’ asked Robert, as the outskirts of the village were left behind, and they passed beneath the hanging branches of a belt of thickly rooted trees.
‘That depends,’ Logan replied quietly, and Robert, seizing on something else he had heard, went on:
‘Do you sail, too? What kind of a boat do you have?’
Charlotte licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you thought I should have known Madame Fabergé’s husband was dead,’ she suggested tautly, ignoring Robert’s impatient sigh.
Logan reached forward and pulled a case of cheroots from the glove compartment, expertly flicking the pack until his lips could fasten round one slender stem and withdraw it. Then he felt in his pocket for a lighter, and applied the flame to its tip before replying.
‘Surely the conditions of employment were made clear to you, Mrs Derby,’ he said at last.
‘Yes.’ Charlotte endeavoured to keep the nervous tremor out of her tone. ‘I was sent here to take charge of Madame Fabergé’s small son and daughter.’
‘Philippe and Isabelle. Yes, I know.’
‘Then you must also know that I would assume Madame Fabergé had a husband. Why else would she be living in such an—an out-of-the-way place?’
‘Is that how you see San Cristobal? As an out-of-the-way place?’
Charlotte sighed. ‘Are you denying that, too?’
‘I am neither admitting nor denying anything, Mrs Derby,’ he returned smoothly.
Charlotte controlled the almost overwhelming desire to scream her frustration at him, and continued carefully: ‘You know that San Cristobal is hardly the usual haunt of a widow with two children, Mr Kennedy.’
He frowned. ‘No,’ he conceded at last, with what she felt was deliberate provocation. ‘But don’t dismiss these islands too lightly, Mrs Derby. They, like the great rain forests of my own country, make me acutely aware of my own minute contribution to the scheme of things.’
Charlotte breathed a sigh. ‘Mr Kennedy, I do not require a lecture on my own insignificance. I accept that. All I wondered was why Madame Fabergé should choose to live here.’
Logan’s nostrils flared. ‘Pierre Fabergé died of yellow fever six months ago in the Amazon delta!’ he stated grimly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte moved her shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I—I gather you knew him.’
‘He was my best friend,’ replied Logan harshly. ‘Lisette—his wife—had no one else.’
Now Charlotte understood. And with understanding came a feeling of withdrawal that had nothing to do with cool common sense. It was easy to