A Distant Sound Of Thunder. Anne Mather
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‘Why? Because of Piers?’
‘What? No! No.’ Rebecca turned away, and in consequence did not see the narrowing of Adele’s eyes.
‘Well, it can’t be me,’ remarked the older woman mockingly. ‘You’ve had dinner with me plenty of times.’
Rebecca gathered her composure and turned back to her. ‘I would feel the same, no matter who your guest might be,’ she said tautly. ‘Besides, I can’t recall you showing such a desire for my company before.’ She frowned. ‘Why do you want me to join you for dinner?’
If Adele was surprised by this sudden show of confidence, she hid it admirably, and smiling slightly said: ‘Perhaps, as your days here are so uneventful, I felt sorry for you. And after all, it isn’t every day you get the chance to break bread with a millionaire!’
Rebecca’s nails dug into the palms of her hands. ‘Do I have a choice?’
Adele’s expression hardened. ‘No, miss, you do not! Now go and prepare yourself, or do you want to be responsible for my over-stimulation?’
Rebecca heaved a sigh, and with a helpless gesture left the room. In her own room she surveyed the contents of her wardrobe critically. What on earth was she going to wear? Short dresses were cooler, but somehow unsuitable in the islands when so many oriental styles were much more feminine. She drew out an all-white gown, trimmed with gold braid, its classic lines cut to ankle length. The bodice was swathed under her breasts, but otherwise it fell without fullness to her feet. With her colouring, and the tan she had acquired, it would look attractive, but did she want to look attractive? Surely she would be more sensible to wear a less arresting garment. She had no desire to arouse any further interest.
Thrusting the white gown aside, she pulled out a jungle-printed caftan. It, too, was long, but its lines were all-concealing, and the wide long sleeves hid the rounded contours of her arms.
Throwing it on the bed, she went to take a shower, and later, after she was dressed, she surveyed her appearance with approval. Certainly the colour did nothing for her, although she could wear almost anything really.
She joined Adele in the lounge just as the sound of a car could be heard drawing up outside the villa. Rosa went to answer the door and a few moments later came into the lounge and said:
‘Monsieur Piers St. Clair, madam, and his companion, Mademoiselle Yvonne Dupuis!’
Rebecca could feel the colour drain out of her face as Piers came into the room, looking tall, and lean, and dark, in a white dinner jacket, a maroon handkerchief in his pocket showing a splash of colour. With him was one of the most beautiful women Rebecca had ever seen, although she was by no means young. Rebecca judged her age to be anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five, and there were strands of grey in her lustrous dark hair. Even so, she was immaculately elegant, and the slenderness of her figure owed nothing to clever upholstering. In a gown of silver grey crepe that moulded her body lovingly, a darker grey cape across her shoulders, she looked magnificent, and Rebecca glanced swiftly at Adele to note her reactions.
But to her surprise, Adele seemed not at all perturbed, and her greeting left Rebecca in no doubt that she had expected this second guest. Rebecca herself felt confused. Exactly why had Adele made such a thing about her joining them when she had known that Piers St. Clair was bringing a guest? And why hadn’t she warned Rebecca that her brother-in-law would not be alone? Rebecca compressed her lips, wondering what distorted enjoyment Adele expected to get out of this situation. Had she sensed her nurse’s interest in Piers and chosen this way to show her how hopeless were any aspirations in that direction? Surely she must know that Rebecca was aware of that herself. Or did she? Either way, tonight was going to be infinitely more difficult to endure.
While Adele chattered to Yvonne Dupuis, leaving Rebecca to realise that the two women had known one another for many years, Piers, after a smiling greeting to his sister-in-law, made his way to Rebecca’s side.
‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle,’ he murmured, regarding her with his intensely dark eyes. ‘I wondered whether you would be permitted to join us.’
Rebecca’s first instinct was to make some excuse and move away from him, but to do so would be tantamount to admitting her nervousness of him, so instead she said: ‘Miss St. Cloud insisted. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to choose.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Why do you persist in behaving so childishly?’ he enquired, in a low tone. ‘It is not becoming.’
Rebecca looked across at Adele who looked up at that moment and said: ‘Shall we have a drink? Rebecca, will you get them? By the way, Yvonne, this is my nurse, Rebecca Lindsay. Rebecca, Mademoiselle Dupuis and I were at school together.’
Adele’s tone was so light and pleasant, that Rebecca had no choice but to go and shake hands with the French woman and then ask her what she would like to drink. At the cocktail cabinet, her fingers were all thumbs, and after she had dropped a small bottle of dry ginger with a disturbing clatter on the glass surface, she felt Piers join her, and take the offending bottle out of her hands.
Deftly, and without spilling a drop, Piers dealt with their individual requests, and after handing Rebecca the bitter lemon she had insisted upon having, he poured himself rather a stiff measure of brandy.
‘Cognac, mademoiselle,’ he remarked, as Rebecca watched him swirling the amber-coloured liquid round in its balloon glass. ‘If ever I need it, it restores my—what would you say—equilibre?’
‘Equilibrium,’ said Rebecca, rather flatly, looking down into her own glass.
‘Ah, oui, equilibrium!’ He half smiled. ‘You understand?’
Rebecca compressed her lips. ‘I would not have thought anything would disturb your—equilibrium,’ she replied. ‘You seem superbly confident to me.’
His eyes searched her face, lingering disturbingly on her mouth for a long moment. ‘But then—you do not know me very well—yet,’ he commented softly.
Rebecca turned away. She would not listen to him, and as luck would have it Rosa came in at that moment to announce that dinner was served. Piers took charge of Adele’s chair, making her laugh as they walked ahead of Rebecca and the French woman into the dining room.
The meal was silent for Rebecca. Round a table it was so much easier for Adele to talk equally to both her guests and in consequence Rebecca was left to herself. She didn’t mind. Indeed, it was easier that way, but she longed to escape from all of them.
Coffee was served in the lounge, and the windows were thrust wide to let in the cool evening air. Mesh screens prevented the hundreds of moths and insects from penetrating to the attraction of the lamplight, and it was very pleasant to relax there. But after drinking her coffee, Rebecca rose and said:
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you now. I—I have some reports to attend to. And I have rather a headache, too.’
Adele frowned. ‘Now, Rebecca,’ she said impatiently, ‘no report is that urgent. And as for your headache, I should think a walk round the garden would cure that. I’m sure Monsieur St. Clair would accompany you.’ Her gaze rested momentarily on Piers who had risen too.
Rebecca coloured brilliantly. What was Adele trying to do? Why should she suggest that Piers St. Clair should accompany her on a walk round the garden? She had never shown any interest in her nurse’s welfare before.
‘Thank you, but—–’ she began, when Piers said: ‘Adele is right. The night air would do you more good than sitting in your room. I’m sure Yvonne and Adele can find plenty to talk about.’
Yvonne leaned forward and put her hand on his arm, attracting his attention. ‘Let Nurse Lindsay decide for herself, chéri,’ she murmured insinuatively. ‘She may be tired.’
Rebecca watched that interchange with reluctance. Exactly what relationship did Yvonne Dupuis have with him? From the intimacy of her expression, Rebecca could only think the worst.