Follow Thy Desire Page 9

  Helen sighed. ‘Of course. At least, I have no opinion about it, one way or the other, only—’

  ‘Good. Then you won’t be disappointed when I tell you we’re spending the night with the Onebas,’ he announced, glancing round to see the other man making his way towards them carrying two glasses. ‘Here’s James now. Put on your best smile. He thinks you’re very attractive.’

  Helen tightened her lips as James Oneba came to join them, but he and Morgan seated themselves relaxedly, apparently unaware of her discomfort.

  ‘Morgan tells me you are training to become a physiotherapist,’ Oneba ventured with obvious interest, and Helen was obliged to answer him.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied politely, picking up her glass to taste its contents experimentally, but Oneba went on: ‘Is it not unusual to interrupt a course of that kind?’ and she was forced to elucidate.

  ‘I—it is—unusual, yes. But—circumstances made it desirable to take a break at this time, and as—as Doctor Fox required someone to help with his daughter…’

  Her voice trailed away, and she concentrated all her attention on the liquid in her glass. What had Morgan told him? she wondered, for the second time, but Morgan’s face when she glanced at him was enigmatic.

  Oneba was nodding slowly. ‘Morgan is fortunate indeed to have so charming an associate,’ he remarked gallantly, and Helen’s sigh of relief went unnoticed as he turned once more to his friend. ‘Did you see Marsden?’

  Morgan’s pose of relaxation fled as he straightened in his seat. ‘Yes,’ he said flatly, his voice suddenly harsh and abrupt. Then: ‘How has she been? Did the children make any difference?’

  The change of topic was startling, even to Helen, and James Oneba’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners. ‘Very well,’ he said, and Helen guessed he was answering some unspoken bone of contention between them before continuing: ‘She has been much as usual. We have seen little of her. She has spent most of the time in her room.’

  Morgan nodded, cradling his glass in his palms, legs apart, his forearms resting along his thighs. Judging by the brooding expression he was wearing, Helen guessed they had been talking about Andrea and feeling the need to take some part in this conversation, she asked:

  ‘Has Andrea been staying with you, Mr Oneba?’

  ‘James! Please, you must call me James.’ James Oneba smiled, his white teeth flashing brilliantly. ‘I am not like your so-respectful employer who insists on formality.’ He glanced with a return of humour at Morgan. ‘And yes, Andrea has been staying in my house since her father went away.’

  That explained their overnight stay in Charlottesville at least. Helen looked defiantly at Morgan and then, seeing that he had almost finished, gulped hurriedly at her drink.

  The two men rose as she finished, and she put down her glass and joined them, allowing James Oneba the privilege of carrying her jacket for her. She followed him towards the door, with Morgan bringing up the rear, trying not to feel concerned about his eyes upon her back.

  Outside, with the sun extinguished, the air was warm but no longer so exhausting, and while they waited for James’s car to be brought round from the parking area, Helen looked excitedly towards the brightly-lit shops and thoroughfares that ran at right angles to the ocean. Traffic was quite considerable at that hour of the evening, but although the components of the scene were familiar, the whole was not. There was a curious vibrance in the atmosphere, a sense of awareness, of excitement almost, that Helen decided had something to do with her own feelings towards the country. It was impossible not to be aware of its potential dangers, and that in itself was something wholly elemental. Or maybe she was aware of the danger Morgan presented to her, and that was all bound up in her reactions to the situation.

  Their luggage was loaded into the boot of James’s sleek Mercedes, and then, with James himself driving and Morgan seated beside him, they turned into the stream of traffic heading towards the city centre. In the back of the car, Helen stared through the windows eagerly, trying to immerse herself in her surroundings to the exclusion of everything else. There was plenty to see, and the prospect ahead of her of meeting not only Morgan’s daughter, but also James Oneba’s family was sufficient to dispel any lingering thoughts of Morgan himself. Nevertheless, his behaviour towards her was a continual abrasive to her emotions.

  They left the busy heart of the city behind and climbed the quiet hills behind to the Oneba house. Floodlit, as were many of the houses in the area, it presented a white, columned portico, reminiscent of pictures of plantation houses Helen had seen. It sprawled over half an acre, and was surrounded by grounds covering three or four times that area. Helen could see a wealth of gorgeous trees and flowering shrubs, all moon-pale in the artificial lighting, and as they circled the gravelled forecourt, she heard the sound of water falling into a stone basin.

  ‘Welcome to my home, Miss Raynor,’ James Oneba announced with pride, as he swung open his door and turned at once to help her alight. ‘Welcome to Zimbake!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Helen got out rather bemusedly, looking about her uncertainly as several servants came hurrying out to greet their master, taking charge of the car and the luggage, and ushering their guests towards the entrance of the building. She was relieved to find Morgan beside her, urging her forward, although his low-voiced words did nothing to reassure her:

  ‘Prepare yourself to greet both of James’s wives with equal civility. A Muslim is entitled to take four wives, if he so wishes.’ And at her look of dismay, he added mockingly: ‘Who knows? Perhaps he is considering you as a possible third.’

  There was no time to make any suitable retort or to reassure herself he was only teasing her, before they entered into an exquisitely-tiled hall, with a high arched ceiling from which was suspended a magnificent crystal chandelier. By its trembling prismatic light, Helen saw the tall pedestals with vases filled with exotic blossoms, the delicate statuary of an inner fountain, the fan-like widening of a shallow staircase that swept in a semi-circle to the balcony above. Veined marble and intricately-wrought iron, porcelain and alabaster; Helen had never seen such magnificence, and to imagine herself staying in such surroundings was yet another skein of unreality that wound itself about her.

  Several children came rushing to greet their father as he strode ahead of his guests, and he swung the two smallest up into his arms, turning to face Helen with their arms about his neck.

  ‘See,’ he said, with unselfconscious candour. ‘We have visitors. Andrea’s papa has brought a beautiful young lady to stay with them.’ Then he smiled. ‘Irena and Hugo,’ he added, for Helen’s benefit. ‘Are they not alike?’

  The two children were indeed twins, but while Helen was trying to think of some suitable thing to say, two women came hurrying down the stairs to join them, obviously alerted by the excited chatter of the children. They were totally unalike, in that the older of the two had skin as black as ebony, while the younger was strikingly pale. The girl, for Helen could see she was little more than seventeen or eighteen, was obviously of African origin, but her blood had been mixed with a gentler blend and only her hair retained its lustrous darkness.

  At their approach, James put down the twins and they ran off to join their older brothers and sisters who clustered in a little group, watching the visitors with wide eyes. That their gaze lingered longest on Helen was probably due to the fact that they were already acquainted with Andrea’s father, but nevertheless, after what Morgan had said, Helen felt discomfited by it.

  Still, the appearance of their mother—mothers?—Helen’s shoulders moved in silent uncertainty—provided a diversion, and James drew her forward to perform the introductions. It soon became apparent that the two women were more nervous than Helen of meeting a stranger, but they greeted her shyly as she shook hands with each of them in turn. Their names were Sarah and Mariana, Mariana being the younger of the two.

  ‘And now we will show you to your room, Miss Raynor,’ her host declared
-firmly. ‘I am sure you would like to rest a while before we have supper, and Morgan, I know, is eager to go in search of his daughter.’

  ‘A—a wash would be most welcome,’ Helen confessed, glancing round awkwardly at Morgan, but he had gone to speak to the children and it was left to Mariana to lead the way upstairs.

  Followed by a servant carrying her suitcases, Helen climbed the shallow staircase after the girl. From time to time, Mariana would turn and offer her a wide, encouraging smile, and although Helen’s gaze was drawn more often to Morgan and his host, still talking together in the hall below, she appreciated the African girl’s friendliness.

  A galleried hallway opened off the balcony overlooking a floodlit inner courtyard where scarlet poinsettia and frangipani and exotic African lilies competed between paved walks and creeper-hung trellises. Doors opened off galleried walkways at each level, and across the courtyard Helen could see both the floor above and the floor below. Her fascination with her surroundings excused her lack of conversation and not until Mariana opened double doors into the room which was to be hers for the night did she allow the bemusement to escape her.

  The room into which Mariana was leading the way was huge and magnificent. Walls hung with swathes of apricot silk, a ceiling arched in the Moorish fashion and exquisitely painted, furnishings of fine oak and cedar, with a tasselled silk bedspread and wild silk curtains that matched the jewel-coloured rugs strewn about the polished floor. Even the bed was huge, square and four-posted, with curtains caught up in cherubs’ fingers.

  ‘This is where I’m to sleep!’

  Helen’s words were almost a protest, and Mariana looked concerned. ‘You do not like it?’ she ventured doubtfully, but Helen quickly reassured her.

  ‘I love it!’ she exclaimed extravagantly, wanting to show her appreciation. ‘I just meant—its seems so grand!’

  Mariana smiled at this, not without some relief. ‘It is a beautiful house,’ she said, with obvious satisfaction. ‘I am happy that you like it, too.’

  The servant departed after leaving her suitcases on the stand at the end of the bed, and Helen chanced a question of her own: ‘Have you lived here long, Mariana?’

  The girl held up her head. In her long citron-coloured gown, she had a certain dignity that was suddenly evident. ‘I have been the wife of James Oneba for almost two years,’ she declared proudly. ‘Already we have a son and soon, in five or six months, we will have another.’

  Helen hoped the girl had not considered her question too personal, but it was too late now to retract it, and smiling, she gestured towards her cases. ‘I suppose I’d better unpack a nightgown…’

  ‘If you will tell Lisa what you require, she will do it for you,’ the other girl said at once, but in this Helen decided to demur.

  ‘I can do it. Thank you,’ she added, to soften the words.

  ‘Very well.’ Mariana moved towards the door. Then she stopped again. ‘You will find the bathroom through that door,’ she directed, and with a faint smile, left her.

  The bathroom was as luxurious as the bedroom. Obviously, whatever the financial state of Osweba, its ministers lived in style and comfort, and the enormous bath was big enough to swim in. It was a temptation to fill it and do just that, but Helen didn’t know how much time she had and contented herself with a shower instead. She ran the water slightly less than body heat and came out shivering slightly, glad of the enveloping folds of the honey-brown caftan she had chosen to wear for the evening.

  It was good to feel cool again, and refreshed, the sweat of time and travel washed from her body. Beneath the ankle-length skirt of the caftan, her thighs brushed together softly, without the stickiness she had felt since their departure from the plane at Nairobi. Her hair, too, had been brushed until it shone and the lightest of make-up was all she applied. She took the longest time over her eyes, outlining them with a creamy-beige eyeshadow and darkening her lashes with mascara.

  When she was satisfied with her appearance, she turned out the lamps and opened the bedroom door. A glance at her watch, synchronised to local time on the plane, told her it was a little after seven-thirty, and not quite knowing what to do or where to go, she moved along the gallery to the balcony overlooking the entrance hall.

  All was quiet. Even the servants who had seemed so plentiful before had all disappeared, and she descended the staircase slowly allowing her hand to trail along the wrought iron balustrade. She guessed from the ambient atmosphere that the house was air-conditioned, and a faint humming sound seemed to confirm this.

  Several doors opened from the hall and a triple-arched entry invited inspection of the lamplit living area beyond. Helen moved towards this seemingly appropriate place to wait for her host, or hostesses, but she saw as she passed between the moulded pillars that supported the arches that the room was already occupied. A girl was seated in a corner, almost invisible in the shadows where the lamplight did not reach. Only the light glinting in her spectacles attracted Helen’s eyes, and for a moment she thought it must be another of James Oneba’s daughters. But as she moved further into the room, Helen saw that the girl’s hair was as pale as Morgan’s and she had no doubts in identifying her as Andrea Fox.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, glad of the opportunity to speak to the girl without anyone else being present. ‘You’re Andrea, aren’t you? I’m Helen. Did your father tell you about me?’

  The girl, whose knees were already drawn up on to the chair, seemed to withdraw even further into the shadows. Eyes of an indeterminate shade stared briefly into Helen’s through thick lenses before she cast them down, long lashes brushing the revealing hollows in her thin face.

  Helen suppressed a sigh, and glanced about her. Like the rooms upstairs, this living area was opulent in its comfort, its armchairs and sofas richly upholstered in satin and damask, the enormous circular carpet covering most of the tiled spaces of the floor of obviously skilled workmanship. Helen guessed it had been designed in Bukhara or Tashkent, but the colours of sapphire blue, ruby red and lustrous turquoise were as jewel-bright as the day they were made.

  Her eyes went back to Andrea, and she wondered how the girl felt about staying in such luxurious surroundings. Obviously, she preferred the people and places she knew to those she didn’t, or she would have accompanied her father to England. Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. Morgan must have spoken to her, must have told her he had brought someone back to befriend her. Had the girl no views on the matter? Or was Helen’s presence here of complete indifference to her?

  Deciding to try again, Helen said quietly: ‘I expect you are looking forward to going home, are you, Andrea?’

  The girl’s lids lifted at this, and she stared at Helen with sudden hostility. Then she spoke, and her words were entirely unexpected.

  ‘Why didn’t you marry Uncle Barry?’ she demanded tensely, knuckles clenched about her knees, and Helen realised that any hope she might have had that the past could be forgotten while she was here in Osweba was a futile one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IF Andrea expected an answer to her question, Helen could not give her one. Not then. Not when she was still shocked by the vehemence of the girl’s tone. What had Morgan told his daughter that Andrea should feel so antagonistic towards her? Why had he mentioned her involvement with Barry at all?

  She was still trying to regain her composure when Morgan himself came strolling into the room. Like her, he had changed, and his lean body responded well to the dark pants and shirt he was wearing. The darkness of his apparel accentuated the ash fairness of his hair, and Helen felt the impact of his personality like a physical force against her own vulnerability.

  He looked from Helen to his daughter, and then back to Helen again. Andrea had made an instinctive move at his appearance, but she quickly squashed the urge to leave her chair and remained curled in the corner, watching them, like some avenging spirit.

  ‘I see you’ve met,’ remarked Morgan dryly, aware of the tension in the room. ‘
I hoped to get down in time to introduce you.’

  Helen expelled her breath rather unsteadily, and then said: ‘Yes. We’ve met,’ in rather taut tones.

  Morgan looked at his daughter thoughtfully. ‘Why are you hiding away there? Is something wrong?’

  Helen licked her lips. ‘Andrea’s just asked me why I didn’t marry her uncle,’ she declared stiffly. ‘How did she know I was going to?’

  ‘How did she know—Helen!’ Morgan stared at her impatiently. ‘How do you think she knew? My father wrote and told us so.’

  His father!

  Helen’s shoulders sagged. How could she have been so stupid! Of course, his father had written to tell them about the wedding, and what more natural than that he should mention the name of his stepson’s fiancée?

  ‘I’m sorry…’ Helen shook her head. ‘I thought that you—’

  ‘No, Helen.’ His eyes were cold. ‘No. I merely explained that you had wanted to get away from England at this time.’

  Andrea had watched this interchange with guarded eyes, but now her father turned to her again and held out his hand. ‘Come along, Andrea,’ he commanded gently. ‘There’s no point in trying to evade the issue. Helen’s here now, and she’s staying.’

  The girl uncoiled her length from the chair with obvious reluctance. She was taller than Helen had expected, as tall as she was, in fact, but so slender! The flaring white pants helped to disguise the narrowness of her hips, but nothing could hide the painful thinness of her arms protruding from the sleeves of her embroidered smock, the fragility of wrists that looked as if they could be snapped without effort. Her hair was only several shades darker than Morgan’s own, and its length did nothing to soften the angular contours of her features, and her skin, unlike her father’s, was pale and showed no propensity to tan. Her spectacles were the final straw, Helen felt, guessing that Andrea was not unaware of her appearance. Was this why she hadn’t wanted to come to the wedding? Or was there more? Helen sensed it went deeper than that.