Eclipse. Lynne Pemberton

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      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 naïve 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 СКАЧАТЬ