Antigua Kiss by Anne Weale Page A

steered her towards his own vessel. So might another man have said, of a beautiful woman, 'There she is—my wife.'
    'But surely this isn't the boat you told me about, is it?' she asked, as they stepped on board what seemed to her inexpert eyes an almost new yacht.
    'No, that's Sunbird One. She's up north in the British Virgins for a month. This is a more recent acquisition. I had her built for me in Denmark. She's a staysail schooner, built to take up to six guests; seventy-four feet long, not counting her bowsprit, with a beam of sixteen feet six. She has three double cabins and six single bunks; three of the cabins have basins, and the bathroom has a proper bath. I think you'll be surprised by the size of her saloon.'
    Christie was. She had had no idea that a cruising yacht's quarters between decks could be so spacious and well-appointed. There was no question of roughing it. The saloon had a thick fitted carpet, well-upholstered banquettes and an armchair, and a library of several hundred books housed on shelves between built-in fitments of rich dark mahogany.
    Ash left her to explore the passengers' cabins while he made coffee in the galley. By the time she returned to the saloon, greatly impressed by what she had seen, the coffee was ready.
    'Normally we serve real coffee made from freshly ground beans, but I remembered that you prefer the decaffeinated instant stuff,' he said, setting the tray on the polished table, and turning to a cupboard containing bottles and glasses. 'What liqueur would you like? I think we have most of the best known ones.'
    'Do you have Drambuie?'
    'Certainly.' Having filled two small glasses, he left the bottle on the table, slid his long legs underneath it, and seated himself on the banquette at right angles to the part on which she was sitting.
    'Now—to business,' he said, in a brisk tone, relieving her of the anxiety that having coffee on his schooner might be the nautical equivalent of being taken to someone's apartment to look at their etchings.
    'As possibly you know,' he began, 'Antigua used to be covered with estates growing sugar cane. Nowadays, many of the mills and the Great Houses are in ruins. But some have survived in good order.
    Unless tourists are interested in history or architecture, they don't usually see them, except perhaps Marble Hill. It's up in the north-west corner. An artist called Dominic Hapsburg lives and works there, designing hand-printed fabrics and clothes which are sold in most of the good shops. Another fine house is Mercer's Creek. It's kept up and used by outsiders, with Antiguan caretakers. There's also a scheme whereby people can lease these old places at reasonable rents, providing they undertake to preserve them.'
    He paused to swallow some coffee and, after a moment, continued,
    'I've bought a Great House called Heron's Sound. Tomorrow I'll take you to see it. It's full of splendid antiques, but it's been very badly neglected and needs drastic renovations. When it's done up, I mean to run it as a very superior kind of guesthouse. But first I need someone with taste to redecorate it, and then to act as the chatelaine—supervising the servants, arranging the flowers, making the people who'll come there feel as if they were staying in the house of an exceptionally good hostess. How does it appeal to you, Christiana? Instead of going back to London, to stay here and work with me?'
    For some seconds Christie was speechless.
    'But I have a job,' was her first reaction.
    'People change jobs. I'm sure if you wrote immediately to your Principal—perhaps a cable would be better—explaining the situation in relation to John, your Head would be prepared to release you from whatever agreement you have with the school. After all, you are John's surrogate mother even if I am his legal guardian. Had you been married, and your husband had been posted abroad unexpectedly, you would have had to go with him.'
    'Yes, that's true, I suppose.'

    'Wouldn't you like to