listen to the zephyr of a breeze soughing through the casuarinas, or wander to the less formal places to appreciate the tapestry of colour woven by a myriad of wild flowers whose heady perfume filled the air around her. Earlier the sky had been sapphire blue dotted with fine white, cirrus clouds, golden-lined. Now it was purple, star-spangled.
She wandered on, half inclined to walk along the shore, but before she could make up her mind she knew a tingling of nerves, a warning she was not alone out here, and she swung around in a full circle.
Paul . . .
He saw her shadowed figure against the grenadilla hedge through which argent light was slanting, and he came slowly towards her, steps long and light, head erect, set proudly on broad, arrogant shoulders. Quivers, nerves, racing heartbeats . . . once again she was alone with him in an isolated spot. . . .
‘I thought you said you were tired?’ Reaching her, he spoke softly and with a dry challenge. ‘Wanted to get away . . . from me?’
‘I—suppose so—’ Not a tactful admission, but shecould think of nothing else to say on the spur of the moment.
‘I have always liked your honesty.’ His tones were stiff, unemotional.
‘I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.’ She edged away, because he was too close; she could smell the lingering perfume of body lotion, and mingling with it, the almost intoxicating male odour of him. What was wrong with her to be affected like this! Desperate not to let him guess at her feelings, she found herself saying rather coldly, ‘I’m going in now; please allow me to pass.’
Paul stood where he was, blocking her path.
‘You were going in that direction,’ he reminded her. ‘Were you intending to walk along the beach?’
She coloured in the moonlight. She should have known it would gain her nothing to lie to him. She glanced towards the shore, where a little way out, Paul’s yacht was moored to a jetty, the white sails bending in the breeze, and above it and the sea, the endless canopy of the sky, filled with stars . . . billions of them, spreading away into eternity. Emma felt small and insignificant, lost somehow, and wanting reassurance and comfort. The cosmos was too vast; it frightened her.
Paul moved impatiently, and she was reminded that he had asked a question.
‘Yes, I was in fact half inclined to walk on the beach,’ she answered belatedly.
‘Because you could not sleep you came out here.’ The same dry challenge was there although he did not add to his words. He thought it was because of him that she could not sleep. Was he inwardly jeering at her, branding her one of those who ranafter him? Yet, how could he when she was so determined to go home at the end of the week? She could have stayed, at his invitation.
‘I admit I could not have slept,’ she returned, vitally aware of him as a man, of the fact that they were alone here, in this isolated, romantic place, sheltered, and yet with a view to the argent-sprayed seashore and the sleepy lagoon.
She recalled that Mark Twain had declared that: ‘God made Mauritius first and then Heaven, Heaven being copied from Mauritius.’
She heard Paul say, very softly . . . almost gently, ‘Where are your thoughts, Emma?’
‘I was thinking of Mark Twain and what he said about this lovely island.’
He nodded his head but said nothing, and after a while, Emma asked him how he came to be here.
‘Did you ever live in France?’ she added finally, and he shook his head.
‘We’ve been here for generations. We’re blanc Mauritians, not French.’
‘Oh, yes, I knew that; Louise told me. But I wondered if you’d lived in France.’
‘Originally we came over from France but a long time ago.’
She fell silent, mind confused, because with one part of it she wanted to escape to the safety of her room, but with the other part she wanted to stay. And yet if she did stay, whether by her own intention or his, there would be only one
She wandered on, half inclined to walk along the shore, but before she could make up her mind she knew a tingling of nerves, a warning she was not alone out here, and she swung around in a full circle.
Paul . . .
He saw her shadowed figure against the grenadilla hedge through which argent light was slanting, and he came slowly towards her, steps long and light, head erect, set proudly on broad, arrogant shoulders. Quivers, nerves, racing heartbeats . . . once again she was alone with him in an isolated spot. . . .
‘I thought you said you were tired?’ Reaching her, he spoke softly and with a dry challenge. ‘Wanted to get away . . . from me?’
‘I—suppose so—’ Not a tactful admission, but shecould think of nothing else to say on the spur of the moment.
‘I have always liked your honesty.’ His tones were stiff, unemotional.
‘I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.’ She edged away, because he was too close; she could smell the lingering perfume of body lotion, and mingling with it, the almost intoxicating male odour of him. What was wrong with her to be affected like this! Desperate not to let him guess at her feelings, she found herself saying rather coldly, ‘I’m going in now; please allow me to pass.’
Paul stood where he was, blocking her path.
‘You were going in that direction,’ he reminded her. ‘Were you intending to walk along the beach?’
She coloured in the moonlight. She should have known it would gain her nothing to lie to him. She glanced towards the shore, where a little way out, Paul’s yacht was moored to a jetty, the white sails bending in the breeze, and above it and the sea, the endless canopy of the sky, filled with stars . . . billions of them, spreading away into eternity. Emma felt small and insignificant, lost somehow, and wanting reassurance and comfort. The cosmos was too vast; it frightened her.
Paul moved impatiently, and she was reminded that he had asked a question.
‘Yes, I was in fact half inclined to walk on the beach,’ she answered belatedly.
‘Because you could not sleep you came out here.’ The same dry challenge was there although he did not add to his words. He thought it was because of him that she could not sleep. Was he inwardly jeering at her, branding her one of those who ranafter him? Yet, how could he when she was so determined to go home at the end of the week? She could have stayed, at his invitation.
‘I admit I could not have slept,’ she returned, vitally aware of him as a man, of the fact that they were alone here, in this isolated, romantic place, sheltered, and yet with a view to the argent-sprayed seashore and the sleepy lagoon.
She recalled that Mark Twain had declared that: ‘God made Mauritius first and then Heaven, Heaven being copied from Mauritius.’
She heard Paul say, very softly . . . almost gently, ‘Where are your thoughts, Emma?’
‘I was thinking of Mark Twain and what he said about this lovely island.’
He nodded his head but said nothing, and after a while, Emma asked him how he came to be here.
‘Did you ever live in France?’ she added finally, and he shook his head.
‘We’ve been here for generations. We’re blanc Mauritians, not French.’
‘Oh, yes, I knew that; Louise told me. But I wondered if you’d lived in France.’
‘Originally we came over from France but a long time ago.’
She fell silent, mind confused, because with one part of it she wanted to escape to the safety of her room, but with the other part she wanted to stay. And yet if she did stay, whether by her own intention or his, there would be only one
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