The Devil at Archangel (6 page)

been something to smile over in the months to come.

Instead, she was facing the journey ahead with a strange reluctance,

unable to dismiss the murmurings of inner disquiet. It was not simply

her discovery that Mrs Brandon's temper was all she had suspected,

and worse—she could have lived with that—but rather all the

unanswered questions she had pushed to the back of her mind in the

relief of having a job offered to her and some kind of future to look

forward to. Again, she found herself wondering why Mrs Brandon

had come personally to England to seek her. Her health, after all, was

not good—far from it. As well as her arthritis, she seemed to be

taking a variety of tiny capsules for other purposes, and Christina

could not help suspecting that she had a bad heart. If that was the

case, then why had she not appointed some kind of agent rather than

put herself to all the trouble of a journey half way across the world?

She would have liked to tell herself that it was compassion and

kindness that had prompted the action, but she knew that such a

conclusion would merely be an exercise in self-deception.

She was forced, instead, to conclude that Mrs Brandon had some

urgent reason for wanting to look her future protegee over in person,

although she could not even hazard a guess as to what that reason

could be.

But the feeling of elation that had gripped her on her arrival in

Martinique was sadly lacking as she stood by the rail of the boat

which was taking her to Archangel and caught her first glimpse of Ste

Victoire. She was alone, Mrs. Brandon preferring to rest in one of the

air-conditioned cabins, and so she had no one to influence her first

reactions to the place that was to be her home.

It was inevitably a nervous arrival. Christina's heart was frankly in

her mouth as she saw how the boat had to edge its way past the

crippling reef to get into the calm waters of the harbour, and she

remembered uncomfortably how Mrs Brandon had warned her that

they could be cut off in bad weather. It was June now, and she had

read somewhere that summer was not the pleasantest season in this

part of the Caribbean, with the possibility of hurricanes ever- present.

She sighed impatiently. There was little point in thinking like this.

She was just making herself miserable. She was letting an absurd

prediction, uttered to impress a crowd of credulous tourists, prey on

her mind too much. After all, she had suffered none of these qualms

back in England, when she could have retracted if she had wanted to.

And she hadalso discovered, on Martinique, that this smiling Paradise

could have its darker side, yet it would be foolish to allow this to

outweigh all the other considerations. This, after all, was where Aunt

Grace had wanted her to be, and she owed it to her godmother at least

to try and give this new life a chance.

She lingered on deck as the boat docked, watching with fascination as

the gangplank was run out and the freight and few passengers bound

for the island began to be disembarked. An opulent car was drawn up

on the quayside and a coloured man in a chauffeur's uniform was

standing beside it, leaning against the bonnet. Christina knew without

being told that this was the transport from Archangel, and she went

below to inform Mrs Brandon.

She was surprised and somewhat gratified to receive the beginnings

of a wintry smile and even the command to see that all the luggage

was collected and taken up on deck was delivered in reasonably

amiable tones. Perhaps Mrs Brandon was pleased to be home and

would mellow accordingly, she thought optimistically as she

supervised the transfer of their cases.

She accompanied the older woman down the gangplank, carefully

avoiding any appearance of concern or the offer of help. When they

reached the quay, Mrs Brandon stood for a moment, white-lipped and

an expression of strain tautening her clear-cut features, then she had

herself under control again and was leading the way towards the car.

The chauffeur snatched off his cap and came to meet them, grinning

broadly. 'Welcome home,
m'dame
—missy.'

'It's good to be back, Louis.' Mxs Brandon relinquished her cane to

him and climbed into the back of the car. Christina watched as the

chauffeur, in spite of the sticky warmth of the day, wrapped a silken

rug arqund her feet and legs.

'You may travel in the front,
mon enfant
,' Airs Brandon decreed

autocratically, and Christina climbed obediently into the passenger

seat. It was very hot in the car and she would have liked to have

wound down the window, but something warned her that Mrs

Brandon liked to travel in the equivalent of a Turkish bath and that

she would do well to accept the situation. Anyway, she thought,

surreptitiously pushing her hair off the nape of her neck, Ste Victoire

wasn't a very large island and they would soon be arriving at

Archangel. She began to think longingly in terms of a shower and a

cool drink.

The harbour area of the island did not strike her as being particularly

attractive—a cluster of whitewashed buildings with corrugated iron

roofs, many of which seemed to be in an advanced state of rust. The

streets leading away from the harbour were narrow and crowded with

every type of traffic. A lot of people, Christina noticed, were riding

bicycles, many of them wobbling along precariously with large

bundles on their heads or on the handlebars in front of them.

Pavement stalls heaped high with exotically coloured fruit and

vegetables threatened to spill into the road, and there seemed to be

children and animals everywhere. She had to admire the

imperturbable skill
With
which Louis negotiated his route, but she

had to breathe a silent sigh of relief when the township was left

behind, and they emerged on to a wider, straighter road which they

seemed to have all to themselves.

But after they had been travelling a few minutes, Christina realised

ruefully that width and straightness were its only attributes. In other

ways, it was little better than a dirt track with gaping potholes every

few yards, and although Louis restricted the speed at which they were

travelling to allow for this, not even the car's luxurious springing

could save them from being jolted.

The road began to climb quite steeply after a few miles, and Christina

could see the sea again in the distance, a deep fantastic blue merging

unnoticeably with the sky. Shecaught her breath at its beauty, and

Louis grinned broadly as he caught a glimpse of her rapt face.

'You wait, missy.'

They were passing through cultivated fields, where people were

working. Many of them straightened and waved as the car sped by,

and Christina had a vision of Mrs Brandon sitting alone in the back,

acknowledging the salutations with a regal movement of her hand,

but she did not dare to turn round to see if she was right. She guessed,

however, that this was the edge of the plantation that Mrs Brandon

had mentioned. The size of it frankly amazed her, Stretching away as

far as the eye could see, and interspersed with clusters of dwellings,

belonging, she surmised, to the plantation workers. It was like a little

world within a world and Christina found herself wondering whether

she would ever be familiar with all its workings. Everything—the

heat, the parched-looking ground, the vivid blossoms on the trees and

shrubs that lined the road—seemed so alien somehow after the

gentleness of the English countryside. In spite of the neatness of the

cultivated acres, bisected by irrigation channels, Christina had a sense

of wildness, of a landscape that had not and never would be

completely tamed.

She took a handkerchief, from her shoulder bag and wiped the

perspiration from her forehead and upper lip. The car was running

along at the side of the coast now, the road falling away unnervingly

to the silver beach far below. Christina gazed longingly at the

creaming surf curling softly on to the sands, and imagined the faint

salt-laden breeze that would be blowing off the sea. The heat inside ■

the car was beginning to make her head throb, and she was aware of a

slight feeling of nausea. Surely the journey couldn't take much

longer.

She leaned back against the padded seat, closing her eyes and trying

to ignore the frequent lurches as the car coped with the uneven

surface of the road. Then, just as she thought she was going to be

forced to ask Louis to stop the car, the ordeal came to an end. The car

slowed, turned sharply and settled on to a surface that felt as smooth

as silk after the horrors of the past few miles. Half unwillingly, she

opened her eyes and found that they were travelling suddenly under a

cool green arch of trees.

'Nearly home, missy.' Louis' voice at her side was brisk and

reassuring and Christina realised gratefully that her discomfort had

been noticed. She could not repress g feeling of excitement as the

seconds passed.

One last, deep bend and the house lay in front of them, shaded by tall

encircling trees. It was painted white, a long two-storey building with

a wide terrace running its full length on the ground floor and echoed

by the balcony with its wrought iron balustrade outside the upper

rooms. In front of the house formal lawns, and .flower beds vibrant

with blossoms stretched away, and Christina noticed that there were

sprinklers at work. The car stopped at the foot of the terrace steps and

Christina saw that a tall woman was waiting at the front door to greet

them. By her dark dress and spodess white apron, she guessed she

was the housekeeper. She waited at the side of the car while Louis

helped Mrs Brandon out. The air was warm and filled with a dozen

pungent scents. Christina breathed deeply, feeling the tension that

had possessed her slowly draining away. She looked up at the

housekeeper and smiled rather shyly, but the other woman did not

respond. At closer quarters, Christina saw that she still bore the traces

of an earlier beauty, although her face was haggard now, the

cheekbones prominent under the coffee-coloured skin.

'Ah, Madame Christophe.' Her cane firmly grasped, Mrs Brandon

began a slow ascent of the wide shallow steps up to the terrace. 'Is

everything well?'

'Very well,
madame
,' the housekeeper replied in a low voice. 'There

have been no difficulties.'

Mrs Brandon paused on the terrace to regain her breath and then

gestured towards Christina who was following in her wake with

Louis, who was carrying their cases.

'This is Miss Bennett, Madame Christophe. You received my cable?'

'A room has been prepared for her.' Madame Chris- tophe's dark eyes

surveyed

Christina

indifferently.

'Welcome

to

Archangel,

mademoiselle."'

Turning, she led the way into the house. The entrance hall was large

and square with a floor coolly tiled in blue and green mosaics.

Christina saw that the principal rooms all seemed to open off this hall,

and glancing up she saw that the first floor also took the form of a

gallery. At the foot of the stairs and dominating the hall was a large

statue in marble. Christina gazed at this wonderingly. It was a statue

of a young man wearing armour and wielding a businesslike-looking

spear with which he seemed about to kill some strange winged

creature lying at his feet. The young man himself also possessed

wings, she saw, a splendid pair, tipped with gold.

'That is our protector,
mademoiselle
—St Michael the Archangel, for

whom the plantation is named.' Mrs Brandon's voice was cool and

slightly amused.

'I see,' Christina said quite untruthfully.

Mrs Brandon smiled. 'I did tell you there was a story about it, did I

not? It dates from the seventeenth century when the first family built

a house here and began to grow sugar. It was all slave labour in those

days, you understand. Well, one batch of new slaves brought disease

with them. It spread over the island like wildfire—like the plague, it

was. People were dying like flies. No remedy, -no precaution seemed

able to check it. So, as a last resort you might say, the islanders turned

to prayer and to St Michael—they were all of the Catholic faith in

those days.'

'And did it work?' Christina asked. 'And why St Michael anyway?'