Read Online Winds of Enchantment by Rosalind Brett - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosalind Brett
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reckon.” He quizzed her, none too kindly. “Getting spoiled out here, with all those men wanting to marry you, and Bill putting up a white villa where you can act the princess?”
“You didn’t have to say that.” She felt stung, recalling all the hours she spent poring over the account books in the Farland-Brading office.
“No, I didn’t have to say it.” His mouth softened a fraction. “You can be a heck of a good kid, Honey Brading—especially in the rain.”
They grinned at each other, then he swung on his heel and walked across the compound with that long, easy stride of a body in perfect trim. A hard, tall enigmatical man. Pat nipped at her lip, still uncertain whether she liked him, or was fascinated by his achievements here at Makai. There was one thing for certain, in lots of ways he wasn’t quite so nice as Steve. He didn’t make her feel comfortable and at ease; their banter was edged, as though it could cut deep and make a wound.
During the following days at Makai, Pat slept lightly , and the slightest sound in the compound stabbed her into instant wakefulness.
Madden, the superintendent, was a sociable sort, and one morning she went with him on his rounds. They met Jameson, the assistant manager, and stayed for lunch with him. Unused to feminine companionship and interest, the superintendent had taken longer over his day’s work than was customary, and the evening meal was waiting when he drove Pat back to Makai. She told them to start without her and ran in to wash and change, but when she returned they were still standing about in the living-room, and Nick gave her a hard, intent look which made a pulse jump in her throat. Over coffee he asked Madden: “You saw Jameson?” The superintendent nodded, then he gave an exclamation. “Gosh, I’m sorry! I clean forgot your message.”
Nick’s fist thumped down on the table. “That’s a day wasted, Madden, d’you realize it?”
Pat glanced from one man to the other. “I think I’m to blame,” she said. “We met Mr. Jameson at lunch time and I made rubber talk taboo.”
Nick gave her a cool stare. “What did you talk about?” he enquired. “Rose trees and chintz covers?”
“Yes,” she retorted, “and the cinema and Hyde Park, the Boat Race and the Cotswolds. Fresh milk and roast beef, and Christmas with holly and everything else that isn’t Africa. For an hour we decided to be human.” Bill laughed. Nick made no reply, and when the meal was cleared the men settled to play cards while Pat went out into the sultry moonlight and looked out over the stunted trees of the compound to the orderly walls of rubber. Each morning Nick would come out to the same scene: coffee trees and plantains amid elephant grass, and that maddening, symmetrical boundary of rubber.
His house was well furnished, the houseboys good, but the cooking was unimaginative and too often from tins. He had some good horses here, but what was the good of riding if the only paths lay between those interminable trees? He was sacrificing a diagonal slice of the plantation to the new road, but only so that he could make the money quicker to plant still more acres.
She leaned against the veranda post, listening to the night noises all around. Then she heard a step, and knew at once that it was Nick’s. He came to her side, pulling his cigarette case from his pocket. “Smoke?” he extended the case, of scuffed buffalo-hide matching his lighter.
“Not right now,” she said, her hands gripping the rail as she noticed the hardness of his chin, the haughty jut of his nose in the flare of his lighter. He snapped it shut, and inhaled deeply.
“Going to scold me for running off with Madden?” she asked lightly , though that funny little nerve still jumped in her throat.
“Like a child, you like your own way,” he said cur tl y, “and Madden can’t see farther than those cat’s eyes of yours. What do you think of Makai?”
“It’s very rubbery, and you really
“You didn’t have to say that.” She felt stung, recalling all the hours she spent poring over the account books in the Farland-Brading office.
“No, I didn’t have to say it.” His mouth softened a fraction. “You can be a heck of a good kid, Honey Brading—especially in the rain.”
They grinned at each other, then he swung on his heel and walked across the compound with that long, easy stride of a body in perfect trim. A hard, tall enigmatical man. Pat nipped at her lip, still uncertain whether she liked him, or was fascinated by his achievements here at Makai. There was one thing for certain, in lots of ways he wasn’t quite so nice as Steve. He didn’t make her feel comfortable and at ease; their banter was edged, as though it could cut deep and make a wound.
During the following days at Makai, Pat slept lightly , and the slightest sound in the compound stabbed her into instant wakefulness.
Madden, the superintendent, was a sociable sort, and one morning she went with him on his rounds. They met Jameson, the assistant manager, and stayed for lunch with him. Unused to feminine companionship and interest, the superintendent had taken longer over his day’s work than was customary, and the evening meal was waiting when he drove Pat back to Makai. She told them to start without her and ran in to wash and change, but when she returned they were still standing about in the living-room, and Nick gave her a hard, intent look which made a pulse jump in her throat. Over coffee he asked Madden: “You saw Jameson?” The superintendent nodded, then he gave an exclamation. “Gosh, I’m sorry! I clean forgot your message.”
Nick’s fist thumped down on the table. “That’s a day wasted, Madden, d’you realize it?”
Pat glanced from one man to the other. “I think I’m to blame,” she said. “We met Mr. Jameson at lunch time and I made rubber talk taboo.”
Nick gave her a cool stare. “What did you talk about?” he enquired. “Rose trees and chintz covers?”
“Yes,” she retorted, “and the cinema and Hyde Park, the Boat Race and the Cotswolds. Fresh milk and roast beef, and Christmas with holly and everything else that isn’t Africa. For an hour we decided to be human.” Bill laughed. Nick made no reply, and when the meal was cleared the men settled to play cards while Pat went out into the sultry moonlight and looked out over the stunted trees of the compound to the orderly walls of rubber. Each morning Nick would come out to the same scene: coffee trees and plantains amid elephant grass, and that maddening, symmetrical boundary of rubber.
His house was well furnished, the houseboys good, but the cooking was unimaginative and too often from tins. He had some good horses here, but what was the good of riding if the only paths lay between those interminable trees? He was sacrificing a diagonal slice of the plantation to the new road, but only so that he could make the money quicker to plant still more acres.
She leaned against the veranda post, listening to the night noises all around. Then she heard a step, and knew at once that it was Nick’s. He came to her side, pulling his cigarette case from his pocket. “Smoke?” he extended the case, of scuffed buffalo-hide matching his lighter.
“Not right now,” she said, her hands gripping the rail as she noticed the hardness of his chin, the haughty jut of his nose in the flare of his lighter. He snapped it shut, and inhaled deeply.
“Going to scold me for running off with Madden?” she asked lightly , though that funny little nerve still jumped in her throat.
“Like a child, you like your own way,” he said cur tl y, “and Madden can’t see farther than those cat’s eyes of yours. What do you think of Makai?”
“It’s very rubbery, and you really
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