The next month was one of great activity for Monique. She gave in her notice, feeling guilty at the consternation of her boss. She explained, but he seemed to think she was foolish not to stay in her job and let her fiancé go on his own.
'If it's only for a year, then it will pass in no time at all,' he had assured her, but to Monique, loving a deeply as she did, the thought of a year's separation was unbearable. In any case, she knew for sure that Miles would throw up the post rather than go without her.
'I must go,' she said, and at the finality in her tone Mr. Ford had no alternative other than to accept her notice.
She became immersed in sewing, making cotton dresses for the warmer climate of the Caribbean; she had to buy a good many things, too, including shoes and evening wear, and now and then she would find herself caught in a net of depression as her savings were depleted. It would come back, with interest, was all Miles said when she told him how she felt. However, in the main, she accepted the change; Miles wanted it, and it was her desire to see that he was happy. He talked to her about the post, and there didn't appear to be any snags at all. She learned that Dirk Anderson was thirty-eight years old, a bachelor who had lived for most of his life in the Caymans. He owned several plush hotels on Grand Cayman, but he was planning to have the plantation house as something different altogether. He wanted it to retain many of its present features; he wanted all the furnishings to be antique. The ten acres of grounds were to be designed as tropical gardens without any sign of formality. There was to be a swimming pool enclosed in flowering bushes and vines, with the existing orchid trees and royal poincianas being incorporated. The patios were to be of white coral limestone, as was the terrace restaurant, which faced a long stretch of dazzling white sand. All this Miles had told her, adding his own embellishments to the scenery and laughing at the string of glowing adjectives he used.
Monique formed a picture of the island by perusing some information sent on to Miles by the man who had interviewed him. He had received this information from Dirk Anderson, who also sent on several photographs of the plantation house. He explained that he would require Miles to remain until the very last of the renovations was completed, and this made Monique suspect that it was going to take far longer than a year. She suggested two years, and Miles had not made any negative comment.
Sadie was delighted at the opportunity her sister was getting.
'I'll bet every girl in your office envies you,' she declared. 'Going off to an exotic island, and a marvellously paid job into the bargain.'
'What about when we return?' asked Monique. 'Neither Miles nor I will have a job to come back to.'
'Let that take care of itself, Monique,' and as she had to own that this was good advice, Monique decided to take it. She was silly to go looking for trouble. Miles must already have thought of the future and decided there would be no serious risk in his taking on this interesting opportunity. It was a challenge, he had said enthusiastically, something he had never tackled before. Mainly he had worked on private houses for people who had bought old places and required some modernisation without detracting from the beauty and mellowness of age. This would be altogether different.
***
The long flight from London to Miami was tiring, but as both Miles and Monique had much to talk about, the hours passed quickly. An hour and a half after they landed they were on another airplane, which would take them to Grand Cayman's Owen Roberts Airport. There they were to be met by Ian Lawrence, a young man who would be assisting Miles. Lawrence would be his right-hand man, in fact, as he knew where to purchase everything that would be needed for what Monique now realised was to be a renovation of great magnitude.
Ian came in a large white car belonging to Dirk Anderson, and after they had left the airport behind they drove west, then north, along West Bay Road with its magnificent hotels and clubs. The driver pointed out their various names to Monique and Miles as they passed.
'It's wonderful,' breathed Monique, turning to rest a tender hand on her fiancé's arm. 'Thank you for giving me this adventure, darling.' All the love she felt for him shone in her eyes, and she was suddenly as eager as he to taste the delights which awaited them, delights which would create memories to be treasured forever, to be told to their children and grandchildren as the happy years went by. Monique was a romantic, and to her it was nothing less than a miracle that any man as attractive as Miles should have chosen her. He could have had his pick; she had known all along that he could have had glamorous Cecille Kershawe, leading actress in the amateur dramatic society to which he had once belonged. Cecille's father was a wealthy clothing manufacturer, and for a while Miles went about with her; but after meeting Monique his interest in Cecille had come to an abrupt end.
'I hope you'll be happy, dearest, and make friends on the island. It's a very mixed group here—but I believe I've already told you about the Caymanians?'
'Yes; they were originally Scots and British, some who had been shipwrecked on the reefs and found a haven here. Then you told me about those who deserted from Cromwell's army, and the Jamaicans who came over to farm the land.'
'There were many more, including Welsh and Irish, and the survivors from a slave ship. All these mingled and intermarried, so there's a fascinating community of people who, as I was told by my interviewer, are the most friendly in the world.'
'I shall love meeting them and making friends, and, although I did not really want to come here when you first told me about this post, I expect I shall be very sad when the time arrives for us to leave.'
'We shall probably come back for holidays.' His voice was tender as he added softly, his arm slipping around her, 'And we'll bring the kids and take them scuba diving.'
Love swelled within her in a great wave. She sometimes felt a tiny sensation of guilt for her lack of enthusiasm in the beginning, when she had damped her fiancé's eagerness for the move he was so keen to make. She had never been able to explain her anxiety, even to herself. When Miles repeatedly asked her about it she would usually pass it off, but one day she had said, 'It's just that I sense something unforeseen that will affect us both in some adverse way.'
***
But Miles's soothing and loving words had erased all doubt in the end, for life was good! She adored her fiancé and he adored her. They would enjoy working on the old plantation house. Now, as they drove along the sunlit road, with flamboyant poincianas lining the way, their flaring crimson flowers covering the spreading branches except where the fern-like foliage emerged to wave gently in the breeze, Monique felt that nothing could possibly go wrong on a tropical paradise like this.
The spreading white villa in which Dirk Anderson lived was surrounded by a miracle of colour and beauty. Never had Monique visualised anything so perfect, set as it was on the idyllic Seven Mile Beach, where long stretches of Australian pines lent their beauty to the exotic scene and provided welcome shade as well. The house glowed brilliant in the sunshine, its embellishments of coral limestone polished to a dazzling sheen, the various corals appearing to stand proud, when in reality the surface of the stone was smooth as silk. Flowers draped every verandah and patio; a fountain cascaded over coral limestone rocks and under a rustic bridge to enter a pool where giant water lilies grew. There were sleek glossy lawns, colourful parterres, sunken rosebeds and, through an arch brilliant with cerise bougainvillea, a sapphire swimming pool could be seen.
All this Monique took in after Ian had driven along an avenue of royal palms, then swung round to the back of the villa to halt on a semicircular forecourt glistening with gravel made from crushed limestone. White was evident everywhere, providing an impressive backcloth for the vast diversity of colour, which included birds and butterflies in addition to the flowers and the whole gamut of green that constituted their foliage.
'Your ring, dear.' Miles's voice brought Monique from a dream world to stark reality. 'You'll have to take it off. Let's hope Ian hasn't noticed.'
She nodded, and it was with a little pang that she removed the ring and wrapped it in a clean handkerchief she had in her bag.
I wonder how long it will be before I wear it again, she thought. Why should the removal of her engagement ring cause this sudden tenseness of nerves, this strange, inexplicable uneasiness which was similar to what she had felt before on several occasions? She had known she must not wear her ring while she was here. She was used to taking it off—she did it every night and every time she washed the dishes or did various other jobs around the house. Yet, somehow, this time it seemed different… almost as if there was a finality about the action, and that she would never wear her ring again… not ever again….
'Are you still apprehensive about meeting our employer?' Miles spoke as he slid from the car, obviously unaware of her distress.
"I am, a little; naturally,' she admitted. 'How do we know he's going to approve of me?' She lifted her face as he opened her door, having hurried round before Ian could perform the service for her. 'Supposing he takes an instant dislike to me? What do we do then?'
Miles gave a gust of laughter. It was plain that he could not imagine anyone taking a dislike to his fiancée.
'He'll love you, just as I do,' he declared. 'Of course, I don't mean that literally,' he added with another laugh. 'I am sure, though, that he will fully approve of the young lady who is my secretary.'
'I hope so,' was her fervent rejoinder.
Miles was closing her door and seemed not to notice her words. Ian, of average height and build and with a frank open countenance and ready smile that seemed to accentuate the fullness of his cheeks, gestured towards a door that stood wide open. It was approached by a flight of white marble steps flanked by huge urns containing bougainvillea vines, which had almost covered the tall columns supporting a balustraded verandah above the porch.
'Mr. Anderson will be waiting to see you. I shall be taking you to your hotel later, when your interview is over.' He preceded them up the steps, the sun glinting on the blond streaks in his hair. Monique's thoughts flitted momentarily from the forthcoming interview to the hotel in which she and Miles would be accommodated in two self-containing suites. The hotel—the Latana—was owned by Dirk Anderson, who owned three other hotels on the island. Monique was eager to see the suites because she felt certain that they had been adapted from ordinary hotel rooms to what were, in effect, apartments. From the correspondence Miles had had with Dirk Anderson, she knew that each suite had a bedroom and a sitting room, a bathroom and a kitchen. There would be two verandahs, one outside the sitting room and one running in front of the bedroom. The Latana was situated on Seven Mile Beach, north of Dirk Anderson's home, and the two main rooms in each suite faced the sea.
'In here.' Ian stopped in front of a door at the far end of the high, wide hall. He knocked and entered, then stood aside for Miles and his 'secretary' to go in.
'Thank you, Ian.' The voice was deep and rich, but with the lilt which Monique was to become used to before very long, because although everyone spoke English, it was invariably in tones which carried the characteristics of the King's English mingled with Welsh, Scottish, Irish and the American southern drawl. With Ian this singsong factor was not pronounced, nor was it very pronounced with Dirk Anderson because he, like Ian, had a basic Scottish accent; it came through, nevertheless, and it was most attractive to Monique's ears. 'You'll wait—but you know that?'
Ian nodded, smiled at Monique and quietly withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
The room was a magnificent study containing a massive desk, numerous bookshelves, and some very attractive Chinese bamboo furniture. The carpet was candle-bush gold, the drapes a shade or two lighter.
But it was not the pleasant, tastefully furnished room that held her attention as Monique stood beside her fiancé; it was the occupant, a man with broad shoulders and narrow thighs, a man whose magnetism and vitality were so apparent that they seemed to dominate the entire room. Well over six feet tall, he had the kind of physique that made one aware of its elastic strength, and Monique felt sure that in his younger days he had been an athlete. His eyes, slate-grey and hooded, seemed to be flecked with a tawny brown that not only gave them a shrewd and penetrating quality but lent a certain distinction to their owner. For no reason at all Monique felt her pulse quicken, her nerves tense; it was only with a tremendous effort that she managed to drag her gaze from his. She noticed the strongly marked brows, the crisp dark hair sprinkled with grey, which added an exceedingly attractive maturity to a proud and noble face. She was aware of the lean angularity of his features, made more pronounced by the slight hollows beneath high cheekbones, which in turn lent prominence to the forward-thrusting jaw and strong, determined outline of the chin. His colour was light copper and, thinking of all the races that had mingled and intermarried to produce the Caymanians, Monique could only marvel at the wonders of nature where an amalgam over several generations could result in the superlative qualities which this man quite plainly possessed.
Yet it was a formidable face in spite of its handsome lines, the kind of face one could never forget after having seen it once. Monique decided he would have tremendous appeal to almost every woman he met, and she wondered how he had reached the mature age of thirty-eight without having been caught in the marriage net. Surely he must be the most sought-after male in the whole of the Caymans!
He came forward with the lithe springing gait of a much younger man, his hand outstretched. Miles took it and then immediately introduced his secretary.
'How do you do?' The tone was courteous, cool and detached, and he studied Monique's face with an intent gaze which seemed to rob her of the ability to think with even a modicum of clarity. She felt very young and very small, and, for the first time in her life, she felt herself to be in the presence of someone far, far superior.
It was an uncomfortable experience, and her only compensation was that he could not possibly know what he was doing to her… or could he? Those hooded grey eyes were faintly narrowed, and she rather thought she detected a hint of mockery in their depths. 'So you're Mr. Marsden's secretary. How long have you been with him?'
It was the question which Miles had said would not be asked. It was he who answered, 'Almost two years.'
Monique lowered her lashes, afraid of giving anything away.
'I see.' The very air seemed suddenly to be charged with tension. 'You appear to be very young,' commented Dirk. 'How old are you?' The deep rich voice carried tones of maturity, which added enormously to his attractiveness.
'Twenty-two,' she replied in a low voice.
He turned to Miles, speaking as if Monique were not there at all. 'I hadn't expected anyone as young and attractive to be the secretary of a man of your wide experience….' He stopped on noticing Monique's start of surprise. She coloured painfully as his straight dark brows rose, for she realised at once that he had spoken matter-of-factly, stating a truth in the same casual way he might have commented on the weather. There was no question of flattery; in fact, the thread running through his voice had been one of impatience with Miles's choice of secretary. Monique strongly suspected that, had he known her age earlier, he would have raised an objection, requesting that Miles find someone more mature. It seemed obvious that he considered anyone of twenty-two to be a mere child. Well, she would show him that, whatever her age, she was quite competent to be a private secretary!
'Miss Thornton may appear young,' interposed Miles hastily, on seeing her expression, 'but you won't be disappointed in her work.'
Another lift of those arrogant eyebrows. 'Her work is not my concern, Mr. Marsden; she works for you, not me.'
Monique's eyes sparkled at his tone, for she was stung by the obvious sarcasm contained within it. Handsome he might be, and possessing an air of superiority and distinction, but he was an insufferable man for all that! He made her feel like an insignificant nobody, and she fervently wished it were possible for her to tell him exactly what she thought of him. His next words did nothing to help her ruffled temper.
'Now that we have met, Miss Thornton, I'll ask you to wait outside; I'll get my servant to take you to the sitting room. He'll fetch you some refreshment if you would like it.' Reaching for a bell-rope, he pulled it. His next words were addressed to Miles. 'I asked you to meet me here as soon as you arrived because, when the interview is over, you'll have the rest of the day to settle into your hotel suite. Tomorrow morning we'll meet at the site; I'll send Ian to pick you up. We can go through a few preliminaries now, and then tomorrow we'll go through the plans I've had drawn up for the outline alterations. But you will be permitted to alter anything you feel is in any way wrong.' His eyes slid to Monique's pale, set face. 'We shan't be more than an hour over our present discussion,' he told her, a remote expression on his angular face. 'However, if you'd prefer not to wait, I can have Ian run you along to the hotel. It's no more than a mile and a half away from here.'
Monique hesitated, glancing questioningly at Miles.
'Yes, do that, Miss Thornton,' he advised briskly. 'There doesn't seem to be any sense in your hanging about, waiting for me, when you can be settling in.'
The man who answered the bell came in and was introduced as Waldo; Monique surmised him to be a sort of butler-cum-handyman.
'Take Miss Thornton to the car and tell Ian to drive her to the hotel.'
'Yes, Mr. Anderson.'
Monique glanced again at her fiancé, hoping she successfully hid the despondency that had crept upon her. She didn't like Dirk Anderson, and she was certain that her feelings were reciprocated.