Lynne Pemberton - Eclipse

She didn’t reply.

‘Serena, answer me! I was looking forward to a quiet evening; just you and I.’

She studied her husband’s back as he poured himself a large gin and tonic. ‘Might it have been OK to invite him for dinner if he was white, Nicholas darling?’ His back stiffened as she pursued her point. ‘Or another householder perhaps; someone you went to school with; an old chum from your club; even someone who knew someone who went to Eton. If he was someone more … how shall I put it, Nicholas, of our class? ’

He whirled round, almost spilling his drink.

Serena confronted him defiantly, but sank a little deeper into the sofa, anticipating his angry reaction. Nicholas’s brown eyes were shadowed, so she couldn’t see what they said, but there was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice.

‘I hear your contempt, my sweet, and I’ll have none of it. How dare you accuse me of prejudice!’

Serena didn’t feel like arguing. It was such a waste of time with Nicholas. He invariably overreacted and she found it extremely tedious. She often did it purely to be perverse, but for once she decided to placate him.

‘Because, my darling Nicholas, you are a bigot; an absolute snob; insular to the core and I adore you.’

She was smiling sweetly as he crossed the few feet that separated them and sat beside her.

Wrapping her slim arms tightly around his neck, Serena planted a kiss on his cheek and savoured the smell of his expensive after-shave and lemon-scented soap.

‘Let’s not argue Nicky, please. I felt sorry for the man, that’s all.’

She pecked his nose, wetting the tip with her tongue, and watched his anger melt way. Unable to resist, he kissed her on the mouth, whispering, ‘And I adore you , my Lady Serena.’

They both turned at the sound of an embarrassed cough, intended as a polite interruption. ‘Er, will I do?’ asked Royole.

He bent his head self-consciously as they surveyed his ill-fitting clothes.

Serena looked at him standing awkwardly at the entrance to the elegant drawing room: he was incongruous in big white tee-shirt, cut-off shorts held together with an old leather suitcase strap, and no shoes.

‘You look wonderful,’ she said. And she meant it.

Royole responded with a wink. ‘Well thank you kindly, mam. I mightily appreciate that.’

He made her laugh with his mimicry of a drawl from the American Deep South.

‘Dinner is served I believe.’ Nicholas’s curt voice cut crisply through his wife’s laughter as he stood up and left the room.

Serena shrugged, pulling a long face at her husband’s back. ‘Don’t take too much notice of Nicholas. He’s a pussy cat really.’

Royole was certain that Lord Frazer-West was anything but, however he had absolutely no desire to argue with his host’s beautiful wife.

Instead he said, a little hesitantly. “The storm will be over soon, and I can leave. By the way, how’s the ankle?’

He walked over to where she lay and leaned forward to look at her foot. Her ankle was already turning a delicate shade of bluish black.

She smiled. ‘I’ll live. Come on, let’s go and eat or risk my husband’s wrath.’

‘Let me help you.’ He offered her a muscular arm and she took it willingly.

Struggling to her feet, she forced herself to suppress the desire that rose within her at the touch of his flesh. Then she indicated the way back through the courtyard; down a dimly lit hallway which ended in a stone archway encased in coral vine.

Together they entered the dining room, where Royole paused on the threshold, his eyes absorbing every detail. He had never seen such a beautiful room.

Champagne-coloured stone walls rose majestically to a domed ceiling where hummingbirds and yellow warblers flew across richly stocked flowerbeds, alive with colour. Industrious insects, painted in the most minute detail, crawled across the long, swaying leaves of a traveller’s palm. For an instant Royole had the illusion that he could actually smell the bright petals of the lilac bougainvillaea that framed the beautiful creation. It was exquisite.

‘My father commissioned two Venetian artists to paint the ceiling, they spent several months here in 1958 when the house was built,’ Nicholas informed his visitor casually, as if speaking of an everyday occurrence.

A French glass chandelier, ablaze with two dozen candles, hung dramatically above a Regency dining table set with gleaming crystal and antique silver resting on a white linen tablecloth. In the centre of the oval table there was a carved, marble dish filled with sparkling water, on top of which floated pink and white hibiscus. Tall, glass doors covered one entire wall of the room and arched fanlights touched the ceiling. Tonight they were tightly secured against the storm, but Royole could picture them open to the prevailing breeze on a calmer evening – when the murmur of the sea would mix softly with the sound of conversation and laughter.

Royole wanted a room like this for himself.

‘It’s perfect,’ he said in a hushed voice.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything like it before.’ Lord Frazer-West adopted his most patronising tone.

Royole was aware of the small hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. It angered him that this pompous man could make such assumptions about him on sight. He looked directly into the eyes of his unwilling host and replied with deliberate courtesy.

‘This house is extremely beautiful and you are a very lucky man to own it.’ He paused, allowing Nicholas the satisfaction of a smug smile before continuing, ‘l am a well-travelled man, Lord Frazer-West; and I’ve seen many spectacular homes. I’ve met lots of different people all over the world,’ his voice deepened, ‘and I’ve seen sights you could only begin to imagine. Things for which there are no words.’

Nicholas merely grunted, making no comment. He was disconcerted; irritated by this intrusion into his home. More than that, he felt somehow threatened by the stranger. It made him edgy and bad-tempered.

He turned to Serena who, to his extreme annoyance, was looking at Royole with a triumphant glint in her bright eyes. He muttered something under his breath before picking up a bell from the table and ringing it loudly.

Joseph appeared.

‘Pour me some white wine,’ Nicholas ordered grumpily.

Serena indicated the chair next to her, patting it. ‘Please sit down, Mr Fergusson.’

Royole made no attempt to move. ‘I didn’t ask to join you for dinner, Lord Frazer-West, and if you would rather I left, please feel free to say so now.’

Nicholas offered a formal smile and spoke resignedly, as if quite bored by the whole thing. ‘I believe all men, at any given time,’ he paused, staring vacantly over Royole’s shoulder, ‘are victims of fate. A storm has chosen that we dine together this evening and, on that note, I welcome you to my table Mr Fergusson.’

To Serena’s delight and Nicholas’s chagrin, Royole Fergusson proved to be a very stimulating dinner guest; both articulate and amusing.

As the Château Margaux flowed, then so did his deep voice. At once intense and passionate when expounding a favourite theory, yet so readily slipping into a frivolous, easy wit when teasing his hosts with an amusing anecdote. At thirty, he was the same age as Nicholas and had indeed lived a full and exciting life.

‘Have you always lived in Jamaica?’ asked Serena, holding his emerald-green gaze for far longer than necessary.

He fascinated her.

She was powerless to stop staring at him, even though she was aware that she was virtually ignoring Nicholas. It was just that she had never before met anyone like Royole Fergusson, and as the evening progressed she found herself more and more drawn to him. It was as if he had cast a spell and she was bound up in it.