Lynne Pemberton - Eclipse

‘No, I was born in St Vincent, in the Grenadines, to a negro father who claimed direct descendancy from a Royal Zulu tribe. Hence my name. My mother’s half-French Caucasian and half Guyanese, and at …’ he paused, calculating in his head, ‘… fifty-three she’s still an exceptionally beautiful woman. I have a brother and two sisters. We moved to Port Antonio, when I was three years old, and six years later to Boston, where my father practised as a doctor until his death two years ago.’

Serena said that she was sorry about his father, then continued to listen avidly; learning that Royole had won a scholarship to Harvard, where he had studied law for two years before dropping out in favour of his long-cherished dream of coming back to live in the Caribbean.

‘And you, is this your first time in Port Antonio?’ Royole addressed his question to Serena.

‘No, the fifth trip, the first time was on our honeymoon.’ She sighed, ‘Our stays are never long enough for me, I feel like I want to become a West Indian,’ she laughed lightly.

Royole agreed, his voice impassioned. ‘The Caribbean’s like that. It kind of gets into your blood, there’s nowhere on earth quite like it.’

Nicholas addressed him directly for the first time in little under an hour. ‘That I must say is only your opinion, yet you do speak with rare perception.’

The compliment was delivered with a feigned sincerity, intended to disguise the disdain Nicholas actually felt for the charming and charismatic individual sharing his table who seemed to threaten everything he stood for.

During the course of the evening Royole had not only dominated the conversation, debasing many of Nicholas’s hard-held principles, but he had also captivated the wife he cherished.

In two years of marriage, even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas had never once seen Serena look at him the way she was looking at the animated and handsome face of Royole Fergusson this evening.

After dinner Joseph served strong, Colombian coffee in demitasse china cups. Royole tried gamely to get his finger through the handle but failed, and finally settled for holding his cup in the palm of his hand.

It was exactly ten-thirty when they suddenly noticed that the incessant clattering of the rain beating against the shutters had ceased. ‘Listen,’ Serena whispered.

A hush had descended. Even the wind had dropped to a dull murmur.

Nicholas stood up and strode across the stone floor to throw open one of the tall windows. He unhooked the shutters and craned his neck outside to look upwards into the overcast sky. It was still raining a little but the calabash trees in front of the dining room were now swaying a lot less violently. The air was damp and it smelt heavily of sea water and sodden earth; that peculiar combination so typical of the Caribbean Islands.

‘I think the worst has passed,’ Nicholas called out before pacing back towards the table, giving an elaborate yawn. ‘I’m exhausted, don’t know about you?’ He directed his words deliberately at Royole.

Serena glared at him, as Royole stood up, saying, ‘I think it’s time for me to leave.’

Less than five minutes later Royole was on the doorstep, holding his original clothes in an untidy, damp bundle.

‘Thank you both for a wonderful evening. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and I would very much like to return your hospitality.’ He looked expectantly between the two dimly lit faces before him; Serena’s animated and eager, her husband’s incomprehensible and closed.

Nicholas wanted to say that once was more than enough, but he prided himself on being a gentleman with impeccable manners. ‘The pleasure has been all ours, albeit an unexpected one. You must call us soon, and we’ll see what we can fix up.’

He sounded bored and Royole, as he had done several times that evening, wondered what a beautiful young woman like Serena could see in the obnoxious Lord Frazer-West. Serena held out both her hands. Royole noticed that they were shaking very slightly as he enfolded them securely in his own.

His desire to pull her close was difficult to resist. He longed to feel the softness of her skin again. A sensation he had felt so briefly, but enjoyed so much, whilst examining her ankle. Sensing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he was determined to see her again.

‘Goodnight Royole,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely. I really have enjoyed your company.’

It was impossible to read anything in her shadowed eyes, yet her slow smile held a promise. Of that he was certain.

Nicholas quietly inched his way back into the darkened hall, suddenly feeling like an intruder, aware of a strange sort of intimacy between his wife and Royole Fergusson.

Royole was pleased to be alone with her and reiterated what he’d said earlier. ‘I meant what I said; I want to invite you to my home.’ Dropping her hands reluctantly, he looked around. ‘Nothing as grand as this; but my house is full of warmth and laughter. And Caron cooks the best red snapper you ever tasted.’

Serena felt a reaction at the mention of the name ‘Caron’. Forcing her voice to sound indifferent, she asked, ‘Is Caron your wife?’

She was ridiculously pleased when he shook his head; less so when he went on to say, ‘Not yet.’

‘Serena darling, Joseph is waiting to drive Mr Fergusson home,’ Nicholas shouted from the depths of the house.

There was no mistaking his impatience.

‘Goodnight Lady Serena and, once more, thank you. Perhaps you have saved my life tonight.’ He kissed his fingertips, placed them softly on her slightly parted lips and before she had a chance to reply, Royole Fergusson turned and strode off down the drive to where the butler was waiting with the jeep.

Serena watched him go, fighting a dangerous impulse to call him back.

Within seconds his tall figure was swallowed up by the dark, velvety night.

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