Innocent Invader

Only Father Donahue had seen things differently. “Sarah, my dear,” he had said, “you've seen nothing of the world outside this town. Even the convent walls provide a barrier to you. It's my belief that you need to be taken from this atmosphere to a place so different that you'll discover for yourself whether you really have a vocation.”

He it was who had pointed out the advertisement in The Times. And it was he who had persuaded Reverend Mother that Sarah should be freed to find her own destiny. Thus it was she was now only minutes from her arrival in Cordova and she felt as scared as a kitten. She was being accepted on a month's probation, and likewise, if she should find the work unsuitable, she would be provided with her return fare at the end of that period. She had flown to Barbados and this steamer was the last leg of the journey. It had all been immensely exciting and thrilling, and even now, with the azure blue waters of the Caribbean lapping the sides of the vessel, she could hardly believe she was here. But the sun was warm upon her shoulders, and the scenery was more spectacular than any technicolor film, so she had to believe it, and she hugged herself for a moment in anticipation. She was so glad Father Donahue had shown her that advertisement. He was right – she was naïve and inexperienced. And now she was to find life an adventure instead of a pilgrimage.

She leaned against the rail of the steamer as the Captain skilfully negotiated the narrows of the reef, and looked across the stretch of calm water to the ant-like activity on the quay ahead of them. This then was Cordova; her home for the next four weeks at least.

From this distance the island was like a green, fertile mound rising out of the sea, its fringing of coral beaches and creaming surf providing a lace-like fragility to the shawl of greenery. It was still comparatively early in the morning, but the glare was strong after an English winter, and Sarah drew a pair of dark glasses from her bag and placed them on her nose. Then she turned to the tall, dark-skinned Barbadian who had left his bridge and joined her at the rail.

“Almost there,” he said, indicating the harbour. “Are you ready to face your new employer?”

Sarah smiled. “I'm terribly nervous,” she confessed candidly. “I'm not very used to dealing with strangers, and the little I know of the family sounds quite intimidating.”

“Intimidating? Jason? No, I don't think Jason is intimidating. The children … well, who can say? They've been allowed free licence since their father was killed. There's no one to care for them.”

Sarah frowned. “But surely, I understand from the solicitors that the children's mother was still alive.”

“Yes, she is.” The Captain touched his cap politely. “We'll be there shortly. I must have a word with my mate.”

Sarah watched him go and shrugged her shoulders bewilderedly. It seemed the Captain did not wish to discuss the Cordova family, and perhaps she had been a little indiscreet asking questions. She sighed. She was not used to subterfuge of any kind. At the convent there had been no secrets and she saw no harm in obtaining the facts about the Cordova children. As she understood it, Jason de Cordova was the children's uncle and their widowed mother lived in the same house. What could be more simple than that? Shaking her head, and shaking thoughts like this from her mind, she turned again to the colourful quay alongside which the channel had been dug to take the steamers passage.

The Captain, from his bridge, watched her interest thoughtfully. In truth he considered the girl might prove rather a responsibility on Cordova. She was so fair she could not fail to cause a stir among the dark-skinned Africans and swarthy Spaniards. Although she was not strictly beautiful she had very large and luminous eyes, black-lashed and blue as sapphires, and her hair was long and plaited and wound round her head in a classical style. It was silvery in colour and in her demure blue poplin dress with the white collar she looked more like a novice than a governess. She had told the Captain of her upbringing in England, and privately he had thought the convent a fitting background for her. What she would make of the intrigues and passions of Cordova, he did not dare to think.

As the Celeste drew alongside, a gangplank was run out to her by several of the dark-skinned boys on the quay, and Sarah experienced a thrill of apprehension as she moved forward to disembark. Her arrival in Barbados had not prepared her for this absolute absence of order, and the hustle and bustle on the quay unnerved her.

She looked above the heads of the jostling crowds on the docks to the town of El Tesoro climbing up the shallow hills above the harbour. Above the flat-roofed dwellings of the African population she could see, set among flowering shrubs and clematis-hung stucco walls, the villas of the white population of Cordova, and she felt a sense of relief. For a moment she had wondered whether she would ever see a white person again. Inwardly chastising herself for her lack of worldliness, she moved to the gangplank, and met the Captain again.

“There are no customs on Cordova,” he said kindly. “Go ahead. Jason is waiting for you on the quay. He won't mistake you.”

Walking down the gangplank, Sarah was aware that almost every eye on the quay had turned in her direction, and she blushed in confusion, and looked about her self-consciously, searching for a white face. Somewhere was this Jason de Cordova; but where?

As she stepped on to the hard surface of the quay, she felt some of the nervousness leave her. The sound of the steel band, playing its own welcome to the steamer, reassured her somehow. Already she could feel a kind of magnetism about the place; the pull of the islands. This was where she had wanted to live and now she had her wish. The passing thoughts of hurricanes and storms, lack of civilisation and ritual magic, all swelled her determination to stay here and make a success of her work. Later, maybe, she would return to the convent and take her vows, confident in the knowledge of having lived life to the full and found the life of seclusion more worthwhile.

Suddenly she felt a hard hand grip her arm, and a deep, attractive male voice said: “You surely can't be Miss Sarah Winter?”

Sarah swung round to face the speaker, her cheeks flushed, her breath catching in her throat when she saw his face, and the livid scar which disfigured his cheek. She saw his eyes, strange yellowish, tawny eyes, like the eyes of the tiger, harden as they recognised her sudden withdrawal, and she immediately felt a sense of contrition that even for one moment he had thought she was repelled by it. Instead, as she took in the other details of his appearance she realised that the scar did not detract from his powerful, attractive features, but rather added to them. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean hard body. She realized he was most probably a Spaniard, his hair, thick and black, lying close to his head. He was simply dressed in cotton trousers and a light blue shirt. Who could he be? Not her employer, that was certain! He must be someone Jason de Cordova had sent to collect her. Her eyes returned to the scar, and then she looked swiftly away.

“Yes,” she said clearly, “I'm Sarah Winter.”

Jason stared at her incredulously, and then he moved his shoulders helplessly. She was nothing at all like the woman he had expected. She was young, much too young, and how could she possibly be expected to handle those three wild things that were his nephew and nieces?

As he stared at her, Sarah felt half amused suddenly. Brought up as she had been, supremely conscious of the presence of both heaven and hell, she thought that this man must surely as closely resemble her imaginings of the devil himself as was humanly possible. She wondered what Sister Theresa would have made of him. She thought the gentle nuns might have found him even more overpowering than she did herself.

“Well,” he said at last, “you're certainly much younger than we expected. As I recall it, your age was not questioned. The fact that you'd had experience with young children pointed to your being older.”

“Does it matter?” asked Sarah, beginning to feel uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. “I am experienced, and if you've come to meet me, I suggest we go on up to the Cordova residence and ascertain their views on the matter.”

Her voice was cool now and detached, and Jason admired her veneer of assurance. For that was all it was, he was certain. He could tell from her revealing eyes that she was far from relaxed. And she did not realise to whom she was speaking, that was obvious.

“Very well,” he agreed easily. “Let's go!” It amused him to keep her in ignorance of his identity for the time being. She would learn soon enough.

The market was a mass of moving humanity, and Jason went ahead, forging a way through to the Land Rover. The laughing greetings of the West Indians were acknowledged casually, and Sarah wondered who he could be to be known so well, and to arouse such apparent respect among these people.

He helped her into the seat beside the driving seat, and then walked lithely round the vehicle to slide in beside her. Sarah found herself admiring the rippling muscles of his back and thighs as he walked, and the smoothness of his long legs as he slid in beside her. There was something wholly masculine about him that she had never encountered before in her associations with men. It embarrassed her to think this way. For so long she had considered herself immune from the desires of the flesh.

Forcing her thoughts into more innocent channels, she began to look about her with interest as the Land Rover drove up the curving main street of the town. There were shops, but few shop windows, and the goods for sale were displayed outside the stores. Indians sat in the shop doorways, smoking and drinking, and showing little concern for their progress. The flamboyant colours of material hung outside one store caught Sarah's eye, and she said impulsively: “I should have brought my sewing machine. I can see I must make myself some dresses from these gorgeous materials.”

Jason looked at her briefly, and then said: “I imagine the seamstress who sews for my wife could run you up anything you required.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wouldn't dream of it. Does she have a machine?”

“I'm afraid not. The Indian women prefer to do everything by hand. They produce works of art, believe me!”

“Oh, I do.” Sarah shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to do likewise, I like sewing.”

Jason smiled a little. “You may find your time a little limited. You haven't met your charges yet.”

“That doesn't worry me. I've been used to handling a class of almost forty children, so three on their own shouldn't provide much difficulty.”

Jason refrained from commenting. Already he was thinking that at the end of this trial period of one month, he would have to start all over again in finding a governess.

They were driving now between the high walls of the villas of the white families, and between the wrought iron gateways, Sarah could see the paved courtyards and fountains, the swimming pools and tennis courts, so removed from the squalid little huts down in the town. The swarming children there had appalled her. However could they all be taught?

“So,” said Jason suddenly, “what do you think?”

“About the island?” Sarah gave an involuntary gesture. “I can hardly take it all in. It's very beautiful, but the poverty disturbs me. I think if I lived here I would try to do something for these people. Ignorance is a great breeder.”

Jason nodded his assent, surprised at her remarks. He had not thought she would be any different from the rest of the white population. Particularly the women; they, for the most part, acted as though they knew nothing about the squalor beneath their windows.

“You're right, of course,” he said now. “But they don't welcome help. They're too used to this kind of life. You may be surprised to learn that they've very happy, in their way. And very contented, a word that's gone out of use in so-called civilised countries.”

Sarah frowned. “Are you content?”

“Me?” Jason laughed, amused at her candour. “I suppose you would think I ought to be.”

“Why not? In such idyllic surroundings? After all, the sun can ease a lot of heartache.”

“Are you a philosopher, Miss Winter?”

Sarah laughed now, and looked at him in sudden liking. “You might say that. But I'm afraid I've always been told that talking is not acting, and I do an awful lot of talking.”

As the Land Rover curved round a promontory, Sarah gasped at the precarious angle of the road, and looked down breathlessly on the harbour below them, the steamer much smaller now from this height. “My luggage!” she gasped suddenly, “I forgot all about it!”

“Abe, the harbourmaster, will have it sent up to you,” said Jason easily. “There were no other passengers on the Celeste, so there'll be no cause for concern.”

“Thank you.” Sarah lay back in her seat, and in doing so looked upwards, her eyes caught by the sight of the ruined walls of a house, just visible on a high, jutting headland above them. “What's that place? That ruin?”

Jason did not look up but kept his eyes on the curving road ahead. “That was the old Cordova house,” he replied quietly. “It was burned out about fifteen years ago.”

“Really!” Sarah was intrigued. “That must have been some spectacle, high above the island like that.”