Born Out Of Love. Anne Mather

got obediently off the bed and regarded her with narrow-eyed appraisal. ‘Are you going to tie up your hair?’

      Charlotte spread her hands. ‘Does it matter?’

      Robert shrugged, hauling up the pyjamas that hung loosely on his hips. ‘Just, I was thinking—well, you’re about the same age as Philippe’s mother, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes.’ Charlotte wondered what was coming next.

      ‘So I just thought that perhaps now that—that he’s dead, you might wear your hair loose for a change.’

      ‘In this climate? I think not.’

      ‘You look nicer with it loose. Younger.’

      ‘Yes. Well, being nursemaid to Philippe and Isabelle requires me to be efficient, that’s all, not glamorous,’ she declared tersely, and Robert made a conciliatory gesture as he went out of the room.

      All the same, after she had bathed and made her bed, she did look long and critically at her hair before coiling it into the smooth chignon which curved back from her cheeks, concealing her ears, and resting neatly against the nape of her neck.

      Clothes presented another problem. Somehow, she didn’t think Lisette Fabergé would expect her to wear a uniform, but on the other hand, she could hardly appear in another of the expensive models Matthew had bought her. She rummaged in her cases, discarding item after item, and eventually brought out a pair of purple cotton jeans and a matching shirt. They were not new. She had bought them a couple of years ago. But fortunately her figure had changed little, and apart from a slight shrinkage in the pants which made them rather tighter than she would have liked, they looked serviceable.

      Robert, however, made her think differently when she appeared to prepare breakfast. ‘That’s better!’ he approved admiringly, prowling round her. ‘I always said you should wear trousers more of ten.’

      Charlotte made an impatient gesture. ‘They’re working clothes, that’s all,’ she declared shortly. ‘Now what do you want to eat? There seems to be plenty of fruit. Do you want to try mango?’

      They were seated at the kitchen table finishing their meal with toasted rolls and grapefruit marmalade when someone knocked at the verandah door. At once Charlotte’s tension returned, but when Robert went to answer it, she expelled her breath on a sigh when she saw the tall black man waiting outside.

      ‘Oh—good morning, Carlos,’ she called, putting down her coffee cup. ‘Come in.’

      The black man was carrying a basket, and even before he put a foot over the threshold she could smell the delicious aroma of warm bread. ‘Mr Logan, he said you might like some fresh rolls, ma’am,’ he explained, setting the basket down on the table and drawing back the napkin to reveal the crusty brown croissants. ‘But it seems like you’ve had your breakfast.’

      Charlotte looked up at him apologetically. ‘We were both awake early,’ she explained smilingly. ‘But thank Mr—Logan—just the same. I toasted a couple of the rolls we had left from yesterday, and you’d provided us with plenty of fruit.’ She paused. ‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the salad. It was delicious.’

      Carlos looked unconcerned. ‘Glad you liked it, ma’am.’ His eyes flickered over Robert, who was standing near the open doorway. ‘I’ll leave the rolls anyway. You might like them later.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Carlos hesitated. ‘Mr Logan also said to ask you whether you’d prefer me to prepare your meals for you. I mean, naturally, I’ll keep your cold store stocked in any case, but it would save you—–’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, thank you, Carlos.’ Charlotte rose to her feet now, shaking her head. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I think Robert and I can manage.’

      ‘Mr Logan seemed to think you wouldn’t be much used to making your own meals, ma’am,’ Carlos added, with an unexpected lack of tact, and she could feel her spine stiffening.

      ‘Mr Logan doesn’t know me very well, Carlos,’ she replied tartly, and the black man shrugged his bulky shoulders indifferently.

      ‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed, and moved towards the door.

      ‘Carlos!’

      Her impulsive summons made him turn again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I—have you known Mr Logan long?’

      She could feel Robert’s eyes on her, and was relieved when Carlos’s bulk came between them. ‘Fifteen years, ma’am.’

      ‘Fifteen years? That’s a long time.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      Charlotte nodded, and he took her silence as dismissal. So, she thought ruefully, he had known Logan before she did. How much did he know of their previous relationship? How much might Robert inadvertently hear from him?

      Robert left the door open and came back to the table to finish his orange juice. ‘The men are big around here, aren’t they?’ he commented, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then grimacing at his mother’s expression. ‘First Mr Kennedy, then Carlos. Are all West Indians tall?’

      ‘He’s not a West Indian,’ said Charlotte unthinkingly. ‘He’s Brazilian. They both are, I should think.’

      ‘South Americans!’ murmured Robert thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, that explains it.’

      ‘Explains what?’ Charlotte was not really in the mood for his chatter.

      ‘Why they’re so big. I read once that the bigger the continent, the bigger the men. You know—room to expand, that sort of thing.’

      ‘Oh, Robert!’ Charlotte gathered their dirty dishes together and carried them to the sink. ‘You can’t generalise like that.’

      He shrugged, and picked up a tea towel. ‘Why not? That’s how statistics are reached. Through generalisations. Mr Hendry was telling us—–’

      ‘Well, I’m sure there’s more to it than that,’ retorted Charlotte, with asperity, and then felt contrite when he hunched his shoulders and shut up.

      It was still only eight-thirty when Charlotte left the bungalow to walk the few yards to the Fabergé house. She had left Robert sitting moodily on the steps of the verandah, kicking his toes in the sand, under orders not to swim out of his depth without supervision. This instruction had created some argument, and with the memory of the previous evening’s unpleasantness still hanging over her head, Charlotte wished she had not had to be so firm. But it was no good. She would never have any peace if she was worrying about him, and she owed it to Lisette Fabergé to give her whole attention to her job. Perhaps later on in the morning, she might bring the two younger children down to the beach, thus giving Robert his chance to swim where he pleased.

      As she walked up the slope, Charlotte saw Logan’s house. It was a single-storey beach house, standing on cross supports at the edge of the dunes, with a wooden walkway leading down from it to the landing. She couldn’t see Logan, but the station wagon was parked to one side, its bonnet open, and only the rear half of Carlos’s body could be seen as he tinkered about inside. He was far enough away from her not to be able to hear what she was doing, and the peaceful scene was somehow reassuring.

      Mounting the steps, she knocked at Lisette Fabergé’s door. There was no sign of life, and now that she came to notice it, the shutters were still closed at the windows. Frowning, she tried the door, but it was locked, and she shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other, wondering what she ought to do now. Surely Lisette was up. Perhaps she had already gone out. But somehow that didn’t seem so likely.

      She was hovering there uncertainly, hands pushed into the seat pockets of her jeans, when she saw Logan walking up the slope towards her. This morning he was wearing nothing but a pair of fraying denim