Lovers In Paradise. Barbara Cartland

and a servant of the first Missionary who had set foot in Bali.

      When the community he belonged to learnt that he had become a Christian they expelled him from his village, banned him from contact with his people and proclaimed him morally ‘dead’.

      The unfortunate man tried to recruit other followers, but the villagers, terrorised by the threats to their Priests, ignored him.

      Repulsed on all sides, poor Nicodemus had led an intolerable existence until driven to despair he had finally killed his Master and given himself up to be executed.

      It was not surprising, the Count thought, that a law forbidding Missionaries had come into force. He found it hard to believe that only fourteen years later that things would be so changed that Christian Missionaries would again be accepted.

      He then looked at the Governor and had a feeling that he was uncomfortable and was concealing something.

      Making up his mind on the impulse of the moment, the Count suggested,

      “I would like to meet this woman who has come here to see you. It would give me a chance to find out how her Mission is working.”

      “It is not her mission,” the Governor stated in a surly manner. “It was her uncle’s.”

      “But she works with him?”

      “He is dead!”

      “Dead?” the Count questioned.

      “He died two months ago.”

      “Naturally – or was he killed?”

      “Naturally.”

      “Then I presume his niece is carrying on his good work. Let me talk to her.”

      The Count thought that the Governor was going to defy him and refuse to allow him to see the woman who was waiting outside.

      It was only an impression and yet the Count was certain that he was not mistaken.

      For some reason that he could not understand the Governor was very reluctant for him to come into contact with this Miss Barclay, which was the way, being English, he knew that she would be addressed.

      For a moment the eyes of the two men met and it was as if there were a silent combat between them.

      Then the Governor capitulated.

      “Show the Juffrouw in,” he said to the servant and sat down again.

      The Count was intrigued.

      Had he so soon after setting foot in Bali discovered something perhaps reprehensible that the Governor had no wish for him to know about or investigate?

      For the first time his boredom lightened a little and he felt a spark of interest that had not been there before.

      He was amused that he had been able to assert his will over an older man, whom he had realised at their first meeting, enjoyed and took advantage of every privilege he was accorded as Governor.

      Neither of the men spoke until the servant announced from the doorway,

      “The Juffrouw Roxana Barclay, Your Excellency.”

      He mispronounced both English words, but the Count understood what he was trying to say.

      Then into the room came a slim young woman, who moved with a grace that was almost that of a Balinese woman.

      She seemed to float over the wooden floor towards where the Governor and the Count were sitting.

      She was wearing a plain white gown with a tight bodice that revealed the soft curves of her breasts and showed off the slimness of her waist.

      It swept back into a small bustle and the folds made her look like a Grecian Goddess, an image that was magnified by the way that she held her head and by the beauty of her hair.

      What completely astonished the Count was that she wore no hat, which was extremely unconventional, but she carried a sunshade, which must certainly have kept the sun’s burning rays from the exquisite perfection of her white skin.

      Her hair was not the ordinary gold likened by poets to a cornfield or to the rays of the sun, but was the colour of the first autumn leaves with a touch of russet in them.

      It was piled high into a bun at the back of her head, but seemed somehow eager to escape from the confines its owner had intended, to fall in tiny tendrils round her neck and her oval forehead.

      Her large eyes were green with touches of gold in them that seemed to have come from the sunshine.

      She had a haunting and very unusual face, not classically beautiful, but with something far more individual and far more arresting, as if it was a face that came from a man’s dreams and was not wholly human.

      When Roxana Barclay came within a few feet of the Governor, she curtseyed.

      It was a very graceful and very lovely gesture.

      “Good day, Your Excellency,” she said, “and may I offer my apologies for not calling here yesterday as you requested me to do.”

      “I am used to my orders being obeyed,” the Governor replied coldly.

      He spoke in a voice that the Count knew was put on for his benefit, but his eyes, when he looked at the woman facing him, said something very different.

      “I did not receive your message,” Roxana Barclay explained. “I was away from home.”

      “In the forest I suppose?” the Governor said harshly. “I have warned you before that it is dangerous to go wandering about on your own.”

      “No one will hurt me,” was the reply, “and I only went to look for wood.”

      “For wood?”

      The Count could not help interposing the exclamation. He could not imagine why this elegant young girl should require wood unless it was needed for cooking, in which case why could a servant not have fetched it for her?

      As if she noticed his presence for the first time, Roxana Barclay looked at the man who had spoken.

      With obvious reluctance the Governor said to the Count,

      “May I present to you Miss Roxana Barclay? As I have already told you she is here on sufferance. Her uncle had a permit to remain for two years, which is now terminated.”

      Roxana curtseyed as she was introduced and for some reason that he could not explain to himself the Count rose to his feet and held out his hand.

      “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Barclay,” he said in English.

      He saw the delight in her eyes, which seemed to make them larger than they were before.

      “You speak English?”

      “I hope well enough for you to understand me.”

      “You are being modest, mijnheer, you speak perfect English. I am surprised!”

      “Why?”

      “I am sorry if it sounds rude. But the servant told me that I had called at an inconvenient time as a very important Dutch Official was with the Governor and all the other Officials I have met can speak only their own language.”

      “What you have heard or not heard in the past cannot be of interest,” the Governor said coldly.

      “I am – sorry,” Roxana murmured.

      “On the contrary,” the Count contradicted her. “I am interested and I would like to know, Miss Barclay, about your work here.”

      She looked puzzled.

      “My – work?”

      Then she smiled in understanding.

      “Oh, you mean my uncle’s work. It is not mine.”

      “You are not a Missionary?”

      “No