Fyrea's Cauldron. William Maltese

In the far distance, Villeneuve, all pink and white, slipped gently down to the harbor where the liner still rested at the quay.

      “Feel like getting out?” Charles asked, once the car was completely stopped.

      “I feel rather ridiculous, making such a fuss,” Marie said. “I really don’t quite know what’s gotten into me.”

      How was she to know she’d react this way? Aside from a couple of summers in Spain (she’d gotten sick, then, too), she’d never been all that far from home.

      “There’s nothing about which to feel ridiculous,” her husband assured, opening the car door. “This road often gets to the best of us.”

      He began circling the car to let Marie out, but Petre beat him to it.

      After the air-conditioned interior of the automobile, the outside would have been unbearable if not for a breeze blowing up from the sea. As it was, Marie found the temperature quite pleasant, although she was conscious of how her blouse had grown disconcertingly damp beneath her arms.

      “Welcome to Saint-Georges, Mrs. Camaux,” Charles said, standing close, and placing his right arm around her in a way that was sensuous in its familiarity.

      Suddenly, she defined what had been so exceptionally unusual about their kiss on the quay. In London, he had hardly ever been affectionately demonstrative in public. Here, however, there had not only been the kiss on the quay but the way he had leaned to touch her hand intimately on the porch of The Hotel King Philip. Now, with Petre watching from a position by the side of the car, Charles’ arm pulled Marie even closer.

      She glanced up at him, somehow embarrassed to find him unabashedly returning her stare.

      “You’re very beautiful!” he said, his voice low.

      Marie’s blush increased. Why? This was her husband, merely having provided a simple endearment. Yet, it affected her as if it were coming from a complete stranger.

      What was getting into her?

      “I’m feeling much better,” she said, guilty when she pulled free of his hug. Nervously, she glanced to see if he was hurt by her inexplicable rejection. He was eyeing her with what appeared to be genuine amusement.

      “Then, we shall be on our way,” he said and made no move to touch her as they walked back to the car.

      Petre opened the door for her. Charles went around to the other side and crawled in. Ten minutes later, he was pointing out an exceptionally attractive roadside growth of purple-red bougainvillea, and Marie was, again, fighting a losing battle with nausea.

      Possibly sensing Marie’s return of car sickness, Charles limited his conversation to an occasional query as to whether or not she wanted to stop, again, for a few minutes. Finally, however, without his having put in any verbal request, the car, again, pulled to the side of the road.

      “Let’s take a moment or two,” Charles suggested, as if he had anticipated this particular pause; which he had. “We can see the Château from here.”

      Petre came to open the door, and Marie stepped out. Charles exited and came around to join her. This time, however, he made no move to touch her, and Marie found herself missing his physical support.

      “There!” he said. His arm outstretched toward a distant clearing amid the abundant greenery that covered one lower mountain flank.

      Marie saw an obviously large lawn, beyond which was a quadrangle stone structure with an impressive square tower at each corner. There were large windows that caught sun and reflected it like spider eyes. A broad flight of steps, and a classical pediment, each provided a gracefulness and grandeur. From a closer perspective, the edifice undoubtedly would be even more impressive. Constructed of granite from the very mountain upon whose leveled slope it sat, the building was partially mirrored within a large adjoining reflecting pond. The source of the water was a stream, visible to Marie only as an impressive waterfall that tumbled a breach in the greenery farther up the mountain: the mountain dwarfed everything.

      “Home!” Charles announced a strange smile playing at the corner of his sensuous mouth.

      At that moment, Marie was mainly concerned with the road that remained, twisting and turning, between her and the estate. She might be seeing her new home, but she definitely wasn’t there yet.

      “Cacao,” Charles said. His extended arm indicated a stretch of vegetation growing three sheltered mountain depressions within their immediate view. “Coffee farther up the mountain. Most of the natives live in quarters through those trees over there. You’ll, of course, get a better idea of the layout after you’ve been here a few days. The stables are in the rear of the Château grounds. The lake within The Cauldron is up that way.”

      Marie’s gaze followed the slope upward to where green became lost in swirling gray mist. She saw no sign of visible paths through the far tangle, suspecting it would be very easy to become lost on this island she had originally misconstrued as merely a wee speck of sand in the Caribbean.

      “I imagine, by this time, you’re ready for a nice hot bath, yes?” Charles said, his mouth actually breaking into a wide smile.

      His eyes seemed to be stripping the clothes from her body—like a man who hadn’t yet seen what was underneath. The sensation brought goose bumps to Marie’s flesh, and sent strange inner warmth racing to flush her cheeks.

      “There are hot springs when you get rested enough to become more adventurous,” he continued. “Better let me point those out to you, though. There’s one in particular that has the nasty habit of going from ninety degrees to boiling within virtual short seconds, and I’d hate to have my wife become stew like one poor soul once did.”

      Marie would have laughed if she had known for sure Charles was joking. However, the Charles whom Marie knew—had known—hadn’t shown much by way of a sense of humor.

      “I’ll point that to-be-avoided pool out to you the day we head up The Cauldron to see the lake,” he promised. “We can catch fish in a stream but a few feet away, and, then, boil them in the thermal pool for a nice lunch.”

      Marie followed her husband back to the car, trying desperately to put together more of the little things which made him different than she remembered.

      Despite all of her efforts to be rid of it, she continued to have a niggling premonition that something wasn’t quite right.

      * * * * * * *

      Someone had possibly spotted the car when it had stopped at the lookout overlooking the house, because the staff was outside in full force to meet the new mistress, Mrs. Camaux. The surprisingly long line was headed by a wrinkled old woman whose age defied estimation.

      “Look what I’ve brought, Little Mother,” Charles said, a firm hand having guided Marie to a position directly in front of the female gnome.

      Small black pupils stared out at Marie from a wrinkled face that looked more wizened monkey than human.

      “Charles has told me so much about you,” Marie said. That was a lie. Charles had told her nothing about this woman whose position in the household was made obvious by her prominent placement at the head of the reception line.

      The old woman said nothing. Except for a slight dilation of her pupils, she showed no indication whatsoever that she’d heard Charles or Marie.

      Marie felt ill at ease. Apparently Charles felt only amused, because he laughed and, then, nudged his wife onward to pause at the next person.

      Marie would remember only one seemingly friendly face among the crowd that day: Karena, the fat Negress cook. On the other hand, she experienced no blatant hostility, either, except from Charles’ mysterious “Little Mother”. Mainly, the servants were distantly respectful as Marie so often found the well-trained help to be in aristocratic households. A couple of the youngest girls, apparently not long in service, had smiled shyly to excuse poorly executed curtsies.

      “I thought you would prefer