The Island Bride Read online

  She almost jumped when the woman spoke again. 'I also note that apart from the references from your college, you have no local connections. It is usual,' she went on in that same dry tone, that was beginning to get beneath Cara's skin, `to bring an endorsement from someone in authority here. Not,' she said casually, 'that it's essential, of course,' she shrugged. 'In your case, it might be waived, but it is normal practice here to have such endorsements.'

  Cara took due note of the 'might' as the Matron had intended she should. She really was going out

  of her way to present difficulties for her, she thought furiously, and was tempted to produce the letter that categorically stated that she had obtained the job she had applied for and wave it under this thoroughly unhelpful person's nose. However, there was a certain amount of truth in what she had said, for Cara's father had obtained his appointment through the auspicious help of the late Jean-Paul Morelon, and her uncle had warned her of the difficulty of obtaining work on Totorua.

  For this reason only Cara decided to mention Monsieur Morelon, if only to show the woman that her father at least had had impeccable references— not that it would serve to help her to satisfy the Matron's slightly unreasonable attitude towards her appointment, but it would show her that they were not without influential patronage. 'My father's patron was Monsieur Morelon,' she said quietly, feeling a spurt of justified pleasure at the way the name affected the Matron, who changed from a difficult interviewer to an almost gushing friend.

  'Monsieur Morelon ! ' she exclaimed, her cold blue eyes now echoing a much warmer shade. 'Why, I—that is to say, my mother knew him very well er, Monsieur Jean-Paul Morelon, that is.' She gave a small sigh, and Cara couldn't determine whether it was a sigh of regret at his passing, or a sigh of admiration for his past accomplishments. 'His son is very much like him, don't you think? He was here a few days ago. We're adding another wing to the maternity ward, you know,' she confided to Cara, 'and naturally he is supervising the work. His father not only built the hospital, but supplied many costly additions out of his own pocket.'

  As Cara had not personally known either Jean-Paul Morelon or his son, she was forced to remain silent and let the Matron do the talking.

  A few minutes later, however, she wished she had explained this to the now friendly Matron, for her bright assumption that Cara need only approach Monsieur Morelon's son to gain the necessary endorsement left Cara in a dilemma.

  Had the Matron's attitude been a little less frigid at the start of their acquaintance, Cara might have pointed out that as the man did not know her, it was hardly likely that he would be prepared to vouch for her, even though his father had been her father's patron. As it was, she held her tongue, for something told her that should she be unwise enough to unburden herself at this stage of their acquaintance, she would certainly not receive a sympathetic hearing—the reverse, in fact—and although Cara might have obtained the job—on paper anyway—she was fully aware of the fact that this woman could make life extremely difficult for her in more ways than one; her very position would assure that.

  With an inward sigh Cara listened politely as the Matron welcomed her, albeit a little late, to the staff at the hospital, and hoped she would be able to begin her duties the following Monday.

  Cara thanked her for her welcome and replied that she was looking forward to the start of her work, and as it was obvious that the interview was now over, she stood up and started to walk to the door. No further mention of the endorsement, or reference, as Cara viewed it, had been made, and she assumed that given enough time the matter

  would be dropped, and the thought considerably cheered her. The interview had not been an altogether smooth one; but at least Cara had achieved her object and would soon begin her career.

  Her happy musings were abruptly curtailed by a remark from Matron as Cara was on the point of leaving the office. 'Do give my regards to Monsieur Morelon, won't you?' she said in what Cara could only describe as a girlish voice, and Cara could only nod in agreement to this innocent-sounding request.

  So much for her thinking she could stall her way out of her dilemma, Cara thought wretchedly, and fervently wished she had held her tongue and not mentioned her father's patron. She would still have got the job, she argued silently with herself as she left the hospital and made her way down to the shopping precinct of the town.

  The warm sunshine caressed her face as she made her way to a café that had adopted the French style of catering for the customers, with tables spilling out of the café on to the pavement, and protected by the large gay parasols that were almost the hallmark of the mother country.

  While Cara slowly sipped the coffee she had ordered, her gaze wandered over the scene before her eyes, though her mind was occupied on other matters, such as finding a way out of the unenviable position she had landed herself in.

  The tourists, she noticed, were in full flood, and the gift shops were doing a roaring trade. Street vendors were also making a bid to catch what trade was available, keeping a wary eye out for the roving gendarme, for such trade was frowned upon by the

  authorities who tried to make certain that the tourists remained unmolested on their tour of the town. The atmosphere was one of happy expectancy, echoed by the gay coloured dresses of the local inhabitants who passed by on their way to the shops. A few women still wore the native pareu, although most had adopted the Western style of dress, which was a pity, Cara mused, for the climate alone called for the bright and exceedingly comfortable pareu that went under many different names, one being the sarong, as featured in the film world of yesteryear.

  With an impatient sigh she jerked herself back to her problem. Somehow she had to have that letter of recommendation, although how she had no idea. Could her uncle help her? she wondered, then gave a slight shake of her head, that was interpreted by the Chinese waiter who was about to fill up her coffee cup as a refusal of more coffee and he went on his way, unnoticed by the reflecting Cara. Her uncle could only suggest that she see Monsieur Morelon who might or might not oblige her, and probably the latter, she thought miserably, fully aware of the imposition she was putting on him.

  A look at her watch told her that it was almost twelve o'clock, and hoping her quarry was not participating in an early lunch, she decided to settle the vexed question once and for all. He could only say yes or no, she told herself stoutly as she left the café and proceeded down the shopping precinct in search of his offices, that according to something her uncle had said were to be found somewhere in the vicinity of the quay, and ought not, thought a suddenly quaking Cara, to be too difficult to locate.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR once, Cara was not to stop and admire the breath-taking view from the harbour out to the lagoon beyond the bay, with its blue-green water, so blue in places that it rivalled the clear blue of the sky, and under which lay the beautiful coral in pale iridescent colours protected by the barrier reef beyond that guarded the entrance to the island, and where numerous wrecks lay, their resting place clearly defined by rusting cannon barrels that could still be seen protruding out of the edge of the waterfront where the sea had laid them to rest.

  As Cara had thought, it was not difficult to find the offices she sought, and she vaguely wondered how she had not noticed them before, for the premises occupied practically the whole of one side of the busy harbour's commercial section.

  All she had to do, she told herself firmly as she .entered the main office section of Morelon Enterprises, was ask to see the boss, and if successful, ask him to provide a reference for her on the grounds that his father knew her father. She faltered on this last thought and had to steel herself from about-turning and marching right out again. She wanted that job, didn't she? Not only wanted it, but had to get it to stay on her beloved Totorua. So what was she afraid of? He could refuse, of course, but it wasn't the end of the world, and she would have tried.

  With a firm step she walked towards a glass-fronted alcove that was the reception office, an
d when the aperture slid back to reveal a smiling girl in her early twenties who enquired her business, Cara took the bull by the horns and asked to see Monsieur Morelon.

  Asking if she had an appointment and receiving an apologetic no, the girl looked doubtful but was willing to be helpful and said cheerfully, 'You'd better see his secretary,' and directed Cara to an office along the passageway behind the reception area.

  So far, so good, thought Cara as she gave the door a firm tap and waited to be admitted. She was over the first hurdle, and was now approaching the second. Having got so far, she did not intend being put off now. Only if Monsieur Morelon was in conference, that was, and there was a valid reason why she should not be granted an interview. It was not as if, she told herself reasonably, she would keep him more than a few minutes. If he agreed to furnish her with a recommendation, it need not necessarily be done there and then, she could call back for it some other time. If the answer was a definite no, then the visit would be of an even shorter duration!

  The secretary, a much older woman than the receptionist, had, Cara suspected, been Jean-Paul's secretary as well, for she had the look of long duration about her, as did the office furniture around her, and obviously took her duties seriously as a susption good secretary should, giving Cara the nasty

  on that this was one battlement she would be unable to storm. Nevertheless she repeated her request

  quite firmly even though she was quaking inside.

  At the inevitable question, 'What is the nature of your business?' asked in a slightly American accent by the mousy-haired yet glint-eyed secretary, Cara took a deep breath and said, 'Personal.'

  At the lift of the eyebrows this statement produced, Cara deduced that the woman did not approve of personal matters entering into office business, and when she sought no further explanation but said dryly that she would see if Monsieur Morelon would see her, Cara was left blinking in surprise at her easy victory over what appeared to be an immovable barricade.

  She had still not quite recovered when the secretary reappeared and told her that Monsieur Morelon would see her, but would she be good enough to keep the appointment short as he had an important business lunch date to keep in a quarter of an hour's time.

  A slightly breathless but very grateful Cara assured her that she would only keep him a few minutes, and was shown into the adjoining office.

  As she approached the large desk in front of her, behind which sat a man whose head was bent over some documents he was studying, her mind was busy working out the right approach to her audacious request, but first she must apologise for her unheralded appearance. 'I do apologise,' she began hastily as the man looked up at her, but the rest of the sentence was left in mid-air as her incredulous eyes met the very blue eyes of Pierre Morelon, the man Tu-Tu had 'married' her to six years ago.

  Although she made a valiant attempt to stem her racing thoughts, the uppermost one being that some

  form of hoodoo had been placed upon herself and this man that inevitably tied them together, she had to go on with the sentence and move a little nearer to the desk, even though she would have preferred to have stayed right where she was near the door. 'I'm sorry to have barged in on you like this,' she said swiftly, realising it was about time she said something, and wondering whether she had her mouth open since that might have accounted for the amused look in his eyes as he waited for her to go on, but her mind simply refused to function and she just stood there feeling foolish.

  'Did you come to talk about the villa?' he prompted her gently, obviously taking her silence as embarrassment. 'I presume you are Dr Vernon's daughter?' he added with a smile, holding out a large strong hand towards her, which Cara had to take as she gave a small nod in confirmation. 'Your uncle mentioned that you were returning to Totorua to take up work in the same hospital as your father worked.' He indicated the chair in front of his desk, inviting her to be seated, and Cara was only too grateful to comply as her legs were not as steady as they might have been.

  'I'm afraid there is no possibility of our plans being altered at this stage, and while I have every sympathy for your understandable attachment to the villa, its location is ideal for our purpose. I might,' he added musingly, 'be able to find you alternative accommodation—er—nearer the hospital. It is not quite so large, but just as secluded as the villa, and it does have a small garden of sorts, that will ensure you a certain amount of privacy that you would not get in one of the hostels. I under-

  stand your uncle has provided himself with accommodation?'

  Again Cara gave a small nod, but was only vaguely aware of the conversation. While she had listened, her eyes had travelled slowly over the man's features, marvelling how much she had remembered about him, even though she had told Cathy that she remembered nothing, and would have passed him in the street without recognising him. The habit he had of raising his eyebrows, for one thing, when he was making a point, and the very blueness of his eyes that seemed to look right through you—she caught herself up sharply; she must have her mouth open again, as he had stopped talking and was now sitting patiently awaiting her reply.

  'I ... it's very good of you,' she got out swiftly, almost babbling the words in her anxiety not to give her thoughts away. 'I haven't got the job yet— at least,' she added breathlessly, 'I have on paper, and I thought everything was settled, but the Matron seemed to require a reference of sorts,' carrying on hastily as she saw his expressive brows raise slightly, 'Oh, I have references, of course, but she wants one from a local source. A sort of patron, I knowing suppose—so I wondered . ..?' she ended lamely, not

  how else to put it.

  To her almost hysterical relief he nodded complacently. 'And you would like me to furnish you with one?' he asked.

  'I know it's a cheek,' she answered apologetically. 'I mean, you hardly know me—well,' she amended quickly, 'my character anyway, but I couldn't think of anyone else.'

  Pierre Morelon smiled at her and Cara's heart did a somersault. He was handsome-- no wonder the Matron had thawed at the mention of his name! 'Very well, Cara. I shall take you on trust.' His eyes lost some of their amusement as they swept round the office. 'It would have been what my father would have wanted,' he said on a gentle note, and pressed a button on his desk.

  Within minutes a bemused Cara sat listening to the directions Pierre Morelon was giving his secretary. 'Type out a reference for this young lady, would you, Miss Durand? Say that I have known her family for several years and have no hesitation in recommending her for the post of ...' he glanced back at Cara, who was still finding it hard to believe that all this was actually happening, and jerked out of her reverie long enough to answer, 'Physiotherapist,' in a dazed way.

  She was still in a partial daze when she left his office a short while later, after profusely thanking him for his help, thanks that were waved away by the mildly amused Pierre.

  After giving the secretary a few more relevant details, Cara waited while the reference was typed out, and left the offices shortly afterwards wanting to pinch herself to ascertain that she wasn't dreaming. She hadn't really expected to be so successful— or to meet with such courtesy. Pierre Morelon must have thought a lot of his father, she mused, as she walked back to the town, and recalled the look of sorrow in his eyes as he had spoken of him. It was plain that he missed him as much as Cara had missed her father.

  Having no further business in the town, she took

  a taxi back to the villa, and after a light lunch settled herself in the shade of the patio.

  With the events of the morning behind her, she was able to assemble her thoughts in peace, a peace borne out by the secure knowledge that all was well. She had no worries now that her job might be in jeopardy, and could turn up for duty the following Monday armed with the necessary reference—and not only that, she told herself drowsily as the warmth of the sun pervaded the patio; she had no worries over finding herself other accommodation —even that had been taken care of by the kindly Pierre Morelon. A s
light frown creased her smooth forehead at the thought that she had not really answered his query as to whether she wanted to accept the alternative accommodation he had in mind for her.

  Then the frown was replaced by a slow smile of utter content. He would arrange it for her anyway, she was sure of it. Her sleepy glance took in the patches of sunlight that played on the tiled surface of the patio floor. Yes, she would miss the villa, she thought with a gentle sigh, but one couldn't have everything, and she had been so lucky she had no cause for complaint.

  Her thoughts then turned to Cathy, and she wondered how she was faring in her new job. Another small smile lit her features as she envisaged her amazement when told of the extraordinary turn of events, and that Cara had had to apply to her 'husband' for a reference!

  Her head rested against the cushion of the chair back. She ought to write to Cathy, but not today, she told herself sleepily; perhaps tomorrow. She had

  a whole week of leisure before she started work, so there was plenty of time to catch up on her correspondence. Kind Ermyntrude would be looking for a letter, too, and Cara wondered how she had got on at the local show and hoped she had been successful in getting either a first or a second placing for her dogs.

  Inevitably her thoughts returned to her interview with Pierre Morelon that morning. What an extremely charming man he was, not a bit like the grim character that she had at first thought him. Had she but known it at the tender age of sixteen, he was just the kind of man she would have been privileged to become engaged to—let alone marry!

  How stupid she had been to worry about possible repercussions of the past. As Cathy had said, she needed to get things in the right perspective. Well, she had now. It was odd, though, how she had seen him at the airport the following morning after the restaurant episode, and the woman who had been mentioned, too. He must have been paying a visit to London, as it was obvious that he had been on Totorua for quite some time, so her previous worry had been unnecessary.