LYNNE PEMBERTON

Eclipse

Dedication

To my husband Mike,

who made dreams possible,

all My Love.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Book One

Chapter One: PORT ANTONIO, JAMAICA. JULY 1966.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four: ENGLAND, MARCH 1967

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Book Two

Chapter Nine: CAYMAN ISLANDS 1980

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Book Three

Chapter Fourteen: LONDON 1993

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen: PELHAM CRESCENT, SW7, 1994

Chapter Seventeen: NEW YORK CITY

Chapter Eighteen: JUNE 1994

Chapter Nineteen: THREE MONTHS LATER

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Book One

Chapter One PORT ANTONIO, JAMAICA. JULY 1966.

A shiver ran through her as the wind outside rose to an agonized howl, rattling the shutters on the chalkstone house with a ferocity that threatened to rip them off their hinges.

The storm had begun.

Feeling relatively secure inside the drawing room of the sturdily constructed beach-house, Lady Serena Frazer-West was quite enthralled by the prospect of experiencing a Caribbean storm first-hand. Overcome by curiosity, she carefully prised open a tiny gap between the louvres of the floor-to-ceiling shutters and, bending forward, strained her eyes to see through the blanket of dark silver rain.

She had never seen such a downpour. A solid sheet of water was teeming out of a sky the colour of charcoal.

Serena remembered the first time she had come to Jamaica on her honeymoon two years previously. It had been raining then. A flicker of a smile crossed her face as she recalled the three-hour drive across the island from Kingston the capital, to the sleepy little town of Port Antonio. She had laughed, and Nicholas had complained loudly, when they had been squashed into the back of a broken down Morris Minor with four pieces of luggage, and a box of rotting paw-paw belonging to the chattering driver. As the old car approached the rushing Rio Grande, the sun had made its first appearance over the top of the soaring blue mountains. Submerging the lush green valley in a translucent pinkish light. The avenue of flamboyant trees lining the roadside, rain dripping from their tightly packed blossoms, had reminded Serena of a mass of scarlet umbrellas.

It was a sight she’d never forgotten.

Now the wind was roaring across the island at more than eighty miles per hour, driving the rain violently, soaking everything in its path. And with it came a veil of mist which seemed to hang over the ground, covering the huge Cannonball tree at the foot of the garden in a ghostly cloak.

Serena’s eyes travelled across the covered terrace, then down the garden path, littered now with fallen branches, and on to the dark sea beyond. Through the gloom she caught sight of a huge wave, almost the same height as the ubiquitous coconut palms. Within seconds, it had smashed a small fishing boat to smithereens, the splintered fragments whirling on a great gust of wind before being swallowed up by the blackness of the sky.

Serena was fascinated. She found the untamed beauty of the storm exhilarating and the wildness of the scene stirred her senses. How could she know that for the rest of her life she would always look back on this day, thinking that if it hadn’t been for the storm things would have been so different.

Suddenly an involuntary gasp exploded from her lips when, stretching on tiptoe to scan the far side of the garden, she spotted something or someone moving behind the thick trunk of a date palm.

A figure stumbled out into the open. It was a man, his shirt flapping wildly like the wings of some huge prehistoric bird. As the full force of the wind hit him he dropped on to his belly and with his head curled into his chest, he crawled across the sodden ground towards the shelter of the house.

Serena shared his discomfort, afraid for him, as she watched his painfully slow progress. Every few yards he was forced to lie flat, covering his head with his hands as meagre protection from flying branches and other debris. As he drew nearer he seemed to shout for help, but his voice must have been lost in all the chaos.

She snapped out of her state of mental paralysis and jolted herself into action, running across the large drawing room, down two wide steps and into an internal courtyard that led to the hall.

She could hear the stranger’s muffled shouts as she flung open the heavy wooden door. He was slumped against the stone wall of the covered walkway which crossed the front of the house. Staring at him, speechless, she noticed how his broad chest heaved as he turned to face her.

He was panting.

Unable to take her eyes off the man it suddenly struck Serena that she must look totally stupid, standing there gaping. But just as she was about to say something, a particularly ferocious gust of wind lifted him and hurled him forward. She raised her hands to ward him off but the heavy weight of his body fell clumsily, crashing into her right shoulder. She cried out as her ankle twisted and she slid to the floor.

A second later the man was kneeling beside her, his strong hands cool on her bare shoulders. She could smell his wet clothes and a musky aroma coming from his skin, or was it his hair, she wasn’t sure which.

‘Are you OK?’ His voice was very deep.

A sharp pain shot through her ankle. It hurt like hell but Serena forced herself to suppress her tears.

‘It’s not much, I don’t think.’ Her voice was tremulous.

‘Let me look at it,’ he said, gently lifting her right foot.

Supporting her ankle with one hand, he tenderly ran his fingers over her skin, delicately searching for any signs of serious damage. Closing her eyes, Serena sat very still whilst he completed the examination.

‘No bones broken, thank God,’ he announced, his dark head glistening in the dim light. As he spoke he blinked rapidly, several times, to clear his vision of the tiny drops of rain which fell from his eyelashes.

Serena was shocked by the intense green of his eyes. And when a gleaming smile lit up his dark face, she suddenly felt that she’d known him for a very long time. Holding those eyes for what seemed like an age, she marvelled at the unpredictability of love at first sight.

‘Serena darling, what on earth is going on?’

Lord Frazer-West was striding towards them, dressed in a long cotton shirt and jeans; closely followed by Joseph, the butler, in starched white shirt and bow tie.

Reluctantly Serena dragged her eyes away from the stranger.

‘I’m not absolutely sure myself,’ she responded, glancing briefly in her husband’s direction before reverting her full attention to the other man.

It annoyed her that neither Nicholas nor the butler made any move to help the soaked stranger as he struggled to close the solid mahogany door behind him.

Instead they looked on in silence, each gazing at him expectantly.

‘I apologize for bursting in on you like this, but my car broke down.’

Serena thought he looked extremely uncomfortable as he glanced from face to face.

‘I could have been killed out there,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Well, you almost killed me,’ Serena commented with a hint of amusement in her voice, glancing down at her ankle which was beginning to swell.

‘What happened, darling?’ asked Nicholas, stepping in front of the man to approach his wife. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said casually, not wanting any fuss. ‘It’s nothing much. I tripped and twisted my ankle, that’s all.’

Nicholas immediately spun round, confronting the stranger, his dark eyes clouded.

The man was smiling apologetically. ‘It was my fault entirely. Well, the real fault lies with the wind actually. I was literally lifted off my feet and thrown at the good lady. In my opinion the damage is only a slight sprain. Some ice on it, with a strapping, should do the trick.’

For some inexplicable reason Lord Nicholas Frazer-West found the man’s perfect diction disconcerting. ‘What on earth were you doing out in the storm, man! There was plenty of warning.’

His impatience showed in the tight line of his mouth, whilst he looked the intruder up and down with obvious distaste. Noticing several muddy footprints on the marble floor, he consoled himself with the thought that at least the culprit wasn’t standing on the Chinese washed rug in the drawing room.

‘I had my reasons, believe me,’ came the answer. ‘But I’ve experienced storms like this before. They are capable of uprooting trees, and I thought I should take shelter. You were the closest house.’

‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ said Nicholas matter of factly.

Serena raised her eyes, mildly irritated by the fact that her husband could always be relied upon to state the obvious, whatever the situation.

‘Of course he’s wet Nicholas! So would you be if you’d just been outside,’ she retorted. And without waiting for a reply she spoke briskly to the butler. ‘Take the gentleman into the guest room Joseph, find him some dry clothes, and later set an extra place for supper.’

The butler didn’t move. He inclined his head and waited, glancing in Lord Frazer-West’s direction.

Nicholas was too intent on observing his wife to notice. He was frowning as he recognized the all too familiar thrust of her chin. Her sapphire blue eyes were challenging him, and he swiftly decided it would be futile to argue.

‘Do as the mistress says, Joseph.’ Lord Frazer-West spoke with the voice of one who’d been accustomed to servants all his life. Joseph nodded, still not saying a word.

‘Cat got your tongue, Joseph?’ Serena teased.

‘Serena,’ snapped Nicholas.

The butler lowered his eyes and then mumbled, ‘No mistress, ain’t bin no cats around here today.’

She grinned in spite of herself, then turned her gaze to the stranger. She guessed he must be feeling increasingly ill at ease, caught up in domestic tensions that had nothing to do with him. And his next words proved her right.

‘Listen folks. I can shelter in the kitchen, out of your way, until the storm eases up. I really had no intention of disturbing anyone’s evening; I just didn’t feel like being injured out there.’

Serena came to his rescue. ‘You’re not disturbing anyone’s evening; is he Nicholas?’

Nicholas didn’t reply, but his belligerent body language said it all.

Serena continued unperturbed. ‘We were going to have an early supper; play cards and wait for the storm to pass. You might help to break the monotony. We would be delighted to have you join us.’

Nicholas, stony-faced, declined to confirm his wife’s insistent welcome and the refugee from the storm was still unsure.

‘I’ve been wet before and it didn’t kill me. I really don’t need fresh clothes.’

Rivulets of rainwater trickled down the back of his neck as he shook his head. Then, lifting his arm, he raked long fingers through his matted, curly hair and, as he did so, his shirt fell open to expose a muscular torso.

A sudden rush of heat filled Serena’s entire body as she watched him. Certain it would show on her face, she quickly lowered her head and stepped back into the shadows before replying. ‘Well, it might just kill you this time, and we’d hate to be responsible for that.’

She was unable to keep the teasing tone out of her voice; and, when the man looked at her, she flashed him a smile that was both mischievous and inviting, half woman and half child. It made her look like someone about to embark upon a reckless adventure.

‘I’m sure Nicholas has an old tee-shirt somewhere, and a pair of shorts.’ Serena looked enquiringly at her husband, who was studying the man’s enormous frame.

‘I doubt I’ve got anything to fit you, Mr … ’ Nicholas paused.

‘Fergusson. Royole Fergusson the second, at your service.’ Royole bent forward, mockingly sweeping one big arm in front of him in a parody of a bow. He was grinning from ear to ear.

There was an untamed air about him which Serena found irresistible. She stretched out her hand, bubbling with laughter, and responded in kind.

‘Lady Serena Frazer-West, at your service, sir.’

Nicholas stepped in front of Royole before he had an opportunity to take his wife’s hand. Looking up into the taller man’s face, he was as surprised as Serena had been by the intense green of the eyes; eyes which held his own so firmly.

‘Come along then, Mr Fergusson. Let’s see if we can at least get you rigged out in something dry.’

Nicholas then nodded to the butler, and Joseph led the way out of the small hallway into a fifty-foot square central courtyard, laid in pure white terrazzo. Serena had to be supported by her husband as she limped along.

The house had been designed around the courtyard and all the rooms led off it. It was dark. The windows were shuttered against the storm and an enormous antique brass lantern, hanging on a heavy chain, was unfit. Only a small amount of light, flickering from four carved wall-sconces, cast an eerie glow upon the pale stone.

Royole jumped as a frog croaked loudly, then plopped into the small ornamental pool in the centre of the courtyard, disappearing under a perfect, yellow lotus lily.

A pair of old, stone urns, inlaid with the Frazer-West crest, stood at the foot of a wide sweeping staircase. Serena, leaning against one of the urns, admired Royole Fergusson’s broad back as he ascended the stairs holding the curved mahogany handrail.

Only when he was out of sight did she limp barefoot into the drawing room, where the butler had lit several long candles, just in case the electricity failed. They flickered brightly under gleaming hurricane lamps, shadows dancing across the darkened walls.

Earlier in the day Joseph and the gardener had stacked all the terrace furniture into one corner of the room, which now resembled a warehouse. The air felt heavy, with a cloying dampness. It was oppressive and Serena longed to do what she did in the mornings; which was to throw open the tall windows leading on to the terrace, let in a fresh sea breeze and enjoy uninterrupted views of the coastline from every angle.

She noticed that the wind noise had changed. It was deeper now, more aggressive. She was momentarily startled as the large limb of a mahogany tree crashed down on to the roof of the house. But settling comfortably on the deep sofa, she popped a cushion behind her head and another under her ankle. She was thinking about Royole Fergusson, when Nicholas joined her, immediately destroying the moment.

‘Was it really necessary to invite a total stranger to join us for supper, Serena?’ he complained through clenched teeth as soon as he entered the room.

She didn’t reply.

‘Serena, answer me! I was looking forward to a quiet evening; just you and I.’

She studied her husband’s back as he poured himself a large gin and tonic. ‘Might it have been OK to invite him for dinner if he was white, Nicholas darling?’ His back stiffened as she pursued her point. ‘Or another householder perhaps; someone you went to school with; an old chum from your club; even someone who knew someone who went to Eton. If he was someone more … how shall I put it, Nicholas, of our class?’

He whirled round, almost spilling his drink.

Serena confronted him defiantly, but sank a little deeper into the sofa, anticipating his angry reaction. Nicholas’s brown eyes were shadowed, so she couldn’t see what they said, but there was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice.

‘I hear your contempt, my sweet, and I’ll have none of it. How dare you accuse me of prejudice!’

Serena didn’t feel like arguing. It was such a waste of time with Nicholas. He invariably overreacted and she found it extremely tedious. She often did it purely to be perverse, but for once she decided to placate him.

‘Because, my darling Nicholas, you are a bigot; an absolute snob; insular to the core and I adore you.’

She was smiling sweetly as he crossed the few feet that separated them and sat beside her.

Wrapping her slim arms tightly around his neck, Serena planted a kiss on his cheek and savoured the smell of his expensive after-shave and lemon-scented soap.

‘Let’s not argue Nicky, please. I felt sorry for the man, that’s all.’

She pecked his nose, wetting the tip with her tongue, and watched his anger melt way. Unable to resist, he kissed her on the mouth, whispering, ‘And I adore you, my Lady Serena.’

They both turned at the sound of an embarrassed cough, intended as a polite interruption. ‘Er, will I do?’ asked Royole.

He bent his head self-consciously as they surveyed his ill-fitting clothes.

Serena looked at him standing awkwardly at the entrance to the elegant drawing room: he was incongruous in big white tee-shirt, cut-off shorts held together with an old leather suitcase strap, and no shoes.

‘You look wonderful,’ she said. And she meant it.

Royole responded with a wink. ‘Well thank you kindly, mam. I mightily appreciate that.’

He made her laugh with his mimicry of a drawl from the American Deep South.

‘Dinner is served I believe.’ Nicholas’s curt voice cut crisply through his wife’s laughter as he stood up and left the room.

Serena shrugged, pulling a long face at her husband’s back. ‘Don’t take too much notice of Nicholas. He’s a pussy cat really.’

Royole was certain that Lord Frazer-West was anything but, however he had absolutely no desire to argue with his host’s beautiful wife.

Instead he said, a little hesitantly. “The storm will be over soon, and I can leave. By the way, how’s the ankle?’

He walked over to where she lay and leaned forward to look at her foot. Her ankle was already turning a delicate shade of bluish black.

She smiled. ‘I’ll live. Come on, let’s go and eat or risk my husband’s wrath.’

‘Let me help you.’ He offered her a muscular arm and she took it willingly.

Struggling to her feet, she forced herself to suppress the desire that rose within her at the touch of his flesh. Then she indicated the way back through the courtyard; down a dimly lit hallway which ended in a stone archway encased in coral vine.

Together they entered the dining room, where Royole paused on the threshold, his eyes absorbing every detail. He had never seen such a beautiful room.

Champagne-coloured stone walls rose majestically to a domed ceiling where hummingbirds and yellow warblers flew across richly stocked flowerbeds, alive with colour. Industrious insects, painted in the most minute detail, crawled across the long, swaying leaves of a traveller’s palm. For an instant Royole had the illusion that he could actually smell the bright petals of the lilac bougainvillaea that framed the beautiful creation. It was exquisite.

‘My father commissioned two Venetian artists to paint the ceiling, they spent several months here in 1958 when the house was built,’ Nicholas informed his visitor casually, as if speaking of an everyday occurrence.

A French glass chandelier, ablaze with two dozen candles, hung dramatically above a Regency dining table set with gleaming crystal and antique silver resting on a white linen tablecloth. In the centre of the oval table there was a carved, marble dish filled with sparkling water, on top of which floated pink and white hibiscus. Tall, glass doors covered one entire wall of the room and arched fanlights touched the ceiling. Tonight they were tightly secured against the storm, but Royole could picture them open to the prevailing breeze on a calmer evening – when the murmur of the sea would mix softly with the sound of conversation and laughter.

Royole wanted a room like this for himself.

‘It’s perfect,’ he said in a hushed voice.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything like it before.’ Lord Frazer-West adopted his most patronising tone.

Royole was aware of the small hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. It angered him that this pompous man could make such assumptions about him on sight. He looked directly into the eyes of his unwilling host and replied with deliberate courtesy.

‘This house is extremely beautiful and you are a very lucky man to own it.’ He paused, allowing Nicholas the satisfaction of a smug smile before continuing, ‘l am a well-travelled man, Lord Frazer-West; and I’ve seen many spectacular homes. I’ve met lots of different people all over the world,’ his voice deepened, ‘and I’ve seen sights you could only begin to imagine. Things for which there are no words.’

Nicholas merely grunted, making no comment. He was disconcerted; irritated by this intrusion into his home. More than that, he felt somehow threatened by the stranger. It made him edgy and bad-tempered.

He turned to Serena who, to his extreme annoyance, was looking at Royole with a triumphant glint in her bright eyes. He muttered something under his breath before picking up a bell from the table and ringing it loudly.

Joseph appeared.

‘Pour me some white wine,’ Nicholas ordered grumpily.

Serena indicated the chair next to her, patting it. ‘Please sit down, Mr Fergusson.’

Royole made no attempt to move. ‘I didn’t ask to join you for dinner, Lord Frazer-West, and if you would rather I left, please feel free to say so now.’

Nicholas offered a formal smile and spoke resignedly, as if quite bored by the whole thing. ‘I believe all men, at any given time,’ he paused, staring vacantly over Royole’s shoulder, ‘are victims of fate. A storm has chosen that we dine together this evening and, on that note, I welcome you to my table Mr Fergusson.’

To Serena’s delight and Nicholas’s chagrin, Royole Fergusson proved to be a very stimulating dinner guest; both articulate and amusing.

As the Château Margaux flowed, then so did his deep voice. At once intense and passionate when expounding a favourite theory, yet so readily slipping into a frivolous, easy wit when teasing his hosts with an amusing anecdote. At thirty, he was the same age as Nicholas and had indeed lived a full and exciting life.

‘Have you always lived in Jamaica?’ asked Serena, holding his emerald-green gaze for far longer than necessary.

He fascinated her.

She was powerless to stop staring at him, even though she was aware that she was virtually ignoring Nicholas. It was just that she had never before met anyone like Royole Fergusson, and as the evening progressed she found herself more and more drawn to him. It was as if he had cast a spell and she was bound up in it.

‘No, I was born in St Vincent, in the Grenadines, to a negro father who claimed direct descendancy from a Royal Zulu tribe. Hence my name. My mother’s half-French Caucasian and half Guyanese, and at …’ he paused, calculating in his head, ‘… fifty-three she’s still an exceptionally beautiful woman. I have a brother and two sisters. We moved to Port Antonio, when I was three years old, and six years later to Boston, where my father practised as a doctor until his death two years ago.’

Serena said that she was sorry about his father, then continued to listen avidly; learning that Royole had won a scholarship to Harvard, where he had studied law for two years before dropping out in favour of his long-cherished dream of coming back to live in the Caribbean.

‘And you, is this your first time in Port Antonio?’ Royole addressed his question to Serena.

‘No, the fifth trip, the first time was on our honeymoon.’ She sighed, ‘Our stays are never long enough for me, I feel like I want to become a West Indian,’ she laughed lightly.

Royole agreed, his voice impassioned. ‘The Caribbean’s like that. It kind of gets into your blood, there’s nowhere on earth quite like it.’

Nicholas addressed him directly for the first time in little under an hour. ‘That I must say is only your opinion, yet you do speak with rare perception.’

The compliment was delivered with a feigned sincerity, intended to disguise the disdain Nicholas actually felt for the charming and charismatic individual sharing his table who seemed to threaten everything he stood for.

During the course of the evening Royole had not only dominated the conversation, debasing many of Nicholas’s hard-held principles, but he had also captivated the wife he cherished.

In two years of marriage, even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas had never once seen Serena look at him the way she was looking at the animated and handsome face of Royole Fergusson this evening.

After dinner Joseph served strong, Colombian coffee in demitasse china cups. Royole tried gamely to get his finger through the handle but failed, and finally settled for holding his cup in the palm of his hand.

It was exactly ten-thirty when they suddenly noticed that the incessant clattering of the rain beating against the shutters had ceased. ‘Listen,’ Serena whispered.

A hush had descended. Even the wind had dropped to a dull murmur.

Nicholas stood up and strode across the stone floor to throw open one of the tall windows. He unhooked the shutters and craned his neck outside to look upwards into the overcast sky. It was still raining a little but the calabash trees in front of the dining room were now swaying a lot less violently. The air was damp and it smelt heavily of sea water and sodden earth; that peculiar combination so typical of the Caribbean Islands.

‘I think the worst has passed,’ Nicholas called out before pacing back towards the table, giving an elaborate yawn. ‘I’m exhausted, don’t know about you?’ He directed his words deliberately at Royole.

Serena glared at him, as Royole stood up, saying, ‘I think it’s time for me to leave.’

Less than five minutes later Royole was on the doorstep, holding his original clothes in an untidy, damp bundle.

‘Thank you both for a wonderful evening. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and I would very much like to return your hospitality.’ He looked expectantly between the two dimly lit faces before him; Serena’s animated and eager, her husband’s incomprehensible and closed.

Nicholas wanted to say that once was more than enough, but he prided himself on being a gentleman with impeccable manners. ‘The pleasure has been all ours, albeit an unexpected one. You must call us soon, and we’ll see what we can fix up.’

He sounded bored and Royole, as he had done several times that evening, wondered what a beautiful young woman like Serena could see in the obnoxious Lord Frazer-West. Serena held out both her hands. Royole noticed that they were shaking very slightly as he enfolded them securely in his own.

His desire to pull her close was difficult to resist. He longed to feel the softness of her skin again. A sensation he had felt so briefly, but enjoyed so much, whilst examining her ankle. Sensing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he was determined to see her again.

‘Goodnight Royole,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely. I really have enjoyed your company.’

It was impossible to read anything in her shadowed eyes, yet her slow smile held a promise. Of that he was certain.

Nicholas quietly inched his way back into the darkened hall, suddenly feeling like an intruder, aware of a strange sort of intimacy between his wife and Royole Fergusson.

Royole was pleased to be alone with her and reiterated what he’d said earlier. ‘I meant what I said; I want to invite you to my home.’ Dropping her hands reluctantly, he looked around. ‘Nothing as grand as this; but my house is full of warmth and laughter. And Caron cooks the best red snapper you ever tasted.’

Serena felt a reaction at the mention of the name ‘Caron’. Forcing her voice to sound indifferent, she asked, ‘Is Caron your wife?’

She was ridiculously pleased when he shook his head; less so when he went on to say, ‘Not yet.’

‘Serena darling, Joseph is waiting to drive Mr Fergusson home,’ Nicholas shouted from the depths of the house.

There was no mistaking his impatience.

‘Goodnight Lady Serena and, once more, thank you. Perhaps you have saved my life tonight.’ He kissed his fingertips, placed them softly on her slightly parted lips and before she had a chance to reply, Royole Fergusson turned and strode off down the drive to where the butler was waiting with the jeep.

Serena watched him go, fighting a dangerous impulse to call him back.

Within seconds his tall figure was swallowed up by the dark, velvety night.

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