I see.” Sophie was interested. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
“That rather depends on what you find fascinating,” remarked Edge dryly. “I gather you like that kind of music.”
“I like all kinds of music,” retorted Sophie defensively. “Don’t you?”
Edge shrugged. “I’ve no doubt you’ll have more in common with my son in that respect,” he returned, rather sardonically, and Sophie stiffened. His son! Eve hadn’t mentioned that Edge had a son!
And then, unwillingly, she recalled something Sandra March had said and which at the time had made no impression on her. She had asked whether – Piers – knew he had a cousin! Of course. She ought to have realized. If he was Eve’s cousin, he had to be Edge’s son.
She swallowed hard. “Piers?” she managed, rather chokily.
“Yes.” Edge looked her way for a moment. “How old did you say you were?”
“I – I’m twenty – five.” She felt a wave of sweat break out on her forehead. She had almost said twenty-two!
“Twenty-five,” echoed Edge, shaking his head, “You don’t look it.”
“Thank you for the compliment.” She was trying to sound flip, but couldn’t. “H – how old is Piers?”
“Didn’t my father tell you?”
“He – he may have done. I – I’ve forgotten.” That was reasonable, wasn’t it?
“He’s seventeen.”
“Oh, I see.” Sophie bent her head. Seventeen! Only five years younger than she was. So how old did that make this man who was Eve’s uncle? And why was she interested anyway?
Edge swung the car out of the bright lights of the main streets into a shadowy suburb where palm trees looked exotic in the glare of the headlights. They were gradually climbing higher and higher out of the town into the hills around, and glancing back Sophie could see the fairyland of lights spreading out below them. She felt an unwelcome twinge of apprehension. Down in the town she had still felt in a sense in command of her own destiny, capable of escaping back to England and denouncing her position if things got too difficult. But no longer. She was here, she was committed to the role she had agreed to play, and she knew instinctively that Edge St. Vincente would brook no uncertainty on her part. He was not the kind of man to play games with, and if ever he found out that she had been deceiving them ...
The coolness of the breeze through the opened windows of the car had a sea-salt tang about it now. Sophie guessed they were near the sea, but apart from a pale sheen in the moonlight, she could discern nothing. In spite of the difficulties of her position, she found herself eager to see the coastline in daylight. Everything she had seen so far on the island had been almost larger than life in colour and exuberance, and she was convinced the white coral beaches and green surf would be no less exciting. If only she could just think of these things and stop worrying ...
The silence between them stretched and Sophie felt it was up to her to make some effort to break it. Trying to sound casual, she said: “Tell me about – Pointe St. Vincente. Is – is that the name of your father’s house?” Belatedly, she realized that she should have said my grandfather’s house, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
Happily, however, Edge seemed not to have observed any slip. “No,” he replied. “Pointe St. Vincente is the name of the peninsula where the house is situated. The house has no name, except perhaps that it’s known locally as the St. Vincente house.”
“It – it sounds wonderful!”
“Does it?” Edge’s lips twisted. “I shouldn’t have thought it would have appealed to you.”
“Why?” Sophie was taken aback.
“Surely it’s obvious. You must have known of our existence for twenty years, but you’ve never made any effort before now to contact us.”
Sophie flushed. “I – I understood my – my grandfather refused to have anything to do with – with my father.”
“So he did. But he would have welcomed some word from you. You are his granddaughter, after all. The innocent party in the affair.”
Sophie moved awkwardly. “I – we never talked about it.”
“Didn’t you?” Edge’s lean hands tightened on the wheel as the road swung sharply round a hairpin bend. “I find that hard to believe.”
“You don’t understand.” Sophie warmed to her subject. She had heard Eve’s side of the story and could appreciate her dilemma. “My father never got over my mother’s death. He – he had loved her very much. He was unable to forget that I was the unwitting cause of her dying. I – I don’t say he blamed me exactly, but I must have constantly reminded him. I – well, don’t you see? I couldn’t have contacted my grandfather in the circumstances. It would have seemed – disloyal.”
Edge considered this. “I can see what you’re trying to say,” he remarked. “I don’t say I agree with it.”
“Well, my – my grandfather wasn’t an innocent spectator in this affair, was he? I mean, he was responsible for the rift in the first place.”
“Maybe so. I can remember he was pretty cut up about it himself. Jennifer had always been the apple of his eye. It was a great shock to him when she chose to ignore everything he had done for her – everything he hoped to do for her – in favour of a penniless engineer!”
“He – my father that is, wasn’t penniless!”
“Compared to the wealth my father controls, he was.”
“I suppose he would have had her make a marriage of expediency?”
“If, by expediency, you mean he wanted her to marry someone more suitable, then yes –”
“Expediency has other meanings,” Sophie broke in, unable to help herself. “It also means more politic than just!”
“Howard Fleming would have made her happy.”
“How can you say that?” Sophie was stung by the coolness of his tone. “She obviously didn’t love this – this Howard Fleming or she wouldn’t have run away with James Hollister!”
Edge’s eyes narrowed and as he looked at her she saw the thickness of long black lashes. “James Hollister?” he repeated. “That’s a curious way to speak of one’s own father.”
Sophie knew she had to bluff it out. “Why?” she challenged him. “My father’s name was James Hollister, wasn’t it?”
Edge returned his attention to the tortuous bends in the road. “If you say so,” he commented quietly, and Sophie wondered rather desperately whether she was imagining the note of scepticism in his voice. Surely he must believe she was who she said she was. He couldn’t have brought her here otherwise, could he ?
Changing the subject entirely, she said: “How much further is it to Pointe St. Vincente?” determinedly forcing herself not to stammer.
Edge flicked back his cuff and consulted the gold watch on his wrist. “About another fifteen minutes,” he replied, and Sophie sank more deeply down into her seat, her fingers curving tightly about the soft leather upholstery. Soon they would be there and she had to prepare herself for the ordeal to come.
The moon had risen by the time they reached the curving drive which led down to the St. Vincente house. In its pale glow, Sophie could see tree-clad slopes, leading down to a natural harbour below the house where shadowy buildings indicated boathouses. But the house itself was what held her spellbound, the floodlit gardens giving its white-painted façade unnatural colour. It was a split-level dwelling, seemingly welded into the hillside itself with shallow stone steps leading down between pergolas laden with bougainvillea and other climbing plants to a stone-paved