Chapter Three

 

My father sold me to James Durham. Papa denies this of course,

but I know it to be true. I openly accused him . . .

‘Don’t be ridiculous, child.’ André Desmarais scoffed at his daughter’s

accusation. In fact he did more than scoff, he threw back his huge bearded

head and laughed out loud. ‘What a fanciful creature you are, ma petite.

James Durham loves you. He’s loved you from the moment he first met

you, he told me so. He’s simply been waiting for you to come of age. And

he’s a wealthy man – he will make a great match, you couldn’t do better for

yourself.’

‘I am to interpret that as a denial, I presume?’

‘Of course you are.’ In the light of her coldness, André realised he could

not afford to be glib. ‘Now you listen to me, Elianne, I am agreeing to this

marriage for your own good. James Durham can offer you a life of privilege

in Australia, a life no prospective suitor from around these parts could

provide. It is your future I am thinking of. Why otherwise would I deprive

myself of my only child? With your mother now gone who will look after

me in my declining years?’

‘A noble sacrifice indeed, Papa,’ her tone remained icy. ‘So no money is

changing hands?’

‘Not one sou, I swear it.’

Elianne knew better than to push the matter any further; her father

would continue to deny a transaction was taking place, and perhaps he

wasn’t even lying. Perhaps no money was changing hands, at least not in

the physical sense. But she wondered just how much of the considerable financial debt he owed James Durham might be dropped upon his

agreement to her marriage.

‘Very well,’ she said with a disdainful shrug, ‘if you are happy for your

daughter to wed such a man, who am I to disobey your wishes? I don’t care

either way personally, but I warn you, you are the one who will bear the

shame.’

For all her disdain, Elianne did care, but she was not about to share the

fact with her father. The truth was she found James Durham attractive,

despite her aversion to his rumoured background. Furthermore, his offer of

marriage held definite appeal, for since the death of her beloved mother,

Beatrice, life on the coconut plantation had become intolerable. These days,

her father kept open house for his raucous drunken gambling companions,

rough men employed by the Compagnie Calédonienne des Nouvelle

Hébrides to oversee the company’s extensive interests in the islands. The

men would invariably stay overnight, and no longer were they

accommodated in the nearby guesthouse as they had been in Beatrice’s

time, if indeed they’d been invited at all. Rather, they would stay in the

main house. A comfortable sprawling bungalow, the main house had a

number of guest rooms, and Elianne was forced to endure the men’s

company at close quarters. She detested the way they ogled her. But she

detested far more the way her father allowed it. Her father actually appeared

proud that his friends lusted after his daughter.

Elianne detested everything about her father, whom she considered the

vilest of ingrates. The reason André Desmarais’s copra plantation had

thrived in previous years had been due to the financial acumen of his astute

English wife and the expertise of his hard-working French overseer, both of

whose efforts had been not only unappreciated, but barely even recognised.

And now, since Beatrice’s death, the ever-loyal Michel Salet was faced with

an ongoing battle to prevent his employer, whom he also considered his

friend, gambling away the last of the company’s profits. Elianne knew her

father to be a liar, a hypocrite and a thief, and much as she would miss her

friends on the plantation and in the small township of Port Vila, James

Durham and Australia offered a welcome escape.

‘It is you who will suffer the humiliation of having married your

daughter off to a blackbirder, Papa,’ she continued, ‘and you know the contempt with which such men are held in society these days, not only in

Vila, but –’

‘James Durham is hardly a blackbirder,’ André interrupted testily,

offended by the term, as she’d intended he should be. ‘James Durham is a

wealthy plantation owner who has recently built his own sugar mill! Good

God, child, a man in his position does not kidnap and enslave island

workers! He employs indentured labour through government-appointed

agents as the law dictates.’

‘But he was a blackbirder, wasn’t he, Papa?’ Determined to have the last

word, Elianne continued to needle her father, experiencing a perverse form

of pleasure in his annoyance. ‘I believe that’s how he came by his fortune,

is it not? Some years ago as a young man –?’

‘He would need to have been a very young man indeed, Elianne.’ Once

again André interrupted his daughter, but this time in a patronising fashion.

‘Considering he is not yet thirty years of age. His wealth, as you very well

know, comes directly from his moneyed English family, who financed his

interests in the colonies.’

‘Yes, so he has told me,’ she replied sceptically, ‘but I have heard other

stories. Pavi Salet says that not so very many years ago the islanders feared

James Durham. Many accept employment from him now, I know, but he

was not always respectable, Papa, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve heard that

as a very young man he was ruthless and brutal and that the islanders lived

in fear of him. They called him “Big Jim”.’

‘Well of course they called him Big Jim, you stupid child,’ André

exploded. Her needling was successfully pushing him towards the limits of

his patience. ‘He’s a big man and they’re simple-minded blacks, what else

would you expect them to call him?!’

‘Pavi was twelve years old when his uncle and others of his family were

taken from Ambrym,’ Elianne continued, unfazed by her father’s outburst.

‘Pavi himself was here at the plantation when it happened, but he told me

that upon a trip home with his mother, his aunties had sworn it was Big Jim

who led the raid on the village.’

‘That’s enough, Elianne!’ The angry light in her father’s eyes warned

her she’d gone too far. ‘You’re speaking of the man you’re about to marry. I

will not have you quote to me the lies you’ve heard from an ignorant

savage.’

But André had in turn angered his daughter.

‘That ignorant savage, as you call him, Papa, happens to be the son of

your good friend, Michel Salet, who –’

‘Who married a savage,’ André snarled, ‘which makes him a black-

lover, and his son a savage just like his mother.’

For the first time in their exchange, Elianne found herself at a loss for

words. Her father and his friends often spoke in a derogatory manner of the

islanders, which she found offensive, for there were many loyal, hard-

working natives employed at the plantation. Over the years, though, she had

become inured to the bigotry that surrounded her. Now, upon hearing Pavi

referred to in such a way, she was shocked.

‘Pavi is my best friend,’ she said after a pause, her expression

bewildered, her tone disbelieving. ‘We grew up together. We shared the

same tutor.’

‘Your mother’s idea.’ André nodded, thankful that he’d made an impact

and finally gained her attention. ‘Beatrice and Michel were always as thick

as thieves. I gave in to her whim and allowed the two of you to be tutored

together, but I should never have let it happen. You can’t let cross-breeds

mix with whites like that; it simply doesn’t work.’

She was looking at him oddly: it was clear she didn’t understand.

‘You’re seventeen years old, ma petite,’ he explained, ‘you cannot mingle

with the blacks the way you did as a child. They’re an inferior race, you

must understand that,’ he smiled as if to soften the blow, ‘even one who is

the son of a Frenchman.’

‘A Frenchman who is your friend,’ she said, still with an air of

bewilderment.

‘That is so,’ he agreed, ‘but friendship does not alter the fact that his son

is black.’

André had never once considered Michel Salet his friend. He’d

employed the man because of his expertise in the production of copra, and

he’d allowed the semblance of a friendship to develop, but how could one

claim as a friend a man who’d married a black? Michel had debased

himself. Sleeping with native women was perfectly acceptable, even

keeping a black mistress was not frowned upon, but one did not marry them

and raise their children as white.

‘I have nothing against Pavi,’ he assured her. ‘My God, the boy has such

a way with horses I don’t know what I’d do without him. He knows his

place, what’s more. Despite his education, he’s made no attempt to rise

above his station and of even greater importance he’s chosen to marry one

of his own kind.’ André’s smile was magnanimous. ‘I hope he and Mela

find great happiness in their union.’ André Desmarais very much approved

of young Pavi’s engagement to his housemaid. It would prevent further

cross-breeding.

Interpreting his daughter’s silence as submission, and relieved their

argument was over, he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘Just think,

Elianne, you will be eighteen in the New Year. In little more than one

month, ma petite, you will be eighteen, and then you will be married. Just

think of that. How your life will change.’

‘Yes, Papa, it will.’ Now more than ever, Elianne longed for that

change.

Upon leaving her father, she went directly to her room, where she

donned a practical straw bonnet, tying the ribbon securely beneath her chin.

She relied solely upon bonnets for protection from the sun, preferring to

walk without the impediment of a parasol. Then exchanging her light satin

slippers for her walking boots, she set off to find Pavi.

She checked the stables first. Pavi’s natural way with animals had seen

him recently promoted to stable manager and as such he was indispensable

to her father. He wasn’t there, however, so she set off through the

plantation, knowing where he was most likely to be.

As she strode along one of the many avenues that led through the

endless rows of coconut trees, the heavy cotton fabric of her ankle-length

skirt swished busily against the undergrowth. For practical purposes she

eschewed the bustle, which remained the fashion of the day, but the neatly

nipped-in waist of her skirt and the fullness of her petticoats only served to

accentuate the elegance of her figure.

She kept up a comfortable pace; she enjoyed walking. High above her,

the leaves of the palms billowed like green explosions against the clearest

of blue skies, but she knew that the weather might well become

unpredictable. The day was blisteringly hot and still now, but this was

December and a tropical storm could sweep in with little warning.

The processing area, towards the western perimeter of the plantation,

was a twenty-minute walk from the house, and as she stepped out from the

trees and into the clearing she saw Pavi at the drying racks. He was working

alongside his father as she’d expected he would be. A number of native

workers were squatting on the ground preparing the coconuts, some

clearing away the husk, others cleaving the nuts in half on chopping blocks

and draining them of their liquid. Michel and Pavi were spreading the

halved coconuts out on the racks, meat side up, to dry in the sun, while

beneath the structure nearby several other workers were tending the kilns.

For the drying process, which was essential in the production of copra,

Michel Salet chose to employ a mixture of both methods, invariably

achieving the perfect balance.

Father and son greeted her upon approach, and a number of the workers

gave her a wave.

‘Bonjour mam’selle,’ some said, or, ‘‘allo missy,’ in the local Pidgin

English. Elianne was popular with the workers.

‘Are we safe with the weather, Michel?’ she asked, gesturing at the

coconuts laid out on the racks.

‘Yes, quite safe,’ he assured her, ‘until tomorrow afternoon I would say.

We will transfer them to the kilns then, just to be sure.’ Among his many

other talents, Michel Salet was a walking barometer.

‘May I borrow your son for half an hour?’

‘Of course you may, Elianne.’ Michel smiled and turned to his son.

‘Take your time, Pavi, we have plenty of workers.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

Pavi, who had been working bare-chested, donned his shirt as a measure

of respect for Elianne and they set off through the trees. Like many of

mixed race, he was a good-looking young man, olive-skinned and fine-

featured.

They walked for ten minutes through the rows of coconut palms to the

edge of the plantation, where they emerged from the trees into a rocky

clearing. Here the land sloped down to the valley, and in the distance

beyond the lush tropical vegetation was the blue of the sea. It was a

favourite place of theirs.

They sat on the rocks and looked out at the view. They hadn’t spoken as

they’d walked: there’d been no need. They were comfortable with silence. Sometimes they would gaze at the view without saying a word, other times

they would ignore its beauty altogether and talk non-stop. The two were

very much at ease in each other’s company.

Today though was a day for talking, and it was Elianne who broke the

silence. She couldn’t wait to tell him her news. ‘You’re not the only one

about to be married, Pavi,’ she said.

Pavi stared at her in surprise. He’d not known that Elianne was being

courted. He had courted Mela for a whole eight months before they’d

announced their betrothal. They’d been just seventeen. Now eighteen and

lovers, they both yearned to be wed so that their trysts need no longer be

conducted in secret.

‘You’re to be married,’ he said, ‘really?’

‘Yes, really,’ she said.

She launched into her story, his eyes growing wider and wider with

surprise as she recounted the exchange that had occurred between her and

her father.

‘You declared James Durham a blackbirder,’ Pavi winced comically,

‘that was perhaps not a wise thing to do.’

‘I know,’ she admitted. ‘I hope I haven’t caused trouble for you, telling

Papa about your aunties and Big Jim.’

Pavi shrugged. ‘He’ll just think it’s the gossip of silly black women.’

Although Elianne had omitted any mention of her father’s comments about

‘ignorant savages’ Pavi was fully aware of André Desmarais’s contempt for

the islanders.

‘On the contrary, I had the distinct impression that it came as no great

surprise. Papa was angered and denied any truth to the rumour of course,

but he knows there’s something questionable in James Durham’s past, I can

tell. He protested a little too vehemently.’

‘How do you feel about this marriage, Elianne?’ Pavi eyed her keenly.

Her happiness was all that mattered.

She searched for a truthful answer. ‘I will be sad to leave Efate, and sad

to leave you, Pavi, but I will not be sad to leave Papa.’

‘And James Durham? The man himself, how do you feel about him?’

Again she answered truthfully. ‘I have to admit that, despite the

rumours, I have always found him to be charming.’

She is attracted to him, Pavi thought. I can see it in her eyes. She could

love this man. ‘Then do not listen to the rumours,’ he said, ‘they may well

be hearsay. And even if they are not, James Durham would have been very

young in those days and obeying orders from others. Men change with

time.’

She smiled gratefully, feeling somehow absolved of a crime she had not

yet committed. ‘I shall miss you so, Pavi.’

‘And I you. But we have left our childhood behind, Elianne. It is time to

move on.’

James Durham arrived in Port Vila three weeks later. André picked him

up at the docks in a horse and trap and transported him to the plantation. His

visits as a rule were of only two or three days’ duration, but this time he

planned to stay for a full fortnight while preparations were made for the

wedding. It was his intention that these two weeks should serve as an

opportunity to become better acquainted with his future wife, and she with

him. He had informed the Frenchman that he would not stay in one of the

guest rooms at the main house as he usually did, for propriety demanded he

should not sleep under the same roof as his fiancée. Instead he would reside

at the modest guesthouse a quarter mile away. Upon his further instruction

the guesthouse, which was normally reserved for those visitors considered

of secondary importance, was to be freshly refurbished as that was where he

and his wife would spend their wedding night. James himself would pay for

the costs incurred.

All of these arrangements had been set in place during his trip to Efate a

good month previously, when the two men had come to their arrangement.

The debt that André Desmarais had accrued over the past two years, a debt

which could have crippled him had James chosen to demand immediate

payment in full, was to be cancelled upon the marriage agreement.

‘Do you think she will accept me?’ James had asked.

A giant of a man, with a build that matched the six feet four inches of

his height and a nature that appeared fearless, James Durham had seemed

curiously unsure of himself.

‘Hah! Why should you doubt it?’ The Frenchman had scorned the very

notion. ‘What woman of sound mind could possibly refuse the life of

privilege you offer?’

‘But perhaps she would not welcome me as a husband. Perhaps she

thinks me too old – I am more than a decade her senior.’

‘An excellent age difference in a marriage,’ André had assured him,

‘and you’re wrong, my young friend. She likes you very much.’ Then he’d

added suggestively, ‘I’ve seen the twinkle in her eye when she’s in your

company, believe me I have.’ André had seen no such thing, but then he

hadn’t been looking. James Durham’s offer, welcome and timely as it was,

had been completely unexpected. ‘In fact I get the distinct impression that

she may be in love with you.’

James had known the man was lying, but he’d left Efate praying the old

rogue would prove right and that Elianne would accept him. He’d been

besotted with the girl from the instant he’d met her, a green-eyed beauty of

fifteen, blossoming on the threshold of womanhood. He’d vowed then and

there to make her his wife, and he’d been quite content to wait until she was

of age. The wait had in fact proved convenient. It had allowed him time to

steadily embroil her father in debt, which had not been difficult given the

Frenchman’s propensity for gambling and his careless ineptitude under the

influence of alcohol. James himself could drink any man under the table,

not that he ever tried, for he had no wish to best others in such a common

pursuit, but many a wager and many a card game had been won taking

advantage of those who could not hold their liquor. André Desmarais had

been easy game. The only possible obstacle to James’s plans had been

Elianne herself. Would she have him?

She would, as it turned out. And now James Durham had arrived in

Efate triumphant and ready to claim his bride. But he would do so properly;

all must be in order. He had determined to court his fiancée and put her at

her ease. She would no doubt be nervous at the prospect of marriage to a

man she barely knew, and the thought of life in a foreign land must surely

be daunting.

‘Would you care to walk with me, Elianne?’ he asked as Mela cleared

the teacups from the sitting-room table.

‘Yes, James, but not just in the garden. May we go further afield this

morning?’ He’d been at the plantation for two days now and both mornings

they’d promenaded about the front garden.

The garden, which had once been Beatrice’s pride and joy but had

become overgrown and jungle-like since her death, was now returned to its former glory in preparation for the wedding. The small central fountain

bubbled again, the vines of the arbour were neatly trimmed, and hibiscus,

frangipani and jasmine blossoms provided both colour and fragrance.

Elianne loved the garden’s resurrection, but she found the exercise of

promenading around its paths in a pretty bonnet with matching parasol most

unsatisfactory. Furthermore, the conversation she and James had shared as

they’d walked had been as mundane as that conducted over the dining table

at meal times. She appreciated his show of propriety, but she was becoming

bored.

‘Of course we may go further afield,’ he agreed, ‘if that is what you

wish. Where would you suggest?’

‘I’ll show you. Please wait here while I change into my walking boots.’

In her bedroom, she conceded an attractive feathered bonnet that matched

the powder-blue of her day dress, but she did not take a parasol. This was to

be a proper walk.

They strode out together, along the track and into the plantation, Elianne

dictating the pace. He had thought there would be need to severely restrict

his stride, but there was not. He towered over her, certainly, but she was

well above average height, long-legged and healthy like a thoroughbred

mare; he loved the way she moved.

He cast a covert glance at her as on and on they marched. She seemed

tireless, the swish of her petticoats emphasising the athleticism of her legs

beneath the pretty pastel skirt. They’d been travelling apace for a good

twenty minutes now and she was not in the least out of breath. The fact

pleased James immensely. Not only was she beautiful, she was strong and

fit. She would bear him fine children.

Elianne took him to the special place she and Pavi shared overlooking

the valley and the sea. She did not consider her choice disloyal. There were

many beautiful vantage points she could have taken him to, but she’d

deliberately chosen this one because it imbued her with a sense of power.

She wanted to know the man she was to marry.

‘I come here often with my best friend,’ she said as they settled

themselves on the rocks.

‘Oh yes? And who is that?’ He didn’t even look at the view. The view

held no interest for him.

‘His name is Pavi. Pavi Salet.’

She studied his face, a strong face, albeit a little on the stern side, she

thought. Granite-jawed and steely-eyed, he looked older than he was, more

like a man in his mid-thirties, but she found him rather handsome

nonetheless. She particularly liked the fact that, apart from his healthy

moustache, he was clean shaven. Her father’s friends were all bearded, and

although she was aware that beards were quite the fashion of the day, she

had come to associate them with rough men.

‘Pavi Salet,’ he said. ‘Michel’s son?’ James was well acquainted with

André’s overseer. Michel had dined with them at the main house only the

previous night, as he had done many times during James’s past visits.

‘Yes, that’s right. Have you never wondered why Michel’s wife and son

are not invited to dine?’

‘I must confess I hadn’t really given the matter much thought.’ Was it

her intention to be provocative? Of course he knew why the man’s wife and

son were not invited.

‘Michel’s wife is black,’ she said ‘which means that Pavi is a half-

caste.’

‘I see.’ He kept his response enigmatic in case she thought he hadn’t

known that, but he was bewildered. Where exactly is this leading? he

wondered.

‘Papa despises black people, even his own loyal workers. He

disapproves of my friendship with Pavi.’

Ah, perhaps that’s it, he thought, perhaps she’s testing me. He had no

particular antipathy towards the blacks himself, so long as they put in an

honest day’s work. His relationship with those he employed at his plantation

in Australia was in fact excellent: he looked after them well and they

worked hard in return.

‘I am of the firm belief,’ he said, ‘that a person’s choice of friend is no

one’s business but his own.’ He knew instantly by her reaction that it had

been the right response, so he went one step further. ‘Indeed I have many

friends amongst the Kanakas I employ at Durham Estate.’ He said it

without a qualm, for despite a degree of exaggeration it was not altogether a

lie.

His easy manner inclined her to believe him, although as always the

mention of ‘Kanakas’ grated a little. She knew that the term had been in

general usage for many years by plantation owners and blackbirders who preferred a common label for all island labourers. And yet Pavi had told her

the word ‘kanaka’ simply meant ‘man’ in the Hawaiian language. He

considered its general use demeaning, and Elianne agreed, particularly as

the term had now been adopted by the colonial authorities. ‘Kanaka’ had

become official parlance among government regulators and agents

responsible for contracting labourers from many different regions in the

Pacific. It was ignorant and patronising, she thought, they should have

known better.

She did not broach the subject, however. What would be the point?

Besides, she was enjoying her conversation with James Durham. So much

so that she decided to take a very bold step.

‘I’ve heard that the islanders call you Big Jim,’ she said.

‘That’s right.’ How can she possibly know that? he wondered, ‘all my

Kanaka workers call me Big Jim; it’s a term of respect.’

‘No, I don’t mean your workers; I mean the local islanders, here in the

New Hebrides. I’ve heard you’re known to many as Big Jim.’

‘You’ve heard that? Have you really?’ She is being unashamedly

provocative now – how very interesting, he thought. ‘Ah well,’ he said with

a nonchalant shrug, ‘word does tend to get around. Many of my Kanakas

come from this region.’

Was he being deliberately mysterious? He certainly wasn’t giving

anything away, but then she had hardly expected that he would. ‘So you

consider the nickname flattering?’

James saw in the green eyes that were boldly appraising him something

beyond their obvious challenge, something mischievous. She’s flirting with

me, he thought, she’s playing a game.

‘Yes, I consider the nickname very flattering,’ he replied. ‘In fact I’ve

embraced it wholeheartedly. At home, everyone calls me Big Jim.’

‘Am I to call you Big Jim?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He was enjoying her flirtatiousness. Women did not flirt with men

unless they found them attractive and he wanted her to find him attractive.

But he did not join in the game. He did not play games. ‘You are to call me

Jim.’

‘Very well, Jim.’ Elianne smiled, her eyes not once leaving his. She was

aware she was flirting. She had never before flirted and she didn’t know

why she was doing it. She didn’t even know exactly what it was she was flirting with. Was it the man himself, or was it the danger he represented?

She seemed somehow to be daring herself. ‘And what will you call me?’

she asked.

‘What would you like me to call you?’

‘I don’t know.’ For a moment her bravado appeared to desert her. ‘I

have had only one nickname in the whole of my life.’

‘And what was that?’

‘My mother called me Ellie.’

She looked away, but not before he’d seen the sudden flash of

vulnerability. In that instant, she had looked so very young, so very young

and so very defenceless.

‘Then I shall call you Ellie, if you will allow me.’

But she said nothing. She simply remained staring at the ground, and he

didn’t know how to interpret her reaction. Was it acquiescence, he

wondered, or did she consider his suggestion the height of impertinence?

He reached out and took her hand. ‘I will care for you, Elianne. You are

mine now. You will be safe with me always, I promise.’

She looked up, her eyes once again meeting his, the vulnerability gone

and replaced by something else.

‘May I call you Ellie?’ he asked.

‘You may.’ She liked the feel of his hand, the strength of it, and the way

he said ‘Ellie’ with such a proprietary air. He was one of those masterful

men, she thought in a sudden flight of romantic fancy, one of those heroes

from the novels that she and her mother had so eagerly devoured. He was

dangerous and mysterious and commanding all in one, he was Darcy and

Heathcliff and Rochester, and she desperately wished that he would kiss

her.

James recognised her youthful longing. I could have her, he thought.

Innocent as she is, I could have her right here and now if I wished, she’s

mine for the taking. The prospect aroused him immensely and he was sorely

tempted. But he resisted the urge. To succumb to such a desire would be to

deprive them both of their future, for he could not marry soiled goods, even

his own soiled goods. She will come to me intact on our wedding night, he

told himself, my perfect bride, my Ellie. He released her hand.

‘It’s time to go,’ he said and he stood.

She stared up at him, his abruptness taking her by surprise.

‘Ellie?’ He offered his hand once again, but this time only in order to

assist her to her feet. When she was standing beside him, he relinquished

his grasp, which rather disappointed her.

During their walk back to the main house, Elianne pondered the strength

of her attraction to James Durham. Was it just girlish fantasy inspired by the

romantic novels she’d read, was it really that simple? Or had she perhaps

been affected by the stories she’d heard of Big Jim and the fear he instilled

in others? Whatever the reason, she was certainly drawn to the man, and it

seemed the danger she sensed in him was the principal attraction. But was

that too, she wondered, merely a figment of her imagination?

She found out five days later that it was not.

André Desmarais had returned from Port Vila late that afternoon with

two of his friends in tow. Bored with the niceties of the past week, he was

looking forward to a night of cards and presumed that James Durham, a

keen poker player, would join them at the table.

The men had had several mugs of rum in town, and André ordered his

young maidservant, Mela, to fetch a fresh bottle and glasses. They’d have a

few more drinks, he said, and then dine early before devoting the rest of the

night to poker.

‘Bring some bread and cheese too,’ he shouted after Mela as she left the

room.

James and Elianne were out walking. They walked twice a day now,

favouring the early morning and the late afternoon in order to avoid the

midday heat. Sometimes they strode vigorously through the plantation,

enjoying the exercise, and sometimes they ambled along holding hands and

talking. Elianne would speak of her past, of her mother and her childhood,

all of which James found most interesting, but his own past never featured

in their conversation. There was never any mention of his ‘moneyed

English family’, which led her to believe they were perhaps, as she had

suspected they might be, a fabrication. When James spoke, it was always of

the future and the wonderful life they would share on the plantation.

‘I shall build you the grandest house, Ellie,’ he would say. ‘The mistress

of Durham Estate must have the very best. We shall call it “Elianne

House”.’

This afternoon he had gone even further. He planned to build a

community hall for his workers and their children, he’d told her, a hall where they could socialise and feel part of a giant family, and he would call

it Elianne Hall. Then the idea had occurred. ‘We shall call the whole estate

“Elianne”,’ he’d declared with passion. ‘In honour of my wife, in honour of

you, Ellie, the house, the hall, the mill, the plantation: all will be known as

“Elianne”.’

She’d laughed. She hadn’t believed him for one moment, but his

enthusiasm was disarming, boyish even. James had laughed along with her,

glad to see her happy. But he’d meant every word he’d said. He would build

an empire, and she would be his empress. James was delighted with the

courtship. Things were proceeding perfectly.

It was approaching dusk when they returned home, by which time

André and his friends had downed several more glasses of rum and were in

a mood to make merry.

James heard them from the front verandah. I know those voices, he

thought. Then, opening the door, he and Elianne stepped into the main

living room, where the men were gathered at the central table.

‘James, come in, come in.’ André, whose back was to the door, had

noted his friends’ glances and turned to wave a beckoning arm, ‘we’ve been

waiting for you,’ and he added to the others, ‘we could play a few hands

before dinner, what do you say?’

The other two clearly thought it an excellent idea. They called a

greeting to James, and one of them said, ‘Come join us, mon ami.’

Yves and Alain, James thought, of course I know them: scum who

worked for the Compagnie Calédonienne des Nouvelle Hébrides. He’d

played many a poker game with them over the past two years, on several

occasions even in this very house. But they had no right to be here now.

Already he could see the way they were looking at Elianne – he’d seen it

before, how they gloated over her body, undressing her with their eyes.

Filthy pigs, he thought. No one looked at his future wife in that manner.

James wanted to kill them.

‘Go to your room, Ellie,’ he muttered; and leaving the door open behind

him, he crossed to the table.

Elianne moved off towards the arch that led to the east wing of the

bungalow, but she did not go to her room: she stayed to watch the

proceedings.

André rose and pulled another chair up beside his. Drunk though he

was, he adopted a façade of courtesy and waited for James to sit, but he was

ignored. Instead, James stood glaring across the table at the two Frenchmen.

Thickset, with rough beards and ill-kempt, matted hair, they wore open-

neck shirts and scarves knotted at their throats. They looked like the thugs

he knew them to be.

‘In passing the stables on my walk, I noticed no strange horses or drays

there,’ he said coldly. ‘How do you intend to return to Vila?’

‘I shall drive them back in the morning, James.’ André was drunker than

his friends and had failed to read the warning signs, but Yves and Alain

were fully aware of the Englishman’s hostility. They couldn’t fathom the

reason for it, however, and exchanged mystified shrugs.

James turned to André. ‘And where exactly do you plan they should

stay the night?’ he demanded, although he already knew the answer.

‘Oh, you need have no fear,’ André said with a laugh, ‘they shall not

impose themselves upon you. The guesthouse is yours, my friend, as we

agreed.’

‘That does not answer my question. Where do you intend they stay?’

André finally registered that something was not quite right. ‘Why, here

of course,’ he replied, puzzled, ‘here in my house. They are my guests.’

‘They will not stay in this house,’ James said. ‘They will not stay under

the same roof as my future wife.’

‘Ah.’ André was befuddled. Did James mean that Yves and Alain

should stay with him at the guesthouse? If so, what a surprising suggestion;

it was the last thing he would have expected. What in God’s name am I to

do? he asked himself. He could not afford to offend his benefactor and

future son-in-law, but surely he must make some sort of stand. He was

master in his own home, and these were his guests after all. He started to

dither.

‘Well, perhaps when we have dined and played cards –’

‘These men will not dine with my fiancée,’ James gazed directly at Yves

and Alain, ‘these men will leave this house now.’

Yves, the bigger of the two, held his hands out in a gesture of innocence;

he was genuinely bewildered. ‘Why is you anger, mon ami?’ he said, ‘what

is we do?’ Beside him, Alain nodded. Yves was always the spokesman;

Alain’s English was not good.

‘I am not your ami,’ James replied tersely, ‘and you will do as I say. You

will leave right now.’

‘But James.’ André felt he really must say something by way of protest.

‘This is my house. These men are my guests –’

‘And they are leaving.’

Yves stood. He was a big man. Not as big as James, but, sturdily built

and handy with his fists, he took orders from no one. He did not like the

Englishman’s tone.

‘This house is not your house,’ he said. ‘You hear what André say. This

house is his house, and we is his guests. You do not tell us we go.’

‘Yes I do. You will go now or I will throw you out.’

Yves gave a bark of laughter and glanced down at Alain, who rose to

stand beside him. Together they confronted the Englishman.

‘We is two, mon ami,’ Yves sneered, ‘you is one.’

James made no reply, but, taking a hold of the heavy wooden table that

separated them he flung it aside with ease, two of the chairs crashing to the

floor. Then he grasped the scarf that was knotted at the Frenchman’s throat

and before Yves knew it he was being barrelled towards the open door.

Caught by surprise and off balance, the Frenchman would have been

hurled out on to the verandah, but as James released him he managed to

grasp a hold of the doorframe, where he steadied himself and turned,

prepared to do battle.

In that instant, Alain charged. He sprang onto James’s back, clinging

like a monkey with his legs wrapped around the Englishman’s waist and

one arm about his neck in a choker hold.

James reached up behind and, grasping fistfuls of the man’s hair, he

bent forwards in one swift movement, hauling Alain over his head and

slamming him down on the floor in front of him.

Alain lay on his back, winded and wondering how he’d got there. He

gazed in bewilderment at the Englishman towering high above him. It was

the last thing he saw before James’s boot found its mark. The sound of his

skull cracking was clearly audible.

Yves looked down at his dead friend, at the eyeballs that stared up in

such wide, comic surprise. He too was astounded. Alain was dead, and in

only a matter of seconds.

The fight having left him, the Frenchman would have gone peacefully,

but it appeared he was not going to get off so easily. Even as he looked up

from the body to the Englishman a fist slammed into his face, breaking his

jaw.

He started to slide down the doorframe, but hands grasped him around

the throat, holding him up, taking his entire body weight as fingers of steel

began steadily to throttle him. He struggled to prise the fingers free, but

their grip was vicelike. He struck out at his assailant, landing blows to the

body, but the blows were meaningless: he could have been punching the air.

Yves looked into the eyes of the Englishman. They were cold,

emotionless. The Englishman was killing him effortlessly and without a

qualm.

Both André and Elianne had been struck dumb by the speed of the

events. They’d remained frozen where they stood, barely able to believe

their eyes. Now galvanised into action, they begged James to stop.

‘No more, James, no more, I beseech you,’ André pleaded, desperate

and terrified. ‘Non, non, oh mon Dieu. No more. No more, I beg you.’

‘Stop it,’ Elianne called out. ‘Leave the man be, Jim, leave him be.’

It was the sound of her voice that brought Big Jim to a halt. He hadn’t

known she was still in the room.

He released his grip, but as the Frenchman once again started to slide

down the doorframe, he held him up by his neck scarf like a rag doll, and

Yves, already gasping for breath, was forced to remain on his feet or risk

being choked to death.

James leant his face close to the Frenchman’s. ‘Do you want to live?’ he

asked quietly.

Hauling the air back into his lungs, his shattered jaw a bloody mess,

Yves was unable to talk. He nodded.

‘Then I shall tell you what you will do. André will drive you and your

friend back to the outskirts of town where he will leave you both. You will

then have the option of inventing some accident that befell your friend or, if

you prefer, you can simply leave him to be discovered tomorrow morning.

The choice is yours.’ James knew only too well the choice the Frenchman

would make. Yves would have no wish to be embroiled with the law. He

would leave his dead friend on the roadside. There was no honour among

men such as these. ‘Are you happy with that arrangement?’

Yves nodded.

James released his hold on the man’s neckerchief. ‘André, fetch a horse

and dray,’ he ordered. ‘Ellie, go to your room.’

Both obeyed instantly.

The following morning, no mention was made of the incident. It was as

if it had never happened.

Elianne’s eighteenth birthday came and went with little fanfare, for the

main celebratory event was to take place two days later, when she and

James Durham were to be wed by the Reverend Pidd.

The Reverend Pidd had had a long-time connection with the Desmarais

family, particularly Elianne’s mother. A staunch follower of the Scottish

missionary, John Gibson Paton, Raymond Pidd had been a regular visitor to

the plantation during Beatrice’s time, no doubt believing his presence

served some significant religious purpose, although Elianne rather doubted

that it did. She strongly suspected Beatrice encouraged the Reverend’s visits

as a welcome excuse to socialise at close quarters with a fellow

countryman, the majority of her husband’s friends being French.

The marriage took place in the garden, the ceremony conducted beneath

the arbour while the twenty or so guests congregated about the small central

fountain – an intimate affair, as planned, in a picturesque setting.

Elianne looked out at the gathering, pleased to see the faces she knew,

and most particularly pleased by the mixture of brown and white. None of

her father’s riff-raff gambling companions were present and alongside the

several English and French expatriates, businessmen and their wives whom

she and her mother had befriended over the years were a number of

islanders and their children. These included the house servants, with whom

Elianne was extremely close, several of the senior workers whom she

considered her friends, and of course Pavi Salet and his family.

André had raised no objection when his daughter had expressed a wish

that her islander friends should be present. He hadn’t dared, for Elianne had

had James’s support.

‘Whatever you wish, my love,’ James had said. ‘A wedding day belongs

to the bride. Do you not agree, André?’

‘Yes, yes, indeed I do.’ André would have agreed to anything James

Durham said. The man put the fear of God into him.

André Desmarais was still haunted by that night. He hadn’t arrived back

at the bungalow until four o’clock in the morning after dumping the body

by the roadside and watching briefly as Yves skulked off into the darkness.

He’d been living in dread of discovery ever since. The sooner the

Englishman left Efate the better.

As the Reverend Pidd read out the vows, Elianne couldn’t resist stealing

an occasional glance at Pavi, who was standing to one side directly in her

line of vision. He was with his father and mother and his little sister,

twelve-year-old Simone. His fiancée, Mela, was beside him, and they had

their arms about each other’s waists. When Elianne first glanced at him,

Pavi did not catch her eye – he and Mela were too absorbed in each other.

But from the looks the two exchanged it was plain that neither was

inattentive to the ceremony. Every word of the vows held a special meaning

for Pavi and Mela, who were to be married themselves in barely a fortnight.

How in love they are, Elianne thought, how perfectly in love.

Then, as she repeated her own vows, she looked up into the eyes of the

man she was marrying. Soon I will have a love like Pavi and Mela’s, she

thought. She was glad to be married to such a man as Jim Durham,

regardless of the rumours that surrounded him, regardless even of the

brutality she had witnessed. He excited her. She wanted to be his. And he

loved her; she could feel it. Her glance darted once again to Pavi and this

time their eyes met. He smiled and beside him, so did Mela. They were

happy for her.

The Reverend Pidd made the pronouncement, Elianne heard the words

‘man and wife’, and as the gathering applauded, James Durham kissed her.

The reception was informal, guests milling about the garden and the

front verandah where a lavish buffet was provided. James had spared no

expense, importing the finest champagne and gourmet fare.

It was now that the schism between black and white became truly

evident. The house servants returned to their duty, serving drinks at the

buffet table, clearing away plates and fetching fresh ones, while the

expatriate and other islander guests kept very much to the company of their

own kind. That is with the exception of Michel Salet and the Reverend

Pidd, both of whom mingled freely, particularly the Reverend. He always

delighted in socialising with converted islanders, whom he considered a

part of the giant Christian family personally bound by God’s love.

The one who mingled with the greatest of ease, however, was Elianne,

who insisted upon serving her guests. Standing beside Mela at the drinks

table, exquisite in her lace bridal gown, Elianne poured champagne for the

expatriates and fruit juice for the islanders, none of whom drank alcohol.

She chatted away in English and French and shared a joke in Pidgin with

several of the islander children. People were drawn to her, comfortable in

her presence, unaware that they were gradually mingling with those who

belonged to a different social stratum altogether.

James watched his new wife with pride. He was mesmerised, unable to

drag his eyes from her. Beside him, someone was offering congratulations,

but he paid them no heed and he or she drifted away. She is magnificent, he

thought. She is magnificent and she is mine. Look how they love her, every

single one of them. That is how they will love her at the plantation. I have

found my perfect queen.

Elianne felt his gaze and, turning to him, she saw clearly the naked

pride and elation, which he made no attempt to disguise. Instead, he raised

his glass in a tribute to her. The smile she returned him was radiant.

The wedding festivities did not last into the night. With the need to

travel either back to Port Vila or to their neighbouring properties some

distance away, the expatriates were keen to leave while there was still

daylight for at least part of their homewards journey, and those who lived

on the plantation, aware of a sense of propriety, slowly drifted back to their

cottages.

It was approaching dusk as the last farewells were made by Michel Salet

and his family. Michel shook James’s hand and embraced Elianne, wishing

them both a long and happy life together. The couple were to be leaving

early in the morning, André driving them into Port Vila where they would

board the ship bound for Bundaberg.

Michel’s wife, Sera, a shy woman at the best of times, stood behind her

husband, bobbing a form of curtsy to James, whom she obviously found

daunting, and nodding her best wishes to Elianne.

Elianne, however, was not prepared to let Sera, of whom she was

extremely fond, go unrecognised. She hugged her warmly, Sera returning

the hug. Then Elianne hugged young Simone, and then Mela, and then

finally Pavi.

André cast a wary glance in James’s direction, wondering how the

Englishman felt about his new wife embracing blacks in so unashamed a

fashion. But it appeared the Englishman had no qualms whatsoever. In fact

to André’s utter surprise, the Englishman offered his hand to Pavi Salet.

‘Congratulations on your own forthcoming nuptials,’ James said as they

shook hands, ‘I wish you both every happiness,’ and he smiled at Mela.

‘Thank you, sir.’

James stood to one side while Elianne and Pavi exchanged faithful

promises to write to one another. Then he waited patiently while Elianne

comforted young Simone, who had become suddenly tearful at the prospect

of missing her. James was in no hurry. It would not be seemly to bed his

new wife during daylight hours anyway.

Darkness was falling when the bride and groom finally retired to the

guesthouse, which had been prepared for them. The oil lamps had been lit

and, beneath mosquito netting, a cold supper had been set out on the table.

James swept her up into his arms and carried her over the threshold as if

she weighed no more than a feather, and Elianne laughed with delight at the

sheer romance of the gesture.

By unspoken mutual consent, they ignored the supper, Elianne retiring

to the spare room where her nightgown and toiletries had been laid out.

There was also freshly folded bed linen and a second nightgown, together

with a pitcher of warm water and a basin on the wash-stand. All was in

readiness. Nothing had been overlooked by André’s highly practical

housekeeper, who served also as midwife to the local workers’ families.

In the master bedroom, James stripped himself naked. Then he dimmed

the lamps to a minimal glow, pulled the light coverlet over himself and lay

waiting for her.

Elianne prepared herself. She was not afraid. She longed for James to

make love to her. She longed to discover the mystery of sex. But despite her

partiality for romance, she was not naïve in her expectations. She had been

witness to the brutality of both sex and birth, she had seen animals mating

and she had helped deliver calves, she did not delude herself. There would

be pain this first time, she knew it, but she had determined she would not

cry out.

In her nightgown, her body washed and perfumed, her hair freshly

brushed, she crossed the hallway to the master bedroom opposite. She was aware of his eyes upon her as in the semi-gloom of the room she made her

way to the bed. She slipped beneath the coverlet. Aware instantly that his

body was ready for her, she steeled herself for the moment, expecting first

to feel the touch of his lips on hers or the caress of his fingers on her body,

something tender by way of preparation. But there was no such touch, no

such caress. Instead, hands hauled up her nightdress and within seconds he

was forcing his way into her.

The pain was intense. With each thrust she felt she was being ripped

apart, but true to the promise she had made to herself, she did not cry out.

How long it lasted, Elianne could not possibly say, but finally,

thankfully, it was over and he pulled away from her, sated, to lie on his

back, his chest still heaving from the force of his own passion.

When he’d regained his breath, he turned to face her. ‘I am sorry that I

hurt you,’ he said. ‘You’re a brave girl, Ellie, not to cry out.’

‘I had expected pain,’ she said, trying hard not to show her

disappointment, and wondering if perhaps this had been a deliberate test of

her strength. ‘My mother had warned me that the first time is painful.’ She

rose from the bed. ‘I must wash myself and fetch fresh linen.’

She went into the spare room where she stripped off her bloodied

nightgown. It will be better next time, she told herself as she poured water

into the basin and washed the blood from her body.

Behind her across the hallway, she saw through the slit in the door that

the lamps of the master bedroom had been turned up.

She donned the fresh nightgown and returned to discover him standing

naked by the bed looking down at the bloodstained linen, and in that

moment he appeared to Elianne like a victor after a kill. Where is the

tenderness? she wondered. There is no tenderness. There is only triumph.

Then his hands were about her waist and she felt herself lifted off her

feet.

‘Oh Ellie,’ he said, ‘oh my own Ellie, how I shall love you!’ He held her

up before him like a goddess. ‘What a life we shall have, my dearest.’

Yes, she decided, he had been testing her strength. He loved her. He

worshipped her. It will be better next time, she told herself.

 

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