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.