the sun-bleached hairs on his arm. ‘Oh—I’m sorry,’ she said, realising she was being abominably cruel to someone who had always treated her with tenderness and affection. ‘I don’t mean to be bitchy, but you rubbed me up the wrong way. Just don’t judge Morgan so harshly. He’s only earning his salary.’
‘You sound as if you’re attracted to the man,’ muttered Stephen grudgingly, his eyes moving possessively over the honey-gold skin exposed by her button-through poplin tunic. ‘Since when did you call him by his first name? You always used to refer to him as Mr Kane.’
Holly had hardly been aware she had said Morgan, and now she found her own colour deepening. ‘I mean—Morgan Kane, of course,’ she said shortly, turning her attention to the contents of her holdall. ‘Look, I really ought to be getting these things sorted out. The children are starting to arrive.’
Sure enough, a handful of boys and girls had already gathered in the playground, and Stephen regarded their presence with some impatience. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I realise we haven’t got time to talk now, but in spite of everything, I want you to know I meant what I said.’
Holly stacked a pile of exercise books on the desk. ‘Steve——’
‘I mean it.’ His hands clenched and she knew that, were their conversation not being monitored by a dozen pairs of dark eyes, he would have been more forceful. ‘No matter how amusing it might seem to you, I do care about you, Holly. I wasn’t just—making a pass, when I drove you home the other evening. All right, maybe my father did have something to do with my marrying Verity, but I did think I loved her then. It was only when you came back to the island—when I saw you again——’
‘What’s going on in here?’
To Holly’s relief, Stephen’s impassioned outburst was stemmed by the arrival of a third party. Paul Bergerac was another of the teachers at the school, an ex-pupil himself, who had continued his education in the United States and returned to the island a year ago to join the staff. He came into the room now, his dark face alight with curiosity, and Holly had the greatest difficulty in finding a suitable excuse.
‘Oh—Steve and I were just discussing the play,’ she tendered at last into the awkward silence that had fallen. ‘I—er—I’ve made some sketches of the costumes I think we’ll need, and we were wondering whether we’ll be able to find what we need in Charlottesv——’
‘Bullshit!’
Stephen’s angry protest interrupted the explanation she was giving and, while Holly looked aghast at Paul’s grinning face, the other man charged out of the room.
‘Oh, dear!’ Paul was the first to recover himself, and his teasing smile was reassuring. ‘Methinks, the game’s afoot!’ he misquoted, deliberately mixing his lines. ‘Our chief of men has been sent about with a flea in his ear!’
Holly shook her head. ‘It’s no joke, Paul. You don’t understand.’
‘I understand that he’s in love with you—or thinks he is,’ he retorted softly. ‘We all are, you shameless wench!’ He chuckled. ‘So, put us out of our misery: which of us are you going to choose?’
‘Oh, Paul!’ A reluctant smile lifted the anxious corners of her mouth. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Mon plaisir, mademoiselle,’ he responded gallantly, effecting an exaggerated bow. ‘Now, shall we invite the pupils inside or shan’t we? After all that drama, I don’t know if I can keep my mind on something as ordinary as work!’
In spite of Holly’s misgivings over the conversation she had had with Stephen, the morning passed without incident. Her painting lessons with the younger children and more advanced charcoal sketching with the older ones took her up to break, and afterwards two cookery classes completed her schedule. She also helped Hannah Dessai, the sports mistress, with her games instruction, and made preparatory lists of the scenery they would need for the coming production. The school was like that. Although the staff had regular duties, they all took a part in the general running of the establishment. There were no lines of demarcation here. They all wanted to do the best they could for the eighty or so pupils.
To her relief, Stephen did not attempt to speak to her again privately before she left for home. At break, he was his usual friendly self, and she hoped she showed by her attitude that she appreciated his restraint. In all honesty, she had never taken Stephen seriously before. She had treated his overtures of affection with the inconsequence she had thought he expected, and she had been stunned to learn he had taken her remarks to heart. No doubt it was her fault, she sighed. She had initiated his declaration. But his hypocrisy had irritated her, and she had used the only means at her disposal to prick his pompous balloon.
The headmaster, Gerald Frost, caught her just as she was leaving. ‘Oh, Miss Forsyth,’ he said, loping across the car park towards her, his cassock flapping in the breeze. ‘Could I have a word with you? It is rather important.’
‘Of course,’ said Holly, turning from loading her belongings into the buggy. She hoped it was nothing to do with Stephen. It would be terribly embarrassing if he had confided his feelings to someone else.
As well as being in charge of the small school, Reverend Frost was a minister of the Methodist church. A graduate of Trinity College, Oxford, he could have enjoyed a more academic career, but twenty years ago he had come to the island for a holiday and decided to stay. A shy man, he had never married, and his spare, angular figure was a familiar sight in Charlottesville. Paul always said—rather irreverently—that he wore his ecclesiastical robes like an actor wore his costume: because they provided a character he could hide behind.
‘I’m so glad I caught you, Miss Forsyth,’ he said now, panting a little as he came up to her. ‘You’re not in tomorrow, are you? Isn’t it one of your free days?’
‘That’s right.’ Holly nodded, still somewhat apprehensive. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more in the nature of what I might be able to do for you,’ murmured the headmaster ruefully. ‘Stephen tells me you may be leaving.’
‘Oh——’ Holly’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘Well, nothing’s been decided yet.’
‘No. So I understand.’ Reverend Frost took a deep breath. ‘But, if I were to speak to your father, explain what valuable work you’re doing here, he might conceivably look more favourably on your desire to stay.’
Holly hesitated. ‘What exactly did Stephen tell you, Reverend Frost?’
‘Oh—only that your father is eager for you to return to London, and that you don’t want to go.’ He sighed. ‘I can understand how he feels, of course. Your father, I mean. He must miss you terribly. I know I—we—would, if you were to leave.’
‘Thank you.’ Holly gave him a grateful smile. His suggestion was well meant, but she doubted it would carry much weight with Andrew Forsyth. Nevertheless, it was kind of him to make her feel wanted. It was not a sensation she had often experienced in her short life.
Looking into the minister’s concerned face, she reflected on the irony that this man was probably only a couple of years older than Morgan Kane. Yet, she never thought of Reverend Frost as an equal. In all honesty, she seldom thought of him as a man at all. Not that he was at all effeminate, but simply because his sex was usually obscured by the character he had created for himself.
‘Well,
