The rain fell in steady drops, landing on the saturated ground with plops. Colin, under his big black umbrella, walked around the deepest puddles in the street. He paused at the door to the newspaper office and watched Claire work. She was sitting at her desk with The Times spread out over it. With great care she was drawing lines around the stories she would cut out and reprint in the Matavai Messenger. Her fair hair was bound up on top of her head; her fingertips were dark with ink. She was humming a tune he was unfamiliar with.

"Good afternoon, Claire," he said as he closed the umbrella and shook the excess of water from it.

Claire looked up and smiled. "Hello, nice weather for duck as they would say at home."

Colin returned her smile. "How are you? David said you had a bit of a scare on the docks this morning."

A shadow passed over Claire's young face. Colin wondered if she had been more badly shaken than David realized. But the look passed quickly.

"I am quite all right, thank you," she answered rather primly, closing the subject. "Is this a social visit or do you have something for the paper?"

Colin paused for a moment considering her question. "A social visit that concerns the paper," he answered as he set his umbrella beside the door and came into the office.

She gave him a confused look. She put down her pencil and gestured towards the chair beside her desk.

Colin sat down. He removed his spectacles and started to wipe them on his damp shirttail. Claire passed him a dry handkerchief. This ritual complete, Colin began to speak very seriously.

"Claire, I greatly appreciate the support you have given me in this matter concerning Omai's death. But I wonder if it is wise for you to so openly criticize Mrs. Titchmarsh in your editorial."

"I didn't name Mrs. Titchmarsh; I simply said that a member of the church had taken it on herself to speak for the entire community on a matter of great importance about which there were a number of different viewpoints."

"With typical highhandedness a self appointed spokeswoman," quoted Colin. "Do you think there is any possibility that anyone who has ever spent more than a month attending our church could possibly not recognize Mrs. Titchmarsh?"

"Probably not," responded Claire, a self-satisfied grin threatening to curve her lips. "But see here, Colin, in an editorial it is my right to express my own view. I quite sincerely believe that Mrs. Titchmarsh's attitude is short-sighted and bigoted. And that it has a great deal less to do with the repose of poor Omai's soul than with getting her own way. I have an outright responsibility to point out that no one person has the right to have that kind of influence over a Christian community."

Colin regarded her thoughtfully. Clearly she had practiced that speech. He wondered if he was the first to hear it. Practiced or not it was also clear that she meant what she said. Colin had always admired crusading journalists. He agreed with her, in an editorial she could express her own opinion. But that didn't lessen his concern about the repercussions. Like himself Claire lived between the two worlds of Matavai, although as he thought of it Matavai really had more than two worlds. No, he told himself firmly, this was not the time to think about how complicated a society a small colonial town could be.

"What does Mrs. Russell say about all of this?" he asked.

"She's told you what she thinks."

"I know that she believes I missed an opportunity to evangelize and that that greatly distresses her but what I'm asking you now is how your editorial has affected your relationship."

Claire twisted her lips into a frown. "She agrees with you that I was overly blunt. She thinks it is foolish to make an out right enemy of Mrs. Titchmarsh and thereby of her husband on whom I am somewhat dependent for advertising revenue. But in principle she agrees that Mrs. Titchmarsh is nothing but a bully and it is not slander to call her one."

"Still you must live with the consequences of this editorial. What if Mr. Titchmarsh does pull his advertising?" asked Colin, leaning towards her across the table. That Claire would support what he had done in regards to Omia's family did not surprise Colin. Her original story concerning the accident and the young man's death had concluded with a paragraph noting the body had been returned to the family for a private funeral. In the same edition of the paper there was an obituary noting that Omai was a valued member of the community and a great many people were sadness by his death. It was in the latest edition that her editorial appeared. The edition was printed after Mrs. Titchmarsh had announced she was writing to the bishop on behalf of the parish. She had announced this intention after Sunday services as well as in every house she had visited in.

"Then I will offer his competitors a good rate and make him suffer for it," answered Claire with a flash of anger in her brown eyes.

Colin paid little attention to the commerce of the islands but he did know that Titchmarsh was by far the largest business in Matavai and one of the largest on Tahiti. His competitors were not in the position to match his outlay for advertising. "I don't like to see you suffer because of my actions."

"If I suffer it will be the result of my own actions," said Claire, making an effort to sound calm. She despised Mrs. Titchmarsh, only her strict upbringing with it's emphasis on good manners had allowed her to be polite to the woman since the church social. She had written the editorial for sound journalistic reasons. It was the best way to present her views in light of the facts of the story. However, painting a truthful picture of Mrs. Titchmarsh's high handed attitude that included writing to the Bishop as if she had been in entrusted with such a task by the whole church community, had given Claire great personal pleasure. "You must remember the Messenger is the only paper on Tahiti and it goes to a great number of the islands. If Titchmarsh wants to advertise he will have to come to me."

In spite of his concern Colin grinned. That last statement almost sounded like Isabelle. They were certainly the words of a confident businesswoman. Briefly he thought of Claire as he had first known her, a brave young woman but uncertain. "That is true but even so it won't change the social ramifications of making an enemy of Mrs. Titchmarsh."

Claire cocked her head and peered at him. "Social ramifications? That doesn't sound like you at all, Colin. You normally don't care about such things."

That was certainly true, he thought. Few ministers had his talent for ignoring the social politics of the church community and then discovering himself in difficulties. But he was observant enough to know that as a woman the social ramification with in the small ex patriot community were likely to affect Claire, particularly now that all the gossip pointed towards marriage for she and Gilles Bradford. "I don't want you to find yourself in an uncomfortable position."

Claire smiled slightly. Colin's thoughtfulness touched her and his rather oblique approach to the problem. Several months before Claire would have had little interest in the social ramifications of her words. She had been active in the church, giving Colin as much support as she could. His warm, accepting relationship with the native community had made her proud to be a Christian. She was friendly with a number of the wives of the colonial community and had maintained good working relationships with the various merchants because of the paper, but for the most part her social world revolved around Lavinia's bar. With the arrival of Mrs. Russell and the cooling of her friendship with Lavinia, Claire found herself often in the company of those who Isabelle referred to as the broody hens.

"I don't think I could look myself in the mirror if I were in a comfortable position in regards to Mrs. Titchmarsh. As for many of the others, well, with all due respect they are too easily led by the strongest personality."

"Yes, that is often the case," agreed Colin. "You know, I have had many battles with Mrs. Titchmarsh over the years. I have to say that since Mrs. Russell's arrival I have enjoyed meetings of the lady's board far more. I've noticed that many of the ladies feel quite empowered by her presence."

Claire smiled broadly; her brown eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Titchmarsh doesn't intimidate Mrs. Russell," she said gaily, and then she sobered suddenly. "If only we could convince Mrs. Russell of the wisdom of your actions, I would be much easier in my mind."

Colin reached out and squeezed her hand. "I'm afraid that for Mrs. Russell my actions are incomprehensible and are so for others whose good opinion you have reason to care about."

"For the Bradfords, you mean?"

"Yes."

Claire stood and walked to the doorway. She stared out at the street for a moment. In spite of the rain people went about their business. There were carts and wagons slowly making their way down the boggy street. Lt. Morlais was hurrying past under a big black umbrella that was doing little to keep his uniform dry. She saw Mm. Ivy entering the general store opposite her, her long skirts heavy with dirty water. Behind walked her maid, her sarong kilted up above her knees. Claire smiled at the picture they made.

Realizing Colin was waiting for her to go on she said, "The Bradfords aren't the Titchmarshs. I don't mean to say that they are equalitarian exactly but they are fair people, they do understand that we are not living in England. Gilles has already warned me to be prepared for a lecture when we have dinner there tomorrow. Mr. Bradford is very angry with you because you didn't listen to him. But I don't think Mr. Bradford will take personal offense at what I said. He always takes a didactic attitude with me when he disagrees with something I've written. He instructs me, tries to guide my thinking."

"What about Gilles?" Colin inquired gently. He wanted to see Claire happy. He felt that he should be pleased that she had developed such a strong friendship with an eligible young man like Gilles Bradford. He put the thought of Jack McGonnigal's worried face out of his mind. It wasn't up to him to sort out his friends' love lives. He had learned that long ago.

Claire thought for a moment and then said slowly, "I believe he thinks you would have been wise to have avoided the entire problem by doing what his father wanted you to do. But if you are asking if it has caused any disagreement between us, it hasn't. As for Mrs. Bradford you know how concerned she is. She is truly afraid that you will be forced to leave."

"She may well be right, Claire. I just had word that the Bishop is planning to come here in about a month's time. He wouldn't be coming if he weren't taking all of this very seriously."

She turned back to him with a pained expression. "Oh, Colin, I can't bear the thought of you being sent away."

"It is in God's hands," said Colin solemnly. He meant what he said but he couldn't quell the dark sadness he felt inside. To be sent away from Tahiti would be to be sent into exile.

Claire leaned against the door jam and studied Colin for a moment. It was clear that the uncertainty about his future was taking a toll on him. There were sharp lines around his mouth and faint shadows under his blue eyes. She felt there was no purpose in talking about it anymore. She wished she were as sure as Colin was that it was in God's hands. She was afraid that it was in reality in the Bishop's hands, hands that were too heavily influenced by the hands that controlled the Titchmarsh's purse strings.

She decided to change the topic to something more cheerful. "Obviously you have heard something about Gilles and myself if you are concerned about the social ramifications of my editorial."

"Well, for hard news your paper is superb. But for gossip," he said with a sudden grin, "the best place is the church when the flowers are being arranged for services; all that would be just as true here as in Essex or Blackpool."

Claire laughed lowly and then without looking at him she asked, "Has Lavinia said anything?"

"Uh, well, she has mentioned that Gilles is looking remarkably happy these days. You know she is very fond of Gilles. And of you."

Claire looked up. Colin saw a flicker of hope in her brown eyes. It hardly seemed possible that she ran the newspaper with all that that entailed. For at moments like this it felt as if she was still a child looking for love and approval by working hard to please those around her. The problem was she couldn't. She couldn't please Mrs. Russell to whom she owed love and gratitude for all the support she had given her during her childhood and also please Lavinia, who had given her a start on Tahiti. Lavinia who had been her friend and confidant but felt betrayed when Claire moved out of her room over the tavern to be closer to her godmother.

"Claire," he said gently, "Lavinia misses you. I hope that you realize that. I really believe if the two of you would sit down and talk....."

"But there is nothing to talk about, Colin."

Colin was tired of getting this response from both Lavinia and Claire when there was clearly so much to talk about. He decided to take another tack. "She was very pleased with your editorial."

"And surprised?" There was a hint of a challenge in Claire's voice.

"Surprised," repeated Colin, his mild blue eyes growing puzzled. "Why would she have been surprised?"

"That I would take your position and not that of the European community."

"Hello, you two," said Isabelle as she came through the door. She shook her head hard, her long hair flinging water droplets. Her white shirt was plastered against her, the lacy outline of her camisole showing through. Isabelle would never let herself be encumbered by carrying an umbrella. "Have I interrupted something important? You look very annoyed with me, Colin."

"Not at all, Isabelle," said Colin, standing politely. "It is just that I found something Claire said rather worrisome."

"Worrisome perhaps, Colin, but not untrue," said Claire as she fished a large piece of toweling from a lower shelf and handed it to Isabelle.

Isabelle put the towel over her head and rubbed her hair. "If you are talking about her editorial," she said with her voice muffled by the towel. "I hope you are not the only one who found it worrisome and true."

"We were talking about her editorial a few minutes ago," said Colin, reluctantly letting the discussion of Claire's relationship with Lavinia be put aside until another time. "I thought she did an excellent but rather pointed job of laying out the case. I hope she suffers no ill effects from her efforts."

"Our crusading journalist?" said Isabelle with a wide smile on her beautiful face. She slid her arm around Claire's shoulders and hugged her briefly. Although she had discovered Claire in one piece when she visited after David had told her of the falling cotton bales, Isabelle had felt compelled to come by again just to be sure she was all right. "She will march on with truth as her shield against all small minded busy bodies."

Colin smiled at the two women. Such an unlikely pair to be such close friends. Another reason to be thankful for the openness of their small community in Matavai. In England Claire might never have known a woman like Isabelle, he might never have known such a woman. What a loss that would have been to not know Isabelle with all her irrepressible energy.

***

"Tell me again why we are ferrying Isabelle and Seraut over to Moorea," said Mauriri as he turned the Rattlers wheel slightly to starboard and watched the mainsail belly with wind.

The day had dawned clear and bright after a steady downpour for much of the night. It promised to be hot later but at the moment it was a perfect day on the narrow expanse of water that separated Moorea from Tahiti.

"It saves her the cost of renting a boat. After all, what difference does it make which bay we oil the pulleys in?"

"None. I just wondered if you were being so helpful so you could keep an eye on them," said Mauriri with a sidelong glance at his partner.

"Is there a reason I should keep an eye on them?" asked David. He was leaning against the side of the boat looking towards the bow. Isabelle and Henri Seraut were sitting on the cabin roof in the middle of the ship.

Mauriri shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"I mean there is nothing exclusive about her contract with us. She can do outside deals with who ever she chooses," said David doggedly.

"Absolutely," agreed Mauriri with a twinkle in his dark eye.

"Mo," growled David.

"I didn't say a word, David. You're absolutely right, Isabelle can do business with whomever she pleases and that includes handsome young Frenchmen who look to be very successful and clearly have an eye for Isabelle's many attributes as a partner."

David stood straighter and put his hands on his hips. "Okay, you've made your point, I don't trust Seraut," he said in a low voice.

"So you are just looking out for Isabelle's business prospects?"

David drew himself up to his full height and looked Mauriri straight in the eye. "I'm looking out for Isabelle, our partner, our friend. Can we leave it at that?"

"Right now? Sure," said Mauriri with a barely suppressed grin.

David went forward to tighten a rope on the mainsail. Several minutes later he came back and asked, "What do you think of Seraut?"

Mauriri looked at David and saw that this question was serious. He thought about it for a moment as he turned the wheel to adjust to a change in the wind. "He's all right as far as I know. I haven't heard any complaints about doing business with him."

"That's as a trader, what do you think of him as a man?"

Mauriri shrugged again. "I haven't had much to do with him. He comes to church occasionally with the rest of the Bradfords but he hasn't taken any interest in it. I've almost never seen him in the tavern. I don't think I've ever seen him take a hand of cards. He isn't like Gilles, anxious to join in and have a good time. I can't imagine him accepting an invitation to join us on a Sunday afternoon to play football and have a meal."

David smiled slightly. That answer was so typical of Mauriri; it showed what he considered as important. No one in Matavai was likely to forget that Gilles Bradford was a rich man's son but in Mauriri's opinion the fact that Gilles enthusiastically joined a Sunday afternoon of football and eating meant he was one of them. Where as Seraut's habit of keeping to himself made Mauriri suspicious of him.

"So he is a snob, right?" asked David, glancing again at the two sitting together on the cabin roof.

"I guess. I mean look at him now. He hasn't lifted a finger to help with the sails even though Isabelle has. Jack says on the Malahini Gilles takes his turn at the helm and mans the sails which isn't the same as volunteering to swab the deck it's true but it does show an interest in the boat and the sailors. Seraut on the other hand works in the cabin or reads on deck. The only time he speaks to one of the crew including Jack is to give an order. His interest is making money, being able to make the next good investment like this vanilla idea. I suppose you've got to admire his focus. He'll be a rich man while we are still oiling pulleys."

And that, thought David, may well be what Isabelle likes about the man. "Is Lavinia right, is he like his grandfather?"

"He looks likes him. But no, I don't think he is like him in personality. The stories I've heard about Old Seraut make him sound lazy. He liked women; he liked to have them wait on him. He was happy to let his manager run the plantation. He gambled a lot and fought a lot, with a sword my father told me. Lavinia always calls him that old pirate; I think he probably was a pirate. I know he kept a boat. He'd get together a crew every now and then and be gone for a couple of months."

David considered this bit of intelligence for a moment. "I can't quite see this Seraut running up the Jolly Roger and banishing a sword."

They were silent for a few minutes. David thought the conversation was finished. He was thinking about going forward to be ready with the sails as they came into Cook's Bay, when Mauriri suddenly said, "I'll tell you who he does remind me of, his grandmother, Madame. I have a hazy memory of her coming into town and everyone including the French officials bowing to her. Any old timer out on Bradford's plantation will tell you that even after Tom Bradford married her daughter it was Madame who ran the plantation right up until the day she died. She was the queen, her word was law and no one including Old Seraut crossed her. I think Henri Seraut has that same sort of arrogance and maybe that same sense of order."

"What do you mean by sense of order?"

Mauriri shrugged, "It is hard to put into words but there is something too neat about the man, too precise."

David's green eyes grew a little brighter with understanding. He nodded slowly. "I know what you mean. It is hard to put into words because it shouldn't be something one would find fault with. But it is as if everything about the man is measured out. If you ask him a question he answers the question, but that's all he does. He never adds any information, anything personal."

"Maybe he feels he doesn't have to. Gilles is happy to talk for both of them. And as much as I like Gilles I know him well enough that if he were in charge of the books their business would be a disaster. Seriously, David, we don't know anything bad about the man."

"I know but I feel like he is hiding something."

"Maybe he isn't hiding it from Isabelle. Or maybe," said Mauriri with an exaggerated raised eyebrow, "what ever he is hiding she finds intriguing."

David twisted his generous mouth into a grimace and ran both hands through his longish dark hair.

Mauriri glanced at him and felt a moment's compassion. He didn't really care about Seraut. He wouldn't be Mauriri's first choice as a partner but he figured Isabelle was capable of looking out for her own interest. From his perspective David's concern over the man had a great deal more to do with his obvious interest in Isabelle than anything he might be hiding.

David watched Isabelle slide off the cabin roof and turn towards them. Dressed neatly for riding in boots, tan jodhpurs and light blue blouse of soft cotton she walked easily, adjusting her stride unconsciously to the pitch of the deck. Her dark hair was tightly bound in a thick single braid that hung down her back but curly strands escaped it and flew about her head in the breeze. She was smiling, her light eyes bright with sheer satisfaction at being a live on such a prefect morning.

"Where do you want me?"

David knew that the question was directed at Mauriri. She was offering to help with the sails as they came into Cook's Bay but the answer that leaped into his mind was so clear he was afraid he had spoken the words aloud.

***

"It doesn't smell like vanilla," said Isabelle as she stuck her nose again into the small orchid. It was a greenish cream, a shade she thought was called celadon.

"The flower has no scent," said Seraut absently. He was walking slowly through the thick underbrush, pacing it off as he went.

"So how do you know that it is vanilla?" she asked, setting the pot at the edge of the path, near where they had tied their donkeys. She would retrieve it on the way back. Scent or not it was a pretty flower; she would enjoy it in her office.

A slender, young Polynesian man walked several steps behind Seraut. His name was Pele; it was he who had presented Isabelle with the clay pot that held the vanilla orchid she was now examining. He turned to look back at Isabelle; his handsome young face was worried. He had gone to a lot of effort to show M. Seraut that the vanilla growing business would be good. He was happy to have the Lady as Mr. Seraut's partner. He knew about the Lady from her groom at the stables, who he grew up with. Paiku said the Lady was always fair and kind even when it didn't sound as if she was being so.

"You have to be patience and wait for the bean to mature to have your reward," said Seraut, holding a curtain of vines aside for her to pass.

"How long?"

Seraut gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. "If we buy plants that are ready for transplanting at least a year, if the flowers are watched over and carefully fertilized. Perhaps two years."

"That's a long time to wait for an investment to pay off."

The Lady was frowning and Pele felt even more apprehension. He was tired of working in the cotton fields in the hot sun. He wanted to grow vanilla as his grandfather had taught him when he was a little boy. He wanted to live on Moorea with his beautiful young wife, carefully tending the lovely little flowers and collecting the fragrant beans.

Pele held his breath as M. Seraut paused to consider the Lady's words. He could read nothing of the Frenchman's thoughts in his face.

"Do you think so?" asked Seraut finally. "A cotton plantation would take even longer to start up. The land would have to be cleared, you'd need good workers for that, the fields planted and tended. A lot more work for less reward I think. Vanilla is greatly prized over cotton. As the world becomes more civilized it will become more prized for confections of all types."

"You know a lot about it." Isabelle noticed the interest with which Pele was following the conversation. She smiled at him and was pleased to see him relax and smile back.

"Yes," agreed Seraut with a nod. "I have spoken with many people in the business in Papeete. The first vanilla orchids were brought to the islands many years ago. I've read what I could find about growing them. And fortunately Pele seems as knowledgeable as he is eager. I grant you it isn't like trading, a quick profit from a good voyage. It would be some years before we made our investment back. We would then stand to make a great deal more from our efforts than we are likely to transporting copra."

"So you plan to stay on Tahiti for years?"

"You don't?"

Isabelle lifted her shoulders and spread her hands. "Honestly, I haven't thought about it. I've already been here far longer than I ever expected to be."

"And now you are thinking about leaving?" he asked with obvious interest in his dark eyes.

"No," she shook her head. She was aware that once again he had not directly answered her question. "Not anytime soon."

"I'm happy to hear that," he said as he looked at her in the dappled light of forest. "Tahiti would loose much it's charm were you to leave."

"It is just that I thought you would get bored with the Islands and want to go back to France. You seem to miss civilization."

"Yes, but there is one problem with my beloved very civilized France. It is a great deal easier to appreciate the advantages with money, the more money the better."

"Right," responded Isabelle with a laugh. "I had noticed that."

Seraut started to ask Pele questions and Isabelle wandered ahead. The land they were looking at formed a small hanging valley on the side of the steep mountain at the center of the island. She walked to where the land fell away at a steep angle allowing her a clear view of the blue bay.

She supposed there were other places as beautiful in the world as the islands of the South Seas but she had never seen them. Before her was the green and black of the mountain, the blues of the sky, the sea and the bay itself, the white edging of the sandy shore line and the small waves. On the turquoise water of the bay, the Rattler rocked gently. On the ship was a single speck of red in the vast land and seascape of greens and blues. Isabelle knew it was David's red shirt.

No, she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. She would be staying for the same reason she had stayed in the first place. David Grief. The most infuriating man she had ever known. There were other reasons to stay. There was Claire who cared so openly for her and who needed her. And others who were now her friends. It was good to have friends, to able to trust a few people. There were her horses, Dante and the young colt in particular. And there were her businesses, the stable, her partnership with David and Mauriri as a trader and even the notion of growing vanilla interested her.

But, she thought with a sigh as she watched the bright spot of red move around the sleek boat, the real reason was David. And that was rather a foolish reason because there was little about their friendship to reassure her that it would ever be anything more than a friendship. But just perhaps it was like the lovely little vanilla orchid; perhaps it could mature into something rare and wonderful.

Seraut called to her and she broke off her musing reluctantly. She made her way back through the thick vegetation. He asked what she thought of investing now. She told him she would have to think about it. She liked Seraut, she admired his approach to business but she had made mistake in the past when taking on new partners. She wanted to be careful.

By the time they made it down the mountain on the stubborn little donkeys and had sailed back to Matavai the day had grown hot. Isabelle had only one thing on her mind. She was going to insist that Claire get out of that stuffy little newspaper office and go swimming with her.

***

Claire hadn't told Mrs. Russell she was going swimming with Isabelle. Mrs. Russell wouldn't have objected outright. Instead of objecting Mrs. Russell would have simply nodded with her lips pursed in disapproval and reminded Claire of their evening plans to have dinner with the Bradfords.

When she'd returned Mrs. Russell's sharp eye had noted how Claire's cotton dress showed damp places where it clung to her undergarments and that her hair was wet. She said nothing and Claire had escaped to her bedroom feeling as if she had gotten away with something faintly scandalous.

She was familiar with the feeling. When she'd lived with her aunt, she and her cousin Elizabeth had often broken the rules of the strict household. What silly things they had done as acts of rebellion. But then she had been a girl and now she was a woman who was use to making her own decisions. Yet somehow her godmother's presence had made the totally sensible choice of going swimming on a hot day an act of rebellion.

Like most English women of her generation Mrs. Russell did not swim but she had accompanied Claire on various afternoon picnics to the beach. It was a popular activity among the young matrons of the small colonial community to spend hot afternoons with their children playing in the shallows of the bay. In fact Mm Ivy was a champion swimmer; she had even refashioned a swimming costume to give herself more freedom in the water.

Claire feared it was not the swimming but her companion that had put the strained look on her godmother's face. She didn't expect Mrs. Russell to approve of Isabelle's life style. If only they could appreciate each other for who they were, that would make Claire very happy.

She striped off her clothes and ran a damp cloth over her skin. It was warm and glowed pink from the sun. Isabelle had insisted that on a day so hot and humid the only thing to do was give in and get really wet. Claire had conceded part way through their afternoon that she felt much, much better than she had in days. Now she wrapped herself in a silk dressing gown and stood for a moment looking down at the evening dress laid out on her bed.

Wear your pink dress. You look so lovely in that dress Father won't be able to lecture you very sternly. Gilles's words echoes in her mind.

"Just wait until you hear the lecture I have in store for him," she said with a smile as she reached for a small jar on her bedside table. She opened it and dampened her fingers with the oily mixture. She massaged it through her long honey colored hair. It smelled of coconut and as it always did, it made her think of Lavinia.

Claire sighed. It was better than it might have been. At least they always spoke to each when they met in the market or if Claire went into the tavern. She didn't often go to the bar. After working there for so long she felt out of place as a patron. Lavinia was pleasant, always asked after Mrs. Russell. Perhaps the distance that Claire felt between them was of her own making, her own discomfort over their argument. She was uncomfortable because she was still convinced that in Lavinia's eyes she would never measure up simply because she was English. Colin made it sound so simple by saying all that was needed was an air clearing conversation.

"I'm so glad she was pleased with the editorial," said Claire softly as she twisted her hair tightly and secured it high on the back of her head. "At least she knows that I fully support Colin no matter what others in the European community are saying, even Mrs. Russell."

She thought about Colin and how kind he had been to be concerned over the repercussions of her editorial. She wished she could feel more confident about the future. But because of Mrs. Russell and the all too frequent gatherings of ladies for afternoon tea on their shaded front porch Claire knew that there were speculations that the Bishop would send him away. No one except Mrs. Titchmarsh was really pleased by this idea. Most of the others spoke of their concern for him. They didn't understand why he had done what he had done and so were concerned that he needed time away from Tahiti to regain his perspective.

She did hear gossipy whispers about his friendship with Lavinia but no one spoke to her directly about it. They all regarded her with a slight reserve as if her newspaper and her time serving in the bar had set her apart in some fundamental way. She supposed that her experiences had set her apart. The other women from the church were all concerned with running their households and taking care of their children. They had the lives that she had expected to find for herself when she first came to Tahiti She thought of Gilles and the plans she knew his stepmother and her godmother held dear for the two of them. If they came to fruition perhaps she would be able to show more than just polite interest in those other women's lives.

She sighed and blinked her eyes hard in hopes of banishing the tears she felt coming on; such thoughts should not bring tears to her eyes. It wasn't her future that she felt like crying over but Colin's. If Colin was sent away, she would miss him as the spiritual advisor who she trusted, as a friend who she valued. She would miss him more than she did all the members of her family that she had left behind in England.

A few minutes later, Claire was searching for a silk Chinese fan she knew had to be in one of her trunks. She had packed all of her belongs so quickly when she left her room over the tavern to move into the little house with Mrs. Russell she had taken no time to organize anything.

The swim had improved her sprits dramatically and she was looking forward to the evening ahead. Gilles had informed her he had received a packet of new sheet music from friends in Marseilles, she was anxious to hear Henri play the new music.

Humming a tune she had recently learned, she lifted the top tray from the trunk and set it on the floor. She reached down into the messy collection of her belongings and paused. The fan laid closed on top of a tin box. The box was painted garishly with the name of a biscuit company. She picked up the fan and set it on the floor beside the trunk. She started to return the tray to its place but the garish box kept drawing her eye.

"I should burn it, just as it is. God knows I shouldn't look inside," Claire said aloud, softly as she traced the edge of the box with the tip of her index finger. She picked it up slowly. It was heavy as she knew it would be. She sat back on her heels and stared at it for a few minutes. Then she took a deep breath and pried the lid off.

Inside the tin was a package wrapped in several layers of oiled cloth. Cautiously she pealed the layers back until a stack of yellowing paper tied together with a dark blue silk ribbon appeared. On top, under the bow, was a neatly cut square of printed paper. With trembling fingers, Claire untied the bow and picked up the piece of paper.

For a moment she found herself in the past, in her father's brother's house in a suburb of London. Her uncle, a journalist, had subscriptions to at least a dozen monthlies. His taste was indiscriminate; one might be a journal devoted to hunting, another full of scientific research printed by the press at Cambridge. She was visiting for a few days. Having dressed early for dinner she was looking for something to read while she waited for the family to come down. She'd picked up that magazine for the picture on its cover, a drawing of a ship, full under sail. It had been her intention to read the article but the magazine fell open accidentally to a page in the back. It seemed all journals had pages set aside for personals. Claire had often amused herself as a child reading them. What a funny thing to do she'd always thought, look for your friends in a magazine.

In the middle of the page something caught her eye.

Gentleman seeks correspondence with
a young lady interested in the South Seas.
Jameson Jackson McGonnigal
Government House
Papeete, Tahiti
French Polynesia
I can tell you of a magical place.

All through dinner she'd thought of that last line and once everyone had retired for the night she went downstairs to cut the advert out carefully. She had looked at it every night for three weeks before she answered it. She gave a post office box in the market town where the newspaper for which she worked part time had its office as her address. It was two months before she got an answer. She had even convinced herself she had never sent an inquiry in the first place. Quiet, well brought up girls such as her would never do something so risky as answering an advertisement in the back of a magazine. The women who did such things, the women who boarded boats and traveled half way around the world to marry men they had never set eyes on where not women like her. It was true that she was a poor relation living in her aunt's home but they treated her well and she had a job, a way of making her own money. Her situation was hardly so desperate or so sad that she would have been expected to take such a drastic step.

There on the floor of her bedroom in Matavai she read the advert again. Why had it caught her eye? Why had that promise of a magical place had such a call on her imagination? It was such a random event looking at the magazine, such a tiny piece of paper for it to have changed the entire course of her life.

She glanced at the first envelope. Her name and address were written across it in bold black ink. She didn't need to open the letter; she knew every word by heart. It began very formally, thanking her for answering the advert. It answered her questions about Papeete and then informed her that his home was actually closer to a village called Matavai, but Matavai had no post office. He described Matavai Bay, the colors of the water, the mountains, and the sky. He asked what her interests were, did she like music and reading. He signed it Jameson Jackson McGonnigal, with a flourish.

Her imagination had taken off. She had made up a gentleman, a self made gentleman, like--. Claire laughed sadly and shook her head. She'd made up a gentleman like Tom Bradford, Gilles's father but of course she had made him look more like Gilles. She never imagined the truth, a drunken sailor in a half-roofed shack.

She had believed every word in the letters. She could see the house he described with its wide veranda, bordered by banana trees. She could hear the workers singing as they went off to his fields. Her imagination was nearly as strong as his. Between them they created an illusion that was so beautiful, so full of possibility that Claire had stepped on the boat that would take her to the other side of the world without a single qualm about the future.

At first she had been angry, even cruel in her rejection but eventually she had forgiven him his deception. In a sense it had been innocent, a story told to a girl half a world away. And she understood the part her own romantic nature had played.

So why did he have to punish her for her rejection? Why did he deceive her again? He had played with her affections like a fisherman with a trout on a line, he had—

Claire took a deep steadying breath. She would not think about Jack. She would not think about how it was Jack who had saved her on the dock the day before. She would not think about how it felt to be in his arms again, how ever briefly.

"I should burn them right this minute," she whispered fiercely. "I will burn them and never again think about the lies or the liar that brought me here. I will thank God that I've met a good hearted, honest man like Gilles. A man I can trust, a man with whom I can build a future."

Claire put the tiny piece of paper back on top the stack of yellowing envelopes. She tied the ribbon in a bow and rewrap the oil cloth. She stood, holding the package of letters in her hand. There were matches in the kitchen, she could burn them in the stove, and she could do it now before the carriage arrived to take them to dinner with Gilles and his family.

"Claire?" said Mrs. Russell from the doorway.

"Yes?" Claire felt her face flame red as if she had been caught in an embarrassing moment. She turned away from the door.

"The carriage is here. Did you find your fan?" asked Mrs. Russell with a gesture towards the disemboweled trunk.

"Yes. I'm just finishing my hair."

"All right, dear, try not to be long," said Mrs. Russell as she walked away.

Claire dropped the packet of letters on the table with her comb and snatched up her fan. With a last glance in the mirror she left the room.

***

Isabelle walked up a path leading away from the center of the little town. Winding through the thick vegetation, it was quite steep. She held her green silk skirt up to her knees and went slowly, hoping to arrive at her destination without being covered in sweat.

Her afternoon swim had done much to revive her. Claire, as curious as ever, listened with rapt attention when Isabelle told her what she had learned about growing vanilla orchids. Telling Claire had allowed Isabelle to see the scheme more clearly in her own mind. It was a tidy sum that she would invest but barring some terrible act of nature she stood to reap a good reward.

She paused when the little house came into view. Built out of panels of woven palm leaves it was perched on the side of the mountain. On the front, looking out towards the sea was a wide porch. Henri Seraut was standing on the porch waiting for her. He lifted a long necked green bottle in greeting.

"I promise the hike was worth it. I have Champagne to celebrate our partnership."

Isabelle quickened her steps and arrived on the porch a moment later with a delicate pink tinting her lovely skin. She accepted the glass of the sparkling wine eagerly.

"You are very confident. It is nice to see you've gotten proper glasses."

For an instant a wide grin split Seraut's dark face. "Just this week, along with a few other essential household goods. But I got none of those little whisks to stir out the bubbles, I'm afraid."

Isabelle held the glass to her nose; the tiny bubbles bursting as they hit the air tickled her. "Do you really think the bubbles are bad for the stomach?"

Seraut shrugged his narrow shoulders. "That is common wisdom."

"I don't care. I like the bubbles," she said as she took a healthy swig.

He laughed something he rarely did. "Somehow I am not surprised." He picked up his own glass and held it out to her. "May we prosper together," he said, touching his glass to hers.

Isabelle hesitated for just a moment. If she joined him in the toast, she would be accepting the partnership, which of course she had no reason not to do. No risk, no gain, she thought. She nodded in acknowledgement of the toast and took another sip. She turned to look out over the hillside and the bay. The quiet colors of evening were spreading through the sky. Soft pinks and grays threaded the clouds; the water had turned silver in the dying light.

"Champagne suits you."

Isabelle turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. She saw open admiration in his eyes. "Why is that?"

"Because it is a lively wine, bright in color and taste," he answered as he held his glass up. "It is interesting and complex and beautiful."

Isabelle laughed lowly. "You can turn quite a pretty phrase when you have a mind to."

"It is the inspiration. Are you hungry?" he asked as he gestured towards the table set for two with china and crystal.

"So Champagne glasses aren't the only household goods you got," she said, looking over the well set table. Her silk skirt made a soft swishing sound as she walked.

"Matavai will never be Provence but it can be made comfortable," Seraut said as he pulled a chair out for her.

Seraut's European manservant served the meal, shrimp bisque, bread, salad and chicken with mangoes. Isabelle knew that Seraut had found the man who he simply referred to as Marco in Shanghai in difficulties with the authorities over money owed to a brothel. She thought that he was English but when she commented that he was the best English cook she'd ever come across Seraut laughed with such surprising gaiety she felt like the victim of a joke.

"What is so funny?" she asked suspiciously.

"The notion that an Englishman could cook a meal worth eating."

"But I remember you saying that he claimed to be the best chef in London."

"He may well have been but that doesn't make him English. His father was French, his mother Italian; they had a restaurant in London in which he worked."

Isabelle frowned. She didn't like being made a fool of even if it was by her own assumptions. "I am going to have to remember to ask you many questions about our venture. Information doesn't exactly spill out of you."

"Of course not. Information is valuable. One should never just give it away."

"Even information about where your cook came from?"

"One never knows what could be of use. More wine?"

Isabelle glanced at the house. It was nothing special, four rooms, with a kitchen in the back. Through the open door she saw a heavy desk and several chairs. On the desk were neat stacks of paper weighted down with rocks and long rolls of what she was sure were navigational charts.

As she cut her chicken she looked at her new partner. He did like his comforts. She had noticed before that his clothes were well fitted, made of linen, fine cotton and silk. The tableware was of good quality although not fancy in design. He was particularly fond of good wine.

"You are looking at me so carefully, my dear, I fear you have discovered some fatal defect in my person," he said good-naturedly.

"Certainly not," said Isabelle with a laugh that sounded a little forced even to her own ears. "I was just thinking what a deliberate person you are. How efficient and careful in your choices." Nothing like David who still made his choices based on whims and the direction of the wind, she thought.

"These would be good things in a partner, yes?"

"Yes, of course," she answered, picking up her glass and taking a drink. "There is something I wonder about. Why this house?"

"Mm," he said as he sat back in his chair and pursed his narrow lips.

At first Isabelle thought he wasn't going to answer her but after a moment he gestured towards view that spread out before them. Now that night had fallen, much of what they were looking at was the dark sea and starry sky. The lights of the town lined the shore and the boats, rocking gently at their mooring in the bay, made dark silhouettes.

"It is true that this house is not so comfortable as the plantation house that my grandmother built. But I like the view. I like being able to see the town especially from up here where it is quiet. There is the Malahini, full of cotton ready for the trip to China and a fat fee. There is your Rattler. And if you twist your head only slightly you can see the tavern and if you lean a bit further forward you can see your stables."

Isabelle had followed his instructions and realized that their small world was indeed laid out at his feet. But of course the distance was great enough that you couldn't actually see what was going on unless you had a telescope. Which she realized with a small start there was no question that he had.

"I can understand you want a place of your own, away from the bustle of the Bradford house. But you could have a house on a hill in Papeete. It is a bigger town, more interesting, more business opportunities. Why take this house?"

"Ah, yes, it is true," he conceded as he turn back to look at her. His dark eyes glowed in the candlelight. "But Matavai has one beautiful and desirable asset that Papeete lacks."

Isabelle smiled widely. She loved compliments. Seraut was always generous but believable with compliments. She knew that he did find her beautiful and desirable. Evidently beautiful and desirable enough to make considerable effort in obtaining her. The wording of her thought bothered her; she wasn't some sort of prize to be obtained. She wondered why that was the word that had come to mind. After all their business dealings had been straightforward, he respected her judgment and her success. It wasn't like working with David had been in the beginning, every moment having to prove herself.

***

David shuffled the poker cards deftly. He dealt them out one by one to Mauriri and the two American sailors playing with them. One of the Americans was telling a story about a famous card player of his country. He said the man was also a gun fighter; he never sat with his back to the door even so he died playing poker.

The story might have been the reason David was so aware of everyone who came into the crowded bar. Although in recent months he had been watchful of strangers, never entirely free of the feeling he was being spied on.

As he anted he noticed Jack at the door to the seaside porch; his blue eyes anxiously surveying the room. David knew he was looking for Isabelle. He couldn't blame Jack for wanting to avoid the sharp side of her tongue or the flat of her hand and yet at the same time it was Jack's own fault.

"It's safe, Jack," called Mauriri. He glanced at David and said with a grin, "I understand she is having dinner with her other partner."

David sent his old friend a sour look.

Jack came over to them stiffly. He avoided looking at their hands but he stared for a moment at the pot, a mixture of Francs and American silver coins.

"How are the ribs?" asked Mauriri, removing two cards from his hand and laying them face down on the table. David dealt him two more.

Jack winced. "Sore. But I'll live."

"Deal you in?" asked David, returning his losing hand to the deck.

"No, thanks," responded Jack, shaking his head so that the dangling silver earring in his left ear lobe swung gently. "We're for Shanghai in the morning. I just stopped to get a keg of beer from Lavinia."

"Come on, play a hand," cajoled Mauriri. It was his deal; he dealt out five hands. Had Jack refused to play, the cards would have to have been dealt again. Mauriri knew Jack; a gambler at heart would want to know what was in his hand on the table. And that he wouldn't disrupt their game by forcing another deal. He was trapped into playing.

David was pleased by Mauriri's trick. It had been nearly impossible to get Jack off the Malahini when she was in port the last few months. David was positive so much time on his own couldn't be good for a man, especially a man with as many demons as Cannibal Jack. Besides Jack was a good poker player, much better than the two they were playing with. He could run a bluff on a pair of twos and win. Maybe thought David as he watched his friend say hello to the Americans that was the skill he was calling on these days to keep his distance from Claire.

With a frown towards Mauriri, Jack pulled up a chair and picked up his cards. They played for good while, no one losing so much or wining so much as to make them want to stop. It was a friendly game. The Americans were easy going fellows, new to the islands. They listened appreciatively to Mauriri's stories. Mauriri was a good storyteller. He liked to embellish the gruesome details and watch his listeners' faces to see at what point he went too far and lost his credibility.

Jack was quiet, but that, thought David, was nothing new. Jack had never been one to draw attention to himself. Even among sailors one never knew how someone would response to a moniker like Cannibal Jack.

Although he knew who was in the bar, David was paying no particular attention to anything but the game of cards. It was the sudden tension in Jack's shoulders and the set line of his jaw that alerted David to brewing trouble. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Titchmarsh standing by the bar waving one of Claire's newspapers.

"Someone needs to teach that girl her place. She needs to learn who is in charge here," Titchmarsh slurred, obviously the worse for drink. "She has no business telling us who is right or wrong."

David exchanged a look of understanding with Mauriri and then leaned towards Jack.

"You know we'll back your play if you want to take him on but-"

"It would get back to Claire and she would misunderstand," Jack finished for him hoarsely. He sat with his hand clenched on the table in front of him. "Besides how does the likes of me take on a man like Titchmarsh? But I can't just sit here and listen to him."

"Neither can we," growled Mauriri as he pushed his chair back.

"Hang on," said David, laying his hand on Mauriri's arm. He nodded at the other side of the room where Gilles Bradford was making his way towards Titchmarsh. They made a rather odd sight. Titchmarsh tall and corpulent, Gilles short and slight. He had just come from seeing Claire and her godmother home; he was dressed in a set of evening clothes that would not have been out of place in a Parisian drawing room.

"Perhaps, Mr. Titchmarsh, you mistook the page. If you look again you will find Miss Devon's comments to be clearly marked as an editorial. Surely no one could object to an editor expressing her opinions in her own paper." Gilles spoke in his normal friendly manner with a wide smile on his handsome face.

"She has no right to opinions. Silly little miss thinks putting a bit on ink on paper makes her some sort of newspaper editor. She's nothing but a cotton headed bleeding heart." Titchmarsh loomed over Gilles wagging his finger in his face. "You mark my words, laddie, if you're planning on taking that one to wed you better do it quick before she gets anymore ideas in her head. What will fix her is a babe in her belly."

Jack stood so quickly his chair fell over backwards and hit the floor with a resounding crack. David who had stood as well made no move to stop him.

Gilles's face paled and he blinked his eyes several times. Being truly good-natured, he had little experience of real confrontation. He could not accept an insult against any lady of his acquaintance and certainly not one against Claire who he held in high esteem. But what was now expected of him he wasn't sure.

The taproom had gone quiet. Most of patrons were simply curious what would happen now. A very few were in agreement with Mr. Titchmarsh. Most of the regulars were lowly sailors that had little reason to like Titchmarsh and so took it doubly hard that he would insult Claire. With her warm nature and friendly interest in everyone, Claire had been a popular barmaid

Gilles glanced at Lavinia who stood behind the bar with a look of pure astonishment on her face. She had much experience in breaking up fights between drunken sailors but it never occurred to her that she would need her shotgun to intervene between two leading citizens. This situation was impossible, thought Lavinia. Gilles couldn't fight Titchmarsh, nor could Jack, David or Mauriri who were now lined up squarely behind him. It wasn't just Titchmarsh's status in the community but the fact that he was nearly old enough to be the father of any of them.

Gilles was perplexed. When he spoke to Titchmarsh he had expected him to reconsider what he was saying about Claire and offer an apology. That was what any gentleman would do. Squaring his narrow shoulders Gilles said, "I believe, sir, you are the worst for drink. Or you would not speak so of a lady."

"A lady!" shrieked the older man, his face twisting into a leer. "She gave up any pretense to being a lady when she took a job here and associated with the likes of them." He gave a contemptuous nod towards David, Mauriri and Jack.

Titchmarsh was enjoying himself; he knew none of them would make a move against him. Boys like Gilles Bradford whose fathers could bankroll them into success got his goat but that was nothing compared to the loathing he felt for Grief and his partner. It made his stomach churn to think that Grief had taken the prize in the yacht race. The Rattler's win had cost Titchmarsh greatly in lost wagers.

He looked down on Gilles and saw frustrated outrage in his eyes. Smitten with that bit of skirt are you boy? She'll lead you around by the nose.

He shifted his gaze to David and Mauriri who both stood with their weight back in their heels and their arms crossed over their chests. David returned his stare with cold contempt in his green eyes. Just try something, thought Titchmarsh, throw one punch in my direction and I'll have you both up on charges. You'll be in jail so long your precious boat will have sunk from rot.

It was then that he looked more closely at the third man behind Gilles. He stood with his weight forward and his hands clenched at his sides. In his drunken state it took Titchmarsh a moment to recognize Cannibal Jack, a man he knew only by reputation. A reputation created more by local imagination than the facts but Titchmarsh didn't realize that.

Somewhere in his befuddled mind Titchmarsh asked himself what any of this had to do with Cannibal Jack and then he remembered he worked for Gilles. That seemed a tenuous connection for the hot hate he saw in Jack's blue eyes but nevertheless he felt a finger of icy fear down his backbone. This was not a man to be deterred by the threat of jail or the common custom of not striking an older man.

Gilles took a deep breath. He was aware of the three strong men behind him. Although like Lavinia he couldn't believe that any of them would strike Mr. Titchmarsh there was a sort of comfort in their presence. He felt totally in the right and that gave him courage.

"Sir, as my father's friend you know that I respect you, but I must demand an apology. Miss Devon is lovely young woman who deserves nothing from any man but respect."

Titchmarsh's face had gone slack. He couldn't take his eyes from Cannibal Jack's face. His mouth was twisted into an angry grimace and his eyes continued to bore into him. God knew what a man like that might do, it was a sobering thought. "Well, perhaps," he said slowly, "I have let my righteous indignation get the better of me. I did not mean to slander the lady."

"Indeed, sir," said Gilles with a sharp nod.

Titchmarsh turn to the door and made his way slowly out. He felt Jack's glare like a knife in his back.

"Well done, Gilles," said Mauriri as he placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Aye, sir, well said," added Jack softly. He had taken a step closer to the door and was continuing to watch Titchmarsh walk quickly down the street. His hands were still clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"Thank you, gentlemen, I appreciate your solidarity," said Gilles with a puzzled frown. "It seems so doubly sad that the death of good fellow like Omai could cause so much strife. I do hope it blows over soon." Then his face cleared and he turned to them saying, "Let's have a drink, shall we? Lavinia, drinks for my friends, please."

Gilles and Mauriri walked over to the bar where Lavinia complimented Gilles on his cool headedness and poured out four shots of her best brandy. David started to follow them and then turned back to look at Jack. He was still watching the retreating Titchmarsh; his shoulders still rigid with tension.

"How about that drink, Jack?" said David in a low voice.

Jack turned to him, almost as if he had been startled by his voice. "What?"

David cocked his head towards the bar where Gilles and Mauriri were engaged in pleasant conversation with Lavinia. He saw some of the tension leave Jack's body as he walked away from the doorway with another glance towards the street.

***

"Are you feeling all right, my dear?" asked Mrs. Russell as she lit the wick of the oil lamp in the common room of their little house. "You were very quiet in the carriage."

Claire flopped inelegantly into the upholstered chair Mrs. Bradford had given them to make the house more comfortable. She blew her breath through her teeth and moaned. "It is very frustrating when no one listens."

"We listened, dear," said Mrs. Russell, sitting carefully in a straight back chair across from Claire.

"Much of what you said was very eloquent in the Reverend Trent's defense."

"But you don't agree," challenged Claire.

"I agree that he did what he did out of compassion. And I find no fault with that," said Mrs. Russell gravely. "But his very purpose here is to convert these poor people from their savage ways. It seems only reasonable to expect him to preach against barbaric practices. After all it is the great commission for us as Christians to go into all the world and preach the good news."

Claire bit her lip. What could she say? For Mrs. Russell these were absolutes. It was better to be Christian than anything else. No, not just better. To be Christian was the only right choice. When, thought Claire suddenly, did I stop believing just that? And how do I explain what I mean without sounding like I've lost my faith?

She didn't have an answer so she continued to sit and glare into the middle distance. "At least you are willing to argue the point with me. Mr. Bradford simply told me I was wrong and closed the subject."

"Mr. Bradford is accustomed to his word being law."

"He didn't object when Gilles said Colin had simply done what he thought was right. In fact he looked quite pleased that Gilles had disagreed with him." Claire heard the petulant note in her voice but she was past caring if she sounded like a child.

"I imagine he was. Tom Bradford is not an ogre. He wants his sons to grow up to be men in their own right. That means at times they will disagree with him. They will do things that he doesn't like. It is a natural thing, when my son Harry went into the Navy his father was furious. He believed that a boy with Harry's academic skills had a duty to follow him into the church. And at the exact same time he was proud that Harry had made his own choice."

"But if Mr. Bradford had had daughters, if the Dean had had daughters they would have been proud of them striking out on their own?"

"You know the answer to that, Claire," responded Mrs. Russell with a weary sigh. "Daughters have a different purpose in the life of the family. Like their mothers they are subject to the will of the man of the house."

"My father was different."

Mrs. Russell didn't answer. She sat quietly looking down at her folded hands. She had once thought her own father was different but time proved her wrong.

Her silence disturbed Claire. "He was," she declared.

"Your father adored you, Claire. He thought you were the prettiest and the cleverest little girl in the world. He would have done anything for you."

"But?"

"What do you want me to say, dear?"

Claire was contrite that she had put her godmother in this position. She had loved her father dearly but she had seen enough father daughter relationships to realize it was more likely her father would have tried to protect her rather than encourage her to take on the world. It had been Mrs. Russell who took her to her first suffragette rally; Mrs. Russell who had written her aunt and uncle, gently suggesting that Claire should be allowed to find work suitable to her talents and interests. It was true that they did not agree on many things, certainly not about how Colin should pursue his mission but that was no reason to forget what support Mrs. Russell had often given her in her struggle to pursue her own interests.

"I don't know," said Claire sadly. "Maybe that if my father had lived I would have been able to attend a college, that he would have supported my efforts to become a bona fide reporter."

"That may well all be true," said Mrs. Russell kindly. Since they would never know it did no harm for Claire to believe that her father would have been progressive in his attitude towards women.

Claire sat silent for several minutes. Then she stood saying angrily, "I don't care that Mr. Bradford doesn't agree with me. I care that he doesn't take me seriously. Why should he assume that he has the right to lecture me and then dismiss me by saying how fetching my dress is? Does Randolph Hearst find himself lectured to if he has the audacity to offer an opinion in his own paper? Does the editor of the TIMES have to resort to wearing a pretty cravat to avoid having to defend his editorials? They do nothing but write their opinions down. I have to set the type and roll the ink and fold the paper. Why haven't I earned the right to be taken seriously?"

"You have. And surely the attentiveness that the governor shows you over dinner is testament to the influence you wield through the newspaper. But Claire, you must remember that at home--"

"I would still be reporting on flower shows and who grew the largest marrow for the Harvest Fete."

Mrs. Russell nodded. "I am not unsympathetic, my dear. Neither is Rachel. We may disagree with your position concerning Reverend Trent's actions but we fully support your right to have it. I hope that you know that."

"I do," said Claire with a tired sigh. She looked down as the soft sheen of her pink silk skirt and frowned. "Gilles was teasing me a few days ago about wearing this dress and be charming so his father wouldn't be stern with me. I suppose I gave more credence to what he said than I thought I did. I should have worn my work clothes, maybe then I would have been taken seriously."

Mrs. Russell stood and crossed the room to Claire. She laid her hand on Claire's shoulder gently. "You defended your friend, Claire, which was admirable. You cannot control how Tom Bradford hears what you said. I'm for bed. Shall I undo your buttons before I go?"

"Yes, thank you," said Claire, turning so that Mrs. Russell could reach the long row of buttons down the back of the dress. It occurred to her suddenly that if she lived alone she would not be able to wear this dress for she would have no one to do up the buttons.

Claire carried the lamp into her room and put it on table beside her bed. Carefully she pulled the dress over her head. She shook it out and looked it over. It wasn't the fault of the dress that she felt she had been made to look foolish. It certainly wasn't Gilles's fault. He had done his best to take her side against his father even though it was clear he wasn't very interested in the whole matter. That Tom Bradford had taken Gilles's comments more seriously than her own was only part of what galled her.

Slowly she went about getting ready for bed. Once she was wearing her thinnest night dress, she picked up her hair brush and pulled it through her long tresses, noting that they were still damp from her afternoon swim. It was then that she noticed the oil cloth packet of letters. It was those letters that had brought her to Tahiti, those letters that had given her a chance to create the newspaper in which to express her opinions whether Tom Bradford took them seriously or not.

She knew she couldn't burn them, at least not yet. She returned them to the biscuit tin and put them back in the bottom of her trunk. As she closed the lid of the trunk the moonlight caught her eye. She went to the window. The little house set on a hill and from the window Claire had a good view of the bay. The light of the nearly full moon was reflected by the water. It reminded Claire of Tahiti's famous black pearls. She remembered the first one she'd seen. She'd been surprised it wasn't black at all. It shimmered silver and gray, green and pink like the water in the bay in the moonlight.

She thought again of the tiny piece of paper that had changed her life. Jack had told her many lies but he had kept his first promise to her. He had indeed told her of a magical place.

***

"Our afternoon thunderstorm is right on schedule," said Isabelle as she ran through the tavern's street side door.

The taproom was fairly busy for the middle of the afternoon. The rain kept some from their work and so they came inside to find a card game and a conversation. Lavinia was behind the bar putting bottles on the shelf below it. She looked up when she heard Isabelle's voice. "What can I get you? I have tea made if you would like some."

"I would like a cup of tea," answered Isabelle, sounding faintly surprised at herself. She climbed on to a stool and leaned her elbows on the bar. She watched Lavinia reach for a china cup. She poured pale green tea from a clay pot and set it in front of Isabelle.

Isabelle thought of the dark, bitter tea she had drunk as a child and almost laughed. This drink was so different.

"Is the rain keeping you from your work?" asked Lavinia, picking up her own cup.

"Some. But I remind myself that if I were in Calais this could be snow and I could be in danger of freezing to death. It makes a thunderstorm almost a pleasant experience," said Isabelle with a wry grin.

Lavinia put a tray on the bar and loaded it with a rum bottle and several glasses. She carried it to a table and set it in the middle. As she did so three middle-aged men of indeterminate heritage came into the tavern and greeted her. They sat down at the table. One started to pour out the rum, another to shuffle cards. Lavinia glanced back at them with a mixture of welcome and annoyance on her face. It was good to have regular customers she could depend on but their presence pointed out to her how predictable her life had become.

"Did you and Seraut purchase the land on Moorea?" asked Lavinia as she returned the tray to its place under the bar.

"Signed the deed yesterday," answered Isabelle with a satisfied smile.

"I didn't realize that Gilles and Seraut were so successful with their trading."

"Mm?" queried Isabelle, looking at Lavinia over the rim of her teacup.

"Gilles said that his father was a silent partner in the trading business, basically providing all the capital when they first leased the Malahini from Lodge. But as I understand it is only you and Seraut in the vanilla plantation."

"Right." Isabelle sipped her tea and thought for a moment. "They have been lucky with the trading. As Mauriri says it is very helpful to have one of the biggest shippers on the island interested in your success but you're right Henri has been able to save a lot of money very quickly."

"A good thing in a partner, I suppose," said Lavinia with a smile. It was hard not to compare Isabelle's partners in her mind. David had always seemed fundamentally incapable of saving money. Lavinia remember how surprised she had been when Mauriri told her he had bought his share of the partnership from Isabelle with money David had saved for him. Somehow she couldn't see Henri Seraut saving money to benefit someone else.

"I think," said Isabelle slowly, "that we are so used to sailors who drink up or gamble away every franc that comes their way we don't appreciate a man who knows how to manage his money."

"You're probably right," conceded Lavinia. She wondered if Isabelle knew how much money David had managed to save when he had a really good reason. She suspected that Isabelle knew nothing about it at all.

Lavinia glanced over her patrons. No one seemed to be in need of anything.

"It was nice to hear Colin play the piano last night," said Isabelle with a glance at the battered upright piano pushed against the wall. "He should put out a hat for tips. I'll bet he would collect more than he does on Sunday passing the plate."

Lavinia laughed. "He says doesn't think he should play the um, I can't think of their names."

"Gilbert and Sullivan, they write plays with songs in them for the stage in London."

"Yes, them. Anyway he says he doesn't think he should play such pieces on the church's piano but he likes to play them; they cheer him up."

"Does he need cheering up? An Englishman should find this weather very familiar."

"Like you he says it is far better than the weather in England this time of year. I try to imagine it sometimes, what it is like to be cold. What it would be like to know that the night was going to be far longer than the day and that when it returned the sun would have little warmth. But," Lavinia shrugged her bare, dark shoulders to show how impossible it was for her.

Isabelle said nothing. She put both hands around the teacup and for a moment was lost in a time when she would have sold her soul for the warmth of a cup of tea. The hell of fire and brimstone must have been thought of by people who lived in hot lands. For her hell would always be the damp penetrating cold wind of the Northern Europe coast. She looked out at the steady downpour and pushed those thoughts away. It may have been three days since her hair was completely dry but as least it wasn't freezing to her scalp.

Isabelle knew that the real reason for Colin to need cheering up had nothing to do with the weather. Setting the cup on the bar, she asked, "What does Colin think is going to happen when the Bishop comes?"

Lavinia was turned away from Isabelle. She stood very still for a moment before she faced her saying, "He says he doesn't know. It will depend on how the Bishop feels about the church when he comes. Colin really doesn't talk about it very much."

"Claire says," began Isabelle, she paused to see how Lavinia reacted to Claire's name. In Isabelle's opinion the wrong person was being blamed for the break in Lavinia and Claire's friendship. Claire's room above the bar was cramped, hot and very noisy. The sparely furnished little house on the hill was open and airy. Claire would have been an idiot not to accept Mrs. Russell's offer to live there free. Lavinia should have realized that. Instead she had played right into Mrs. Russell's hands accusing Claire of being as narrow minded as the rest of the white community. What could Claire do but defend herself and her godmother who she loved? Isabelle believed that Mrs. Russell had very cleverly engineered the argument. Mrs. Russell felt that Claire was teetering on the edge of Hell working in the tavern. She believed it was her duty to get Claire away from the waterfront but she had never openly attacked Claire's friendships. In fact Isabelle herself had been welcomed, coolly but politely into the little house. She was quite sure that Mrs. Russell approved of her influence over Claire no more than she did Lavinia's. As near as Isabelle could work out it was Lavinia who had drawn the line in the sand and made Claire choose which side she was on. What Isabelle couldn't figure out was why.

Lavinia was waiting for Isabelle to continue. She stood with her hands folded in front of her and her head slightly cocked to the left.

"Claire says the talk around the tea tables shows that most people really like Colin but they are afraid he has gone a bit native."

"I suppose they will ask the Bishop to send him away for his own good." There was quite a lot of bitterness in her voice.

"Some of them will. Claire certainly won't," said Isabelle sharply.

"No, I suppose she won't," responded Lavinia, looking down at her hands on the bar. When she glanced up Isabelle saw the hot glint of anger in her dark eyes. "However, I'm sure Mrs. Russell will and that is whom the Bishop will listen to. She, the Titchmarshs and others with money. Colin has done a great deal of good here. I hate that he will be punished for doing the right thing."

Isabelle traced her finger around the rim of her teacup thoughtfully. Claire, David, Mauriri, Lianni, they all said the same thing. It was as if they were surprised that something so unfair was happening to a decent fellow like Colin. They ought to know better, she certainly did. Being decent was hardly protection against being treated badly. "So he thinks he will be sent away."

"He doesn't say what he thinks about it. He says it is useless to speculate and then he complains about the rain keeping him out of his garden."

"He probably would feel better if he had something to do with his hands."

Lavinia was pouring more tea into Isabelle's cup. Her thoughts distracted her and she spilled a little. The house, Vivi's house, she thought suddenly. There is so much work to be done inside the house. So much of the sort of work Colin enjoys.

"Hello, Lavinia, Miss Reed." The speaker was a tall dark man with thick black hair and surprisingly light eyes. He was a schooner captain originally from Samoa who normally moored his boat nearer to Papeete. Isabelle couldn't think of his name but she smiled back brightly. It was important to stay on good terms with the other captains.

"Could I get a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses for my friends, please," he said, gesturing towards a table near the door."

"Of course," responded Lavinia with a wide, welcoming smile.

As Isabelle watched her gather the bottle and glasses onto a tray and take them to the table. Lavinia stood there several minutes talking with the captain and his companions. She laughed at something he said. Isabelle thought about how lovely she was with her slender sarong wrapped figure and long thick hair.

Surely, thought Isabelle sipping her tea, Lavinia is ready for a new man by now. It's been years since her breakup with David. Too bad that nice French Naval Lt. followed that so closely. It isn't surprising she wasn't ready for anything really serious so soon but he was a nice fellow. A hell of a lot better than La Guerre, that bastard, she's lucky she shot him first. This captain looks her type, big, handsome, at least part Polynesian.

Lavinia walked back towards Isabelle smiling broadly. Isabelle finished off her tea and set the cup back on its saucer. Good for her, she thought assuming that the improvement in Lavinia's frame of mind was do to the attentions of the schooner captain.

How surprised she would have been to discover Lavinia was thinking about which general store would have the best price for white wash.

***

Several weeks passed. The rain slacked off and the winds once more became strong and reliable. David and Mauriri made short trips to deliver goods and pick up copra. Isabelle started to train her colt. She spent days with Seraut on Moorea watching their land be transformed into a vanilla plantation. Claire worked hard on the newspaper. She was grateful that Mrs. Russell spent the afternoons with her proofreading, a time consuming chore Claire found that she herself had little talent for. Claire was aware of missing Gilles Bradford in a pleasant way that let her look forward to his return without being distracted from her work. She was enjoying her daydreams about the life they could build together.

Meanwhile, Lavinia enlisted Colin's help in cleaning up the little house behind the bar. She found him enthusiastic and skilled in simply carpentry. They spent hours scrubbing and sanding the wide planks of the wooden floors. With the help of a few young men from the village they patched the walls and fixed the roof. They worked often in silence and Lavinia was aware that she was happy as long as she didn't think of the future.

But the future was there like a dark cloud on the horizon.

***

There was a buzz of excitement among those already seated in the church when Claire followed Mrs. Russell through the doorway on Sunday morning. She knew that the Bishop had arrived on Friday and was expected to preach the sermon today. She nodded to the cross on the altar and was about to take her seat when a small dark hand touched her arm. She looked around to see a little boy in a long white robe. She recognized him as one of the alter boys.

"Please, miss," he said, holding out a folded slip of paper to her, "It is from the Reverend."

"Thank you," said Claire as she took the paper. She sat down. For a few minutes she stared down at the note then with a feeling of foreboding she unfolded the paper.

     Claire,
            Please try to join us at Mauriri's today.
      Colin

"It there something wrong, my dear," asked Mrs. Russell, who was sitting beside her.

"No, but," responded Claire hesitantly. "I won't be able to go with you to the Bradford's for luncheon."

Mrs. Russell turned to her quickly. Her face was puzzled under shadow of the wide brim of her hat. "But, Claire, the Bishop will be there. Surely you--"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Russell, you will have to make my apologies. I must spend the afternoon with my friends."

Mrs. Russell was ready to argue the point but the music for the first hymn began at that moment and so with a concerned frown she turned away from Claire.

When the service ended Claire wished her godmother a pleasant afternoon and then left quickly before Mrs. Russell could say anything to her. She avoided the front door where Colin and the Bishop stood ready to greet the congregants. Slipping through the side door, she was relieved to hear Lianni call out to her.

"You are coming to our house today, yes," said Lianni brightly as she slipped her arm through Claire's.

"Yes," answered Claire, trying to sound as cheerful as Lianni. She knew that Colin's note meant he had something he wanted to tell them all together. She tried to convince herself that it was good news. She knew that he and the Bishop had spent nearly the whole of Saturday together.

Lianni did her level best to make it a normal Sunday afternoon. She gave the women tasks, cutting up vegetable, arranging fruit, setting the table on the porch. She told Mauriri and David to get a football game together. They said yes, they would as soon as Colin came but even after he arrived the most they did was kick the ball around for Tevaki to chase.

Their meal was served earlier than normal. Conversation was stilted; it came in sudden bursts and then faded away. Colin watched his friends and felt guilty. After the service he had prayed on his knees for more than an hour in front of the altar. He had asked God's help, not to change the Bishop's mind but to give him the words to explain the decision. He was still struggling to find the words.

"So, Colin, what is the Bishop saying?" asked Isabelle bluntly.

Colin wasn't surprised that the question came from Isabelle. He was grateful that she had brought up the subject, saving him from the effort. He looked around the table and realized that it had become quiet. That everyone had stopped eating except for Tevaki. Tahnee was looking at her parents, with a worried frown, she knew something was wrong. She glanced at Colin and he smiled at her.

"The Bishop feels that I would benefit from a sabbatical. He wants to send me back to England to go on retreat in a monastery in the Midlands."

"A monastery? With monks?" asked David, he was tapping his fork against the table lightly. He glanced at Mauriri and saw his friend frowning.

"Yes," nodded Colin. "But Anglican monks, not Catholic. The Bishop feels that I am in need of the companionship and teaching of those more skilled than I away from the distractions of life here. It is not an unusual thing. Most missionaries take sabbaticals to refresh themselves."

"Absolutely," said Claire eagerly. That wouldn't be horrible, she thought. Colin might enjoy a little time away to study, if it really is only a sabbatical. "We often had visiting missionaries visit our church at home. It is an excellent way for them to raise funds for their work, and more than that you would have an opportunity to talk about the culture here as it really is."

"So, that's not so bad," said Lianni with a happy smile. "You'll go back to England for a little while. You can see your family and learn more to teach us. And then you will come home and we will have a wonderful party to welcome you."

"You will come back won't you, Colin?" asked Mauriri slowly. If things were as simple as they were making it sound Colin's eyes would not be avoiding theirs.

"I um, I," Colin looked at Lavinia who was sitting very still with her hands on either side of her plate. She was looking straight ahead, not at him or anyone else. Her expression showed only mild interest.

Feeling his gaze she glanced in his direction. Their eyes met. Then Colin said very slowly. "I don't believe that the Bishop believes it would be in the best interest of the church here for me to return as its pastor."

They all started talking at once, all of them, but Lavinia and Colin who continued to look at each other for a moment. Colin's attention was demanded by Mauriri who insisted that the Bishop would change his mind once he had talked to more of the congregation than the Titchmarshs. Lavinia stood and started to collect the plates.

***

Lavinia walked home slowly by herself. They were all still talking around the table, all trying to understand what Colin's leaving would mean. She had nothing to say. She had work to do in the tavern to be ready for the next day.

So, she thought, he will leave. He will go back to England, that cold rainy place I have trouble believing exists at all. What a horrible shame, he has done such good work here. He has been such a good friend. We will all miss him so much. I will miss him so much.

She went through the back door of the tavern. It was dark and silent. Her footstep echoed on the stone floor. She took a linen towel from her basket and folded it carefully, leaving it on the table to be used in the morning. She put the basket on a hook by the door. Then carefully, one by one she put clean glasses on a tray and carried them into the tap room. She worked in the dark. This was her place; she had no need of light.

She set the tray on the bar. Briefly she ran her hand over the smooth, worn surface. It was clean and dry. Behind her the bottles gleamed faintly in the moonlight that slipped through the slats of the shutters. She could smell the beer in the keg under the bar. Everything was in order; everything was neat and clean, ready for another day. This was her world, all that she needed. Men had come into it and men had left it. She had remained separate and complete. It would be no different this time. He was a friend, a good friend. She would miss him but her world would go on.

She reached to take a glass from the tray to put it away. It slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. It shattered with a crash that was loud in the silence. Lavinia looked down on it, sharp shards of glass nearly invisible in the darkness.

A hot tear splashed onto to her hand, a gulping sob erupted from her throat; her knees gave way and she slid down the back of the bar. There, her head on her knees, she was overcome with weeping.

She knew not how much later strong arms gathered her up.

***

Isabelle had walked home with Claire. Neither of them had felt like talking. Once Isabelle had said good night, she felt impatience with the moroseness that had descended over her when she realized Colin really was going. It was nonsense for her to feel so sad. It wasn't as if Colin had died, he was just leaving. People left all the time.

She wondered where David had gone. Normally this time of night he could be found at the tavern but it was closed tonight. He must be disturbed by this turn of events. He was probably still talking to Mauriri, still looking for a different solution. Or maybe he is already on the boat she thought.

She considered briefly going to Henri's house. He would offer her a glass of good brandy and maybe they would play a hand of cards. That would cheer her up considerably. But then she thought of something Claire had said during their walk home. She was fretting about Lavinia, saying that Colin leaving would affect her most.

Isabelle considered this for a moment. She supposed it was true. Although Lavinia had said the least of any of them after Colin had made his announcement; in fact she had received the news as if she had been expecting it all along. Which she probably had been; they all should have been expecting it.

Isabelle remembered a conversation she had had with Lavinia when David was missing. Lavinia had been such a comfort to her that day perhaps now was the time to return the favor just in case Claire's rather romantic idea about Colin and Lavinia was true.

Isabelle turned towards the tavern with a sense of purpose. She mounted the outside stairs, her step quick and light. She stopped half way up.

Though the light was poor there was no mistaking the tall, broad shouldered slender hipped figure outside Lavinia's room for anyone but David. Lavinia's dark head was tucked against his shoulder, almost as if he were carrying her to bed.

Isabelle turned on her heel and ran down the stairs. Her first thought had been right; she needed a good French brandy.

***

David sat on the rattan chase lounge and settled the still crying Lavinia comfortably against his chest. He said nothing to her until well after her sobs had subsided. Then pulling a damp strand of long dark hair away from her cheek, he said lightly, "I am jealous. I know you never cried like this over me."

She smiled wanly and wiped her eyes with both hands. "Oh, David, I'm sorry to be making such a scene"

"There is nothing for you to be sorry about. There are a whole host of other people who should be begging forgiveness for this mess but not you."

"I don't know what came over me. It wasn't a surprise; he's said all along that someday they would send him away. Long before any of this started we all knew his time here was limited." She spoke quickly, her eyes avoiding his.

"Lavinia," he said, ducking his head to look into her dark eyes. "It's me; there is no reason to pretend. Go ahead and say it."

"Say what?" she asked, looking down at her hands knotted together in her lap.

"What's in your heart."

"That I can't bare the thought of him leaving. It actually hurts to think that he will go and not come back and I will go the whole rest of my life without seeing him. Without talking to him and hearing his voice. I—I ," she broke off and covered her mouth with her hand. Her dark eyes were shinny with unshed tears as she stared at David.

"Ask him to stay."

She closed her eyes. "Don't talk nonsense."

"Why would asking Colin to stay be nonsense? Colin would do anything for you, all you have to do is ask."

"Which is precisely why I can't ask," she said angrily. "He can't stay, he can't defy his bishop. He is a missionary, he must obey the church."

"He is a man who has as much right to look for happiness as the next man."

"Stop it." She struggled out of his arms and walked across the room. David watched her, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown. She stood next to the window with her arms wrapped tightly around her. She seemed to be shaking with anger.

"Lavinia, are you saying that the two of you have never talked about this? The two of you who have talked about everything from the proper way to grill a piece of tuna to how the world was created have never talked about what is between you?"

"We couldn't."

"Why the hell not?"

She turned around and glared at him. "Because if we talked about it then it would have made it real. And it would have been lost."

"I don't understand a word of what you're saying. There has been something between you and Colin for months, perhaps years. Something so real even I could see it."

She sighed; the hot fury appeared to drain out of her with her breath. She walked slowly across the room and sank down on her bed with her hands between her knees. "But don't you see, David, it was so slow to develop, so easy that I hardly noticed. We were just together. When I needed someone to talk to it was Colin I wanted to talk to. It was Colin I trusted with my feelings."

"It was also Colin who talked you out of going to France with Claude."

She smiled suddenly. "Yes, it was. And at the time I never suspected that he might want to keep me here for the same reason I want to keep him now."

"Tell him that," said David with a small smile.

"No." Lavinia shook her head in short jerks. "It isn't the same in the end. What he told me about France was true. I wouldn't have been accepted by Claude's family. I know that. Every word Colin told me was true. So even though his motives for telling me may have been complicated by his desire for me to stay on Tahiti what he told me was for my happiness."

"And if you ask him to stay," said David, leaning forward to look at her more closely, "would that not be for his happiness?"

"No, it would be for mine," she said sharply. She stood abruptly and almost stomped to the window. She pushed the window out and leaned forward into the night air.

David watched her with a growing sense of frustration. One minute she was so sad it seemed her heart was breaking, the next she was furious. He wanted to help but once again he simply couldn't understand what Lavinia wanted. Or if he was correct and what Lavinia wanted was Colin then why the hell didn't she go after him?

Lavinia turned around and leaned against the wall. She looked at David. How worried he looked, how concerned for her. His broad forehead was wrinkled; his generous mouth was drawn into a tight line. He had shoved his hands back through his hair and now it stood out slightly from his head.

Lavinia was as confused as David by the wild swings of her emotions. She wanted to hold on to the anger. She wanted to be angry with Colin; if she could do that then she could distance herself from the pain.

Why does the thought of Colin leaving hurt so much, she asked herself. I've been left before. David left and he is right I didn't cry as I have tonight. As sad as I was there was no despair, no desire to crawl into a hole and hide. Colin is my friend, not my lover. How can this be so much harder?

She looked at David who was waiting with uncharacteristic patience for her to say something. It would be so easy to cross the room to him, to fit herself snugly into his lap and slide her arms around his neck. It would be so easy to seek the comfort of his physical strength, to remember what it had been like when they were happy together. When they were happy together life had been simple and now life seemed so complicated. It would be so easy to hide in the memory of their past.

In the half light of the room she saw a question come into David's eyes, she wondered if her thoughts showed on her face. She sighed again. It would be so easy and it would be so wrong. The handsome, kind man sitting across from her was her friend. She knew whatever solace she found in his arms would be short lived, false. It was another man she wanted now, a man whose touch she barely knew, whose kiss she had never tasted.

She started to speak softly, "You said a few minutes ago that there was something so real between Colin and me that you could see it. But I never saw it for what it was. I used to talk to him about you. I was still talking about you when I was thinking about leaving with Claude. And he always listened. You know I use to think I liked him because he never lectured me about my life, how I choose to live it. He never threatened me with some Christian vision of hell. He just listened and then told me to follow my heart. It was such a wonderful thing to have such a good friend. These last weeks, knowing that the Bishop was coming, knowing that he could be sent away, I felt sad, I felt angry that I was going to lose my friend. And right up until this evening I told myself that he was just my good friend when all the sudden I realized who I was really going to lose." Her voice broke off with a sob.

David stood and took a few steps towards her. She raised her hand to hold him off.

She regained control of her voice and went on. "I suppose I kept myself from recognizing my feelings because it has always been impossible. A woman like me has no place in the life of a man like Colin."

"A woman like you? Do you mean a beautiful, compassionate, intelligent, independent woman like you?"

Lavinia shrugged. "A woman with a past. A Polynesian woman with a past I'm not ashamed of but it would always mean that I would be an outsider in his world. You know that, David, you know I would never be accepted."

"Would you want to be?"

"No" she answered quickly, knowing that what she said was only partly true. Because in truth who didn't want to be accepted by everyone simply for who they were. It wasn't that she wanted to have tea with Mrs. Bradford but that she wanted to be invited. "But that too means that anything more than friendship between Colin and I was impossible. If I were like Lianni, Polynesian but Christian maybe then there would have been some chance for us. But even our friendship has done him harm. You know that what happened with Omai is only the final blow. People like the Titchmarsh woman have long thought he was unacceptable as a missionary because he is soft on the old ways. The old traditions that I have taught him about."

"All things he wanted to know about, all knowledge that he cherishes. You know that he does."

"Yes, but if it weren't for his friendship with me he might be able to stay. It is really because of me that he is being sent away from a place that he loves. He has done so much good here. He has been so happy; he says he has been happier here than he has ever been in his life. And now it is partly my fault that he will be sent away." She wiped her eyes with both hands.

"Lavinia, you have to talk to him," insisted David. "Women always think that men know things we don't know. I'll wager my ship that Colin has no clue you are breaking your heart over him. You sat at the table and listened with no expression on your face. I heard you tell him good-night; you said something about marketing tomorrow. How was he supposed to know you were coming home to cry?"

"I didn't know. I don't remember saying goodnight to any of you," she said softly, then she turned to look at him thoughtfully. "How did you know? Why did you follow me?"

David raised his hand; he open and shut his fist in a gesture of uncertainty. "I honestly don't know. Maybe because you were too calm. The rest of us were all talking, all demanding that he tell us what we could do to change the Bishop's mind. But you were so quiet. I just thought I should check on you because it wasn't like you. You always respond to a problem by making plans, by getting the rest of us organized. I just couldn't believe you would accept this so calmly."

"It was very kind of you to care so much."

"You mean not at all like me to be paying so much attention to someone else," he said with a quick smile. "Please talk to Colin. I'll walk you over there right now."

"No," she said, shaking her dark head. "I won't do that to him."

"Lavinia, you can't think that he doesn't feel just as strongly about you. My God, it is in the man's face every time he looks you. Look, Colin isn't like some other men you know who have a bad habit of expecting women to fall in love with them and throw themselves at their feet. He doesn't realize things; he doesn't know things about himself. He underestimates himself and other people underestimate him and then when it is important he comes through." For a moment David was overcome with a memory, the ocean washing over him, pain and fear and confusion. Through it all was Colin's voice whispering the words of a Tahitian prayer, his arm tight around David's chest. They both could have died that night. David knew he would have died if Colin hadn't have found the courage to make that swim.

"You have to tell him how you feel. Give him a chance to tell you how he feels. Be honest with each other."

"No, no, it would only make it worse. I don't doubt what you are saying. I know he," she paused for a moment and then went on with confidence. "I know he loves me. I know that he comes to the tavern to be near me. But, David, there are reasons why he didn't act upon his feelings. He is who he is. A Christian missionary, his whole life dedicated to an ideal. He must do what they ask of him; his training won't let him do anything else. If I asked him to stay he would have to choose."

"I think Colin would choose you, choose his life here where he is happy."

"And if he gave up the mission to which he has dedicated his life could he be happy? Would he still see himself as the same man?"

"Maybe he would see himself as a better man, a happier man."

Lavinia reached out and touched his cheek. She smiled sadly. "You've changed. You've grown philosophical. But I think you are wrong. I think it is better for him not to know exactly how I feel. I think it is better for him to leave and be able to remember the beauty of our friendship. He would never want to hurt me. I mustn't let him know how much his leaving will."

She looked at him more closely and saw skepticism in his eyes. "Don't say anything to him, David. Not about me. This is so hard for him. Please, don't make him worry about me. Promise."

David sighed deeply. He still regretted the last such promise he'd made. He pulled her against him. This time she didn't resist; she needed the comfort of her friend's arms.

***

They cantered along an open stretch of beach just as the morning sun rose over the craggy tops of the green mountains, the horses' hooves digging deep into the damp sand. Isabelle slowed Dante slightly and let Claire go ahead of her so that she could watch her on the new horse. She smiled with gratification. Claire might never be ready for a steeplechase but considering she didn't know how to get on or off at the time of her first lesson Isabelle was very pleased with the sight ahead of her. The horse was a sturdy animal with a glossy dark brown coat. Claire sat deep in her saddle, her shoulders relaxed and her hands low. Her long honey colored hair flew like a flag behind her.

"He's wonderful!" exclaimed Claire as she reined in her horse to a walk along the edge of the water.

"He's yours," declared Isabelle with satisfaction. She had been searching for the right mount for Claire for better than a year.

"Oh," said Claire with an excited gasp. "Oh, I wish I could have him but you know I can't afford to feed him or pay his board."

A smile lit Isabelle's pretty face. "Gilles can. This fellow here is just what you need for hacking about the plantation."

Claire giggled and leaned forward to pat the horse's damp neck. "He hasn't asked me yet."

"He will. Probably as soon as they get back from China."

"Maybe. That's what Mrs. Russell thinks."

Isabelle dropped her reins and twisted her thick sun streaked dark hair into a knot at the back of her head. Dante continued to walk calmly next to the other horse. "I'll bet she is sewing your wedding dress."

"Oh, no, that would be bad luck before he asked. She wouldn't take a risk like that."

Isabelle cocked her head to watch Claire. Her tone with light and playful but there was something not right. Isabelle had been aware of there being something not quite right about Claire from the moment she'd seen her marching down the beach after Jack McGonnigal had broken things off with her. Although she had never questioned that Claire had been badly hurt by his cruelty Isabelle had believed that time and certainly the attentions of a handsome, eligible, young man like Gilles Bradford would fix her up very quickly. Isabelle wanted to blame Mrs. Russell and her absurd insistence on the proprieties for what she could only think of as a sad change in Claire. However she knew that Claire still did what was important to her, the newspaper and that Mrs. Russell had been surprising supportive of her efforts.

"Isabelle, would you marry Gilles?" asked Claire, looking forward between the ears of her mount.

The question took Isabelle by surprise but she answered quickly. "Of course, a cotton plantation, interests in mines and pearl beds, not to mention Gilles's own business with Henri. I'd be ordering my wedding dress from Paris on his bill," said Isabelle, her light eyes glowing with mischief. She looked at Claire and saw no amusement in her face. Isabelle spoke more soberly. "You know, Gilles isn't the least interested in a woman like me. He is really much too nice a fellow. Can you imagine me sitting down to tea with Mrs. Titchmarsh?"

A smile touched Claire's lips briefly. "No, I suppose not."

"Are you thinking of refusing him?"

Claire shook her head. "No, of course not. Gilles is a wonderful fellow, generous and kind, excellent company and there are all of those advantages you just listed. A girl would be a fool to refuse Gilles. Gilles is exactly the kind of man I've been looking for all my life. I'm extraordinarily lucky to have found him, especially here on Tahiti where I'm so happy." She spoke very calmly, still looking ahead.

"Hey," said Isabelle, reaching out to take hold of the rein of Claire's horse. She brought both horses to a halt. "I don't need convincing but I think you may. Please, Claire, tell me what's wrong?"

"There isn't anything."

"Claire?"

"It silly," said Claire, shaking her head. She touched the horse gently with her leg so that he walked on. "Absurdly silly."

"Good, tell me so I can laugh." Isabelle pushed Dante to catch up with them

A faint blush came to Claire's cheeks as she turned to look at Isabelle and said, "I don't care if he kisses me."

"What?"

"I told you it was silly."

"But what do you mean, you find him--" said Isabelle, struggling to find a word. It was true that she herself found Gilles a little too good humored, too dandy like and lacking in ambition to be irresistible but she certainly didn't find him repulsive.

"Oh, please, don't misunderstand," said Claire immediately, her face flaming red. "It is very nice when he does kiss me. And I'm not the least concerned about, well, you know, marriage and all that it entails."

"Then what?" asked Isabelle with her dark brows lifted into question marks. Then her face resolved into a frown. "Damn it, Claire, this is about Jack."

"No, Isabelle," said Claire very firmly, her brown eyes holding Isabelle's with a steady gaze. "It's not about Jack. Except for that incident on the wharf I've barely seen Jack since that day he, well, in a very long time. It is just that it surprises me I don't crave Gilles's touch, his caresses. Everything else is so perfect, it is a silly thing."

Claire gathered up her reins and looked ahead. She spoke softly, "Please, Isabelle, don't look at me that way. You look so disappointed in me."

"Not in you," answered Isabelle frowning. "Don't think that. I just wanted you to be happy."

"I am. Really I am. It is just that I thought perhaps I was a sensual kind of woman after all. I thought that living here had taught me to value my senses, the taste of the fruit, the scents of the flowers, the sounds of the sea, the warmth of the sun. I thought all of it had made me in to someone who would relish the touch of the man who loved her. I realize now that it was a silly, romantic notion. I should never have said anything."

They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Had there been anyone to observe them they would have made a pretty sight, two women with their lovely hair blowing in the morning breeze, the sleek horses walking along the foamy edge of the water, the turquoise bay beyond them.

"What brought all of this on?" asked Isabelle. "What really happened on the wharf?"

"Jack pushed me out of the way of the cotton bales," Claire answered flatly. "That's all."

"Claire, look," said Isabelle seriously. She leaned forward over Dante's neck; her light eyes sought Claire's. "I know I have been really harsh about Jack. I hate him for how he hurt you. But I will listen to you talk about him. I think that is the only way you are going to get him out of your head."

"But this isn't about Jack," insisted Claire stubbornly. She was sure that if she could convince Isabelle then she could convince herself because this faint feeling of disappointment simply couldn't be about Jack McGonnigal. She wouldn't be able to bear it.

Isabelle wasn't convinced. She was by nature an observer and she had noticed more than once that while Claire and Gilles appeared to be very comfortable together they rarely touched. When Claire had been involved with Jack, Claire stealing kisses when she thought no one was watching had often amused Isabelle.

She was tempted to let the matter drop, but she felt a responsibility towards Claire she didn't remember feeling towards anyone for a very long time. "Tell me what happened on the wharf, tell me what you felt."

Claire hesitated. Then with a deep sigh she said, "I was waiting for Gilles. He'd met me at the paper and we were walking back to the house for luncheon. He said he wanted to stop and see how the loading of the cotton bales was preceding. I waited at the end of the wharf while he talked to Jack. Jack never even looked in my direction. Gilles had just walked back to me when I heard Mauriri call out. Gilles told me to jump as he did, I wasn't sure why. My hat brim was so wide I couldn't really see anything when I looked up. I heard David shout at me and I realized I was in some sort of danger but I got tangled in my skirts when I tried to jump. And then--" Claire heard the change in her voice. She had started off so calmly, just telling a story but now her voice was higher, faster. She swallowed hard. "Something hit me and I was falling through the air. The next thing I remember is that it was suddenly dark; my face was pressed against warm, damp skin. I should have been afraid but I wasn't, I knew I was safe. He had his arms tight around me, my head against his chest. I couldn't see anything but I knew it was Jack."

"Oh, chérie , I know it must have felt very romantic."

"But it didn't mean anything," said Claire, pleased to have gotten her voice under control again. "I realize that. I realize that he would have done the same for you or Gilles, or old Harry. I'm sure for a complete stranger. I know it doesn't mean a thing but" she sighed and shook her head. What was the use of pretending? At least to Isabelle she could tell the truth. "For that one moment it felt so right. And then after David and Mauriri had pulled us out from under the wharf Jack wouldn't even look at me. He just mumbled something about hoping I was unhurt when I tried to thank him. I thought I had put it all behind me. I want to embrace what Gilles is offering me, this wonderful opportunity to build a life, have a family. I really do care for him."

"I know. It's just he isn't Jack. He isn't the man whose touch made you forget everything else in the world. Damn it, Claire, I don't know what to tell you." I am going to kill Jack McGonnigal with my bare hands, thought Isabelle savagely.

"Because you suffer from the same problem?"

Isabelle frowned, she thought for a moment of the warmth of David's lips when he kissed her when they had won the boat race. Yes, well, she would have to admit that no other man's touch had quite the same effect that David's did and no one could ever have accused her of a lack of sensuality. "Look it is just some primitive thing. You remember that book I gave Colin for his birthday when we wrecked on the reef? The Origin of The Species by a fellow named Darwin?"

"Yes, of course. Darwin believes that animal life has adapted over the millenniums by the strongest individuals being the ones to survive and mate. But I don't understand what-"

"Just think about it, the truth is you are much better off with a nice fellow like Gilles who has all the resources he could ever want. But if in our lives how strong a man was made the different between living and dying--"

"Yes," said Claire, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. She remembered the pungent scent of Jack's sweating body. It should have been unpleasant, it wasn't. Instead it was the one moment she could identify where she had been completely happy, completely certain of being exactly where she was meant to be in months. Knowing that such a response to Jack's touch was not only illogical but stupid did not change how she felt. She opened her eyes and looked at Isabelle.

Isabelle shrugged her slender shoulders. Her light gray-green eyes were sympathetic. "I guess you are more sensual than you thought you were."

They lapsed again in to silence. Each lost in her own thoughts. Isabelle looked out to sea and tried hard to banish the vision of David and Lavinia wrapped in each other's arms. Anger, disappointment and, if she were honest, jealousy pushed her halfway up the hilly path to Henri Seraut's house when she left the tavern. She got close enough to see the light in his window. She didn't doubt that he would be pleased to see her. But as she got closer her sense of self protection overcame other emotions. If she showed up on Henri's doorstep unexpected at night he would be very quick to jump to conclusions about why she was there. Conclusions she was not prepared to deal with. At least not yet. So she had turned on her heel and gone home to sleep badly.

"I'm making too much of it, you know," said Claire finally. " I've known women all my life who I believed to be happily married and yet were never once seen to show affection towards their husbands. It doesn't mean that they weren't very affectionate in private."

"But?"

"There is no but, Isabelle," said Claire coolly as she looked ahead again between her horse's ears. "It isn't as though I choose Gilles over Jack. They were never in competition. I barely knew Gilles when Jack broke off our romance if one can call it that. Everything about my relationship with Jack was built on lies. He lied in his letters, he went to great lengths to deceive me into believing that he cared about me even after I rejected his attentions and then when I was thoroughly ensnared in his deception he delivered the coup de grace. Only a masochist would continue to torture herself over a man who cared as little for her as Jameson Jackson McGonnigal does for me."

Isabelle listened to Claire thoughtfully. She tried to take comfort in the cold-blooded logic of what Claire was saying. After all she prided herself on being able to separate her feelings from her actions when the situation called for it. It should be, she thought, like watching how Claire's riding skills have so dramatically improved. I should be pleased that she isn't wallowing in self-pity, that she is not wasting her life mooning over Jack but looking forward to a good life with Gilles. I should be happy for her, I should be proud of her. If only it hadn't cost her that lightness of spirit that had her dance along the street with happiness I would be.

"After all, it isn't like David and Henri vying for you." Claire was pleased to have a way to shift the conversation away from Jack. It did her no good to think about Jack, there was no reason to think she should have handled things differently. The entire experience had been nothing but an illusion.

"What? Oh, don't talk nonsense. David isn't vying for me."

"Really?" asked Claire, her eye brows raised in a look of skepticism. "David seems terribly interested in your partnership with Henri in the vanilla plantation."

"He is just concerned that I won't be paying enough attention to his business," stated Isabelle sourly. Dante perked up his ears, ever alert to changes in his mistress.

"I see," said Claire slowly, a small smile playing around her lips. "So your saying yes to Henri didn't have anything to do with how David would feel about you spending more time with an attractive man."

Isabelle burst out laughing startling the horses in to a brief trot. It seemed the only appropriate response to being so completely found out. "Fat lot of good it did me. The only woman David seems interested in these days is Lavinia."

Claire's mouth fell open in surprise. "You're not serious, are you? You don't believe that David and Lavinia would become involved again, do you?"

Isabelle shrugged and looked out over the flat surface of the turquoise bay. "Why not?"

Claire frowned. She leaned forward in the saddle, readjusting her seat. She was giving herself time to think. She spoke slowly, "I don't know exactly, it just seemed like they had both moved on. That the nature of their relationship had changed into friendship."

"A pretty close friendship from that clench I saw them in."

"When was this?" asked Claire, watching Isabelle's face closely. She saw tension around her normally mobile mouth. She was really upset, hurt by whatever she had seen.

"Last night, after Colin's big announcement."

"Don't you think that explains it?" asked Claire anxiously.

"What do you mean?"

"She and Colin are very close. She must be upset about the notion of him leaving. God knows I am." For a moment Claire felt like weeping. Just a few months ago she might have known the answers to her questions. She would still have been working in the bar, still in Lavinia's confidence. She would know if she was right in her assumption that Lavinia's feelings for Colin had grown far stronger that what could be regarded only as friendship. She would have known if something had changed between Lavinia and David that would give credence to what Isabelle thought she saw. But now she saw them only from a distance. And besides, she thought, swallowing the sob that threaten to erupt from her throat, I am a poor judge of romance, even my own.

"So upset she had to throw herself into David's arms?" asked Isabelle crossly.

"Yes, possibly," said Claire slowly. She was determined to get her emotions under control. For a moment she concentrated again on the horse; she made sure her hands were low and her heels were pointed down. When she was sure she was calm she said, "Isabelle, that's makes more sense than the idea that they are lovers again. I think you should just ask David why he was there."

Isabelle's mouth fell open. "You can't be serious. Why would I ask something like that?" She didn't care for the direction of the conversation. She had tried in the past to talk to David. She had found him all too willing to be honest with her.

"Because you want to know what is really going on. And while you're talking to him you could tell him that the only thing between you and Henri Seraut is a business arrangement. That's true isn't it?"

"Yes," said Isabelle sharply. She gathered up her slack reins and prepared to end the discussion by cantering down the beach.

"Even though Henri is clearing courting you?"

Claire's choice of words took her by surprise. She dropped her reins again and Isabelle turned to cock her head at Claire. Amusement sparkled in her light eyes. "Courting me?"

"Champagne dinners by moonlight."

Isabelle laughed. "Doesn't courting usually lead to marriage? You can't think that is what Henri has in mind. After all he is not Gilles."

Claire blushed. It would be naïve to think that Henri Seraut had what most people would consider honorable intentions towards Isabelle. "But clearly he is interested in you. In more than just a business relationship," she insisted doggedly.

"Well," responded Isabelle still giggling. "If he isn't then I'm certainly losing my touch."

Claire's brown eyes flashed with indignation. She was trying to have a serious conversation. She was confident that Isabelle had no illusions about Seraut's intentions. What she feared was that Seraut was a distraction Isabelle used to keep from thinking about David. "But you aren't interested in--"

"In an affair? You can say it, Claire, without being held morally responsible."

"Then answer the question. Do you want to have an affair Henri?'

"Maybe."

"Isabelle!" Cried Claire so loudly that her horse broke into a fast trot. It took her a few seconds to get him under control again. When she did she circled back to where Isabelle was waiting on Dante.

"Why wouldn't I want to have an affair with Henri? He is a very attractive man. He treats me well. And someday he could be rich. I would say that having an affair with Henri would be quite sensible on my part."

"But David--."

"The only thing between David and I is a business arrangement just like with Henri."

Claire rode beside her in silence for several minutes. Isabelle was pleased with herself. She had managed to cast both relationships in the light of business.

"I know why you are teasing me like this," said Claire in a very gentle voice.

Isabelle felt a prickle of nervousness run across the back of her neck. She felt as if she was about to be exposed. She looked at her friend and saw nothing but concerned affection in her brown eyes.

Claire spoke slowly. "You really are upset about seeing Lavinia and David together. But you are not going to convince me that you see David and Henri in the same light. I was with you when we heard David was missing. And I was with you when we knew he was safe. Your feelings for David go far beyond partnership, beyond friendship."

The horses continued their steady pace towards the town but neither woman was paying any attention to them. They looked at each other and silently acknowledged the depth of their friendship. Claire had been with Isabelle when she couldn't cry over David and she had been there when she could. It was true that Claire knew what was in her heart concerning David. Just as Isabelle knew that Claire was honestly looking forward to a happy, productive life with Gilles Bradford; but that something small essential part of Claire's heart had been broken by Jack's betrayal of her love.

Isabelle sighed and smiled sadly. "Claire, you know as well as I do, a person can't be in a relationship by herself. My feelings for David, well, they aren't really the point."

"But you and David," began Claire. She was hoping to find the words that would give Isabelle courage to overcome experience but the words would not come. Her own experiences got in the way. "Oh, hell," she groaned in exasperation.

"Exactly, oh, hell," responded Isabelle sadly, then her cheeky grin flashed and she said defiantly, "I'll race you back."

Continued in Part 3

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