It was an ordinary day when Hebe Carlton first set eyes
upon the handsomest man in Malta and took an instant
dislike to him. Up until that Wednesday, life had seemed
to consist mainly of ordinary days: after it, looking
back, she could recall few that were.
Hebe's reaction to the stranger was not, as she would have
readily admitted, because she was impervious to good looks
in a man, or to the appeal of a smart military uniform.
Nor was she a young lady given to making instant
judgements about people — experience had taught her that
they were usually far more interesting than one thought at
first sight. But there was something about this man that
she could not quite pin down yet which disturbed her, and
she watched intently as he strolled towards their house on
the shady side of the square in company with Commodore Sir
Richard Latham.
The Commodore, the intended of Hebe's widowed stepmama,
was dropping in for luncheon as was his habit when he
could escape from the demands of squadron headquarters
down at the dockside, and he was already somewhat later in
arriving than was usual.
The two men were deep in conversation, but paused before
crossing the road, which gave Hebe the opportunity for a
more careful scrutiny of the stranger. She then decided
that she liked him even less than at first sight, for an
expression of severity and utter seriousness sat austerely
on regular, tanned features. Hebe indulged the fantasy
that he was one of the dispossessed Knights of St John,
exiled from their island only a few years before by
Napoleon, and still negotiating their return with the new
English overlords.
An interest in hellfire, celibacy and the writings of the
more rigorous early Church Fathers would suit him, she
decided, curling up more snugly in her eyrie and enjoying
her fantasy. The graceful whitewashed house with its green
shutters and curving iron balconies possessed a number of
deeply embrasured windows, each with its seat, and Hebe
was often to be found curled up in one with a book, or
watching with lively curiosity the passing scene below.
"Hee...bee!" her stepmama called impatiently from the foot
of the stairs. "Is the Commodore coming or not?" She had
dispatched Hebe to keep a lookout ten minutes ago, at the
usual time for his arrival, so that she could ensure that
Cook put the final touches to luncheon at exactly the
right moment. Mrs Carlton was a firm believer in the maxim
that a lady could not be too careful when attaching the
interest of a gentleman, and attention to his every
comfort was of prime importance.
"Yes, Mama." Hebe uncurled herself and ran to the landing
to deliver the news. "He is on the other side of the
square with an army officer — it looks as though they are
both coming this way."
Mrs Carlton's uptilted face became thoughtful. "A young
officer?" she enquired. "Umm." Hebe thought about
it. "Late twenties, perhaps thirty."
She was not surprised when Mrs Carlton, with a toss of her
blonde curls, picked up a pair of snips from the hall
table and opened the door. "Perhaps a flower or two for
the table," she said casually, stepping outside.
Hebe sighed and made her way back to the window. Any new
officer upon the scene — naval or army — attracted her
mama's interest, and provoked concentrated efforts to make
Hebe behave in such a way that he would instantly perceive
what an eligible catch she was. The monk, for that was how
she was beginning to think of him, was about to be
subjected to Mrs Carlton's skills. Hebe rather suspected
she had met her match with this man.
The Commodore and the severe stranger were still on the
other side of the street. It appeared to Hebe that they
were discussing business, for the army man had a leather
portfolio under his arm, which he offered to the senior
officer.
At that point Sir Richard became aware of Mrs Carlton.
Without leaning out Hebe could not see her, but she was
sure she was making a show of clipping bougainvillea
blossoms while posing decoratively against the climbers
that framed the doorway. The Commodore removed his cocked
hat and made a little bow and the other man did likewise.
With his hat off Hebe had a much better view of a dark
head, classically perfect features, a strong chin and a
severe, well-modelled mouth. Definitely a monk, she
decided. Most men on sighting Mrs Sara Carlton for the
first time allowed an expression of appreciation to cross
their faces, but not this one. At that moment he abruptly
looked up, as though he had sensed he was being watched.
The upward glance was rapid, but Hebe started back as
though he had touched her. The impression that she was
looking at a priest vanished entirely: this was a hunting
bird, a hawk who knew he was being observed and was poised
to strike whether the watcher was prey or enemy. She added
the confused impression of piercing blue eyes and dark
brows to her mental picture as she backed away from the
glass. No wonder he had made her feel uneasy at first
sight. Why, she felt like a sparrow who had just seen the
falcon stoop to the kill! Hebe spent a moment calming her
breathing, which was suddenly short, wondering at herself
for such a reaction.
He could not possibly have seen her she reassured herself,
hastily running a comb through her hair and twitching her
hem straight. Mama would not be at all pleased if she came
down to luncheon looking less than pin neat.
Mrs Carlton had long since reconciled herself to the fact
that her stepdaughter was not a beauty, nor even pretty.
She was even resigned to the fact that Hebe stubbornly
refused to compensate for this disaster by employing wiles
to intrigue, or displays of domestic virtue to attract
older men who might be looking for a conformable wife to
make them comfortable. However, Mrs Carlton was still
fighting the battle to make Hebe look and behave like a
young lady at all times. Sometimes she succeeded, and just
now Hebe felt not the slightest desire to appear in any
way out of the ordinary and attract that hard stare.
She ran down the stairs then slowed, hesitating on the
wide polished boards of the hall to hear what was being
said in the elegant sea-green reception room. "We are
always prepared for Sir Richard to take potluck with us at
luncheon," Mrs Carlton was saying. "It is not the
slightest imposition, Major. I would be delighted if you
would stay."
"In that case, ma'am," a deep, cool voice replied, "I
would be very pleased to accept your kind invitation."
Hardly an unseemly show of enthusiasm, Hebe decided.
Still, he was polite enough, if chilly. Doubtless the
Commodore had already said something that alerted the
other man to the fact that Mrs Carlton was his intended
wife, so the monk was presumably feeling safe enough, even
in the company of a voluptuous blonde who could well pass
for the thirty-three years she admitted to. Let us see
what he makes of the plain single daughter, she thought
with a wry twist of her lips.
"There you are, Hebe dear," Mrs Carlton cried as she
hesitated in the doorway. "My stepdaughter Hebe, Major,"
she added.
Just in case, Hebe thought resignedly, he thinks she is
old enough to be my mother, or that she is responsible for
such an ordinary-looking girl. She was very fond of Sara
Carlton, but sometimes she could...
She disciplined her face and allowed the introduction to
continue. "This is Major the Honourable Alex Beresford,
Hebe."
Hebe dropped a neat little curtsy and observed the elegant
bow she received in return.
"Miss Carlton." Again that cool, deep voice and
expressionless face, although now she was close to him she
realised that his eyes were startlingly blue and that it
was the hawk, not the monk, who was watching her through
them.
She was piqued both by his indifference and by her own
sudden surge of curiosity about Major Beresford. Not, of
course, that she was attracted to him, although the effect
of his voice was to send a strange tingle down her spine.
No, it was simply that the army officers of her
acquaintance were generally a friendly, gregarious body of
men. Occasionally one met a shy or awkward one, or a rake
best avoided by a single girl, but on the whole they
mingled cheerfully with the resident English community,
pleased to be invited into private homes and ready to
partake fully in local society.
"Shall we go through to the dining room?" Mrs Carlton
asked, taking Sir Richard's arm and making her way to the
door, thus neatly leaving Major Beresford little option
but to offer his arm to Hebe.
He escorted her efficiently, and silently, to the place
indicated by his hostess, pulled out her chair and took
his own place by her side. After the first flurry of
dishes being passed, Mrs Carlton addressed a question
about a recently widowed lady of their acquaintance
directly to the Commodore. Hebe waited with some amusement
to see whether the Major was going to fulfil his social
obligations and talk to her.
"You have been living on the island long, Miss Carlton?"
It was perfectly polite and a reasonable question in the
circumstances. There was not a hint of boredom in his
voice, but Hebe sensed he was deeply impatient at finding
himself trapped in this situation.
Her stepmother, when making one of her frequent lists of
Hebe's faults, placed curiosity a close second after harum-
scarum behaviour. Hebe failed to understand why this was
frowned upon. People intrigued her. She had a deep concern
for the affairs of their servants, her friends knew they
could confide in her and find someone who entered into
their every feeling — even if she asked an awful lot of
questions in the process — and watching complete strangers
was an abiding fascination. She did not gossip, she never
pried, she simply watched and listened and asked
questions, then followed with interest as events unfolded,
helping if she was offered the opportunity, rejoicing or
agonising as the case may be if she were not.
So why was this officer so reticent, so cold? Thinking of
him as an interesting mystery, rather than a severe,
rather frightening man, made sitting next to him easier.
She offered him a plate of bread and butter as she
answered his question. "I have been here three years —
since my father was posted to Malta with his squadron. My
mother died ten years ago and he married again four years
later. Where circumstances allowed my stepmama and I
followed him from naval base to naval base. Then he died
two years ago of a fever and we have remained here ever
since."
There, she thought, that's a nice full answer with lots of
dates, now you say something.
"Indeed?" 'Possibly we will return to England after Mama
marries Sir Richard, our plans are not yet certain. So
much depends on the disposition of the squadron."
Silence. "It will be interesting to see England again
after so long."
"I am sure it will."
He cut his bread and Hebe found herself watching his hand
on the knife. Long, tanned fingers that looked as if they
were more used to gripping a sword hilt, strong ten-dons
showing sharp against the skin, a long-healed scar across
the knuckles, white against the tan.
"And has your regiment been long on the island, Major? I
was not aware of any new troop landings." She could not
place his uniform at all.
He answered her question with one of his own. "Do you
always take such a close interest in troop movements, Miss
Carlton?" One dark brow rose slightly and the corner of
his mouth curved in what, if his eyes had shown any
warmth, she might have read as a smile.
So, he thought she was one of those giddy girls who
hankered after any man in a uniform, did he? Hebe bit the
inside of her lip to stop herself making a brisk retort
and instead smiled brightly back at him, wishing she had
the nerve to tell him he need not worry, he was the last
man on Malta whose interest she would wish to attach.
"Why, no more than anyone else with reasonable powers of
observation, sir. All of us exiles from England know which
warships have docked, which regiments have landed, who has
left, who has arrived. These comings and goings control
the arrival of news from home, the mails, the company we
ask to dinner or meet at parties."
Major Beresford was helping himself to cold fish,
apparently unmoved by her smile. "A somewhat restricted
social life on such a small island."