kill some strange winged
creature lying at his feet. The young man himself also possessed
wings, she saw, a splendid pair, tipped with gold.
'That is our protector, mademoiselle —St Michael the Archangel, for
whom the plantation is named.' Mrs Brandon's voice was cool and
slightly amused.
'I see,' Christina said quite untruthfully.
Mrs Brandon smiled. 'I did tell you there was a story about it, did I
not? It dates from the seventeenth century when the first family built
a house here and began to grow sugar. It was all slave labour in those
days, you understand. Well, one batch of new slaves brought disease
with them. It spread over the island like wildfire—like the plague, it
was. People were dying like flies. No remedy, -no precaution seemed
able to check it. So, as a last resort you might say, the islanders turned
to prayer and to St Michael—they were all of the Catholic faith in
those days.'
'And did it work?' Christina asked. 'And why St Michael anyway?'
'Because when plague had ravaged Italy during the years of the Early
Church, the Archangel was said to have appeared on a church in
Rome sheathing his sword as a sign that the plague would end.' Mrs
Brandon's tone was bored.
'Did the same thing happen here?'
'There was no apparition, but the plague vanished almost overnight.
The islanders declared it was a miracle, and since that time the
plantation has been called Archangel in honour of St Michael. It is a
tradition we have maintained. The statue is very old. It was brought
from France as a private thanksgiving by the family.' Mrs Brandon
spoke as if she had learned her lines from a guide book of doubtful
validity.
They moved past the statue and up the stairs. Mrs Brandon halted
when they reached the gallery. 'Show Mademoiselle to her room,
Madame Christophe. I am going to rest. Tell Eulalie to bring me a
tray of iced coffee in an hour's time.'
Christina followed the housekeeper's erect figure along the gallery
and through an archway. This led, she discovered, from the main part
of the house to a wing running towards the rear. Two thirds of the
way along the wide corridor, Madame Christophe halted before a pair
of louvred double doors which she pushed open.
Christina gazed almost unbelievingly at the room within. The walls
and ceiling were a warm, vibrant honey colour, but the rest of the
decor—carpet, silk curtains and hangings —were in cream. Her
immediate impression was that it was all much too luxurious for a
hired companion who might not even be going to stay.
'Mademoiselle does not care for the ,room?' Madame Christophe had
noticed her instinctive hesitation.
'On the contrary.' Christina made a little helpless gesture. 'It's-the
most beautiful room I ever saw in my life. But does Madame—I mean
Mrs Brandon really intend it for me?'
The housekeeper gave her a calm, rather reproving look. 'She leaves
such details as the allocation of rooms to me,' she said with a faint
shrug. 'But I can assure you she would approve my choice. Louis has
brought up your cases. I will send Eulalie to unpack for you.'
'Oh, no—thank you,' Christina said hastily. 'I'd really rather do that
for myself. I—always have.'
Madame Christophe gave her an enigmatic look, then turned to leave.
'But circumstances change, can they not?1 she remarked over her
shoulder. 'Perhaps Mademoiselle should also be prepared to change
with them.'
The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Christina in sole
occupation of her new domain. Her clothes, she decided after a hasty
inspection, would occupy about a fifth of the row of louvred
wardrobes which occupied the length of one wall. Guests who usually
stayed in this room probably brought with them an entire Paris
collection rather than two small suitcases. A door in the corner
revealed a small but well equipped bathroom tiled in jade green, and
for the next half hour Christina revelled in the shower she had
dreamed of, then,