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The Suitors Excerpt from Gentle Author |
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Eisabeth St. Clair arrived in style, it
should be said, on a rainy March afternoon. Reaching the hamlet of Bamfield
in those days could hardly be called a pleasure trip. The word was soon out: “Spruce up, young men, a belle is among us.” Her appearance caused a flutter in the small
community with fewer than two hundred residents. In no time did she thrill
the hearts of men, married mostly, and put a crimp in the women’s hold over
them. “Let’s look at her in the bright
sunshine,” they snickered among themselves, while keeping both eyes peeled at
their husbands who might harbour unseemly notions. No two ways about it, Elisabeth
St. Clair was an eye-catching woman, born and raised in nearby Victoria,
thirty years ago. Jeremy Scahill, the head of the Marine Centre,
Elisabeth’s employer, compared her, not so silently mind you, to Spenser’s
amoret. Gentle as a dove, chaste as a lily, disposed like a seraph. “What
fools men are,” Ruth Scofield informed everyone, including the fish in the
sea. She owned a small general store, the
only one within a day’s journey. She had renounced love some thirty years
ago, which to her was a game not worth the candle. An early marriage wasn’t
exactly made in heaven. Kisses behind the garden gate soon yielded to nagging
and scolding. One stormy night her husband left the pit that dug itself
deeper by the day, and vowed never to return. “That’s
the only promise he ever kept,” Mrs Scofield proclaimed with that peculiar
cackle known in the region. She
harumphed Jeremy Scahill’s notions: “An epitome of womanly grace she is?
What fools men are. That female is as hard-boiled as they come. Mark my
words, she is up to no good, this Miss St. Clair is.” Two
months later the boats started to arrive. Soon the government wharves were
occupied from end to end. Summer at the West Coast is invariable sunny and
warm, albeit somewhat stormy. Barry
Lasco was already ensconced at his summerhouse across the Bamfield inlet. He
was locally known as the millionaire, and no less as a dyed-in-the-wool
bachelor, who gave women a wide berth. Those sentiments underwent a change,
however, when he encountered Miss St. Clair. Although she kept to herself,
meeting one another in this small community proved unavoidable. Invitations,
rather scarce it must be said, were treated by Elisabeth with consummate
adroitness. Visibly touched, blushing in appreciation, she managed to decline
with words and gestures that amused rather than offended. The men’s compliments, as much as their admiring glances, she answered with
frowns, and nothing else. The women’s appraising looks she met with a
beguiling smile and a hearty greeting. “She is a
recluse,” some declared. “She is a
Jezebel,” Mary Sartos asserted, whose husband of thirty years had suddenly
acquired a roving eye. Miss St.
Clair made no attempt to entice the menfolk, nor did she try to antagonise
the women, who observed her with Argus-eyes. Their female intuition told them
that she was anything but a Zuleika: pure, dutiful, and innocent. “Why did
she come to this out-of-the-way place?” it was said. “Surely
not for her health, nor the low paying, seasonal work.”
Curiosity breathed new life into the hearts of some locals, rumours
enlivened their workaday routine. Gossip, unkind and sensational at times,
made the grapevine hum. “May I
invite you for tea, or coffee perhaps, Miss St. Clair?” Lasco, standing at
the gate, called out. Elisabeth
started, turned, and seemed prepared to bound. “No, thank you,” she
replied, visibly annoyed at the unsolicited salutation. “Oh, well, maybe
another time,” he chuckled, while raising his hand in a chipper way. Barry Lasco, a man
past fifty, the inveterate bachelor, was not a misogynist; far from it, but
marriage he eschewed strenuously, he deemed it eternal purgatory where both
sides stoke the fire, hoping that the other felt the heat more. Anyway,
foregoing liberties he cherished, or changing entrenched habits? Not for the
sweetest of kisses, he vowed, nor for that divinest of love, Venus on the
mountain promises. Antonio Ricci,
Lasco’s friend of many years, usually spent the month of July at his retreat.
For inexplicable reasons he harboured a desire that Antonio should skip his
visit this year. He neither understood nor questioned why this should be so.
Yet the notion recurred, although he deemed it wishful thinking in view of
the message that was sent: “Will be at your
gate as usual. Unlimber the liquor.” They were friends in
accordance with the mores of modern days. Two minds of a single thought? Not
Barry Lasco and Antonio Ricci, who was blessed with mercurial wit, thus
contrasting sharply the other’s morose disposition. Their temperaments were
forged in different smithies. What induced one to smile made the other frown.
Words of wisdom uttered by Lasco were deemed fatuous by Ricci. Yet they
referred to each other as friends, affectionate friends, in fact. “How was the trip?”
Lasco, who stood at the wharf, called out. “A bit rough past
Port Renfrew, but otherwise bearable.” They greeted each
other with hugs and friendly words, then settled down in the garden, which
had no equal far and wide. The estate, spread out on the west side of the
inlet, had a charm of its own. A wondrous tranquillity permeated that spot;
the wind appeared to convey a message: All is well, all is well. The waves,
rolling in from the open sea, though breaking noisily on the rocky shore,
augured an enchantment that put one’s heart at ease. “Halcyon reborn,”
Antonio informed the mountains beyond. Ricci saw her first,
the sight made him lift his head and crane his neck. “What do you know,
Barry, one of your conquests?” he chaffed. When Lasco looked up
he recognised Miss St. Clair who stood at the boardwalk, evidently lost in
thought. Noticing the men’s attention accorded her, she tiptoed away. “Who is she, Barry?” “Elisabeth St. Clair, a seasonal worker at the Marine Station.”
“Married?”
“Unattached and unapproachable,” Antonio was informed. Ricci pooh-poohed the notion, his quick
eye discerned what Lasco couldn’t even divine. He wasn’t quite the gay
Lothario of Rowe’s ‘The Fair Penitent’, but he did appreciate the fair sex,
who in his opinion deserved a man’s homage. He started to whistle one of his
catchy tunes, while a roguish expression framed his countenance: “Hm, unattached and unapproachable, you say? Hm,
hm.” Three
days later Ricci presented Miss St. Clair at the Lasco estate. “She
deigns to have a glass of wine with us,” he declared with a bow befitting a
Spanish nobleman. |
