The Lost

“Thank you for the insight.” She gave the woman, most likely the housekeeper, a deferential nod. Isabelle would judge for herself, but every piece of information was useful, so she told herself this was not gossip. “My name is Isabelle Reynaud. And I am not a fully trained doctor but a physician’s assistant.”

The woman shrugged as if that made no difference. “I am Vermille, Mistress Housekeeper of the castillo. You may call me Mistress Vermille. I will take you to the bathing room and give you these clothes.” She held up the folded clothes. “All your things were lost or ruined in the storm but these will fit you. The master sent to the hotel for them and he is very good at estimating the size a woman wears.”

“Thank you, Mistress Housekeeper,” Isabelle said, even as she cringed at the use of the word “master” to describe Sebastian Dushayne. His was a small world but he did control all of it.

“I would love to wash my hair. After I bathe and dress, could you spare someone to show me to the cottage in the village where my clinic will be?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “Come with me.” Mistress Vermille did not wait but left the room. Isabelle followed her, feeling silly using the sheet as a bathrobe, but the passageway was empty so it really didn’t matter.

“When you are dressed, follow the passage and turn right at every opportunity.”

With that, Mistress Vermille left her at the door of what she called “the bathing chamber.”

The bath defied conventional description. The toilet was no more than a hole in rock and there was no shower or sink, but the bath was more like a small swimming pool, big enough to float freely in. There were hooks on the wall, a very comfortable-l ooking chaise longue and a mirror that was bigger than she was.

The room had three windows, the shutters were pulled closed at the moment and the space was lit with candles. A sybarite’s delight. Isabelle had never been a hedonist, could never afford to live like one, but thought the adjustment would not be hard to make.

She walked around the bath and found some steps at the far end. The water was warm, comfortable, but not as hot as she would have liked. It felt like silk, liquid silk, and she enjoyed the sensuality of it as much as the feeling of being clean.

There were five elegant stone containers with various soaps, all the fragrances different. She chose the one that smelled like jasmine. It was heaven to wash her hair.

The experience would have been perfect if the door had a lock on it. It did not, and the whole time she was bathing she was aware that anyone could come in. The only “anyone” she worried about was the master, Sebastian Dushayne. This bath was definitely big enough for two and she suspected that he would not hesitate to invite himself to share it with her.

And, because honesty was such a fundamental part of her, Isabelle admitted she might enjoy it. Her imagination headed down that wayward path and it was not hard to imagine him naked. Too easy, in fact. Broad shoulders, strong arms, powerful legs. She hurried out of the bath before she could visualize any more of his body and left the image behind, swirling in the deep end of the water.

The toweling was different from the kind she was used to. More like an absorbent linen than fluffy cotton.

With her hair wrapped in one of the lengths, she dressed as quickly as she could. Isabelle had never worn a thong before and found it more comfortable than she thought it would be. The bra was a stretch of lace that was more sexy than useful. She had never been able to decide if it was fortunate or unfortunate that she did not need much support, but in this case it was a good thing.

Add to that a sleeveless cotton shirt and some capris in a blue and white print, and she was dressed perfectly for the warm weather. The shoes were not what she would have chosen. Some kind of close-toed, sneakerlike synthetic material, similar to the old well-worn Diesels she wore at the clinic in New Orleans.

It felt very strange to know she owned nothing but what she wore, and even that was a gift. Isabelle comforted herself with Jesus’ admonition to his disciples to take nothing but the clothes on their backs. She thought that was the phrasing. If she could find a Bible somewhere, she would look it up.

Untwisting the linen, she picked up the comb and worked it through her hair. There were lengths of ribbon in a basket near the entrance, and Isabelle took one and tied her hair back.

With a deep breath and a prayer for wisdom, Isabelle opened the door, walked down the passage, turning right at every opportunity.

The castle was huge and still seemed deserted. Making her way down an enclosed set of winding stairs, Isabelle came out onto what looked like the i

Doors and windows set in smaller arches lined the walls on the other side of the passageway. Benches in some dark, worn wood gave evidence that there were times when the courtyard held a crowd.

Isabelle crossed to the giant door, at least twenty feet high and almost as wide, and was in front of it when she saw a small door set in the wall nearby open from the other side.

A boy, no more than ten, came into the courtyard, all confidence and good nature. “Good day to you, mistress. Mistress Vermille says I am to take you to Mistress Esmé, the healer.”

“Thank you. But I need to see where my cottage is first.”

“No, no. I am sorry, mistress, but you must see the healer first. You have no choice.”

Isabelle was not surprised and only a little irritated at this command performance. Clearly power plays existed on little islands in the Caribbean too. There was no other reason she could think of for the healer to insist on seeing her before she had even set foot in her cottage.

Isabelle followed the boy who said his name was Cortez. He pointed out the village’s most significant sites, which were cottages that all looked the same to Isabelle.

Whitewashed with palm-l eaf roofs, well kept and so small it was hard to believe that one housed a barbershop and a beauty shop, another a dry goods store and a third the produce shop. She could smell bananas and realized that she had not eaten anything since she had arrived here.

“Cortez, can we stop here so I can buy a banana, please?”

“No, no, you ca

Just before she lost a hold on her temper, the boy produced a coin. “I will buy you the best and biggest banana there is.” He popped into the store and a minute later came out with a lovely, firm, yellow banana big enough for two. Indeed, Isabelle broke off a quarter and shared it with him and they continued down the street in companionable silence.

Cortez took the peel and Isabelle brushed her hands on her pants just as they reached a house that was set back from the street. Larger than the rest, it had an actual door and two windows.

Cortez did not have to tell her that this was the home of the healer, Mistress Esmé. A woman came to the entrance when Cortez pulled the bell. She gave Isabelle a long look that made her feel dirty and uneducated.

“I am Esmé, the healer, and you are the nurse.”

“Isabelle Reynaud,” Isabelle answered even though Esmé made the word “nurse” sound like a lower life-f orm.

“I told you, master, she will not do at all,” Esmé called over her shoulder. “There is no place for a nurse in our village. What can she do that I ca

Isabelle stepped past the woman and into the entry hall, having faced this prejudice before and determined to prove her worth. She stopped short when she realized that Sebastian Dushayne was stretched out on a bed, his shirt off, his arms up against the headboard.