Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (9 page)

Mr. Timmons disguised his smirk well, and I merely smiled benevolently. My definition of a distinguished woman differed somewhat from Mrs. Steward’s, for whom an Englishwoman’s accomplishments were a combination of birth, dress and the ability to serve high tea. In my experience, a true lady should always have a stout walking stick, a bag of cinnamon, and the knowledge of how to use them both against any beast.

As she gestured for us to follow her onto the veranda, she continued. “And I must tell you that those new people that Lady Hardinge sent to me have worked out marvelously. Such meticulously well-trained servants. The boy is excellent with the garden, and the girl is a marvel in the house. I hardly have to correct them or direct their behavior. What a burden has been removed from my weary nerves.”

Again I smiled, not bothering to remark that a married couple could hardly be referred to as a boy and a girl. Mr. Timmons said, “It seems your life must now be without concern, what with your daughter and niece married off, and properly trained staff to take their place.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, for what is life if it has no preoccupations whatsoever?” Mrs. Steward sighed with the happiness of a woman relieved. “But it is true, Mr. Timmons, that much of what had worn me to a sliver of my former self has been dealt with in some fashion. Now I have only that sweet, darling son of mine…”

As if the universe had plotted in anticipation of those words, Bobby, the sweet son in question, appeared from around the house, a small herd of goats and chickens preceding him. With a triumphant howl, he raised a stick to his shoulder and shouted, “Down with the barbarians. Bam, bam.”

The barbarians, unaware they had been fatally shot by a stick, continued their frantic race around the house, followed in close pursuit by the diminutive hunter, and all of them disappeared around the house.

“Darling indeed,” Mr. Timmons remarked while Jonas did his best to play the humble servant which was proving to be a challenge given his sniggering. Cilla stood by wordlessly, an inscrutable expression gracing her features.

“Shoo, shoo,” Mrs. Steward shouted as she directed an aggrieved look toward the garden.

I turned about and observed a young bull elephant strolling across the grounds. Paying no heed to Mrs. Steward’s noises of outrage, it paused at the base of the large, dead tree that stood a stone’s throw from the house. Leaning against the trunk, the elephant began to rub its side luxuriously, grunting in satisfaction even as more bark peeled off the tree.

“Do you see with what I have to contend?” Mrs. Steward wailed, her arms flailing in the direction of the beast. “As if the monkeys and insects aren’t horrendous enough. It’s intolerable, I tell you. And the natives don’t do a thing about it.”

I wondered what anyone could do with a ten thousand pound animal. The elephant in question flapped its ears, trumpeted once and continued its leisurely stroll across the property, not even deigning to glance at the agitated Mrs. Steward.

“Truly, the horrors I endure,” she huffed and turned to the doorway.

We followed Mrs. Steward inside, where a young African woman was placing dishes onto the table. No introduction was made, but I knew from conversations with Lady Hardinge that the woman’s name was Mary, and her husband was Joseph. I wondered who had named them thus, for I was certain it hadn’t been their own parents.

Mr. Steward was already awaiting us at the table, so we sat to eat while Jonas disappeared into the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before conversation about the prolonged drought and the resulting dry weather fizzled away, and Mrs. Steward directed our attention to the issue of the Nandi.

“First it was the lions. Now the natives. British East Africa seems always in an uproar,” Mrs. Steward began.

“It’s actually East Africa Protectorate,” Mr. Steward corrected in a mild tone before engaging himself with spreading butter on a roll.

Of course we knew that, but we had all developed a rather lazy habit of referring to the place as British, although it was anything but.

Mrs. Steward stabbed at a hapless vegetable. “It may be a protectorate, but it’s first and foremost British. Oh, those Nandi savages,” she exclaimed. “Always causing trouble.”

“I hardly think that defending one’s home and family is causing trouble,” I observed.

“My dear Beatrice, you are far too soft-hearted for the politics of the day,” Mrs. Steward said with gentle rebuke.

Mr. Timmons snickered at ‘soft-hearted’, for well he knew otherwise.

“Isn’t that correct, Mr. Steward?” She then turned her attention to my hapless uncle, who clearly wanted nothing to do with the conversation and would’ve vacated the room long ago if he wasn’t in the midst of eating.

He mumbled incoherently around a mouthful of food.

“You see, Bee, it’s as I say,” Mrs. Steward continued adamantly. “Those Nandi are up to no good, what with stealing from the railway and harassing Her Majesty’s settlers.”

At that juncture, Jonas arrived from the kitchen bearing a platter of carved meat which he smacked down hard enough to rattle the cutlery.

“Joseph, I mean John or… Take better care,” Mrs. Steward chastised him.

“Sorry, mama,” he murmured with downcast eyes.

“I don’t expect you to understand this, but we’re here to teach you the ways of civilization, and to start with, you must settle the platter on the table gently, like so.” She demonstrated exactly what she meant. “Fortunately for both you, Mr. Timmons, and us, I believe all our staff are from the local tribe, those Kuyus.”

“Kikuyu,” I corrected her.

“Well, Mary and Joseph aren’t,” Jonas stated with a stubborn set to his jaw. It seemed now that he had been liberated from the Steward’s employ, he had no qualms about speaking in conversations to which he hadn’t been invited.

“Oh?” Mr. Steward said, his interest stirred even as his wife’s had declined.

“Oh no,” Jonas said with a sly glance at his former mistress. “Mary and Joseph, they are Nandi.”

Mrs. Steward spluttered around a fork, bits of mashed potato flicking onto the table around her.

“Isn’t that entertaining, I mean informative,” Mr. Timmons commented. “More potatoes, Mrs. Steward?”

The luncheon ended not long thereafter, for Mrs. Steward couldn’t fully recover her equanimity upon learning of her new staff’s tribal background. Both Jonas and Mr. Timmons appeared far too self-satisfied, and indeed, their expressions bordered on smug; upon departing, my husband declared the visit to be a great success. Cilla, who had spoken less than ten words the entire time and only when etiquette absolutely demanded it of her, remained wrapped in her unhealthy contemplations.

Only upon reaching our little cottage on the Hardinge estate did she stir, for who was waiting for us near our barn than my brother, the werewolf.

Chapter 13

My brother and I shared the same light hazel, almost golden-toned, eye color, the result of a vengeful werewolf’s bite when we were children. Unlike mine though, his eyes were half-wild. His posture was more often than not tense as if preparing to flee into the grassland to join a pack of native dogs; his movements were sharp and quick, barely restraining uncivilized force. Unwashed light brown hair hung limply around his angular face, and his gaze refused to meet any of ours.

“Drew,” Cilla breathed out as she rushed toward him before the wagon had come to a full stop.

Hesitant, he allowed her to grasp hold of his hands. As timid as a deer about to enter an open meadow where a hunter could be waiting, he stepped closer.

“Where have you been the past few days?” she gushed before blushing. After all, there was only one reason why a werewolf would disappear for days at a time, and to impose the question on him was awkward, to say the least.

He shook his head, long bangs swishing in front of his downcast eyes, and he pulled away. Mr. Timmons cast a dark look at the man his niece fancied and harrumphed as he assisted Jonas to unharness the oxen. This reaction only added to Drew’s discomfort, and he withdrew farther, as if distancing himself from Mr. Timmons would mitigate my husband’s displeasure.

On a previous occasion, Lilly had primly informed Mr. Timmons not to be so obstinate, for Cilla had little in the way of selection in the backwater railway camp of Nairobi. Only recently could the place even boast of a hotel.

“Then I’ll send her back to England,” Mr. Timmons vowed, but nobody took him seriously; he’d be the most miserable of all if Cilla departed.

“It’s good to have you home, Drew,” I said, as much to express my sentiments as to fill in the strained silence. “Let’s go in for tea.”

“We just ate, Mrs. Timmons,” Mr. Timmons grumbled.

“And we haven’t had a spot of tea since,” I reminded him. Before he could make an inappropriate comment regarding my appetite, for which I would have to reprimand him severely, I led Drew and Cilla to the cottage.

It wasn’t long before we were joined by the Elkharts. My cousin Lilly looked as radiant as ever, perhaps even more so now that she was with child. As they made their entrance, she tossed her perfectly coifed curls about her shoulder, and I could only admire how she managed to maintain her appearance with the dust and lack of proper facilities. Even when I made efforts, my mousey brown hair remained straight and disinterested in fashionable styles. For his part, Mr. Elkhart was as handsome as she was pretty, but of a calmer disposition, his brown eyes reflecting his equanimity.

After the normal pleasantries, during which I eyed Lilly’s still-flat stomach, we came to the issue of Cilla’s housing arrangements. We described the antics of the previous evening, and our concerns over her staying in town.

“Clearly, she can’t stay at the Stanley, as lovely as Mrs. Bent is,” Lilly declared with a certain pomposity that reminded me of the old Lilly, the one I’d grown up with before she’d been temporarily possessed by a malevolent spirit.

“Isn’t that right, Tiberius?” she continued. Before her bemused husband could respond, she hurtled on. “Cilla can stay in the guest wing. No one ever goes in there, and it has a lovely room overlooking a river where zebra and giraffe often graze.”

No one raised a word of protest against the notion, but Lilly continued with a stern expression, as if someone had dared oppose her. “And I’ll not hear a word against it. Cilla, you shall stay with us. I know the Hardinge family won’t mind one bit. Will they, Tiberius?”

“Not at all, dear,” he said, his sincere smile lending support to his words. “My guardians would be overjoyed to extend hospitality to a friend.”

“Thank you,” Cilla said with none of her usual exuberance. “At least until we find another arrangement.”

“Now, that’s settled,” Lilly said as Mr. Timmons expressed his gratitude.

After further discussions regarding the practicalities of the move, Mr. Elkhart cleared his throat in a significant manner. We all turned to him in anticipation.

“Tiberius has such marvelous news,” Lilly prefaced his announcement, her posture upright and proud at knowing what was about to be shared.

Mr. Elkhart obliged my cousin with a smile and a squeeze of her hand. He was a most striking and charming fellow, I reflected not for the first time, with eyes the color of a pot of tea — and really, what higher praise is there than that? His caramel-toned skin stood out in sharp contrast to the white shirt he wore. In East Africa, no one questioned his background which was clearly mixed. Anyone who might have entertained a care about such matters merely pretended to believe that he was tanned from the ever-present sun. Only a few of us knew differently, just as only a few of us knew he was a Popobawa, a man with the ability to shape-shift into a giant bat.

His eyes beaming, he announced, “My father will be joining us today.”

There was a joyful eruption of congratulatory comments and fervent inquiries into his health. No further conversation could be held until the emotions thus inspired had settled down to a gentle simmer.

“That is marvelous news,” I said. “I didn’t realize there was an evening arrival for the train.”

Mr. Elkhart tipped his head toward me. “There isn’t. He’s waiting for us in the cargo hold of the station this very moment and has been since midmorning.”

This raised a passionate furor, for how could we leave Mr. Elkhart Senior waiting? And at that place, no less? There were no facilities apart from the stationmaster’s office, and nary a place to sit.