The Winter Rose (83 page)

He lived his life now with many unknowables. He didn't know if the
seedlings he planted would take, or what kind of yield he would get from
them if they did. He didn't know if gazelles or monkeys or blight would
destroy the crops, if the sun would wither them, if rain would rot
them. He didn't know if the Kikuyu would continue to accept the
settlers' encroachment. Or if they would rise up, burn them out, or
murder them in their beds. He didn't know if he loved Africa or hated
it. If he would die here or leave next year. He didn't know how he got
out of bed some mornings with no one to live for, no one to love. He
didn't know how he managed to stay alive without any dreams.

There were days in Africa, so many days, when Sid Baxter felt he
didn't know a thing about the land, the people, the coffee, or
himself--but he did know one thing, one, hard, immutable fact: he knew
that India Selwyn Jones was gone from his life, and that he would never
see her again. Of that much, at least, he was certain.

"It's a blasted money sink," Henry Campbell-Bannerman, the prime
minister, said. He was seated behind his desk in his office at number 10
Downing Street.

"On the contrary, it's begun to turn a profit," protested Lord Elgin, the secretary of state for the colonies.

"How much of a profit?"

"We anticipate at least forty thousand pounds for the year."

"Forty thousand? Forty thousand? That damned railway cost more than
five million! We need to do better than forty thousand. I'm being taken
to task for the expenditure in the Commons every single week. That
bloody Joe Bristow is hammering away at me, demanding to know why five
million have gone to finance a railway in Africa while children here in
Britain go hungry. What kind of answer can I give him? He's got me by
the throat. Look there"--he gestured to the pile of newspapers on his
desk. "His name's on every front page today. In twenty-point type!"

"Well, you can blame yourself for that, Henry," Elgin said. "You made him a minister. He's your creature."

"He's his own damned creature, unfortunately," the prime minister
shot back. "And he's not the problem. Not the main one, at least. It's
the railway. I need you to tell me exactly how we are to make it come
good."

"It's very simple," Elgin said. "The railway's fortunes wait upon the
settlers' fortunes. Settlers mean crops. Crops mean exports. Exports
mean cash--both for those who grow them and for that which transports
them. Give me more settlers and I will give you a return, not of forty
thousand, but four hundred thousand."

"You need settlers? Go and find some! What's stopping you?" Campbell-Bannerman asked.

Elgin turned to Freddie Lytton, his newly appointed undersecretary.
This was a golden opportunity for Freddie. He knew it and seized it.

"It's not that easy, sir," Freddie said, sitting forward in his
chair. "It's a daunting task to pack up and move halfway round the
world. Certain guarantees need to be made before a man will stake his
fortune in Africa. Unfortunately they are not being made, and Britons
know it. Stories are trickling back home about the difficulty of
securing land. Grants are being made, but not all of them are legitmate.
And even when they are, the paperwork is taking years to clear the Land
office. Construction on roads and bridges is proceeding at a snail's
pace. And there is constant squabbling among the different layers of
authority. The governor is angry with the Colonial office. The district
commissioners complain about the provincial commissioners. And the
settlers are angry with everyone."

"And how do you suggest we remedy this?"

"First, we send an envoy from the new government to Africa."

"Let me guess. That envoy would be you."

"Yes, it would," Freddie said. He could see he had
Campbell-Bannerman's attention. The old boy was interested. All he had
to do now was convince him. "Someone must go to Africa in person and
sort this out. I ask you to let me try."

"How will you do it?"

"I'll start by hearing out all factions. I'll meet Lord Delamere and
the other men from the Colonists' Association. I'll meet the governor,
the PCs, and the DCs. And then I'll do one better--I'll go out to the
villages and farms and meet the settlers. When I return to London, I'll
have not one side of the story, but all sides. A complete picture. When
we know exactly what the problems are, and where, we can begin to
address them."

Freddie unfurled a map and spread it on the prime minister's desk. It
depicted the result of the European scramble for African land over the
past half century--a continent carved up into protectorates and
territories by Britain, Belgium, Germany, France, and Italy.

"We do know that a proper survey needs to be completed on the
northern frontier," Freddie said, pointing to lands bordering Abyssinia,
"so that the region may be properly parceled and leased. Also, the
railway must be extended farther into Kenya Province and west to Lake
Magadi." His fingers swept over plains and rivers. "Rights must be
granted to trading companies and routes secured for them all the way
from the Ugandan border to Mombasa. And finally"--he tapped the area to
the west of Mount Kilimanjaro--"the relocation of the natives to
reserves must be accelerated."

"Such a trip would help address the problems of the existing settlers,"

Campbell-Bannerman said, "but it won't bring new blood to the region,
and that--according to your superior--is what is urgently needed."

"I've anticipated that concern, and I believe I have a solution," Freddie said.

"I thought you might."

"I will bring my family with me on the trip."

Campbell-Bannerman raised an eyebrow. "Taking your wife and daughter
on holiday will cure the ills of British East Africa, will it?"

"We'll travel through Africa together, and as we go, I'll file
stories and photographs with The Times. I've friends at the paper who'd
be delighted to publish such a series. I'll dispatch reports from
Mombasa, Nairobi, the bush, the farms, the highlands--everywhere. I'll
make the damned place sound like paradise. When John Bull sees how safe
it is, even for women and children, when he hears about the acres of
fertile land up for grabs, reads about the hunting to be had, there will
be a stampede to the docks. I guarantee it."

Campbell-Bannerman digested this. "Be nice to see one of our own on
the front pages for a bit, eh, Elgin? Maybe knock Bristow out of the
headlines." He turned to Freddie. "But your wife may not wish to go."

Freddie thought, It does not matter what my wife wishes.

He said, "India's adventuresome. Charlotte, too. They'll have the
maids hauling out their trunks ten seconds after I tell them about the
trip."

He knew that India would do no such thing. She would be furious. She
would plead with him to leave Charlotte at home, but he would not. His
success in Africa depended upon her presence.

"Are you quite certain it's wise?" Campbell-Bannerman asked. "Most
settlers leave their children in England because of the
dangers--malaria, dysentery, and all that. To say nothing of lions and
leopards."

"All exaggerated, from what I've been told," Freddie said.

The prime minister steepled his fingers. His gaze traveled from Freddie to Elgin. "This has your blessing?" he said.

"Of course."

"Very well, then, Freddie. Go. As soon as possible."

"I will, sir. Thank you for your confidence in me."

Freddie gathered his map and his papers and departed. Elgin had further business with the prime minister, so he stayed.

"Brilliant chap, that Lytton," he heard the prime minister say as he
left. "Better watch out, old boy. He'll have your job one day."

"Oh, no. Not my job, Henry," Elgin replied. "Yours."

Outside in the hallway, Freddie permitted himself a smile. He
couldn't wait to set off. He wished he could leave tonight. The sooner
he sorted out Africa, the better. The PM was right, of course. The
Uganda railway was a money sink. But it didn't have to be. Anyone with a
modicum of vision could see how profitable it might become. The line
had an enormous lake at one end and the Indian Ocean at the
other--perfect for moving goods from farms and ranches to towns and
ports. It traversed endless acres of fertile land, all just waiting to
be exploited. There was a limitless amount of money to be made on crops
and animals. Then there was tourism and hunting. And as more people
came, either to visit or to settle, the building trades would flourish.
And then the retail trades.

All it would take was for one man to effect a truce between the
warring factions, to get them all working together in pursuit of a
common goal. It was a daunting challenge, but Freddie was confident.
There would be laurels for the man who turned the money sink into a
mint. The Liberals' recent success had done nothing to diminish
Freddie's ambition; it had only sharpened it. But one did have to be
careful. He well knew that it was social death to be seen as a climber.
Ambition was permitted in London--as long as you called it duty. He
would make Africa his duty. For king and country. And Africa, in turn,
would make him prime minister.

He strode out of number 10 and into the street, where his carriage
was waiting. If he succeeded in his goals there--and he would
succeed--it would make his ascent within the party ranks, already quick
by anyone's standards, dizzyingly fast. He'd outpace Elgin, Churchill,
Asquith, Grey, and a dozen others. And, most important, he'd outshine
that damned Joe Bristow, darling of the press. The man made more of a
nuisance of himself in a wheelchair than he'd ever done on his own two
feet. He'd been so glad when he'd been shot, thinking he'd be out of the
picture for good, but now he wished it had never happened. Plucky
cripples always stole the spotlight. Who could compete with Tiny Fucking
Tim?

Freddie climbed into his carriage and barked at the driver to take
him home to Berkeley Square. He had news to impart. He frowned at the
thought. India would be difficult about this. He knew she would. She
would be anxious about Charlotte, worried that the girl would catch some
horrible tropical disease.

If only, he thought. If only they both would.

Nothing would serve him better than his so-called wife and so-called
child dropping dead of malaria. Dengue fever. Plague. Whatever. He
despised them, wished them gone. And yet he had to pretend otherwise
every day of his life. At least in public.

If only India would give him a son. The marriage would at least be
tolerable then. The thought of all that he'd worked for--the money, the
houses--going to Sid Malone's bastard instead of a member of the Lytton
family was unbearable.

They had been married for six years now. Plenty of time for her to
have conceived again. And yet she hadn't. A year had gone by after
Charlotte's birth, then two. He went to her bed frequently, though he
hated to, but nothing ever happened. More than once he'd accused her of
preventing a pregnancy. She'd been a doctor; she would certainly know
how. He had torn her bedroom apart on more than a few occasions, pulling
out drawers, ripping clothing from her armoire, in his hunt for
devices. But he'd never found one, and she had vehemently denied his
accusations. She had made a deal, she'd said. As long as he kept up his
end, she would keep up hers.

He did not believe her. She was taking revenge on him, he was certain
of it. She blamed him for Sid Malone's death. For the ambush at Arden
Street. This was her way of paying him back.

If only I could start over, he thought now. With India's money, but without India. With a new wife. A new child. A son. My son.

The carriage slowed. Freddie looked out of the window and saw he was
in Berkeley Square. Number 45, his house, was beautiful, large and
grand, a shining symbol of his immense wealth, but when he wasn't
hosting dinner parties and garden parties, he spent as much time out of
it as possible, wishing to avoid its other occupants. He planned to go
in for only a few minutes now--long enough to tell India to prepare for
their upcoming trip--and then it would be off to the Reform Club. If he
got home late enough, and was sufficiently drunk, he supposed he would
go to her bedroom and try yet again to beget a son.

He sighed now, thinking bitterly of the effort that took, then told
himself to buck up: "You married for money, old chap, and no one ever
said you wouldn't have to earn it."

"It's so good to see you, Seamie. I wondered sometimes if I ever
would again," Albert Alden said, smiling at his old friend over a pint
of bitter.

"It's hard to keep up with people when they're always dashing off to Zurich," Seamie said.

"Try keeping up with people who dash off to the South Pole."

Seamie laughed. He had arrived in Cambridge by train two hours ago.
Albie had collected him at the station and they'd made their way back to
his rooms at Trinity College, dumped Seamie's bags, then headed out to
the Pickerel, an ancient pub and one of Albie's favorites. They hadn't
seen each other for nearly six years--since the day Seamie had left to
take part in the Discovery Expedition. But as with all true friends, the
years fell away quickly and after a bit of catching up it was almost as
if they'd never parted.

Albie was a graduate student now, working on his doctoral
dissertation in theoretical physics. Seamie had asked him what, exactly,
could be theoretical about physics, and Albie's explanation had made
his head spin. He'd babbled on about Brownian motion and special
relativity and the brilliant young physicist who'd proposed these
theories, another Albert--Albert Einstein.

And then it was Seamie's turn to talk. He told Albie about the
expedition, and how close they'd come to the Pole--only 480 miles
away--before illness and hunger forced them back. He'd returned to
London in 1904, and had spent the next two years lecturing in Britain,
Europe, and America on the expedition's findings.