The Winter Rose (89 page)

"How did you know that?"

"I follow the mountaineering news. I'm a bit of a climber myself, you
see. I've heard of you, too, Mr. Finnegan. I followed the Discovery
Expedition. As did most of the rest of the world, including the Germans.
Be very careful. Africa is not the Alps. It is not Antarctica. It is a
different creature entirely."

Willa nodded. "Thank you for your advice, Mr. Boedeker. Especially regarding the border."

Boedeker cocked his head. He smiled. "What advice, Miss Alden? I
would never give such advice. Newland & Tarlton are not in the
business of defying international borders or treaties or encouraging any
such irresponsible behavior in our clients. Good day."

"Well, that was strange," Willa said when they were back on the street.

"He wanted to help us," Seamie said, "and to warn us. And to tell us that if we get our sorry arses arrested, we're on our own."

"We won't," Willa said confidently. "We'll go in north as he suggested. We were thinking of doing that anyway, weren't we?"

Seamie nodded.

"And we'll take lots of gifts for the Chagga. Maybe we can find some
things in town. But I want to go swimming first. Did you see the
beaches? Five days, Boedeker said. We've got five whole days to lie on
that white sand and swim in that blue water. Heaven!"

Great, Seamie thought. Willa in her swimming costume. That would be
just the thing to get his mind off how much he wanted her. He'd been
thankful to sit in Boedeker's office. Happy to discuss logistics and
obstacles, grateful for a distraction from his aching heart. Now he
would have to endure five days together on the beach.

"Seamie?" Willa said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied. "I was just thinking. About our gear. We should
go to the hotel and make sure it got there. Check in and all that."

"Good idea."

Inside the darkened foyer of the Mombasa Club, a small boy stood in a
corner, rhythmically pulling on a rope attached to a ceiling fan made
of banana leaves. There were stuffed animal heads on the wall, a worn
dhurrie on the floor, and a few chairs scattered about. A small bar
graced one side of the room; there was a clerk at a desk on the other
side--a tall Somali in a white tunic and red turban.

Seamie and Willa presented themselves. Just as they'd done with
Newland & Tarlton, they'd sent a telegram ahead to the hotel,
telling the manager they'd be arriving on the Goorka.

"We reserved two rooms," Seamie said now.

"So very sorry, sir," the clerk said regretfully. "One."

"But we reserved two rooms. There are two of us," Seamie said stupidly. "Two."

"Very, very sorry, sir. Busy day. English come from London two days
ago. Big Bwana and his Msabu. Many peoples with them. Hotel full. You
are two men. One room."

"He thinks I'm a man," Willa whispered. "He wants us to share."

"Are there other hotels in town?" Seamie asked.

"All full, sir."

Seamie ran a hand through his hair. He glanced toward the stairs. Two porters were already carrying their things up.

"Hold on--" he started to say.

Willa stopped him. "It's all right. We'll manage. It sounds like some
diplomat's come with an entourage. If we don't take this room, we might
end up with nothing."

Upstairs, Seamie tipped the porters and looked around the room. It
was in the back of the hotel and overlooked a courtyard filled with
acacia trees. It had whitewashed walls, a hand basin, and one double
bed.

"I'll take the floor," he said quickly.

"Don't be stupid. We'll share the bed. Just don't snore. I'm off to the loo. When I get back, let's go to the beach."

As she left the room, Seamie walked to the window and looked out at
the town. Then he turned and stared at the bed. The beach was bad; but
the bed was torture. It taunted him. He imagined taking Willa in his
arms on it and making love to her. There was nothing he wanted more in
the world. Nothing. He lay down on the bed, so he couldn't see it,
thinking that might help. But it didn't. He knew that in only a few
hours he'd be lying on it next to Willa. Listening to her breathe,
aching for her.

He wished they were setting off, wished they were dealing with
bumptious porters, hiking in the killing heat, ice-climbing in thin
air--anything, anything but this.

"Bring on the Chagga," he muttered, then closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"Horses?" Maggie Carr asked. She was sitting at the small table inside Sid's bungalow, watching him pack.

"Two. One for me, one for him," Sid said. "Porters are taking Shanks's pony."

"Porters always do. How many of them?"

"Six."

"Must be traveling light."

"No rifles," Sid said. "No ammunition. No skins and heads to carry
back. Only telescopes and compasses. A drafting table, paper, tents, and
food."

Maggie nodded.

"I'm off at dawn tomorrow. The bloke wrote that he'd be at Thika
township waiting for me. I won't be gone long, Maggs. Two weeks at the
outside. Be back way before harvest time. The women know what to do.
I've put Wainaina in charge. She's got them hoeing the north field right
now--"

Maggie cut him off. "Sid, I don't mind that you're going. Not at all. I'm only worried about why you're going."

"I told you why. It's good money."

Maggie shook her head. "I don't believe you. You've that same look in your eye."

"What look's that?"

"The look you had when I first hired you. When you were out in the fields every night, trying to work yourself to death."

Sid flapped a hand at her and changed the subject back to planting.
He was leaving to guide a surveyor north to Mount Kenya. He'd told
Maggie he wanted the money he'd earn to buy a stove. It was half true.
He did want a stove, but he already had the funds set aside for it. The
real reason for his departure had come from Lucy Thompson and her
mother.

They'd come to call on Maggie a week ago and happened to still be on
her veranda when Sid came in from the barn to tell her a jackal had got
at the chickens. Maggie had offered him a cup of tea. Mrs. Thompson had
asked him if he'd heard the news. He'd gulped his tea and said he
hadn't.

The undersecretary and his family had arrived in Mombasa. They were staying there for a week, then they would travel upcountry.

"To Nairobi!" Lucy said, all atwitter. There would be a ball for them
at the governor's house. It would be the social event of the year.

What Lucy told him next was even worse. "After the ball, the
governor's going to take his guests on safari," she said. "To Thika! Can
you believe it? They're going to camp where the two rivers meet, then
move west to the Aberdare mountains. Mr. Lytton wants to bag a lion, and
of course we're lousy with them."

Sid had thought his heart would stop. It had taken him days to
recover from the news that Freddie and India were coming to Africa, but
he finally had, assuring himself that there was no possible way their
paths would cross. Maggie's farm was too remote to allow it. But Lucy's
news had changed all that. Sid knew the area where they would set up
camp, and he knew that Maggie's farm was a good ten miles north of it.
Most likely, the hunting party would never even come close, but he
wasn't prepared to take a chance.

Mrs. Thompson, still chattering and looking pointedly at Sid, said
that she and Lucy would be making a trip to Nairobi the next day to do a
bit of dress shopping. Sid excused himself, ran to his bungalow, and
hurriedly scribbled a note to the DC saying he'd heard from Delamere
that a guide was needed to take a surveyor around, and that he'd be
happy to do it, and could they please leave immediately. Then he'd run
back to Maggie's and asked Mrs. Thompson if she would mind delivering
the letter.

She had smiled broadly, telling him of course she wouldn't. In fact,
she'd be delighted to. Lucy, not Mrs. Thompson, had brought him the
man's handwritten reply two days ago, and she had not been smiling.

"It's about a surveyor," she'd said angrily, slapping it down on his table.

"That's right," he said, puzzled by her tone.

"The DC told me. He said you were taking his man to Mount Kenya. To make maps."

"Yes, I am. Is there something wrong with that?"

"I thought it might be about the governor's ball. I thought you'd written for an invitation. For you. For us."

Stupidly, Sid had burst out laughing. Him at the governor's ball? He
could just see it: "Hello, India. Hello, Freddie. How the hell are you?"

But Lucy had not found it funny. Not one bit. There had been words
and tears. She'd stormed out. Maggie had come by a few minutes later.
She'd asked him what had happened and he told her.

"Bloody hell, Sid. I told you she was sweet on you."

"I thought you were joking."

"No, I wasn't. That poor girl. What did you say to her?"

"Nothing."

"You must've said something."

"I ...I laughed."

Maggie looked daggers at him. "You're an arsehole, you know that?"

"I didn't mean to! She caught me by surprise."

"She's a good girl. From a good family. Hard worker and pretty as a
pic- ture. She'd make a damned good wife. You could do a lot worse."

"She could do a lot better."

Maggie had gone quiet then and he'd told her about his plans to guide the surveyor and asked if she could spare him.

"You're mad," she said. "Traipsing around the back of beyond with some bloke when a lovely girl wants to go dancing with you."

"Maggie, I'm not going to that ball and that's the end of it. Not with Lucy. Not with anybody. I have my reasons."

"Fine," she'd said angrily. "Go on safari, then. I hope a lion bites your balls off."

That was two days ago. She'd mellowed some since then and had come round to his bungalow to make sure he'd packed his quinine.

As she sat there now, drinking his whisky, she picked up the Mombasa paper that was lying on his table.

"I haven't seen this. Where'd you get it?"

"Jo Roos left it."

"Becoming a man of letters in your old age?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"What's that?" he said. He was bent away from her, buckling a strap on his rucksack.

"Never known you to read a newspaper. Not one. What's so fascinating
about this one?" It was wrinkled and stained and looked as if had been
read and reread.

Sid straightened. "Nothing," he said.

Maggie held his gaze. Her expression told him that she didn't believe him.

She looked through it, carefully taking in every headline. Finding
nothing, she closed it and pushed it away. But then something on the
cover caught her eye--a photo of the visiting undersecretary, Frederick
Lytton. He was standing by Fort Jesus with his wife and daughter. The
child was squinting at the ground. Lytton was frowning. His wife was
looking directly at the camera. Her face looked blurred. Maggie picked
the paper up again and looked at it closely. It wasn't the photograph
that was blurry, it was the newsprint. It was smudged--as if someone had
brushed his fingers over it again and again.

"It's her, isn't it?" she said. "That's why you won't go to the ball.
And why you're running out of here like a man with his arse on fire."

"I don't know what you're on about."

"The undersecretary's wife. India Lytton. She's the one who made you a
bachelor. I told you I was going to find out who had, and now I have.
That's why you're off on this mad safari, isn't it? To avoid her."

"What a load of rubbish."

"Don't lie to me, Sid. You've never lied to me."

"I've never had to," he snapped. They'd lived by an unwritten rule--no prying--and now she was breaking it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm worried about you."

"It's complicated," he said. "There's a lot to it. More than you'd ever want to know. Much more."

Maggie nodded. She looked at the photograph again. "She's beautiful. Even smudged."

"She's more than beautiful, Maggs." He didn't say anything else. He
didn't need to. The emotion in his voice--the pain and the longing--said
it all.

Maggie pushed her chair back and stood.

"You off home, then?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm off to pay a call to the Thompsons," she
said. "Someone has to tell poor Lucy she doesn't have a prayer."

"Mummy, do we really have to take our teeth out?" Charlotte Lytton
whispered, wide-eyed. "The conductor said all passengers are advised to
remove their teeth."

"False teeth, darling," India said, smiling.

"But why?"

"No ballast, my dear!" Lord Delamere bellowed. "Bloody idiots laid the tracks right on the ground."

"Hugh! That is not language fit for a little girl's ears."

Delamere shrugged. "I forget she's a child," he said. "She's better read, and better spoken, than most of the men I know."

"Be that as it may..." Lady Delamere cautioned.

"Right, right, right," Delamere said. He bent down close to Charlotte
so that only she could hear him. "They're still idiots, even if I'm not
allowed to call them bloody," he whispered. Charlotte giggled. "You'll
soon see why. When we hit the plains, and there's no padding on the
rails, the wheels will bounce the teeth right out of your head." He
grabbed a meringue off a passing waiter's tray. "We'll have to stuff our
mouths with plenty of these. As padding. It's the only thing for it,"
he said, popping the sweet into his mouth, then giving her a pillowy
pink grin.

Charlotte dissolved into laughter. India, in conversation with Lady
Delamere, stopped talking and laughed along with her. "He's marvelous
with her!" she said.

"That's because he's an overgrown child himself," Lady Delamere said.

India rarely heard her daughter laugh like this, and it delighted
her. She'd been so worried about bringing Charlotte to Africa, terrifled
that she would come down with some dreadful disease. Instead, after a
week in Mombasa, Charlotte was flourishing. Her cheeks were pink, her
gray eyes lively. She had spent her days on Mombasa's white beaches with
Mary, India's maid, collecting shells and throwing her lunch to the
gulls. She'd met people there she liked, including a young couple who
said they were hiking to Kilimanjaro. Even the official events she had
to attend as her father's daughter had been exciting for her. She'd
marveled at the different faces she saw-- English, African, Arabian,
Indian--and at the different languages she heard. By her second day in
the town she was calling Mary her ayah, asking for scones and chai, and
pestering for rupees to spend in the dukas.