Green City in the Sun (27 page)

     "I was hoping you would come by tonight," Miranda said, walking to a mahogany sideboard littered with doilies, bric-a-brac, and pictures of the royal family. "I set this aside special." She came back with a fancy round cake tin. "Rum gingerbread for Lady Treverton."

     Valentine looked at the fake Wedgwood tin, thinking of all the care that had gone into the cake inside, wondering how on earth Miranda managed to find the time for such offerings in her demanding schedule, and was suddenly overcome with sentiment. The widow West was a good woman. Her husband had to be dead; no man would purposely stay away from her.

     She sat in the chair opposite and folded her hands in her lap.

     "You've done your hair different," he said.

     "Three months ago! It's the new look."

     His face darkened. All the women in Kenya were chopping their hair off now because Rose had done it. Dresses were straightening out natural curves, and hemlines were rising. White women had the vote in the colony finally, and more and more were taking up cigarette smoking. The "new woman"! Was that what the war with Germany had been fought for?

     Valentine felt his spirits start to slide. As a man who rarely let his natural optimism flag, who never allowed himself the indulgence of self-pity, and who had really only once in all his time in East Africa felt true despair—on the night of his unforgivable attack on Rose—the earl of Treverton now let melancholy engulf him. Swallowing his whiskey, he said, "What's the world coming to, Miranda?"

     She formed a sympathetic smile. Miranda heard familiar signals in his tone, saw a look creep into his eyes that she had seen in the faces of many lonely men. She refilled his glass.

     "What do women want, Miranda? Can you tell me that?"

     "I only know what I want, Lord Treverton. Not all women want the same thing."

     "I want a son," he said quietly. "It's all I've ever really wanted. I've got that great monster of a house and five thousand acres and no one to pass it on to. I need an heir. But my wife ... the doctors have said she can't have any more children...."

     Miranda knew that was a lie. According to the bush telegraph, it wasn't that Lady Rose
couldn't
but rather that she
wouldn't
have children.

     Suddenly Valentine looked at her and said, "You need a man, Miranda. You shouldn't be alone."

     "I've the hotel to keep me busy. There's the staff and guests. I'm never alone."

     "I mean at night, Miranda. After the hotel duties are done and your guests are all tucked in their beds. Don't you miss a man then?"

     She looked down at her hands. "Sometimes."

     "You're the subject of much speculation, Miranda."

     "Am I?"

     "There isn't a man in East Africa who can claim to have known you intimately."

     "And I aim to keep it that way."

     "Why? Because you're married?"

     "Oh, no, Jack's dead. I'm certain of that."

     "Why then? God knows you can have your pick of men."

     "I've got my reputation to protect. You know that a woman on her own can't afford to sleep around."

     "I didn't mean to sleep
around
," he said quietly. "I meant . . . just one man.

     "Who would I choose? I own this hotel, and it earns a nice income. How would I find a man who isn't after my money?"

     "There are men in Kenya who don't need your money."

     "True. But I have no affection for any of them. Before I give myself to a man, I should have to have some fondness for him."

     His black eyes contemplated her. She was just like Rose, he thought. Not in looks or in any tangible way, but she guarded her virtue in the same way Rose did.

     This realization suddenly made Valentine feel lusty. And the whiskey was finally getting to him. Thoughts began to run together; the room grew hot. And the pain he had been carrying around for six months was beginning to dissolve.

     "There
is
someone who interests you, isn't there?" he asked softly. She hesitated.

     "Who is it?"

     Miranda returned his gaze with equal intensity. She was so close now, so close ...

     "
Is
there someone, Miranda?"

     She nodded.

     "Who?"

     "I'm sure you already know," she whispered.

     He rose and swayed over her. "I want to hear it, Miranda. I want you to say the name of the one man you would go to bed with."

     She felt dizzy. Her face burned. She whispered, "You know very well who it is. It's yourself—"

     Valentine reached down, pulled her to her feet, and covered her mouth with his. "Don't say no to me, Miranda," he said in a tight voice. He kissed her lips, her neck. He unbuttoned her blouse and kissed her throat. When his hand slipped down to her breast, he whispered, "Don't refuse me, Miranda!"

     And Miranda, surrendering in his embrace, murmured, "I shan't, Valentine. I shan't."

I
FEEL LIKE A SQUIRREL IN A WHEEL
[G
RACE WROTE IN HER
journal]. I keep treating the same ailments over and over, often with the same people. They come to me with fevers and colds and flu, with intestinal parasites, with tetanus, with malaria, ringworm, and sores that never heal. They consider my simple remedies with Epsom salts and quinine miracles, but I am not happy with this. What I must do is teach them to change their ways of living. Those terrible huts with no ventilation, sleeping with goats, drinking the water that they also wash in and wade their animals through! And the poor little children who are burned by the unguarded cook fires! They come to me and I give them medicine and they return to their filthy homes and continue their unhygienic practices so that I see them again next week, the same people with the same ailments. Or perhaps a few of them have died at last from their unabated afflictions. And I cannot seem to make them understand that it is not enough to come for treatment when the ailment arises, but that they must do something about their living conditions and eradicate the causes of their sickness in the first place!

     G
RACE PUT DOWN
her pen and massaged the back of her neck. She sat at her dining table writing by the light of a hissing petrol lamp. Outside a tender African night hugged the river. The smell of wild jasmine filled the air; a solitary owl hooted mournfully.

     She was alone in her cottage. Mario was in the village attending a ceremonial dance, and Sheba was out for a nocturnal prowl. As Grace gazed into the shadows that inhabited every corner, she thought of the pile of mending that must be done, of the bandages that needed to be rolled, the letters to be written to friends in England, long overdue. But it was ten o'clock. She had been up since dawn and would be getting up again in a few hours to begin another long day. She picked up her pen and wrote:

     I
DESPERATELY NEED
help. I need teachers. I cannot cure the Africans' malnutrition or parasitic diseases if they do not change their lives. By myself I am almost helpless; it is impossible for me to reach all of them. I must stay here and see to the people who come to the clinic.

     
If only the medicine woman weren't nearby! Wachera is my bane. She is the major obstacle in my progress. Wachera advocates maintaining the old customs and ways. The people fear and respect her, they do whatever she says. When Wachera's medicine fails to help them, then they come to me. But it is always
she
they go to first. A path is beaten to her hut. They go to her for love potions, for charms against sickness. She conducts the old religious rites among the Kikuyu. They believe she is their direct link to God and the ancestors. As long as Wachera is allowed to practice her superstitious nonsense, I shall make little headway among the local people.

     
How I wish Valentine had been successful in moving her back across the river. And how I wish he had persisted! But she continually returns to that place by the river, and Val has given up, not considering it worth his bother. He has become quite used to the sight of that hut near the southern goalposts
of the polo field, but for me that hut is a mockery and a constant reminder of my helplessness!

     I have asked Lucille Donald to come back. She stopped the Bible teaching in January because, she said, the rains had ruined the track and travel to and from Kilima Simba was daunting. But when the road dried, she still didn't return. She declares that she has too much to do on her own farm to make the long ride down here and try to teach the Bible to the few children who bother to attend. Besides, the Bible is not what they need. I told Lucille that—that the children needed to learn something more useful, such as reading and writing, health and safety—and we had that argument back in April. Lucille has not come back since, and so now I see that she must have been more deeply chagrined than I had thought at the time, when I had told her that Christianity was going to come second at my mission!

     But perhaps that will have to change. The Society delegation arrives next week from England, and I must be prepared for them. I will not lose everything I have worked for. I cannot let them force me to give up my dream. But I have come up with a plan that I believe will work. However, it calls for Lucille's cooperation....

     G
RACE CLOSED HER
journal, returned it to the drawer she kept it in, and went to the front door. Before opening it, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Cold darkness stood a few feet beyond her veranda. Hawk moths and emperor butterflies flitted around the single paraffin lantern that hung from a beam. To her right the forest delivered up the rhythms of African drums; on her left, high above her, piano chords drifted out of Bellatu—Rose playing again, trying to fill the silence within those walls.

     Grace started.

     Something was moving along the path toward her house.

     Reaching out for the rifle that hung in readiness on the porch, Grace tried to delve into the darkness to see what it was.

     Presently a human figure came into view. A man who limped. James!