Green City in the Sun (29 page)

     Miranda's shoulders slumped. It was no use. Valentine wasn't coming back. Any fool could see that. He'd been drunk, and when he had sobered and realized what he had done, he had regretted it.

     "I don't wanna have one o' them operations," Peony wailed. "I was raised Catholic!"

     Miranda turned around, her look contemptuous. "You should have thought of that before you gave in to your weakness. If you don't want to get rid of it, then do you want to keep it?"

     Peony's eyes went as round as coins. "No, no, mum! What would I do with a little un? It's not as though I loved the boy I slept with. He don't mean nothing to me. I don't want the baby. But I couldn't ... kill it."

     "Then what choice have you?"

     Peony twisted the hem of her apron. "I thought perhaps someone would adopt it."

     Miranda stared at her.

     Peony looked small and pathetic in the big easy chair, the outlines of her bony shoulders showing through the fabric of her cheap dress. But she was healthy, Miranda knew that. And the baby would be, too.

     Miranda narrowed her eyes, an idea dawning. "You say the boy doesn't know?"

     "Oh, no, mum! And I'll never see him again to tell him."

     "Does
anyone
know?"

     Peony dumbly shook her head.

     Miranda smiled. "Then I'm going to help you."

     "Oh, thank you—"

     "But you'll have to promise me you'll keep it a secret. Now, here is what we are going to do...."

     R
OSE HAD WRITTEN
him a note: "Mrs. West's macaroons, one doz. And Bristol cake, please."

     It was the only way they communicated anymore, either through Mrs. Pembroke, the nanny, or by written notes. He had found this one in his dressing room when he had been getting ready for his trip to Nairobi. Rose was already out of the house, of course, in her eucalyptus glade.

     Valentine was tempted to pretend he hadn't seen the note or that Mrs. West was no longer in the baking business, but he knew that lies would not save him. He wasn't being honorable. Unpleasant as it might be, he could not go on avoiding Miranda forever; he had to face her and lay the thing to rest.

     Miranda glided out of the kitchen with her hands held out and, to his surprise, greeted him warmly.

     "You've been busy, Lord Treverton," she said, motioning to one of the boys who was setting up tables for tea. "Two beers," she said in Swahili, then turned to Valentine. "You must have a terrific lot of work on your hands, what with weeding and mulching and pruning five thousand acres of coffee. It's all I hear about from the other growers."

     Valentine looked around, thinking the dining room a rather public place. But it was deserted at this hour between lunch and tea. And the staff was working quietly on the other side of the room. "I'm sorry I haven't been by, Miranda. I just really didn't know what to say to you."

     "It's all right," she said softly. "It really is."

     "I'm not normally like that. I feel such the cad. I hadn't meant for it to happen. Too much gin at the Norfolk, you see."

     "Of course. I understand."

     "Well, then." He placed his hands flat on the table, feeling immeasurable relief. "I must say, Miranda, you're a good sport!"

     She laughed. "What did you think I was going to do? I'm not a green girl
fresh off the boat, after all. And I do trust your discretion. After all, there is my reputation to think of."

     "You have my word of honor."

     "And
your
reputation to protect, too."

     "Well, yes."

     "Especially now."

     "Now?"

     The beers arrived. Miranda poured them into glass mugs and waited until the boy had gone back into the kitchen before she said, "It's quite the coincidence you should stop by today, Lord Treverton. I was just about to go out and look for you."

     He gave her a cautious look. "You were?"

     She sipped her beer. "Oh, I'm afraid the boy brought cold ones. I've started keeping some on ice for the Americans. They drink their beer cold, did you know that?"

     "Miranda, why were you going to go looking for me? Surely you know that what happened that night cannot be repeated."

     "I hadn't expected it would be. The reason I'm glad you stopped by is that I have something to tell you."

     "And what is that?"

     "I'm pregnant."

     "What!"

     A waiter appeared through the kitchen doorway. Miranda waved him back, and he disappeared. "Please, Lord Treverton, we must be discreet."

     "You're pregnant," he said.

     "Yes."

     "Are you sure?"

     She sighed. "Yes."

     "Why are you telling me?"

     "Because it's your child."

     "Mine!"

     "It certainly isn't anyone else's."

     He stared at her. Then he said, "Good Lord," and stood up. Valentine took a few steps, then turned around. "What are you going to do about it?"

     "Do? Why, I'm going to keep it, of course."

     "There's a woman in Limuru. A Mrs. Bates—"

     Miranda shook her head. "I could never do that. And could you? Knowing it was your own child? And there's a very good chance that it's a boy. My family's known for having boys."

     She paused, to let that sink in; then she said, "I'm not asking anything from you. I'm not that kind of woman. I'll take care of him, raise him as my own. No one will know you're the father. I just thought you should know, is all."

     Valentine looked down at her, his expression dark and thoughtful. She returned his look with a forthright, honest gaze.

     Then he thought of his father, the old earl. There had been talk of a woman in London and a little boy. Valentine's father had set them up in a flat on Bedford Square.

     A boy. A
son ...

     He came back to the table and sat down. "I'm sorry, Miranda," he said, earnest and serious. "I hadn't intended for this to happen."

     "Neither had I, but there you are. I've spent years protecting my reputation. And now it's gone down the drain because of a moment of weakness."

     "It was my fault."

     "It takes two."

     "I'll help you, of course."

     "I'm not asking for it."

     "Nonetheless . . ." Valentine's thoughts began to race. He pictured the members of his club, the knowing glances that were exchanged when he entered a room, the conversations that stopped abruptly. Valentine knew that the whole colony talked about him and Rose, speculated on their marital problems.
The earl of Treverton can't manage to father an heir.

     "When is the baby due?" he asked.

     "In March."

     "Very well then," he said as he reached into his pocket for his billfold. "This will be a start."

I
T WAS THE WORST POSSIBLE TIME OF THE YEAR TO COME TO
Kenya—just before the rains, when the grass was dry, the fields empty of crops, the whole land looking withered and forsaken by God.

     
As I shall be
, Grace thought,
if I am not careful today.

     The delegation had arrived the day before. They were staying at the White Rhino Hotel in Nyeri and would soon be at Birdsong Cottage to begin their inspection. Feeling responsible for the situation, James had offered to come help, but Grace had declined, believing she must face the delegation on her own.

     The morning was young and fresh as she walked the path toward the little compound that comprised her clinic. Night mist still curled along the ground; dew sparkled on leaves like glass flowers. Grace saw the flash of a paradise flycatcher up in the trees, its long scarlet tail catching the early sun. A cinnamon bee-eater flew across her path. The air was full of song and chatter. On the other side of the river blue smoke from the Kikuyu cook fires hung low in the trees.

     Grace's mission consisted of three structures: the outpatient clinic, which was a thatch roof on four posts; the school, which was no more than logs laid out like benches facing an olive tree to which the blackboard was nailed; and a mud hut for seriously ill or injured patients. A quiet and orderly crowd was already waiting for her: women with babies on their backs; old men squatting in the dirt playing an interminable game with pebbles.

     When the delegation, three men and two women, finally arrived, coming down the path from the plantation above, Grace was well into her routine.

     As she had not yet met them, introductions went around. The Reverend Sanky headed the group and was accompanied by his wife, Ida. There were no questions at first; they merely watched Grace minister to the Africans as the patients came up one by one, with Mario assisting her. There were the usual burned children, whom she treated with permanganate and clean bandages, sending them away with reminders to their mothers of the hazards of the open fires in the huts. There was a man with a goiter whom Grace could not help; a severe case of elephantiasis, which she referred to the Catholic hospital in Nyeri; a man who three days ago had cut his hand, which, because it had gone unattended, was now badly infected. Many of her patients presented ailments they had already come to her for in the past, some of them several times. These problems arose from unsanitary living conditions, and although Grace repeated the same cautions over and over, about keeping the hut clean, penning the goats outside, washing one's body regularly, wearing sandals, keeping flies away from the face, the advice was never taken.

     Mr. Sanky and his companions watched in silence, writing down notes in little books. They strolled around, inspected the equipment on the table—laryngoscope, reflex hammer, hypodermic syringes, tongue depressors, forceps, and scalpels—read labels on bottles, glanced at her charts, and listened.

     An old man with sores all over his body kicked up a fuss when Grace reached for a hypodermic syringe. Mario translated: "He says he already have shot, memsaab. Yesterday, at the Catholic mission."

     "I see," she said, filling the syringe from a bottle labeled "Neosalvarsan.".
"He had this particular shot?"

     "He says yes, memsaab."

     "Ask him if he also had a shot for cloud infection."

     There was a brief exchange, then: "He had that one, too, memsaab."

     "Very well then. Hold him please, Mario."

     While the old man protested, she jabbed him in the arm.

     "I say," said Mr. Sanky when the elder, complaining loudly, had gone away, "what was that all about?"

     She spoke while she looked inside a woman's mouth. "The man had yaws. He needed a shot of Neosalvarsan."

     "But he told you he'd already had one."

     "These people are deathly afraid of injections, Mr. Sanky," Grace said as she reached for a pair of pliers. "They always lie and insist they've already had the shot."

     "But how could you be sure he
was
lying?" Mrs. Sanky asked as she watched Grace pull a bad tooth from the Kikuyu woman's mouth.

     "Because he insisted he had also had a shot for cloud infection, and there is no such thing."

     "You made it up?"

     "Mario, please tell the woman to rinse with this and spit it out." Grace washed her hands in a basin of soapy water and said, "It's a way of finding out if they're telling the truth. If he had told me he had
not
had a shot for cloud infection, then I might assume he was telling the truth about the Neosalvarsan shot. I've had some of these people vigorously assure me they have had a
chocolate
shot."

     The clergyman and his wife exchanged a look.

     Another member of the delegation said, "Just now you gave that woman her extracted tooth. Why?"

     "I had to; otherwise she would think I might use it against her in black magic."

     "Dr. Treverton," said the other woman in the group, "why is your morphine red? Morphine is not red. In fact"—she pointed to the medicinal vials on the table—" all these should be colorless solutions, and yet they are different colors. Why?"