Green City in the Sun (32 page)

     M
IRANDA LEANED OVER
the ceramic bowl and vomited.

     She clutched the edges of the table while her body shuddered; then she sank down into the chair, exhausted. Her eyes gazed dully at the window, where a light rain had begun to wash the panes. She felt no emotion—neither joy that the rains had come, ensuring another year of prosperity for Kenya, nor distress at the thought of what a mess the mud was going to make of her hotel. She was thinking of nothing at all. Her worst fears had been confirmed.

     She was pregnant.

     The first suspicion had entered her mind back in February, when she realized she had missed a period. She had held out on a false hope, which had grown fainter and fainter with each morning of sickness, until now there was no doubt and no hope. All those weeks of interrogating Peony had taught Miranda enough to diagnose her own condition.

     Her dispirited gaze moved from the window and settled first upon a crumpled letter on her desk—the message that had arrived the day before from Jack's gold prospecting partner informing Miranda of her husband's death in an incident with a wounded rhino. Then her eye went to the ludicrous cushion on her bed, the pillowcase that was stuffed with rags to approximate a nine-month belly. And finally Miranda looked up at the ceiling because Peony was up there, in the attic, waiting out her last hours....

     There was no choice for Miranda but to go to Mrs. Bates in Limuru. Her dirty business was an open secret in Kenya; Miranda could name three women who had been relieved of their mistakes in Mrs. Bates's kitchen. But
there was the problem of when to do it. The Limuru woman would not terminate a pregnancy that had gone past four months, and Miranda was past three. She would have to go soon. But when?

     Peony was due any day. Miranda could not leave her. She had lied to the girl about a doctor's being on call; Miranda planned to deliver the baby herself. Secrecy was paramount. She would take the baby, throw away her pillow, and put Peony on the first train bound for the coast.

     But now there was this new complication.

     Miranda checked her watch. It was getting on to teatime, and she had not looked in on Peony since morning.

     Her mind stumbled about for answers. When to go to Mrs. Bates? What if Peony was mistaken about her dates and the baby didn't come for another two or three weeks? Miranda would have Lord Treverton's baby and still be pregnant!

     She looked at the tray that was to go up to Peony. On it lay a magazine that was full of romance stories and gossip about American film stars. On the back page were classified advertisements for "hard to come by" items. The advertisers had post office box addresses, required cash in advance, and promised quick and discreet delivery of "female regulators," guaranteed to work.

     Miranda rose wearily and picked up the tray.

     She knew nothing about delivering babies but decided it could not be too complex, its being a rather straightforward, natural process. She had found a book,
Home Childbirth
, which had turned out to be useless because it had been published twenty years ago at the turn of the century and was so discreet that it got no more technical than "First, place a modesty screen around the mother." So Miranda followed her instincts. In Peony's night-stand there was a pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels, soap and a bottle of sterile water, a basin for washing, and tea towels with safety pins for afterward. All going well, Miranda reminded herself now as she opened the attic door, she should have her baby in a day or two, Peony safely on the train, and herself making the quick trip to Mrs. Bates's farm.

     When she entered the attic room, she cried out and dropped the tray.

     Hastily locking the door behind herself, Miranda ran to the bed and felt
Peony's wrist. At first she couldn't find a pulse. Then it was there, but weak.

     "Peony?" she said.
"Peony?"

     There was no movement on the shockingly white face. Miranda looked at the blood soaking into the mattress, covering Peony's dress and legs, and tried to stay calm. The girl was still alive. Working quickly, Miranda drew Peony's clothes off, spread a new sheet under her, and tried to stop the blood flow.

     
What had happened?

     Miranda began to tremble. She had no idea what to do. She felt the girl's abdomen. The baby was alive, moving. Then she saw a contraction and the emergence of more blood.

     Miranda jumped up, left the attic, ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a boy turned to her with startled eyes.
"Daktari,"
she said, pulling him aside. The others in the kitchen stopped work and stared. "Quickly!"

     "Daktari Hare?"

     "
Any
doctor! Hurry! Tell him it's life and death!"

     M
R
. A
CRE'S OFFICE
was simply a mesh cage at the back of the tiny bank, which itself consisted of nothing more than a bit of floor space, a counter with a grille, and one teller's window, where a young Hindu was counting out money.

     "Dr. Treverton!" said Mr. Acres, rising and straightening his waistcoat. "I certainly hadn't meant for you to come out in this weather. It could have waited until after the rains."

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "You're here because of my message, are you not?"

     "What message?"

     "Well, this is a coincidence." He pulled out a chair for her and sat behind his desk. "I sent a note up to the DO in Nyeri town, asking him to pass it along to you. It's about your bank account."

     She gave him a puzzled look. "What bank account?"

     He went through some papers on his desk, cleared his throat, and
brought forth a ledger. "An account has been opened in your name, Dr. Treverton." He leaned forward and opened the book. "Here it is. See? That is the sum that was deposited, five hundred pounds. You may draw upon it as often as you wish, provided you do not exceed that amount within a twelve-month period."

     Grace blinked down at the neat columns, at the line with her name printed on it. "I don't understand."

     "Yes, well, I rather thought it would come as a surprise to you. You see, this account has been opened by a person who will make yearly deposits of five hundred pounds, to be used by you as you see fit."

     She stared at him. "I don't understand.
What
person?"

     "I am not at liberty to divulge that information, Doctor. The identity of your benefactor must remain unknown to you."

     Grace looked at him. Rain pattered on the corrugated iron roof of the small bank, creating a noise inside. A leak appeared, and the young Asian was immediately on the spot, setting a bucket under it on the floor.

     "Mr. Acres, I don't know what to say."

     "I quite imagine. Five hundred pounds is a lot of money."

     "And you can't tell me who did this?"

     "Anonymity is part of the conditions. Were such information to be somehow disclosed, the benefactor will terminate the account. I cannot even tell you if these funds originate here in Kenya or elsewhere."

     Grace continued to stare at the ledger page with her name and the remarkable numbers after it.
Kenya or elsewhere.
Who on earth?

     And then a voice echoed in her mind:
I shall make it up to you somehow, Grace.
Sir James had said that to her the night he had told her about Lucille's writing the letter to the Society.
I promise you I will make it up to you.

     "But he can't afford it."

     Mr. Acres looked over the rim of his spectacles. "Did you say something, Doctor?"

     She shook her head. Of course, he would want the account to be anonymous, and of course, she was going to respect that. And the first thing she was going to do after sending Mr. Masters packing on the very next train to Mombasa was ride out to Kilima Simba and tell James about her good news.

     "Memsaab Daktari! Memsaab Daktari!" shouted the rain-soaked kitchen boy as he ran into the bank.

     Hardy Acres shot to his feet. "What is this!"

     The Asian teller tried to grab the muddy boy but missed. "Daktari!" he said as he came up breathlessly to Grace. "The memsaab needs you at once. She says it is life and death.
Haraka haraka!"

     "What has happened?"

     "You come! Something bad!"

     "Who sent you?"

     "Memsaab Westi!"

     Grace exchanged a look with the banker. Then she said, "Tell Mrs. West that I must stop first for my medical bag. I'm staying down Government Road with the Millfords."

     W
HEN
G
RACE FINALLY
hurried into the attic, shedding her raincoat and dropping her umbrella, she found a frantic Miranda pacing beside a bed that, at first glance, appeared to contain a corpse. In the instant it took for her to close the door and cross the room, Grace's trained eye took in two important details: that the girl on the bed was in the middle of childbirth and that the widow West was suddenly no longer pregnant.

     Grace sat on the edge of the bed, snapped open her bag, and withdrew the stethoscope. "What happened?" she said as she listened first to Peony's chest, then to the abdomen.

     "She started labor this morning—"

     "It's evening now. Why didn't you call in a doctor before this?" Miranda stood in petrified silence.

     Shooting the woman an angry look, Grace proceeded to examine Peony.

     She found the worst possible situation: The placenta was breaking up, and the poor girl was bleeding to death. It was too late now for hospitals or surgery; Grace was going to be lucky if she could save the baby. And for that she was going to have to fight.

     "We are too late to save the girl," she said as she made hurried preparations
to bring the baby out. "But I might still be able to save the child." She looked up at Miranda. "That was what you wanted, isn't it? This child?"

     Miranda swallowed and nodded.

     
Valentine!
Grace thought as she hastily unwrapped her sterile instruments.
You fool!

     The night grew long and dark; the shadows of the two women loomed on the walls and wavered in the glow of a hurricane lamp. Rain fell continually against the windows as Nairobi withdrew into sepulchral silence. Grace worked quickly, using her instruments, the sheets, and towels. There was the umbilical cord to deal with, wrapped around the baby's neck, and the blood flow, as ceaseless as the rain. Miranda assisted her; they sat with their heads together, doing all the work because Peony was beyond helping them.

     The girl died just before the baby gave its first cry. Grace said, "It's a boy," and Miranda fell away from the bed in a dead faint.

D
ISTRICT
O
FFICER
B
RIGGS WAS CLEARLY UNCOMFORTABLE
. "I
T
is, ah, most extraordinary, Your Lordship," he said as he pointedly avoided looking Valentine in the eye. "Quite a baffling case."

     They were sitting on the veranda of Bellatu, drinking morning tea in the brief sunshine break in the rain. Already clouds were gathering to shed another blessed deluge upon Treverton's five thousand acres of coffee.