The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Joshua snorted and stamped. Freddie patted the animal's neck. He'd returned from safari several days ago and had been closeted inside Ash McGregor's study ever since, writing articles, reports, and speeches, and was now glad of an afternoon's ride. He needed a bit of air. Needed to clear his head. And he needed to find out what the hell was going on with India.

  Something was, he was certain of it. She was not herself. Normally she had the stamina of a dray horse. She had to--being a political wife took an ungodly amount of energy. But suddenly it seemed that all her energy had deserted her. She looked pale and agitated. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been weeping.

  Freddie had wished to speak to her when he'd first arrived at the McGregors', but he hadn't been able to because she wasn't there. She'd gone out riding, Elspeth McGregor told him, as she had almost every morning, and tended to stay out for hours. He'd asked Mrs. McGregor to send her into the study when she returned.

  He'd been reading various documents--among them a dispatch from Nairobi--when he heard a knock on the study door. It was India.

  "Elspeth told me you wanted to see me," she'd said, walking into the room.

  "Mmm," he said. "I've news. We have to..." He had looked up at her and he'd stopped speaking, surprised by her appearance. Her eyes were dull; there were dark shadows under them. Her face was shockingly pale.

  "Are you ill?" he'd asked.

  "No."

  "You don't look well."

  "I am perfectly fine."

  He'd frowned. "Can't you put some rouge on?"

  "Surely you haven't called me in here to discuss my toilette."

  "No, I haven't. I wanted to tell you that you have to pack. You and Charlotte are going to Nairobi with me in a week."

  "Nairobi? Why? I thought we were going to Mount Kenya for a fortnight."

  "We are. But we're going to Nairobi first. That idiot Meade completely forgot that the Colonists' Association is throwing a dinner for me. Can't say no. They'd be frightfully offended."

  "I will go, but Charlotte stays here. She's still under the weather."

  "I'm sure she's fine. You mollycoddle her. Even Delamere says so."

  "She's not going."

  Freddie had returned his gaze to his papers. He raised his eyes once more to hers, irritated by the unusual note of defiance in her voice. "She will. It won't look good if she doesn't."

  "It won't look good if she ends up in the hospital. If you drag an ailing child on a two-day journey into that dust-ridden cow town simply for a planters' dinner and she becomes seriously ill as a result, you will look to the world like the heartless man that you are."

  Freddie considered this. "All right," he finally said. "You and I are going, however."

  "Very well," India said. She headed for the doorway.

  "Where are you going? Do you not need to pack?"

  "Mary will see to the packing. I'm going out for a ride. I need air. It's stifling in here."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps toward the mountain."

  Freddie watched her go. Her clothes looked downright baggy on her. Had she not been eating? He tapped the end of his pen against his teeth and thought, There is something wrong. Very wrong. I wonder what it could be.

  India had always been a terrible liar. Utterly incapable of speaking untruths. Oh, she'd mastered the white lies. She'd learned how to compliment an ugly dress, smile at beastly children, pretend to be fascinated by crashing bores--she'd had to; he'd never have survived in politics otherwise--but she'd never learned how to hide her heart. Not even from him.

  She was hiding something now, though. He was certain of it. He would find out what. People would do almost anything to keep their secrets hidden. She certainly had. She'd gone as far as marrying him to keep the world from finding out that Charlotte was Sid Malone's bastard.

  He'd stood and looked out one of the study's windows. A few minutes later he'd seen India on a brown mare, galloping away. He hardly considered himself a navigator, but he knew the rudiments and he knew that the mountain lay north and that she was riding west.

  There was a knock behind him. He turned. Elspeth McGregor had stepped into the room.

  "Would you like some tea, Lord Frederick?" she'd asked. "Or coffee, perhaps?"

  Freddie had smiled his golden smile. "You've caught me idling, Mrs. McGregor," he'd said charmingly. She'd laughed, flushing slightly. "The view's dashed distracting," he'd said. "Can't keep my eyes off it."

  "It is something to see," Mrs. McGregor had agreed.

  "I'm very curious about this lovely place. I know the mountain's to the north and Nairobi's south, but what's to the east of us?"

  "Ukamba Province," Mrs. McGregor had replied. "And the northern hills of the Luitbold range."

  "I see. And to the west?"

  "Well, there's Roos's place directly west of us. He's a coffee planter, but not a terribly good one I'm afraid. Past him, there's Maggie Carr's farm. She is a good planter. She has Sid Baxter working for her. He's the one who saved Charlotte. Lady India's been out there to visit. More than once. To tell him thank you."

  "Has she?"

  "Oh, yes. Loves the ride, she says. Who wouldn't? The landscape is so beautiful, and it gets even more dramatic the farther west you go. Beyond Maggie's place is the forest preserve, you see, for the Kikuyu, and beyond that's Lake Naivasha."

  "Sounds glorious! You've been ever so helpful, Mrs. McGregor. Truly. We shall have to make a trip to the lake, Lady India and I, if time permits. There is simply too much to see in Africa and too little time in which to see it." He'd smiled again.

  "Coffee then, Lord Frederick?"

  "That would be lovely. Thank you."

  "Cream and sugar?"

  "No, thank you. I take it black and bitter. Like my heart."

  "Oh, Lord Frederick!" Mrs. McGregor had said, giggling and flapping a hand at him. As soon as she'd closed the door behind herself, Freddie's fake smile had dropped away.

  Baxter. Sid Baxter... Why did the name sound familiar? he'd wondered. He was sure he'd never known a Sid Baxter in all his life. And yet it had nagged at him, just as it had done when he'd first heard it on safari. Baxter. He'd told himself that he was being foolish, that there was nothing in it. He'd sat down to work again, forgetting about Sid Baxter, but he hadn't been able to put India's strange, unhealthy appearance from his mind for days.

  And then, just this morning, days after as he'd watched India--still pale, still thin--barely touch her breakfast, it hit him. She was expecting a baby. That explained her appearance, her lethargy, her lack of appetite. She was pregnant ...and she was riding hard every ning to try to undo the pregnancy. She had probably lied to Elspeth McGregor about visiting the Carr farm. She was probably out galloping on the plains hoping to jostle things loose. She must have left whatever it was she usually relied upon to end pregnancies in London. She wouldn't have risked packing it in case someone discovered it while unpacking her trunks--Mary perhaps, or a maid in the governor's household.

  As he'd watched India pick at her food earlier, Freddie decided that he would take a ride west himself. He'd let India go alone, as she did every morning, and after she had returned, he would ride out himself. He was riding west now, just as he'd seen India do. He would visit Margaret Carr. Pay her a friendly social call. She was a planter, wasn't she? And he was here to cement relations between the settlers of British East Africa and the British government. He had every reason for making her acquaintance. He would ask to see her holding, flatter her with questions about coffee and how it was planted, grown, harvested--all of that. If Sid Baxter was around, he would thank him for finding Charlotte, and then he would casually ask both Baxter and Mrs. Carr about India's visits. And God help her if she had not made any.

  Freddie touched his heels to Joshua's flanks now. The restless animal needed little encouragement, and horse and rider were soon streaking across the plains. They arrived at the Carr plantation less than an hour later and
cantered up the drive to the bungalow. Freddie dismounted and handed the reins to a Kikuyu boy who came out to meet him.

  "See that he's walked and watered," he told the boy. "Where's Mrs. Carr?"

  The boy, small and wide-eyed, didn't answer.

  "Christ, why can't these bloody people speak English?" Freddie muttered. "Where's Mrs. Carr?" he repeated loudly. "Where's the Msabu?"

  The boy pointed past the bungalow.

  Freddie looked where he was pointing and saw coffee fields in the distance. He thought he saw movement in one of the fields about a half mile away. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a pair of field glasses and held them to his eyes. Kikuyu women, dressed in red, moved slowly through the green coffee bushes. A flash of white among the red caught his attention. He focused on it and realized he was looking at a woman in a white shirt. She was small and broad and shouting to someone across the field.

  That's Margaret Carr, he thought. He shifted his head to the left slightly and saw the person she was calling to. It was a white man. He was bent over a coffee plant. His face was mostly hidden under the brim of a bush hat. Baxter, he thought.

  Freddie had just decided to walk out to them when Baxter straightened. He turned toward Mrs. Carr, took off his hat to fan himself, and shouted something back at her. As he did, Freddie caught a full view of his face.

  "Good God," he whispered. "It can't be. You're dead."

  He lowered the glasses and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "It's the heat," he said. "It's muddled my mind."

  After a few seconds he raised the field glasses again. Baxter was still facing him, still hatless. And Freddie was quite certain now that the image he was seeing was not caused by the heat.

  Baxter. Sid Baxter. The name had seemed familiar to him because it was familiar. It was the name Sid Malone had used at Arden Street. Alvin Donaldson had told him so.

  Fury, white hot and blinding, rose in him. Now he knew why India looked so upset and why she rode out from the McGregors' every bloody morning. It wasn't to undo a pregnancy as he'd thought; she had discovered that Sid Baxter was really Sid Malone. And she was carrying on with him again, damn her.

  At the thought of that, of India with Sid, Freddie's rage was suddenly doused by fear. Freddie knew that she'd married him only because she thought Sid was dead. But he wasn't. He was alive and very well, from the looks of things. She'd chosen Sid over him once... what if she did it again? The scandal of a divorce--not to mention the loss of the Selwyn Jones fortune--would ruin him. If India left him, he would never become prime minister.

  Freddie took a deep breath. He must not give in to his emotion. Not yet. Nobody could know that he'd been here or what he'd seen. He didn't want to give India time to warn Malone or give Malone time to run. Everything must proceed just as it had been. India must continue with her morning rides, suspecting nothing, for Freddie needed a bit of time himself. Time to send a messenger to Nairobi. Time to send a telegram to Scotland Yard. By the time he and India arrived in Nairobi themselves, for the colonists' dinner, the Yard would have wired back. Only a few days.

  "You! Boy!" he shouted at the child who was now leading his horse away.

  The boy turned.

  "Bring him back. Quickly! Give me the reins," he said, striding over to him.

  He mounted and was off down Maggie Carr's drive again in seconds. There was nothing to indicate he'd ever been at the farm except a bit of red dust in the air, kicked up by Joshua's hooves. It would settle and the half-wit boy would probably forget to tell anyone he'd been there. Even if he did tell them, he wouldn't be able to give them a name.

  He rode back to the McGregors' farm hard, urging Joshua on with his crop. A million questions swirled in his head. He had no answers to them. Not yet. But there would be plenty of time for answers later. When Malone was in jail.

  Sid Malone had obviously faked his death once. Freddie was determined to see that he didn't get the chance to do it again. Malone would die. In England. On the gallows. He would see to it. And this time, it would be for real.

  Chapter 105

  Seamie felt Willa's head, hot and heavy on his back. She was out. Again. She had mumbled deliriously for the last hour and now she was unconscious. She was in trouble; he knew she was.

  He stopped, wiped the stinging sweat out of his eyes, and squinted at the horizon. A hill, and beyond it more hills, no doubt. Above them, the merciless sun. And behind them, Kilimanjaro.

  He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Where's the bloody station?" he shouted. "Where are the bloody tracks?"

  There was no answer.

  He spotted a copse of acacia trees about a hundred yards east and walked toward them. Once there, he gently lowered Willa into the shady grass.

  "Come on, Wills," he said, propping her up and patting her face. "Wakey, wakey."

  She mumbled a protest.

  "You have to drink something. Come on, now. Wake up."

  He unscrewed the cap on the canteen and lifted it to her lips.

  She grimaced and turned her head away.

  "Please, Wills, please. For me."

  She opened her eyes. They were dull and unfocused.

  "There's a good girl. Come on, just a sip."

  He got a thin trickle of water down her throat before she gagged.

  "No more..." she rasped. She sank back into the grass and he saw that her ankle was now as thick as her thigh.

  "I'm going to take a look at that leg," he said. When he'd peeled away the last layer of the makeshift dressing, he had to stifle a curse.

  Willa heard him. "What is it?" she asked weakly.

  "Close your eyes," he said. "Rest for a minute." He tore strips off his shirt and quickly rewrapped the leg. He didn't want her to see it. It was horribly infected. The skin was hot and shiny. Red streaks snaked across it like lines on a map. The bone edges, still protruding, had blackened and the puncture was leaking pus.

  "Oh, God. I can smell it," Willa said, suddenly lucid.

  "That's me, Wills," Seamie said, trying for a smile.

  "Seamie ...please. Leave me here. Leave the rifle."

  "Don't talk like that."

  "I can't go on."

  "I can."

  "If you don't leave me we're both going to die," she said angrily. "You know that, don't you? I'm done for, but you still have a chance if you'd just take it!"

  "Be quiet. Climb on. We're going now."

  "I can't."

  He pulled her up by her arms and manhandled her onto his back. He banged her leg, causing her to shriek with pain. She swore at him, hit him, and then wept, but he ignored her. He didn't care. All he cared about was putting one foot in front of the other. He was nearly spent. He'd been walking for five days now. He had to find the train and soon.

  He'd made it back to the Mawenzi camp after a harrowing trek through the forest in the dark, expecting to feel a Chagga arrow in his back at every step. Willa had been so glad to see him.

  "Are we going now?" she'd asked. "Is Tepili here? And the others?"

  He'd sat down beside her and explained what had happened.

  "Oh, God," she'd said, her eyes bright with tears. "All of them, Seamie? They're all dead?"

  "I think--I hope--that some of them got away. I saw only five or six bodies. Maybe they ran and the Chagga gave chase. Maybe that's why no one came after me."

  After Willa had wept for Tepili and the others, the gravity of her own situation began to sink in. "So that means there's no food for us... no one to take our gear... no one to get me down the mountain," she'd said.

  "Right on all counts but the last one," Seamie replied. "I'm carrying you down."

  "What? How?"

  "On my back."

  "Are you mad?"

  "I can do it. I've carried heavy packs. In deep snow. At twenty below. I can carry you."

  "But what about the photographic plates... our maps..."

  He shook his head. The plates had survived their descent because
he'd been carrying them, but they were too heavy to carry any farther. He'd worked it all out on the way back to her. He could carry her, the bare essentials, nothing else.

  "No. I'm not leaving the plates behind," she said. "Without them we've no proof we reached the summit."

  "The hell with the summit."