“When can I see you again?” Her voice quavered, and she knew she sounded desperate. She hated herself for asking.
“Alone? Not until Cape Town. We should be careful.”
“Not before?”
“Frances. Be patient.” He pulled her shawl off the bed and wove it around her head. “Boudica becomes bedouin. If you see anyone you recognize, say you wanted to find the surgeon. His cabin is along this corridor.”
He opened the door for her, one arm resting on top of it, so she had to duck under him to get out. She turned as she went and drank in a last glimpse of him. He was smiling at her, feet bare, trousers hanging low on his hips, dark hair creeping up his chest. She wanted him to kiss her, to say something final to seal the future, but instead he slipped his hand off the frame of the door in a gesture that could have been impatience. She turned and walked down the corridor into the wheeling music and cold night air.
Seventeen
Frances was terrified by what she had done, and worried that William wouldn’t keep his promise. Sometimes, listening to Mariella talking about George Fairley and their plans for Stellenbosch, she burned with apprehension. She wanted to tell Mariella, but until William had called off his engagement, what was there to say? Mariella, with her efficient, practical mind, might not understand the delicacy of their situation.
At night she gave in to imagining herself as Frances Westbrook. William would become a great politician, a successful statesman, and they would explore Africa together. She would go with him on his hunting trips. They would camp in the bush, and when he came to bed at night she would feel his hands winding round her body, crushing her ribs, pulling her closer to him. He wouldn’t be easy to live with, but she understood his ambition. He was restless and determined, but this was part of his passion for life. He lived closer to excitement than most people. She would offer him a steadiness that would tame his wilder moments. And in return William would liberate her. He judged people on whether they interested him, not because of who they were. He wasn’t tied to the skirts of Society like her uncle, and he didn’t give a damn about the Hamiltons, or where her father had come from.
The Cape drew nearer, and she realized that she needed to talk to him about practicalities. How long would she be in Cape Town before she heard from him? Where would they be married? She would need to pay for the boarding house, and although she didn’t want to mention money, the truth was she had almost nothing to get by on. The little her uncle had given her had been sent ahead to Edwin as part of her dowry.
On the third day after the ball, a cry went up across the ship. “Land ho!”
The shadow of Table Mountain loomed like a storm cloud in the distance. The captain made an announcement that they would dock after breakfast the following day. Frances felt queer. Very soon now, one way or another, everything would change. In a panic, she wrote out a note to William asking him to find her on deck after supper, and gave it to Gilbert to deliver.
She waited for him for half an hour, anxiety flipping over inside her. What if he didn’t come? What if she never spoke to him again? The visible reality of Cape Town seemed to call everything into question.
“Frances.” Suddenly he was there, saying her name and putting his hand lightly to her cheek so that her hair crackled against her ear.
“I was worried,” she said.
“That I wouldn’t come? Or have you changed your mind about me already?” He smiled, his eyes glinting green as he laughed at her, and she felt relief throw off her concerns.
Now that he was here she felt foolish. He had other, more important things to think about. It was nothing for her to break off her own engagement, but he would have to make enemies with Eloise Woodhouse’s family. Mariella had told her that they were very influential at the Cape. She reminded herself that he was taking enormous risks for her, but she didn’t entirely forget her own position. “How long will I have to wait in Cape Town?”
William stroked her face with the back of his hand. His knuckles grazed against her skin. “So impatient.” He was assured and confident. When she was with him, she could feel the world bending itself to his will.
“But you don’t even know where I’m staying!”
“Frances,” he said, with just a glimmer of impatience, “I have contacts. The Society’s details will be down on the ship’s register.”
Of course. What a fool she was, always asking him to spell everything out. Why couldn’t she just trust him? But she also knew from experience that when he was gone the confidence she felt when she was with him would be torn to shreds. “Will you write to me?”
“Are you always so demanding?”
She looked away from him, stung, but he put a finger under her chin and brought her round to face him. “I’m teasing you, Frances. I will write to you the very day we arrive. I promise.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“But what about you? What will you promise me?” he asked with a mischievous smile. He eased the glove off her hand and lifted the tip of each finger to his mouth in turn. “You must promise me”—she felt the wetness of his mouth on her middle finger—“that you will think about me every night that we are apart.”
“I promise,” she said, her fingers burning where he had kissed them, and her heart beating in her throat like the wings of a butterfly against a glass bottle. It was only when he was gone that she realized she hadn’t asked him for money. She would have to make do with what she had.
• • •
THE CAPE was within touching distance the next morning, and before the bell had sounded for breakfast the deck was swarming with passengers eager to get a look at the new country. It was a perfectly calm day, and a flotilla of small fishing boats edged towards them, their crews heaving at the oars. When they were within earshot, they called out from all sides, “News? What news?”
There was a shouted relay as sailors condensed the happenings of London a month ago into a few short sentences.
Frances stood amidst a huddle of other passengers pressing against the railings to get a good view. Table Mountain rose every second larger in front of them. Its majestic bulk towered over the bay, flat-topped and imposing, like the grand gatehouse to a new continent. Soon they were so close she could make out the trees which covered its lower slopes. Looking back down the ship, she caught sight of William weaving through the crowd towards her, shepherding Mrs. Nettleton in front of him.
“There’s a good view of it from here.” He levered Mrs. Nettleton through the group of passengers so she stood at the railings next to Frances.
“Miss Irvine,” William said, bowing to her.
Frances greeted him, and Mrs. Nettleton said a curt how-do-you-do before turning her gaze back to William. He had positioned himself directly behind them both, looking over their shoulders, and Frances felt the other passengers press in behind them.
William pointed through the swirling fog to a small, bleak-looking island with a low, flat terrain. “There it is! Misery Island.”
“What a terrible name. Who lives there?” Mrs. Nettleton asked.
“Mostly lepers and lunatics.”
A few minutes later they could just make out a large lighthouse on the mainland and an imposing-looking building next to it. “That’s Somerset Hospital, just finished for the princely sum of twenty thousand pounds. You can’t say the British don’t spend money on their colonies.”
One of William’s hands came to rest, very gently, on the small of Frances’s back. She froze, every muscle in her body tightening.
“And that, Madam,” William said, talking blithely on, “is the infamous Breakwater Prison.” He pointed to a squat, gray building. “It’s not full of your usual criminals. You’ll find doctors, lawyers, merchants, all doing a full day’s labor. Anyone caught stealing diamonds at Kimberley. So don’t be tempted, Mrs. Nettleton, to slip any stones into your pockets when you tour the mines.”
“Oh, you are naughty.” Mrs. Nettleton giggled, tugging at his sleeve,
and at the same time Frances felt William stroking his thumb across her buttocks. Her skin, like velvet, took the imprint of every touch. She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted William.
“Is it a horrible place?” Mrs. Nettleton asked, hoping to be terrorized.
“Terrible.” William worked his foot between Frances’s boots, pushing her legs a little apart so she fell forward slightly and had to support herself against the rail. She could feel his knee pressing into hers, and his thumb tracing a circle across her skin. “At least a thousand prisoners at any one time, sleeping on concrete floors. Lights are kept burning all through the night so they can’t sleep, and they labor all day chained between two kaffirs to stop them talking. Any indiscretions and they are put on the treadmill.”
“Treadmill?”
“It’s a kind of mill with steps that turns against a tight wall. The prisoners’ punishment is to walk on it—sometimes for twelve hours at a stretch. Can you imagine what that feels like on a summer’s day?”
“And if they don’t walk?” Mrs. Nettleton asked, deliciously involved in this story of cruelty.
“The planks keep turning, scraping their shins to the bone.”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Nettleton exclaimed. Then turning towards him, she said, “Now, Mr. Westbrook, I must make sure everything is in order downstairs.”
“Certainly.” William removed his hand from Frances’s dress and without a glance in her direction guided Mrs. Nettleton back through the crowd.
This was love, Frances realized. He filled her up with it just by touching her, and when he moved away she was nothing more than a husk, with the breeze blowing right through her.
Eighteen
A small, clean room. The house set up on a hill, offering a view of a ragged, dusty street lined with thatched white houses winding down towards the harbor. It was swelteringly hot, and the sash window was open, letting in a thin breeze which came off the sea, bringing with it the smell of fish and roasting coffee. The sun, which had slipped from view, breathed orange flames into the sky, but the sea had already turned purple in the dark. All day, Frances had watched the street, going downstairs only to take lunch. When she shut her eyes the room dipped and rolled, and she felt as though she were still on the boat.
They had disembarked three days ago to find Cape Town buzzing with the news of a smallpox epidemic. It had broken out in the town a month ago, and after clearing customs the girls had been ushered into a hospital tent, where they were vaccinated against the disease. The nurses said it was the worst epidemic the town had seen in years.
They spent the first night together at the boarding house and said their good-byes in the morning. Anne left for the hospital in Cape Town, and Mariella went on to Stellenbosch with George Fairley, where they would be married. Frances lied and said Edwin was meeting her here. Now, three days later, she was still waiting to hear from William.
A dwarf, tar black, sat on a slab of stone that had been laid like a bridge over the small canal which ran down the side of the road. He had been there since breakfast, whittling a piece of wood. She had the sense they were both waiting for something. Occasionally, flower sellers came by, carrying huge baskets filled with brightly colored blooms. As night drew on, the croaking of frogs started up and the air began to hum with insects.
There was a knock at the door, and a colored maid, smelling of coconuts, came in with tea. She looked more Oriental than African, with almond eyes and black hair greased and bound. The glossy coil was held in place by a gold skewer.
She preempted Frances’s question.
“No letters, Ma’am,” she said, putting down the tray, and Frances, unable to hide her disappointment, asked, “Are you sure?”
The maid nodded, shutting the window. Frances leapt up. “Leave it open.” The little room made her feel trapped, and the thought of another night on her own with her thoughts was unbearable. But the maid shook her head. “You’ll get bitten,” she said, drawing the curtains over the closed window and sealing off the outside world. She laid out the tea, lit the lamp, and went out.
There was a letter on the desk. It had been waiting for her when she arrived, but when she ripped it open she saw that it was from Edwin.
I have had to give up the practice in Kimberley. I hope you won’t be too disappointed. I have a good position at Rietfontein, a farm some miles away. I will explain when you arrive, but regret that I will not be able to get away to collect you. You should travel by train, then coach to Jacobsdal, where you will be able to get a cart to the farm.
He signed off, “Your soon to be devoted husband.” And Frances had felt a trickle of terror. Was it possible she might have to marry him after all?
Now she sat on the edge of the bed, and her eyes crept towards her own letter resting on the mantel. It was addressed to Edwin. She had been so sure and full of confidence when she had written it, in her first few hours in Cape Town. Her tone had been matter-of-fact. “There is no love between us,” she had written, dismissing with irritation the thought of Edwin reading it, his cold gray eyes dissecting her affectation of breezy sincerity. And he would be right. She did feel guilty, but he was not without culpability. His love was a greedy, selfish thing. Marrying her seemed to be no more than the satisfaction of a private ambition.
The envelope sat on the mantel like an accusation, and in the half-light she had the unsettling sense that Edwin was leaning against the wall, reading it. He was looking at her with pity. Frances, what a mess you’ve made of everything. She picked up a glass from the table by the bed and with a scream of frustration threw it at the mantle. It hit the chimneybreast and shattered in a spray of crystals. The noise shook her out of inertia. She stood up, legs trembling slightly, and began to dress to go out. She had to see William. She couldn’t wait any longer. There was no more money. And as she pulled on her gloves and fixed her hat in the mirror, she began to feel better. Practicalities were not William’s strength. He probably hadn’t even considered what it would be like waiting at the charity’s boarding house for him to write. And he might not have guessed that she was doubting him. If she could just talk to him, then she was sure he would reassure her, just as he had done the last time. She remembered her panic then and how he had laughed at her worrying. She caught her eye in the mirror, and found that when she made herself smile it came easily. Everything would be fine.
• • •
WILLIAM WOULD MORE THAN likely be staying with his cousin, and it wasn’t difficult to find out where Joseph Baier lived. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in South Africa. The cab rumbled across the dusty town, through quiet, tree-lined streets, and pulled up outside a grand, three-story house which looked like something out of a Dutch painting. It had a gable and a high stoep in front and railings that curled down on either side. Every room in the house was lit up, and light poured out of chinks in the shutters. Frances caught the boisterous sounds of a brass band. The front door was closed, guarded by an Oriental man in livery.
Now that Frances was here, she lost confidence. Could she really make a formal entrance? She asked the cab driver to move on a little way, and he let her out a hundred yards up the street. Gardens had been planted on either side of the road, and the air thrummed with the sound of cicadas. Frances walked back towards the house. She passed a small tree which had been uprooted. It lay on its side with its roots exposed like parched tentacles, gleaming white in the dark. Further on was a hedge that marked the boundary of the house.
Something snagged on her skirts. She turned and cried out. A creature was holding on to the hem of her dress; a short, squat native woman dressed in colored rags, with wild scrubby hair. She had a grizzly, black face which was swollen and ugly. The woman grabbed at her, pushing her face close and letting her eyes roll to the back of her head. Frances snatched her dress away, and the woman let out a scream which broke into a glittering laugh. She tried to walk away, but the woman followed, waving her arms. Her tattered clothes fluttered, fanning
out in the warm night air like the singed wings of a moth.
They were close to the house now, and Frances, hidden in the shadows of a line of trees, saw a carriage pull up.
“Damn you,” she hissed at the woman, who smelt of sweat and filth and still plucked at her skirts. “Leave off me!” she said, desperate to get rid of her now that they were within calling distance of the house.
A second later the front door opened, and a man walked onto the stoep. She recognized instantly the bulk of his shoulders, his dark hair, his easy stance and casual dress. William stepped out of a halo of light as if from fire. He ran down the steps, and for a second Frances thought he was running towards her and she almost cried out. But then she saw the carriage door open, and a woman stepped onto the street. Her face was partly illuminated by the cab lamp. She was tall and heavy-boned. Frances saw instantly that she wasn’t beautiful—she had a weightiness about her body, a long nose and large hands—but she held herself erect with a grace and confidence that reminded her of Lucille. William stepped up to the carriage, taking both her hands in his and kissing them tenderly. Frances couldn’t breathe. It was as if a steel wire were being wound around her chest. The woman whispered in his ear and she heard him laugh. A low, deep, satisfied chuckle.
The native woman, seeing Frances’s attention caught up by the carriage, began to shriek like a kite. Frances, horrified, crept back into the shadows, but William had turned towards them and now peered into the dark. He would have been able to see the white of her dress but not her face. The native woman saw William looking and, eager for attention, began a slow pirouette down the street, clapping her hands. William dug into his pockets and threw a handful of coins towards them. They fell silently into the dust, and the woman scrambled on her knees to retrieve them.
Then Eloise—it must have been Eloise—stepped back into the cab, and William swung himself in after her, shutting the door. He rapped on the roof, and the coachman flickered the tip of his whip over the horses. The carriage moved off down the street.
The Fever Tree Page 13