In a town where women were greatly outnumbered by the men, where most of the men were bachelors, and where newly arriving women, many not even young or pretty, were snatched up, Miranda became something of an oddity. She was married, yet her husband was absent, and even though she was friendly and liked to share a whiskey and a joke, she gently deterred the frequent advances from Kinney's boarders.
Eventually old Kinney took a liking to Miranda and slowly gave over more and more of the running of the house to her. Where she saw waste she trimmed it; she balanced a tighter budget; she scrimped in places the customers wouldn't notice; and she had the boldness to double the price of a room, declaring that white people would pay for English cleanliness, and she had proved herself right. The value of the house went up.
Then war broke out. Kinney joined the East African Mounted Rifles and promptly got himself killed. To her surprise, Miranda found that having no family or other friends, he had left the house to her, and so she borrowed from the bank and set about turning the place into a proper hotel. Before long troops began pouring in from England, and Nairobi was transformed into a military camp. The soldiers flocked to Miranda's place, which she had given the rather pompous name of the King Edward Hotel, to devour her scones and talk of home.
The war came and went, and she never heard from her husband again. So Miranda's cunning and opportunistic mind surveyed the situation; she had seen what she must do to ensure her survival.
A woman needed to be taken care of, but Miranda was no longer interested in marriage. She had seen the handsome earl of Treverton in his Royal Fusiliers uniform, and she had decided that he was going to be her next ambition. It was not her plan to slave for the rest of her life in this hotel, sweating in the kitchen, trying to cater to the whims of petulant settler wives who came to the protectorate with notions of higher stations for themselves. Miranda was going to snare the earl and be taken care of by him.
Such an ambition would have been unthinkable back in England, where social strata were firmly set with locked gates at every level. But in British East Africa the ladders were there for anyone with nerve and determination to climb. The first thing Miranda had done was dress herself in a suitable guise. "Widow" rang with respectability. She could put the title on like a hat and wear it with no questions asked. There were many false pedigrees in Nairobi—Colonel Waldheim, the German dairyman, had never seen military service; Professor Fredericks, the local schoolmaster, held no college degrees—and to be the widow West was but a harmless masquerade. Titles were adopted the minute one touched ground at Mombasa, the port where all seekers of new lives cast off old identities and class restrictions. Miranda West, no longer downstairs maid in sooty Manchester, was now the dignified widow of a man who had lost his life on the shores of Lake Victoria; she kept her name out of the gossip column of the East African Standard and herself out of men's beds; she held a calculating eye on Lord Treverton and hoped that Jack West would never reappear.
She saw the earl now, going into the Indian druggist's across the way. She felt a catch in her throat. Lord Treverton was the most beautiful man Miranda had ever seen. He was such a contrast with the farmers and cowboys in their wrinkled khakis and pith helmets; like a young god he looked in his well-cut jodhpurs, white silk shirt, and band of leopardskin around the crown of his hat.
Miranda had to hurry. She had promised him a batch of Devonshire biscuits, which she now slipped into her Dover stove between a tray of Cornish splits growing golden brown and a tray of jumbles, which were light brown and ready to come out. The biscuits, Miranda knew, were for Lady Rose. Valentine Treverton never left Nairobi without a gift of some edible sweet for his wife. The countess was partial also to macaroons, which were cooling on a rack.
Miranda returned to the clotted cream, which she had begun the day before and kept cool overnight, and skimmed off its crust with a spoon. She wasn't going to give it to the earl to take with him; it would never travel the ninety miles. She had made it in the hope he would stop for a few minutes and try a few of her brandy snaps with clotted cream. The best way to a man's heart, she told herself...
Customers were starting to wander into her dining room, which had been neatly and tastefully set with white tablecloths and a small Brown Betty teapot on each table. It was Miranda's attention to such detail that these expatriates appreciated—the harrier cake made with just the right amount of treacle and the light touch with which she sugar-dusted her sponge cake. The story was that Miranda West had been cook to a famous marchioness who had been known for her kitchen. It was a lie, but the result was the same. Whether she had learned from the French chef of nobility or from recipes torn out of the Times of London, Miranda's skill with English pastries was almost uncanny. And the cleanliness, of course, was the most appreciated feature of her dining room. Every memsaab who had to get after an African house girl could attest to that.
As she covered the cream and hurried to the sideboard, where a kitchen boy was cutting crusts off finger sandwiches, Miranda glanced again out the window and saw Valentine emerge from the druggist's, tucking a small envelope into his shirt pocket. He would be coming here next. Whipping off her apron, Miranda rushed from the kitchen up the back stairs to her private apartment and combed her hair with an anxious hand.
VALENTINE PAUSED TO look up and down the street. In front of an Indian dry goods duka his Africans were loading his donkeys in preparation for the trip northward. A large package was strapped to the last animal; it contained the legs to Rose's piano, come at last on the latest boat from England. That was going to be her first surprise. The second was to be a tin of Miranda West's excellent pastries, which Rose declared were as good as those served at Ascot. The third surprise, which made Valentine want to mount Excalibur right now and gallop off home, lay in the envelope in his pocket. A teaspoon of the white powder in Lady Rose's evening chocolate, Dr. Hare had said, should do the trick.
Valentine saw a truck parked behind his string of donkeys. It was one of the new Chevrolets that were so hard to come by in the protectorate, and it belonged to Sir James. It was only two months old, and already the vehicle was worn and battered. The argument against having motorcars in British East Africa was that they wouldn't last long; the argument for them was that they were immune to tsetse fly and foot-and-mouth disease. Sir James was proud of his new acquisition, and Valentine liked to tease him about it, asking why an automobile manufacturer would call itself "milk goat."
And there was Grace, coming out of the Indian duka. Valentine was not surprised to see his sister; she was spending more and more time with the Donald family, particularly with Sir James. The microscope was one reason, Grace gladly sharing it with him for the detection of cattle diseases. The other was that Grace had become friends with Lucille Donald. The two were members of the East African Women's League and were involved in such projects as delivering sacks of maize to starving Africans. Valentine knew why Grace was in Nairobi today; it was to meet with the Principal Medical Officer to argue once again for a second District Medical Officer to be assigned to the Nyeri area. Grace had her finger in every possible pie, campaigning for the women's vote in British East Africa, joining Lord Delamere in his petition to His Majesty's government to grant colonial status to the protectorate, taking collections of what food and clothing the settlers, themselves already strained by the drought and failing economy, could spare for the Africans, who were worse off. Until now Valentine had not known his sister was so industrious, so capable. In these past months he had come to regard her in a new light; he was starting, in fact, to admire her.
Where, he wondered, had Grace gotten such a backbone? Valentine thought of their mother, Mildred, the countess, with her enormous bosom counterbalanced by an equally enormous bustle. She had moved about Bella Hill like a steam locomotive, the ruling force in the family, and her death had left a great vacancy within those ancient walls. Grace was like their mother, Valentine realized now—meaning that she was like himself. And that somehow
pleased him.
How strange it seemed to Valentine to see Grace this way, dressed in that eyebrow-raising costume she had designed for herself: a khaki skirt divided modestly into wide-legged pants for horseback riding, a tailored white blouse, and a pith helmet broader than her shoulders, draped with a long white veil that cascaded down her back to her waist. Curious now to remember that this woman had once been the shy girl who had "come out" in London only eleven years ago and had been presented at court by their aunt, the countess of Longford, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Grace had been so solemn in her white gown and long train, so demure and ladylike, timidly accepting the arm of a handsome young Guards officer who had gallantly swept up the end of her train with the tip of his sword. Two years later she was in medical school dissecting cadavers!
Grace was such a familiar sight in Nairobi now that one might almost think she had been born here. The eight-day journey down from the plantation did not deter her; she had taken to the bush and the camping life like a native. And she had no trouble finding accommodations along the dirt track from Nyeri to Nairobi. Grace would travel with two Kikuyu and three mules and would stop at isolated farms to spend the night. She would be welcomed with open arms because she was a doctor and always carried her medical bag. Only last month she had stopped at a farm miles off the trail and had ended performing an emergency appendectomy on the kitchen table.
The only thing that mystified Valentine about his sister was her seeming indifference to men. Even now, as he watched, a good-looking officer of the King's African Rifles in a pressed tunic with shiny buttons and a swagger stick under his arm paused to exchange greetings with her. Grace was always polite and friendly, but she discouraged further involvement. The only man she had really made friends with was Sir James.
A Nairobi tea broker was capitalizing on the Treverton name. When word got around that Lady Rose had a special blend made for herself and that Lady Margaret Norich-Hastings was ordering it, those who could afford such a luxury placed their requests. Just as the popular Earl Grey had been named for the private blend of Sir John Grey back in 1720, so now was Countess Treverton's tea becoming popular in the protectorate. A small, neatly lettered sign in the window of the King Edward Hotel advertised the fact that the blend was being served there.
Valentine removed his hat when he stepped inside the dining room. All heads turned. Miranda West's establishment catered to the respectable middle-class settler. There was a special children's section, where banana and cream sandwiches were served, and a long table exclusively for bachelor farmers who came in for lardy cakes and egg and bacon pie. But the aristocracy went to the Muthaiga Club or the Norfolk Hotel.
"Your Lordship," said Miranda as she came smoothly forward. She was wearing her best dress and had pinned a sprig of lilacs below her throat. "How are you today?"
"I'm at the top of the world, Miranda! I've a mind to buy out your entire stock, I'm in that good of a mood!"
Her eyes couldn't get their fill of him. Lord Treverton seemed unable to keep his hair combed; a black forelock fell over his brow, and it made him marvelously fetching. "I've some clotted cream today, Your Lordship, if you care to—"
"Haven't the time today, Miranda. You know how it is. I've been gone for over a week, and it'll take me nearly a week to get back. Who's made sure my chaps worked in my absence? I shall no doubt have to spend two days rounding them up in the forest."
Miranda tried not to let her disappointment show. But she was a realist. She harbored no illusions that when Lord Treverton looked at her, he saw anything other than the paid servant she really was. But Miranda had a plan. All East Africa knew that the earl's marriage was a troubled one; it was whispered how his wife was unable to produce a son and how desperately Treverton wanted one. Miranda West had decided that she was going to give him that son. In return he would take care of her for the rest of her life.
The earl didn't mind going into her kitchen, that was how human he was. Lord Treverton had no need to put on airs or act the snob; he was nobility to the marrow and a gentleman with every blink of the eye. A great man such as he would surely know to keep a mistress in style, Miranda thought as she preceded him through her dining room like a duchess, her head held high while her customers stared. All she needed was one night with him and she would give him a son. Many was the lord back in England who kept a mistress and illegitimate child; Treverton would be no different, Miranda was certain.
"Let me know when the house will be opening," she said as she handed him the cake boxes and biscuit tins. "I'll whip up my best Cornish black cake for the occasion."
"I'm hoping for December. The chaps are working on the second story now, and the flagstone terrace is already in."
"December!" she said. "You've never tasted a Christmas cake like mine. With marzipan paste and royal icing all over!" Miranda turned to the cooling table, picked up several Hundreds &Thousands triangles, wrapped them in paper, and handed them to Valentine, saying, "These are for your little girl. Mona, is it?"
"I'll keep you in mind for the celebration dinner, Miranda. I plan to make it a gala occasion. Our first night in the big house. There'll be at least three hundred guests, so start baking now!"
"I shall write the name of the new house on the cake."
"Bella Two," he said. "T-W-O. I've got a Swahili chap in Mombasa carving the stone that will go over the gate. He's promised me delivery by Christmas."
In the end Valentine tasted one of her brandy snaps with clotted cream and then ate two more. He liked Miranda West and wondered why she had not remarried. It wasn't for lack of opportunities. It couldn't be for age; if the mid-thirties was considered spinsterhood in the rest of the world, in British East Africa it was almost an asset, proving her to be a "salted" woman and not likely to go crying back to England. And it couldn't be for looks; she was pretty, Valentine judged, in a garden-flower way, with all that red hair and an attractive round face that hadn't been spoiled by the equatorial sun. And she managed the best kitchen in East Africa. Miranda West would be snapped up soon by some lucky fellow, Valentine had no doubt.
He finally left the King Edward Hotel, anxious to be starting for home. As Valentine swung up onto his Arabian stallion, Miranda West watched from her window.
9
T
HE CHEETAH CROUCHED LOW WITH EARS FLATTENED AND tail swishing softly from side to side. It looked up at the window with golden eyes; in the gray-blue light of dawn it could see the raised sash, the curtain fluttering. Inside, in the safe darkness of the cottage, Grace Treverton slept deeply.
A growl rumbled from the cheetah's throat. Its muscles were tense and coiled; the cat sprang and was up on the sill, perched for an instant and then over, to land silently on the other side. It halted to sniff the air, to listen to the rhythmic breathing of the woman in the bed. Its tail swept back and forth, back and forth. In the black night that was still trapped within these walls, even as the sky began to fade outside, the beast could make out the angular forms of tables and chairs. Its nostrils picked up scents: of animal hides on the floor; of food in tins, of the human in the bed.
The giant cat waited, watched, and listened. Feline sinew tightened beneath a yellow coat spotted black. The cheetah's small head widened into a thick neck; a short mane went down between the ears and into the curve of the back that was slung between sharp points of shoulders and haunches. It was a young female. And she was hungry.
Suddenly the cheetah sprang. She flew through the air in a perfect arc and crashed onto the bed with a growl.
Grace cried out. Then she said, "Oh, Sheba!" and put her arms around the cat's neck.
Sheba gave her mistress a few licks, then jumped down to the floor, purring for breakfast.
"Surely it isn't time to get up yet." Grace sighed. "I was having a dream. . . ." She remained on her back and stared up at the thatch ceiling, troubled. The dream had been an erotic one, and it had been about Sir James.
This was not the first time Grace had dr
eamed about him, but it was the first of such a disturbing nature. And it had seemed so real. As she recalled the vivid details—they had been making love in a tentless camp beneath the stars—Grace felt her body respond. It dismayed her, this betrayal of Jeremy, whose memory she must keep alive, and of Lucille, Sir James's wife with whom Grace had become friends. The graphic content of the dream was distressing, but what worried her more were the continuing effects upon waking: the desire; the indescribable wanting.
I mustn't, she thought as she forced herself to sit up and face the chilly morning air. I cannot allow this. He is a friend, nothing more.
Grace washed and dressed with care, making sparing use of the water in her debe, a four-gallon drum that had once stored paraffin. Months ago Valentine had dammed the river, creating a small reservoir which he and the nearby Kikuyu were using in the drought. But even that supply was growing low. If the rains did not come soon ...
It had baffled Grace at first that the temperature could be so low on the equator. While it was hot in Nairobi, only ninety miles to the north one had to dress warmly. It was due, Sir James had explained, to the high altitude and being surrounded by snowcapped mountains and rain forests. The Central Province was wetter and cooler than anywhere else in the protectorate, with heavy mists in the "summer" and daily showers during the two rain seasons. Or so she had been told. Grace had yet to experience real rain, the drought continuing to plague East Africa. She had also marveled at the uniformity of day lengths. There was no shortening of winter days or lengthening of summer ones; the length of daylight never varied throughout the year: twelve hours of light; twelve of dark.
Grace washed with her own homemade soap and then put on clean clothes. Life in this wilderness meant a constant battle for personal cleanliness and neat appearance. Especially during a water shortage. So many women seemed to give up the fight. They appeared in Nairobi in limp dresses that had once been white but were now gray and in sun helmets thick with red dust. Grace scrubbed her own helmet every night; she washed and pressed her blouses with care. It was a ritual that took up most of her evenings, but Grace had her standards. The effect was that she stood out in crowds, looking, to everyone's envy, as fresh and crisp as if she were at a Devon tea.
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