by John Wilcox
‘You look an absolute picture, Countess,’ he smiled. ‘I wish I had a rose garden I could take you to so that the blossoms could see you.’
She smiled reciprocally. ‘Now please be careful. I am not used to such flowery compliments in southern Africa. They might go to my head.’
‘Oh, I do hope so.’
They sat grinning at each other like children in the warm sun and Simon felt that he had known her for months, instead of hours. He dug in his heels and led the way out of the centre, up to where the circle of hills looked down on the little town.
‘Do you like riding?’ she asked.
Simon decided not to dissemble. ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he said. ‘I am not a good horseman, and although I’ve spent hours in the saddle in this country, I just know I would be unseated if I had to take a fence even now. It’s a terrible admission for a soldier . . .’ he corrected himself quickly, ‘an ex-soldier, that is, to make, but there it is. Thank God I was never a cavalryman.’
She flashed him a smile, almost, it seemed, of relief. ‘Well, do you know, Simon, I feel exactly the same. Fashion dictates that I must ride side-saddle but I always feel so precarious in this ridiculous posture. I am not allowed to put on breeches and ride astride as a proper horsewoman should. What is it you say? It’s not the done thing. But I am so happy to be with you out here in this fresh clear air, so I don’t mind. Nevertheless . . .’ she turned and fumbled with the strap of a saddle bag behind her, ‘I have taken the liberty of packing us a picnic. Let us find somewhere congenial and take some refreshment. Yes?’
‘Yes indeed. What a resourceful woman you are.’
They found welcome shade in a hollow where blue gum and willow trees - the latter showing that water was near - spread a broken canopy above them. From a roll tied behind her saddle Anna shook out a plaid blanket that she spread on the coarse grass, while Simon unloaded the contents of her bags and carefully deposited delicate sandwiches, several pastries, yellow custards, a little fruit and even a bottle of yellow-glinting wine.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Simon,’ she said. ‘I know I should have brought tea, but even in my boarding school in Kent I could never acquire the taste. So we have a little wine. Scandalous at tea-time, I know, but let us be daring.’
‘Very scandalous, but let’s.’
They half sat, half lay on the blanket, eating the delicacies and drinking the surprisingly good wine - from the vineyards of the Cape, explained Anna. After the initial flirting exchanges, Simon had begun to feel slightly uncomfortable. He had never formally courted anyone in his life. Alice and he had been thrown together by the exigencies of war, at first in Zululand and then in Afghanistan, and his love for her had owed nothing to the elaborate exchanges of gentle innuendo and compliments that attended the forming of amorous relationships back home. He lacked the will or the ability to exchange small talk, and now he lay propped on one elbow munching a sandwich in silence, stealing a gaze at his companion from the corner of his eye. Part of the problem was that she was so staggeringly beautiful. She had taken off her straw hat and sat now, quite at ease, her knees drawn up to reveal shiny, very feminine riding boots and just a glimpse of a frothy underskirt. One arm was tucked around her knees while she held up her glass with her other hand and sipped the wine, looking out across the veldt from a dip in the hollow’s edge, without, it seemed, a care in the world. Simon noted the whiteness of her throat and the way her bosom curved out her white blouse, and he felt a surge of desire run through his body and his mind, starved as they had been over the last few months of anything but male company, danger and hard exercise.
She turned. ‘Do tell me, Simon,’ she said, ‘what exactly are you doing here?’
Ah, the gentle interrogation! Simon sat up and tried to regain his composure. After all, it was probably a genuine question, born of polite interest and even, perhaps, of some care for him and his career. But best be careful.
He coughed on the sandwich. ‘Oh, I’m just a messenger really. I’ve brought along a letter for the president. Not all that important really, otherwise they would have sent a colonel or the Brigade of Guards with it.’
She threw back her head and laughed. ‘You do put yourself down, you know. I would have thought there was a perfectly good telegraph service between Newcastle and Bloemfontein that would have served better - and quicker - than taking out at the beginning of war a brilliant young officer who had fought with distinction at Isandlwana, Rorke’s Drift, Kabul and Kandahar and using him as a simple postman.’
Simon’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know about my background? And that I had come from Newcastle?’
Quite unfazed, she gave him a pretty pout. ‘Oh come now, Simon. This is a small place and you know what women are like about gossip. You are the talk of the town, my boy. Quite a desirable catch too, I would say.’ She lowered her head and looked up at him through her eyelashes. ‘Do be careful, my dear. There will be hordes of eligible young Boer maidens after you and all of them anxious to know what President Brand will say in reply to General Colley.’
Simon jerked his head up at her directness and stared at her. But Anna remained smiling and held his gaze innocently: a pretty woman - no, a beautiful woman - engaging in mildly flirtatious word-play and hoping to impress with her scrap of knowledge of the masculine world, probably picked up from dinner-table gossip. A series of warnings, thoughts, emotions flashed through Simon’s brain as he looked into those delightful, guileless brown eyes. Was she trying to elicit information from him, and if so, why? What good would it be to her? And why did he have to sit here gently sparring with her when he could be kissing her . . . He cleared his throat.
‘What nonsense you do talk, Anna. But tell me then. What exactly are you doing in Bloemfontein?’
She tossed her head. ‘Oh, it’s no secret, Simon. We - that is, Wilhelm and I - are trying to sell good German arms to the Boers of the Orange Free State. We did quite well in the Transvaal, as you can imagine, but the worthy President Brand is being a little less co-operative.’ She smiled again. ‘You will remember that I told you I was a shareholder in a German company. Well, I am a working woman also and I am here to do a job.’
‘Krupps, of course.’
She nodded her head but her smile had now disappeared. ‘Full marks.’
‘It is strange work for a woman.’
‘Is it?’ She frowned for a moment. ‘Ja, I suppose it is. But . . .’ She paused for a moment and looked out across the veldt. ‘There were, what shall I say . . . unusual circumstances about it all.’ She levelled a direct gaze at him, shorn of all coquettishness. ‘Perhaps one day I will tell you all about it. But for now,’ she held up her glass, ‘let us drink a little more wine and not talk about such things. This day is too fine for that.’
They drank their wine and finished the picnic and talked of this and that in a desultory way, but somehow the spark, the frisson that had marked their first few minutes had slipped away, and eventually they packed up their detritus and made no more of their ride than simply ambling back down the hillside into Bloemfontein. They parted at the citadel, however, companionably enough and Anna held Simon’s hand rather longer than necessary as they said goodbye.
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘you will dance with me tomorrow night.’
The touch of her hand renewed Simon’s desire for a moment and he put her fingers to his lips in an uncharacteristically Latin gesture. ‘How could I forget?’ he said. ‘Although you may regret it. As I said, I am rather clumsy.’
She did not smile, but held his gaze. ‘I don’t think I will regret it. Goodbye, Simon.’
The next day came and Simon, Jenkins and Hardy spent the morning getting in provisions for their departure on the morrow. In truth, however, Simon’s mind was far more occupied with the ball to come and the thought of seeing Anna - the enigmatic, strange, beautiful Anna - that evening. He wished that he could somehow metamorphose into an elegant sophisticate who could dance, talk of worldly thi
ngs with beautiful women and be at ease in that foreign cocoon that seemed to surround Anna when she was on parade on social occasions. Ah well, he would just have to do his best.
As a result, he took special care with his toilet that evening, leaving his shave until an hour before the ball was due to commence. He had to admit that Jenkins had done wonders with his shoes, which now gleamed like a guardsman’s boots. The Welshman helped Simon dress, showing all the care of a debutante’s mother preparing her offspring for her first outing of the season. And he revealed another hidden skill: looping Simon’s white tie with assurance and producing from somewhere a white rose for his buttonhole.
‘Now, bach sir,’ said the little man, stepping back and regarding Simon with approval, ‘go an’ enjoy yourself and dance with all the pretty girls. But don’t be too late comin’ ’ome, mind you.’
‘Oh do shut up.’ But Simon stepped out with rather more confidence than he had possessed when facing Brand’s dinner party.
It seemed, from the carriages that were queuing to drop their passengers outside the new House of Assembly, that Bloemfontein’s world and his wife were attending the president’s ball. Seeing the elegant tail coats and ballgowns of the guests stepping down, Simon was reminded that the little town was the epicentre of an expanding economy, and also that it was the capital of the state. Tiaras and carefully brushed silver hair marked out the diplomatic representatives from countries far and near. The Orange Free State was still an unsophisticated farming country, but the glitter on display tonight reflected respect for Brand and his stewardship. As Simon handed in his gilt-edged invitation card at the door, he could not help wondering if this would be the swansong for the republic - the Boer version of the Brussels Ball before Waterloo.
Once inside, Simon’s eye sought Anna. She was with von Bethman, of course, but also a small gathering of heavily moustached men and stout women, perhaps from the German embassy or consulate. Of course she outshone them all, in a white dress nipped in tightly at the waist and then elegantly expanding to sweep the floor. Some sort of blue sash or order featuring a large glittering star at the bosom was arranged to fall from her shoulder to her hip, and diamonds were on display again, sparkling from tiara and necklace.
Immediately Simon felt gauche and clumsy, but she caught his eye and, without interrupting her conversation, smiled at him and held up her dance card. It seemed that she was waving it to make a point to her listeners, but Simon knew it was a reminder and an invitation and he felt himself flush like a schoolboy.
As soon as she was free of her tight circle of companions for a moment, he strode towards her. ‘May I?’ he asked, taking her card.
The white teeth flashed. ‘Ah, Simon. You’re too late. Look.’ She opened her card and, yes, every dance was taken. Simon felt his heart plummet like a stone.
‘Oh. I am sorry.’ He bowed and made to turn away.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Look.’ She pointed. ‘You were a little late, so I filled in this dance here in your name. I do hope that I have spelled it right.’ She glanced up at him with that well-remembered look through her eyelashes. ‘It’s the last dance before the interval, so that means we can take our glasses into the garden.’
Simon swallowed. ‘What a damned good idea,’ he grinned.
‘Yes, isn’t it? Now do excuse me, my dear, but I must go back to my boring German friends.’
Walking away on air, Simon immediately marked the card of his Afrikaner widow of the previous evening and also that of Mrs Brand. Paying his respects to her husband inevitably led to his introduction to a tall, grey-haired man wearing a monocle and a row of miniature medal ribbons on his lapel. Colonel Ralph Bentley, it seemed, was the newly appointed British diplomatic representative in the Free State capital, and he shook Simon’s hand affably enough and then led him away to a quiet corner in the teeming reception area.
‘Only arrived yesterday, Fonthill,’ he said, half apologetically, ‘otherwise I suppose Colley would have asked you to give the letter to me so that I could have delivered it via the normal channels, so to speak.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ said Simon. ‘I had wondered why I had not been instructed accordingly.’ He felt it better not to inform the colonel about the full extent of his orders.
‘Know what’s in it, of course,’ the colonel went on. ‘Don’t expect that Brand will give much away, but he’s a man of his word and he won’t lie. Whatever promise he makes he will stick to. His answer will be important. I presume that you have not had a reply yet?’
‘No, sir. Probably tomorrow.’
‘Well, no doubt the president will give me a copy.’ He shot a keen glance at Simon. ‘That’s the way it’s done, yer know.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
The colonel bestowed an amused eye on Anna Scheel across the room. ‘Beautiful woman, my boy. You seem to know her.’
‘Not very well, Colonel. I met her via the president the other evening.’
‘Did you now?’ The tall man smiled.
‘As a matter of fact . . .’ Simon began, and then paused, wondering how to frame the question. ‘I wondered . . . er . . . about her background. I understand that she is a businesswoman.’
The colonel threw back his head in a silent guffaw. ‘Oh, she’s that all right. Inherited about twenty thousand shares in Krupps, the munitions people, from her uncle, don’t yer know. I understand that she knows the business very well and can discuss the relative merits of a Mauser and a Martini-Henry rifle with the best of’em. But she’s a bit of an enigma.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘She seems to know everyone and have the most remarkably . . . ah . . . eclectic circle of friends. Probably harmless but could be dangerous. I should be a bit careful. Damned fine woman, though.’
‘And Baron von Bethman?’
‘Oh he’s probably even more dangerous, my boy. He’s virtually Krupp’s highest-level salesman - government to government and all that sort of thing. He has the reputation of being a very nasty piece of work.’
‘In what way?’
The colonel allowed his monocle to drop on to his chest on its black cord and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Bit of a killer, actually. What I mean is that he is a most accomplished duellist, pistols or swords. Killed a fellow student at Heidelberg - you’re only supposed to slash the cheek or something, y’ know, but he went the whole hog. And I understand that he has contrived to set up duels with two other men and killed ’em too. Not a feller to be crossed, Fonthill. Keep away from ’em all, I’d say.’
‘Is he . . . er . . . married to the countess?’
‘No. You will have noted they carry different titles and are introduced accordingly. But I should think that there’s something going on there, wouldn’t you? Eh? Eh?’
‘Well yes, I suppose so, sir.’
The colonel nodded and ambled away, leaving Simon with more than a little to think about. The band striking up reminded him of his duty, and he found his Boer widow and, grimly concentrating on the steps, moved her into a quadrille. He survived it somehow, returned his charge to her chair and then found a glass of champagne and downed it in one gulp. Oh lord! What had he got himself into? What sort of web of high-level affairs did the countess and the baron spin as they travelled the world? How many pies did they dip their elegant fingers into? Well. He shrugged. He would be very small fry to them. He had no influence and represented no danger. Nevertheless, he resolved to be careful and to act with great restraint.
Then Anna swept by in the arms of an elegant man with a stern grey beard. She caught Simon’s eye and raised her eyebrow. As she turned in the waltz she held his gaze and her eyebrow fell, and for one brief moment the tip of her tongue protruded from her lips. Then she was swept away. It was a message of intimacy that made Simon feel weak at the knees. He quickly downed another glass of champagne, all thoughts of restraint banished.
He honoured his commitment to Mrs Brand and found himself enjoying her company, not least
because, like him, she was a poor dancer and was happy to jog along, ignoring the intricacies of the steps but chatting away. Reluctantly, Simon felt he should make the most of his opportunity.
‘Mrs Brand,’ he asked, sounding as innocent as he could, ‘will the people of the Free State do what the president and the Volksraad recommend? I am talking about the Transvaal war, of course.’
‘Only if they like the decision. The Boers are very independent, you know, but in matters of state they are also very lazy. Jan is extremely shrewd and he will only lead if he knows they will follow.’
‘And will he lead them into war against the British?’
She smiled up at him. ‘Ah, for the answer to that question, Captain Fonthill, you must wait until my husband gives you his letter.’
As Simon returned Mrs Brand to the little group of Afrikaner matrons from which he had claimed her for his dance, the president clutched his arm. ‘I should be able to give you your letter by about eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Can you call at my office at that time?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Damn! Simon had half hoped that he would be granted at least another day in Bloemfontein to give him the chance of seeing Anna. He stole a quick glance at her amongst the dancers in the crowded ballroom. She was partnering an elderly man, who, from his ill-fitting evening dress, his untrimmed beard and his heavy eyebrows, was probably a member of the Volksraad. They were both laughing. What an open, gregarious person she was! She carried laughter with her wherever she went. There seemed no dissembling or deceit in her manner with anyone.
Feeling a little better, he waited impatiently until his programme told him that the last dance before the interval had arrived. Blast! It was a polka, which, to Simon, was a quite unmanageable series of hops and jumps. Nevertheless, he strode across to where Anna was laughing with her German colleagues and bowed. She made a quick pretence of consulting her card, then smiled, curtsied and gave Simon her hand. He led her away under the cold eye of Baron von Bethman.