by Paula McLain
From somewhere nearby, a hyena whined, high and breathy, and another answered. The night pushed at me from all its edges. It seemed I could either walk into Jock’s house and close the door and continue with this nonsense, or I could plunge out into the dark with no map for what happened next. Jock could come after me in a full-blown rage for smearing his name. Friends and neighbours might slowly and subtly turn away or snub me for breaking rank, the way they had with Mrs. O. I might never see my horses again or might go completely broke trying to find my way without Jock’s support. I could fail in so many ways but, even so, there was no choice really.
When I went into the house again, I turned down all the lamps and padded to my room in the dark. Soundlessly, I packed my few things quickly and was on my way before midnight.
“Do you think Jock will come after me?” Boy asked when I recounted the whole story back at Soysambu. “Now that he knows about us?”
“Why would he? His whole argument has been about keeping up appearances and avoiding gossip. If anything, he’ll make my life harder or dig in more about the divorce.”
We were in my cottage after dark. It was a cool night, and as I warmed my hands against the chimney of the hurricane lantern, Boy’s face remained clouded over with his thoughts. He seemed unsettled and out of place, though he’d been in my room dozens of times. “And what about us?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean? We’ve had a few laughs, haven’t we? I don’t see why anything should change.”
“I only wondered.” He cleared his throat and pulled the Somali blanket more snugly around his shoulders. “There are women who’d be expecting a fellow to step up and get serious at some point.”
“Is that what you’re worried about? I can’t seem to get rid of the husband I’ve got, and anyway, what I’d really like to know is how it feels to be on my own. Not someone’s daughter or wife, I mean…but my own person.”
“Oh.” It seemed I’d surprised him. “There isn’t a lot of that kind of thinking around here.”
“Of course there is,” I told him, trying to draw a smile. “It’s just usually a man who’s doing it.”
—
Now that I wouldn’t have to keep up the ruse of weekend wife, I had more time and energy for my horses and was ready to give them my all. The St. Leger was an event for three-year-olds and Kenya’s most illustrious stakes race. D had a few promising contenders, but the best of the lot was Ringleader, a satin-black and high-stepping gelding. He was a real horse, and D was offering me a chance to train him. But he’d “got a leg,” as they say in horse speak. Before he’d come to Soysambu, he’d been overtrained, and his tendons had become sensitive, with a tendency to swell. With plenty of care and patience, though, he could still come back. He’d need soft, forgiving soil—so I took him down to the shore of Elmenteita and did all his galloping there along the moist edge while nearby herds of eland looked on curiously, and hordes of flamingos stirred over the lake’s surface and settled, squawking the same alarm over and over.
Late one afternoon, I was coming back from a training session there, my clothes and hair flecked with bits of dried mud, when I ran into Berkeley Cole again. It had been two years since my coming-out party, that night he and Denys Finch Hatton had recited poetry for me in blindingly white coats, both of them with manners like something out of a book about knights and gallantry. Now he’d driven over with a few other settlers to meet D about some recent political nonsense. I happened to find him out for a smoke, leaning against a length of fence railing as the last of the sun vanished behind him. His collar was loose and his auburn hair hatless and slightly windblown. It was almost as if someone had sketched him there.
“The last time we met you weren’t long out of pigtails,” he said after we’d recognized each other, “now you’re all over the papers. Your Jubaland was impressive.”
I felt myself squirm slightly under his praise. “I didn’t ever wear pigtails, actually. Couldn’t sit still long enough for them.”
He smiled. “It hasn’t seemed to hurt you much. And you’ve married?”
Not knowing quite how to describe my current state, I hedged. “In a manner of speaking.” In the several weeks since the terrible scene with the Birkbecks and the Arab door, I hadn’t heard a peep from Jock. I’d written to him making it plain that I wanted a divorce and wouldn’t back down, but he hadn’t answered me. Maybe that was all right, though. It was a relief simply to be in our separate corners.
“In a manner of speaking?” Berkeley’s mouth twisted in a way that was both wry and slightly paternal. But he didn’t press me further.
“What’s D getting you wrapped up in?” I gestured towards the house. From the booming of D’s voice, things sounded fairly volatile.
“I’m afraid to know all of it. Vigilance Committee guff.”
“Ah. Maybe you’d better run.”
D had formed the committee a few months before, part of a new effort to combat the old problem of just who had a right to Kenya, and why. White settlers had always been keen on self-rule, which amounted to something more like total domination of the territory. They saw Indians and Asians as outliers, to be fought off with sticks, if necessary. Africans were fine as long as they remained clear about their inferior state and didn’t want too much land. But recently the British government had issued the Devonshire White Paper, a series of declarations meant to beat back the white settlers’ greedy demands and restore something like order in the colony. We had a new governor, Sir Robert Coryndon, and he was taking the White Paper awfully seriously. Though he was as British as could be, from his starched collar to his gleaming oxfords, he was pro-Asian and pro-African, a loud and fearless champion for both groups, where the previous governor had been malleable and cheerful and benign. Because things had swung in the white settlers’ favour for so long, they could only be enraged now and think of how to fight back, even if that involved force. Not surprisingly, D was the fiercest among them.
“I’m actually relieved I’ve been out of the country for most of this past year,” Berkeley explained. Then he told me how he’d been in London seeing a slew of doctors for his heart.
“Oh no. What did they say?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. The damned thing’s been troubling me for years.”
“What will you do now?”
“Live until it gives me away, of course. And drink only the best champagne. There’s not time for anything else.” His face was delicate and sensitive-looking, like a well-bred cat’s. He also had rich brown eyes that seemed to want to laugh at the idea of sadness or self-pity. He flicked away his cigarette and cleared his throat. “I’m throwing myself a birthday party next week,” he said. “One of the many ways I’m whistling past the graveyard these days. I’ll bet you’re a grand whistler, aren’t you? Please come.”
—
Berkeley had settled on the lower slopes of Mount Kenya in Naro Moru. He’d built a broad stone bungalow right up against the curves of the mountain, so it seemed to belong there and nowhere else. There were paddocks full of well-fed sheep and a winding river surrounded by thorn trees and twisting yellow witch hazel. Kenya’s crags loomed over everything, looking deeply black up close, full shouldered and imposing and also perfect, somehow, exactly what Berkeley should have looking after him, I thought.
D came along to the party as well. When we motored up, a drove of automobiles crisscrossed the lawn and drive. Berkeley was out on the veranda in a smart white tailcoat, humming snatches of a tune I didn’t recognize. His colour was high and he seemed to be in the peak of health, though I guessed that, like his lovely suit, it was put on. It probably mattered a great deal to him to appear to be the perfect host and dazzlingly well, too, no matter how things really were or felt beneath the surface.
“Your river is gorgeous.” I leaned through a cloud of clean-smelling hair tonic to kiss his cheek. “It was gleaming with fish when we crossed it.”
“Glad you’re keen on the trout. I co
uldn’t get a proper goose for dinner.” He winked. “Now come get some champagne before Denys swills it all.”
Denys. Though I’d only met him briefly on the street in Nairobi, for some reason my heart jumped at the sound of his name. We crossed the veranda and entered the main room of the house, which was full of people and the sound of laughter. And there he was in a languid slouch against the wall, hands in the pockets of his nice white trousers. He was as tall as I remembered, and just as lovely to look at.
“Beryl Purves,” Berkeley said, “you’ve met the honourable Denys Finch Hatton.”
I felt my face go warm as I reached for his hand. “Long ago.”
“Of course.” He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. But his tone was so light, it wasn’t clear if he remembered me at all, even vaguely. “Nice to see you.”
“Denys has been at home, in London, for far too long,” Berkeley said.
“What will you do now that you’re back in Kenya?”
“That’s an excellent question. I might do some land developing. Tich Miles thinks we can form a legitimate company.” He smiled as if legitimate were a pleasant surprise in this context. “And I’ve been dying to do some hunting.”
“Why not?” D broke in. “The world is clamouring for more great white hunters.”
“You should know.” Denys laughed at him. “You invented the term.”
“Yes, well, I never guessed who’d come galumphing over to Kenya hungry for trophies. Two or three times a month some rich banker shoots himself in the leg or offers himself up to a lion. It’s absurd.”
“Maybe that sort deserves what they get,” I said. “If they don’t have the slightest idea what they’re up against, I mean, or even what it means to kill an animal…”
“You’re probably right,” Denys agreed. “I’ve only hunted for myself so far. I’m not sure I’d have the patience for clients.”
“What’s wrong with farming?” Berkeley wanted to know. “It’s a good deal safer without bloody hyenas or what have you trying to nibble off your face in the middle of the night.”
“Safer,” Denys repeated. He had the look of a schoolboy, suddenly, ready for a prank. “Explain the fun in that.”
Denys seemed a few years younger than Berkeley, somewhere near thirty-five, I guessed, and just as well born. In my experience, these sorts of men usually launched into Africa lured by virgin territory, big game, or a sense of adventure. They were the sons of British aristocrats who’d been sent to the very best schools and given every advantage and freedom. They came to Kenya and used their birthright fortunes to buy up thousands of acres. Some were serious at putting down roots and making a life here, like Berkeley, while others were playboys who had grown bored in Sussex or Shropshire and were looking for a bit of trouble. I didn’t know which Denys was, but I liked looking at him. He had a wonderful face, a little pink from the sun, with a sharp strong nose, full lips, and heavily lidded hazel eyes. There was an ease and a confidence in him, too, that seemed to pull the room towards him, as if he were its anchor or axis.
After I had walked away, sipping at my drink and listening to bits of gossip here and there, a clutch of pretty women appeared to swoop down on him, most of them polished to a sheen. They wore nice frocks and stockings and jewels, and had hair that behaved. I could see they were all drawn to him—but that wasn’t exactly surprising. I was too.
“You should have a look at my new horse,” Berkeley said, stepping up to me with a fresh cocktail. “I think he’s Derby material.”
“Wonderful,” I agreed automatically, and before I knew it, we’d collected Denys and headed to the stable, where half a dozen horses were turned out in their loose boxes. The one we’d come to see was Soldier, a big and rangy dark bay with a white moon for a blaze. He wasn’t as proud-looking or fiery as the thoroughbreds my father had always loved, but I found him handsome in a rough way and was instantly intrigued. “He’s a half-breed, then?” I asked Berkeley as the three of us approached the stall.
“Part Somali pony, I think. Not highborn, but you can see he’s got spirit.”
Opening the gate, I moved towards Soldier the way I’d learned as a child, gently but firmly. My father had passed his touch with animals on to me—or maybe I’d been born with it. Soldier felt my authority and didn’t shy or even step back as I passed my hands over his back and rump and hocks. He was sound and strong.
From his place at the gate, I felt Denys watching me. The skin along the back of my neck prickled from the attention, but I didn’t look up.
“What do you think?” Berkeley asked.
“He’s got something,” I had to concede.
“What’s he worth to you?”
As broke as I was, I knew I shouldn’t even pretend to bargain, but it was in my blood. “Fifty quid?”
“I spent more than that on the champagne you’ve been drinking!” Though he and Denys both laughed, I could tell Berkeley loved to haggle, too. “You should see him run. Let me get one of the grooms to take him out for you.”
“Don’t bother,” I told him. “I’ll ride him myself.”
—
It didn’t take me five minutes to borrow trousers and change. When I came out of the house, a number of people had gathered on the lawn, and though Berkeley laughed to see me in his clothes, I knew they fitted me well and that I didn’t have to feel embarrassed about riding in front of this well-born crowd. Being on horseback was as natural as walking for me—perhaps more so.
I nudged Soldier away from the onlookers, and soon forgot everything else. Behind Berkeley’s paddock, a dirt lane led past a few tin-roofed farm buildings and down a slope to a small clearing with bits of scrub. I rode over and eased Soldier into an extended trot. His back was wide and his sides were as rounded and easy as a comfortable chintz-covered chair. It wasn’t clear that he could really run, but Berkeley had insisted on it, so I nudged him faster. Instantly, his hind and forelegs quickened. In a canter, his stride was fluid and powerful, and his neck relaxed. I’d forgotten how much fun it could be to ride a new animal—to feel power climbing up into my hands from the leather reins and into my legs through Soldier’s body. I urged him even faster and he stretched from his centre, his muscles in balance, beginning to fly.
Then, quick as a string breaking, he froze. Midstride, his forelegs plunged down stiffly, and I swung forward over his withers like a cracked whip. Before I could recover, he reared and twisted sideways, whinnying with a sharp cry. I was in the air. Thrown hard on my side, my teeth jarred against my tongue. I tasted blood as my hip exploded with pain. Beside me, Soldier squealed and reared again. I flinched, knowing he could crush me, but a moment later, he bolted cleanly away. Only then did I see the snake.
About fifteen feet from where I lay, it was coiled over itself like fat black ribbon, and it was locked on me. When I startled, the top part of its long body shot up elastically, with dizzying speed. Its pale-striped neck widened into a kind of cape. It was a cobra, I knew. We didn’t have them in Njoro, and I had never seen this type exactly, with zebra-like colouring and an arrow-shaped head, but my father had told me many types of cobra could stretch their body length in a single strike. Some could spit venom, too, but most snakes didn’t want a confrontation.
A twisted piece of mahogany lay only a few inches from my hand. I would try to reach for it and brandish the stick out in front of me to block a strike, if one came. I readied myself, watching the movement of its head. The hard, glassy eyes were like small black beads. Hovering, the snake trained on me, too, its pale tongue darting and tasting the air. I steadied my breathing and, as slowly as I could manage, sent my hand out towards the stick.
“Don’t move,” I heard suddenly from behind me. There’d been no footsteps, at least not that I could hear, but the cobra reared up even higher. Half its body flared from the ground, its belly glazed with yellowish slashes. Its hood breathed open. This was the only warning as it whipped forward. I pinched my eyes shut, my arms flying ov
er my head as I scrabbled backwards. At the same moment, a shot rang out. The charge hit so close I felt it vibrate through my skull. My ears rang. Even before the explosive sound had cleared the air, Denys strode forward and shot again. Both shots landed, the second one catching the snake in the neck so that it jumped sideways. Bits of flesh spat into the dust with bright splashes of its blood. When it was still, he turned to me coolly. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” When I stood, pain erupted through my side and along my hip. My knee was throbbing and didn’t want to take my weight.
“That type doesn’t shrink from trouble, you know. It’s good you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“How did you even find me?”
“I saw the horse come back alone and thought, ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t fall for no reason.’ After that, I just followed the dust.”
He was so calm, so matter-of-fact. “You sound as if you do this sort of thing every day.”
“Not every day.” He smiled crookedly. “Shall we go back?”
Though I probably could have managed on my own, Denys told me I should lean on him. Against the side of his body, I smelled his warm cotton shirt and his skin—and felt how solid and sound he was. And he’d been so clearheaded when he took aim. He hadn’t thought about anything else, only acted. It wasn’t often I’d seen that level of self-possession in a man.
We came to the house all too soon. Berkeley rushed out, mortified and alarmed, while D knitted his eyebrows together paternally. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, risking my best trainer?” he shot at Berkeley.
“I’m fine,” I told them both. “There was hardly anything to it at all.”
Denys downplayed the moment, too—almost as if we had agreed on it without speaking. He said nothing of his own bravery and behaved as if the whole ordeal were commonplace. That impressed me, and how for the rest of that day we didn’t mention what had happened again. But the memory lent a palpable charge to the hours, as if there were an invisible length of string or wire between us. We talked of other things, how much he still thought about his years at Eton, how he’d found Kenya by chance in 1910, meaning to settle in South Africa instead.