She turned her head to look again at the figure standing beside the bed. The one thing that seemed the same, but not quite, was the face of the man looking down at her. Light blue eyes…pleasant features, platinum hair, skin browned by the sun… He was older, of course, with gray at his temples, yet retaining a handsomeness, and strong shoulders.
She blinked, trying to rid her mind of fuzziness.
Her throat was dry, and she tried to swallow. “I’ve seen you before… a long time ago…”
The corners of his mouth turned upward, but his eyes held no smile. “A very long time ago. In Grimston Wood, wasn’t it?”
“I think so… You remember too. Who are you?”
“Anthony Brewster.”
His voice bore that pleasing lilt she had heard from others in from South Africa, like Sir Julien Bley. Cousin Heyden’s guttural accent was even stronger, with a Dutch flavor. Anthony Brewster and Julien Bley had more English aristocracy to their vowels.
“I’m Sir Julien’s nephew from Capetown. You’ve met Camilla, my wife.”
Anthony Brewster… Camilla… Lady Camilla, yes. Yes, now she remembered.
“Camilla,” she murmured aloud.
“You remember her? She came from Capetown to stay at Rookswood when you were a girl. She gave the impression she’d come alone, but I voyaged with her as far as London, then I went on to New York on some business.”
There was something bewildering in what he said, but her back hurt too much to try to think through it.
“I’m visiting in London on my way back to the Cape. Sir Julien asked me to contact the family at Rookswood. I did so at once, and Lady Elosia told me about your tragic accident. Julien, too, sends his regards and good wishes for your swift recovery. It was a pity you fell from the attic steps like that.”
“It wasn’t an—” She stopped. I didn’t fall! she wanted to shout. It wasn’t an accident. Her heart was pounding now.
No, say nothing…keep silent…
The bland blue eyes looked back. “Yes?”
Evy shut her eyes tightly to block out everything around her. Father, help, she prayed. I can’t think straight, I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to do.
Her head ached, and when she tried to move her legs, they seemed stiffly bound. Nothing seemed to work, and her arms felt very heavy. Panic threatened, and she made a feeble cry.
The man leaned over her. “Don’t worry, my dear. Everything is going to be all right. No need to talk about it now. I should not have brought it up. You must rest and grow stronger. You will be well taken care of. I’ve already spoken to your physician, Dr. Snow. He says you will walk again one day.”
She fluttered her eyes open. Walk again? But of course! Why would she need to be told that?
“After six months to a year, with a little help from crutches, Dr. Snow believes you’ll be getting around just fine.”
Crutches! After a year…no. No! “W-What are you saying?”
“We want you to rest assured you’ll be more than adequately cared for, Evy. Sir Julien and I both. We don’t want you worrying about finances, just about getting well again. Vicar Osgood has said you are a high-spirited young lady who can face the disappointments of life. Your strong faith in God will sustain you.”
She shut her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. It was too much to think about now, too horrid to accept. Naturally she would walk again. She would run. Crutches? No… The very thought made her senses recoil.
“We think it best that you convalesce here in London instead of Grimston Way. Lady Elosia has suggested you stay at the Chantry Townhouse. We all concur.”
The Chantry Townhouse. Evy winced, remembering. That was where she’d dined with Rogan after her piano concert, where he had played his violin for her. A night she would never forget.
“Mrs. Croft will come and stay with you. We understand you get on well with the woman. There will be a live-in nurse for as long as you need her. Hopefully, that won’t be for an extended period. Dr. Snow will take care of all the necessary arrangements. Also, I’ll be here in London longer than I’d expected. Sir Julien has asked me to oversee matters in the family diamond business. So I will be around to see you. Later, when you’re feeling stronger, the family lawyer will contact me about setting up a fund for your needs.”
All Evy could do was look back at him blankly.
“A fund? I don’t understand any of this, Mr. Brewster. Why should you or Sir Julien Bley—”
“The fund is an inheritance. Sir Julien has asked me to arrange it for you.”
Inheritance. At present it seemed the least important thing on her mind. Someone had tried to—No, not yet, don’t think of it.
“I’m confused, Mr. Brewster. What’s wrong with me? I must have some broken bones. And…why should you bother to come and say all this to me? Not that your concern isn’t appreciated, or Sir Julien’s, and an inheritance is too much to think about now. I realize Sir Julien was my mother’s guardian, but he hardly knows me…” Because he wished it so, she thought. “But why should he, or you, bother about me now?”
His eyes gazed down at her gravely. “I have always cared what happened to you, my dear…from afar, but circumstances were seldom conducive for expressing it.”
“And Sir Julien? But why?”
“You are Katie van Buren’s daughter.” He cleared his throat. “Katie was part of Julien’s family. He was her guardian. I think you know that now. And Katie’s father, your grandfather Carl van Buren, was his good friend until he died tragically in the diamond mines at Kimberly. Both Sir Julien and I have an interest in you.”
She wanted to protest but didn’t have the strength. Katie part of Julien’s family? Not so. Interest in her? Why now? They were never interested in her while she was growing up in Grimston Way. Why suddenly now?
“Dr. Snow believes you’ve injured your spine. Whether permanently or not, he’s not certain. Only time will tell.”
Time will tell. Where had she heard those words before…spoken to her with a far different meaning?
For a moment she was swept away to Rookswood garden on that June morning after Aunt Grace’s funeral. Rogan was leaving for South Africa, and he had intimated that time alone would reveal to their hearts whether true love bound them together forever, or whether the passing of time would reveal that what they had felt was also passing.
Passing, like the seasons. She remembered the sweetness of summer near the pond where the gracious swan floated on the ripple of blue, when she’d been in Rogan’s arms. Now she felt the chill wind and rain of fall.
“Life’s plans are not always tied up in neat little packages,” Rogan had said that morning in Rookswood garden. “We find ourselves at unexpected crossroads… Time itself is often the best indicator of which decision to make, for it can tell so many things that are now hazy, don’t you think so, Evy?”
“Yes…only time will tell,” she had said.
Oh, Rogan. Evy blinked the scalding tears from her eyes, and the face of Anthony Brewster was blurred. She felt his hand awkwardly pat hers.
“I am truly sorry, my dear.”
His voice, oddly husky with emotion, confused her even more. This man was a total stranger. Why should he feel any emotion at all except casual sympathy?
She was able to move her right arm, and she brushed the tears from her face. She tried to focus on his face.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. Aunt Grace would be disappointed in me. I’m being too emotional at a time like this.”
“Who wouldn’t be? That was a nasty fall.”
Yes, quite nasty. She refused to see that figure rushing at her. “Did you know my mother, then?”
A long pause followed, and she wondered why he looked at her with pain streaked across his face. It was because she looked so horrible…bruised and broken. That fall—that terrifying fall down the steep steps, that ghoulish figure in black that had come rushing at her—how could she explain it to anyone? How could she get them
to even believe such a wild, ghostly tale? And how could she even know whom to trust with it?
Someone had been hiding in the attic—someone real. Someone either in London or Grimston Way had rushed at her and deliberately pushed her down the steps—but who, and why? She trembled at the memory. She trusted no one enough to explain what had happened. Except Mrs. Croft. And Evy hadn’t been able to see her here in London.
Anthony Brewster stepped away from the hospital bed when the door quickly opened and a nurse in white pinafore and cap entered, the red cross clearly visible. Evy was relieved to see her. Even though Anthony Brewster seemed curiously empathetic, his presence in London near the time of her accident in the cottage pricked her suspicions. Maybe what she saw in his face was not sympathy at all, but guilt.
But how could she think such a thing? It was preposterous. Why would anyone wish to harm her? It was all a coincidence. It had to be. A common thief must have hidden in the attic, that’s all…passing through Grimston Way, perhaps thinking to take shelter from the storm. And she’d come upon him, startling him into reacting in a dangerous way. Yes, that must be what happened. Anything else was too horrible to contemplate. She’d been foolhardy to go up those steps to investigate the sound she had heard. She’d been trying to prove her independence, to tell herself she was capable, though living alone. And now she had brought more trial upon herself. She wasn’t independent. She needed friends. She needed God most of all.
Crutches—after weeks and months…
“I’m afraid she must rest now, Lord Brewster.”
“Yes, certainly.” Anthony looked down at Evy. “You heard the nurse, Evy. You must rest. We will talk again in a few days, and you’ll be feeling a little better by then. We’ll save your questions for later. Good day, my dear.”
When he’d gone and the nurse drew the window shades, Evy tried to sleep. Questions hammered at the door of her mind. Questions that had no satisfying answers. She drifted off into an uncertain sleep, whispering a portion of Psalm 37 she had learned while growing up in the rectory: “The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD, and He delights in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; for the LORD upholds him with His hand.”
CHAPTER TEN
Limpopo River
Dry summer winds swept across the open veld, rippling golden tussock and the assegai grasses camouflaging a pride of lions. A thin cub panted beneath the scorching South African sun. Above, a few puffs of white cloud glided across an expanse of blue. In the indigo shade, among some bleached boulders, the male lion, alerted to man’s presence by the sound of hooves, stood, making a throaty noise that carried on the wind.
A few minutes later, when the riders passed by, the pride had slipped away through the grasses unnoticed.
At a brisk canter, those same horsemen, equipped with rifles and belted pistols and followed by three Bantu guards, rode toward the kopje, hunting not lions but gold.
The forceful young man in the lead, wearing a Boer leather vest laced over a canvas shirt and a wide-brimmed leather hat, brought his black gelding to the rocky rim facing the veld with an easy grace. His eyes were as electric as a thunderstorm as he surveyed the grassland that spread between the Limpopo in the south, and the River Shashi in the north. His handsome face and muscled neck were brown from weeks in the harsh African elements, and his dark hair had grown a bit longer, dusting his collar.
Two men drew up beside Rogan, stirrup to stirrup, their horses snorting uneasily as they sniffed the wind, giving a shake of their manes.
“Trouble, do you think, Mr. Rogan?”
Rogan followed Derwent’s gaze in the direction of their small base camp not far from the Limpopo, or “Crocodile” River. He reached for a small telescope and trained it on the distant wagons formed into a Boer-style laager.
Mornay grumbled. “Visitors.”
Rogan drew his dark brows together, and his mouth turned under his narrow mustache. Intruders was more like it. The Capetown gold-bugs and randlords were still sniffing his trail like half-starved hyenas trying to lay a trap.
“Let’s find out,” he said, then turned his horse to ride down the hillock as Derwent fell in behind. Mornay turned in his creaking leather saddle and gave a swift order to the Bantu, who followed, alert.
They came down onto the veld and rode through the short grasses, keeping a safe distance from the riverbank. Even so, pink and white flamingos nervously swooped away in a pastel haze of wings, causing a great whooshing sound that scattered other birds into their wake. A crocodile basked on the slippery bank under the hot sun. Its six-foot-long body of greenish-gray armor appeared still and lifeless, its deadly mouth wide open as tiny, courageous birds picked particles of food from between its large teeth.
Rogan entered the base camp, which his crew of Bantu workers had set up under Mornay’s orders two weeks earlier. The sun was beginning its retreat behind distant hills, painting the boulders with golden-rose tints. Rogan surveyed new Capetown carts, surreys, and covered wagons, some of which had settled in and formed an overnight camp with their own. He did not like what this implied and exchanged concerned looks with Mornay.
The silver-browed Boer of French descent did not try to hide his tension. Rogan knew the split between Mornay and Sir Julien over the unexpected decision to work for him instead of Julien had left rancor between them. He also knew that Julien would do everything within his power to stop his expedition.
Mornay, loyal to the Boer Republics, was not in sympathy with the Company’s goals to turn the region “all red,” as Cecil Rhodes envisioned. Mornay had admitted to Rogan when he agreed to lead the expedition that he had only made the map because of the high price Parnell had paid him. He had worked for Julien for the same reason. Now he was working for Rogan for less money but with a greater ease of conscience, or so he said.
Rogan drew rein and studied the well-fed horses, oxen, and mules before dismounting. The other animals were being attended by more than thirty chocolate-brown Bantu servants, lithe and straight-shouldered.
Rogan swung down, his boots hitting the powdery dust that was everywhere, and dropped the reins on a thorn bush. One of his own Bantu led the gelding away to be rubbed down and fed.
The luxuriant camping scene of the newcomers convinced Rogan he was right. The unwanted company were diamond rands from Kimberly.
Purple twilight filtered through the lemon-flowered acacia trees, offering speckled shadows. The breeze kicked up, warm and thick with the pungent smells of a wild land, setting Rogan as much on edge as any hunted animal.
Footsteps crunched over the warm ground behind him. Rogan turned, suspecting he would see that swarthy, one-eyed tyrant uncle of his, and instead confronted the pearl-gray-eyed Darinda. He muttered his frustration under his breath. A girl, a pretty one at that, was the last thing he wanted to trouble with now, and this one was not past wandering the camp as freely as she pleased.
At least she was dressed for the rough in what looked like a specially designed hunter’s outfit of tan, in the style of a riding habit. He noted she wore a belt and a smaller pistol, probably a .38.
Aware that she had spoken, Rogan roused himself and smiled—casually, he hoped.
“What are you doing here, Darinda?”
She walked toward him. “I told you at Kimberly I intended to join the expedition north.”
He managed a disarming smile. “If your grandfather and Parnell agree to let you face lions and hippos on the Company trek north, far be it from me to raise dust over it, but not on this expedition, Cousin.”
He tried to ignore that she stood too close, hands on hips, her dark head tilted, looking up at him to see what he would do. He had a mind to let her know. He chuckled and gave her chin a little flip with his finger that broke the spell she was trying to weave.
“No women allowed. Not even the granddaughter of a diamond rand.”
Her eyes turned cool, and she stepped back.
“We will see. This may not be
your private little expedition much longer.”
That should have warned him, but perhaps he had grown too confident in the past two months since the confrontation with Julien at the diamond mine. He had avoided the family since then, working with Mornay to arrange his own trek. Then two weeks ago they had made camp here by the Limpopo River. Things were still unsettled. The best trekking season wasn’t for a few more months.
“How did Julien know where I was?”
She shrugged. “Really, Rogan, you need to ask? Grandfather has spies everywhere. We knew when you left Kimberly and moved out to Mornay’s place. A Bantu reported to Parnell the day you arrived here on the river. Grandfather’s been a regular porcupine ever since you succeeded in hiring Mornay away from him.” She glanced over toward the old Frenchman and Derwent, who were both keeping their distance near the campfire.
Mornay, as hard as a piece of biltong, that sun-dried strip of salted meat, regarded her with no expression on his leathery face. He stooped and, as an apparent dismissal, removed the tin mug he kept on a hook on his belt and filled it with inky coffee from the pot perched on the hot coals. The old bachelor turned his back, showing that he considered the opposite sex about as welcome as a mosquito.
But Derwent smiled shyly at her, removed his hat, and offered a small bow that reflected upon his years in Grimston Way, when he would bid good evening to the squire.
“Hello, Derwent. Alice will be joining you soon?”
“No, Miss, she’ll be staying on in Kimberly with church folks.”
“Oh, surely she’ll change her mind when she hears I’ll be going along on the expedition.”
Derwent remained silent and glanced sideways at Rogan.
Rogan stood with his arms folded, jaw set. She didn’t seem to notice his coolness, or else she didn’t care.
“So you’ve won over the dour old Mornay. Lucky for you, though. He can speak Lobengula’s language. But as you must know, the risk is great. The old Ndebele warrior is in no generous mood.” She looked directly at Rogan’s revolver. “They say you are a dead shot.”
Yesterday's Promise Page 12