“Ladies don’t walk the streets in this part of town. Even ignorant foreigners know that,” the officer snorted.
“I was just out lookin’ for some honest work.”
“Certainly your husband left you some money?”
Mary hung her head. “Only what’s in my purse.”
The constable reached inside the sad little pouch. “This?” He held up her two one-pound notes. “This is all you have?”
“That’s why I was lookin’ for work.”
“Now that I believe.” Constable Peterson laid down his pen and leaned back. He put his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers over his belly, scrutinized her with skeptical eyes. “The question is, just what kind of work were you seeking?”
“I’m a very good seamstress. I was the fastest girl in the factory attachin’ sleeves.”
The man laughed. “Only the sleeves? I doubt there’ll be much call for sleeve attachers here.” He sat forward and added a final postscript to the form, then pushed it toward Mary and handed her the pen. “Sign at the bottom of the page.”
She tried to make out some words. She was sure “guilty” started with a g. But there were so many words, and the constable kept glowering at her. “What if I don’t want to?”
“You don’t know how to write.”
“Of course I do.” She grabbed the paper, and to prove it, she signed her name—carefully, as her younger brother Brody had taught her.
Constable Peterson rose and put on his cap. “Now missy, we’ll just keep you safe until the magistrate gets here to set your bail.”
Mary could hardly breathe. “You’re still gonna arrest me? After what I told you?”
“You signed the form. You read it. . .you said.”
Dumbly, she followed him along a hall lined with offices. A woman brushed past, a man called to someone through an open door. But she was only vaguely aware of the surroundings as her captor herded her down a flight of stairs.
From the warren of cells in the bowels of the building, a clamor of curses and banging greeted their arrival. Crazed eyes glittered through the slits of metal doors.
Assaulted by the reek of human filth and despair, Mary shrank back, as if the bulk of her jailer offered protection.
But the constable pushed her forward as she shivered in the chill of her fear.
❧
Colin felt the pressure of Miss Fitzsimmon’s hand in the crook of his arm. Ever so gently, she leaned against him for support as they stepped out onto the verandah.
“Please call me Grace Ellen.” Her voice was light and lilting, most pleasant to his ear.
“Only if you call me Colin.”
Returning a shy smile, she said, “I like the name Colin. It’s such a strong name. It makes me think of knights in the olden days battling for a lady’s honor.”
He sensed his color rise and a not altogether unpleasant confusion.
Prettily, she slid into the chair he pulled out for her at the elegantly appointed tea table, and with a honeyed “thank you” and a flutter of incredibly long lashes, she turned her attention to the adjacent landscape. “You are a genius with flowers, Sylvia,” she declared, lifting delicate lace-covered fingers in a gesture of delight. “Your garden is a veritable fairyland. The roses entwining the columns—”
“Thank you, dear.” Sylvia settled into the chair opposite. “We brought P. Allen Smith down from England to design it.”
“The famous horticulturist?”
Sylvia nodded, clearly pleased that her guest had recognized the name. “Sit here, Colin.” She patted the seat of the peacock wicker chair between her and Grace Ellen.
“Truly spectacular,” Grace Ellen said, speaking to Sylvia, but smiling at Colin.
Henry, reclining on a chaise nearby, fanned himself with a magazine as the native servant, in a black maid’s uniform and frilly white cap and apron, poured spring water into fluted goblets.
Colin noticed the intricately carved jardinieres overflowing with vining pink geraniums at intervals along the polished mahogany planks, and beneath the steps, star jasmine sprawled, its fragrance heavy in the afternoon heat.
But nothing was sweeter than the subtle scent of lilacs wafting from the young woman beside him. Her perfume seemed as much her essence as the scent of a rose was to its bloom.
“Where’re you staying in Johannesburg, Miss Fitzsimmon—Grace Ellen?” he asked.
“We’re visiting the cousin of friends. The Norwoods. Do you know them?”
Henry helped himself to three cucumber sandwiches and a scone from the tray the servant was passing. “George belongs to our club.”
And George’s wife was one of Sylvia’s coconspirators, Colin knew, pleased with their matchmaking choice for a change.
Grace Ellen continued, “We were thinking of renting a little house. But the Norwoods wouldn’t hear of it.” Her smile was coy as she held Colin’s gaze.
“How long will you be staying?” he asked.
“We aren’t quite sure.” After a lingering moment she sighed deeply and lifted a languid hand to her breast as her eyes drifted again to the garden. “Yes, indeed, Sylvia, this spot is heaven on earth.”
No expense had been spared to make it so.
Colin followed Grace Ellen’s gaze over the vista of emerald lawn, where paths meandered through a grove of mulberry and liquidambar trees toward the grape arbor and an ornate gazebo. Beyond stood a statue of Venus, discreet behind a Canary Island pine.
“I found this tea service in that little antique shop you recommended in Kensington Square,” Sylvia said, tipping a delicate teapot over a matching cup. “Grace Ellen was so kind when the children and I were in London.”
“Oh, so your home is in London?” Colin asked Grace Ellen.
“Well, not exactly.” Through lowered lashes, she studied the contents of her cup. “Since Papa. . .retired, we’ve done a lot of traveling.” She looked up. “He’s writing a book, you know, so we go where his research leads him.”
“What is his subject?” Colin asked.
“Well, he hasn’t quite decided. So many fascinate him.”
“She and her father stayed with the Barkleys the months they were in London,” Henry offered, heaping his scone with strawberry jam. “You remember Ewing Barkley. He was in Lambert House when we were at Oxford, and from what Grace Ellen’s father says, he’s amassed an excellent library.”
“It seems we have many friends in common, Colin,” Grace Ellen said.
He smiled. “So it seems.” First, the Barkleys. Now, the Norwoods. Perhaps he’d best not give his own address unless he wanted to become the next to entertain them.
The silver tongs in Sylvia’s hand hovered over the sugar bowl.
“Three lumps, please—and cream,” Grace Ellen said.
“You’re so lucky. Every lump shows on me,” Sylvia sighed, handing Grace Ellen an embroidered linen napkin beneath an embossed silver spoon.
“Charming sterling.” Her guest delicately weighed the flatware between her thumb and index finger.
For a moment Colin thought she might turn it over to see the hallmark, but she didn’t need to.
“George IV Fiddle pattern,” Grace Ellen observed, her tone admiring.
Obviously pleased, Sylvia smiled. “You recognize it.”
And the price, Colin reckoned, with the discernment gained from his profession. Lovely as she seemed, he was beginning to suspect that Grace Ellen Fitzsimmon might be a woman of calculating charm—one who made it her business to be an agreeable guest. Was it possible that her winsome ways disguised a lack of sincerity?
He hoped not. She was such a fine figure of a woman.
As she flirted with him beneath the brim of her courtier bonnet, he suddenly remembered the styleless gray hat flying from the curls of that valiant little woman on the street and felt ashamed. As incompetent as Peterson could be, at least he had thought he was doing his duty. Colin knew he was shirking his own. He felt an urgency
to get back to the station.
“Colin! Are you with us?” Sylvia’s incisive tone penetrated his thoughts. “As I was saying,” she paused and fixed him with a stern gaze, “I felt so guilty in London. Here I was, being lavishly entertained in some of the finest homes in Britain while my husband and Colin were risking life and limb, battling the Boers.”
Stirring her tea, Grace Ellen looked first at Henry, then at Colin. “I sensed at once I was in the presence of two heroes,” she teased.
“That’s—well, that’s very kind of you, Grace Ellen,” Henry blustered. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
Colin grimaced. Indeed, if he were a true hero he would have had the courage to challenge Sylvia’s disapproval and leave. He heard the clock in the parlor chime the quarter hour. Twenty minutes had elapsed since he’d seen the altercation on the street.
Sylvia handed him a cup of tea. “I know you take yours plain, Colin. Although in my opinion you could use a bit of sweetening on occasion.”
Grace Ellen swept her lush-lashed gaze from Colin to her hostess. “How can you say that, Sylvia? I find the gentleman utterly charming.”
Taking a deep breath, Colin reached for an egg and olive canapé.
“Sylvia has been absolutely grand.” Grace Ellen nibbled her watercress sandwich. “She’s really taken us under her wing—Papa and me—introduced us to just everyone.”
“And, of course, my pet saved the best for last.” Henry gave a hearty laugh and handed his cup to the servant to refill.
“Are you the best, Colin Reed?” Grace Ellen bestowed another coy smile.
“I suppose that depends on who you ask. If my mother were alive she’d probably agree, but there are plenty of others who. . .” He shrugged.
“Oh, Colin, don’t be so modest.” Sylvia turned to Grace Ellen. “He wouldn’t tell you this, but he’s from one of the older British families of Cape Town. His father is a most respected judge. And the dear boy, himself, was recently appointed magistrate to Transvaal.” She smiled at Colin. “Even the men who work for you think you’re wonderful. You know they do, Colin.”
“On the other hand,” Henry interrupted, “if you were to poll the scoundrels he’s incarcerated—”
“Speaking of which,” Colin interrupted as he stood up, “I really have to go. As enjoyable as this is, there’s a matter at the station that requires my immediate attention.”
“You’re not leaving so soon?” Sylvia sprang to her feet. “You haven’t finished your tea. I wanted you to hear Grace Ellen sing. She has a lovely soprano voice that I thought would be such an addition to our musicales at the Bryants’.”
“Bryants? Are they related to the Lawford-Bryants of Knightsbridge?” Grace Ellen asked, obviously doing her own best to keep Colin from leaving.
“No, these Bryants are from America.”
“They’re missionaries,” Henry said.
“Oh. . .I see.” Grace Ellen’s nostrils flared delicately, as if she had just inhaled a slightly unpleasant odor.
“But lovely, elegant people.” Sylvia quickly assured her. “And don’t worry, dear, they won’t proselytize you. Their work is mainly with the natives.”
Schooling his tongue to words of polite flattery, Colin bowed slightly in Grace Ellen’s direction. “I can think of nothing I’d rather do than while away a summer afternoon, listening to this lovely lady sing. But, alas, duty calls.”
“Oh, Colin, I’m so disappointed,” Sylvia pouted, and then her face brightened. “We’ll bring Grace Ellen to the Bryants’ next week.” She turned to her. “Do say you’ll come, dear. Emma and Daniel will love you.”
When Grace Ellen’s eyes lifted for Colin’s confirmation, all he could manage was a noncommittal smile. “I’m sure you would be welcome.” What else could he say? And of course the Bryants would welcome her. That’s the kind of people they were.
“Well, I must be off. Sylvia.” He kissed her hand. Then turning to Grace Ellen, “Though much too brief, it has been delightful.”
With her head tilting up beneath the brim of her flowered bonnet, Grace Ellen’s amazing eyes met his.
Colin had to admit, the woman was mesmerizing. She was the mistress of the slow move, the beguiling smile, the sidelong glance. And she used them all.
“Will I see you soon?” she asked.
“Most assuredly.” He caught the triumphant look Sylvia tossed her husband. “Next week at the Bryants’.”
His host began to rise.
“I’ll see myself out,” Colin said. “You stay and entertain the ladies.” He could hardly wait to be gone.
But as he rounded the corner of the house, up the drive trotted a brown pony pulling a bright yellow cart, carved and painted with flowers. Harry and Edlyn, the two young Harcourt children, six and four respectively, bounced within it, while their nanny strode alongside.
“Uncle Colin,” the boy shrieked, reining in the pony. He leaped from the cart, the little girl tumbling after him.
“Uncle Colin, Uncle Colin,” they chorused, racing toward him. They hurtled into his arms.
“Come see our new cart,” Edlyn cried.
Colin glanced toward Johannesburg and sighed. The problem could wait a minute more. With such an exuberant greeting he had not the heart to disappoint the little imps.
What else could a godfather do?
❧
Relative quiet cloaked the cell block. Only a disgruntled mumble, a desolate moan.
The clang of metal on metal as the cell door slammed, the clank of a bolt thrown, seemed to reverberate long after the constable’s retreating footsteps faded.
Stumbling forward, Mary dropped down onto the bottom mattress of the three-tiered bunk. She pushed back the tangled hair that fell across her cheek and tried not to cry as her dulled eyes assessed the surroundings.
Lit only by a slash of light squeezing through a narrow barred window inches from the ceiling, the chamber was hardly larger than the lavatory down the hall from her family’s New York tenement.
And it smelled as rank.
Retching, Mary covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
In the corner a metal-lined hole in the floor left no doubt as to the source of the fetid stench—or its rude purpose.
She buried her head in her hands. What was to become of her? No one believed her. They didn’t even believe she was married. And why should they? She had nothing to prove it, not even a ring. What little money Ed had left her wouldn’t even be enough to cover their hotel bill.
Had it been only this morning that she had awakened to the empty place on the bed beside her and discovered Ed’s letter—and the two one-pound notes he’d left beside it? And then to find out he’d left her the bill as well. . .
How could he?
What did he expect her to do—a woman alone, an ocean away from home? She’d trusted him, believed him when he’d filled her ears with promises and dreams.
And oh, the humiliation when she’d had to ask the desk clerk to read his letter to her. How she’d suffered the skepticism in the man’s voice and the nasty, knowing look when he’d read, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, Ryzard Kryzika has promised to watch out for you until I come back.”
Ryzard Kryzika.
Could Ed possibly have been that blind? Even she, an ignorant, illiterate girl, had seen through Mr. Kryzika, although she hadn’t known then the extent of his evil.
The light was dimming with the hour and soon it would be dark. She felt the walls closing in on her and pressed her hand again to her lips. She must hold on. She must not lose control.
Oh, Ed, how could you do this to me? How could you leave me like this?
She realized, suddenly, how little she really knew of the man she had married on board ship. Ed McKenzie, her foreman at the factory where she did piecework. Ed McKenzie, who’d handed her sweet talk with the cut fabric she was to sew. This man, who in that darkest hour had been there for her—or so she’d thought.
If only they�
�d gone to Alaska as he’d first planned, she wouldn’t be in this mess. But when they’d met Ryzzi Kryzika on the docks, and he’d told them the ship to South Africa sailed sooner, they were off, influenced by a man they barely knew.
As if a few hours should make the least difference in such a serious decision.
She wrung her hands.
Was God punishing her for what had happened to her father? For helping her brothers to escape?
Bad as it had been at home, it was nothing compared to this. In the worst of times, when her father was falling-down drunk, out of control, she had never felt so hopeless. . .or helpless. Even then, fear had not gripped her as it gripped her now.
She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth in a paroxysm of misery, remembering her brothers, Brody and Ethan, with guilt and longing. She’d been a mother to them since their own had died, protecting them from their father’s unpredictable wrath. She’d been the one, not her father, who’d seen that they had clothes on their backs and food in their tummies and insisted they study and learn so they could make a better life for themselves than she’d ever be able to give them.
She loved them so. Missed them. Her heart ached with the knowledge that she’d likely never see them again, and the sadness of having to let them go West without her. Sixteen and fourteen, far too young to be on their own. But her savings weren’t enough for the three of them.
She fought back the tears that sprang into her eyes, knowing if she allowed them to start, a flood would follow.
But at least the boys had each other. She had no one.
No one except that vile Ryzzi Kryzika—which was worse than no one at all. And the desk clerk. But he was hardly likely to vouch for her once he learned she couldn’t pay her bill.
If only she knew where Ed was. Her only hope depended upon his return, and only God knew when that would be.
If ever.
If there was a God.
Mary became aware that the noise in the jail had sharpened—the cacophony of expletives, the pounding, clanking metal.
Maddened beasts rattling their cages.
Was she to become one of them?
Out Of The Darkness Page 2