Out Of The Darkness

by Crawford, Dianna; Druten, Rachel;

  “I’d like that,” she said hesitantly. “I hope they take to me.”

  “The Bryants? Don’t worry about that. I can almost promise you they will.” He smiled. “They’re very kind. And, like you, Americans. American missionaries.”

  “Missionaries?” She looked concerned. “I don’t know if—”

  “Don’t worry,” Colin said simply. “They don’t judge. They just love.”

  “Well, I guess if they’re friends a yours. . .” The young woman looked at him soberly. Finally, she said, “You’re bein’ so nice to me, ya really should just call me Mary.”

  “Aah. . .” It was the second time that day he’d been invited to call a lady by her Christian name. The comparison was enough to make him laugh out loud, and he did.

  The girl looked distressed. “Did I. . .did I say somethin’ presump—presumpt—”

  “Presumptuous?”

  She nodded.

  “On the contrary. I’m honored. . .Mary.” Of course he had no intention of inviting her to call him Colin as he had Grace Ellen Fitzsimmon. Still, he felt a keener pleasure in this innocent girl’s candor than all the other woman’s studied charm.

  “Well, then.” He slapped the top of his desk and rose. “Let’s collect your things.”

  She did not move.

  “Why the long face, Mary?”

  “I doubt the hotel will let me take them without payin’ what I owe. And Ed didn’t leave me enough for that.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Six pounds, at least.”

  “I think I can handle that,” Colin said, rounding the desk.

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and said gently, “I’m not Ryzzi Kryzika, Mary.”

  “I never said you was.”

  “I won’t expect anything from you,” he smiled, “except your good opinion.” She was proud, this little one. He could see that. “And that you pay me back when you earn the money.”

  Her whole demeanor reflected her relief, and she broke into a smile that nearly blinded him. “You can count on that, for sure,” she said, springing to her feet. “Oh, and Constable Peterson took my purse—”

  “I’ll see that you get it back.”

  As Colin escorted Mary to the door, she suddenly hung back.

  “If I move in with your friends, how will Ed know where I am? He’ll worry if he can’t find me.”

  Colin tried not to show his impatience, but this was too much.

  The blackguard had left her alone, in a foreign country, not only in debt, but in the care of the most contemptible of human beings, Ryzzi Kryzika. And she was concerned that he’d worry about her? Was she that dimwitted, after all?

  Incredulous, Colin looked down into Mary’s liquid brown eyes and felt chagrined. She was innocent, not stupid. And very, very brave.

  She needed his protection, not his condemnation.

  four

  Bouncing along in the two-seated carriage next to Magistrate Reed, Mary stared down at her clenched hands. She would never forget the look the desk clerk had given when the magistrate had requested her bill. The man’s narrowed eyes. His knowing smirk. She would have enjoyed smacking that smirk off his soft pudden-face, as she might some pesky fly. Splat!

  The magistrate had seen the look, too. “Mrs. McKenzie’s bill.” He’d repeated the “Mrs.” in a no-uncertain tone, although Mary knew he was no more certain that she was a “Mrs.” than the disbelieving desk clerk.

  Mary’s feelings for the magistrate were mixed. She welcomed his protection, was grateful for it, but deep down, anger simmered, for she could see he doubted her virtue.

  Mary teetered and caught hold of the side rail of the buggy as the magistrate slowed for a vegetable cart that was crossing the street in front of them. Then he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, encouraging the roan to resume its trot.

  From beneath her bonnet, Mary’s glance landed on the man’s strong, gloved hands holding the reins with a loose, skilled assurance. Beside her, his knees jutted out twice as far as hers; he was that much taller than she. And he took up more than his share of space. Though she tried to be quite small and keep to her quarter of the seat, his shoulder kept brushing hers.

  Concentrating on the road ahead, he looked intense, but not scowling or intimidating as when she’d first set eyes on him in his office. He was really very handsome, she thought, now that she had time to study him.

  Stealing a glance, she noted his fine profile and patrician-straight nose, his generous, well-defined lips. Not pinched and mean like Constable Peterson, or pursed and stingy, like the desk clerk’s. And, he had a strong chin.

  She’d always thought Ed’s chin rather weak. His least attractive feature and a sign of character she probably should have paid more attention to.

  Shifting her gaze to the rutted, debris-filled street, Mary absently pondered her husband.

  She’d liked Ed from the beginning. He’d made her laugh, and his devil-may-care charm lit up the dark humors of her own unhappy life. But love him? What did she know about love between a man and a woman? She’d seen little of it between her own mum and dad. At least Ed was a big improvement over her father. A pleasant man, Ed, she’d thought. A man she would learn to love.

  But he’d run out on her before she’d had the chance, leaving her to rely on strangers.

  Despite the magistrate’s assurance, she wondered if she’d really be welcomed by the missionaries. What were these Bryants like? She’d always pictured missionaries as stiffly starched, judgmental people. Would they believe she had a husband? And if they did, what would they think of a girl who sailed off to South Africa and was married by a sea captain?

  It might have been better to invent a good lie.

  Her throat tightened, and she felt that clutch of desperation, the same as when she’d read Ed’s note.

  But he said he’d come back. And he would. He had to. To prove to Magistrate Reed—prove to everybody—that she—he’d been telling the truth. That she was Mrs. Ed McKenzie.

  She gave a disconsolate sigh and felt the magistrate’s gloved hand pat hers. A reassuring pat. The brown eyes that met hers were reassuring, too.

  “Don’t you worry, Mary. Everything’s going to be all right.” He gave her hand a final squeeze and took up the reins again. “Trust me.”

  Oh, how she wished she could.

  As she gazed into his kind, expressive face, hope lifted Mary’s heart. Perhaps, at last, here was a man she could trust. Why couldn’t Ed have been more like you? she thought.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  Mary had been so into her own contemplation that she had failed to notice the changing panorama. They were on the outer reaches of town now, the edge of the plain, where flat-top trees dotted the distant landscape and the sky was separated from the horizon by a string of mauve hills. The houses were larger and farther apart, trees blossomed and gardens flourished, and the air was redolent with the scent of flowers and new-mown grass.

  The trotting horse slowed, then stopped in front of a white picket fence where an arbor of pink roses covered the gate.

  A soft breeze caught the branches of a weeping willow at the corner of the white stucco house; its leaves, light as feathers, brushed across the lawn. Sky-blue shutters framed the windows, and yellow marigolds lined the garden path leading to the front door.

  Mary’s breath caught.

  Surely they were not at the Bryants’. Her fortune couldn’t have improved this much. Why, this was a heaven on earth. No, she could not see herself in such a place.

  “Mary.”

  She heard her name as if from a distance.

  “Mary.”

  She lowered her gaze and found the eyes of Magistrate Reed contemplating her with the same thoroughness that she had been contemplating the garden.

  “We’re here,” he said, lifting his hand to assist her down the carriage steps. “We’re at the
Bryants’.”

  Still Mary hesitated. She felt as if she were in a dream—the man’s encouraging voice, his dark, kind eyes and reassuring smile, the fairy-tale beauty of the surroundings. A feeling of trust and peace welled up from deep within her, and she, who rarely indulged in tears, felt again their sting.

  Hesitantly, she placed her small, gloveless hand in his. She perceived the strength of his fingers grasping hers, and a shiver of excitement pulsed through her.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, gently drawing her down.

  “I ain’t afraid.” Her voice was harsher than she’d intended as she quickly retrieved her hand, suddenly more fearful of her confusing reaction to Magistrate Reed than the uncertainty of what lay before her.

  But the magistrate seemed not to notice as he lifted her small satchel from the back of the carriage. Then, with the bag in one hand, his other at the small of Mary’s back, he gently prodded her toward the trellised gate.

  Barely had they passed through it when the front door flew open and a wiry man of medium height bounded down the steps. “Welcome, welcome, Colin.” Arms outstretched, he greeted them with all the eagerness of one finding long-lost friends. A shock of straight dark hair fell across his brow, and behind thin, gold-rimmed glasses twinkled the most penetrating jet eyes Mary had ever seen.

  “And this is Mary.” He grasped her hands in both of his. “You are no disappointment.”

  How could he tell?

  “So Peterson did his job,” the magistrate said.

  “Oh, yes.” The man smiled. “He delivered your note.”

  And gave you an earful, I reckon, Mary thought.

  Nevertheless, the missionary’s greeting had been quite enthusiastic.

  “If you haven’t guessed, Mary,” the magistrate said, “this is Reverend Bryant, overseer of the mission, and your host.”

  “Only temporarily, sir,” Mary gave a small curtsy, “until my husband returns from the gold fields.”

  “For as long as necessary, my dear,” the reverend said, taking the satchel from Colin and leading them up the path. “Mrs. Bryant is looking forward to a visit with someone from America.”

  “You’re most kind, sir, and I’m very grateful.” Mary hurried along, struggling to keep up with the energetic gentleman. “But I doubt where I come from would be of much interest.” She thought of the tenement and the factory, and the squalid streets between.

  The reverend stood aside and ushered her ahead of him into the entry hall. “Colin, you and Mary wait in the parlor while I find Emma.”

  Mary’s gaze swept the moss green overstuffed furniture, plush-covered and fringed, that crowded the ample parlor. “Oh, my,” she breathed. Matching brocade draped the windows and the walls, and, in abundance everywhere, were ferns and filigreed lamps. At her feet, a late afternoon sun dappled the Oriental rug. Truly, this was the most elegant room she could possibly have imagined.

  She turned toward the magistrate, who stood a few feet behind her. “Oh, my.” Her eyes glowed. “You never told me it would be so grand. That he would be so kind.”

  Magistrate Reed smiled. “And you have yet to meet Emma.” He turned as an elegant woman swept into the room. “Speaking of whom—”

  “My dear, welcome to our home.” Mrs. Bryant’s voice was cultured and melodic, her bearing statuesque, despite the fact that she was large with child. Mary noted that she was nearly as tall as her husband—quite tall, indeed—but at that, at least five inches shorter than Magistrate Reed.

  Grasping the woman’s extended hand, Mary replied softly, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  In contrast to the exuberance of her husband, there was a reserve in Mrs. Bryant that brought on a sudden shyness in Mary. But when the lady reached out and lifted Mary’s chin and looked down with the kindest smile and warmest brown eyes, the warmest since—Mary glanced at the magistrate—since she’d looked into his eyes, her trepidation was swept away.

  Mrs. Bryant turned and addressed a tall, angular young black girl about Mary’s age, wearing a bright red wraparound dress and an apron, who was standing silently in the parlor archway. “Please ask Nandi to prepare some lemonade, and perhaps a plate of cookies. Bring it out onto the terrace, if you will, Kweela. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Missus.” The girl curtsied and disappeared as silently as she’d come.

  “And now, my dear,” Mrs. Bryant said, taking Mary’s arm, “let me show you your room and give you a chance to freshen up.”

  Again, wonder challenged Mary’s composure as the reverend’s wife ushered her down the hall and into the sunny yellow room that was to be hers. A bright quilt embroidered with flowers of many soft hues covered the four-poster bed, banked at the head by at least a half-dozen pillows of varying shapes, sizes, and fabrics. On a narrow chest at the foot, Mary’s dilapidated satchel looked even smaller and shabbier in these luxurious surroundings.

  Mary walked over to a window that overlooked a vine-shaded verandah. Turning back, she noted a slipper chair and footstool that picked up a pink-checked fabric matching some of the bed’s pillows. Next to it were a lamp and a table on which was arranged a small bouquet of marigolds in a silver vase.

  Mrs. Bryant placed a hand on the chair. “A lovely spot to read.”

  Oh, dear. What would the woman think when she found out Mary couldn’t read? That she was no match for this room?

  Mrs. Bryant walked to the small carved chest beside the bed and picked up a leather-bound black book that lay next to the bedside lamp. “We left a Bible for you, although you probably have your own.”

  “No, I don’t,” Mary murmured, feeling like an impostor. A lump of discomfort had grown in her throat that she almost feared would choke her.

  “Then, my dear, this is yours to keep,” the woman said, returning it to the table and patting it like an old friend.

  “Th–thank you.” Mary could feel the flush burning her cheeks.

  “Oh my dear, you mustn’t be embarrassed.” Mrs. Bryant rounded the bed and wrapped her arm around Mary’s shoulders.

  She can tell. Anybody can tell just by looking at me that I can’t read.

  “The Bible is a gift from God, to be shared. Now,” Mrs. Bryant said briskly, “your closet is there, and next door,” she took Mary into the hall and opened the door to an adjoining room, “this is the bathroom you will use. Ours adjoins our bedroom.”

  Mary’s own bathroom? With a commode, a sink, and tub. And a shower.

  Mary remembered the toilet at the end of the hall that served the six families on her floor of the tenement. . .and the shower in the basement that everyone in the building used.

  “Now, you take your time, unpack, and join us on the verandah when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Awestruck by it all, Mary was still able to manage little more than a whisper.

  “From now on you must call me Mrs. Bryant,” the woman said, leading Mary back to her room. “You are not a servant, dear, you are my companion.”

  When the door closed, Mary sank onto the bed, weak with fatigue. After the day she’d been through, her stomach roiled like the Coney Island roller coaster. She realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and then only a hard roll and a glass of tepid tea. But with all that had happened, the thought of food, even now, made her stomach churn.

  In no more than a minute she had unpacked her mean little wardrobe. It took up less than a shelf in the lovely carved armoire. She shoved her satchel into the farthest, darkest regions of the ample closet and repaired to the bathroom.

  A room of her own was more than she could ever have dreamed, but a bathroom all to herself, where she didn’t have to wait in line, and where she could luxuriate in a shower that had cold and hot water, and where there was a full-length mirror where she could see down to her shoes—well, it was all just too much.

  She washed her hands and face, then, studying her reflection, tucked back a recalcitrant curl and smoothed her bun. She frowned, not at all pleased with her hollo
w-eyed, pale reflection. If every time she looked into the mirror she was going to see such an anemic-looking sad-puss staring back, it might be just as well not to have one. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to add some color. That was the best she could do for now.

  Returning to the parlor, Mary paused at the French doors leading outside. The verandah looked like a painting in a museum. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of a grape arbor onto the stone terrace. A set of wicker lounges angled toward the table set with china and silver. On either side of it sat the Reverend and Mrs. Bryant, while Magistrate Reed relaxed on one of the lounges.

  At that moment, the servant girl came from what must have been the kitchen, carrying a tray of tall lemonade glasses, sparkling with beads of moisture.

  A cool, soft breeze carried the scent of citrus blossoms from dwarf trees in pots at the corner posts and tickled the leaves around fat clumps of fruit hanging heavy on the vine. The grapes looked ripe and luscious, and Mary was aware, once again, how long it had been since she’d eaten. She saw the little sandwiches and cookies delectably arranged on china plates and prayed her growling stomach would not give her away. She wanted to join the party, but shyness held her in the shadows.

  “When are you leaving, Daniel?” Colin asked the reverend.

  “In a couple of days. I have a baptism at Krugersdorp and then I’m going up north to visit the mines in the Murchison District. I’m not happy, Colin, about how the natives are being treated.”

  The magistrate laughed. “So you think you can wring some compassion out of the mining consortium?” Then he grew serious. “I hope you can. I wish you luck.”

  “I’d rather have your prayers.” It was the reverend’s turn to smile.

  “I’ll leave the prayers to Emma, thank you.”

  “You can count on me for that. I pray for the natives’ souls. . .and yours,” Mrs. Bryant added archly. She reached her hand across the small table and touched her husband’s arm. “And I pray for you, my dear husband, always for you.” She turned to Magistrate Reed. “I’m so proud of the work Daniel is doing here in Africa. So many lives have been changed.”