The reverend’s hand covered hers. “Oh, Emma, I couldn’t do this work without the able assistance of my faithful, brave companion.” His eyes met hers with such unrestrained love, it brought an empty ache to Mary’s heart.
Oh, if only someone—if only Ed—looked at her with such devotion.
She gave a small sigh, which must have been louder than she’d thought, for all three on the terrace turned to see her standing there.
“My dear.” Reverend Bryant rose.
To her surprise, the magistrate sprang to his feet as well, and before anyone else could move, he ushered her to a chair next to the lounge where he’d been seated.
Looking down at her, he frowned. “When did you last eat?”
“Not to worry, sir. I don’t eat much.” She glanced at the Bryants to assure them.
The magistrate rolled his eyes heavenward. “How could I have been so thoughtless—”
“For shame, Colin,” Mrs. Bryant teased. “Why the poor little thing must be ravenous. Kweela,” she said to the servant girl, who was standing by the table, “please prepare a plate for Miss—”
“Missus,” Mary corrected. Obviously, that awful Peterson had not made it clear.
“Of course, my dear, I’m terribly sorry.”
The woman looked so distressed, Mary hastened to add, “It makes no never mind. It’s just I should set the record straight at the start.”
“I’m glad you did, dear. Prepare a plate for Mrs. McKenzie, please,” Mrs. Bryant repeated.
But while the exchange was going on, Magistrate Reed had already done so and now handed it to Mary along with a lovely embroidered, linen napkin.
“Oh, my, sir, I don’t know if I can eat all this. As I said, my appetite ain’t very big.”
“Well, try,” he commanded, clearly still chastising himself.
“Don’t badger the poor thing, Colin. When she tastes Nandi’s cooking, she won’t be able to resist. Look at all the weight I’ve put on.” Mrs. Bryant placed her hand on her belly, swollen with child, and chuckled.
She was hardly the stuffy missionary that Mary had expected.
And Mary did clean her plate, after all, which seemed to satisfy Magistrate Reed. When he finally rose to leave, she bounded to her feet. “You must tell me where to send the money I owe you, sir.”
“Colin’s a regular visitor, Mary,” the reverend said, rising. “You won’t have to worry about sending him anything. He comes to get his stomach filled with Nandi’s fine cooking quite frequently.” The missionary’s eyes twinkled. “Emma and I pray that someday he’ll accept some food for his soul, as well.”
The magistrate grinned. “Watch out, Mary, these people are insidious. They never give up.”
“Don’t be so smug, Colin,” Mrs. Bryant bantered, pushing herself to her feet. “Someday you, too, will recognize your need for the Lord.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Will we be seeing you for supper before Daniel leaves?”
“By all means.”
Over Mrs. Bryant’s shoulder, Mary caught the magistrate’s speculative gaze. On her.
She felt that same strange quiver of excitement she’d ex-perienced when he’d helped her from the carriage. Lifting her hands to her burning cheeks, she lowered her eyes.
“Tomorrow evening, then,” Mrs. Bryant said, linking her arm through the magistrate’s as they all moved toward the entrance.
Mary followed, trembling with a confusion she could not comprehend.
As they gathered at the front door, the magistrate turned and searched her out. In a stride he was before her, taking her hands in his. His smile was warm and teasing. “You be a good girl, Mary.”
“Not to worry about that, sir.”
“If you need anything—”
“I’m sure I’ll be quite fine. . .and I thank you, sir, from the bottom a my heart, for all you done.” She lowered her gaze. “ ’Course, you’re the kind what woulda done it for anybody.”
“Not so, Mary.” Her lifted gaze locked with his. “Not so,” he repeated softly.
It was only minutes after the door closed behind Magis-trate Reed that an insistent pounding echoed through the house.
Mary’s heart lurched. He was back.
The servant girl ran down the hall past Mary to the front door, Reverend Bryant on her heels, his wife close behind.
On the stoop stood a native, black as coal and taller even than the magistrate. He wore a bright orange-patterned loin cloth and carried a spear.
“Bokkie, what is it?” The reverend put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
The African spoke quietly, and when he had finished, Reverend Bryant turned to his wife. “Chief Mlawu is failing. I must go at once.”
“I’ll help you pack, my dear.” To Kweela, she said, “Take Bokkie to the kitchen, he needs something to eat and drink. And tell Nandi to prepare some sandwiches for the journey.” With that, Mrs. Bryant followed her husband to their room.
Mary was in the parlor when the Bryants reappeared in the front hall. She knew it wasn’t proper, but she couldn’t help but watch as they bid each other farewell.
Their clasped hands. Her gentle caress. The lingering kiss he gave her.
How Mary envied them their kinship and regard for each other, and their tender expressions of love.
If only she had that with Ed. Oh, he’d expressed himself all right, but not with much tenderness. What love she’d felt for him waned when he’d spent every night of their voyage gambling. She soon realized he shared none of her dreams for a home and family—only for striking it rich and living the high life.
Maybe he’d sensed her disappointment. Maybe that’s why he’d run off and left her.
Mrs. Bryant turned, her fine posture drooping as she pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve. Delicately, she wiped her eyes—and saw Mary.
“I always miss him so,” she said, sparing Mary the embarrassment of getting caught observing such an intimate moment. She sighed. “But he must go. It’s the Lord’s work he’s about.” And then she brightened and reached out for Mary’s hand. “But you, my dear, will keep me from being so lonely this time.”
At least the kind lady was certain her husband would return. Mary had no such assurance about her own.
five
It seemed that no sooner had Mary’s head hit the pillow and she’d closed her eyes, than she was yanked awake by what sounded like a hysterical human laugh just outside her window.
She bolted upright, her heart beating like the wings of a wild bird.
The weird, fiendish howl came again.
Leaping from her bed, Mary crashed into the armoire as she stumbled toward the door. Frantically, she fumbled for the knob and flung the door open.
At the end of the hall, Mrs. Bryant was silhouetted in the portal of her bedroom, tying the sash of her dressing gown. “Just a hyena, my dear, not to worry.”
“Wh–what’s a hyena?” Mary quaked.
“They’re scavengers. Not at all interested in you and me.” The woman stepped into the hall, linking arms with the trembling girl. “A frightful noise, isn’t it? I reacted the same way the first time I heard it. What you need is a hot cup of tea,” she said, drawing Mary toward the kitchen.
Sitting her down at the kitchen table, Mrs. Bryant filled a kettle with water, lit the flame under it, and piled a plate with cookies.
“Can’t I help?” Mary asked, guilty that the mistress of the house worked while she sat useless.
“You just nibble on those, dear, while we wait for the water to boil.” Mrs. Bryant settled across from her and helped herself to three cookies. “Now that I’m eating for two.” She smiled and took a bite.
But Mary was still too nervous to nibble anything, even one of the delicious-looking cookies. She jumped when a whoosh of wings brushed the eves just outside the kitchen window.
“The grassland is filled with wild creatures, especially since most of the big cats have been hunted down by sportsmen.” Mrs. Bryant said “sport
smen” disdainfully.
“There are lions around here?”
“Not many anymore. They used to keep the animal population in check.” Mrs. Bryant shook her head. “Now, it’s up to the hunters who supply meat for the mines, I suppose.”
The teakettle whistled, and Mary popped up to turn it off.
“Thank you, dear.”
She poured the water into the teapot and brought it back to the table to steep. “Ain’t it kinda hard to sleep with all them wild creatures?”
The lady smiled. “I thought it would be. But you get used to it. Out here on the edge of the plains, it’s just part of the night.”
“I don’t think I’d wanna walk out alone after dark.”
Mrs. Bryant laughed, a warm, easy laugh. “I think not. But then I won’t walk alone in downtown Johannesburg in broad daylight.”
Mary certainly understood that.
Before Mrs. Bryant poured their tea, she folded her hands and bowed her head.
Mary hesitated. In her family, if there was food or drink on the table, you’d better grab it before someone else did. But as the woman across from her began to speak, Mary, too, bowed her head and clasped her hands. At the rich tone of her benefactor’s voice and the forthright trust of her words, a sense of peace came over her.
“Our Father in Heaven, thank you for the blessings of this day, and especially for bringing us Mary. We ask travel mercies for Daniel as he goes to dear Chief Mlawu. If it be thy will, we pray thee heal this good man, that he may continue to be your witness to his Lobedu tribe. Amen.”
Mrs. Bryant raised her head and smiled into Mary’s eyes as she lifted her cup.
Later, when they had parted for their respective rooms, Mary found that sleep was not as easy coming as before. It was not the noises of the plain now that held her, but her own sad thoughts. She was powerfully grateful for the kindness of these dear people, but knew she couldn’t take advantage of their generosity forever. If Ed didn’t return by the time she had paid her debt to Magistrate Reed, she must start saving for her return trip to America.
The breeze had stilled, and in the warmth of the night air, Mary pushed back her quilt and pulled the soft sheet up to her chin. She sighed, unable to quell the helpless sadness that was beginning to feel as natural as drawing breath.
❧
Mary’s sleep was again interrupted, not by a screech, but by the twitter of birds in the arbor outside her window. She thrust aside the sheet, hopping out of bed with more vitality than she might have expected, and pushed back the drape.
The sun was just beginning to break over the distant hills, the soft light diffusing the verandah. Night sounds that had frightened her were now only an echo.
Still in her nightgown, she ran into the bathroom—her bathroom—pinching herself to be sure that wondrous luxury wasn’t a dream. After dressing in the other of her two outfits, a beige skirt and faded blue shirtwaist, she combed her hair in front of the full-length mirror, pulling the unwilling strands into a tidy knot at her crown.
The house was silent as she tiptoed down the hall past Mrs. Bryant’s room to the kitchen.
This morning she would show Mrs. Bryant what a help she could be. Donning an apron she found hanging in the broom closet, she put on a kettle of hot water for tea—it seemed that was all they drank in this country—and nosed through the pantry until she’d assembled the makings for biscuits. Once they were plopped into the oven, she strolled outside, teacup in hand.
Behind the main house was a large shed—for tools, she soon discovered—a stable, and a carriage house with living quarters above. She thought she saw a shadow pass behind the lace-curtained window.
As she wandered out past the kitchen garden toward the orchard, she paused, breathing in the rich sweet scent of newly turned soil, citrus, and roses. The rancid stench of jailhouse sweat and grease, the view of brick walls and barred windows were now the dream—the nightmare. This was the reality.
How lucky she was to be here. Or was it luck? Perhaps the God of her mother really did exist and was looking after her for her mother’s sake. Her gaze lifted and, just in case, she prayed to that God to look after her brothers wherever they were.
Of course, Magistrate Reed had something to do with her good fortune. Without him she wouldn’t be here. No matter what the future held for her, she would never forget that. . .or him. She looked toward the city and wondered if he, too, were awake. She remembered him as he’d been yesterday, about to leave, returning to her, her small hands lost in his—
“Wicked girl,” she muttered. “You’re a married woman. Don’t you forget it.” But his eyes had told her he, too, had forgotten—or did not believe that she ever was.
Mary swung back toward the house.
Such thoughts! Such imaginings! And at the risk of burning the biscuits.
Head lowered, she strode back to the house.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
The harsh voice brought Mary up short. She lifted her eyes to the angry ebony face of—she supposed—the cook.
“I say, what are you doing in my kitchen?” The woman, wrapped in an orange, native print dress, was fat and furious.
Mary’s mouth went dry. “I was just—”
“I do not hear excuses. What are you doing? Trying to take my place?” Her r’s rolled out in a rumble, the native cadence of her voice making a discordant music.
“No, I—”
The cook wagged her finger under Mary’s nose. “This is my work. You Missa Bryant’s friend. A white lady. My apron!” She snatched it from around Mary’s waist.
“But what can I do? I have to do something for my keep.”
“You do what white ladies do.” The cook sniffed, tying the strings of the apron around her own ample waist.
“Wh–what’s that?”
“You sit on the verandah and drink tea.” She began grabbing pots and clanging them together with enough racket and gusto to lead a marching band.
Obviously, there was no use in arguing. She wouldn’t be heard if she tried. Disconsolately, she moved toward the door. “Don’t let the biscuits burn,” she managed.
“Biscuits!” the cook muttered disdainfully. “Those are not biscuits like I ever saw.”
Abandoned yesterday. Banished today.
Mary peeked into the dining room and saw that the table was already laid for two, with more forks and knives than anybody needed and carved glasses that reflected rainbows on the polished wood table—not like the scarred one she was used to with the grime so deep no amount of scrubbing could make it clean again. There were roses in the middle in the shiny silver bowl.
Such luxuries. The Bryants were certainly not like the missionaries on the streets of New York, always poor and seeking funds for their ministries. Those had looked so pathetic and downtrodden, on occasion even Mary had felt obliged to give a donation.
It suddenly occurred to her, how did somebody behave at such a table? With so many choices, which fork should she use?
Instead of lifting her spirits, the beautiful room and sumptuous setting confused and depressed her.
A lady would know what to do. But what did Mary know about being a lady?
This was never going to work. She didn’t belong here. She might just as well go in right now and pack her bags.
And she was about to do that very thing when Mrs. Bryant sailed into the dining room. “Good morning, dear.” She planted a light kiss on Mary’s cheek.
Used to being welcomed by her father’s rabid glare in the morning, Mary was momentarily unsettled by the woman’s affectionate greeting.
“You’re up bright and early, Mary. Did you finally get a good night’s sleep?” By now Mrs. Bryant was seated at the head of the table, her napkin in her lap. “Here, sit beside me. This will be your place. The reverend presides at the head of the table when he’s here. I’m ravenous. I imagine you are, too.”
“I don’t usually eat much breakfast,” Mary murmured as she relucta
ntly slid into the chair next to her hostess. What appetite she had, had diminished under the cook’s wrath.
But that was not to be.
“A nutritious breakfast is essential to good health,” Mrs. Bryant declared, ringing the small silver bell beside her plate.
The servant girl from the day before popped through the kitchen door.
“Good morning, Kweela. Will you please tell Nandi that we’re ready for breakfast? Thank you, dear.”
Mrs. Bryant bowed her head. “Our Father in Heaven, for what we are about to receive—”
To Mary’s surprise, the girl paused by the door and lowered her head also.
Again, as Mrs. Bryant spoke, a transcendent calm came over Mary, and although her concerns still lingered, her despair seemed to lift.
”Kweela isn’t a Christian, yet,” Mrs. Bryant said after the girl had disappeared into the kitchen. “But I think she soon will be.” She smiled. “She cleans and serves. Walks from her kraal every day—her native village,” she added, explaining the African word. “I think she finds this job easier than caring for nine younger siblings.”
Kweela returned to pour juice into the cut-glass goblets. She filled their teacups and covered the teapot with a cozy, then came back with two steaming bowls of porridge.
And that was just the beginning.
Platters of scrambled eggs appeared, followed by bacon, ham and sausage, fruit and cheeses, a silver holder filled with toast, butter, jam, and honey.
But no biscuits.
Mary could hardly taste any of it, she was concentrating so hard on copying Mrs. Bryant’s every move, grateful that the hostess was always the one to be served first. Mrs. Bryant picked up a fork; Mary picked up the same fork. Mrs. Bryant cut her ham with the larger knife and spread her cheese with the smaller; Mary did likewise. She felt she was about to develop a nervous twitch, she was trying so hard.
Fortunately, her hostess seemed not to notice and chatted on without need of a response.
“Nandi and her husband Jalamba live in the quarters above the carriage house. Jalamba is our caretaker. They’re both hardworking, honest. We count them among our blessings. When they first came, Nandi had a fearsome temper. But I’m happy to say, since she’s come to Christ, her disposition is much improved.”
Out Of The Darkness Page 5