Mary put down her stitching. “What exactly is a musicale?”
“It’s when folks get together to play music. We try to manage at least once a week, which, unfortunately, rarely happens, given the demands on Daniel and Colin.”
“Magistrate Reed comes to your musicales?”
Emma nodded. “Colin plays the violin, Daniel, the flute, and I, the piano. Colin’s friend Henry learned the cello just so he could join us.” Emma smiled. “Henry has plenty of time to practice. His wife Sylvia is our audience.”
“I see. Of course. I’d be happy to be part of the audience,” Mary said brightly. “That doesn’t sound too hard. All you have to do is smile and clap.”
“No, no, dear Mary,” Emma chuckled, “you will sing.”
“In front of other people?” Mary was horrified. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“But of course you can. You sing for me, don’t you?”
“But you love me. With you it doesn’t matter if I make a mistake.”
“We all make mistakes, dear. Besides, everyone who meets you loves you.”
Even Magistrate Reed?
Mary hoped Mrs. Emma couldn’t read her mind. They were bad, bad, the thoughts she had of Magistrate Reed. They frightened and shamed her. As she did with thoughts of Ed, she tried to push them from her mind. But with far less success.
And they came at such odd times, like when she watched a beautiful sunset, or smelled a rose, or tasted something sweet. For no reason at all he’d come into her mind.
And now she wouldn’t even be able to listen to Mrs. Emma play the piano without thinking about him. Oh, it was so painful.
Yet, she found a perverse pleasure in the pain that was both mystifying and compelling.
“This will be perfect,” Emma chortled. “I received a note from Sylvia Harcourt last week. She has a friend she wants to bring along who sings. The two of you can perform duets.”
“No, no,” Mary said with feeling. “Not me!”
“Not I, dear,” Emma corrected absently. “Of course, you’ll do it. You will be wonderful. I have all the confidence in the world.” She swung around on the piano stool, then rose, abruptly, awkwardly.
And screamed!
The dissonant crescendo rang out as Emma fell back against the keyboard. “Oh, dear God, dear God. Oh, Mary, help me,” she cried. Clutching her distended belly, she reached out toward the horrified girl.
❧
Colin took a swig of water, rescrewed the cap on his canteen, and hooked it back on the pommel of his saddle.
The landscape had grown more tropical, lush, and green as they’d traveled north, the air humid. Monkeys swung from the limbs of the trees, and vibrant-hued birds squawked and chattered in the branches above them. In the last few days, they’d passed a colorful patchwork of prosperous plantations—bananas, coffee, sugar cane, cotton.
But in stark contrast they now approached a sprawling city of shacks set against the ripped and gouged earth of the mine field. Even from a mile away, Colin could hear the dull thud of the stone crushers in the stamp mills.
He glanced at the wiry, athletic man riding beside him. For a starched-collared missionary from America, Daniel had shown his mettle more than once these past few weeks. He looked tan and fit as any of Colin’s own men.
“Has the midday sun beaten you into silence?” Colin asked his usually loquacious companion.
Daniel returned a guilty smile. “I was thinking of Emma. Sometimes, in my zeal to do the Lord’s work, I’m afraid I neglect her.”
“This from the man who at every stop composes long letters to be sent home?” Colin shook his head.
“I miss her. And now, with it so close to her time, I’m nagged by the feeling that she needs me.”
“Don’t fret, old man,” Colin said, shifting in his saddle. “Nandi and Jalamba will take good care of her. And Mary McKenzie seems like a kind, sensible girl.”
“But so young and inexperienced.”
“I dare say, she’s seen more of life’s sadness than most her age.” Colin pictured Mary’s glowing, innocent face, aged by eyes shadowed with sorrow.
“It’s a shame, in the eight mines we’ve visited, no one has heard anything of her husband,” Daniel said.
Colin’s hand tightened on the reins. Daniel’s words brought a distasteful reminder of the girl’s source of pain. “The greedy fool probably struck out on his own. He’ll find out soon enough that the easy-to-reach gold is gone. Since he’s not experienced, he’ll end up in one of the mines laboring for wages less than what he made in America.” Then how could he take care of Mary? For her sake, Colin quashed unworthy thoughts of the man’s demise. He didn’t wish him dead, just gone. Forever!
“Even if he does get a job in the mines, there’s no guarantee he’ll keep it,” Daniel said. “As we saw at the Granger, white men are being replaced by the cheap native labor.” He shook his head. “Alas, this trip has served to prove Ntsikana more right than wrong.”
“No wonder he’s rejected the white man’s God his father embraced. Ntsikana has seen sorry little of the Christian charity you missionaries preach about. Your Lord might be better served if he’d called you to teach brotherly love to your white parishioners, instead of instilling useless hope in the innocent natives.”
“Don’t blame God for man’s inadequacies,” Daniel re-proached, then added ruefully, “but you have a point.”
“Thank you.”
“Which only goes to prove, no man is without need of the Lord, regardless of color, or station. . .even a magistrate.”
By this time they had reached the edge of the first gaping hole, and Colin’s retort was lost in the clatter and clang and thundering thumps of machinery. He halted his squad on the perimeter and stared down, watching the scores of men, mostly black, bare to the waist, sweating in the heat of the tropical sun as they stripped the earth and wheeled the rock toward the stamp mill, where white operators crushed it into gravel from which the gold would be extracted.
Daniel pulled that infernal starched collar and black coat from his saddlebag. “I hope we can make some inroads here,” he said, the eternal optimist.
Wheeling his horse, Colin shouted, “Sergeant, have the men bring their mounts into line. Look smart as we ride in.”
In formation they trotted past the rude bunkhouses, shanty stores, and sheds toward the headquarters, a one-story building, not much more substantial than the rest, with a covered porch running its length.
In the shade lounged a group of khaki-clad white toughs, silently watching the brigade approach. Against one of the precarious-looking posts that held up the roof leaned a giant of a man, his pith helmet pulled down over his eyes. Absently, he played with the handle of the pistol in his un-strapped holster. As the contingent pulled to a halt, he spat a wad of tobacco into the dirt in front of them.
This was the second time that had happened to Colin on this trip. It seemed he was no more welcome here than he’d been at the Lobedu Kraal, where Ntsikana had spit at the sight of him.
He glanced at Daniel. If these men were spoiling for trouble, he certainly didn’t want his friend involved. This sort of thing was precisely why he had tried to discourage him from coming along.
But as these thoughts crossed his mind, a man in shirt-sleeves and baggy, brown pinstripe trousers held up by a pair of black suspenders stepped through the office door. “After-noon,” he said. Sweat beaded his face, and he wiped the back of his neck with a soiled handkerchief. “What can I do for you?”
“Just out on patrol,” Colin answered. “Any problems?”
“None that our ‘bully-boys’ here can’t handle.” The man grinned at his surrounding crew and then back at Colin. Shielding his eyes, he spotted Daniel and moved off the porch toward him. “I say, might you be the Reverend Bryant from Johannesburg?”
“I am.”
“Aye, you fit the description all right. Had a bloke out here a couple a days ago, said you might be heading this way
—”
Colin had a sinking premonition. “Was there a message?”
“Aye.” The man seemed to be taking a perverse pleasure in taking his time. “There was.”
Colin straightened. “Well, what is it, man? Speak up.”
Daniel grasped the reins with such a grip his knuckles turned white. “I’d be obliged—”
“Don’t think so, when you hear your wife’s been taken sick. Suppose by the time you get back, though, whatever her complaint, the crisis will be passed.”
Daniel’s face turned ashen.
It was all Colin could do to keep from removing his booted foot from its stirrup and ramming it down the mine manager’s throat.
Without warning, Daniel snapped his reins and was wheeling his mount when Colin grabbed hold of the bridle.
“Don’t be a fool, man. You can’t just take off on a spent animal. Besides, it’s not safe, a man traveling alone.” He turned to the mine manager. “We need four fresh horses. The best you’ve got.” To his men, he barked, “Avery and Stowe will come with us. Sergeant Knox, you’re in charge. Rest the men overnight and follow in the morning.”
“How do you expect to get our horses back to us?” the mine manager whined.
“Send a couple of your bully-boys with my men.” The glint in Colin’s eye brooked no argument. He looked over at his friend, who sat still as a stone, his head bowed. Only his lips moved.
Colin’s jaw tightened. He clenched his fists, wanting to shake them at a God who could allow this pure and dedicated servant to suffer such despair.
He saw himself as a lad of eight, standing by the bedside of his own mother great with child. Praying. Oh, how he’d prayed for her. But God had not listened to a small boy’s prayers.
His mother had died. And so had the baby that had been his brother.
That’s when Colin had stopped believing in God.
He touched Daniel’s arm and said gently, “Dismount, old man. We need to remove your saddle.”
seven
Gently, Mary smoothed back the soft, brown hair waving around Emma’s brow. How beautiful she was. How peaceful in sleep. And why not? Emma’s prayers had been answered. That very afternoon, the doctor had visited and pronounced her finally out of danger.
Mary picked up the sleeping woman’s tray from the bedside table. The trick would be to keep Mrs. Emma in bed. She was usually so active.
Mary had been amused when she’d discovered how upper-crust society ladies were usually confined to their homes once it was obvious they were with child. In the “society” in which she grew up, the “ladies” had no such luxury.
But confinement had not stopped Mrs. Emma. Not only had she attended Sunday services, she’d continued teaching her Bible classes, albeit in her own parlor instead of at the mission church. And the little ones still came for piano lessons. And there were still reams of correspondence to get through every week—to say nothing of all the extra attention Mary’s lessons required. And finally—Mary got tired just thinking about it all—Mrs. Emma had insisted on continuing to take instruction in German, of all things. She said she wanted her mission to embrace the Boers, as well as the natives and the British.
The woman was a saint, but something had to give. And Mary was bound and determined to see that from now on Mrs. Emma did what was best for her and the baby.
She tiptoed to the bedroom door, closing it softly behind her as she went, and carried the tray into the kitchen.
“I could have done that, missy.” Kweela jumped up from the table, where she and Nandi were sharing a pot of tea, and tried to take the tray.
“You just stay put, Kweela, you’re as tired as I am, and you still have that long walk home.” Mary nudged the girl aside as she carried the tray to the sink. “I think I’ll ask Jalamba to hitch up the mare and take you in the buggy.”
Sinking into a kitchen chair, Mary poured herself a cup of tea and refilled theirs. She saw their mild surprise—she was serving them—but pretended not to notice as she reached for one of Nandi’s fresh-baked sugar cookies.
She had to be careful, though. In this stratified society they each had their place, and Nandi, especially, felt more comfortable if the lines were not crossed. Mary had found that out the hard way, on her first day.
“Mmmm.” She chewed the cookie appreciatively. “How you had the energy to make these is beyond me. And the way you’ve taken care of Mrs. Emma, plus doing all your other chores, is amazing. You, too, Kweela.”
“We are all in this together, missy.” Nandi rubbed her arthritic knee. “You have done more than your share, too.”
Not in the prayer department.
Mary had never seen anything like the servants’ constant and fervent praying. Even Kweela prayed as loud and long as the other two. They couldn’t have been more impassioned had Mrs. Emma been their own flesh and blood. They’d even enlisted Jalamba to gather other members of their family to join them in their earnest supplication to the Lord. In fact, their zeal had been so enthusiastic, the doctor feared they would disturb the patient and begged them to disperse.
But the trust and devotion that Mary had witnessed in these earnest people had made her aware of her own spiritual inadequacy.
“What did the doctor say?” Nandi asked.
Mary helped herself to another cookie. “He says she’s out of the woods.”
Kweela, whose name translated meant “jump up,” did just that. “Oh, no, missy. It is too soon. Missy Bryant cannot go into the woods yet.”
Nandi grabbed Kweela’s skirt and yanked her back into her chair. “She said out of, not into.” Then she rolled her eyes at Mary. “The girl is not so smart.”
Kweela slapped her arm. “That is not nice.”
Pushing her hand away, Nandi turned to Mary. “So, what is it that you mean?”
Mary suppressed a smile behind her lifted cup. “It means, Mrs. Emma is no longer in danger of losing her baby.”
“Oh, glory be.” Nandi closed her eyes and lifted her hands. “Praise the Lord.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Kweela cried, eyes closed, upraised arms swaying from side to side. For not being a Christian, she was certainly sounding like one.
Tears ran down their blessed faces as they cried out their praises and prayers.
Mary watched, not quite sure what to do.
Suddenly, the back door slammed.
As one, their heads turned and their gazes fell on a stooped, disheveled stranger. The three froze. Then Mary realized it was Reverend Bryant.
“Oh, God. Oh, dear God. I’m too late.” The voice that had power to move the masses trembled, weak with fatigue and despair. The reverend braced himself against the table, tears coursing down his stubbled cheeks.
Realizing he was misinterpreting the scene, Mary sprang from her chair. “You’re dear wife is fine—” But the blood suddenly rushed from her head. Her vision blurred and she reached out toward the table for support. In the background, she thought she heard the door slam again, but the sounds around her melded into a faint buzz as she felt herself falling.
Strong hands grasped her arms, easing her back into the chair. From a distance she heard a voice urging her to lower her head and felt the firm but gentle pressure of a hand pressing her head to her knees.
“All I need is two sick ladies on my hands.” Nandi’s husky voice penetrated Mary’s fog of consciousness.
“Are you all right?”
The deep, familiar voice took her breath again. And as her vision cleared, she found the worried face—dirty, unkempt, and handsome as she had ever seen—of Magistrate Reed, who was kneeling beside her.
“Missy is doing just fine. The baby, too,” Nandi was assuring the reverend. “No need for you to go back and be waking her up, now that she is finally asleep.” But her last words were lost on Reverend Bryant, who had already bolted through the kitchen door. Turning her attention on the magistrate, she said, “You look pretty undone yourself.”
But Magistrate Reed
seemed not to hear as he knelt beside Mary, his gaze still on her face.
He was so close she could see the damp curls pressed to his forehead, and each worried furrow, each hair of his expressive brows, each lash fringing his dark eyes and the pupils within. She could see each line of laughter, etched light in his tanned skin. Each bristle in his unshaven cheek.
Kweela leaned over his shoulder and peered into Mary’s face. “Missy looks as pale as if she fell into a lake of leeches.”
“She does,” Nandi agreed, her mountain of flesh forcing Kweela aside. “You rest, girl, before we need take care of you, too.”
“I think that’s a very good idea, Nandi,” the magistrate murmured. Rising suddenly, he scooped Mary into his arms. “Which way is your room? I’m taking you to bed.”
❧
She seemed light as feather down, light as an armful of roses and smelling as sweet. The rich amber curls that Colin had only seen confined in a tight knot on Mary’s crown hung loose and free around her upturned face. They brushed across his cheek, tickling the tip of his nose.
“Please, sir, put me down,” Mary protested. “I’m fine, now, perfectly capable of walking.”
“Just tell me which is your room, and I will.” Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he perceived her struggle to be less than resolute.
She sighed, “Across the hall from the parlor,” and seemed to sink quite naturally against his chest.
He wondered if she could feel that her small gesture had caused his heartbeat to accelerate.
Still holding her, for he knew this moment would end too soon, he managed to turn the knob and pushed open her bedroom door with his booted foot. He carried her to the bed and laid her gently on the flower-embroidered comforter. It took all the strength of will that he could muster not to reach out and touch the lustrous tresses that now spread across her pillow.
He took a step back. “You’re sure you’re all right? I mean, you don’t need help in getting into your nightclothes—”
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