She understood Colin’s doubts; she’d had them herself. But how could anyone know the Bryants and not see God reflected in their lives? She’d even come to understand what Pastor Daniel meant when he’d prayed for their lost baby and for their joyous reunion in heaven. In the Bryants, she’d witnessed an inner strength and love of which she wanted a share.
Oh, if she’d only known them before she married Ed.
No! She must not think that way. Already she was doubting God’s purpose.
But there was one thing, yet, she knew she must do. Once and for all she must confess the sin that had been plaguing her.
She slipped onto her knees beside her bed and bowed her head over her folded hands.
“Forgive me, Lord. Although I’ve never wanted to admit it, I covet Colin Reed. I have wanted him for my husband so much that I wished Ed would never come back. I am no better than David when he coveted Uriah’s wife. It is the same sin. From now on, I will pray only for Ed’s safe return. And his soul. . .and Colin’s.
“Oh, dear Lord, please, I beg you, give me the strength not to long for more.”
❧
“It’s been a delightful evening,” Colin said, stepping down from the carriage and breathing a deep and relieved sigh. At last he was rid of Grace Ellen’s grasping fingers. He now fully understood why such a beautiful woman was not married. Too many tentacles.
She leaned out the carriage window. “When will we see you again, Colin?”
“I’m afraid not for some time.” He never thought he’d be glad for the continuing unrest in the northern mines. “I’ll be leaving for the Murchison District day after tomorrow. No telling how long I’ll be gone.”
“When father said we were coming to Africa, I was frightened we might be overrun by Zulus or some other native savages.” Grace Ellen shuddered. “But knowing there are men as brave and strong as you to protect us, I’ll not have another moment’s distress.”
“I appreciate your confidence.” Colin felt like laughing. If anyone needed protection, it was the poor Zulus and the other tribes being exploited by the mine owners. . .and, he himself. From Grace Ellen.
Colin shifted his attention to Henry. “If you ladies can spare him for a moment, I have a bit of business to discuss with Henry.”
“Of course,” Sylvia said, moving aside as her husband clambered out of the cab and followed Colin up the steps of the gentleman’s club where he resided.
At the door, Colin turned, glowering at Henry. “I can’t handle this anymore.”
“What, old chap? Something you need me to do at the bank?”
“No! It’s that Fitzsimmon woman. Until she is otherwise occupied, I cannot visit your home or attend any function where she might be present. And,” he said, trying to tone down his harried inflections, “I shall expect you to keep me abreast of her movements that I may avoid her.”
“You amaze me, old boy,” his friend huffed. “The woman is gorgeous. And she certainly makes no secret of wanting to fully express just how much she admires you. If you get my drift.” Henry gave him a knowing grin.
“I’ve been a hunter much too long to let myself fall prey to some grasping huntress.”
“So, I was right. You were doing a bit of hunting yourself this evening.”
Colin felt the stab of his friend’s elbow in his ribs.
“I guess there’s no accounting for taste.” Henry shrugged. “A mere daisy instead of the rose. But if it’s the quiet American you prefer, so be it.”
“Ha!” Colin gave a sharp laugh. “Quiet? You don’t remember who she is, do you?”
“She did look familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.”
“She’s the one in the telescope. The one fighting off the masher.”
“You mean the little—” Henry frowned, “—sparrow? Or was it wren? The one you deserted us to go and save? You do know I got the dickens about that.” The pudgy man sighed. “Well, if she’s what you want. . . Sylvia will be disappointed. She had her heart set on matching you with Grace Ellen. But since that’s not to be, I suppose my dear wife will just have to switch her energies to Miss McKenzie.”
“I think not.” Colin thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “You see, Miss McKenzie is Mrs. McKenzie.”
“You rogue!” Henry exploded.
The desk clerk looked up from his records.
Henry lowered his voice. “I never would have thought it of you.”
“Be serious, Henry.”
Sobering, Henry lifted his hand to Colin’s shoulder. “Do you think you’re being wise, old friend? You and your Mrs. McKenzie.”
“She’s not my Mrs. McKenzie,” Colin retorted, brushing aside Henry’s hand. “I’m merely trying to locate her husband for her.”
Henry’s eyes reflected his skepticism. “You keep telling yourself that, old chap. But I saw the looks you two ex-changed.” He pushed open the double glass door. “And so did Grace Ellen. Perhaps it’s for the best that you’re leaving for the backcountry again. Have a safe trip.”
Disturbed by Henry’s words more than he wished to admit, Colin watched until his friend reached his carriage. Then he did an about-face. He strode through the nearly empty lobby, up the stairs, and down the long quiet hall to his room. Unlocking the door, he entered the sterile but well-furnished suite.
Without turning on the light, he removed his jacket, dropped it on a chair, and threw himself onto the leather couch.
What was he going to do? If his feelings were that obvious to his often obtuse friend, they would soon be clear to the whole world. He closed his eyes, picturing Mary that first day when she’d come into his office, flushed and disheveled, but so brave and forthright and determined.
I think I loved her even then.
He smiled, remembering how beautiful she’d looked this evening, her practiced diction, her rich, vibrant singing voice. What a surprise that had been.
Emma had not changed Mary. Emma had nurtured and brought out what was already there.
Mary was a woman he knew he could trust with any secret. He could see himself wanting to come home to her, sharing his day, hearing about hers, listening. . .loving—
He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He had to stop fooling himself, pretending she wasn’t married. He may have deluded himself into thinking, hoping she’d lied, but Mary would never lie about something that important.
Not only is she married, she’s carrying her husband’s child.
God in Heaven, why couldn’t it have been mine? Why?
It could. If—
His heart hammered. He lunged to his feet, stunned by the direction his thoughts had taken. Just one evening with Mary McKenzie was enough to have him harboring murderous thoughts.
He wouldn’t wait until the day after, he’d leave tomorrow. He’d set up a substation in the north. Stay there until he’d gotten the woman out of his system. Once and for all.
eleven
September 1905
Today! She would be baptized today.
Mary’s heart was full of unbounded joy and love—so full, there was hardly room to breathe—and gratitude, for all the blessings God had already showered on her, not the least of which were the Bryants.
It was very unusual to be baptized so close to one’s time of delivery. She knew that. But once she’d made up her mind, she’d just had to do it. No matter what. No matter she would look like a beached whale in her white shift. She giggled. Anyway, what did God care how she looked? Certainly Pastor Daniel and Mrs. Emma, and Kweela and Nandi and Jalamba didn’t care. And they were the only ones who were going to be there.
She looked out her bedroom window, remembering the first day she had come here.
She remembered unpacking her meager belongings, then joining the Bryants and Magistrate Reed for afternoon refreshments. Grapes had hung from the vine winding through the trellis that canopied the verandah, a scented breeze ruffling their leaves. She remembered the frosted glasses of lemonade and the s
weets and sandwiches that Magistrate Reed had insisted she eat. How kind and welcoming they had all been, doing their best from the very start to make her feel at home.
She tried not to think of Colin, except in her prayers. She hadn’t seen him in six months.
Just as well.
As for Ed, almost eight months had gone by, and she’d heard not a single word—not one—since he’d left her the note, the measly two pounds, and Ryzzi Kryzika as her protector. She’d encountered Ryzzi only once in these past months, downtown, when she and Mrs. Emma were coming out of the dry goods store. Mary had turned her face away, but heard his mumbled epithets as she passed.
“Mary, dear—”
She turned at the sound of Emma’s motherly voice beyond her bedroom door. “I’m almost ready,” she answered, then at the sharp kick inside her, amended, “we’re almost ready.”
“Jalamba’s hitching the carriage. We’ll be leaving in about five minutes.”
Mary folded her hands over her protruding belly as she stood by the window surveying the sunny yellow room—the four-poster bed with the embroidered coverlet, the chest of polished mahogany. She leaned against the chair by the window that Mrs. Emma had mused was a lovely spot to read. Mary smiled. And now she could!
Her fingers played across a letter lying on the table next to it. It was from her brothers, Brody and Ethan in California, by way of Ruthie, her best friend in New York. Now she not only could read their letter, but answer it.
Next time I write, you will be uncles.
Oh, how she longed to see them. She wondered if she ever would again. If only they were here now. On this special day.
But they are. In my thoughts and in my heart. Always.
It was almost time to go.
Mary slipped into the long-sleeved white cotton shift she’d made for her baptism and hurried over to the dresser. As she ran the brush through her tangle of curls, she glanced into the mirror.
Amazing.
How could she look the same and yet feel so different?
She folded a towel and the dress she would change into after the baptism and placed them in her small valise, then snapped it shut.
At the door she turned for one last look.
The next time she entered this room she would be a new person, reborn in the love of God.
❧
“What a glorious warm spring day,” Emma extolled. “Absol-utely perfect for our purpose.” She and Nandi sat in the seat, facing Kweela and Mary. Perched up next to Jalamba on the driver’s bench, Daniel began to sing in a lusty baritone, “Shall we gather at the river—” and the rest of the hearty little band joined in.
A group of black folks waved from a nearby shanty, and farther down the road, a white boy on a bicycle tipped his cap.
It seemed as if everyone in the whole world was celebrating this auspicious event. Whether they knew it or not.
Mary’s heart quickened as they approached the last bend in the road before they reached the river.
In the distance they heard singing of a different measure. It began as a continuous but melodious hum and, as it moved closer, grew in volume.
Over the crest of the hill they came toward them, a hundredfold or more, their dusky bodies materializing, as if by magic, out of the swirling dust. The women in their orange patterned tunics tied at one shoulder; the men, bare-chested, the same bright cloth secured at their waists by animal pelts.
Mary had never seen, nor could she have imagined, such a sight, as the people filled the road and spread down toward the river.
Jalamba reined in the horses.
“Ukutulahakubekuwe,” Daniel shouted. “Peace be with you.”
“Who are they?” Mary asked Emma as she craned her neck to see around the front of the carriage.
“Zulus, from the way they’re dressed,” Emma answered, leaning out to get a better look.
Daniel hopped down from his seat as a small group of natives separated themselves from the rest. In the front stood a large, imposing man, a little older than Pastor Daniel, and beside him, a woman holding a sleeping child.
“Umfundici,” the man cried out as Daniel approached.
“That’s what the Zulus call Daniel,” Emma whispered to Mary.
As the group circled him, a third man seemed to be acting as interpreter. Behind them the singing never stopped, but flowed on, rising and falling, swelling louder then softer, in what seemed one continuous, extended breath.
After a number of minutes Daniel returned, his face registering an expression of deep concern. “It’s Prince Buthelezi,” he said quietly. “His baby is in a coma.”
Nandi frowned. “The baby has got ‘the sleep of the dead’.”
“Encephalitis?” Emma whispered.
Daniel nodded.
Nandi shook her head sadly. “There is no hope.”
“There’s always hope, Nandi,” Daniel said sharply. “Trust and it shall be given unto thee. Ask, and ye shall receive. Have you forgotten?”
Rebuked, Nandi’s heavy-jowled face fell.
At once he said, “I’m sorry, dear friend, I spoke too harshly. Perhaps to bolster my own courage.” He touched her hand. “All we can do is ask. The Lord will give us His answer.”
Tears stung Mary’s lids as she folded her arms protectively over her own unborn child. Now that she was about to become a mother herself, she more fully understood the pain of losing a child. Emma’s pain.
“They were on their way to me,” Daniel said.
Emma smiled gently. “How providential. They need go no farther.”
He grasped her hand. “Oh, dear, Emma, pray that I can be a conduit for God’s mercy.” With that, he turned and walked toward the river’s edge, the people following.
A silence fell over the crowd.
Emma and Nandi stepped down from the carriage. Hands linked, they stood on the grass bank.
Jalamba bowed his head.
Kweela sat, her hands clasped, swaying forward and back, whispering her own affirmation of faith. “Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus—”
Breath suspended, Mary clutched the side of the carriage, her eyes glued on Pastor Daniel as he placed his hand on the baby’s tiny head and began to pray.
No bird sang. No breeze caressed the tufted grass. Even the river seemed to pause. Expectant. Waiting.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
Emma and Nandi were on tiptoes, straining to see. Mary stood up in the carriage to get a better view.
Beside her Kweela, rigid, silent, stared at the baby. “It moved,” she whispered.
“The baby moved,” breathed Mary, then cried out as she scrambled from the carriage.
The baby’s mother began to cry and laugh as she hugged the infant close.
Prince Buthelezi stood still and silent; then, with a mighty shout, wrestled his son from its mother’s arms and lifted him high above his head, turning slowly, so that all his people could witness the miracle.
A great cheer rose up.
Tears streamed down Mary’s cheeks and mingled with Kweela’s and Emma’s and Nandi’s as they embraced.
The air was charged. The crowd went wild.
Then they began to sing. A joyous song that started by the river and spread across the valley, until the highest branches of the baobab trembled and the stones beneath the waters shook.
And they sang, and sang, and sang, and sang, with the rhythm and the power of one great, collective, beating heart.
❧
The natives seemed not at all inclined to leave. More came with others to be healed. And although Mary’s spirit shared their joy, her weary body soon rebelled. She sank back into the carriage seat, hoping that Pastor Daniel would not forget the original purpose of their journey.
At least Emma hadn’t. “I will speak to him, my dear.”
She forced her way through the exuberant crowd, and when she had reached him, Pastor Daniel looked up. He nodded at Mary and smiled, then raised his hands, drawing the crow
d to silence.
He was about to dismiss the service.
He wouldn’t baptize her in front of all these people—not in her condition—surely not. Looking like an albino hippopotamus.
But he had a grander plan in mind.
No sooner had he announced that there was to be a baptism service, and it was translated by the interpreter, than the natives made a beeline for the river, splashing into the shallows in such numbers that Mary swore to Emma she could see the waters rise along its banks.
And among them, Kweela.
Inspired by the miracles, she, too, had jumped into the baptismal revelry.
Emma looked at Mary, and she at Emma, and together they burst into a joyous laughter that could not immediately be stemmed.
“My husband is not one to miss an opportunity,” Emma declared, once she’d caught her breath.
And after all, wasn’t that his calling? To bring the heathen to the Lord?
Finally, it was Mary’s turn.
Emma helped her down the slope, with Nandi, Kweela, and Jalamba her spiritual support. Her little family gathered close as Pastor Daniel reached out, his hand strong and steady as he guided her through the chill water toward him.
Then it was only his dear face she saw and his deep, gentle voice she heard as he said, “Mary McKenzie, do you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God?”
“I do,” she whispered.
“Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
And down she went into the water, dead and buried, to be resurrected to her new life as a member of this glorious family of God.
As Pastor Daniel lifted her up, a resounding cheer rose from the crowd.
Laughing for joy, she stretched her arms to the heavens.
And then she saw him. A man on horseback at the edge of the crowd.
Colin.
She just stood there, unable to pull her eyes away. His gaze locked with hers, willing her to him.
She’d been baptized at the river like her Lord Jesus, and now, before she’d even left the water, her greatest temptation was upon her.
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