Beverley Harper died of cancer on 9 August 2002.
She rests at peace in the Africa she so loved.
Her ashes lie by the Boteti River in Botswana, below a lodge called Leroo-la-Tua. It means Footprints of Lion.
It is a special place.
This simple plaque marks her passing:
BEVERLEY ANN HARPER
AUTHOR, WIFE, MOTHER AND FRIEND
SET ON HER GREATEST SAFARI
AUGUST 9TH 2002
AGED ONLY 58
SHE LEAVES LASTING FOOTPRINTS
AND A LONG SHADOW
“TSAMAYA SENTLE TATTY HEAD”
Also by Beverley Harper
Storms Over Africa
Edge of the Rain
Echo of an Angry God
People of Heaven
The Forgotten Sea
Jackal’s Dance
Shadows in the Grass
Footprints of Lion
SHADOWS
IN THE
GRASS
BEVERLEY
HARPER
First published 2002 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
This Pan edition published 2003 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 2003, 2004 (twice), 2005 (twice), 2006
Copyright © Beverley Harper 2002
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing form the publisher.
National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:
Harper, Beverley.
Shadows in the grass.
ISBN 0330 364146.
1. Malicious accusation-Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships-Fiction. 3. Scots-South Africa-Fiction. 4. Hunting-South Africa-Fiction 5. Zulu War, 1879-Fiction. I. Title.
A823. 3
Map by Mike Gorman
Typeset in 11. 5/3pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
These electronic editions published in 2002 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Shadows in the Grass
Beverley Harper
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This book is for Robert, Piers, Miles and Adam, solid as rocks in the sand dunes of my life, and for Yvette, who came into my son’s life like a cyclone, so much so I named one after her in The Forgotten Sea, and for Jo and my granddaughter, Kayla, who entered this world as innocent as the animals of Africa and just as beautiful.
It is customary for authors to thank those who have contributed, in any way, towards the writing of a book. In Shadows in the Grass, however, my research has relied completely on those departed souls who adventured in Africa in the nineteenth century. For various reasons many of them felt compelled to write of their experiences, and for this, I am extremely grateful. Their memoirs have provided the backbone for this story. They are, nonetheless, no longer on this earth and, inspirational as their written words may be, the acknowledgments page lacks a sense of here and now.
Modestly, therefore, in the absence of persons living to whom I can express appreciation for research assistance, I wish to acknowledge my own sheer hard work.
And to Cate Paterson and Sarina Rowell, structural editors of phenomenal skill, I acknowledge their valuable input. They tightened, tweaked and changed bits. Much muttering was heard coming from the author’s study. ‘You can’t cut that,’ she was heard to yell on more than one occasion. Angst and gnashing of teeth aside, their suggestions made sense and I thank them both.
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY BEVERLEY HARPER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
MORE BESTSELLING FICTION AVAILABLE FROM PAN MACMILLAN
ONE
Late November in Scotland, cold and inevitably dank, promises the bitterness of winter, a depressing monotony of grey, wet days, weeks and endless months.
But as though unmindful of the forces nature massed against it, a determined early afternoon sun shines gamely on. Closed windows in the solid sandstone residence reflect its light with a deceptive brilliance. It ventures past the cream and brown damask patterned wool curtains of an upstairs room and lays a sheen of pale gold over deep blue and silver brocade covering the walls. Tentative fingers of yellow touch dark carved furniture. Gossamer fine, it inches forward over the richly woven carpet, one tiny patch finding a discarded slipper of black velvet. A delicate ray illuminates the rhinestones encrusting its toe. For a brief moment the sun’s efforts combine with imitation diamonds to produce a spectacular and dazzling display in the large and ornately furnished bed chamber. But it has no real place in winter’s bleak countenance and soon, too soon, the chilly gloom returns.
Nature’s defiance went unnoticed by the two occupants. A coal fire, lit that morning by one of the housemaids, glowed in the hearth but did little to throw out any heat. Bed linen, once immaculately smoothed and tucked in, plumped pillows, starched frilly lace on the counterpane, carefully arranged so that the material fluffed and swirled where it touched the floor – all were crumpled and in disarray.
A naked pair on the bed had been absorbed in each other for several hours. The lady of the house was supposedly indisposed and strict instructions had been issued that she was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The large household of servants – from butler to page, housekeeper to scullery maids – were not fooled but they knew that nothing short of fire, or an unexpected return by their master, would be reason enough to so much as knock timidly on the door.
Lord Dallas Acheson was as fine a specimen as could be found, with or without his clothes. Dressed, he was often referred to as dashing. Naked, the lady currently occupying his attention thought him magnificent. Youth kept his six-foot frame firm and well-muscled. He had a lean face and smouldering eyes. Unlike many he was clean-shaven, which emphasised his square jaw and long, strong nose. Very dark curly hair, heavy brows and thick, long eyelashes contrasted well
with pale skin, another sign of approaching winter. A wide smiling mouth and the humour that glinted regularly in the depths of his eyes showed a touch of daredevil. Young girls found his face handsome. Older women looked deeper and saw sensuality.
At twenty-one, Dallas Acheson was at the peak of physical fitness – a fact not lost on his lady-friend. Also, to her intense delight, ardour and the pursuit of physical satisfaction were two activities to which he was prepared to devote much attention and energy.
Lady Alison de Iongh was not the only mistress Dallas had enjoyed but she was the first to take upon herself the agreeable task of educating him in matters pertaining to delights of the flesh. The affair, therefore, had continued for longer than either of them might have expected. Despite exceedingly good grounds to end it, the absence of resolve was stronger than a willing spirit. Lord de Iongh spent most of the year in London; his absences made it easy to dismiss discovery as a real threat. Had he stopped to think about the law of averages, Dallas might have concluded that he was using up an extraordinary amount of good fortune.
Alison was a woman most young men could only dream of knowing. At thirty-nine, having borne four children, two of whom had died at birth, Alison’s figure was still slim, though a little stretch-marked around her abdomen, breasts and thighs. Her face no longer held the soft dewiness of youth. It was angular with fine lines around the eyes and mouth. She’d lost several teeth, the most noticeable of which was her upper left canine, which gaped whenever she spoke or smiled. Alison’s hair was her best feature – golden, thick and glossy with no hint of grey. She was justifiably vain about it, especially as now when it tumbled over the pillows and spread around her face in a shimmering waterfall of vibrant colour. Cool grey eyes could smoulder with desire and her body responded to Dallas’s lightest touch. Aroused, she could use the language of street urchins – a far cry from the composed and elegant figure who graciously received social callers in the drawing rooms of her many houses. Heady stuff for a young man usually denied that which he most desired.
Her fingers were lost in his hair. His tongue drew lazy circles around each nipple. They had made love twice but both were ready for more. Dallas pressed his erection against her leg and, as he had anticipated, she reached for him, long nails gently scratching the length of him. He rolled onto his back, enjoying her touch.
‘Tell me what you want.’ Her voice, husky and throbbing with desire, sent shivers through him.
‘Take me in your mouth.’
She slid down his body, lips circling his engorged penis, small tongue darting, seeking out the most sensitive parts, teasing and playing his arousal until he was squirming with pleasure. Abruptly, she left him, rising and straddling his face. ‘No,’ she panted. ‘Not yet. I am not ready.’
Dallas sought and found the bud of pleasure and, as she had taught him, gently brought her to the point of orgasm. Alison, head flung back in ecstasy, rode him until she teetered on the very brink of release.
‘Now,’ she breathed, rolling from him.
Dallas rolled with her, hands sliding under her knees, bringing them up.
Alison raised her legs over his shoulders. ‘I want your cock inside me. Hard.’
He rammed into her and she gave a moan as her orgasm could no longer be denied.
Braced by his arms, Dallas looked down and watched himself thrusting at her raised body. Alison was whispering words of encouragement, basic gutter language which had long since ceased to shock him. She pushed her pelvis up to meet his, matching him stroke for stroke. Each time he drew back, his penis glistened with the wetness of her desire. She would come to him again soon, shuddering and whispering his name. Dallas lost himself in sensation. The need for quiet was forgotten.
Beyond the heavy oak door, a passing housemaid, arms laden with freshly laundered linen, cocked her head as lustful cries rang out. With a knowing smile, she bent an eye to the keyhole and was rewarded by the sight of nothing more than a solitary slipper on the floor. Straightening, she leaned closer to the door, listening. Feminine gasps and masculine groans, hoarse whispers, and finally, drawn-out moans of satisfaction. Intent on the activity inside Lady de Iongh’s boudoir, she didn’t hear the telltale jangle made by the housekeeper’s symbol of status – keys of all description carried on a large iron ring.
Mrs Kelly – so-called though the woman had never married, nor, as far as anyone knew, even had a suitor – invariably bore the sour expression of one who shouldered the burden of life’s disappointments. Disapproval of others was second nature to her. The one exception was Lord de Iongh, whom she had known since he was ten. She became more of a mother to him than his own and the lonely spinster lavished the boy with love. As he grew older and relied less on her for company, Mrs Kelly drew comfort from the fact that her charge appeared to be shaping up splendidly for a life as one of Britain’s elite aristocracy.
Then, at thirty-eight, he had become engaged to Alison when she was only seventeen. Lord de Iongh was bewitched by his beautiful young fiancée. Mrs Kelly took one look at the girl and knew she was trouble. Within a year of the wedding her worst fears had been realised. Lady de Iongh didn’t have a loyal, or come to that, ladylike, bone in her body. As time passed, the aging housekeeper came to loathe her mistress. Although often tempted to drop hints in his lordship’s ear about Lady de Iongh’s indiscretions, Mrs Kelly knew she would come off second best. Lord de Iongh saw only his wife’s demure side and fondly believed her incapable of anything even remotely unladylike. Besides, he was a member of the peerage. His full title was the Fifth Earl of Dalkeith but Lord de Iongh was one of the few who preferred to use his family name rather than that of a geographic location. A nobleman through and through, he would never stoop to hearing gossip from a servant, even if she had been with his family for nearly forty years. Mrs Kelly lived in the fond hope that one day Lord de Iongh would find out for himself.
On discovering the young housemaid with one ear glued to the door, the housekeeper did what was expected of her and dragged the girl away, scolding her as soon as they were far enough from the room not to be overheard. ‘Whatever are you thinking, Mabel? How dare you eavesdrop on her ladyship?’
At thirteen, though innocent enough, young Mabel had grown up in an overcrowded cottage with a curtain separating her sleeping mattress from that of her parents. However, she widened her eyes and feigned virtuous incomprehension. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs Kelly, but I couldn’a mind the like of it.’
As Mabel had hoped, the housekeeper believed her. ‘Of course you don’t understand, you silly girl. It’s not your business to know. Don’t let me catch you at it again. Her ladyship was probably having a nightmare.’
A sly smile crept across Mabel’s face. ‘Beggin’ your pardon again, Mrs Kelly, but it’s half-ein in the afternoon.’
Housekeeper Kelly rounded on the impudent child. ‘Go about your business, girl. It’s not up to the likes of you to question her ladyship. Any more eavesdropping and you’ll be back to peddling fish at the market. Go on, away with you. Make haste. Put away that linen and get yourself down to the dining room. The epergne is tarnished. Her ladyship will have a fit if she sees it like that. And don’t get polish on the table. I’ll be down later to check your work. Off with you now, you’re not here to stand around.’
‘Yes, Mrs Kelly.’ Mabel scurried away. She’d caught a glimpse of Lord Acheson on his arrival and thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. With luck, if she took her time polishing the large candlestick cum flower bowl with its intricate carvings, figurines and clawed feet, all of which required painstaking care, she might just see him leave.
In Alison’s boudoir, quite oblivious of matters domestic, Lord Dallas Acheson and Lady Alison de Iongh lay entwined in the languid, rosy after-hum of love-making. He would have to take his leave no later than two-thirty. As fate would have it, and much against his better judgment, he was madly, passionately, and unwisely in love. He was in a hopeless situation and knew no way out of i
t. Under normal circumstances, he’d have ended the affair with Alison, declared his feelings for the true love of his life and the two of them would have lived happily ever after. The circumstances, however, were far from normal. Lady Lorna de Iongh, Alison’s seventeen-year-old daughter, would be waiting for him in the coach-house.
The year was 1871. The place Canongate, stately Edinburgh home of Lord and Lady de Iongh. Events of that afternoon were not at all unusual.
Dallas and Alison had been lovers for four months. With the earl away in London so much, they enjoyed each other’s company several days a week. Alison’s husband sat with the House of Lords, and parliamentary sessions normally ran from the beginning of the year until August. As a rule, Lord de Iongh would have returned to Edinburgh as soon as the annual session was over. This year, however, with the House of Commons gaining more power, not to mention public support, and facing a proposal that members of the House of Lords should be elected by secret ballot rather than remain the automatic right of social influence and affluence, Lord de Iongh, along with a handful of others who were genuinely concerned that the running of Britain was being taken over by the gentry as opposed to the peerage, stayed in London to lobby Queen Victoria to retain the status quo. Surprisingly, the queen was proving stubbornly resistant to the idea of keeping power in the hands of the House of Lords. Some whispered that ill health was the reason. Elections relieved the Regent of the responsibility of selecting her parliament. Others, more bold, suggested she was too enamoured with John Brown – the queen’s Highland servant – to be bothered with anything else. Whatever the reason, Lord de Iongh’s continued absence from Scotland left Dallas and Alison free to indulge their passion for each other.
Two months ago, what had been a perfect situation became complicated by Lady Lorna de Iongh. She had no idea Dallas was her mother’s lover. Alison, likewise, did not suspect that Dallas had not only deflowered her young daughter but had fallen in love with her.
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