Green City in the Sun (33 page)

     "Apparently it, ah, happened four nights ago," Briggs said. "One of the kitchen boys said Mrs. West sent him out for a doctor. The girl was named Peony Jones, came out from England about fifteen months ago and worked as a maid at Mrs. West's hotel. Your sister has confirmed what happened that night. She filed a report the next morning with the police."

     Valentine sat with a stony expression, teacup forgotten in his hand.

     The officer shifted in his chair, wishing this messy business hadn't fallen to him. "So, ah, as I was saying, Mrs. West's car was found on the Limuru Road, not far from the Bates farm. Dr. Treverton said she had no knowledge of that. In her report she states that she left immediately after delivering the
Jones girl's baby. Apparently Mrs. West drove out to Limuru the same night the maid died. We don't know the purpose of the trip."

     Briggs glanced at Valentine's fixed stare and went on. "There was a baby with her, most likely the one your sister delivered in the attic. It was still in Mrs. West's arms when she was found; they had both drowned in the mud. It appears the car got stuck, and Mrs. West tried to go the rest of the way on foot in the rain and didn't make it."

     Valentine looked out over the rows of green coffee bushes speckled with white flowers. Beyond them Mount Kenya stood cloaked in mystery and majesty.

     "But the, ah, really baffling thing of it all," Briggs continued, "is that, ah ... the baby she had with her was half black. The Medical Officer concluded that the maid had had sexual relations with an African."

     Valentine didn't blink. He looked like a man hypnotized.

     "There is just one more thing, Your Lordship. The Medical Officer has also reported that Mrs. West was pregnant at the time of her death... about three months along."

     Finally Valentine looked at the District Officer. "Why are you telling me all this? Mrs. West is of no concern to me."

     Briggs stared at him for a moment, then looked away, a bright flush rising up his neck. Fumbling for his hat and swagger stick, the officer got to his feet, began to say something, then hurried down the steps and away.

     T
HEY HAD HAD
only one week of rain, and already the Cape chestnuts were bursting all over in a froth of pink flowers and aloes were blossoming in bright red clumps among the rocks. The spur fowl was singing its musical scales, and the rainbird answered in its flutelike song.

     Rose hummed along with nature as she sat in the protection of her gazebo, stitching the tapestry and looking, in her pale pink cardigan, tan woolen skirt, and green scarf as if the rain had produced her as well. She was not alone in the glade. Mrs. Pembroke sat with Mona, looking at a picture book; an African girl squatted by the picnic hamper, ready to serve hot pies and
chocolate; and three invisible Kikuyu men stood on guard among the eucalyptus trees. Rose's pets were with her also. A black-faced vervet monkey was curled up in her lap, and tethered to a post was Daphne, an orphaned bushbuck that Rose had rescued when it was no bigger than a cat.

     On a sturdy frame was stretched the white linen that had become Rose's entire life. She had so far stitched in outlines and possibilities, a sketch in thread. On one side Mount Kenya was starting to materialize, its craggy peak with a bit of cloud done in perle cotton; the slopes would be covered in Persian yarns and Florentine stitchery; and the vast rain forest with its ropy vines and dense brush was slowly going to come to life with embroidery floss and French knots. Rose could see it in her mind—complete, breathing,
alive.
There remained only one space that eluded her: slightly off center, between two gnarly trees. The rest of the scene was all in balance; every spot had its subject and every subject had a place. Except for that one mysterious vacancy. No matter how she studied it or tried to place things into it, nothing worked. It was the one spot in Rose's tapestry that could not be filled.

     When Mrs. Pembroke discreetly cleared her throat, Rose looked up and, to her immense surprise, saw Valentine coming through the damp trees.

     He walked up the steps of the gazebo, knocking moisture from his shoulders, and said, "I would like to be alone with my wife, if you please."

     No one moved. Rose looked up at him, bewildered, trying to sense his mood. Then she nodded to the nanny, who took Mona and the African girl with her.

     When they were alone, Valentine went down on one knee next to Rose. "Am I disturbing you?" he asked softly.

     "You've never been here before, Valentine."

     He looked at the linen. The dotted outlines in various colors of yarn made no sense to him. He praised it nonetheless. Then he asked, "Are you happy here, Rose?"

     His face was level with hers; she saw how gentle his eyes were. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm very happy here, Valentine."

     "You know that's all I ever want, don't you? For you to be happy?"

     "I think so."

     "The night of the Christmas party, Rose. What I did to you—"

     She placed her fingertips on his mouth. "We mustn't speak of that. Not ever again."

     "Rose, I need to talk to you."

     She nodded. "I heard about Mrs. West, Valentine. And I was sorry to hear it."

     Pain replaced the gentleness in his eyes. He reached up and clutched the back of her chair. "I love you, Rose," he said in a tight voice. "Do you believe me?"

     "Yes, Valentine."

     "I suppose it's too late to expect you to love me in return, but—"

     "I do love you, Valentine."

     He gazed into her pale blue eyes and saw that she meant it. "I must have a son," he said quietly. "You have to understand that. I need a son to inherit what I am building."

     "Won't Mona do?"

     "Of course not, darling. You know that."

     "You want me to give you a son," she said.

     "Yes."

     "It frightens me, Valentine."

     "I won't hurt you, Rose. I won't let any harm come to you. And I have nowhere else to turn." He bowed his head. "If you do this for me, I shall make you a promise. Give me a son, Rose, and I will never come near you again."

     She laid a cool, slender hand along his cheek. Tears filled her eyes. Valentine had come back to her; he was hers to love again. "Then I will do it," she said.

     O
N
A
UGUST
12, 1922, Arthur Currie Treverton was born. Rose had kept her part of the bargain. And Valentine kept his.

M
ONA HAD ALREADY DECIDED SHE WAS GOING TO RUN
away. All she had to do was choose the right moment.

     Her solemn eyes took in the crowded streets of Paris as the limousine made its way toward the train station; she saw pedestrians on the sidewalks turn to watch the stately procession of shiny Pierce-Arrows. Mona rode with her mother in the first car; in the next one came Sati, Mona's Indian ayah, with Lady Rose's personal secretary and a little African girl named Njeri. Two more cars followed with Rose's many trunks and the purchases collected during her shopping trip and her two lady's maids. Gleaming black with curtains closed to hide the passengers inside, the Pierce-Arrows created a spectacle as they inched their way through the Place de la Concorde.

     Mona felt her heart grow heavy. In their eight weeks in Paris, spent mostly in the George V Hotel because the noise and crowds of the city distressed Rose, Mona had not been able to dissuade her mother from going on to Suffolk. Now they were headed for the station where they were to board
the boat train that would carry them to England, where Mona was going to be abandoned.

     What a monstrous city this was, with its grotesque buildings and naked statues and gawdy bridges spanning a cold, flat river. Mona's first glimpse of Paris had terrified her. She had never seen so many people, heard such a din. And the sky barely showed between the rooftops. It led her to think of the beehives made by the Wakamba tribesmen. Everyone in Paris was in a hurry. People rushed along the sidewalks with their collars turned up, their faces pinched and red. They went from cement walkways to asphalt roads to stone walls. There was no wilderness here; it all was planned and orderly. Jazz poured from windows and doorways, and wild-looking American girls called flappers sat at sidewalk cafes, showing off their cigarettes and smoky silk stockings. Mona wanted to go home, back to Bellatu and Aunt Grace's mission. She wanted to run free again, to cast off these horrible clothes her mother had bought for her at a place called a salon. She longed to be with her friends again—Gretchen Donald, and Ralph, who was fourteen and terribly handsome and on whom Mona had an enormous crush.

     Why,
why
did she have to leave Kenya?

     "Mummy," she began tentatively.

     Rose didn't look up from the novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald she was reading. "Yes, dear?"

     "Couldn't we maybe just put it off for a bit? Just until I'm older?"

     Rose laughed softly. "You'll enjoy boarding school, darling. I did."

     "But why must I go to school in England? Why can't I go to the boarding school in Nairobi?"

     "I've already explained, darling. You want something better than the Nairobi school. You're the daughter of an earl; you must be educated correctly, as befits your station."

     "But Gretchen and Ralph go there!"

     Rose laid aside her book and smiled at her daughter. The poor child! At ten years of age she could hardly be expected to understand. "You are going to grow up to be a lady, Mona. Gretchen Donald is going to be a farmer's wife. There is a difference."

     "But I don't want to be a lady! I want to live at Bellatu and grow coffee!"
Mona wanted to cry. She knew the real reason she was being taken to England. It was because her parents didn't love her. "I promise I shall be good from now on, Mummy! I shall always do what I am told, and I shall pay attention to my lessons, and I shan't make you and Daddy angry with me anymore!"

     Rose looked at her in surprise. "Why, Mona, darling, whatever put such silly notions into your head? Boarding school isn't a punishment. You should be looking forward to it."

     She lifted her hand, and for an instant Mona thought her mother was going to touch her. But the gesture had only been to adjust the veil covering Rose's eyes. The book came up again, and her mother withdrew from her once more.

     Mona sniffed. She couldn't remember having ever been caressed or held by either of her parents. As far back as she could remember, she had always been in the care of a succession of nannies, all of whom either went back to England or found a husband in Kenya; then had come the governesses, a constant turnover of young women who soon got bored with the isolation of Bellatu. That was why Rose had finally given in and hired Sati, Mona's first ayah. Indian or African nursemaids and companions were becoming the accepted thing in Kenya as English help was becoming harder to keep. The Trevertons were among the last to resist; now Mona's constant company was a young woman from Bombay who wore brightly colored saris and heady spice perfume and who was the only one who ever showed Mona any physical affection.