Today's Embrace (20 page)

“Was I safe when you left for South Africa last time with Heyden here, in Grimston Way?”

“Yes, but we know Heyden is in South Africa now. Both Parnell and Derwent bear witness to that. If you stayed here it would be different for you this time, sweet. You're at Rookswood under the watchful eye of the imposing Aunt Elosia and Sir Lyle. So nothing can happen.”

“And what happened on the third floor of this house when your uncle was
murdered
for the Kimberly Black Diamond?”

“That was different.”

She looked into those dark eyes and saw the unmistakable love in their fiery depths.

“Sometimes I think the real reason you want me here is so you can hunt down Heyden,” she said soberly.

“An excellent idea!”

“I'd better come along—just to keep an eye on you,” she said gravely.

He laughed.

“We'll need to have Mrs. Croft here tomorrow to help us pack.”

“So soon? We've almost two weeks, don't we?”

He smiled. “No. You'll be happy to know we sail on Wednesday morning. I was able to book passage on an earlier ship.”

“Oh, Rogan, this is wonderful! And you didn't tell me. Even though you expected me to sail with you all along. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Croft is coming with us.”

“I was expecting that as well. She has a cabin next to us.”

Evy breathed a sigh of relief. Faithful, steady Mrs. Croft. Knowing she would be near made Evy feel relieved. She laid her forehead against his chest a moment.

“You won't be sorry I'm along.”

“I don't know about that,” he said dryly. “I think you'll be a great cause of worry.” He lifted her chin, and he wasn't smiling as he searched her eyes.

This wasn't the first time their strong wills had come into conflict, and she knew it wouldn't be the last. He was letting her go, but not because he preferred to. What would he say aboard ship … when he learned she was going to have his baby?

Bulawayo, South Africa

The Matopos Hills glowed an eerie dark red in the setting sun. This was no longer Matabeleland, but Rhodesia; and Bulawayo, the kraal of Chieftain Lobengula, was now part of the British South Africa Company's charter lands, a British town under British government. Arcilla Chantry, now Mrs. Peter Bartley, walked along the crooked path that led away from the dusty garden of what was lightly named Government House toward some distant bungalows belonging to the Charter Company.

Arcilla glanced warily about, trying to peer into the rosy dusk descending like a secretive veil. The wind from the veld blew through the acacia trees. Did she hear a twig snap under someone's stealthy foot?

She licked her dried lips and pushed ahead on the path toward the bungalows, which were still out of view. The bungalows lodged officials working under Dr. Leander Jameson for the BSA. Arcilla drew her lacy shawl about her shoulders and swallowed her fear. Then—She stood rigid on the path, her heart pounding thunderously. After the horrid death of Major Tom Willet …

A peacock strutted out and stood in the middle of the path, looking in her direction, its tail fanning into colorful splendor, as though to say,
It's me, proudly showing off the handiwork of God. You should rely on Him more
.

A breath released from Arcilla's lips. Everything about Africa frightened her. And those hills … She gazed off toward the Matopos again. If she wasn't careful, as Peter had said, she would soon come to believe the “extraordinary nonsense” about those mountains and hills, which were held in superstitious reverence by the Ndebele and even some Shona. An evil spirit abode there, according to Derwent, possessing a girl called the Umlimo, who gave forth oracles to the tribe.

A ghostly breeze brushed against her skin, as though conjuring up from the dust a power to impede her way. She could almost hear the clacking bones of the demonic
nganga
“doctors.”

Arcilla hurried along the path through the narrowing line of acacia trees, glancing behind her. Catching her slipper on an embedded rock, she lost her balance and nearly fell. She regained her footing and hurried on.

How often she had asked Peter to tell the workmen to clear out the rocks. Was it too much to ask? But Peter!

Arcilla clutched the front of her shawl. Peter was busy with more important things for the Charter Company than to pay heed to her complaints.

The BSA! How she loathed the Company—Uncle Julien Bley, too. And that laconic Dr. Jameson, Rhodes's chief spokesman here in Rhodesia. Yes, she loathed them all. Her dislike reached out to include her cousin Darinda Bley, Julien's granddaughter. She disliked her because, like some wild, malicious flower, Darinda opened her petals and warmed to the ruthlessness that was Africa. Darinda was not afraid of anything this wretched land threw at her, and Peter too often noticed her courage while showing impatience with Arcilla.

I can't help it, I don't belong here. I belong to England, to its soft greens and gentle fog, to Rookswood and Chantry Townhouse
.

With her fingers still grasping the front of her shawl, Arcilla walked more carefully along the serpentine path.
Peter is unfair and selfish. Peter doesn't really love me. I know he doesn't. I should have married Charles—and Peter should have married Darinda
.

Dear God, whatever am I going to do? I shall die here! I shall! I know it—

Arcilla half stumbled along the bumpy path again. This time the strap on her dainty slipper came off her heel. She stooped and slipped it back. She sniffed loudly and brushed her golden hair from her face. Peter had insisted she wear sturdier shoes like Darinda, but the very mention of her cousin provoked Arcilla's stubborn streak. If Peter would just stop comparing everything she did to Darinda—

Miserable pathway. The workmen couldn't even level out the dirt! The BSA had taken her husband from her, had stolen her peace of mind, had taken her life!
I'm trapped here in this savage land with heathen and poisonous snakes and stinging centipedes and flying spiders—all of them are one and the same!
Her loathing of everything around her shot adrenaline through her body, giving her the drive to press ahead down the darkening, constricting path.

Derwent had kindly told her to pray more, but what could she say to God when she hardly knew what God was like? Oh yes, she'd heard about Jesus. After all, hadn't she grown up going to church in Grimston Way? But she couldn't remember much of anything Vicar Havering had said. She had a Bible, but she hadn't learned it well enough to know where to read. In those times she did turn to it, she seemed to lose interest upon reaching a list of “begots.” Oh, and Peter was no help at all! None. Peter didn't know how to pray, either. Once she had asked him to pray before they retired to bed for the night, and he looked at her as though she'd suddenly developed green skin.

Beyond the trees, not nearly as far as they now seemed at dusk, stood a group of bungalows where members of the Bulawayo government were living.
Oh to be home in England, safe
. To raise her son at Rookswood under the secure counsel of that bastion of strength, Aunt Elosia.

A thought flashed through her mind. She remembered what Dr. Jakob van Buren had said when she'd attended his Sunday service once. Dr. Jakob had been invited to speak at Government House, and his message had not gone over well with those present. Uncle Julien had
looked as though he wanted to toss him in the river while the crocodiles were feeding. And Peter had sat straight in his chair with an expression as leaden as the statues in the British Museum.

“Most people,” his voice had boomed, with a ragged Boer accent, “prefer their sin clothed with the latest style of sophistication. Pride puts on a pretty face and sits in the theater enjoying a symphony, and we say, ‘Oh, these are the
good
people of the civilized West.' Oh, the raw sin of the naked savage with his doctrines of demons offends our finer natures—as well it should—and so we missionaries come with torches of light, which is God's Word. A Word that reveals His Son Jesus Christ. For we are darkness in and of ourselves. We have no light apart from Him.

“Witchcraft unearths the rotting corpse called sin, and we sophisticates are offended! It is well we should be. But are we equally offended with our own sin? We are all sinners before a holy God, whether that sin is raw, and dark, and openly evil—or hidden behind silks and perfumes, lordly titles, and ambitious national goals for Her Majesty. And the sin of hypocrisy was firmly denounced when our Lord was on earth, but He had words of mercy for the woman taken in adultery!

“Ah yes. It took the willing death of Jesus on the cross to pay for our sin. Christ is the door to God, and that door is open wide for all to enter. If you come through that door, you will find that the Father of all creation has made you a new creature in Christ. That new spiritual birth is yours through faith in Jesus Christ.”

Arcilla shuddered. Oh! How Uncle Julien was offended! His face had been flushed with high blood pressure.

She hadn't liked Dr. Jakob's bluntness either. Imagine, comparing her little sins to the spooky brutality of witchcraft with bones, gizzards, and snakeskins!

Arcilla drew the shawl closer and lifted her chin, aware that her golden hair shone. She imagined herself a white princess in the starlight, slipping along the trail, waiting for the silvery moon to send moonbeams through her hair.

But the princess must now watch the dark, crooked path that
tempted her feet to go astray. Yesterday she had come across a four-inch band of army ants. If she'd been careless and stepped on them, she would have been stung mercilessly. There might be a snake, too, one of those banded cobras, or the spitting kind that blinds with a stream of venom. She could never become used to such things, never. And to think Derwent Brown had said that the biblical Garden of Eden may have been in Africa! Bah! Everyone knew it had to have been in England. England, with its cool, misty weather and fragrant roses. Probably quite near Buckingham Palace, too, very close to where Queen Victoria ruled.

Here, on the Dark Continent, she must always be wary. Not merely of wild creatures, but worse. Oh, indeed, much worse. The Ndebele, those fearsome, sullen-faced cousins of the Zulus, whispering of the great days when Lobengula was their king leading them to great victories, were a constant threat.

Now the dark, naked giant was buried somewhere in the Matopos Hills, covered in piles of diamonds.

Arcilla loathed the sight of those mountains with their lower hills so near to Bulawayo. Derwent said the demons once had their way here at the kraal, and they now held cruel hatred toward those building a chapel where the name of Jesus was praised. That name, he said, could easily send demons fleeing in fear.

Was that true? It was all too much for Arcilla to fathom. Trying to make sense of it all made her head throb. Why must life be so difficult?

“All I want is a British cup of tea and a scone—as only the British servants at Rookswood can make them.”

And now, her baby son, born here. Sweet, precious little Charles Rogan Bartley! Eight pounds and thirteen ounces of sweet British baby fat! Ah, he was a
Rhodesiani
Oh … what would that mean when he grew up a handsome young man? Would he talk funny when he went to England? Arcilla could imagine all the ladies laughing behind his back.

My poor baby. My Poor Charles Rogan Bartley!

How Aunt Elosia wrote of her desire to hold him in her strong arms. Oh, for the nursery on the third floor of Rookswood.

Arcilla stopped so quickly her curls bounced on her forehead. She widened her blue eyes into circles.

A dozen crows, their black wings scarlet from the blazing summer sunset, cawed plaintively as they flew from the field alongside the path and disappeared into the thick grouping of acacia trees farther across the veld. The cawing and the beating of their black wings dried her mouth with sudden fear.
Something was ahead that frightened them
.