by Rhys Bowen
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“Just curious,” he said, turning away to look at the approaching launch that was to ferry us out to the flying boat.
I studied the other passengers waiting to board. Two middle-aged men, one definitely a man of military bearing, the other so tanned that he had to be going back to his life in Africa. The tanned one had his wife beside him, a rather ferocious-looking woman. Then there were a couple of businessmen in dark suits. As I scanned the line a voice right behind me said, “I know you, don’t I? Georgiana Rannoch?”
I turned around and tried not to let the dismay show on my face.
“Rowena Hartley,” she said. “We were at school together.”
As if I could forget. Every school has its gaggle of mean girls, the wolf pack who pick on the weaker ones and make their lives hell. Rowena was the leader of that pack at my school. A year older than me, wordly-wise and rich, she took great delight in my lack of clothes, my naïveté, my general cluelessness about the ways of the world, and the fact that my mother was not only a serial bolter but had been a common, or garden, actress. In fact if Belinda hadn’t been there to defend me my school life would have been utterly miserable. Luckily Belinda feared nothing or nobody and was quite the match for Rowena. Dear Belinda, I thought now.
But now I was a sophisticated married woman. “Why of course,” I said, with a gracious smile. “Rowena. How lovely to meet you again. Are you going to Egypt?”
“No, we’re going on to Kenya,” she said. “We’re going to stay with my father, who lives there these days. This is my twin brother, Rupert.” She grabbed the arm of a rather chubby and self-satisfied-looking young man, dressed in blazer and boater as if he was about to play tennis or row on the Thames. “Rupert, this is an old school chum, Georgiana Rannoch.”
“Well, hello there. Delighted to meet you,” he said, his eyes looking me up and down appraisingly. Obviously acting like a wolf ran in the family. “Any friend of Ro’s is a friend of mine.” He held my hand a little too long. The hand was pudgy too, and somewhat clammy.
“And this is my husband, Darcy O’Mara,” I said hastily before he could get any ideas. “We’re going out to Kenya on our honeymoon.”
“Are you really? Then we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other, I’m sure. I presume you are going to the highlands?”
“We are.” Darcy was introduced and shook hands. “You’re Lord Cheriton’s children?”
“That’s right. From his first marriage, of course. To Lady Portia Preston. You’ve obviously heard that our father has just inherited the earldom. That’s why we’re going out. He wants to get to know Ru better since he’s now the heir.”
“Good idea,” Darcy said. “So you don’t actually live out in Kenya with your father?”
“Good heavens no,” Rupert said. “Hardly seen the old man since we were four. Only on his occasional visits home.”
“And what do you do, Mr. O’Mara?” Rowena asked. The question seemed innocent enough but I understood the cutting edge behind it. We’re all aristocrats and you’re just a mister.
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” Darcy said.
I couldn’t stay silent. “Darcy is the heir to Lord Kilhenny,” I said. “He sometimes helps with the racing stud.”
“Oh, an Irish peer. How fascinating,” Rupert said. “Do they let you into an English colony these days?”
“Fortunately I chose to retain my British citizenship,” Darcy replied with great civility. “And my mother was English. One of the Chatsworth lot.”
That, of course, shut them up. Anyone connected to the Duke of Devonshire clearly outranked them, as did I. Conversation ceased. I glanced at the other passengers. All smartly dressed, all apparently relaxed and ready for this next stage of the journey. One would have thought they were lining up to go to Paris, not embarking on some great adventure to the wilds of Africa. The first passengers were being helped into the launch—a dark-haired woman whose clothes clearly came from Paris. This made me take a second look at Rowena’s outfit. Not this year’s model. Then Daddy didn’t keep them in the lap of luxury while he was in Kenya.
It was our turn to be assisted into the launch and we set off across the calm water of the harbor. It was a busy place with everything from small skiffs to sleek luxury yachts moored nearby. Jaunty little fishing boats passed us. A ferry to Greece was setting out. We reached the steps to the flying boat and more hands helped us up. We were shown to our seats and handed a glass of lemonade as the air inside the cabin was warm. The last passenger came aboard. We waited for something to happen.
“I’m afraid we’re waiting for the arrival of one more passenger,” the captain announced on his intercom. “We should be underway very shortly.”
Then through my window I saw a speedboat leave an impressive yacht. I watched without too much interest until I saw that it was heading for the flying boat. We heard the roar of a powerful engine, then it dropped to a gentle putt-putt as the boat came alongside.
“Here you go, ma’am,” one of the stewards said.
“Thank you so much,” said a voice I recognized instantly and Mrs. Simpson came into the cabin.
Chapter 7
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7
BRINDISI, ITALY. ON A FLYING BOAT.
We have accomplished the first half of our journey with no mishaps. Now comes the more difficult part, I suspect. We are about to leave Europe on a flying boat, heading for Egypt. And then all the way into Africa. At this moment I’m rather wishing that Darcy had decided on a honeymoon in Eastbourne or Torquay . . . a safe and solid seaside resort. And now I have Mrs. Simpson as well as Rowena Hartley to contend with. Oh gosh, a thought just occurred to me: she’s going out to Kenya to join the Prince of Wales. Just what Their Majesties wanted to avoid!
Mrs. Simpson made her way down the cabin, nodding graciously as if she was royalty. When she drew level with Darcy and me she stopped, a look of astonishment on her face.
“Well, of all the people in the world you were the last one I expected to see,” she said in that low American drawl. “How are you, Georgiana, honey?”
“Very well, thank you,” I said. “You remember my husband, don’t you? Mr. O’Mara.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re married. David commented that we didn’t get an invitation to the wedding.” She said this loud enough for the whole cabin to hear. I felt myself flushing red.
“We only wanted a very small wedding, I’m afraid,” I said. “And the reception was at my brother’s house. So just a handful of family and friends. The queen insisted that she and the king were invited and that the princesses were bridesmaids.”
“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” Mrs. Simpson said. “She doesn’t like to miss out on anything. And she does love to show off those little girls. Shirley Temple and the little horror.”
“Shirley Temple?” I was confused.
“That’s what David calls the older one, Elizabeth. Such a little Goody Two-Shoes. Perfect little lady. But he rather likes the younger one. Little firecracker. So naughty. I’m sure they looked adorable at the wedding.”
“They did.”
“And Cookie was there watching over them, of course.”
“Cookie?”
“You know. The dowdy duchess, their mother. Looks like somebody’s cook. And poor old B-B-B-Bertie. What a hopeless pair. An utter embarrassment to the royal family.”
I was itching to say that a twice-married woman who had affairs with secondhand car salesmen was probably more of an embarrassment, but I knew that the newspapers were sworn to silence over this affair. Such was the power of Lord Beaverbrook that the general public had no idea Mrs. Simpson existed. She must have found that really irking.
“You’re going out to Kenya, I suppose,” Darcy said because he could see I was riled up at this attack on my relatives.
She looked around her with distaste. Frankly the cabin was well-appointed, with big comfy chairs, and rugs over our knees, so I didn’t think she had much to complain about—except being stuck with our company for the next few days. The door was closed, the engines revved up; the large bird started across the water. Then the engine noise became deafening. The whole contraption shook and we lurched forward, faster and faster. It seemed impossible that such an ungainly giant could ever be airborne, but suddenly I saw fishing boats below us. There was that ferry, now clear of the harbor and on its way to Greece.
As soon as we had leveled out the steward took orders for cocktails. A late lunch was served—smoked salmon and then some sort of fish in a cream sauce, followed by strawberries and cream, biscuits and cheese, then coffee. This occupied a good deal of time while we glided over smooth blue water and the occasional island. After lunch I think I dozed off, having not slept much on the rocking train. I awoke when Darcy nudged me and pointed out that we were starting to descend. The coast of Egypt came into view. Water from the ribbons of the Nile delta glistened in the setting sun. Lower and lower we circled and then the sea came rushing toward us. We bumped, hopped and then were skimming the surface to a halt. We had landed safely in Alexandria.
From the flying boat we were taken to a hotel for the night, one of the tall modern buildings along the seafront in Alexandria, making it look like any European city by the sea. Not a bad hotel but it was very hot and muggy and the mosquito net had a large hole in it, which resulted in buzzing in my ears and quite a few bites by morning. The other passengers didn’t look as if they had enjoyed their experience any more than we did as we met for breakfast. And the runny fried eggs did little to improve our mood. From the hotel we were taken to an airfield for the short hop to Cairo. On the way we got our first real glimpse of Egypt. Camels and donkeys laden with goods or firewood, funny little pigeon houses in the fields, men and women in long robes, donkeys working waterwheels . . . It was all very exotic.
Here a new type of aeroplane waited—a biplane with giant wings. This was the famous Hannibal, the newest in the Handley Page fleet that was now going to fly all the way to Cape Town. The cabins of the other aircraft had been pleasant enough but this one was really luxurious, rather like a Pullman coach on the Golden Arrow. We sat in little upholstered booths with tables, twenty-four of us altogether. And two stewards to take care of our every need, including a glass of champagne to welcome us on board. We took off and a half hour later we landed again at Cairo. After a short stay in a makeshift lounge, which was really little more than a glorified shed, horribly hot and stuffy, we were led out again to our plane and took off. This time we had a brilliant view of the pyramids and then the Nile as we followed it southward. It was amazing: on either side of the river there was a bright strip of green cultivation and beyond that absolute desert—just yellow sand as far as the eye could see.
“Make sure you get a good shot of the pyramids, won’t you,” I said to Darcy, who had his camera out again.
He smiled. “We’ll be able to bore everyone with our holiday snaps.”
“Not everyone will have the pyramids and the Nile,” I said. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Here.” Darcy handed the camera to me. “You should take pictures too.”
“I’m not much good with a camera,” I said. “I usually cut off the top of people’s heads. I’ll leave you to document our adventure.” And I handed it back to him.
Rowena and Rupert, as well as Mrs. Simpson, were farther down the cabin, which was divided into sections so that we didn’t actually have to see them. I was glad of this. Clearly Rowena hadn’t changed her stripes and it seemed her twin was equally obnoxious. And the farther away from Mrs. Simpson the better.
Most of the time I stared out at the view, absolutely fascinated by the Nile, the boats on it, the strings of camels walking along dusty roads and, on either side of the narrow strip of green, the burnt-sienna-colored desert with no life at all. Nothing moving, no trees. No roads. Just sand . . . sand swept into graceful dunes with patterns of light and deep shadow. It was fascinating but rather disturbing. If we came down there, who would ever find us?
I kept these thoughts to myself until we were finally descending into Khartoum. The city, from what we could see from the air, looked like an extension of the desert. Red-brown mud buildings blending into the sand beyond with hardly a glimpse of green anywhere. A camel train was just heading west as we came in to land. The air hit us like an oven as we stepped into harsh evening sunlight.
“Do we go into the city for the night?” I asked our steward.
“Oh no, my lady. Imperial Airways has built a rest house nearby. Khartoum is not the sort of place you’d want to spend the night. This way we can keep you safe.”
Hardly reassuring. We were driven in old American car over bumpy sand to a new-looking bungalow. The walls were whitewashed and a tin roof extended to form a veranda. All the same no attempt had been made to beautify the surroundings. No plants, no trees. The rooms were equally spartan, but clean, and we were able to have a bath before dinner. Dinner was taken at long tables in a dining room where fans moved constantly across the ceiling, stirring the warm air. We were served a hearty stew. Mrs. Simpson poked at it with her fork.
“What kind of animal was this when it was alive?”
“I will ask the cook, madam,” said the white-robed bearer who stood at attention behind the table. He disappeared into the kitchen then came back. “The cook he say it is goat, madam.”
“Goat?”
“Yes, madam. Very fine goat.”
Mrs. Simpson’s expression was wonderful.
“At least it’s not camel,” the woman sitting beside me said. She was, like Mrs. Simpson, dressed in the height of Paris fashion but her face indicated she might have been out in the sun a lot, hence someone who lived in the colony.
“God forbid.” Mrs. Simpson raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize we’d be leaving civilization totally.”
“Only for tonight,” the woman said. “You’ll find the colony itself is as civilized as London. With whom shall you be staying?”
“With Lord Delamere, I gather,” Mrs. Simpson said.
“Lord Delamere. You really are starting at the top.” The woman raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
I realized with a jolt of delight that nobody knew who Mrs. Simpson was. Thanks to the press staying silent she was traveling incognito. I wondered whether she would divulge her association with the Prince of Wales. She was obviously considering the same thing, for she hesitated, then said, “So we can look forward to something other than goat, do you think?”
“Oh yes. Tom Delamere keeps a herd of beef cattle. And fish from the lake. And chickens, as well as all kinds of wild game. Yes, you will certainly eat well. And you will be invited to dine with all the neighbors—of which I am one.” She held out a hand. “Pansy Ragg, formerly Pansy Babbington-Vyle. I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
“Wallis Simpson. How do you do.” Mrs. Simpson extended a gracious hand.
“Oh goodness. I know who you are,” Pansy said. “I’m sorry. I should have recognized you. You’re a friend of the Prince of Wales, aren’t you? And you must be going out to stay with him. How dense of me.”
Mrs. Simpson nodded regally. “The prince is taking a break from an exhausting royal tour around the Commonwealth. He thought I might like to join him for a few days.”
“A long way to come for a few days,” Pansy Ragg said. “But you must definit
ely come to dinner if Lord D can spare you. My husband is Harry Ragg. We have a big spread quite close to Lord Delamere. My husband also runs cattle but we have a dairy ranch. And we grow wheat and corn. We tried coffee but we’re a little too high for it.” Having established herself as queen of the table she looked around at the rest of us. “So is everyone going to Kenya?”
“We are,” Rowena said. “We’re going out to stay with our father. I’m sure you know him. Lord Cheriton?”
An interesting expression crossed Pansy Ragg’s face. Amusement? Astonishment? “Oh yes. Everyone knows Bwana Hartley. That’s what he’s always called. Bwana. He was one of the original white farmers, wasn’t he? I seem to remember hearing that he had a family back in England, but you’ve never been out before, have you?”
“No,” Rupert said. “Until recently our father chose to act as if we didn’t exist. And our mother married again so we’ve really had little contact with him. But he’s inherited the title and now that I will be his heir he felt we should reestablish relations. He sent us the air ticket so we thought, why not?”
“Why not indeed? Your father has done very well for himself, as I’m sure you know,” Pansy said. “His current wife has poured buckets of money into the house and the farm. A veritable palace. You’ll be amazed.”
“His current wife—what’s she like?” Rowena asked.
“Pleasant enough. Rich. A rich American. Angel Trapp, that was her name. . . . Isn’t that perfect, don’t you think? Although I’m not sure who trapped whom. She has the money, after all. Drinks like a fish, but then everyone does. I don’t think she’s particularly happy in Africa. It may not last.”
