"It's cold," Annabella teased. "I'll have to slip into my nightgown if you don't come and warm me up, Clive." He still failed to respond.
She leaned forward, the thick quilt sliding unheeded to her still-slim waist. She took his face in her hands and turned him so they confronted each other.
"Clive, you have been preoccupied all evening. At the play, and at Mr. du Maurier's club. And now— you've never been so uninterested in my companionship. Has some higher-born lady stolen your affections from me? Or was it that unsavory-looking man with the gray beard?" She frowned, then added, "Or has it to do with your brother Neville?"
He looked into her eyes and she could see tears visible in his own.
"Clive, tell me please! What is wrong? I shouldn't have teased you, but—Clive, what is it, darling?"
He drew a breath. "It is Neville—in a way."
She saw the stricken look on his face and drew his head down to rest on her bosom. He put his arms around her and held her, held himself to her.
"Do you want to tell me, Clive?"
He shook his head.
"Then come into bed, and I'll help you forget whatever it is. We can speak of it later. Come now." She helped him out of the scarlet tunic, ran her fingers beneath his shirt, all the while kissing his face, his cheeks and lips and his closed eyes.
He heaved a sigh and climbed beneath the quilts with her, and did forget his distracting worries for a time. And then he fell asleep.
In the middle of the night he suffered a terrible nightmare and awoke trembling and clutching at Annabella.
"Now you must tell me," she said. "Please, dear, before the morning comes and you must sneak out the back way and I leave by the front. Tell me now what it is."
"Yes. Yes, you're right."
She stirred.
"Don't light the oil," he said, drawing her back. "I can speak better in the darkness, where I cannot see your face, Annabella."
"Tell me, then. You said it was about Neville."
"Yes. And about Maurice Carstairs. The man with the gray beard. And it's about Brigadier Leicester. You know whom I mean, Annabella?"
"Of course. You've mentioned your commanding officer many times. What has he to do with Neville?"
"He has to approve leave before I can set out in search of Neville."
He could not see her face in the darkness, but he could hear the intake of her breath and feel the tension that coursed through her body.
"We've discussed this so many times, Clive. And again tonight, even with Mr. du Maurier. Why must you search for Neville? He'll come back or he'll not, as heaven decrees. Why should you be lost as well? Neville is a cruel bully, Clive. He never let you forget that he was the elder, even though it was only by a few minutes."
"We were born on different days, Annabella."
"Yes, how many times have I heard the story! Neville was born just before the stroke of midnight on January twenty-sixth, 1835. And you were born just after."
"Yes. Making my birthday January twenty-seventh."
"But, Clive! What difference does the passage of a few minutes make? You and Neville are fraternal twins! You had the same father, the same mother!"
"Yes, and that mother died after giving birth to me, and Father has blamed me for it, for thirty-three years! For thirty-three years Neville has been the light of Father's eye, and I have been the bête noir. And now that Father is growing old, and succession is on his mind, Neville's absence in Africa assumes greater dimensions each day."
"Let him stay lost! Then you will become the Baron Tewkesbury. Everyone knows it. Du Maurier knows it. All of London knows it."
Clive groaned. "But Father has agreed partially to finance an expedition in search of Neville. And The Recorder and Dispatch—"
"A rag!" Annabella interrupted.
"Even so, they have agreed to pay for the rest of the expedition. Carstairs is their man. He delivered an envelope of bank notes to me at du Maurier's club—it's his, too. With the money I have now, I can go after Neville. But you want him to stay lost, Annabella, don't you?"
"I do! I admit it! You've said you want to marry me, Clive! Oh, why did I ever take you to my bed! You think me a common strumpet! You treat me like a whore—creeping up the stairs to my chamber, sneaking out the back. I'm a kept little whore of the young officer! I should have known! Every nobleman's son in a scarlet tunic has his little plaything tucked away somewhere, and I am yours."
She sobbed.
"I thought you were different from the others. I thought I was different from the others. But you're just another whoremaster and I'm your little doxie! How could I not have known!"
"Brigadier Leicester has approved my leave," Clive said softly.
"And off you go to Equatoria to search for your dear brother."
"Yes."
There was a lengthy silence.
Then, "I will marry you," Clive said.
"You've told me that many times."
"I have no money. I cannot divert the funds of the expedition."
"I don't want money. I want a husband, Clive. And a name."
"You weren't so demanding when first we met!"
"I had less reason to be demanding."
"When I get back I shall write a book. They all do, you know. Did you hear du Maurier say it at the club? It's the truth. They all write books, and they all make fortunes. And then we shall marry, whether Neville becomes Lord Tewkesbury or I do. Don't you see? It's our path to freedom! We shall be out from under Father's thumb, if he's still alive, or Neville's if he is not. We shall be independent of them, and we shall make a life of our own. You shall give up your teaching, and I shall resign from the army, and we shall live together, happily."
"Yes, happily ever after, Clive," she said, her intonation heavy with bitterness and scorn.
"But we shall!"
"Don't you know a fairy tale when you hear one? Even when it is your own voice that is telling it?"
He slid from the bed and crossed the room. Even in the nearly complete darkness of Annabella's bedchamber, Clive knew his way. His bare feet felt the rough nap of the carpet between the bed and table.
Through the tall window, a distant dawn was attempting to send its first feelers of pale gray. The mist of midnight had turned into an icy rain, and Clive knew that in a few hours the city would be clogged with sliding wagons and fallen horses. Many of the latter would break their legs and would be destroyed on the spot, their steaming carcasses hauled away by others of their breed.
Behind him, Clive could hear Annabella's breathing. She did not speak as she waited for him to respond to her jibe.
He found a box of friction matches. He lifted the chimney, long grown cold, from the oil lamp and felt the wick with two fingertips to make certain that it was still damp. Then he wiped his fingers dry and struck the match. When the lamp was burning evenly he held it waist high and turned back toward the bed.
Annabella giggled.
"I did not know I had said or done anything funny," Clive sniffed.
Annabella put her hand over her mouth. "You've never seen yourself stark naked save for a nightcap, holding a lamp like some modern Diogenes searching for an honest man." Before he could respond she grew serious again. "I suppose it's too much to ask that my nineteenth-century Diogenes make me an honest woman!"
Clive felt himself flush. "I have told you, dear Annabella, that I will marry you as soon as I can afford to do so! There is no way that I can support a wife on the pittance the government pays me. I should marry you this very hour—we should rouse some parson and become united before the cock crows!—if only I could afford it."
There was a lengthy silence.
Finally, Annabella said, "Put the lamp back on the table. Leave it burning, Clive. So your Brigadier Leicester has approved your leave, has he?"
Clive placed the lamp as directed. He said, "He has."
"And when are you leaving on your African expedition?"
Clive did not want to answer. He stood on the carp
et, sweating with embarrassment and shame, simultaneously trembling with the chill of the icy room.
Annabella, comfortable in her bed, outwaited him.
Finally, he said, "In the morning. Tomorrow—that is, this day."
"All right," Annabella said angrily. "You'll be gone in the morning, but you're going to have a night that you shall never forget, Clive Folliot!"
She threw back the comforter and quilt to reveal her nakedness. She held her arms toward him. "Leave the lamp burning, Clive! Take off that ridiculous nightcap and get back into this bed!"
He stood on the wooden pier, looking up at the gray ship that loomed above him. The Empress Philippa was one of the hybrid craft that were coming to dominate the sea lanes. She carried both sail and steam power, the former being regarded as more reliable and economical; the Tatter, as providing greater speed. Power was already up in her boiler; her sails were furled and clouds of dark smoke rose from her stacks.
Gray ship, gray Thames, gray London sky! Clive looked down at his less-than-fresh appearance. Before acquainting himself with the captain of Empress Philippa he would have to find his cabin.
CHAPTER 3
Aboard the Empress Philippa
Luncheon was an informal affair, but at dinner Clive did make the acquaintance of Captain Wingate.
The captain was a retired Royal Navy officer, a veteran who had fought in the Burmese war fifteen years earlier. The captain took an interest in Clive and invited him to his quarters for an evening's chat.
Planted in a comfortable chair in his own quarters, Wingate admitted that he missed serving the Crown and envied Clive his opportunity.
"But they don't want an old sea dog like me in the fleet, any more than they want old soldiers around. We're an embarrassment to the youngsters who want to rise."
The captain leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, Major, why has an officer of Her Majesty's army left his unit and booked passage to Zanzibar? That is, if my question doesn't sail too near a reef, if you take my meaning."
"I believe I do, Captain. And there is nothing secret about my mission. Doubtless you have heard of my brother, Sir Neville Folliot."
"To be sure, Major! All the explorers have come in for their share of fame. Now that peace has laid her gentle hand on Brittania's brow, we must seek elsewhere for our heroes than the battlefield. And the exploration of exotic realms seems to have filled the bill—as well as giving our officers something to do other than ride to parade."
He turned away from Clive, opened a heavy-lidded humidor that stood upon his table, and extracted a cigar. "Would you care for one, Major?"
Clive accepted, and they lit their smokes.
"I will confess, Major, that I did not at first connect you with the explorer. If you'll forgive my saying so, the name Neville Folliot is almost a household word these recent years, while that of Clive Folliot, well . . ." He exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke and waved it away.
"There's nothing to forgive," Clive said. "You speak nothing but the truth when you say that Neville is famous. And that I am for all practical purposes unknown."
He gazed out a porthole. Through the glass he could see a cloudy sky and a dark sea. Beyond, he knew, lay the coast of France. Soon Empress Philippa would pass the imaginary extension of the border between France and Spain. Clive's journey was just beginning.
"So after you debark at Zanzibar you'll head for the mainland and try to pick up Neville's trail, is that it?"
"Precisely."
"I don't recall your shipping much gear, Major Folliot. Aboard the Empress, that is. And you seem to be traveling alone. Surely you don't intend to carry out this expedition single-handed!"
Clive shook his head. "I have read the reports of as many of the explorers as I could lay my hands on. And I've spoken with several of them. Mr. John Hanning Speke and Mr. James Augustus Grant were particularly helpful."
"A shame about Mr. Speke, don't you agree?" The captain leaned toward Clive.
"A pity—killed in a hunting accident the very day he was to debate Sir Richard Burton."
Captain Wingate lowered his cigar, crossed his arms on the table before him, and said, "There is something strange about the headwaters of the Nile, Major. You are aware that Burton and Speke both claimed to have found the source of that river."
"Indeed! That was to be the subject of their star- crossed debate!"
"Aye! And Neville Folliot was seeking to make the same discovery, and he has disappeared."
Clive Folliot leaped to his feet. "Surely you see no connection between the incidents!"
The captain laughed. It was a slow laugh, coming from deep in his throat, a deliberate huh-huh-huh sound. "I'm just an old sea dog, Major Folliot. I served my queen and country as long as I was permitted, and now I serve the shipping line running this crossbred three-master from London to Zanzibar, from Zanzibar to Ceylon, from Ceylon to Singapore. And so on, and so on, wherever my employers order. Soon Monsieur de Lesseps will finish digging his canal at Suez, and I expect my new masters will discard me again as my old ones did before."
He squeezed his eyes shut and dabbed at their corners with a huge, patterned bandanna. "The cigar smoke, Major Folliot. These are the finest Havanas, but their smoke still makes the eyes tear. You agree with me, surely."
Clive realized that the interview was ended. He returned to his cabin to ponder.
Breakfasts were served to passengers in their cabins aboard the Empress, and luncheons were informal affairs, but dinner aboard ship was an elaborate ceremony and the hours afterward were busy ones.
Clive was assigned to a table with three companions. Two of them were a missionary couple on their way to convert the heathen Africans. The Reverend Amos Ransome was a doughy-faced, bespectacled divine who commenced each meal by fixing his thick lenses before his weak eyes, bowing his head over a volume of prayers, and murmuring an inaudible grace. His conversation seemed limited to the works of the late John Wesley, from whose death the missionary had yet to recover.
"I'm sorry," Clive found himself apologizing, "but I seem to have lost track of my church history. Did Mr. Wesley not die some years ago?"
"In the year 1791," the young reverend supplied. "Can you not put aside your grief?" Clive asked. He found it difficult to keep a straight face. "You don't look much over twenty, Reverend Ransome."
"From such a loss, the world will not soon recover," the reverend replied. "But we will carry the good word to every corner of the earth. When all mankind has come to the Way—then will there be rejoicing throughout the nations."
"Quite," Clive commented.
The reverend's companion spoke seldom and kept her eyes lowered to her plate throughout each evening's meal. She wore voluminous dark costumes. Despite their cut, Clive could not but notice a voluptuous form. Still waters, he thought.
At first introduction Clive had assumed that Lorena Ransome was the reverend's wife, but Amos explained that she was his sister. "As good a helpmeet as any wife could be," Amos explained, "but without the danger of domestic complications to distract us from our holy task." He managed a feeble grin.
The final member of their table was a florid-faced, stockily built man traveling alone. He introduced himself as Mr. Philo Goode, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Hoping for relief from the reverend's alternating sermons and his lugubrious silences—there seemed no hope of getting his sister to speak during their dinners—Clive turned to the American in desperation.
He wore a glittering stickpin in his cravat and bright-jeweled rings on the fingers of both hands. He spoke grandly of his business interests in the New World. They extended from Maine to South Carolina along the Atlantic Ocean, and included cattle farms in Missouri and a major interest in a diamond mine in Ohio.
The Reverend Ransome exclaimed at each new revelation by the American. Even Miss Lorena Ransome roused herself from her customary silence to comment that Mr. Goode must be very rich.
Empress Philippa had reached a p
osition to the south of the Ivory Coast. Conversation turned to the development of Africa's as-yet-unplumbed riches. Philo Goode boasted that he himself had economic interests in Africa as well as America. They were the reason for his present journey, he said. To check up on his investments in the companies that were even now beginning to exploit the potential of the Dark Continent.
Miss Ransome looked shyly at Goode. "You must be one of the richest men in the New World," she said.
Swallowing the last of his beverage, Goode burst into laughter. "Rich! By gum, everybody's rich in America! I'm a piker compared to some! Why, within the next few years I expect to own a railroad and an iron foundry. We're making money so fast in America we can't keep track of it."
"I trust you are in the custom of sharing your good fortune with those who do the Lord's good work," Ransome intoned.
"Am I a tither, do you mean?" Goode asked.
"Some do more than tithe, my friend."
"I don't know why I should give my hard-earned dollars to support some hymn-singing, Bible-thumping parasites," Goode said. He slapped himself proudly on the chest. "I worked for every nickel I've got, and I expect others to do the same."
"Parasites! God's loyal servants, sir!" Ransome was on his feet, his normally pasty face red with anger.
"Parasites, I said. They don't raise food, they don't dig ore, they don't weave cloth. They just eat and preach! Well, I don't need any preaching, least of all from some snivel-nosed four-eyed weakling, and I'll eat my own dinner, thank you very much!"
Goode, ruddy-faced to begin with, was livid. As he spoke he pounded his fists on the white linen.
Lorena Ransome had sat, ashen-faced, during the dialogue. Now she pulled a tiny handkerchief from her sleeve and sniffled delicately into it. She grasped Clive by the cuff of his jacket and turned appealingly to him.
"Can't you stop them? Oh, please, Major Folliot. My brother is not a strong man. I fear they are coming to blows, and he will be no match for Mr. Goode."
Clive managed to interrupt the others. "Our meal is ended anyway," he said. "Perhaps we might retire to more salubrious surroundings."
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