by Vered Ehsani
I almost spurted a mouthful of tea onto the lace tablecloth which would have been an unpardonable waste of tea.
“Quantity?” Lady Hardinge repeated, the epitome of restraint and polite curiosity.
“Yes, quantity, my dear,” Lady Sybil said and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Parson, how many staff does my estate employ?”
“Twenty-three, ma’am,” the good servant promptly replied. “And every one of them grateful for the opportunity for gainful work.”
“Precisely. Lady Hardinge, you are woefully understaffed,” Lady Sybil said after waving Parson away. “I desire to rectify this sorry state of affairs by building up the staff to an appropriate number as is suited for your station. You have Nurse Manton for the older children, one cook and one maid. How you have managed with so pitifully few, especially when they are not the highest caliber, amazes me.”
“I’d think a house of this size doesn’t need a servant in every room,” I argued, eyeing the teapot hopefully. “We’ll be tripping over ourselves.”
“We are not suggesting every room, my dear,” Lady Sybil said, her thin eyebrows rising along with her chin. Her nostrils flared and her tongue clicked again. “But a building that houses a Lord and Lady must have more than one servant per floor, surely? At the very least, we should see a butler, a valet, a lady’s maid, a footman, a nanny, a cook and a cook’s assistant. And of course the outside staff.”
Turning to Lilly, she said, “As for you, it’s almost unforgivable that you are without assistance to care for your infant. We must find you a nursemaid at once, even if we must import one.”
Her posture stiff, Lilly said over her teacup, “I rather enjoy raising my own child, m’lady.”
“That’s very modern of you,” Lady Sybil said, peering down at Lilly with narrowed eyes. “But I suspect you only say that because you don’t know any better. Once you have a nursemaid, you’ll wonder how you managed without her.”
Lilly’s hands tightened around her cup, and she opened her mouth to protest, only stopping when Cilla waved a hand at her from across the table.
“Lady Sybil,” Lady Hardinge attempted to interject, “we have no need of so many staff. Our lifestyles are simpler here than in London.” She smiled as she spoke, the softness of her expression a sincere attempt to mollify the older woman.
“It’s not about need,” Lady Sybil quipped, setting her cup down on the saucer with a sharp clink. “It’s about appearances.”
I snorted. “Well, as to that—”
Lady Sybil’s voice rose in pitch and volume, rolling over my words like a steam engine on a downward slope. “How should it impress the general public when Lord and Lady Hardinge live as if they are not much better than the peasants who farm their land?”
“We don’t have a farm,” Lady Hardinge said, her fair eyebrows tightening in a delicate frown.
“And I’m not sure anyone here cares, Lady Sybil,” I added.
Lady Sybil lifted her chin. “Well, I do, and that’s the matter settled.”
Rather than argue, we focused our attention on eating. The silence was only disturbed by slurping, chewing, the occasional murmured compliment on the food and the songs of birds flapping around in nearby trees. I wondered how long I would have to stay before I could excuse myself.
Just as I was planning my escape, Lady Sybil shocked us all by saying, “Mrs. Timmons, I hear you are in the family way.”
I glanced at Cilla who blushed. “I may have mentioned it,” she admitted in a whisper.
Lady Sybil didn’t seem the least concerned that her inappropriate question was causing discomfort all around the table. Instead, she stared at me, clearly expecting a response. “Come now. We’re all family here,” she added.
“Yes,” I replied and gulped the rest of my tea.
After a moment, Lady Sybil clicked her tongue. “Well, I do hope you have plans to educate this child in a thorough manner. I am a member of the board of several excellent boarding schools. I should be able to assist all of you once you decide which school you prefer.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Normally, they are particular about the children they accept. But with my recommendation, you will have no issues at all.”
My prosthetic metal hand twitched, and I set down the teacup before I could break it. “And why, Lady Sybil, should you extend such a courtesy to one as lowly as myself?”
Leaning back in her chair, she brushed her thin lips with a handkerchief. “Why shouldn’t I show forth charity? We are, after all, related, even if it is in the loosest possible manner.”
“Not loose enough,” I muttered but the pretentious woman failed to hear me.
Instead, she sniffed and peered down her powdered nose at me, her large nostrils flaring. Perhaps she believed I needed an explanation of our connection, for she launched into one with vigor. “As you know, I am the aunt of Miss White’s father who took it upon himself to marry your husband’s sister. You are therefore married to my nephew-in-law, if there is such a thing.”
Clicking her tongue, she shook her head. “Such a lowly connection and one about which I warned him severely. It certainly did nothing for my nephew’s business interests. He can’t even afford to purchase second class tickets to this abominable corner of the world to attend his daughter’s wedding.”
Gazing into the distance, Lady Sybil added as if to herself, “I never did understand his interest in the Timmons family.”
Lilly coughed and glanced at the house, perhaps hoping her baby would choose that time to cry for her. Cilla’s eyes grew larger as tears gathered on their rims. Lowering her head, she patted her face with her handkerchief as she attempted to compose herself.
“Perhaps he married Simon’s sister because he loved her?” I offered, narrowing my eyes at the disparaging remarks regarding my family.
“Pfff, love,” Lady Sybil scoffed and tapped the table with a finger. “It’s a quaint and overrated notion.” Leaning toward Lady Hardinge, she added, “Of course, I am eternally grateful to Lord Hardinge. How gallant of him to ensure the newspapers didn’t catch wind of the most recent scandal concerning the Timmons family. That would have been my undoing in all social circles of importance.”
My metal fingers clutched at my teacup. The cracking of porcelain filled the silence. Lady Sybil was too caught up in her relief at avoiding a social disaster to notice.
“If you are referring to the court overturning the accusations placed against my husband by a disgruntled former fiancée,” I began, ignoring Cilla’s wide eyes and Lilly’s fingers digging into my arm. “I can assure you—”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure it’s a relief he wriggled out of it,” Lady Sybil interrupted. “But you can’t blame me for experiencing anxiety at my connection, however tenuous, with the whole sordid affair.”
“Of course not,” I said, my teeth clenched as I gritted through a forced smile. “Fortunately, there are no social circles of any importance here in Nairobi, so you should be safe from censure.”
Glancing at me with a sharpness that bordered on shrew-like, Lady Sybil said, “Young woman, I do not appreciate your tone. You have been long away from the civilized air of London, if indeed you ever partook of it to begin with. I’ll have you know that when my nephew married a commoner, it did a great deal of damage to the White family.”
“Then it is even more fortunate that Cilla will remain here with us,” I retorted.
“Oh, look, a clarke’s weaver,” Lilly said in a shrill voice as she flapped a cotton handkerchief across the table. “Would you believe our good luck?”
“Where?” Lady Sybil demanded, snatching up her gold binoculars and pressing them to her face. She half-rose from her chair and craned her head back and forth. “Where is it?”
“What a pity. It just flew away,” Lilly said. “You must have missed it.”
“Hmmm.” Lady Sybil continued to search.
“I need to be going,” I said, standing up as quickly as decency
and a long skirt would allow. “There’s something waiting for me at the store.”
Lady Sybil sniffed as she sat and studied her binoculars. “Lady Hardinge informed me you’re a shopkeeper. How very common of you.”
My smile widened. Leaning forward, I caught the lady’s gaze, held it and said, “I assure you, madam, we are anything but common.”
Chapter Nine
GRATEFUL TO ESCAPE Lady Sybil and her elitist plans, I allowed Nelly to set the pace to town. My horse had two speeds: barely moving and faster than the wind. That morning, Nelly shifted from plodding to almost flying the moment I told her where to go. We therefore arrived at the back entrance of the Cozy Tea Shoppe in a matter of minutes. After removing twigs and leaves from my braid, and wiping off a splattered bug from my forehead, I entered the back of the shop through the storage area.
While I’d prepared myself to face a dead body covered in tea leaves, I was both relieved and confused to discover the body was gone. Pausing in her sweeping, Wanjiru assured me there had been no body anywhere when she arrived earlier.
“How peculiar,” I said to her as I dropped my pet vervet monkey, Shelby, and my coat on the counter.
Unconcerned about such inconveniences, Shelby began to sniff the stone countertop for food.
Staring down at the mess of tea leaves on the floor, I said, “I’ve heard of misplacing a glove or even a purse, but an entire body?”
I shook my head and tugged at my long, dark braid, frowning at my clumsiness. After all, it’s no easy matter to lose a body, and I couldn’t believe anyone in Nairobi would actually want to steal one. Possess a live one, yes, but steal a dead one? Unlikely. I tested the front door. It was locked and showed no sign of forced entry.
As I stared out the window, my mind marveling at the mystery, a zebra strolled by. Pausing, it stared at me, its large eyes calm yet alert, long eyelashes flickering. With a snort, it trotted down the road toward the railway station and the savanna that stretched beyond the town’s limits.
“Well, I suppose that’s one less task with which I need to contend,” I said.
Shelby shrieked her agreement, her dark eyes fixed on the candied ginger in a jar on the counter. Her pale face scrunched up as she glanced between the jar and me.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned, laughing at her hoot of dismay.
Soon, the morning rush pushed all thoughts of the dead man away. I focused on brewing tea, processing orders and answering customer inquiries. I had long ago come to the conclusion that there was indeed such a thing as a stupid question, a fact that I witnessed almost every day. Fortunately, I had by my side a personal blend of fortifying tea. That, and the absence of corpses, allowed me to manage the day with reasonable cheer.
In the afternoon, I left the shop to my assistant, Wanjiru, and strolled to the post office. Victoria Street was unpaved but fortunately the hard-packed dirt road was dry that day. A herd of goats trotted toward me, a small African boy smacking the stragglers with a branch. Customers hastened between the few stores, the Colonial Stores being a particular favorite.
Mrs. Mayence Bent, owner of the Stanley Hotel and a leading member of the East African Ladies League, waved at me while pausing at the doorway to the emporium owned by Mrs. Patel and her husband.
“Will you be attending our next meeting, Mrs. Timmons?” she called out.
I smiled vaguely and said, “Lovely to see you too, Mrs. Bent.” Before she could repeat her question, I hurried along, keeping my gaze fixed on the ground and hoping I wouldn’t be accosted by anyone else.
“Mrs. Timmons, how’s that fine horse of yours?” Mr. Rossenrode shouted as I passed the general store he and Mr. MacJohn owned.
“Still not for sale,” I replied, wondering how such a small town could be so busy with nosy people.
Gideon dashed through a passing wagon and pretended to ride the ox; I pretended I couldn’t see him. It wouldn’t help business if my customers saw me talking to myself as none of them could see ghosts. It was with some relief when I entered the post office. A simple brick building, it managed to maintain an air of efficiency and tidiness among the chaos of Nairobi. A flag flying atop the clay tiled roof alerted the entire town to the arrival of the mail.
The postmaster greeted me with a wink and a twitch of his head. “You’ve got a parcel over with Customs.”
Frowning, I glanced in the direction the postmaster had indicated, toward the back of the building. Several other traders were queuing before the Customs official. Yet again, the long arm of colonial bureaucracy had reached out and slapped us with another series of forms and fees.
“This could take all afternoon,” I muttered as I strode to the queue. Only when I stood in line did I notice the Customs official.
“Good gracious,” I whispered.
Gideon floated to my side. “Oye, Beatrice, it’s that dead man. He’s back at work.”
Grateful no one could hear my ghostly husband, I retreated to the side of the post office to fill out a form while studying the situation. “It is in fact the recently deceased Mr. Bilco. Perhaps he’s a zombie of sorts,” I whispered.
Gideon snorted. “He looks the same to me.”
“Which only goes to prove what I’ve always asserted,” I spoke into the form, pretending to find it fascinating. “These colonial bureaucrats could be replaced by a corpse and there’d be no difference.”
“That’s not quite true,” Gideon said, standing on the counter, his ghost feet on either side of my form. “The service seems to have improved. Look how fast he’s processing the paperwork.”
Indeed, the work was being handled faster than was customary. Mr. Bilco stamped and signed documents steadily and without any interest beyond ensuring all the correct lines were completed. Other than the improved work ethic, he was no less lively than before his death.
“Maybe it’s all for the best then,” I said, and decided it was safe enough to collect my delivery.
“Surely you aren’t turning your back on such a delicious mystery,” Gideon chided.
“Surely I am,” I said. “There’s a box of tea leaves waiting for me on the other end of that queue, and I intend to retrieve it, zombies be damned.”
When I reached the counter, I studied Mr. Bilco. The man blinked slowly at me, his blue eyes unfocused. He glanced at my form, stamped it and slid a box to me, his shoulders slumped.
“It’s premium Ceylon tea,” I said, wondering if he was capable of speech. “Did you know the Swahili word for tea is ‘chai’?”
Mr. Bilco’s head snapped up, his eyes glazing over as he reached below the counter, pulled out a second package and slid it to me.
“I’m not expecting…” I started to say.
“Just take it,” Gideon whispered in my ear, and it was all I could do not to startle visibly or attempt to slap him away.
Taking the second package, I smiled but Mr. Bilco had already waved forward the next customer.
I hastened along Victoria Street, avoiding the various puddles and piles deposited by the ox, goats and other animals Europeans had brought with them. Gazing up at the gathering storm clouds, I wondered what the wildlife thought of our presence when they took over the street at night.
When I arrived at the shop, Yao was there, buzzing around in his firefly form. I could see his flashing behind only because the sky had darkened with the approaching storm to such an extent that a false dusk had fallen upon us. The threat of a downpour hastened the remaining customers as they finished their tea, made their purchases and departed.
I nodded at Wanjiru; her attention was fixed on Yao who shifted back into his manly form. She blushed as Yao gazed at her, a boyish smile brightening his face.
“If I didn’t know better,” Gideon mused, “I swear he was about to devour her here and now.”
Straightening up, Yao slapped a fist against his bare chest. “Yao would never eat Wanjiru. She is very sweet but not for eating.” He glared at us as if we were contemplating t
he act.
Doing my best to ignore the ghost and the vampire, I stood behind the counter, set the two parcels down and pulled the second one closer. It was the size of a hatbox but weighed more. When I shook it a bit, something rustled and rattled from inside. The delivery label read, “Attention: Mzito.” There was no address and no indication of what was inside nor its value. That in itself was odd. The new Customs Office had a strict policy of opening all parcels to inspect the contents and evaluate them for tax purposes.
As I pondered what to do with the mystery parcel, the shop’s front door swung open, accompanied by the tinkle of the bell. A determined customer had braved the approaching storm and now required my attention. Sighing, I slid Mzito’s parcel under the counter, handed the box of tea to Wanjiru and plastered on my “nothing’s wrong here” smile.
Chapter Ten
“WHAT DO YOU mean, you’re leaving?” I demanded.
Cilla and Simon were sitting across from me. Simon’s eyes were unreadable as he held his niece’s hand. Cilla sniffled, tears quivering at the edges of her dark blue eyes. Lady Hardinge patted my human hand, but I wasn’t to be so easily consoled. I stared around the library, selfishly wondering what would become of us once our benefactors departed.
The familiarity of the library soothed me. It was a well-apportioned room, furnished with comfortable sofas and armchairs made with richly brocaded fabric and brightened with plush, colorful pillows. A paisley-patterned sofa was pushed against one wall and sported a conspicuous set of claw marks courtesy of a giant crocodile.
Bookshelves covered two walls and contained a diverse selection of literature. A zebra skin was stretched out before one of the bookshelves, while a Persian carpet covered the dark wood floor in front of the stone fireplace in which a cheery fire ate away at scented wood. The numerous candles scattered about the library provided a mellow, honey-scented glow. A set of glass doors opened to a veranda, and all the windows were covered with thick curtains so Father could comfortably hide from sunlight during the day.
