He bowed his head, laboring under all the new information he had received, the information he had given, and the confession he had made. How peculiar that I had ever considered him prideful! His story helped me see that there was a distinction between his pride and strength.
His hands still on my cheekbones, he turned my jaw up slightly as he gently brought his mouth to mine. Kissing was different than I had anticipated. I had not realized a simple touch to my lips would make my whole soul rejoice. Perhaps it was because we seemed to completely understand one another. No matter the reason, as his lips moved against mine I was sure I had found the man I would stay with forever. Even as I tried to kiss him more deeply, he only indulged me slightly, keeping the wounds on my back from opening. The realization that he was protecting me, afraid to hurt me, made me smile, and my smiling made him grin as well.
He kissed me once more on the mouth, then slowly moved from my chin to temple, absorbing me, it seemed.
Somehow I made a coherent thought in the midst of heaven. Motsatsi’s kidnapping came back to hit me like a rock. It was not fair for me to have so much joy while Motsatsi and his family were facing a harsh future. How dare I submit to heaven while he was confined to hell? Who knows what he would be subjected to? I froze still and my demeanor gave the captain pause.
“You need rest,” he said softly as he began to stand. “I think we should reconvene in Sechele’s home. We can protect you all better there and I believe—”
“No,” I said resolutely, a realization hitting me. “I can’t rest. I know what we need to save Motsatsi! We need money—and a lot of it! And I know where to get it.”
He was understandably confused as he helped me to my feet. “Where do you need to go?”
I looked his face over again, savoring the sweet moment we had shared. Then I pushed it aside, locked up my heart, and answered his question.
“I am going to my mother’s house.”
Epilogue
The dining room was uncommonly cold for Easter Sunday. Mother had ordered the fire extinguished so as not to spend what we need not. She was always logical with funds. She was also logical with cleanliness, and required me to wash my face again since I had appeared at the breakfast table with, what seemed to her, still too much proof of sunlight on my face. I returned straightaway to my water basin to scrub with rough lyme soap. Each basin of water pained my heart—remembering the drought and the thirst from not too long ago.
After finishing our dainty portions in silence we came here, to the sitting room, to await our morning callers.
There were sure to be many.
Since my return from my missionary experiences in Africa—which my mother claimed to have helped me execute and keep secret, so as not to parade our goodness about—I had many callers as I sat in the comfort of a crisp, clean sitting room. And I intended to catch them all.
The streets of London were buzzing with talk of Catherine Kensington who had gone for a cultural experience to Africa, and had landed upon a fortune, which she had added to the one she already had. She had transformed into even more of an heiress than when she left. She had even brought home an African man to be a free servant in her home.
Or at least, that’s what they were saying.
And it was all true, just not in the way they supposed. I had landed upon the fortune of freedom and connection. That added to the worthless monetary inheritance I would possibly receive, if I survived. And I had brought home a man from Africa, but Mebalwe was no free servant.
He was my bodyguard.
Mother’s economic mind had allowed him to stay under the impression that he would never need to be paid, but she could tell everyone that she compensated him handsomely.
One of Mother’s friends had arrived, and the two were conversing on my many prospects while I sat mute, my eyes always on Mother.
“I cannot understand why Mr. Ashmore still persists in his visits,” Mama spoke softly. “He has merit to be sure, and looks—why I feel sure I’ve never seen a more handsome gentleman, but he spent all his family’s earnings from trade on that boat of his. One cannot think to squander all their fortune and still be worthy of courting my angel.” She gave me a sweet, quaint glance.
“I agree, Mother. I can’t understand it at all.”
“Yes, well, he makes for lively conversation and he did escort you from Africa himself. He is also a marvelous dancer and does dote on me in an extremely fine way. We shall add him to the guest list, shall we?”
“If we must, Mama.”
“And how is your son?” Mother’s friend inquired. “May we not see him at the ball this evening?”
“I am afraid he is too ill to dance about like other boys his age, but only the best of care has been permitted to surround him, and I feel confident he will be up and dancing soon enough.”
I twitched involuntarily every time she mentioned Allan. I had not seen his face since I arrived home three weeks ago. Where could he be?
Morning callers included the Duke of Salisbury, the Duke of Coventry, the Earl of Chiswick, and Mr. Ashmore.
I smiled when they entered. I laughed when they meant to be funny. I respected my mother. And I did not fall to the captain’s feet and beg him to take me away from here.
I played my part perfectly. We all did. For Motsatsi.
Author’s Note
David Livingstone (1813 – 1873) was a Scottish-born Christian missionary and pioneer doctor turned African explorer. He created maps, kept thorough journals, taught people Christianity, stopped disputes, put a serious hitch in the slave trade and saved lives. His direct quotes are used as often as possible throughout the text so as to preserve his unique personality and the legacy he left behind. Modernly, he is ambitiously criticized for his supposed neglect of his family—a notion that the author finds wildly displaced, false, and counterproductive. To his sweet wife these words in a letter speak the loudest: “You may read the letters over again that I wrote at Mabotsa, the sweet time you know. As I told you before, I tell you again, they are true, true; there is not a bit of hypocrisy in them. I never show all my feelings; but I can say truly, my dearest, that I loved you when I married you, and the longer I lived with you, I loved you the better”. Hats off to Dr. Livingstone and his love of his family and the African people.
Mary Moffat Livingstone (1821 – 1862) is also fashioned after the original article. She was the daughter of Robert and Mary Moffat and wife of David Livingstone. Although she left no journals, there are glimpses of her through the journals of her husband and her sister Bessie Price. Some quotations from Bessie’s journals were used as a firm possibility on how Mary would have experienced this lifestyle. Mary was born and raised in Africa and crossed the Kalahari desert with her husband and children. Despite modern scrutiny of her marital relationship, there is no evidence that she resented the hardships that came with her native home.
Chief Sechele I of the Bakwena (1812–1892) ruled with dignity in what is now modern-day Botswana. He was converted to Christiantiy by David Livingstone then served as a missionary among his own people. By all accounts, Kgosi Sechle was eager to learn most things and especially interested in all things weaponry, English and Christian. The author has tried to stay as true to his original nature as possible through the writings of those surrounding him. Many of his words in the novel come from firsthand accounts of those who spent time with him. He really did love Isaiah, his house really did look that way and, yes, he really did dress that way.
Acknowledgments
First and always to my Higher Power who cares about what I care about. To my sweet husband who loves David, Mary, and Sechele as much as I do, who has been my most avid supporter even through his own heartache, and who encourages me to spread my wings. I love you. To my babies—you inspire your momma daily, and your elk are breathtaking. To Barolong Seboni who believes in first-time writers and who spreads mountains of love and understanding. To Arthur E. Nifong for having endless patience for book requests, late
returns, and incessant questions. That quiet support does not go unnoticed. To my friend, Erin Collins, for believing in me without reading the book and for being my cohort in espionage. To my enthusiastic beta readers—your support is immeasurable. To my editor, Erin Tanner. The force is strong with her. Thank you for such an attentive edit! To the staff at Cedar Fort—I’ll be calling you guys, instead, when Gotham needs help. To my goodly parents who give and give and give. To my parents-in-law for raising such stellar children and for their constant state of support. And to Stephanie Hibbert for keeping me sane (or something like it) through it all. Love you all. My heartfelt gratitude is yours.
About the Author
Photo credit: Alyssia Baird Photography
Scarlette Pike writes like she thinks and has been writing and thinking for some time. Her love of writing came from her adoration of Georgette Heyer and her regency romantic comedies. Scarlette is Utah born and raised and remains there with the love of her life and three minions. Pike is also massively interested in emotional empowerment, as a means to combat trauma, and is the founder of the “She Likes Her for Her” campaign and retreat program.
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