by Vered Ehsani
Mr. Evans the stationmaster stood nearby, notable for his thick glasses, thin hair and pink complexion. He had already informed us we would need to wait to post our letter, so our alibi was secure. Beside Mr. Evans was a young African man looking very uncomfortable in military band regalia and with a snare drum hanging from his neck.
“Is that Mrs. Patel?” Lilly asked, gesturing with her chin at the Indian storekeeper.
“Why yes,” Mrs. Steward said and her plump smile faded. “Who’s that with her?”
Alongside the portly, vibrantly dressed Mrs. Patel was a much younger, slimmer and beautiful girl close to Lilly’s age. She too was wrapped in a sari that flowed elegantly about her in shimmering color.
Mrs. Steward sniffed. “She’s nothing more than a shopkeeper. So why doesn’t she marry her girl off to another of her kind? Or to that Mr. Timmons, rude, vulgar creature that he is.”
I choked on the thought, for I couldn’t imagine Mr. Timmons entertaining any interest in the shy girl being pushed to the front of the crowd by Mrs. Patel.
“She’s pretty though,” Lilly admitted.
“Hm,” Mrs. Steward huffed. “As if any pretty fabric could distract the Governor’s sons.” But she had the outline of a worried frown.
There was no further time to reflect on how distractible the sons would be, for a shrill whistle warned us of the impending arrival. The crowd shuffled and shifted closer to the tracks, perilously so, and I pulled at the Steward women to keep them from flowing forward as well. Whatever might happen, I didn’t think being run over by a train would bode well for Lilly’s future prospects.
And then the moment arrived in a huff of steam and a squeal of metal on metal. It was clear which carriage the Governor would be alighting from. It seemed it had been added to the train just for the occasion, perhaps shipped over with him, for we hadn’t seen anything quite so comfortable or grand on our trip from the coast.
While the rest of the train was a soot-covered, scratched and dented collection of metal hobnobbed together, this carriage’s surfaces were shiny and clean, the inside plush with heavy curtains and thick cushions.
“Here we go,” Mrs. Steward whispered, her eyes glittering as she watched Mrs. Patel maneuver a bit closer. She pushed us ahead as well, the main crowd of merchants having headed off for their relevant carriages. It was only a few of us left there to greet the Governor.
As the carriage door slid open, Mr. Evans elbowed the young man beside him. “J-James,” he said with a stutter. “Now. P-p-play now.”
Biting his lower lip in concentration, James diligently set about massacring a drumming solo that in more experienced hands might’ve sounded inspirational and triumphant, but in this case made me cringe. To the accompaniment of the drum, a door slammed open and several humans spilled out of the carriage in a tangle of shouts, hurrahs and various limbs.
“George and Henry, you rascals,” a strident voice cut through the commotion and a box-shaped woman with frizzy grey hair jumped into the confusion, separating all the bits and bobs to reveal two boys not much older than Bobby, and a younger girl.
“Oh look, Lilly,” I whispered, “just wait a few years and you’ll have the choice of not one but two young lords.”
Mrs. Steward scowled but Lilly wasn’t listening, her attention fixated on the carriage entrance. Curious as to what could hold my cousin’s attention so firmly, I looked over and beheld a vision with a fine leg, magnificent posture and a handsome countenance as I’ve ever set eyes on.
“Nurse Manton, perhaps we should place these miscreants back on the train and return them to London,” the vision spoke with a warm cadence that resonated across the platform.
“Oh, Mr. Elkhart sir, these pups’ll be the death of me,” Nurse Manton said as she bullied the boys into upright positions. The girl clung to the woman’s ample skirt and gazed about in astonishment.
“My, oh my,” Lilly breathed out, which accurately summed up my sentiments.
Mr. Elkhart’s cherubic lips widened into a radiant smile as he assisted Nurse Manton in sorting out the children. And his eyes… At that moment, I could think of no higher praise than to say they were the color and depth of a pot of dark tea, and just as delicious.
“What is he, a well-dressed stable boy?” Mrs. Steward sniffed. “Such a tan. He’s ruined his skin working in his Lordship’s fields.”
Lilly pouted. “No, he’s a lord’s son who spends his time in the south by the beach, or perhaps sailing along the Riviera.”
It was true that Mr. Elkhart held more color in his skin than normally found on an Englishman. With Mrs. Steward’s words ringing in my ear, I suspected there might be more to it than simply exposure to the sun. However I didn’t dare raise that notion, and really what of it? We were a world away from the gossip and judgment of London socialites. Here in this new land, we could create a more humane standard by which to live.
Indeed, the mere sight of Mr. Elkhart inspired me to dream thus, despite my advanced age.
More commotion ensued and a couple descended the carriage. Mr. Elkhart straightened up. “Sir, m’lady, let me assist.”
Mr. Evans stepped forward, after waving at the drummer to cease his racket, and said, “Lord Hardinge, Lady Hardinge, welcome to Her Majesty’s p-p-protectorate of East Africa. Mr. Evans at your s-s-service.” He ended the formal statement with a hand flourish and a deep bow, which seemed as out of place as the drum on this dusty, creaky platform.
“A lord and lady,” Mrs. Steward gushed. “How terrifically exciting.”
Lord Hardinge nodded at Mr. Evans. “Most kind of you. You’ve already met my children, that impossibly loud mob. Please let me introduce my ward who has recently become my business partner and right-hand man, Mr. Tiberius Elkhart.”
Mr. Evans bowed again, sweating so profusely that little drops splattered onto the splintered wood.
“My guardian’s too kind to me,” Mr. Elkhart said with a slight nod.
“Did he say guardian? And business partner?” Mrs. Steward demanded of us, but both Lilly and I were too engrossed with the man in question to respond. She therefore took matters into her own hands and coughed loud enough to spit up a lung, if she hadn’t covered her mouth.
“Well, isn’t this a marvelous coincidence,” she said and pushed past Mr. Evens, who in turn stumbled back and nearly sent the drummer flying off the platform. “My daughter, niece and I just came down to deliver a letter to my very dear…” She blanked out, her smile fixed rigid on her over-powdered face.
“Brother,” I hissed, checking that my hat was lowered in its customary manner, covering my tattered ear.
“My brother,” she hurried. “In-law, that is.” She giggled and waved us forward. “Mr. Evans, I had no idea you were expecting such illustrious company.”
“Ah, y-yes,” Mr. Evans stuttered, wiping a handkerchief across his brow. “I mean, n-n-no. This is our new Governor and his f-f-family. Lord and Lady Hardinge, and Mr. Elkhart.” He bowed again to each. “May I introduce Mrs. Steward, and her daughters?”
“Daughter,” Mrs. Steward corrected, her smile fixed wide and welcoming. “And my niece.”
“Of c-course,” Mr. Evans said, seemingly confused.
Mrs. Patel, momentarily forgotten, cleared her throat loudly in turn. Mr. Evans obliged and introduced her and her daughter.
“Yes, Mrs. Patel and her husband run a shop,” Mrs. Steward hastily informed the group. “They sell basic supplies, and this and that.”
I groaned inwardly, as I’m sure Mrs. Patel did, for now she was relegated to the status of a mere shopkeeper. Then again, she didn’t seem overly impressed with the Lord’s offspring, anymore than we were.
But Mr. Elkhart…
“We shall be sure to pass by,” Lady Hardinge spoke for the first time in a refined voice. “Do you carry Indian fabrics? I do love them. The colors and textures are delightful.”
“That they are,” Mrs. Steward gushed as she shifted in front of a defeated
Mrs. Patel. “Their store is lovely. You must be exhausted by your travels, Lady Hardinge. Such a rough trip.”
Lady Hardinge smiled and beneath her flouncy hat and layers of lace and dust, she was passingly pretty, with soft, kind eyes. I had expected more snobbery from the gentry, but the Hardinge family seemed as sober as such a family can be, all things considered.
“Well, I am somewhat fatigued,” Lady Hardinge admitted, “but would be grateful for some female company. Would you and your niece and daughter care to join us for tea? I fear that’s as much as I can offer for now, but at least it would provide me some relief after such a trip as we’ve had.”
I was surprised by the sudden invite. “Surely m’lady must be in need of rest, not of guests,” I blurted out, ignoring the glare Mrs. Steward leveled at me.
“Oh no, it’s quite all right,” Lady Hardinge said. “We have rested well enough on the train, and all but a few personal possessions were delivered ahead of us and unpacked. So really, it’s only for us to freshen up and enjoy this opportunity to engage in intelligent social discourse.”
I wasn’t convinced about the intelligent part, but events couldn’t be unfolding more successfully in Mrs. Steward’s estimation. “Why yes, I believe we have some free moments to accompany you,” she gushed, elbowing me sharply.
“Most gracious of you,” Lady Hardinge murmured, her wide eyes flicking over the noisy crowd near the other end of the platform, and I realized she was as eager to meet other Englishwomen as Mrs. Steward had been to meet her sons.
I hastily requested Mr. Evans to send word to Jonas that he should follow us — “But from a distance,” Mrs. Steward added “And he can take Bobby as well.” — and we joined our new Governor as he surveyed his dominion.
While there were no carriages waiting for him, there was a covered wagon that was considerably better equipped for human passengers than anything I’d seen rumbling around Nairobi to date. The never-ending flotsam of trunks was loaded onto other, more humble forms of transport, and before long we set out.
I shan’t bore you with the drivel of conversation initiated mainly by Mrs. Steward and directed to Lady Hardinge, all questions relating to the latest fashions, fads and fancies of the old country. In truth, I barely heard any of it nor did I notice the bumpiness of our passage, for my attention was quite firmly taken up by Mr. Elkhart who, fortuitously, was seated across from me.
“Mr. Elkhart,” Lilly purred next to me, “do tell us: are you merely visiting with the Hardinge family, or do you plan to take up permanent residency here?”
Mr. Elkhart smiled graciously, seemingly unaware of the true intention of the questioner. “As I’ve been raised as their son by m’lord and lady since I was a child, I would say my visit has been a rather extended one at that.”
Lilly reddened. “Oh, I don’t mean to pry…”
The man smiled, waved his hand at her discomfiture and said, “Be at peace, Miss Steward, for it’s common knowledge that I am their ward. My father travels the globe and felt it best I be raised by his best friend rather than be dragged from one outpost to another. It’s history now.”
And although he continued to smile, there was a slight twitch at the corner of his beautiful lips that caused me to wonder if indeed it was history.
“In my experience, history has a way of imposing itself on the present,” I said softly but clearly enough for him to hear.
“Indeed, there’s some truth there,” he said, a finely shaped eyebrow lifting at my statement.
“Where’s your father now?” Lilly asked, determined to control the conversation and his attention.
“He’s based in Java,” Mr. Elkhart answered her but he was studying me with an intensity that was both disturbing and intriguing.
At the mention of Java, I thought of the intricately decorated, metal teapot my mother had treasured. It had been purchased in the Far East and was the only memento I had of my parents. It seemed our new acquaintance and I had much in common.
“I hope you don’t mind my observing what fascinating eyes you have,” Mr. Elkhart said, interrupting my musings about my lost family.
I smiled but stiffly. My eyes are a very light hazel, almost to the point of being yellow; in certain settings, they appear golden. While I’m not one to overly fuss about my appearance, such striking eyes attract far too much notice. For an investigator, being noticed is assuredly unwanted.
“Most kind of you, Mr. Elkhart,” I said.
He leaned back against the cushioned boarding, his eyes soft yet too watchful for the casual conversation. Without shifting his gaze, he removed a cigarette from a packet and lit it. Tendrils of smoke swirled about his handsome features and he continued in a pleasant enough tone, “And what brings you to East Africa, Miss Knight?”
I didn’t correct his use of ‘Miss’, and before Lilly could, I said, “Like you, I live with my legal guardians, both my parents having died some years ago.”
“Yes, the Andersons,” Lilly added, indirectly pointing out my status as either a married woman or a widow. “Perhaps you heard of the incident? Mama said it was a terribly violent accident, impossibly so, that left their only child destitute and dependent on the charity of relatives.”
I nearly growled, a frightful habit I’ve picked up from overly frequent association with werewolves and my own wolf energy, I’m afraid. Somehow I restrained myself and was on the verge of uttering a caustic comment, but paused. Something had shifted in his eyes, those deep pots of dark warmth.
“The Andersons, you say?” he asked, his tone disinterested as if this was no more than another bit of idle gossip, but there was a slight tension in his posture.
“You knew of my parents?” I asked, doubting if that could be so, for they’d died more than fifteen years previous.
“I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I believe my father was an acquaintance of theirs.”
Lilly hid her scowl with a delicate cough and a lavender-scented handkerchief. If she wasn’t pleased about our connection, I was even less so. There was nothing to be gained by it and perhaps it was even a detraction; he certainly didn’t seem at all impressed by this revelation and whatever he might know about my parents.
Before I decided if I should query him further, he changed the conversation to the pastimes he hoped to engage with in his new home.
“Oh, I love horseback safaris,” Lilly gushed as he expressed his desire to attend one.
I resisted rolling my eyes, for the furthest Lilly had gone on a horse was to town. Yet now the two of them were engaged in an animated conversation about the best places to explore. As neither attempted to include me, I was tempted to study his energy to alleviate my boredom. Decency sadly won the day: unless I’m absolutely required to, I try not to intrude on another’s privacy, especially in the case of humans who are uninvolved in the world I live in and investigate.
In hindsight and given what happened soon after, that might not have been the wisest policy.
Chapter 9
After the exhausting, dream-plagued night and the socially exhilarating yet confusing morning with the Hardinge family, I required a rest. Once home though, I found I couldn’t sleep, so I retreated into the barn. The house was too abuzz with Mrs. Steward’s grand plans for Lilly’s life for my taste.
I settled on a bale of hay near Nelly’s stall, so as to keep an eye on her. As she seemed in fair humor, I opened my sketchpad and flipped through the pages.
Most of the sketches were of the normal flora and fauna, although I did have several drawings of the paranormal sort, including the giant Shongololo that had tried to devour me for Christmas dinner not that long ago. Not to mention the ridiculously large snake that had almost discovered Mr. Timmons and me hiding in its nest.
And then there was a hairy, dwarf-like creature I’d caught a glimpse of in one of my forest walks recently. An allusive little being, it had vanished once it caught me watching it. I stared at the sketch, wondering if I would get a chance to study
it up close.
Something fell on me.
I leaped up in time to see Jonas scramble down from the loft, chunks of hay cascading around us in the process. He scooped up a garden rake and used it to point at my sketchpad, which I slammed shut.
Why didn’t I check the loft first? I admonished myself. These slip-ups were exactly the sort of thing that could lead to premature death and other nasty incidences.
“Oh, fancy that,” I said with an airy wave of my hand. “I didn’t see you up there.”
Jonas glared at me and at my pad.
I shrugged my shoulders, as if it was perfectly normal for an Englishwoman to draw images of fantastical creatures. “It’s just a bit of fancy on my part,” I said, responding to Jonas’ unspoken accusation and threatening garden rake. “Make believe, if you will.”
Jonas stared in a most fixed and unnerving manner, and with great intensity, first at my sketchpad and then, even more discomforting, at me. The different facets of Jonas always intrigued me. But this was one I had not yet seen.
Gone was the servant, cook, gardener and driver with his downcast eyes, stooped shoulders, shuffling feet and his soft whispers of ‘yes, bwana’ and ‘yes, mama’. Even the surly, sarcastic version that I was more familiar with was absent.
Before me was another man, his eyes fierce, his posture proud, the rake in his hand no longer a benign instrument to clean the barn with; instead it was a tool to inflict significant damage when wielded in the right hands.
A thrill surged through me, although I can’t for certain say if it was due to awe, wonder or excitement. I was in a confusion, to be sure.
Jonas directed a stern finger at me and said, “This is not make believe. This is dangerous. You must never let the Tokolosh know you can see it. You must never point at it, speak to it or annoy it.”
