by Vered Ehsani
Chapter 12
In all the recitation of encounters with Tokolosh and broken dreams, and my current preoccupation with my ghost husband’s whereabouts and nefarious plans, I’d been oblivious to the upcoming transition to a new century.
Lilly soon set me right.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she squealed that morning as I set down the tea and toast. To Lilly, everything was either wonderful or an utter disaster.
“Yes, it’s Christmas Eve,” I said. “Thrilling.”
“Not that, silly,” she said in a huff. “In a week, we enter a new century.”
Bobby snorted tea out his nose in his rush to correct his sister. “Nope, that happens next year, 31 December 1900.”
“True,” I said, “but the visual change from 1899 to 1900 is far more impressive.”
Lilly rolled her eyes in annoyance with such trivial technicalities while Bobby shrugged his shoulders and left the house to chase chickens and catch lizards.
“Imagine,” Lilly said, “all the balls and costume parties there must be in London.”
She sighed with all the longing that can be infused in such a soft sound. Not even her freshly pressed flowers — a hobby she’d recently adopted — could distract her from daydreaming about all those parties.
All I could imagine was the shopping-related debts those parties would leave behind for the new century, and I was quite satisfied to be far removed from them. I didn’t voice my views, given the glum expressions on the faces of the Steward ladies.
Mr. Steward on the other hand seemed considerably less put out, probably due to a similar calculation of mine regarding all the funds he’d save by not being in London that night.
“Imagine what news I received,” Mr. Steward said as he enjoyed breakfast and the prospect of a debt-free holiday season.
“Mr. Steward, you know how I detest imagining things,” Mrs. Steward said with a huff and a clink of chinaware. “So if you mean for us to know, just tell us.”
“Well,” he said, “a telegraph arrived regarding an influenza outbreak in London. They don’t think it’ll be anything like the global pandemic of 1889-1890. But still, aren’t you glad not to be there right now?”
Mrs. Steward stared at her husband, aghast. “Such topics are not considered as suitable conversations for the breakfast table, Mr. Steward.”
“I wish we could be in London for that night,” Lilly said, not having paid any attention to her parents’ interaction or the threat of influenza. She shuffled her dried flowers around the table, enjoying her misery too much to frame the squashed petals.
I made some non-committal noise and left to the kitchen to retrieve the sugar bowl. I found Jonas there, doing his utmost to burn the remaining toast.
“Do take better care of our breakfast,” I snapped as I removed the iron plate from the stove.
Jonas snorted as he eyed the toast suspiciously. His nose twitched, his mouth turned down into a frown and he said, “That flat food, that is not real food.”
“Then you don’t have to eat it,” I said sharply.
Before he could reply or I could return to the table to eat, I heard a shriek from the dining area.
On such occasions, it’s my firm opinion that it’s best to wait until either a second shriek or a summons for assistance. There’s no point dashing off at every shout and scream, for else one could spend an entire day doing just that. The last time such an uproar had happened, a zebra had attacked the coffee table, and there really hadn’t been any need to rush to the rescue.
As the shriek was followed by a silence, Jonas returned to his tea and I started to enter the other room with a plate of half-burned toast in one hand and a sugar bowl in the other. My hope was to consume my breakfast without further interruption but that hope was dashed to oblivion as Lilly said, “Bee, Bee, come quickly!”
I glanced behind me to see Jonas darting out the back door, for it sounded as if there was new work to be done and he wanted no part in it. With the enthusiasm I normally reserve for trimming my toenails, I sat at the table and endeavored to show interest in the ensuing conversation.
“I’ve been invited to a New Year’s ball,” Lilly announced, almost levitating off her chair. I would’ve been more impressed if she had managed that task, but as for her announcement, I was little moved.
“Now, dear, let’s not exaggerate,” her mother said but there was a brightness to her eyes that didn’t bode well for Mr. Steward’s debt-free hopes. “It’s a gathering of sorts. A party would perhaps be a more appropriate word. And you’ve been invited, along with a chaperon.” Her smile made it clear whom that chaperon would be.
I wondered what that equated to in terms of the activities for the day. I had planned to take Nelly out to search for Gideon, assuming the horse was still manageable. With this news, I suspected I would be asked to help in finding and mending suitable outfits for the ladies, given the lack of a seamstress in the area.
“And where is this grand party to be held?” I asked, not because I dearly wanted to know but because they expected me to ask. If I didn’t, they’d tell me soon enough, after torturing me with hints and requests to guess.
“At the manor of Her Majesty’s Governor,” Mrs. Steward said with a titter in her voice. “That place is far more adequately furnished and equipped for guests than ours.”
She glanced at Mr. Steward, who was deeply preoccupied with his tea and an outdated paper that moment. “We can’t expect too much of it, but we must do our best. Bee, please help Lilly find her best gown and air it out. I believe it may need a few repairs. You know how useless Lilly is with the needle. Would you be a dear and assist? As the event is by invitation only, it seems you’ll have time to help us prepare.”
I maintained a stoic expression even as I saw before me my day consumed with preparations for an event I wouldn’t be attending. While I wasn’t obliged to assist, in reality who else could? Perhaps Jonas would surprise me with his brilliant needlework but given his disinterest in all things within the house, I doubted it. So I quietly assented to my aunt’s request, all the while gritting my teeth.
“Oh, and this arrived as well,” Mrs. Steward said, punctuating the end of her speech by handing two envelopes to me.
On one, I recognized the square handwriting of Prof. Runal and I stifled a groan. He was probably writing to remind me to send more detailed reports on at least a weekly basis.
The other envelope had no stamp or return address, and seemed therefore to originate from the neighborhood. From Cilla, perhaps?
I stuffed them into my skirt pocket and set out to find suitable clothes for the Steward ladies and put them into repair. Despite the lack of expectations on the part of Mrs. Steward, she certainly went through great pains to look her best, which is another way of saying I was very busy that morning.
Despite the party being a week away, Mrs. Steward wanted to be fully prepared. By midday, Lilly and Mrs. Steward were suitably attired for a grand ball, needing only to purchase a few accessories and bits of lace.
“Yes, I believe you shall make a positive impression upon the pitifully small society in the area,” Mrs. Steward said as she approved Lilly’s outfit.
Before Lilly could ask my help “just one more time, please, dearest Bee,” I retreated to the backyard where laundry hung, and stood under the shadow of the large tree planted in the middle, its great boughs shading the area. In between drying bed sheets, I pulled out the two envelopes and selected the local one; Prof. Runal could wait a few more minutes.
I ripped apart the blobby red wax seal, pulled out a thick card and scanned it. And re-read it.
“Really?” I said, leaning against the tree trunk. I tapped the card against my chin, wondering what to make of its contents and the implications.
I decided to leave off a decision and pulled out Prof. Runal’s letter, a wordy document all penned in the squarish lettering of a child who has just learned penmanship, even though the Director of the Society was old en
ough to be able to write letters in various scripts.
He started off with his normal, profuse greetings and salutations, hoping for my best health etc. etc., and imploring me to write the soonest with news of all the research and discoveries I’d made. But it was a passage halfway through that caught my attention in particular.
My dear, sly Beatrice, how you do keep your secrets. For an admirer of yours came calling just this morning. A polite, charming young fellow, who was most earnest in his implorations after your wellbeing and circumstance. He was positively distraught when I informed him of your new whereabouts.
“You informed him of my whereabouts?” I asked, shaking the paper fiercely, as if the letter would somehow transfer the agitation to the writer. “What were you thinking, you overgrown canine?”
I was thinking, the good Professor continued in his letter, that if his ardor was truly so profound, the obstacle of distance would be a trifle and perhaps there will be cause for celebration and congratulations in the not so distant future. I indicated he should write you care of the Postmaster, Nairobi.
“Imbecile of a werewolf,” I muttered, for he of all people knew full well my predicament. I could hardly re-marry (even if I were so inclined, which Dr. Cricket had discovered I was not) with my first husband still haunting me. And how did he know this supposed suitor wasn’t one of my enemies using this as a ploy to track me down? Now this young fellow knew I was in Nairobi, he could easily find me, as there were few British ladies here and none with my name apart from myself.
“But surely Prof. Runal wouldn’t have been so negligent?” I reassured myself. He was after all a clever old wolf.
Perhaps, I argued against this appealing thought, but there were also very clever adversaries out there who could quite easily manipulate the sentiments of a doddering old dog.
In particular, one nasty spirited creature came to mind: Koki. I shivered at the thought of her. She would certainly have the wherewithal to convince some young, stupid man into tracking me down for her, after which she would bite his head off in true Mantis style.
And while East Africa was a bit far off from her native home, she wouldn’t hesitate to journey to the furthest corner if necessary, in order to confront and eliminate me.
To be fair, I had cut off her leg but she had another five left.
I sighed, intensely deploring my fears. Far away from the protection of the Society, I was vulnerable to unsolicited marriage proposals and assassination attempts. Although truth be told, I was far better equipped to handle the latter than the former.
“Nothing to be done about it now,” I said, and skimmed the rest of the letter, which was primarily concerned with gossip regarding who had bitten whom, who was now growing fur during a full moon, and something about a ponytailed dwarf with a long mustache and goatee who was causing him some grief; all of it a load of irrelevant rubbish.
I turned my attention to the card, which was in fact an order couched in the language of an invitation:
I request the honor of your attendance with me at the upcoming evening’s event to be hosted by the Governor on 31 December 1899. I shall pass by prior to sunset to collect you. Timmons
Leaving aside my general disinterest in parties, there were other considerations.
“What does he really want?” I asked, my irritation at the men in my life further exasperated by the two correspondences.
Or perhaps, a nasty inner voice insinuated, the question is what do you want?
I requested that voice to shut up. For while I would like very much to refuse point blank Mr. Timmons’ highhanded invite, I was admittedly curious about the Governor and family. In particular, a certain Mr. Elkhart would be in attendance and he might not be as intrigued by Lilly as that girl made out he was.
At this precise moment, something squealed behind me. I turned to see Lilly gawking at the card. She scurried over, snatched it away, read it and handed it back, momentarily incapable of speech.
I too was in a similar situation, but my lack of speech was due to her presence in the working part of the house. Lilly despised work more than she did cockroaches, and I can’t overemphasis how fervently she detested the bugs. The last time she’d seen one — a tiny specimen smaller than a fingernail — she had climbed onto her chair and leaped onto the back of an unsuspecting Jonas, all the while screeching incomprehensibly.
She recovered the faculty of speech before I did, for she shouted, “Mama, Bee’s been invited by a man,” and she ran off to announce the news to the entire savannah, thus finalizing my decision.
Simply put, a perverse part of me relished the discomfort Mrs. Steward would feel by having her precious daughter dancing at the same event as her widowed and dependent cousin. Even though it meant accepting Mr. Timmons’ invitation, there was only one thing for me to do.
I was going to the ball.
Chapter 13
Lord and Lady Hardinge were accommodated in an establishment that was in keeping with their status. It was a stone house considerably larger than any other I’d seen in the country, with an expanse of field bordered by forest. The estate boasted a proper stable that, I’m sure, housed beasts of higher breeding than those inhabiting our ramshackle barn.
Mr. Timmons and I hardly spoke on the bumpy ride over, apart from the required niceties of civilized folk. He seemed thoroughly lost in his own contemplations, which suited me well enough, although I did wonder why he’d invited me if he had no need of conversation or company.
Fortunately, I’m quite comfortable in silence, not that it was so quiet: the clop of the horses’ hooves along the rough stony trail and the creak of the uncovered wagon were enough noise without adding unnecessary chitchat.
Sadly, I was less comfortable with my heeled shoes: a pair of ridiculous, delicate and intricately beaded contraptions designed to ensure the demise of the wearer. Simply put, the moment I should dare to try anything beyond a cautious walk, I would be assured of tripping and probably breaking my neck during the inevitable fall.
Lilly had insisted I wear them when she saw the unglamorous but considerably more practical (and safer) footwear I had planned to wear. I pointed out to her that my dress covered my shoes so what point was there in wearing anything so fancy, but she had insisted.
Perhaps, I mused, it was a plot to do away with me. Death by tripping.
There was enough light left of the day to enjoy the view of the mansion. I could well imagine Mrs. Steward’s response to the place: a perfect location if she could manage to marry Lilly off to Mr. Elkhart.
Mr. Timmons escorted me to the hall where a small but energetic crowd congregated, the sum total of all gentry and merchants who currently resided in the colony.
“I wonder if there’ll be dancing,” I said. I shuddered to attempt it under the critical supervision of Mrs. Steward and the lethal footwear that threatened to spill me onto the ground.
Mr. Timmons patted my hand that was resting on his forearm and said, “I think it unlikely, unless his Lordship has managed to import musicians. But at least there’s food.”
It didn’t matter, for in that moment both food and dancing were swept from my mind as my gaze alighted on a radiant being who amazingly was observing me and very intently at that.
The being was in the form of an elegantly attired young man with eyes as deep and warm as a pot of dark tea. I curtsied to Mr. Elkhart even as my heart performed its own dance. The more pragmatic and still functioning section of my brain reminded me that given the small number of people at the function, everyone would end up making eye contact with everyone else at some point in the evening. This was a mere coincidence, nothing more.
That argument would have reined in my excitement had not the gentleman in question walked toward me with a purposeful gait.
I curtsied. “Mr. Elkhart, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Miss Knight,” Mr. Elkhart said in a voice that at that moment struck me as melodic as a rosebush full of nightingales. “I beg your pard
on and indulgence. We didn’t have much of an opportunity to acquaint ourselves with each other’s story the last time we met. I hope to remedy that situation this very evening.”
With these sentiments expressed, he clasped my proffered hand in his and bowed over it, his eyes never leaving my face.
Not one to be easily impressed by civil manners and elegant speech (for both those are easily forged) nor by good posture and a pretty face (for both of those will pass with age), I nonetheless found my breathing rather fluttery and I had to constrain the urge to reach out and stroke back the lock of black hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“It’s Mrs. Knight,” someone growled behind me: the forgotten Mr. Timmons.
“I’m widowed,” I hastily added as I restrained myself from kicking Mr. Timmons in the shin.
Mr. Elkhart glanced between Mr. Timmons and myself, his eyes wide and wondering.
“It’s rather a lovely gathering, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Elkhart?” I asked, hoping to attract those deep eyes back to me. I smiled when my efforts bore fruit and I had his attention again.
The investigator in me — the one meticulously trained under the gentle, dog-scented tutelage of Prof. Runal – questioned Mr. Elkhart’s interest in someone of my station and age. That same investigator wished to press for more details about his origins, for his name didn’t quite match the warm tone of his skin.
The woman in me dismissed the investigator for the night.
“Yes it is, Mrs. Knight,” he said with a charming smile. “Mrs. Knight, would you do me the great service of accompanying me to the refreshment tables? They’re located on the balcony, where there’s a delightful view I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”
I nodded, trying to limit my smile, lest it seem indecently enthusiastic. I didn’t need to turn toward Mr. Timmons to know he was scowling at this interaction. That didn’t matter, any more than the astonishment of Mrs. Steward or the anticipated jealousy of Lilly once she found out. If anything, these reactions only added to the delight of the moment.
