by Vered Ehsani
“My, my, for once Mrs. Knight is lost for words,” Mr. Timmons said but his smile was as generously proportioned as my own. “Then I shall assume all that head bobbing is equivalent to a yes.”
With that, he lifted my hands to his lips, and any further details on this scene shall have to remain unspoken.
Chapter 21
So lost was I in the bewildering joy of my new status as an engaged woman that I utterly forgot about all my concerns until one of them burst through Mr. Timmons’ front door.
“Uncle,” Cilla said, her face pinched up, “I can’t find…” She nearly fell over her boots as she attempted to halt her entrance but her momentum carried her nearly to the sofa where Mr. Timmons and I sat in an intimate fashion.
I leaped up, yanking my hands free in the process, but Mr. Timmons grabbed my arm and pulled me down in a billow of skirt and shawl.
“Oh, I… I’m sorry to interrupt,” Cilla stuttered, her smooth, pale skin flushing bright as she gazed about the room, avoiding our faces.
“Do sit down, dearest,” Mr. Timmons said with a chortle that reminded me of how utterly and deliciously negligent he could be with regard to social norms and expectations.
Cilla turned about, as if searching for somewhere to sit.
“We have momentous news,” her uncle continued, not waiting for the rattled girl to sit. “Mrs. Knight has finally come to her senses and conceded to my request for her hand in marriage.”
I snorted at that while Cilla spun about to stare at the two of us, her face a rosy caricature of astonished delight.
“Truly?” she said. “Bee, is he serious? Have you really?”
“Would I lie to you?” Mr. Timmons asked with a wounded expression but a chuckle in his tone.
“Yes, Cilla,” I answered her. “The brute did propose and I decided to put him out of his misery, if he doesn’t take care.”
Cilla couldn’t possibly comprehend why Mr. Timmons laughed so uproariously at that, but she rushed to my side and I stood to receive her fierce embrace.
“How marvelous,” she gushed. “How simply splendid. I’m so, so, so utterly and completely happy and thrilled for you, my dearest Bee. You deserve every bit of joy that life can bring you. Oh, and then we shall be family!”
She pulled away from me abruptly, her face sobering up. “But speaking of family, I cannot find your brother anywhere, Bee.”
Her words deflated me and she bit her lip upon seeing my reaction. “I’m sorry, Bee, I shouldn’t be bringing up such matters at a time like this. I’m sure he’s just out for a stroll.”
Mr. Timmons rose and cleared his throat. “There is the matter of the full moon,” he said, as somber as I felt.
“Oh,” Cilla responded, her mouth quivering. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“It’s more than the moon,” I said, the weight of Drew’s story slipping back on me like an unwanted old cloak. “I suspect he didn’t much appreciate my response to something he told me last night.”
I related in brief Drew’s description of his kidnapping and Prof. Runal’s role in it. I hadn’t intended on revealing it to anyone, as I still couldn’t decide what to do, but of all the people I was acquainted with, surely these two needed to know. They were both privy to my previous high regard for Prof. Runal, of how influential and helpful he had been in my life, and they were both now to be family.
“Poor Drew,” Cilla wept. “To be so mistreated. And you! Oh, Bee, you poor thing. How devastating it must’ve been to hear such accusations against your mentor.”
Mr. Timmons shook his head as he sat down again, pulling me with him. “Given what Mr. Elkhart has mentioned to me, I’m not overly astonished by this. Saddened on your behalf, Mrs. Knight, deeply so, but it was not entirely unexpected.”
While his tone was conciliatory and gentle, his words only deepened my despair. Now it was clear to me the extent to which I had been so wholly misled as to the true nature of my employer, while others had known all along of the devious plans spun about my family and me.
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now,” I said, determined to rid myself of these dark thoughts. I rubbed my hands together as if I could as easily dispel the gloom brought by this newly acquired knowledge. “What’s done is done, and fortunately for us all, Prof. Runal is a continent away. I shall be submitting my resignation from the services of the Society forthwith, and that will be the end of that.”
Mr. Timmons smiled approvingly and Cilla gave a small cheer at the news, and shortly after we all set out for the Steward residences, determined to leave behind our sadness and share the joy of our news.
We arrived to see that Mr. and Mrs. Elkhart had stopped by and were enjoying mid-morning tea with Mr. and Mrs. Steward.
“Look who has chosen to pay us a visit before visiting anyone else,” Mrs. Steward announced the moment we entered the house. “Immediately upon returning from their honeymoon, my precious daughter and her noble husband have come here.”
“Given the limited social options, why not?” I quipped but softly, for I didn’t want to depress my aunt’s mood.
Mr. Elkhart heard and lowered his head to hide his smile, while Mr. Timmons chortled in that mischievous way of his. Mrs. Steward caught his expression and frowned.
“Oh, and I see you brought along company,” she noted, her every word indicating the undesirability of such an action.
While Mr. Timmons and Cilla did their best to perform the social niceties expected of them, I hugged Lilly – I had a difficult time thinking of her as Mrs. anything — and shook hands with Mr. Elkhart. The couple was positively beaming with contentment and paranormal energy that I felt my own heart lift further.
“Do sit down,” Mr. Steward said, indicating the places left on the sofa set.
“Yes, if you must,” Mrs. Steward said with less grace as she eyed Mr. Timmons. “Jonas, more teacups and plates. And try not to chip any.”
Jonas limped into the room a few minutes later, not in any particular hurry, his bland and patient servant’s expression settled like a mask on his wrinkled face, but his eyes momentarily glittered with insubordinate thoughts as he approached Mrs. Steward from behind her and he grimaced at me.
“Thank you, Jonas,” I said, as Mrs. Steward certainly wouldn’t think to say so. I gestured with my eyes for him to stand nearby, as I knew he would want to hear the news. Not that he wouldn’t have lurked near the kitchen door to overhear anyway, but now he knew he was invited by at least me to do so.
After a few more minutes of mentioning the weather (“Bloody hot,” “Parching dry,” and “I do hope the rains come early this year.”) and other trivial topics, Mr. Timmons cleared his throat loud enough to interrupt Mrs. Steward’s recital of all the most recent imported goods now available in the stores. She gazed at him with a cool and uninviting eye.
Mr. Timmons relished the moment as he spoke, watching her reaction change. “Mr. and Mrs. Steward, I first wish to thank you for taking such wonderful care of your niece all these years. As her parents are not here, I would ask that on their behalf, you would graciously accept my request for her hand in marriage, and bless our union.”
It was a rather convoluted statement and Mrs. Steward’s eyes went blank as she tried to process it. When Mr. Steward smiled as only a man who learns he is free of a debt can, and when Lilly leaped from her chair with a shriek and propelled herself into my lap, did the truth finally dawn.
“You mean…” she gasped. “Are you saying… It can’t be…” Her voice rose in pitch with each attempted sentence and her breath caught in her throat at each failure. “Beatrice, what is this man… Is it possible…”
“Mama, Bee is getting married!” Lilly near shouted.
“Oh, happy and impossible day,” Mrs. Steward said with tears in her eyes. “Truly, I didn’t believe anyone would relieve us of our duty. I…”
“What my wife is attempting to say,” Mr. Steward firmly interrupted her, “is we are happy to shar
e in your joy and of course you have our permission and blessing.”
“Of course they do. When is the date?” she asked, breathless with the knowledge that she had more than trumped any other member of the small but growing upper society of expatriates and Indian businesspeople.
For who indeed could boast to have produced not one but two weddings in the space of as many months, and both involving such eligible bachelors? It was no wonder then that she was nearly incapacitated with excitement.
“As soon as possible,” Mr. Timmons stated firmly while I said, “Not before at least two weeks pass.”
Mrs. Steward glanced between us, her pale eyebrows twitching in a desire to frown, an impulse she firmly kept in check.
Those members of my circle — the Elkharts, Mr. Timmons, Cilla and Jonas — understood and their expressions shifted. I couldn’t possibly marry any earlier, weighed down by the knowledge that Koki was on her way, and that I might not live much past that moment.
A somber Mr. Timmons cleared his throat and forced a smile. “In two weeks then. We shall of course be relying on you, Mrs. Steward, to assist us in the preparations, for we know so little of such matters.”
I cringed at the prospect, but he had uttered the magic words to win my aunt over to him.
“Oh, Mr. Timmons,” Mrs. Steward trilled as if his name was sweeter than caramel candy. “I’ve always told Mr. Steward that you were the most upstanding of fellows, a most eligible man indeed.” She swiveled to face her husband. “Didn’t I, dear?”
Mr. Steward blinked at her from his position on the sofa, possibly calculating if he was a safe enough distance from her to speak the truth. He cleared his throat, and said, “In a manner of speaking.”
Mr. Timmons smiled an angel’s smile while his eyes glittered. “That’s odd,” he said, rubbing at his chin. “I was under the impression you thought me a rude, vulgar and gruff creature as ever there was one.”
That he had quoted her exact and oft-repeated words escaped her entirely (or else she chose to ignore his comment), while the rest of us smothered our giggles in our teacups. Jonas caught my eye, clapped his hands soundlessly, gave me a sarcastic bow as only he could, and left the room, grinning with the prospect of the feast soon to be had.
Even the arrival of a fugitive chicken being chased across the zebra-damaged coffee table by a dusty Bobby couldn’t possibly deflate the mood of celebration that suffused the room and momentarily distracted us from our knowledge of terrors survived and dangers to come.
Chapter 22
The difficulty with bliss is that it never lasts. That of course is also its attraction, for how desirable would it be if it was ever-present?
Mrs. Steward was still prattling on about another wedding to plan when we all bid our goodbyes. The Elkharts were returning to the Governor’s estate, where a small cottage would be their new home. Cilla and Mr. Timmons chose to escort me part of the way to the train station, as I had decided I would immediately telegraph Prof. Runal with my news.
Mr. Timmons insisted on assisting me to mount Nelly. This was an utterly unnecessary act on his part but one I didn’t feel obliged to discourage, particularly when it was followed by a fervent and lingering kiss upon my hands.
“Any word from Kam or Anansi?” Mr. Timmons asked once we were well away from the Steward residence and our horses had settled into a brisk walk.
I shook my head, unable to voice my fears, for how could I possibly expect Kam to stand between Koki and me when he had admitted he couldn’t stop her? And the Spider hadn’t committed to assist, only to ponder the idea of it.
“It will all work out,” Cilla said with a determined perkiness that sounded forced. “Koki will abandon her quest once she sees all of us by your side.”
I frowned, wondering if anyone had actually been listening to my story of what had transpired in Lagos. Koki was not the abandoning sort of monster; rather, she was a killing fiend who wouldn’t be discouraged by the prospect of a few extra victims.
At a fork in the trail, we parted ways, again with a passionate meeting of my hand with Mr. Timmons’ lips. I was still beaming like any love-struck fool when I approached town.
I had decided on a whim to pass through the length of Nairobi, such as it was. The town was developing along one edge of the tented construction camp. Only when Nelly was plodding along the one and only street did I realize that Mr. Timmons’s cabin was one of the first buildings I’d pass.
Or perhaps I hadn’t really forgotten.
Either way, Mr. Timmons wasn’t there, as he and Cilla had set off to visit a nearby village where Cilla liked to purchase herbs. Even knowing this, I watched his veranda and windows for any sign of life, but there was of course none.
“Foolish girl,” I chided myself even as my shoulders sighed in disappointment. Nelly shook her head, bridle bits jingling, as if she understood more than any horse should.
The street — a dusty, packed dirt thoroughfare — led eventually to the train station. On either side, ramshackle shelters were popping up like ill-conceived, tin and board mushrooms. Garbage lay strewn along the edges.
This informal residential area morphed into the chaotic Indian Bazaar, although it wasn’t just Indians who traded there; some Europeans and a few Africans had joined the market place. The shops, such as they were, were a mixture of tattered tents and shacks made of tin and scrap wood. Wares hung from every possible edge and nail, and tumbled out of glassless windows and crooked door frames in colorful chaos.
As shopkeepers saw my gaze alight on their kiosks, they shouted and waved at me, beckoning me closer. Sensing my disinterest or perhaps my lack of coin, Nelly trotted on, head held in a disdainful pose.
“Miss Knight,” someone called to me.
As this was the only shopkeeper to use my name, I glanced about and discovered Dr. Ribeiro energetically waving at me.
“Look, look,” he said as Nelly veered to him. With large sweeps of his arms, the doctor gestured toward a dodgy assortment of broken-up packing cases and planks. As I peered closer, the pieces seemed to form a structure.
“I am so very thrilled to be welcoming you to my very new and very official surgery.” His smile and flapping arms could’ve knocked the shaky room into pieces.
“Well,” I ventured, unsure how to share in his enthusiasm without committing myself to entering the place. I was sure if I did, the dust of the materials would cause me to sneeze and the roof would collapse on my head as a result. And that would be a pity, as I’m sure the feather tucked into my hat would’ve been crushed.
“Congratulations,” I decided to say. “I wish you much success and many patients in your new premises.”
“Oh, hopefully not so very many,” he said but was pleased by the comment.
“Where was your surgery before?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it previously.
“Oh,” he said somewhat evasively, “it was not so very official and maybe just a very little illegal. My assistant, Mr. Pinto, and I worked out of a tent that was also our home. But now I am being official.”
“I can see how this might be a great step up then,” I said with a smile. After a second congratulatory comment, I left Dr. Ribeiro to his construction project and continued through the market place and further down the road to the train station.
As I entered the stationmaster’s office, Mr. Evans glanced up from the dented, scarred and stained wooden desk and adjusted his thick glasses with trembling fingers. The heat caused his thin hair to stick to his pink scalp.
“G-g-good day, Mrs. Knight,” he stuttered as he stood to greet me. His eyes, magnified by the glasses, overwhelmed his pink face.
“Good day, Mr. Evans,” I said in my politest English fashion. It was at times difficult to believe but I was capable of extremely good manners when they were required, although I would prefer them to be required less often.
He smiled shyly. “How m-m-may I help you?”
“I wish to send a telegraph qui
te urgently,” I said, wondering if the stutter would be translated into the message. That would certainly add to the price, which was per letter.
In addition to being the stationmaster and standby priest, Mr. Evans was also the postmaster, which meant he was in charge of all forms of communication in and out of Nairobi, including telegraphs. He scraped his chair around to another, smaller desk that was as equally battered and decorated with circular stains and ink blotches.
I gave him the delivery details and my message. I’d had to think very deliberately about each word, for I wanted the message to be clear but as inexpensive as possible.
“Am resigning post. Stop. Firm decision. Stop. B,” I said slowly as he wrote it out. Mr. Evans read it aloud to confirm it, and then calculated the charge.
As I handed over the fee, he said, “I d-d-didn’t know y-y-you had a post,” he said.
I smiled in a vague and distracted way. “It’s nothing really. So, what’s the news?”
Despite his stutter, Mr. Evans was perhaps more prolific than Mrs. Patel in his acquisition and distribution of gossip of all sorts. Given his position and location, it was no wonder he knew all the comings and goings. The invitation to share news had a most peculiar impact on his stutter, which all but vanished as he immersed himself in the storytelling process.
“Well,” he said, toying with his pencil while peering up at me with that shy way of his, “the P-Patels have found a husband for their daughter. He’s coming straight from India. The w-wedding will happen here.”
I wondered how Mrs. Steward would take the news, but then again, she would’ve already organized two weddings and relieved herself of two dependents, so she might not be too fussed at all.
Mr. Evans made mention about another shipment of fabrics and farming tools arriving on the next train, but it was his next statement that caught me.
“What was that?” I demanded.
