But now even her friends had not been able to offer sufficient aid. A bank loan was her last resort, although she had no idea how she was going to pay it back.
She watched a dusty Model T rattle by, then crossed the dirt street to Hardy Acres's bank.
MIRANDA LEANED OVER the ceramic bowl and vomited.
She clutched the edges of the table while her body shuddered; then she sank down into the chair, exhausted. Her eyes gazed dully at the window, where a light rain had begun to wash the panes. She felt no emotion—neither joy that the rains had come, ensuring another year of prosperity for Kenya, nor distress at the thought of what a mess the mud was going to make of her hotel. She was thinking of nothing at all. Her worst fears had been confirmed.
She was pregnant.
The first suspicion had entered her mind back in February, when she realized she had missed a period. She had held out on a false hope, which had grown fainter and fainter with each morning of sickness, until now there was no doubt and no hope. All those weeks of interrogating Peony had taught Miranda enough to diagnose her own condition.
Her dispirited gaze moved from the window and settled first upon a crumpled letter on her desk—the message that had arrived the day before from Jack's gold prospecting partner informing Miranda of her husband's death in an incident with a wounded rhino. Then her eye went to the ludicrous cushion on her bed, the pillowcase that was stuffed with rags to approximate a nine-month belly. And finally Miranda looked up at the ceiling because Peony was up there, in the attic, waiting out her last hours....
There was no choice for Miranda but to go to Mrs. Bates in Limuru. Her dirty business was an open secret in Kenya; Miranda could name three women who had been relieved of their mistakes in Mrs. Bates's kitchen. But there was the problem of when to do it. The Limuru woman would not terminate a pregnancy that had gone past four months, and Miranda was past three. She would have to go soon. But when?
Peony was due any day. Miranda could not leave her. She had lied to the girl about a doctor's being on call; Miranda planned to deliver the baby herself. Secrecy was paramount. She would take the baby, throw away her pillow, and put Peony on the first train bound for the coast.
But now there was this new complication.
Miranda checked her watch. It was getting on to teatime, and she had not looked in on Peony since morning.
Her mind stumbled about for answers. When to go to Mrs. Bates? What if Peony was mistaken about her dates and the baby didn't come for another two or three weeks? Miranda would have Lord Treverton's baby and still be pregnant!
She looked at the tray that was to go up to Peony. On it lay a magazine that was full of romance stories and gossip about American film stars. On the back page were classified advertisements for "hard to come by" items. The advertisers had post office box addresses, required cash in advance, and promised quick and discreet delivery of "female regulators," guaranteed to work.
Miranda rose wearily and picked up the tray.
She knew nothing about delivering babies but decided it could not be too complex, its being a rather straightforward, natural process. She had found a book, Home Childbirth, which had turned out to be useless because it had been published twenty years ago at the turn of the century and was so discreet that it got no more technical than "First, place a modesty screen around the mother." So Miranda followed her instincts. In Peony's night-stand there was a pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels, soap and a bottle of sterile water, a basin for washing, and tea towels with safety pins for afterward. All going well, Miranda reminded herself now as she opened the attic door, she should have her baby in a day or two, Peony safely on the train, and herself making the quick trip to Mrs. Bates's farm.
When she entered the attic room, she cried out and dropped the tray.
Hastily locking the door behind herself, Miranda ran to the bed and felt Peony's wrist. At first she couldn't find a pulse. Then it was there, but weak.
"Peony?" she said. "Peony?"
There was no movement on the shockingly white face. Miranda looked at the blood soaking into the mattress, covering Peony's dress and legs, and tried to stay calm. The girl was still alive. Working quickly, Miranda drew Peony's clothes off, spread a new sheet under her, and tried to stop the blood flow.
What had happened?
Miranda began to tremble. She had no idea what to do. She felt the girl's abdomen. The baby was alive, moving. Then she saw a contraction and the emergence of more blood.
Miranda jumped up, left the attic, ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a boy turned to her with startled eyes. "Daktari," she said, pulling him aside. The others in the kitchen stopped work and stared. "Quickly!"
"Daktari Hare?"
"Any doctor! Hurry! Tell him it's life and death!"
MR. ACRE'S OFFICE was simply a mesh cage at the back of the tiny bank, which itself consisted of nothing more than a bit of floor space, a counter with a grille, and one teller's window, where a young Hindu was counting out money.
"Dr. Treverton!" said Mr. Acres, rising and straightening his waistcoat. "I certainly hadn't meant for you to come out in this weather. It could have waited until after the rains."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're here because of my message, are you not?"
"What message?"
"Well, this is a coincidence." He pulled out a chair for her and sat behind his desk. "I sent a note up to the DO in Nyeri town, asking him to pass it along to you. It's about your bank account."
She gave him a puzzled look. "What bank account?"
He went through some papers on his desk, cleared his throat, and brought forth a ledger. "An account has been opened in your name, Dr. Treverton." He leaned forward and opened the book. "Here it is. See? That is the sum that was deposited, five hundred pounds. You may draw upon it as often as you wish, provided you do not exceed that amount within a twelve-month period."
Grace blinked down at the neat columns, at the line with her name printed on it. "I don't understand."
"Yes, well, I rather thought it would come as a surprise to you. You see, this account has been opened by a person who will make yearly deposits of five hundred pounds, to be used by you as you see fit."
She stared at him. "I don't understand. What person?"
"I am not at liberty to divulge that information, Doctor. The identity of your benefactor must remain unknown to you."
Grace looked at him. Rain pattered on the corrugated iron roof of the small bank, creating a noise inside. A leak appeared, and the young Asian was immediately on the spot, setting a bucket under it on the floor.
"Mr. Acres, I don't know what to say."
"I quite imagine. Five hundred pounds is a lot of money."
"And you can't tell me who did this?"
"Anonymity is part of the conditions. Were such information to be somehow disclosed, the benefactor will terminate the account. I cannot even tell you if these funds originate here in Kenya or elsewhere."
Grace continued to stare at the ledger page with her name and the remarkable numbers after it. Kenya or elsewhere. Who on earth?
And then a voice echoed in her mind: I shall make it up to you somehow, Grace. Sir James had said that to her the night he had told her about Lucille's writing the letter to the Society. I promise you I will make it up to you.
"But he can't afford it."
Mr. Acres looked over the rim of his spectacles. "Did you say something, Doctor?"
She shook her head. Of course, he would want the account to be anonymous, and of course, she was going to respect that. And the first thing she was going to do after sending Mr. Masters packing on the very next train to Mombasa was ride out to Kilima Simba and tell James about her good news.
"Memsaab Daktari! Memsaab Daktari!" shouted the rain-soaked kitchen boy as he ran into the bank.
Hardy Acres shot to his feet. "What is this!"
The Asian teller tried to grab the muddy boy but missed. "Daktari!" he sai
d as he came up breathlessly to Grace. "The memsaab needs you at once. She says it is life and death. Haraka haraka!"
"What has happened?"
"You come! Something bad!"
"Who sent you?"
"Memsaab Westi!"
Grace exchanged a look with the banker. Then she said, "Tell Mrs. West that I must stop first for my medical bag. I'm staying down Government Road with the Millfords."
WHEN GRACE FINALLY hurried into the attic, shedding her raincoat and dropping her umbrella, she found a frantic Miranda pacing beside a bed that, at first glance, appeared to contain a corpse. In the instant it took for her to close the door and cross the room, Grace's trained eye took in two important details: that the girl on the bed was in the middle of childbirth and that the widow West was suddenly no longer pregnant.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed, snapped open her bag, and withdrew the stethoscope. "What happened?" she said as she listened first to Peony's chest, then to the abdomen.
"She started labor this morning—"
"It's evening now. Why didn't you call in a doctor before this?" Miranda stood in petrified silence.
Shooting the woman an angry look, Grace proceeded to examine Peony.
She found the worst possible situation: The placenta was breaking up, and the poor girl was bleeding to death. It was too late now for hospitals or surgery; Grace was going to be lucky if she could save the baby. And for that she was going to have to fight.
"We are too late to save the girl," she said as she made hurried preparations to bring the baby out. "But I might still be able to save the child." She looked up at Miranda. "That was what you wanted, isn't it? This child?"
Miranda swallowed and nodded.
Valentine! Grace thought as she hastily unwrapped her sterile instruments. You fool!
The night grew long and dark; the shadows of the two women loomed on the walls and wavered in the glow of a hurricane lamp. Rain fell continually against the windows as Nairobi withdrew into sepulchral silence. Grace worked quickly, using her instruments, the sheets, and towels. There was the umbilical cord to deal with, wrapped around the baby's neck, and the blood flow, as ceaseless as the rain. Miranda assisted her; they sat with their heads together, doing all the work because Peony was beyond helping them.
The girl died just before the baby gave its first cry. Grace said, "It's a boy," and Miranda fell away from the bed in a dead faint.
20
D
ISTRICT OFFICER BRIGGS WAS CLEARLY UNCOMFORTABLE. "IT is, ah, most extraordinary, Your Lordship," he said as he pointedly avoided looking Valentine in the eye. "Quite a baffling case."
They were sitting on the veranda of Bellatu, drinking morning tea in the brief sunshine break in the rain. Already clouds were gathering to shed another blessed deluge upon Treverton's five thousand acres of coffee.
"Apparently it, ah, happened four nights ago," Briggs said. "One of the kitchen boys said Mrs. West sent him out for a doctor. The girl was named Peony Jones, came out from England about fifteen months ago and worked as a maid at Mrs. West's hotel. Your sister has confirmed what happened that night. She filed a report the next morning with the police."
Valentine sat with a stony expression, teacup forgotten in his hand.
The officer shifted in his chair, wishing this messy business hadn't fallen to him. "So, ah, as I was saying, Mrs. West's car was found on the Limuru Road, not far from the Bates farm. Dr. Treverton said she had no knowledge of that. In her report she states that she left immediately after delivering the Jones girl's baby. Apparently Mrs. West drove out to Limuru the same night the maid died. We don't know the purpose of the trip."
Briggs glanced at Valentine's fixed stare and went on. "There was a baby with her, most likely the one your sister delivered in the attic. It was still in Mrs. West's arms when she was found; they had both drowned in the mud. It appears the car got stuck, and Mrs. West tried to go the rest of the way on foot in the rain and didn't make it."
Valentine looked out over the rows of green coffee bushes speckled with white flowers. Beyond them Mount Kenya stood cloaked in mystery and majesty.
"But the, ah, really baffling thing of it all," Briggs continued, "is that, ah ... the baby she had with her was half black. The Medical Officer concluded that the maid had had sexual relations with an African."
Valentine didn't blink. He looked like a man hypnotized.
"There is just one more thing, Your Lordship. The Medical Officer has also reported that Mrs. West was pregnant at the time of her death... about three months along."
Finally Valentine looked at the District Officer. "Why are you telling me all this? Mrs. West is of no concern to me."
Briggs stared at him for a moment, then looked away, a bright flush rising up his neck. Fumbling for his hat and swagger stick, the officer got to his feet, began to say something, then hurried down the steps and away.
THEY HAD HAD only one week of rain, and already the Cape chestnuts were bursting all over in a froth of pink flowers and aloes were blossoming in bright red clumps among the rocks. The spur fowl was singing its musical scales, and the rainbird answered in its flutelike song.
Rose hummed along with nature as she sat in the protection of her gazebo, stitching the tapestry and looking, in her pale pink cardigan, tan woolen skirt, and green scarf as if the rain had produced her as well. She was not alone in the glade. Mrs. Pembroke sat with Mona, looking at a picture book; an African girl squatted by the picnic hamper, ready to serve hot pies and chocolate; and three invisible Kikuyu men stood on guard among the eucalyptus trees. Rose's pets were with her also. A black-faced vervet monkey was curled up in her lap, and tethered to a post was Daphne, an orphaned bushbuck that Rose had rescued when it was no bigger than a cat.
On a sturdy frame was stretched the white linen that had become Rose's entire life. She had so far stitched in outlines and possibilities, a sketch in thread. On one side Mount Kenya was starting to materialize, its craggy peak with a bit of cloud done in perle cotton; the slopes would be covered in Persian yarns and Florentine stitchery; and the vast rain forest with its ropy vines and dense brush was slowly going to come to life with embroidery floss and French knots. Rose could see it in her mind—complete, breathing, alive. There remained only one space that eluded her: slightly off center, between two gnarly trees. The rest of the scene was all in balance; every spot had its subject and every subject had a place. Except for that one mysterious vacancy. No matter how she studied it or tried to place things into it, nothing worked. It was the one spot in Rose's tapestry that could not be filled.
When Mrs. Pembroke discreetly cleared her throat, Rose looked up and, to her immense surprise, saw Valentine coming through the damp trees.
He walked up the steps of the gazebo, knocking moisture from his shoulders, and said, "I would like to be alone with my wife, if you please."
No one moved. Rose looked up at him, bewildered, trying to sense his mood. Then she nodded to the nanny, who took Mona and the African girl with her.
When they were alone, Valentine went down on one knee next to Rose. "Am I disturbing you?" he asked softly.
"You've never been here before, Valentine."
He looked at the linen. The dotted outlines in various colors of yarn made no sense to him. He praised it nonetheless. Then he asked, "Are you happy here, Rose?"
His face was level with hers; she saw how gentle his eyes were. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm very happy here, Valentine."
"You know that's all I ever want, don't you? For you to be happy?"
"I think so."
"The night of the Christmas party, Rose. What I did to you—"
She placed her fingertips on his mouth. "We mustn't speak of that. Not ever again."
"Rose, I need to talk to you."
She nodded. "I heard about Mrs. West, Valentine. And I was sorry to hear it."
Pain replaced the gentleness in his eyes. He reached up and clutched the back of her chair. "I love you, R
ose," he said in a tight voice. "Do you believe me?"
"Yes, Valentine."
"I suppose it's too late to expect you to love me in return, but—"
"I do love you, Valentine."
He gazed into her pale blue eyes and saw that she meant it. "I must have a son," he said quietly. "You have to understand that. I need a son to inherit what I am building."
"Won't Mona do?"
"Of course not, darling. You know that."
"You want me to give you a son," she said.
"Yes."
"It frightens me, Valentine."
"I won't hurt you, Rose. I won't let any harm come to you. And I have nowhere else to turn." He bowed his head. "If you do this for me, I shall make you a promise. Give me a son, Rose, and I will never come near you again."
She laid a cool, slender hand along his cheek. Tears filled her eyes. Valentine had come back to her; he was hers to love again. "Then I will do it," she said.
ON AUGUST 12, 1922, Arthur Currie Treverton was born. Rose had kept her part of the bargain. And Valentine kept his.
PART THREE
1929
21
M
ONA HAD ALREADY DECIDED SHE WAS GOING TO RUN away. All she had to do was choose the right moment.
Her solemn eyes took in the crowded streets of Paris as the limousine made its way toward the train station; she saw pedestrians on the sidewalks turn to watch the stately procession of shiny Pierce-Arrows. Mona rode with her mother in the first car; in the next one came Sati, Mona's Indian ayah, with Lady Rose's personal secretary and a little African girl named Njeri. Two more cars followed with Rose's many trunks and the purchases collected during her shopping trip and her two lady's maids. Gleaming black with curtains closed to hide the passengers inside, the Pierce-Arrows created a spectacle as they inched their way through the Place de la Concorde.
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