“Ah, Miss Jade, your fears are, er, in this instance, unfounded. Er, Lord Dunbury is a name known to all British, although, er, as an American, perhaps you were not as aware of that fact.”
Jade widened her eyes to look innocently naive. “It’s very good of you to tell me this, Neville. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t risk hurting Dunbury’s feelings by not using the letters. Not after he addressed them specifically to Lord Colridge and to the governor.” She drank her coffee while Neville nearly choked on his tea and Madeline dropped the spoon again before recovering from this final bit of news.
“Are you calling on them today?” asked Madeline hopefully as she wiped marmalade off the tablecloth.
Jade nodded. Bait taken and subject fully hooked. It only remained to reel them in. “Actually, only on Lord Colridge, but isn’t it too far to take a rickshaw?” she asked. “I saw a motor garage in town. Is it possible to hire a car? I’m supposed to have one, but . . .” She shrugged.
“Nonsense. We can drive you in our car,” exclaimed Neville. “I insist.”
Madeline studied her own simple, pale yellow frock. “Perhaps I should change?”
Jade glanced down at her brown huck split skirt, shirtwaist, and war boots, the female equivalent of bush dress. “If you do, you’ll make me look bad. I’m afraid my wardrobe for the past year or so has consisted of a uniform complete with trousers.” Jade winked at Madeline. “Besides, I secretly plan on blaming all my social faux pas on being an American.”
Madeline laughed. “Lord Colridge will think you’re charming.”
Neville finished and patted his mouth with his napkin. “Do you have an appointment?”
Jade nodded. “Our worthy host here sent my letter around for me yesterday evening, and I received a return message this morning. I’m to call on His Lordship after midmorning. I believe he is busy with his horses before that.” She poured another cup of coffee from the pot and held up the nearly empty toast rack as a signal for more. “He’s one of the original colonists along with Lord Delamere, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” agreed Neville in a voice that hinted of hero worship. “Prerailroad. Actually, you saw him last evening. He’s the old gent who shot the hippo. The one in evening kit. Er, Lord Colridge, not the hippo.”
Jade arched her brows in interest, encouraging Mr. Thompson to continue while she ate her ham. He did.
“He’s a colorful man and prone to escapades not unlike Mr. Hascombe’s last night. Once, he used one of the stuffed lions at the Muthaiga Club for target practice. By the way, you were most impressive removing the gun from Hascombe last evening.”
Jade scowled. “Probably made a fool of myself. Somehow the screams and shots threw me back into France.”
Madeline put a work-roughened hand on Jade’s. “There, there, you poor thing. You mustn’t fret. You looked very charming.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “You might even say you were disarming, isn’t that right, Neville?” She cast a sideways glance at her husband as if to communicate some secret thought along with her pun. If Neville understood, he didn’t let on.
“Speaking of shooting escapades,” said Jade, routing the subject away from the war, “I suppose there are quite a few injuries or even deaths around here with all that wild shooting going on.”
Neville shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard of. Most deaths here are due to disease or wounded wild animals.”
“Indeed? There are records, I suppose?” asked Jade. “Hyena maulings, too?”
Madeline’s mouth gaped open in horror. “Certainly you don’t want to write about that, do you?”
“Not exclusively, no. But a sense of danger will pique my readers’ interests.” Jade gave up any hope of getting another slice of warm toast and took the last cold piece. “I hope His Lordship will tolerate all my questions. I do need to know more about the colony’s earliest days, including the struggles the settlers faced. I’d also like to learn about the ones who gave up. Maybe you’ve heard of some of them yourselves? I was told that a Gil Worthy was one. Did you know him?” Jade looked from one to the other, hoping either of them had something to offer.
Neville shook his head. “Name sounds vaguely familiar, but then we’ve only been here eight years and even that was broken up with the war. I daresay that Lord Colridge would know a great deal about the early years.”
“If His Lordship doesn’t wish to discuss anything with you, I’m certain Mr. Hascombe would be glad to,” said Madeline. “He’s been here a long time, too.”
“You must forgive my wife, Miss Jade. It appears she has matchmaking on her mind.”
Jade sipped her coffee and stared over the rim at Madeline. She used silence and her brilliant green eyes to her advantage. Very few people, with the possible exception of Beverly, could withstand that look. Madeline pouted.
“Harry is an interesting man, and there are so few single ladies coming into the colony,” she explained. “I cannot help it if I’m a romantic.”
“My dear, you are embarrassing Miss del Cameron,” said Neville gently but firmly. “As far as we know, she has a young man back in the States.” He glanced at Jade for confirmation.
“No,” whispered Jade softly. She poked her cold toast with a knife.
“Now see what you’ve done, Neville,” scolded Madeline. “You’ve made her unhappy.”
“I have made her unhappy! Now see here, Madeline, you were the one who—”
“Oh, pish tosh, Neville,” interrupted his wife. “We mustn’t quarrel about it. We have to drive Jade to His Lordship’s residence.”
Jade coughed into her napkin to hide her smile.
Lord Colridge’s estate lay sprawled between the Tana and the Athi Rivers, where the latter arched its back like a lazy cat and stretched on to join the Tsavo farther southeast. The massive stone house and sweeping veranda testified to the farm’s age and prosperity, as did the expansive stone stables behind it. Like many of the original settlers to the protectorate, Lord Colridge had survived by growing a variety of crops, and he finally succeeded with maize and a smaller field of sunflowers. He eventually gave in to his passion for horses once his farm could support them.
Lord Miles Colridge met them halfway between the stables and the house, wearing jodhpurs and a long-sleeved, collarless white shirt. The ever popular red-lined solar topee sat perched on his head, its worn brim showing its age. The old gentleman walked with a youthful spring in his step despite his snow white hair, lined face, and liver-spotted hands. He stood only one inch taller than Jade, but his stiff aristocratic bearing and commanding voice conveyed the impression of greater power, rather like a bulldog.
Jade extended her hand. His Lordship took it warmly and made a slight bow over it. “Very pleased that you should come to see me, Miss del Cameron. Very good of Dunbury to write that letter. Of course, the young lord is nearly a stranger to me, but I knew his father. Old Hector Dunbury was a marvelous man. Did you know him?”
Jade opened her mouth to reply in the negative when Colridge answered for her. “No, of course you didn’t. How is young Avery?”
Avery was the new Lord Dunbury, Beverly’s betrothed and David’s best friend. Jade had met him a few times at the aerodrome, but later he had been too occupied with Beverly to notice anyone else. Still, Jade had learned enough about him from Bev to feel she knew him well. “Very well, thank you, Lord Colridge. He’s engaged, now that the war is over, and back home.”
“So he fought in the Great War, did he? Of course he would. He’s a Dunbury. Where?”
“A pilot in the Royal Flying Corps, Lord Colridge. I met him while stationed in France.”
“Yes, of course. He wrote that you drove an ambulance. Said you earned a Croix de Guerre. Very good of you, an American, too, to help out the empire in her time of need.” His soft blue eyes looked her over appraisingly as he might have studied a new horse to determine its merits. Whatever he saw must have met with his favor because he nodded to himself as if verifying some private though
ts. “I should like to meet him someday.”
“I believe he’s very anxious to see Africa, sir, and is planning a honeymoon trip here.”
“Very good.” Suddenly Lord Colridge noticed the Thompsons and snorted lightly, blowing his walrus mustache outward. “Mrs. Thompson, my apologies,” he said with a bow in her direction. “Thompson, you must forgive me ignoring you and your lovely wife.”
Madeline and Neville each made polite bows and recited, “Lord Colridge,” in unison.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson have been good enough to take me in,” Jade explained. “I imposed on them last evening. They’ve not only acted as chauffeurs for me, but also offered to let me stay at their home.”
“Quite right. Now come inside and tell me how I may be of service to you as well.” He offered Jade his right arm and extended his left towards the front door. “Thompson, escort your wife. I’ll see to Miss del Cameron.”
Lord Colridge led the way into a spacious living room appointed in a blend of traditional comforts and exotic decorations. A simple English-style sofa and tea table bordered a leopard-skin throw rug. Portraits in oil hung on the wall between the massive head of a male lion and a Maasai shield, and gorgeously embroidered pillows with oriental designs adorned straight-legged teak armchairs. The scent of pipe tobacco hung heavily in the air.
“Please have a seat. My manservant, Pili, should be here shortly. I’ve ordered refreshments to be served. I’ve taken another liberty, Miss del Cameron. Once I was aware you were a particular friend of Dunbury’s, I arranged for a dinner party at the Muthaiga Club for Saturday night. You’ll meet a good many of the colonists there. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, you are invited as well. Eight o’clock. Black tie.”
Jade and the Thompsons thanked him warmly as a young African man in a gleaming white robe entered with a loaded silver tray.
“Ah, there you are, Pili,” Colridge said. “Wondering what happened to you.”
The delicious scent of warm cardamom wafted from the rectangular slices of cake, and Jade inhaled deeply to take in the aroma. With it came the unmistakable stench of tea. At least, she noted, there was sugar this time. She studied the young man as he poured. He possessed a graceful heartshaped face with skin the color of antique bronze, and his short black hair formed soft curls around his temples. A gold cross dangling from a chain slipped out from his robe as he bowed over the tea service. He silently offered a cup to Jade, who proceeded to take the tongs and drop five sugar cubes into the cup.
“How do you like your tea, Miss del Cameron?” asked Colridge after she took a polite sip.
“Left in the pot, sir.”
Madeline’s eyes opened wide in shock, Neville’s jaw dropped, and Lord Colridge roared with laughter. “By thunder,” he said, “I’d forgotten how refreshingly frank you Americans are. Pili,” he said, addressing the young servant, “fetch something else for the lady.”
“What would the lady like?” asked Pili. Jade detected a slight French accent to his English.
“Coffee?” suggested Jade. “If it is no trouble.”
The young man said he would see to it immediately and left. Jade noticed his stately bearing and arched one brow in inquiry.
“My manservant is a French Somali, Miss del Cameron. Most are Muhammadans, but this one has somehow been put upon by one of the missions here. Went to school there. Poor chap isn’t quite sure what to believe now. He’s damned fine with horses, too. All Somali are.”
“I take it you don’t approve of the Christian missions?” asked Jade.
“They ruin a perfectly fine native,” snorted Colridge. His brushy mustache fluttered about his thin, wrinkled face like a tattered banner. “Fill their heads with all sorts of rubbish they’d do perfectly well without.”
Jade assumed Lord Colridge espoused what she called the “Country Club School of Religion,” where one chose a house of worship based on its acceptable social status. In that light, he would hardly see any merit of evangelizing Africans. She turned the subject to his farm and his horses and planned to eventually broach the topic of early settlers in general and Mr. Gil Worthy in particular. She didn’t count on Colridge’s ability to carry on a lecture rather than a conversation.
The older man warmed to the subject immediately and spoke at length about his land and especially his horses. “Sent my finest filly as a gift to His Majesty last year,” he proclaimed proudly. “Do you ride?” he asked Jade.
She swallowed some of the delicious cake. “Yes, but more of a Western style, sir, and on a more rugged type of horse. Most of my father’s horses are bred from the wild mustangs left by the Spanish Conquistadors, but he’s thinking of breeding Andalusians if he can get a good stud.”
“Perhaps those mustangs came from ancient Arab stock,” suggested Neville, who wished to enter the conversation.
“Perhaps, perhaps,” muttered Colridge. “Well,” he exclaimed loudly and slapped his gnarled hands on his legs. “You must come and see mine. Thompson, Mrs. Thompson, come along, all of you. There’s a good lad.” He shooed them out the door like one of her father’s working dogs patiently running livestock, and as the dogs did, occasionally snapped at them to speed them along.
Jade, resigned to not seeing the coffeepot, stepped onto the veranda. Their host led them at a brisk pace to the stables and to his pride and joy, a magnificent bay stallion.
“This,” he said proudly, “is Bakari.”
Jade reached out and stroked the soft, sensitive nose. “He’s beautiful.”
“His name means noble promise in Swahili, and he has kept that promise. Sired four champions already.” Colridge led them two by two down the rows of the stable and outside to a paddock that housed two young zebra. “Raising these from foals,” he explained. “Going to train them to pull a carriage. Can’t break the grown ones. Too temperamental.”
Jade took another stab at changing the subject. “Lord Colridge, you’ve done very well, but my editors are interested in the early beginnings of the colony as well as its present state. Can you tell me about any of the other people who began settling here along with you and some of the things they tried? Perhaps some who didn’t make it or died trying?”
He fluttered his mustache. “Don’t like to dwell on failures, young lady. Not good for the colony, you know.”
“I agree,” she countered, “but understanding the hardships at the start certainly does enhance the present success of yourself and others like you.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled and stroked his white mustache.
Jade sensed his rising impatience and thought of a strategy to occupy his mind. “May I take some likenesses while we talk? Perhaps your photograph with Bakari?” Maybe posing him with his prize horse would relax him enough to speak freely.
Colridge nodded, and Jade hurried back to the Thompsons’ car to retrieve her handheld 4 × 5 Graflex and a box of film sheets. His Lordship consented to a photograph of himself, then insisted on calling out Pili to handle the horses while he directed the remaining shots. Jade went along with him and only pretended to take most of the remaining pictures. She didn’t have the film or developer to spare. She did take one of the Somali steward with a mare. Pili made a perfect model, quiet and serene, and she wished she had more plates to devote to his striking, youthful features with his bronzed skin and soft hazel eyes. The Somali were, indeed, a handsome people. She remembered Corporal Gideon and wondered if he had survived the war.
Colridge led the trio around his grounds and showed them his sawmill powered by an old steam locomotive, the various outbuildings, and the house garden fenced against hungry wildlife. An old hound with long floppy ears and sagging jowls joined them, and Jade stroked his head. While they walked, the Thompsons exclaimed and admired, His Lordship puffed out with pride, and Jade tried to steer the conversation when it began to wander too far away from the struggles of early colonists and too much into the merits of various root crops. It wasn’t easy. Once the man got going, angels announcing the seco
nd coming couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“I would say most failures fall into two categories,” Colridge concluded. “Bad planning and lack of perseverance. Some of those chaps just wouldn’t stick it.” He looked over at Neville for confirmation. “Take you, for example, Thompson.”
Neville stood ramrod straight at attention. “Sir?”
“It hasn’t been all easy going for you and your wife, has it? No, I didn’t think so,” he said without waiting for an answer. “But you stuck it out. And you’ve been here seven years.”
“Eight, sir.”
“Eight years, that’s what I said. Can’t expect the crops to come in right away. Coffee trees take two years to produce at least.”
“Three at the earliest, sir.”
“Three years, just as I said. Then later you might expect five pounds per tree.”
“Three pounds per tree, sir.”
“Yes, of course. As I was saying, Miss del Cameron, a planter such as Thompson here has to stick it out, isn’t that right, Thompson?”
Neville answered like any acolyte around his idol. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Lord Colridge.”
“What sort of endeavors made poor choices then?” asked Jade.
“Geraniums! Some fool decided geraniums would be an instant cash crop, put thousands of acres into geranium cuttings before some blasted disease wiped them out.” He waggled a finger at her. “That, my dear young lady, is poor planning. Putting all your eggs in one basket, as they say. That young Forster is another example.”
“Roger?” asked Madeline. “Didn’t he have an ostrich farm?”
“Exactly. Put everything into raising those vicious brutes for their feather plumes for ladies’ hats,” exclaimed Lord Colridge with a contemptuous snort. “Failed to take into consideration the fickleness of women and their fool fashions. Motorcars are putting an end to his dreams of fortune.”
“Motorcars?” echoed Jade. She jotted snippets of the conversation into her notebook.
Mark of the Lion Page 6
