Later, as we sat out on the stoep after dinner, I said to Ouma, “You told me that you don’t want any more little bastards around the place.” Rudi had joined us, since the conversation was about him, as well. In fact, it was more important to him. “But you never did have that. Rudi and I weren’t bastards. And we think you knew it all along.” I watched her face as she gazed up at the highest peaks before answering.
“Ja,” she said eventually. “I did know it. Your ma married her rooinek lordship in Maheking. When she came back here, he went away to carry on fighting. How was I supposed to feel about that? I had a new son, but he was off killing my own people! Then we got word that he was dead. Killed in battle at Diamond Hill, but he was hailed a hero by the British because of the number of boer fighters he murdered! How could we live with that? How could your ma bring you into the world with that stigma? Better to bear the shame of being bastards than the shame of being Engels.”
“Did you rip the pages out of the diary, Ouma?” Rudi asked. “The ones that showed she married him?”
“Ja, and the bottom part of the letter that his brother sent. Because in it he said he was looking forward to meeting his new sister. It was clear from that, too, that they had married.”
“But you never threw the whole letter away?”
“No, but I wish I had now! I don’t know why I kept that part. I suppose it was because it had his name on it and where he was from. Deep down, part of me knew one day you’d ask me questions about those things.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I’d forgotten about the letter and the diary when you went snooping in the attic, Annie-girl. Once you’d found them, I knew you’d want to go to England. I know what you’re like. I wasn’t going to stop you, probably couldn’t if I wanted to. Of course, I never thought you’d actually discover who he was.”
I looked across at where Finty and Nicca were sitting together. He was reading, and she was rather inexpertly darning a tear in one of Rudi’s shirts by the light of a kerosene lamp. Did I wish Ouma had thrown that letter away so that we had never gone to Port Isaac and never found Tenebris? I wouldn’t have met Uther and been scorched by the fire of our Jago past. The names of Arwen Jago and Lucia would still be buried in another, untouched, incarnation of myself. But Rudi would not have met Finty, and Nicca would not now be part of my life. Did I want those things undone?
“What about the marriage licence?” Rudi asked, interrupting my thoughts. “And our birth certificates? Those documents are the only things that could prove I am the real heir to the Athal title.”
“Oh, I still have those,” Ouma replied casually. She looked at our incredulous faces. “What, you think I am stupid enough to destroy them, the only proof we have of who you are?”
Until now, I hadn’t asked Rudi the obvious question. “Do you want it, broer? Do you really want Tenebris?”
There was a faraway look in his eyes when he answered. “Yes, I do. It felt like home to me, Annie. I think the visions we had of the castle and of Uther were a strange, subconscious signal that I belong there.” I wondered briefly what message they held for me. “I am the Earl of Athal. It’s my duty to claim the title.” There was a pride in his voice I had not heard before.
“It may not be easy,” I said. “Uther won’t fight fair.”
A smile flickered across his fine features. “But we are the true Jagos, Annie. You and I. Surely when it comes to fighting dirty, no one—not even Uther—will be able to outdo us.”
∗ ∗ ∗
We had been at Sonskyn for four weeks when Rudi and Finty were married. The wedding was a quiet ceremony in the little church in Ladysmith.
“You are the Countess of Athal. You came next after Bouche. Just think how proud she would be to know that.” I kissed Finty on the cheek to congratulate her, and she turned to me with shining eyes.
“I am married to the man I love. That’s all that matters,” she replied, gazing up at Rudi. “Oh, Annie, I hope that one day soon you will be as happy as I am right now.” I thought of how I had believed that I would marry Uther, that I would be the next Jago bride gazing up at her groom with that rapt expression. Within the onion-like layers of my emotions, relief and loss went to war. I had been cheated of my fairy tale ending. Anger and resentment left their bitter tang in my mouth. Carefully, I schooled my features back into a smile.
The vehicles at Sonskyn were utilitarian rather than elegant, but the old, open horse-drawn carriage that used to take me to school and transport us to church on Sundays was still going strong. The stable boys had polished it until it shone, and I decorated it with streamers and flowers. Rudi and Finty rode with Ouma in the carriage to the kraal while Nicca and I made do with the farm truck. As Jabu manhandled our vehicle through the dusty streets of Ladysmith, I heard a child’s agonised cry.
“Ah, no, Nkosi Piet.…No! No more!”
Looking over my shoulder, I saw a huge boer systematically beating a young Bantu boy, who looked to be about twelve years old.
“Stop!” I leaped down from the vehicle before it reached a halt and stormed over to the man, catching hold of his arm before his next downward blow could connect with the boy’s skinny body.
The boer looked around in surprise, and the child took the opportunity to scurry behind me.
“You better let go of me quick smart, Missie van der Merwe, or the next one is for you.” My charming acquaintance warned me in a growl. I knew Piet Smit. He had a hunting shack half a mile from Sonskyn and I had been there once or twice with Ouma to buy biltong, a dried meat he cured himself using an old voortrekker method.
“What a big, brave man you are!” I faced him with my hands on my hips. “Little boys and women. Your ma would be so proud of you, Meneer Smit.” My temper, always quick, came to the boil so fast that it took even me by surprise. Looking back later, I decided that my thoughts of Uther and the wedding that was not to be had already ignited a spark. Glaring at Smit, I stepped closer, so that I could see the stubble on his chin and the red roadmap of veins alcohol had drawn on his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, spittle flecking the corners of his mouth. And then he stopped. His eyes narrowed and he glanced quickly from one side to the other as though seeking an escape route. There was an audible click as he swallowed nervously.
“Don’t,” he said. I recognised the look in his eyes. As incredible as it seemed, I knew he was afraid of me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicca alighting from the truck. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
I maintained my stance and was amazed when he lowered his eyes. The man was a notorious bully. But then I decided that his nervousness had nothing to do with the way I looked at him and everything to do with the size of Nicca’s approaching figure. Piet Smit might be a big man himself, but Nicca matched him. The difference was that Nicca moved with a lithe, athletic grace that told a story of sleek muscle and honed strength. I suspected we all knew any contest would be an uneven one.
Piet held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture and said in Afrikaans, “Baaie dankie, meneer.”
I regarded him in astonishment. What was he thanking Nicca for? They had never met before. Of that I was certain. Yet he was hailing him as though Nicca was his rescuer, not the young Bantu’s. Smit took a step away from me and toward Nicca, and his expression was one of abject relief.
“The lady is mistaken. I meant no offence. The boy belongs to me.…He’s a lazy whelp. He needs a reminder about who is the boss every now and then.”
The boy, having eyed up the situation, decided to switch his allegiance and went to hide behind Nicca. “My good man,” Nicca said in clipped English tones. “I have no idea what you just said, but I don’t like you and I think you should be on your way now.”
Piet looked nonplussed, so I told him, “He said voetsek.” He glared at me with mingled fear and dislike.
“Meneer, the boy is mine.…” he repeated in ponderous English.
“You mean he’s your
son?” I asked. I knew the words would enrage him.
His face went a nasty shade of puce. “Nie, heks! No, witch!” His eyes slithered quickly from my face to Nicca’s. “Pardon! I meant no offence. But you think I’m that desperate? That I would lie with a Bantu woman? The boy is my property.”
“You cannot own him. He is a human being, not a dog!”
“He is not as useful or as valuable as a dog. He is black—”
I took another hasty step toward him, and he stumbled back. Nicca caught hold of my arm. “Get the boy into the truck, Annie. I’m sure I can persuade this gentleman to see reason.” When I didn’t move, he gave me a little shove. “Go!”
I never knew what Nicca said to the big Afrikaner. It was brief and quiet, but Piet’s face flushed to the colour of beetroot before, without replying, he shambled away. Nicca came back and joined me in the truck. The boy, whose name was Kami, eyed us with interest and awe.
“Won’t Ouma mind us turning up with an uninvited guest?” Nicca asked.
“No, he can come and work in the stables,” I said. My anger was gone now. Momentarily, I forgot to be discreet and rubbed my cheek against his sleeve. He dropped a kiss onto the top of my head. As the truck rumbled into life, I caught a glimpse of Smit’s sullen features as he watched us from a shady corner of the street. “We can always use an extra pair of hands, and he will not be beaten at Sonskyn, that much is for sure. He will have a roof and a bed and be paid for the work he does.”
“Tell me what we just saw is not typical, Annie.”
“I can’t,” I sighed, tilting my head back to look up at him. “This country of mine is beautiful, Nicca, but you must have seen already that it does not treat all of its people fairly. When the British established the Union of South Africa, black Africans were kept off the electoral rolls. Only white people can vote, hold skilled jobs and own land. These laws ensure that black people have to seek jobs from white employers, that the jobs they take are the lowest paid and that they cannot vote to change these awful laws. I love my country, but I am not proud to be a white South African.”
“Yet you are one of the privileged.”
“It isn’t fair,” I said. “Black people are in the majority in this country, but this is all about land and money. White people hold the political power, and there is talk that more laws will be passed to segregate the races and oppress black people even further in the future. I will always fight against unfairness, even if I benefit from it.”
“Annie, I told you once that you are unique, and you said that wasn’t the case,” Nicca said. “I think you were wrong.”
I put my mouth close to his ear, so that my lips just brushed his flesh. “Are you saying that because you want to get into my broekies later this evening?” I leaned back because I loved to watch his pupils dilate as they always did when he was aroused. His eyes appeared so black that there was only a thin rim of blue remaining. “Because, just so you know, I wasn’t planning on wearing any.”
He groaned and lowered his head into his hands. Pleased with this reaction, I allowed myself a little smile and sat back in my seat.
∗ ∗ ∗
We had been at Sonskyn for six weeks and life settled into an easy routine. Nicca eventually stopped screeching like a girl about snakes in his bedroom and scorpions in the shower. Finty had progressed from plucking chickens to taking a rifle out into the veldt to hunt bok, accompanied by a smitten Jabu. It was almost possible to believe that life would continue in this way without interruption. Almost. But the remnants of the darkness were still within me, and in snickering, insidious voices, they whispered to me that this peaceful hiatus would not last.
The stables at Sonskyn were my domain. We had about twenty horses of various breeds and backgrounds. I kept them in as natural an environment as possible. They lived in the fields surrounding the farmhouse and had a strong herd structure. I had introduced a successful breeding program a few years earlier, which resulted in about twenty foals. Sonskyn horses were beginning to be known in the area. Horses that were born and bred on the kraal managed the steep terrain, rocky ground, dry winters and local diseases much better than those introduced to the area. I took great delight in showing Nicca my strong, sure-footed trail horses. They came to greet me like a group of children in the playground vying for attention, pushing each other aside and nudging me playfully.
“Saddle up and I’ll take you somewhere we can swim,” I said.
Nicca selected a strong, broad-shouldered stallion. Conscious of the danger facing us, he slung a rifle across the saddle. I placed a pistol in my saddlebag and double-checked that my dagger was in the pocket of my culottes.
“You can’t swim in still water here because of a parasite called bilharzia,” I explained when, after about an hour’s ride, we reached our destination. The waterfall was small in comparison to some in the mountain range, but the plunge pool was ideal for swimming. “It’s fine to bathe in moving water.” Before I’d even finished speaking, Nicca was stripping off his clothing. “What happened to that starched-up Englishman I met a few months ago?” I asked, eying his splendid, naked physique in some surprise as he dived into the water.
“You happened to me, Annie,” he said, surfacing and brushing the water out of his eyes. “Now get those clothes off and come and join me.”
“Ja, meneer,” I said with mock docility. I removed my clothes slowly, taking time to fold them neatly, enjoying the sensation of Nicca’s impatient eyes upon me.
The water was deep and cold, and the spreading mist from the roaring falls chilled my flesh further as I entered the rocky pool. Rainbows of sparkling colour and light met where the sun kissed the spray and ghostly forms danced in and out of the spreading droplets. We swam lazily in the pool and under the spray. Then we lost interest in swimming and turned our attention to kissing and touching and teasing each other to a point just short of frenzy.
When we finally left the water and dressed again, we spread a blanket on the riverbank, and lay wrapped in each other’s arms. The sun was making her journey into late afternoon when I raised myself on one elbow and studied Nicca’s face in the golden light. When was it that the planes and angles of his features had become as dear to me as my own? I felt my heart flood with a warmth so strong and comforting that it soaked into the pores of my very soul. Although he appeared to be dozing, a slight smile played about his lips, telling me that he was aware of my scrutiny.
“Nicca…”
“Hmm?” His voice was sleepy.
I wasn’t sure what I had been about to say, but, before I could speak, my body jerked suddenly and violently. I sat bolt upright. The pain in my head was sharp and unmistakable. In my mind, rain clouds gathered on an ominous horizon, and a huge dark bird flew overhead in eerie silence. Hot air tightened my lungs, ready to ignite my flesh like a lightning strike tearing open the night sky. The unseen shape of my worst nightmare loomed. Close enough to touch.
Nicca, his face registering his concern, sat up and drew me into his arms. The storm inside me began to recede. I concentrated on the rhythm of Nicca’s heart beneath my cheek and his breath against my temple. As always, his touch soothed me as nothing else could.
“Uther is here,” I said, and Nicca held me tighter as my limbs began to tremble uncontrollably.
“Here in Africa?”
“No, I mean he is here,” I scanned the ridges above us. “He is close. I can feel him. I think he can see us.”
∗ ∗ ∗
When Africa and I lost our temper, we both did it in spectacular fashion. But I had to concede that she had the advantage when it came to colour and drama. The early morning sky was the shade of raspberry sorbet splashed with vivid mango juice. By noon it was black as midnight and the wind had begun to wail in wild frustration, bending the trees in its path. Thunder drummed a wild tattoo and lightning whipped across angry skies. Drenching, soul-drowning rain poured from the dark grey canopy. As her scorching wrath boiled to a crescendo, my beloved homelan
d shrieked hateful words, flashed her sharp teeth and wept black and silver tears. Finally, spent, she breathed a heavy sigh and blew clouds across her silent skies as day slid into night.
“My God, Annie, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” There was a note of awe and worship in Nicca’s voice. I turned to him with pleasure. Africa was an acquired taste, but once she was in your blood, she never let you go.
“You might make a boer of that big fella of yours yet, Annie,” Ouma remarked, before I could say anything. “If you can ever get him to stop running away from spiders.”
The next morning, I enlisted Finty’s help to tend the flowerbeds at the front of the farmhouse. The previous day’s deluge had washed away the thin layer of earth and flattened the bright geraniums that Ouma so carefully nurtured. Kneeling on the hard ground, we carefully replaced each plant, anchoring the roots and patting fresh soil around them. It was a long job, but I had plenty to occupy my mind and Finty seemed similarly distracted. Ouma’s words echoed inside my head: I don’t want any more little bastards running around the place. Nicca and I had never talked about it, but we had been tempting fate. If truth be told, we had been laughing arrogantly in her face. Was he trying to trap me, I wondered briefly, hoping to tie me to him for life through his child? I shook my head impatiently, immediately dismissing the thought. That was unfair. Nicca was too honest for that sort of subterfuge, and, after all, it took two. I had been as reckless as him.
Pausing in my task, I ran a hand down over the flat plain of my belly. Uther was close. The invisible bond that drew us together was tightening. I didn’t know what he was planning, but I knew it would be devastating. I felt dark wings beat inside my head. I saw a malignant shape soaring over oceans, spreading across continents, cresting mountains even dragons would fear to climb. An unchained darkness waited to claim me, and the tears my Africa had just wept would be as nothing to the next storm I would have to face. Deal with that first, Annie. Everything else will have to wait.
Harlequin E Shivers Box Set Volume 4: The HeadmasterDarkness UnchainedForget Me NotQueen of Stone Page 29
