As for Cameron, he stood next to her, a stupefied smile on his face saying he couldn’t quite believe his luck.
Yes, Dallas thought, sharing their joy. Suddenly his look turned serious. ‘I hope you’ve done with philandering, young man. Virginia won’t stand for it.’
Cameron shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dare, ’ he replied in genuine amazement, as though he’d never strayed in his life. ‘She’d kill me.’
She would too, and rightly so. Dallas prayed that Cameron meant what he said. You didn’t mess with the affections of the Virginias of this world.
Once Cameron had gone back to work and Lorna exhausted herself talking about a ring, the wedding, getting garden and house ready, where the young couple would live and all the other female practicalities that men never think about, Dallas was, once again, left to his own devices. Suza hadn’t moved.
He asked himself the same question he’d put to Lorna earlier: ‘Where did all the years go?’ It seemed like only yesterday that she had introduced him to Cameron as a nine-month-old baby. Although aware Lorna was pregnant when he fled Scotland, he’d had no contact with her since then and assumed she must have hated him for the affair with her mother. Lorna was out of his life and he’d attempted to come to terms with that. The instantaneous feeling of love and desire to protect which flooded through him when he first saw Cameron had been joyfully grasped and held. Dallas loved his son instinctively and it seemed the feeling was immediately reciprocated.
Cameron had been told at an early age that Dallas was his real father. He also grew up knowing that he stood to inherit a title and huge estates should he choose to acknowledge the Marquis of Dumfries as his own flesh and blood. A child of Africa, he had grown to be a man of that continent too. Despite several trips back to Scotland with the family, Cameron could not relate to the formality, bad weather and what he considered to be the stupid rules and regulations of Britain’s upper class. Above all, he loved and respected Dallas.
At twenty-one, when he was entitled to take over responsibility for his Scottish inheritance, Cameron had to make a decision. The only guidance his parents gave him was that, whatever he chose to do, it would be for the rest of his life. If he elected to inherit the Marquis of Dumfries’s title and fortune, history would forever regard him as that man’s son. If not, there was no point in ruing his decision later. Although christened Cameron Keith Adair Kingholm, he never used that surname, preferring instead the Granger-Acheson which his true parents had adopted at the time of their marriage.
As usual if a dilemma arose, Cameron sought an answer in Zulu beliefs. It was no contest, really. A young man’s first loyalty was to his king, second to his chief and third to his father. Cameron didn’t have a king – Queen Victoria still ruled Britain’s empire– and anyway, he felt no allegiance to the British monarchy. The head of the Marquis’s Scottish clan, whoever that might be, would certainly constitute a chief but again, he felt no connection. For that matter, he had no idea which clan it was. What did strike Cameron, for the first time, was a strange similarity between the family clans of Scotland and tribal affiliations among the Zulus. What it boiled down to was that Dallas remained his father and Cameron had absolutely no intention of masquerading as another man’s son in order to gain property and title in a land in which he had no interest in living. The Granger-Acheson family were happy and better off than most so the prospect of greater wealth held little or no attraction. As for titles, Cameron was too practical to find them even remotely desirable.
The decision took him two hours and that was only because he felt his parents would expect careful consideration of his answer. Cameron knew what he wanted almost before the choice was put to him.
‘I’m staying here, ’ he announced with no preamble, walking into the room where his parents were sitting. ‘Do what you wish with my inheritance, Mother, I’ve no interest in it.’
‘Fine.’ She’d smiled up at him. ‘I’ll write to my lawyers in the morning. Charles has had his eye on that land for the last three years, ever since he sold his estates in Perthshire to pay the death duties on your grandfather’s estate. Anyway, since he and Charlotte now live there, selling it to them makes sense.’
Almost six years on and Cameron had never once regretted that decision. On the rare occasions he thought about it, it was with relief at choosing the path he had. Lorna had shown no disappointment and Dallas knew she felt none. In fact, the smile she’d given their son held a touch of deliverance, as if she’d been dreading an affirmative response.
Dallas heard the clip-clop of ponies and a crunch of wheels coming up the drive. Their trap was back from the Thukela railhead, a good forty miles away. ‘Lorna, ’ he called. ‘Torben’s here.’
TWO
Lorna came out onto the verandah just as the horses stopped. ‘Hello, you two, ’ she greeted Dallas’s son, and the plump, blonde young woman at his side. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘The road is as bad as ever.’ Torben jumped down and looked up at Lorna. ‘You’re looking radiant, if I may say.’
Lorna’s laugh tinkled. ‘You were here a few months ago. What did you expect, an old woman?’
Torben grinned; then, at a sharp word from the girl in the buggy, went to help her down. The two of them came back to the verandah, Torben going to his father and his wife greeting Lorna.
‘Hello, Ma.’
‘Gerda, darling. How well you look.’
Dallas smothered a smile. Lorna hated being called Ma.
‘What have you done to your leg?’ Torben asked.
‘Broke it. Damned steer fell on it.’
‘Where was Cam?’
‘He was there, ’ Dallas said lightly, though the implied criticism irritated him. Torben was always quick to find fault with Cameron. ‘I was just showing him what not to do.’
Torben raised his eyebrows.
‘It’s a clean break, ’ Dallas went on. ‘The plaster comes off tomorrow.’
Out of the corner of an eye he saw his daughter-in-law bearing down on him. She looked, he thought sourly, like a Dutch doll. Gingham dress with puffed sleeves and a ridiculously matching bonnet. All that was missing were the clogs. ‘Poppie.’ Gerda was bending to kiss his cheek, her near-white plaits swinging forwards and brushing his face.
Dallas resisted the urge to push them away. Try as he might, he had never taken to Gerda and just about everything she did annoyed him. Lorna tried hard but she too found it difficult to establish any kind of common ground with the girl.
‘How lovely you’re here.’ Lorna used the bright tone she always resorted to with people she didn’t particularly like but to whom she was obliged to be friendly. ‘Come, Gerda, we’ve done up the spare room since your last visit. I think you’ll find it most comfortable.’
Gerda followed her mother-in-law into the house. As he knew she would, Dallas heard the girl commenting on anything new and asking the inevitable question, ‘How much did it cost?’ This was a major sticking point with Lorna, who found the question vulgar.
‘You’ve had rain, ’ Torben commented, sitting next to his father. ‘The last five miles were rather boggy. When do they expect to finish the bridge at Bond’s Drift?’
Dallas braced himself. Whenever Torben prefaced a question with comment on the weather it meant he was working up to something else altogether. Last time, he’d wanted his father to invest in a harebrained scheme to grow roses commercially. He would not listen to reason – that the coastal climate was unsuitable. The visit ended with Torben cutting short his stay by three days.
‘It’ll be two or three years at best before the railway reaches Empangeni. As for rain, well, it certainly does nothing for the garden at this time of year, ’ Dallas replied, pointing deliberately to some past-their-prime rose bushes.
Torben ignored the comment.
Dallas persisted. ‘Any further developments with the nursery business?’
‘No. It had to be near a market and when I investigated the pote
ntial in Durban it became obvious that humidity brought too many pests and diseases. Frankly, it was too risky to guarantee a profitable return on any investment.’ Conveniently, Torben ignored the fact that he was repeating his father’s sentiments. ‘But there is something else I wish to discuss with you. Perhaps after dinner?’
‘Certainly, ’ Dallas murmured, dreading the prospect and the inevitable argument which would follow.
‘Excellent.’ Rising, Torben excused himself. ‘I’ll give Gerda a hand. Then I might ride out to find Cameron and Duncan.’
‘Duncan has gone to the stock sales. He won’t be back for a few hours yet.’
Torben nodded, smiled vaguely, looked at his fob watch, nodded again and went inside.
Dallas shook his head. Torben was, without doubt, the strangest man he’d ever known. He seemed to strive desperately for respectability. Perhaps the fact that he was illegitimate accounted for that. He had found it hard to accept that Dallas, his real father, had not married Jette. It wasn’t until his mother came back for him – in dubious company and obviously down on her luck – that the boy had begun to regard Lorna with any kind of acceptance.
Or maybe it was the manner in which his mother had died that caused his concern for outward appearances. He was too young to remember his mother when she had handed him over to Lorna and Dallas for safekeeping. The only memory he had of her was the wreck of a one-time beautiful woman who returned unexpectedly, eight years later, to try to take him back.
Jealous of their past association, and the subsequent connection between Jette and Dallas through their son, the man with her – Jeremy Hardcastle, once first officer on the steamship Marie Clare which carried them to Africa – had been adamant that Torben be returned to his mother. He wanted the boy with them so that, through him, he could exercise control over Jette. In the argument that followed, Jette was struck by a bullet meant for Dallas. Torben had witnessed the whole distressing scene.
Dallas acknowledged that such a memory would have a lasting effect on anyone. Added to that, the mother Torben fantasised about had been beautiful, rich, clever, stylish and respectable. The woman who returned for him was none of these things. Thinking Jette had been killed in West Africa, Lorna and Dallas had kept the truth about her from Torben – that his mother had no scruples and was, in fact, a professional thief. The harsh reality of her reappearance could well explain his need for social acceptance.
There was more of Jette Petersen in Torben than first impressions would indicate. After leaving Hilton College at the earliest possible opportunity, his involvement in get-rich-quick schemes invariably led to him owing money. Dallas learned, to his horror, that repaying a debt was not something Torben regarded as essential. He owed large sums to a great many people, influential people, who were not impressed with his ‘When this project is up and running I’ll pay back every penny’. Dallas covered his debts on numerous occasions – something Torben had come to take for granted.
Then there was Gerda, an Afrikaner. With Boer and British relations becoming more strained by the day over possession of land within South Africa, intermarriages were rare. Gerda’s parents had forbidden her to see Torben. Lorna and Dallas tried to convince their son that a full-scale war between the Boers and English-speaking South Africans was likely and that Gerda, not to mention her family, could well end up as enemies. The young couple’s answer to both arguments was to elope and marry. Torben had been twenty-two; Gerda, just sixteen. They were shunned by English and Afrikaners alike.
It wasn’t only her lack of years, or the fact that she was of Dutch descent, which made her difficult to accept. Gerda’s siblings were decidedly déclassés. One brother was in prison for murder – he’d taken a sjambok to a supposed friend during a drunken brawl and killed the man. A sister was reputed to be selling her favours to visiting sailors. Lorna tried hard to convince both herself and Dallas that Gerda’s family was not the girl’s fault. But her lack of social graces was made worse by the fact that she affected airs which only made the shortcomings more noticeable. Lorna once suggested to Dallas that Torben had married someone like Gerda so he could feel superior. It made sense in a strange kind of way.
For whatever reason, Torben appeared not to notice his wife’s behaviour. He continued to run up bills he couldn’t afford to pay and was constantly looking for new ways to make a fortune. The money left to him by his mother had long gone, frittered away on luxuries and ill-fated enterprises. Torben then assumed that his father would finance future ideas. When Dallas refused assistance for the rose scheme, he also warned his son that any further requests for monetary help might, or might not, be successful. If they were, the sum involved would be deducted from Torben’s inheritance. That’s where they had left it. And now, here he was, back with what was likely to be another madcap scheme and plea for backing.
Dallas was reasonably certain that it was not Torben’s intention to cheat. He was obsessed by the need to make money– lots of money– which inevitably blinded him to obvious impracticalities. That, plus the fact he was not partial to the idea of a day’s work, made him unreliable. Torben wanted the good things in life and he wanted them now. Gerda seemed to share his ambitions.
In the spare bedroom, Lorna was ready to scream.
‘Oh, I do so love the new carpet. How much was it? Where did you get it? We’re thinking of recarpeting. ’Gerdaheld up a dress. ‘Do you like it? It cost nearly ten pounds.’
‘Does it fit?’ Lorna eyed the slinky blue garment with ill-disguised disbelief. Low cut with a tiny waistline, a girl of Gerda’s proportions would look as if she’d been poured into it.
‘Of course it does, Ma. The things you say. I’ll wear it tonight. It goes so well with the sapphire necklace Torben bought me. Have you seen it? No matter, I’ll wear the necklace as well. I do so like to dress for dinner.’
Torben appeared at the doorway and Lorna thankfully escaped, saying something about checking on Mister David. She went briefly to the verandah. ‘Prepare to be amazed, ’ she told her husband. ‘Gerda’s latest outfit will drive you insane with lust.’ She grinned at his expression and disappeared back inside.
Mister David appeared beside Dallas carrying a bowl of mealie meal for Suza. The dog rose, stretched, broke wind, and moved off to where he knew his meal was going. ‘It is time for you to come inside, ’ Mister David told his employer, in a tone that implied a negative response would not be tolerated.
Dallas gave him one anyway. ‘Soon.’
‘Now, if you please. The air is cooling and your leg will know it.’
Dallas had no argument against that logic. ‘Oh, very well. Help me up.’
Mister David moved forwards. ‘That is why I am here, ’ he said simply, slipping an arm behind Dallas and bringing him to his feet. ‘Pick up your stick.’
‘Bully.’ Dallas could not keep the asperity from his voice.
His cook and long-time friend heard it and smiled. They walked slowly to the western corner of the verandah. ‘You see the sun?’
‘Yes.’ Dallas knew what was coming but would never deprive Mister David of his delight in dispensing his unique brand of wisdom.
‘It will set without your help.’
‘I know, old friend. It is not pride that makes my temper short. It’s ...it’s ...’
‘The cow is in the field but the bull is kept at the kraal. He knows what he wants to do but is unable to do it. You are like that bull.’
Dallas laughed. Frustration was the word he’d been searching for. How like Mister David to put it so well.
Inside, they encountered Gerda. ‘Poppie.’ She swept up to him. ‘Let me help.’
‘I’m fine, ’ he said sharply. ‘Mister David knows what to do.’
Gerda’s eyes flicked to the Zulu. ‘But he is a Kaffir.’
This derision was typical of her race, Dallas thought. It made his blood boil the way she spoke of Mister David or other servants, often in front of them, with no regard for their feelings. He’
d taken her to task about it once but the attitude was so deeply entrenched she’d paid no heed. ‘I’m fine, Gerda, ’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you see if Lorna needs a hand with anything?’
As she left in search of Lorna, Dallas favoured Mister David with raised eyebrows and a wry smile. ‘As usual, I find myself apologising for my daughter-in-law.’
‘I have told you many times, nkosi, ’ Mister David said, helping Dallas to his armchair, ‘the Zulu way is patience. For as long as we allow misunderstanding to continue, we remain empty. Emptiness brings abuse. It is not her fault, nor yours. It is ours.’
‘Patience, in your case, my friend, could be construed as defiance. You tried that once, ’ Dallas said, referring to the ZuluWar. ‘Look where it got you.’
‘That is different.’
‘So you say.’
Mister David smiled. ‘We can be very patient. In the end, it will win the respect of all white people. In the meantime, we can respect ourselves.’ He gently placed Dallas’s leg on a footstool. ‘Do not feel bad about MasterTorben’s wife. She is guilty of ignorance, nothing more.’
Dinner that night was indeed an amazing experience. Gerda was bursting out of her slinky blue dress with sequined bodice, set off by a sapphire necklace which would not have been out of place at a ball, and had tried to complement the outfit with earrings, shoes and a shawl, none of which were of the same blue, nor indeed came anywhere near it. Torben glowed with pride when his wife joined them for drinks in the drawing room. ‘Blue suits you, darling, ’ he told her.
By comparison, Lorna’s practical cream-patterned tea gown, plain buckle-up soft leather shoes and caramel-coloured shawl were all delightfully understated. As a last-minute kindness to her daughter-in-law, she had pinned a small pearl brooch to the collar of her gown and added tiny matching drop-earrings. The gesture went unappreciated. ‘You’re wearing pearls, Ma. They’re a little plain for me.’
Footprints of Lion Page 3
