The final five days on board Carnarvon Castle felt like another life for Celia, who threw herself into this heady adventure with the enthusiasm of someone who so badly wants to forget the world beyond the bows of the ship. On her secluded island of cabins and decks she delighted in her brief affair. Rafael O’Rourke was a sensitive and tender lover, and Celia found solace as well as a new vitality in the arms of this man who had no connection whatsoever with her family and the tragedies which had befallen it. She was able to detach from the person she really was and be someone else entirely. Someone happier, more carefree; someone closer to the untroubled girl she had once been.
In public they put on a charade of being nothing more than acquaintances. They greeted one another formally as they passed in the corridor or when they found themselves seated at next-door tables in the lounge. Rafael performed in the bar in the evenings and Celia sat at her usual table in the corner, sipping champagne and listening to the sad melodies that he sang in his rich and touching voice, only for her. In public they were strangers, but their eyes met across the room and their gazes burned, and when they found themselves alone at last in Celia’s cabin they fell on each other.
At night they escaped to the deckchairs and lay in the dark, watching the stars of the Southern Cross shining brightly above them and sharing the story of their lives. As the boat gently rocked and the wind swept over the decks they lay entwined, warm from their bodies pressed together and the excitement of these stolen moments running through their veins. But five days was all they had and soon the sight of Table Mountain emerged out of the dawn mist to herald the end of their voyage and the final moments of this short chapter of their story.
Celia, so sure that she would walk away with her heart intact, found herself clinging to Rafael with a rising sense of loss. She didn’t know whether her fear came from the uncertainty of where she was going and what she was going to find when she got there, from the abrupt return to real life or from the shock of their parting and the fact that they might never see each other again. He kissed her one last time, caressed her face with heavy, sorrowful eyes as if committing her features to memory and told her he would try with all his might to forget her, lest the rest of his days be dogged by longing. Then he was gone.
Celia was left with the emptiness in her heart bigger and louder than before, because, for a blissful five days, Rafael had filled it. He had made her forget who she really was and what she carried inside her. But now that she was alone again she had no alternative but to accept her position, step off the boat and face with fortitude whatever Fate threw at her. She had survived so much already, she could survive this.
It was early autumn in Cape Town, but for Celia it could have been midsummer because the sun was hotter than it ever was in England. The sky gleamed a bright sapphire blue and not a single cloud marred its breathtaking perfection. The light possessed a fluid quality which Celia found instantly uplifting and she turned her attention away from the shadows that preyed on her fears and squinted in the sunshine.
The city itself was tidy and clean, a sprawling mass of pale-coloured, Dutch-style houses simmering at the foot of the flat-topped mountain which resembled a giant’s table. Having made a game of hiding from Sir Leonard and Lady Akroyd on the boat Celia was now pathetically grateful for their company as they escorted her down the gangplank and through the throng of heaving people to their chauffeur-driven car. They would deliver Celia to the Mount Nelson Hotel where she would stay for one night, and then make sure she arrived safely at the train station and wave her on her way to Johannesburg the following morning.
Celia, who was not unacquainted with American jazz singers at her mother’s Salons in London, had never seen quite so many black people all in one place before. The noise was deafening as they touted for hotels and offered to carry luggage, shouting in their eagerness to be hired in a language Celia didn’t recognize. Long-legged Zulus with ebony skin in flamboyant, brightly coloured costumes with vast feather-and-bone headdresses offered rides in their rickshaws and small boys scampered among the weary travellers, selling newspapers, sweets and fruit. The place smelt of humidity and dust and the salty flavour of the sea.
Celia was relieved to reach the calm seclusion of the Akroyds’ plush Mercedes and sat by the window gazing out onto this famous city which, Sir Leonard told her importantly, was ‘the gateway to British South Africa’. She imagined her father arriving here as a boy of only seventeen and wondered at his courage and readiness for adventure. She remembered Sir Leonard’s anecdote about the shirt and was confident that she would find evidence very soon to disprove Aurelius Dupree’s outrageous story. She didn’t doubt that the man was a liar; she simply had to prove it.
Cape Town was bustling with activity as the city awoke, stretched and set off to work. Cars weaved in and out of the double-decker trams while men in jackets and hats rode bicycles or hurried along the pavements on foot. Flower-sellers set up their stalls on street corners and shopkeepers opened for business. Horses and carts carried goods to sell, plodding slowly over the asphalt, and in the background Table Mountain shimmered in the morning sunshine like a large step to Heaven. As the Mercedes motored slowly up Adderley Street Sir Leonard gave Celia a brief history of the city in which he was clearly very proud to live and Celia opened her window wide and looked out onto the main thoroughfare of grand buildings, shops and restaurants and tried to imagine what sort of place it had been when her father had first seen it.
They delivered Celia to the very British Mount Nelson Hotel, which was positioned directly beneath Table Mountain, where she stayed for one night. The following morning Sir Leonard and Lady Akroyd saw her onto the train and insisted that she come and stay for a few days at the end of her trip. ‘There’s so much more for you to see,’ said Edwina. ‘You can’t come all this way and not see a single animal. I’m sure Leonard could persuade you to come out into the bush.’ Celia thought of the lion which had torn Tiberius Dupree apart and decided that she’d rather stay in the city than venture out into the bush.
The whistle blew and the Akroyds were enveloped in a cloud of steam. The train pulled out of the station and Celia set off for Johannesburg.
Celia gazed out of the window in wonder at the vast landscape. Never before had she felt so small beneath such a colossal sky. The train puffed its way through the flat and verdant plains of rich farmland where occasional dwellings stood, bathed in sunshine. A little boy tending a herd of oxen waved as she passed, his naked torso gleaming like ebony in the early autumn light. Far away in the distance, bordering the veldt, an arresting range of mountains seemed to rise out of the earth like gigantic waves of grey rock, quivering on the horizon in the heat. Soon the veldt rose into craggy hills of low scrub and the train meandered along the valley which eventually gave way to a wide-open landscape of dry grassland. The mountains retreated and only the sky falling softly onto the horizon shimmered in their place.
That night Celia slept fitfully in her compartment. She missed Rafael O’Rourke and wondered whether he missed her too, or whether, as she suspected, affairs were an unavoidable part of being a famous musician – a way of avoiding loneliness, which was undoubtedly also part and parcel of being on tour. Celia feared being alone. She feared the strange rhythmic noise of the train and the unsettling sound of other passengers walking in the corridor outside her room and talking in muffled voices the other side of her wall. Yet, in spite of her fears, the movement finally rocked her into a reluctant sleep.
At last she arrived at Park Station in Johannesburg, a little stiff due to the hard mattress and raw from having slept a shallow, fretful sleep. This station was very different from the stately and immaculate station in Cape Town. It was very large and noisy and teeming with people jostling past each other impolitely. Her father’s old Afrikaner foreman, Mr Botha, was on the platform to meet her as she had arranged and because he was so tall she saw him a head above the masses, wading his way through the crowd, waving his hand in greeting. He was a large, woolly-haired man in a pair of voluminous khaki shorts with long white socks pulled up over bulging calves and scuffed brown lace-up boots on his feet. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt tucked in beneath a swollen, spherical belly and a white bush hat placed squarely above big fleshy ears. Celia imagined he must surely be in his sixties, but the thick layer of fat that covered him, as well as his bushy white beard, made him look a great deal younger. ‘You must be Mrs Mayberry,’ he said cheerfully in a strong Afrikaans accent and extended a large, doughy hand. ‘It’s a murra of a leka dag,’ he said. ‘A lovely day,’ he translated.
She shook his hand and smiled back with gratitude. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said, feeling immediately reassured by the confidence of this exuberant man.
‘I can see the family resemblance,’ he said, looking her over. ‘You have your father’s eyes. The same blue. He was a great man, your father,’ he added, giving a meaningful nod. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you. It was all terribly sudden.’
‘From what I know of Digby Deverill, he wouldn’t have wanted a long, drawn-out death. Too early, certainly, but it would have been the way he’d have chosen to go.’
‘I think you’re right, Mr Botha.’
‘Come, let me help you with that.’ He lifted her suitcase with ease, as if it were a child’s toy. ‘Now, I’m sure you’d like to freshen up in your hotel before we get down to business. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into Jo’burg’s finest, the Carlton Hotel. I think you’ll find it very comfortable. Then a nice lunch.’ He set off down the platform and Celia had to walk fast to keep up with his long strides. ‘This is your first time in South Africa, I believe.’
‘It is,’ she replied.
‘You’ve come a long way, Mrs Mayberry.’
‘I hope it is worth the journey.’
‘It is sure to be,’ he replied encouragingly. ‘You said you need to look into your father’s past. Well, there is no one better than me to help you, Mrs Mayberry, and I am at your service.’
Opened in 1906 the Carlton Hotel was grand in scale and harmoniously classical in design, with shutters and iron balconies that reminded Celia of Paris. Her suite was big and comfortable and she was relieved to be back in luxurious surroundings familiar to her. She unpacked her clothes and bathed, humming happily to herself. After her bath she changed into a light summer dress and ivory-coloured cardigan, which she hooked casually over her shoulders. She felt quite restored after the long train journey and stood a moment at the window gazing out onto this foreign city which had once been home to her father. Below, a double-decker tram made its way slowly along the track on Eloff Street while a few cars motored up and down in a stately fashion, their round headlights catching the sunlight and glinting. Celia’s confidence increased for Mr Botha was sure to dismiss Aurelius Dupree’s story as invention. She was certain that she would be able to return home with her head held high – for the truth would unquestionably vindicate her faith in her father. Aurelius Dupree would crawl back into the hole out of which he had slid and never trouble her again.
Mr Botha arrived in his car to take Celia to lunch. The restaurant was an elegant, Dutch-style building designed around a wide courtyard of shady trees and pots of red bougainvillea. Autumn was already turning the leaves on the branches but the sun was still hot and the air heavy with the lingering scent of summer. They sat at a table in the garden, shielded by the yellowing leaves of a jacaranda, and Celia felt very much herself again after a large glass of South African wine. Mr Botha was only too happy to tell her about the young Lucky Deverill and the early days before he made his great fortune. ‘You knew him right from the beginning?’ Celia asked.
‘I did and we remained in contact right up until he died, Mrs Mayberry. Your father was never still. He was a gambler all through his life. He liked nothing better than to take a risk. He wasn’t called Lucky for nothing, now, was he?’
When they had finished their main courses, Celia felt it was time to ask the question she had come all the way to South Africa to ask. ‘Mr Botha, may I speak plainly?’
‘Of course.’ He frowned and the skin on his forehead rippled into thick folds.
‘I presume you know of the Dupree brothers?’ she asked.
‘Everyone has heard of the Dupree brothers, but I knew them well. Tiberius was killed by a lion and his brother, Aurelius, was sentenced to life for his murder.’ He shook his head. ‘They were a rum pair of losers.’
‘Did my father tell you about the letters Aurelius sent him, just before he died?’
‘No, he didn’t. What was in them?’
Celia, now utterly confident of her father’s innocence, was ready to share the contents. ‘Aurelius accuses Papa of murdering his brother.’
Mr Botha looked satisfyingly appalled. ‘That’s a lie. Your father wasn’t a murderer.’
Celia took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that. Even though I never doubted him.’
‘Your father wasn’t an angel either,’ he said, digging his chins into his sunburnt neck. ‘They were hard times back then and competition was heavy. A man had to have a certain cunning – a certain craftiness – to succeed. But murder was not something Lucky Deverill would have dirtied his hands with.’
‘Aurelius told me about the hunt for the man-eating lion. He said that three men were with the white hunter. Spleen, Stone Heart and McManus. I would like to talk to them.’
Mr Botha shook his head. ‘They are dead, Mrs Mayberry,’ he said.
‘Dead? They’re all dead?’
‘Ja, all dead,’ he confirmed.
‘Aurelius accuses Papa of cheating them twice. Firstly, when he registered the company Deverill Dupree and took the greater share and secondly, when he bought them out and promised them shares—’
‘Let me make one thing clear, Mrs Mayberry,’ Mr Botha interrupted stridently. ‘Yes, Mr Deverill registered the company Deverill Dupree in his favour, but that was because he had won the land in a card game, so it was right that he should have fifty-one per cent to their forty-nine. As for the shares, ja, I know all about that too. They wanted to sue, but really, they didn’t have a case. They signed all the papers willingly and Mr Deverill paid them more than he believed it was worth at the time. How was he to have known that De Beers would buy it for millions? People are greedy, Mrs Mayberry, and those Dupree brothers were worse than most.’
‘So Papa didn’t cheat them . . .?’
‘He certainly did not.’
Celia sat back in her chair. ‘Can you give me evidence to prove this odious man wrong? I’m afraid he is trying to blackmail me.’
‘I will give you copies of the very documents they signed,’ said Mr Botha. He flicked his fingers for the waiter and asked for another bottle of wine. The sun was hot, the restaurant elegant and he was enjoying reminiscing about a man whom he had held in the highest respect.
‘What was Papa like as a young man, Mr Botha?’ Celia asked, light-headed with relief to have her father’s innocence confirmed.
‘He was a big character. When he came out here he had very little to his name. He had lived a life of privilege, but he was the youngest of three brothers so he had to make his own way. He didn’t want to go into the Army or the Church, or indeed to follow in his father’s footsteps and work in the financial world, that sort of life would have bored him. He wanted adventure. He wanted a challenge. Not only did he have a good brain, a sharp brain, he had guile. You should have seen him at the gambling table. I don’t know how he did it, but he rarely lost and even when he did, he looked like he was winning. No one had a better poker-face than Digby Deverill.’
Celia watched the waiter fill her glass. She was already feeling pleasantly tipsy. ‘And what of love, Mr Botha? Did my father have love affairs? When I was going through his office I looked at old photographs of him and he was such a handsome man. I bet half the women out here fell in love with him.’
‘They certainly did,’ said Mr Botha with a belly-laugh. ‘But do you know who he loved the most?’
‘Tell me,’ said Celia, smiling at him encouragingly.
‘A coloured woman he called Duchess.’
‘Coloured? Isn’t that black?’ she asked, fascinated.
‘Half black, Mrs Mayberry. Your father fell in love with a beautiful coloured woman.’
‘What happened to her?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She lived in a township just outside Joburg. If she’s still alive she probably lives there now. Your father was a lady’s man, that’s for certain, but he was Duchess’s man in his heart. She was his great love for about three years. I imagine there was no secret he kept from her.’
‘I want to meet her,’ said Celia suddenly. ‘I want to meet this mystery woman my father loved. She’ll know him better than anyone, won’t she?’
Mr Botha shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he said and there was something shifty about the way he lowered his eyes and swilled the wine about in his glass. ‘I’m not even sure she still lives there. We might never find her.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I can find you more interesting people to meet who knew your father. Men of distinction—’
‘No, I want to meet her,’ she said. ‘Come on, Mr Botha.’
‘It was forty years ago.’
‘I know and of course she’s married and had children and probably grandchildren, who knows, but wouldn’t it be important for me to meet her? If my father loved her once, I’d very much like to see her. She must know so much about that time. I’ve come a long way and I’m not going home without turning over every stone.’
‘Your father had other women, too . . .’ he added uneasily, but Celia was undeterred.
‘I know about Shapiro’s wife,’ she said.
Mr Botha nodded. ‘Yes, he had her too.’
‘But Duchess . . .’ She shook her head and drained her glass. ‘I’d like you to take me to see her, Mr Botha.’
‘I think you should think twice about digging into your father’s past,’ he warned. ‘You might discover things you wished you hadn’t. They were rough times back then. You had to be tough to succeed.’
‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ said Celia, standing up.
And so it was with great reluctance that Mr Botha drove Celia out of the elegant city and into the shabby, dusty township of simple wooden huts, corrugated-iron roofs, dry mud tracks and narrow shady alleyways. Celia had never seen such poverty even during the worst of times in Ireland and her exuberance evaporated in the late-afternoon heat. Skinny dogs loped over the red earth hunting for food while men in mining caps with dirty faces bounced about in the back of horse-drawn carts on their way home from the mines. Women in brightly coloured headscarves chatted in the shade while half-naked, barefooted children played happily in the sunshine. A man, clearly drunk, staggered in front of the car and Mr Botha had to stamp his foot on the brakes to avoid running him over.
As the car drove slowly over the dusty ground people emerged from their huts and stared with curiosity at the shiny vehicle. The whites of their eyes gleamed brightly against the rich colour of their skin and Celia gazed back, transfixed. She remembered Adeline’s passion for feeding the poor of Ballinakelly and now, on seeing for herself the desperate quality of these people’s lives, she understood Adeline’s need to make a difference.
Soon the car was being followed by a small group of excited children. They ran alongside, daring each other to touch the metal, shouting in a language that Celia didn’t understand. ‘I wish I had something to give them,’ she said to Mr Botha.
‘If you did, you’d never have enough,’ he said flatly. ‘Besides, you feed one and you have every child in the entire township begging for food.’
After a while, Mr Botha, now sweating profusely, was clearly lost. Celia recognized a street they had already been down. Not wanting to make him nervous she decided to pretend that she hadn’t noticed, but when they drove down it for the third time she knew she had to say something. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t been here for years, Mrs Mayberry. I seem to have lost my bearings.’ He buried his hand in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a handkerchief with which he proceeded to pat his damp brow.
‘Why don’t you ask someone?’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure these children will help us.’ She grinned at them through the window and they smiled back with eagerness.
Mr Botha was reluctant to speak to the ‘natives’ but he knew he had no choice. Besides, if he didn’t know where he was, how would he ever find his way out? He stopped the car and asked the children now crowding round where Mampuro Street was. They all pointed enthusiastically and then started running ahead of the car, shouting and laughing at each other.
Mr Botha followed at a gentle pace, only to discover that he had been a couple of streets away all along. Recovering his bearings he put the handkerchief back in his pocket and motored down the track, pulling up outside a small brown hut with a simple wooden door and two glass windows. ‘Is this where she lives?’ Celia asked, climbing out of the car. The children retreated, forming a semicircle around the car, watching the beautiful blonde lady in the long flowing dress and T-bar shoes with large, curious eyes.
Mr Botha knocked on the door. There came a rustling sound from within, then the door opened and an eye looked cautiously out through the crack, accompanied by the pleasant smell of smoke. A woman’s voice said something that involved a string of words Celia didn’t understand interspersed by sharp clicks of the tongue. Then she seemed to recognize Mr Botha and the door opened wider. She shuffled out on her bare feet in a heavy, brightly coloured shweshwe dress and matching turban and craned her neck to take a closer look. On her face she had painted an array of white dots. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you, Duchess,’ said Mr Botha.
Duchess turned to Celia. When she saw her the woman straightened up and a curious expression took over her face. She stared for a long moment without blinking and her lips twitched with indecision. Then the shock turned to curiosity. She glanced warily at the children who quietly scampered off and lowered her voice. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
‘I will come with you,’ said Mr Botha, but Celia raised a hand.
‘No, please wait in the car,’ she said. Mr Botha was not happy but he did as she requested. Celia followed the older woman into the dim interior of the hut. It was cool inside and crammed with potted plants of varying colours. There was a straw mat on the floor, a wooden table and a few chairs. The walls were painted bright blue and there was a shelf, laden with objects and a few books, above an open fireplace. Celia looked through into the other room where there was a bed positioned beneath a small window that gave onto the back of another rough dwelling. On the wall above the bed was a wooden cross, which took Celia by surprise. She hadn’t imagined this woman to be Christian.
She was about to introduce herself, but the woman gesticulated to a chair with long, elegant fingers. ‘I know who you are,’ she said in a heavy accent, sitting down opposite and picking up her long-handled pipe which she had been smoking. She was a full-bodied woman with strong arms and voluptuous breasts, greying hair just visible beneath her turban and a gauntness about her cheeks which betrayed her age, but Celia could see that she had once been beautiful. Her eyes were the colour of shiny brown conkers and slanted like a cat’s. When she looked at Celia they possessed a certain haughtiness which Celia imagined had earned her the name Duchess. Indeed, her skin was smooth and unlined, her cheekbones high and her eyebrows gracefully arched, giving her an air of nobility. Her full lips curved in a pretty bow shape and her teeth were very big and white. ‘You are Digby Deverill’s girl,’ she said, running her intense gaze over Celia’s features. ‘I would recognize you out of a thousand women,’ she added. ‘It’s the eyes. I’d know them anywhere.’
‘I am Digby’s daughter,’ said Celia, smiling. ‘I’ve just arrived in South Africa and I wanted to meet you.’
The woman clicked her tongue. ‘How is your father?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid he died,’ said Celia quietly. The woman blinked in horror and her head fell back a little, as if she had just been slapped. ‘It was a terrible shock for all of us,’ Celia explained, suddenly questioning her wisdom in coming. ‘He was still young and full of life.’ She proceeded to tell Duchess how he had died because the woman’s grief prevented her from speaking. While Celia chattered on Duchess’s long fingers played about her trembling lips.
Eventually her eyes, now heavy with sorrow, settled on Celia. ‘So, you want to see me because I knew your father?’
Celia was embarrassed and lowered her gaze. What right did she have to turn up uninvited and dig up this woman’s past without knowing anything about it? ‘Yes, I want to know who he was. From what Mr Botha tells me, you knew him better than anyone.’
Duchess’s eyes seemed to gather Celia into their thrall. Celia stared back, powerless to look away. It was as if the woman was a vault of secrets which was on the point of being opened. ‘Your father betrayed everyone around him,’ she said softly, blowing out a puff of blue tobacco smoke. ‘And he betrayed me. But God knows, I’ve never loved anyone like I loved Digby Deverill.’
‘He betrayed you?’ Celia asked, astonished. The feeling of reckless happiness which had been brought on by the verification that her father wasn’t the murderer of Aurelius Dupree’s story now crumbled and she felt the sickening fear return as shadows swallowing the light. ‘I’m sorry . . . perhaps I shouldn’t have come.’ She made to get up.
‘No, perhaps you should not have. But as you are here you might as well stay.’ Celia remained on the chair wishing very much that she could leave. But Duchess had waited more than forty years to tell her story and she was determined to have her say. ‘God has sent you to my door, Miss Deverill. I wondered whether I would ever see your father again. But the years passed and our story faded like dye in sunlight, but not for me. My heart loves now as it loved then and it has not learned otherwise. So, you will not leave with nothing, Miss Deverill. You came to see me for a reason and I am glad you have come.’ She pressed her lips to the pipe and Celia noticed the glass-beaded bracelets around her wrists and necklaces hanging over her breasts in elaborate designs of many colours. ‘My name is Sisipho, which means ‘gift’ in Xhosa, but your father called me Duchess. He said I was beautiful and I was then, Miss Deverill. I was as beautiful as you are.’ She lifted her chin and her sultry eyes blazed with pride. ‘Your father was a gentleman. He always treated me with respect, not like other white men treat black women. He listened to me. He made me feel like I was worth something. He even took me around Johannesburg in a horse and buggy.’ She pressed her fist to her heart. ‘He made me feel valued.’ She nodded in the direction of the bookshelf. ‘Those books you see there. He taught me English and he taught me to read. Digby gave them to me and I have read them all a hundred times. He spoiled me. He made me feel special and I was special, to him.’ Celia wondered if anyone since had made her feel special. From the way she was now wiping her eyes with those impossibly elegant fingers Celia doubted it. ‘He shared all his secrets with me. I knew everything and I have kept those secrets for over forty years. But I don’t want to die with them. They’re a heavy burden to carry through the gates of Heaven, Miss Deverill. I’m going to give them to you.’
Celia did not want to carry the burden of Duchess’s secrets either, but she had no choice. Duchess was determined to relieve herself of them. She puffed on her pipe and the smoke filled the room with a sweet, persistent smell. ‘Digby won a farm in a game of cards. He was so good at reading people that he rarely lost. He’d come and tell me all about it. About the foolish men who lost everything they had at the gambling tables. Not Digby. He wasn’t foolish like them. He was clever and he knew it. He knew he was going to make money. He wanted to go back to London a rich man. Men would do anything to make their fortunes here. Your father was no different.’ She chuckled and for the first time Celia saw how her face glowed like a beautiful black dahlia when she smiled. ‘And he did go back to London a rich man. A very rich man.’ Now she narrowed her eyes and her smile turned fiendish. ‘But he was ruthless, Miss Deverill. Your father didn’t make his fortune Moses’ way. No, he broke a few Commandments on the path to prosperity. After all, if he had been a virtuous man he would not have loved me.’ Celia watched in fascination as this woman enlivened in the brilliance of her memories. She laid them out before her as if they were treasures, stowed away for decades and now displayed all bright and glittering for the only person interested in looking at them. And all the while her eyes shone with zeal as the words came tumbling out.
‘But Digby didn’t care what other people thought and he came to see me all the same. He told me about his winnings and he spent some of it on me.’ Her eyes were misting now as she remembered the good times. ‘He’d rush in all excited, like a boy with a present for his mama, and I’d scold him for spending money on me when he should have been saving what he had for the mines he was going to build. He didn’t trust his own kind. White men – they might steal his diamonds, his money, but he trusted me. I knew he was going to strike it rich. I could see it in his ambition. If anyone was going to make it rich it was Digby Deverill – and there were thousands of men like him, with ambition and desire, all digging in the same place, but somehow I knew Digby would make it. He had the luck of the Devil. So, having won the farm north of Kimberley he and two others went to look for diamonds there and they found them.’
‘Mr Botha told me about this,’ said Celia, with rising interest. ‘Tiberius and Aurelius Dupree.’
Duchess shook her head and the beads that hung from her ears swung from side to side. ‘Those boys were no match for Digby,’ she said proudly. ‘Their biggest mistake was in trusting him. But he looked like an angel with those big blue eyes and that halo of golden hair. He looked as innocent as a lamb. When he no longer needed them he got rid of them the old-fashioned way.’
‘What do you mean?’ Celia asked. The smoke suddenly seemed to turn to ice and envelop her in its chilly grip. ‘Tiberius was killed by a lion.’
Duchess watched Celia with a steady gaze. Her voice had a stillness about it now; even the smoke seemed to stagnate. ‘He didn’t die by a lion. He died by a bullet.’
‘Aurelius’s bullet,’ said Celia firmly. Her heart was thumping so violently now against her ribs that she had to put a hand there in an attempt to quieten it.
Duchess shook her head but this time the bead earrings did not move. ‘Captain Kleist’s bullet.’
Celia stared at her, eyes wide with terror. ‘Captain Kleist, the white hunter?’
‘He was a ruffian who fought in the Prussian army. He thought nothing of killing a man. He arranged the trip and he made sure that Tiberius’s death looked like it was an accident.’
‘But Aurelius was accused of his brother’s murder and spent four decades in prison.’
‘He didn’t do it,’ said Duchess matter-of-factly. ‘Digby framed him.’
Celia began to cough. The smoke was now choking her. She stood up and staggered to the door. Outside, the sun was setting and the air had turned grainy with dusk and dust and a cool breeze swept through the township bringing the relief of autumn. She leant against the doorframe and gasped. Mr Botha had fallen asleep in the car. His head was thrown back against the seat and his mouth was wide open. She could hear his snores from ten feet away.
So, her father was everything Aurelius Dupree had said he was. He had cheated the brothers, had one murdered and framed the other. She wanted to vomit with the shock of it. She wanted to expel what she had heard. How she wished she had never come.
‘So why did you love him?’ she demanded, striding back into the room.
Duchess was still sitting on her chair. She was delving into a bright beaded bag for tobacco for her pipe. ‘Because he was the Devil,’ she said simply. ‘No one is more attractive than the Devil.’ She grinned broadly and flicked her eyes up at Celia. ‘And he treated me like a duchess.’
Celia sat down again. She ran her knuckles across her lips in thought. ‘You said he betrayed you too,’ she said.
‘One day your father stopped coming to see me. He just disappeared from my world and I never heard from him again. Because of your father I was cast out of my community and disowned by my family. But I am a Christian woman now, Miss Deverill, and I have found it in my heart to forgive. I forgive them all.’
With a trembling hand Celia fumbled with the catch on her handbag. ‘I don’t have much but what I have left I want to give to you.’
Duchess put up a hand to stop her. ‘I don’t want your money. I never asked for anything from Digby and I won’t accept anything from you. I have told you my story.’
‘But I want to give you something. For keeping Papa’s secret.’
‘I kept it because I love him.’
‘But he can’t thank you himself.’
Duchess narrowed her eyes and grinned. ‘No, but I want to thank you for coming, child. I want to give you something. It was the year 1899 and my brother was a Piccanin working for an Afrikaner gold prospector who took him down to a farm in the Orange Free State. They said there was gold there. Lots of gold. But it was so deep they didn’t have the means to mine it. So I told Digby. You see, there was a farm for sale next door that belonged to a man named van der Merwe, and no one had thought to buy that. Digby was no fool and he knew that the land might be useless then but in years to come, he said, “Who knows what man might have created to dig deeper into the earth.” So he bought the land for nothing and it’s been sitting there, untouched, for years. Now I know that the mines around Johannesburg are going real deep now. Deeper than they ever did. Why don’t you think about digging there instead of digging into your father’s past, and if you find gold, then you can give me some.’