Bulawayo, South Africa
The Matopos Hills glowed an eerie dark red in the setting sun. This was no longer Matabeleland, but Rhodesia; and Bulawayo, the kraal of Chieftain Lobengula, was now part of the British South Africa Company’s charter lands, a British town under British government. Arcilla Chantry, now Mrs. Peter Bartley, walked along the crooked path that led away from the dusty garden of what was lightly named Government House toward some distant bungalows belonging to the Charter Company.
Arcilla glanced warily about, trying to peer into the rosy dusk descending like a secretive veil. The wind from the veld blew through the acacia trees. Did she hear a twig snap under someone’s stealthy foot?
She licked her dried lips and pushed ahead on the path toward the bungalows, which were still out of view. The bungalows lodged officials working under Dr. Leander Jameson for the BSA. Arcilla drew her lacy shawl about her shoulders and swallowed her fear. Then—She stood rigid on the path, her heart pounding thunderously. After the horrid death of Major Tom Willet …
A peacock strutted out and stood in the middle of the path, looking in her direction, its tail fanning into colorful splendor, as though to say, It’s me, proudly showing off the handiwork of God. You should rely on Him more.
A breath released from Arcilla’s lips. Everything about Africa frightened her. And those hills … She gazed off toward the Matopos again. If she wasn’t careful, as Peter had said, she would soon come to believe the “extraordinary nonsense” about those mountains and hills, which were held in superstitious reverence by the Ndebele and even some Shona. An evil spirit abode there, according to Derwent, possessing a girl called the Umlimo, who gave forth oracles to the tribe.
A ghostly breeze brushed against her skin, as though conjuring up from the dust a power to impede her way. She could almost hear the clacking bones of the demonic nganga “doctors.”
Arcilla hurried along the path through the narrowing line of acacia trees, glancing behind her. Catching her slipper on an embedded rock, she lost her balance and nearly fell. She regained her footing and hurried on.
How often she had asked Peter to tell the workmen to clear out the rocks. Was it too much to ask? But Peter!
Arcilla clutched the front of her shawl. Peter was busy with more important things for the Charter Company than to pay heed to her complaints.
The BSA! How she loathed the Company—Uncle Julien Bley, too. And that laconic Dr. Jameson, Rhodes’s chief spokesman here in Rhodesia. Yes, she loathed them all. Her dislike reached out to include her cousin Darinda Bley, Julien’s granddaughter. She disliked her because, like some wild, malicious flower, Darinda opened her petals and warmed to the ruthlessness that was Africa. Darinda was not afraid of anything this wretched land threw at her, and Peter too often noticed her courage while showing impatience with Arcilla.
I can’t help it, I don’t belong here. I belong to England, to its soft greens and gentle fog, to Rookswood and Chantry Townhouse.
With her fingers still grasping the front of her shawl, Arcilla walked more carefully along the serpentine path. Peter is unfair and selfish. Peter doesn’t really love me. I know he doesn’t. I should have married Charles—and Peter should have married Darinda.
Dear God, whatever am I going to do? I shall die here! I shall! I know it—
Arcilla half stumbled along the bumpy path again. This time the strap on her dainty slipper came off her heel. She stooped and slipped it back. She sniffed loudly and brushed her golden hair from her face. Peter had insisted she wear sturdier shoes like Darinda, but the very mention of her cousin provoked Arcilla’s stubborn streak. If Peter would just stop comparing everything she did to Darinda—
Miserable pathway. The workmen couldn’t even level out the dirt! The BSA had taken her husband from her, had stolen her peace of mind, had taken her life! I’m trapped here in this savage land with heathen and poisonous snakes and stinging centipedes and flying spiders—all of them are one and the same! Her loathing of everything around her shot adrenaline through her body, giving her the drive to press ahead down the darkening, constricting path.
Derwent had kindly told her to pray more, but what could she say to God when she hardly knew what God was like? Oh yes, she’d heard about Jesus. After all, hadn’t she grown up going to church in Grimston Way? But she couldn’t remember much of anything Vicar Havering had said. She had a Bible, but she hadn’t learned it well enough to know where to read. In those times she did turn to it, she seemed to lose interest upon reaching a list of “begots.” Oh, and Peter was no help at all! None. Peter didn’t know how to pray, either. Once she had asked him to pray before they retired to bed for the night, and he looked at her as though she’d suddenly developed green skin.
Beyond the trees, not nearly as far as they now seemed at dusk, stood a group of bungalows where members of the Bulawayo government were living. Oh to be home in England, safe. To raise her son at Rookswood under the secure counsel of that bastion of strength, Aunt Elosia.
A thought flashed through her mind. She remembered what Dr. Jakob van Buren had said when she’d attended his Sunday service once. Dr. Jakob had been invited to speak at Government House, and his message had not gone over well with those present. Uncle Julien had looked as though he wanted to toss him in the river while the crocodiles were feeding. And Peter had sat straight in his chair with an expression as leaden as the statues in the British Museum.
“Most people,” his voice had boomed, with a ragged Boer accent, “prefer their sin clothed with the latest style of sophistication. Pride puts on a pretty face and sits in the theater enjoying a symphony, and we say, ‘Oh, these are the good people of the civilized West.’ Oh, the raw sin of the naked savage with his doctrines of demons offends our finer natures—as well it should—and so we missionaries come with torches of light, which is God’s Word. A Word that reveals His Son Jesus Christ. For we are darkness in and of ourselves. We have no light apart from Him.
“Witchcraft unearths the rotting corpse called sin, and we sophisticates are offended! It is well we should be. But are we equally offended with our own sin? We are all sinners before a holy God, whether that sin is raw, and dark, and openly evil—or hidden behind silks and perfumes, lordly titles, and ambitious national goals for Her Majesty. And the sin of hypocrisy was firmly denounced when our Lord was on earth, but He had words of mercy for the woman taken in adultery!
“Ah yes. It took the willing death of Jesus on the cross to pay for our sin. Christ is the door to God, and that door is open wide for all to enter. If you come through that door, you will find that the Father of all creation has made you a new creature in Christ. That new spiritual birth is yours through faith in Jesus Christ.”
Arcilla shuddered. Oh! How Uncle Julien was offended! His face had been flushed with high blood pressure.
She hadn’t liked Dr. Jakob’s bluntness either. Imagine, comparing her little sins to the spooky brutality of witchcraft with bones, gizzards, and snakeskins!
Arcilla drew the shawl closer and lifted her chin, aware that her golden hair shone. She imagined herself a white princess in the starlight, slipping along the trail, waiting for the silvery moon to send moonbeams through her hair.
But the princess must now watch the dark, crooked path that tempted her feet to go astray. Yesterday she had come across a four-inch band of army ants. If she’d been careless and stepped on them, she would have been stung mercilessly. There might be a snake, too, one of those banded cobras, or the spitting kind that blinds with a stream of venom. She could never become used to such things, never. And to think Derwent Brown had said that the biblical Garden of Eden may have been in Africa! Bah! Everyone knew it had to have been in England. England, with its cool, misty weather and fragrant roses. Probably quite near Buckingham Palace, too, very close to where Queen Victoria ruled.
Here, on the Dark Continent, she must always be wary. Not merely of wild creatures, but worse. Oh, indeed, much worse. The Ndebele, those fearsome, sullen-faced cousins of the Zulus, whispering of the great days when Lobengula was their king leading them to great victories, were a constant threat.
Now the dark, naked giant was buried somewhere in the Matopos Hills, covered in piles of diamonds.
Arcilla loathed the sight of those mountains with their lower hills so near to Bulawayo. Derwent said the demons once had their way here at the kraal, and they now held cruel hatred toward those building a chapel where the name of Jesus was praised. That name, he said, could easily send demons fleeing in fear.
Was that true? It was all too much for Arcilla to fathom. Trying to make sense of it all made her head throb. Why must life be so difficult?
“All I want is a British cup of tea and a scone—as only the British servants at Rookswood can make them.”
And now, her baby son, born here. Sweet, precious little Charles Rogan Bartley! Eight pounds and thirteen ounces of sweet British baby fat! Ah, he was a Rhodesiani Oh … what would that mean when he grew up a handsome young man? Would he talk funny when he went to England? Arcilla could imagine all the ladies laughing behind his back.
My poor baby. My Poor Charles Rogan Bartley!
How Aunt Elosia wrote of her desire to hold him in her strong arms. Oh, for the nursery on the third floor of Rookswood.
Arcilla stopped so quickly her curls bounced on her forehead. She widened her blue eyes into circles.
A dozen crows, their black wings scarlet from the blazing summer sunset, cawed plaintively as they flew from the field alongside the path and disappeared into the thick grouping of acacia trees farther across the veld. The cawing and the beating of their black wings dried her mouth with sudden fear. Something was ahead that frightened them.
The crows settled into silence, bringing back the same dense African stillness across the veld that she loathed. The stillness closed in about her, smothering her. Someone is out there. Yes, someone on the path ahead just as it circles out of sight behind those monkeypod trees—
Voices!
Arcilla stood still on the pathway where a hedge towered above her. She was unable to see what lay beyond, but she could hear voices. She listened as angry speech cut the twilight—
“You have stolen my rights.”
“My dear, that is something you’ll need to discuss with Julien.”
“I have. He has this notion he’s made a promise to you he can’t go back on. That promise is unfair to me and my sister.”
“Cannot go back on his promise? Since when has Julien been concerned about keeping his word?”
“I resent that! He’s my grandfather—”
So, that must be Darinda Bley. But who was she arguing with?
“You are very much like him.”
“I take that as a compliment. My grandfather built the diamond dynasty with his wit and hard work. And I shall follow in his footsteps.”
“There are those on all sides of the family who would disagree with your assessment about who started the diamond business, or that Julien even deserves to be in control. One of those who could have been used in court if he were still alive was Carl van Buren, Katie’s father—and Evy’s grandfather. Evy van Buren, now Evy Chantry, has more right to the business than you, if the truth were known.”
“Lies. She won’t cheat me out of what’s mine, and neither will you!”
“No one wants to cheat you of anything that’s truly yours.”
“No? Then what do you mean to suggest?”
“I suggest you ask your grandfather. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”
“You won’t get by with this. I won’t let you push me aside and take over for your illegitimate daughter!”
“Is that some sort of threat?”
“You can take it to mean anything you wish. I won’t be disinherited. Somehow I’ll make my grandfather see he must change his will in my favor, not yours.”
“I have no doubt you’ll try. Good evening.”
There was a crunch beneath his shoes as he turned and left.
It was Anthony. Anthony Brewster. He’d arrived unexpectedly this morning to meet with Uncle Julien. Arcilla stepped behind a thorn tree and waited for Anthony to walk past on the path to Government House. She waited, but his footsteps faded instead of coming nearer, faded into an uneasy silence.
Arcilla drew her brows together. After another moment of waiting—where had he gone? Back to the bungalows? And where had Darinda Bley gone? At least one of them should have appeared on the path. Arcilla waited another minute, then assured that neither would appear, she stepped out from behind the thorn tree and continued on her way toward the bungalows.
Now, what was that argument between Darinda Bley and Lord Anthony Brewster about? Diamonds, I daresay. What else? It’s always something about family control over the beautiful, glittering diamonds.
She breathed deeply to settle her nerves. The fragrance of native flowers mingled with dust, filling her nostrils. The mixed fragrance brought a grimace, as did so much about Africa and its history, its beauty and brutality mingled.
Arcilla rehearsed in her mind the cool tension in Anthony’s voice, and the hot emotion in Darinda’s.
Upon the arrival of Lord Anthony Brewster, Arcilla envisioned a reprieve that would brighten her world of despair. Lord Anthony Brewster was bringing new orders for Peter from the British high commissioner’s office in Capetown. Looming in her mind was the expectation that Lord Milner would reassign Peter to home duty now that his father was ailing.
Arcilla had written the Home Office, requesting Peter be sent home. She was expecting Peter’s father to also request his son’s return. She’d written him twice, begging him to do so. She believed Anthony’s arrival was at least partly due to those letters.
She had written quite a different letter to Rogan, warning of Julien and Dr. Jameson’s plans to aid the Uitlanders in the Transvaal. She was sure Anthony had come to see Uncle Julien about that as well.
When Anthony had arrived that morning, she had been so hopeful! But as the day wore on, and there was no word from him, the waiting became excruciating. When she could endure no more, she had decided to come to Anthony’s bungalow to speak with him herself.
She hurried along the pathway between clumps of flowering shrubs and trees, thinking of Anthony … Anthony Brewster who was Evy’s father. What a shock that bit of news turned out to be! Anthony and Katie van Buren were her parents. And to think Anthony knew about Evy during those years in Grimston Way and never told her. Uncle Julien, too.
Was Darinda fearful of Evy or Anthony?
There was too much wind this evening. The vast stretch of the land lay dusty brown in the twilight. Even the birds were silent.
Julien had appeared positively stunned this morning when Anthony walked through the door. There must be a letter from Lord Milner, thought Arcilla, trying to understand what Anthony’s unexpected visit would hold.
Uncle Julien had good reason to be alarmed, plotting the way he did with Dr. Jameson. And then there was the whispering about the Black Diamond.
What would Peter do if he knew she’d sent that wire to Rogan about the meeting between Julien and Jameson? Would her action become the final wedge between her and Peter?
The path came to an acre of reddish-brown earth, now in shadow, and twisted past six widely spaced bungalows, where jacaranda and pepper trees grew. Beyond the bungalows was an incline of knee-high grasses and wildflowers that led down to a watercourse, where, at sundown, animals of all kinds congregated to quench their thirst.
Arcilla wisely stayed far afield from the watercourse.
She hurried across the swept yard to one of the bungalows that she’d learned was assigned to Lord Anthony while in Bulawayo. It was the empty one that sat farther back, with a rocky path down to the watercourse. She climbed wooden steps onto a screened porch. The lamps were on as twilight descended like a mantle. The door into the small drawing room stood open to let the breeze blow through and out the back windows.
Arcilla stopped on the porch, surprised. Darinda stood inside with her back toward the door, busy with something on Anthony’s desk. Arcilla glanced about the room and did not see Anthony. Had he returned here with Darinda? Had he gone on to the big house to keep his appointment—a meeting with whom?
“What are you doing, Darinda?”
Darinda turned quickly around from the table.
What was she doing back in Anthony’s bungalow after they had parted so angrily? Darinda was a lovely young woman who dared to wear riding pants and carry a pistol. Her smooth dark hair was pulled back and pinned up. Her eyes were a cool, self-possessed gray. Those eyes widened now as she stared at Arcilla, who realized she must look wild and wind-tossed, her face flushed from hurrying.
Should she let Darinda know she’d heard her arguing with Lord Anthony? Perhaps not.
Darinda quickly regained her poise.
“Hello, Arcilla. I’m surprised to see you out alone at twilight. I came to welcome Lord Anthony to Bulawayo. He’s not here. He went to keep a meeting.”
So she was willing to fib about getting on well with him.
Members of Dr. Jameson’s body of officers were living in the other bungalows. Which one did Anthony meet? Did it have to do with the Uitlanders?
“And you?” Darinda continued, her voice calm. “Why did you come? Is anything wrong?”
Arcilla sensed that something was all wrong somehow. Darinda was standing there so outwardly calm, when a short while ago she had struck with venom at a man who stood in her way to assuming the power she sought.
Arcilla was bemused. Things certainly weren’t at all what they appeared. Who had said that to her recently? Derwent?
Darinda was like a river flowing peacefully by its banks, while beneath the surface it was teeming with hungry crocodiles with large white teeth—like diamonds, reflecting the sun’s glitter. Like the Kimberly Diamond, bringing a curse to all who tried to possess its beauty, its wealth. If one clutched that diamond too closely to one’s heart, it turned into something alive, slithering, black, and deadly.
Life suddenly was upside down, blurred, and deceptive—
“Are you all right?” Darinda asked sharply. “You’re as white as a lily.”
“Yes, oh, I’m fine—No! I am not fine.” And she sank into a chair and foolishly giggled.
Darinda stared, frowning, as if Arcilla had gone balmy. “Better have some tea,” she said crisply. Tea was Darinda’s answer to any upset.
“You ask what’s wrong now. My point exactly—something’s always wrong in this horrid place.”
Darinda’s lips turned with impatience. “You’re not making a bit of sense.”
Parnell had written Anthony about Uncle Julien’s attack on Bulawayo and the routing of Lobengula and his impis. Arcilla suspected her older brother had not written the news to Rogan, for fear he would come straight here and get involved in trouble. Parnell didn’t know that she had wired Rogan about Jameson’s plan to attack the Transvaal.
Arcilla reached for the teapot. Her fingers shook. The cup and saucer rattled. The same hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest as she gazed at the delicate pink rosebuds on the china cup. She giggled. How ridiculous it seemed. Delicate chinaware in a savage land. We’ll never bring British civilization here.
She added sugar and stirred with a small golden spoon, spilling the tea onto the delicate saucer. She giggled again.
“Stop it.”
She ignored Darinda’s directive. Darinda had little patience with her idiosyncrasies, and Arcilla knew it. She was smiling as she swallowed a calming pill Dr. Jameson had prescribed for her, trying not to laugh.
“More pills? With Parnell, it’s liquor. Why can’t either of you pull yourselves together?”
Arcilla set her cup down with a rattle. “We’re not as hardheaded as you are,” she managed to say with a cynical smile.
“Hard? Am I? Just because someone needs to hold things together in this family?”
Arcilla giggled loudly.
“Hold—the—family—together—”
Darinda looked exasperated.
A third voice interjected: “Protecting us more feebleminded? From what? Anthony’s rule, or maybe Julien’s sjambok? Extraordinary notion, either way!”
The cynical question reaching Darinda from the doorway startled Arcilla. She turned her head sharply. Her brother, Parnell, stood on the porch, his mouth tucked into a bitter smile.
He’s been drinking again, worried Arcilla. There would be trouble.
Parnell L. Chantry was a slim, agile young man, an inch shorter than his younger brother Rogan, with curling chestnut hair and a dark mole on his chin that women appeared to think attractive. He was considered vain by Rogan, and rather imperious, though Arcilla thought with amusement that both her brothers were the imperious sort.
Parnell, who usually dressed impeccably in shirts of white Irish linen, Italian silk cravats, and British hats, now looked somewhat dowdy. Arcilla thought he appeared mussed and harassed, as though he might have drunk too much the previous evening and was still feeling dull-witted. She felt awash with sympathy. It’s Darinda’s fault. She leads him on, deceptively.
“Well?” Parnell repeated to Darinda. His smirk challenged her. “Who are you protecting us feebleminded from—Anthony’s rule or Julien’s sjambok?”
Arcilla watched Darinda’s anger grow as her color darkened and her gray eyes flashed.
Darinda’s ways were well known to Parnell. He once told Arcilla that Darinda’s “pushing” to attain the fulfillment of her ambitions clashed with his less dominant approach to dealing with Uncle Julien. Parnell’s ego chafed under her aggressiveness. Darinda didn’t appear to worry about Parnell’s ego, however. “In my mind that proves she doesn’t love him,” Rogan had once commented.
Darinda placed hands on hips and stared at Parnell.
“If you’ve come to see Anthony, he’s left for a meeting.”
“What of you, why are you here?”
“I came to welcome Lord Anthony to Bulawayo.”
Arcilla cast her a quick, doubtful glance, but Darinda didn’t notice.
“Ah yes, dearly beloved Lord Anthony. Your grandfather Julien’s heir, the head of the family diamonds!” Parnell chuckled. “How does that make you feel, Darinda?”
Arcilla glanced at Darinda. Parnell was being foolish to goad the woman he wanted to marry. He would only anger her. Everyone knew that Darinda resented Anthony Brewster. Her grandfather Julien had chosen him as his male heir when he married Camilla. Darinda now argued to her grandfather that he should choose an heir of blood to run the family diamond business after his death, meaning herself and the man she would marry.
Now that Anthony was here, Darinda wanted her grandfather to choose between them. The argument Arcilla had overheard on the path between Darinda and Anthony promised more dispute. Peter had said it was a grave mistake on Darinda’s part.
“Julien will never make Darinda his heir as long as he has Anthony. Julien doesn’t think it wise for a woman to have the top spot over the family diamond mine, even if she’s his own granddaughter. The more she pushes Julien, and shines the light on Anthony’s mistakes, the more Julien is going to undergird Anthony, whom Julien accepted as a son when Anthony married Lady Camilla.”
No, Arcilla thought, Uncle Julien is not a man who admits his mistakes or Anthony’s. His arrogance prevails. And if he didn’t have something on me that he could tell Peter about, I wouldn’t stay here in Bulawayo.
Miserable, she swallowed her tea and set the cup down, her hand shaking as the mournful cry of a distant hyena sounded upon the evening breeze. She felt the taste of fear in her mouth and jumped when Darinda spoke to Parnell.