Mayenga Farm (10 page)

Mortification still ached in her throat. Kent had asked them to dinner this evening, but would he expect them now? Surely not, after the way she had parted from him on Saturday. She couldn't face his silent criticism, and his coolness would be even less bearable in his own house. Something about Kent teased her nerves and occasionally stifled her breathing. She felt safer outdoors with him, where she could turn away and take an interest in her surroundings.

At dinner Michael reported having plotted six substantial chapters of his novel, and afterwards he and Adrian retired to the lounge for a discussion of the historical facts which were to be incorporated in the early part of the story. Tonight, Rennie's interest in South African history was at an ebb; she couldn't care less about Chaka the Terrible or the Kaffir wars, and the men's absorption in the dead and gone somehow grated. Restlessly she moved about the lighted stoep, and presently she went down to the garden and wandered along the path to the gate. Just inside the acacia hedge a honeysuckle bush exuded a heady perfume. She plucked a spray and waved it idly under her nose, wild and impossible desires flitting through her mind.

She must have been there half an hour when a car purred faintly away towards the stone bridge. Her heart began to thud. Could it be possible that Jackie unaware that Michael had moved in at the farm, was coming to offer belated thanks for Rennie's services last Friday?

The car was fast approaching. As it took the last bend she saw it, and fifty yards away she recognized Kent's lean, non-committal features above the wheel. A queer weakness had possession of her knees.

He pulled up, got out, and slammed the door.

"Waiting for me?" he queried, with sarcasm. "How nice. Do

you usually ignore invitations to dinner?"

She took a firmer grip on the gate. "Were you really expecting us, after . . . after____"

"After what?" he demanded. "Did I infect your cotton? Am I to be blamed because I saw the pests before you did? I had dinner ready for you this evening. You might have had the decency to send me a message."

"I’m so sorry." She had opened the gate. Are you coming in?"

"No," he said decisively, half-turning. "Now that I’m satisfied you're all right I’ll go back,"

"Kent!"

He stopped, his hand on the car door, and looked at her.

"Well ?

"I do apologize," she said with a rush. "Don’t hold it against my father. He knew nothing of your invitation. I couldn’t tell him. I . . . you see, the humiliation was too much for me."

"Humiliation?" He came near, rested a forearm on the gatepost and bent his gaze upon her. "What, for heaven's sake, have you got to be humiliated about? I've told you before that cotton is a tricky crop in these parts. I’d probably make a hash of it myself . . . and you’re a girl, without experience. You hadn’t a chance."

"You were so furious with me."

"Furious, but not with you, you idiot. There have been times when I’ve itched to spank you, but not just then. You were hurt, but you’d have perished rather than show it. That blasted pride got the better of you."

"It does . . . sometimes," she admitted shakily. "I wish we’d come to Elands Ridge this evening."

"It’s not too late."

"My father and Michael are steeped in literature. I doubt if I could haul them out of it."

"Don’t try. Let them stay steeped for the rest of the evening. I’ll bring you back before they realize you've gone."

"Oh." An unusual note of joy sounded in Rennie’s small laugh. "You promise that?"

"I promise nothing, my child. Get in the car and take what comes."

Rennie might have hesitated on some pretext, but she didn’t. She might easily have slipped into the seat beside his without assistance, but it was good to feel a strong hand at her elbow and to smell security in his tobacco-and-tweed fragrance. It was simply that he was man, she assured herself firmly, and that her spirits

had been low. How comforting to be managed for once.

They were well on the way to Elands Ridge before he spoke again.

"You’ll be glad to know that the rain is coming — the moon had

a good thick blanket."

"Thank heaven," she said softly.

Elands Ridge had a light in the porch — electric light. The house had also been connected, at a price, to the Gravenburg telephone exchange, and somewhere just outside the garden wall was a camouflaged borehole for water, from which pipes ran beneath the flower beds to the house.

Illumined from the veranda the front appeared exceptionally white and imposing, the six great pillars sturdy supporters of an immense upper balcony.

Kent snapped on the hall and lounge lights and struck a small brass bell which stood beside a red stone Buddha on an occasional table.

"Coffee or a genuine drink?" he asked conversationally.

"Coffee, please."

Rennie took a swift inventory of the room. White walls, cream rugs, blue linen chesterfield and chairs, blackwood tables and stools, a baroque writing-desk and chair, and a spattering of Oriental ornaments. On one wall hung two portraits in stamped leather, cleverly colored. One was the haughty head of a Zulu girl; the other showed the face of an older woman saddened by some nameless grief. Rennie went close to them for a more detailed inspection.

"Who did them?" she inquired.

"A woman — she's well known out here." Kent shifted the bell and perched on the table, his long legs stretched in front of him. "Only a woman could capture those expressions in natives. A man would see them but he'd be stumped for the meaning."

"Pride and Sorrow," she said interestedly.

"You see! It took me all of a week to label them and you did it in a few seconds, and fewer words. The feminine touch." He paused while an ebony-skinned boy in white set the coffee tray on another table, and placed cigarettes and an automatic table lighter conveniently near. "All right, Tanu. If the kitchen is clear you may go to bed."

To Rennie he said, "Will you pour the coffee? Sugar and cream for me."

Rennie sat at the table and Kent ranged across to the desk and back again. Even in this spacious lounge he was big and compelling. He took his cup and lowered himself to the chesterfield, where he lay back, regarding her quizzically.

"I'm not sure that this isn't pleasanter than having your father and the fair young journalist along. It’s some time since I had a woman so entirely at my mercy. Aren’t you afraid?"

"Should I be?"

"Unflattering to me if you’re not."

"Not at all. What has a girl to fear from a self-confessed woman-hater?"

He did not contradict the statement, but stirred his coffee with some deliberation. "I might decide that this is an excellent opportunity for teaching you — and all women — a lesson. Hate’s a strong word, don’t you think?" he tacked on.

"To hate women as a whole might mean that I had once loved one to distraction and been ignominiously jilted. Nothing so soul-rending ever came my way, the stars be praised!"

"You might be less of a cynic if it had," she countered. "Everyone needs to have someone else to share delights with and worry about. That's half the joy of living. People who avoid love miss the best in life."

"Is that so?" As though giving this challenge all the attention it deserved, Kent thoughtfully sipped his coffee, stared into it, and sipped again. But his tone mocked as he queried, "What's your advice? Shall I look round for a little woman to cherish and fuss over? Can you imagine me as an adoring husband?"

"No," she said flatly. "I can't. You may marry, but I don't believe you’ll ever let yourself fall in love."

His lazy eyes sharpened. He emptied the cup and rather forcefully placed it on the wide arm of the chesterfield.

"That's straight from the shoulder, at any rate," he said tersely, "I like your candor, Rennie; it gets under the skin — well under, like a hypodermic needle. So you've decided that I shall marry but will never be devoured by love. I'm to be spared the tortures of white-hot passion. What a relief!"

His smile was tight but otherwise inexpressive as he leaned forward to slip back the lid of the cigarette box. Rennie knew that somehow she had flicked his ego. Had she unwittingly hinted at new, perilous feelings? Was he already in love . . . with Jackie?

And then she noticed the faint but unmistakable depression of his scar and a pulse began to knock in her temple. Her hands were

unsteady as she took a cigarette and held it to the lighter while he worked the catch, and she was grateful for the veil of smoke which momentarily obscured him. For a few minutes they smoked in silence.

"I saw this morning that you’re clearing the cotton," he said offhandedly. "You’re wise to do it so thoroughly. What are you going to do with the land?"

Thankful for the change of topic, even to such a sore one, she answered, "Leave it to recuperate."

"Will you let me plant it with citrus for you as soon as it’s healthy ?"

She pressed out the half-smoked cigarette. "We’re not enlarging our commitments till after the harvest."

"So it’s no thanks — again. How I abominate your childish independence. Where does it get you?"

She was torn by the need to make him understand, once and for all. "Can’t you see how it is?" she cried. "My father’s entirely out of place here — you know that. If the harvest is only reasonably good he'll be able to make the lecture tour that he's set his heart on, and be really happy. That's why I won't run up debts."

"Who's asking you to?" he said bluntly. Then: "Your father mentioned the lecture tour to me. Will you go with him?"

"I don’t suppose so. Expenses for two would be prohibitive. Besides, there's Michael."

Not that Michael would make any difference. He was merely an excuse she could offer to Kent.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I'd forgotten Michael. Is he . . . important?"

"He has to be considered. He’s a member of the household now."

Kent's voice was metal. "He’s living at the farm?"

"Just for a few months, so that he can work quietly on his novel till it’s finished."

Kent gave a short, unpleasant laugh. "So you’ve turned Mayenga into a guest-house — a Bloomsbury in the wilds. Are you camping in the hall again?"

"Michael wouldn’t hear of it. He’s using the sleeping porch and working in the lounge."

"I see — the accommodating sort." There was no mistaking the growing hostility. "You have quite a reverence for him, haven’t you? Is he picking Adrian’s brain for this world-shaking novel?"

Rennie sprang up, and the next second Kent was standing, too.

"That’s terribly unkind," she said. "Michael’s a writer, a good

one. He's already published one book and he has friends in London who will help him. My father thinks he'll be a success as a novelist."

"But this story is about South Africa?" he persisted. "Had he visited this country before last Friday? No, of course he hadn't. Where is he going to get his information, then, if not from you and your father?" He made a sound of disgust. "Haven't you and Adrian enough on your minds just now, without having this fellow steal your time and energies when you most need them? You make me tired!"

She quelled an impulse to fling a retort at him, any retort so long as it had a sting in it. Perhaps what she did say had more bite than she guessed.

"It’s a pity that we make you tired, but you have a remedy. There’s a river between us. If you like we’ll make a bargain, each to stick to his own side."

"Suits me," he said shortly. "I'll take you home."

Rennie twisted to precede him. They had reached the porch when car-beams raked the drive-way and came to rest, a pool of brilliance, under the pergola. A small figure slid from the car on to the path, and ran up the steps. Rennie drew back.

"Oh, Kent, thank goodness you’re home."

"Jacqueline! For the love of Mike what’s wrong?"

Jackie was close to him, her dark eyes raised, her dim quivering, and her hand came up to rest urgently upon his sleeve. She hadn’t yet seen Rennie.

"It’s Adela. She’s had another of those fainting fits — like the one she had here — through the heat. They terrify me, and I haven’t the least notion how to handle them. Kent, darling, please let me have some of those tablets you gave her. They made her sleep so soundly and she was awfully well next morning."

"Are you telling me that you drove all this way for a couple of luminal tablets? You’re crazy, Jackie. Come in and have a drink to still your nerves."

Jackie turned. Her hand fell away from his arm and her expression altered slightly.

"Why . . . why, hello, Rennie. I didn’t know you ever came here." Michael rose unbidden between them. "I’ve been intending to look in to see you, but Adela was unwell. This heat wave is merciless, and made me so anxious that I’ve hardly dared to leave her."

Two big tears welled up, and spilled over just as Kent handed her the glass. Rennie saw his lip draw in and suspected that a woman in tears was one of the few things that had him at a disadvantage; especially a woman who could look so bewitchingly helpless as Jackie.

"There's nothing to weep about," he said. "Women do sometimes

faint with heat, even quite strong ones. You should have stayed with her and called a doctor. Finish the drink and I'll go back with you."

"Will you really?" she pleaded. "I'd feel so much happier if you would. You're like a rock in an emergency, Kent. I don't know how I drove here — I felt so horribly shaky and it was a strange car — one I borrowed. I . . . I don't believe I can drive it again."

Rennie said, "Don't worry, Jac. I'll drive it as far as the Mayenga turn. . . ."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," put in Kent. "Jackie's escaped suicide, but you might not be so lucky. The thing can stay where it is till tomorrow. Wait a minute. I'll get those tablets."

Both girls listened to his receding footsteps.

"Rennie," came a tense whisper, "where's Michael?" "Staying at Mayenga," Rennie returned coolly. "He still wants to marry you and he's writing a book which he hopes will be popular and start him off as a novelist." "Really? Do you think he has it in him to