Today's Embrace (22 page)

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.

Darinda Bley, unsmiling, faced Parnell Chantry inside the bungalow belonging to Lord Anthony.

“You've been drinking again.” Darinda's gray eyes flashed hot.

“I didn't know you were here,” he said, excuse in his voice as he stepped across the threshold.

Arcilla, watching the moment play out between her brother and Darinda, moved uncomfortably on the divan, where she sat watching tensely.

“I asked you, Parnell, not to come around me with liquor on your breath. I can't stand it.”

Darinda's father had been killed years ago while riding horseback after drinking heavily. The horse had thrown him, and Sir Bley died with a broken neck.

Parnell rubbed a hand across his chin. “What meeting did Anthony go to, did he say?”

“No.” Darinda's voice was curt. She turned her back toward him and sipped her tea.

Arcilla stood quickly. “Sit down, Parnell. I'll get you tea.”

Parnell plopped into a chair, looking strained and exhausted. “Coffee, if you've got it, sis.”

“There isn't any,” Darinda cast over her shoulder.

Parnell glanced at Arcilla and tossed up his hands. “Tea then … no sugar, no cream.”

Arcilla poured the tea as she held the cup, noticing again the delicate pink English rosebuds. How ludicrous everything seemed. She sobered her emotions as she brought the tea and saw Parnell's hand shake when he took the cup and saucer.

Peter was absolutely right. Something must be done about her brother's incessant drinking. Peter had warned of it last night after Parnell left the others to take after-dinner brandy and cigars while she and Peter had gone up to their room.

Arcilla agreed with Peter's conclusions, but the problem was too much for her to cope with and added to her own burden of discontent and growing fears. What could she do? Parnell never listened to her advice.

If only Rogan were here. He would be all over Parnell for turning to drink. Peter might do something, but he was too involved with the BSA to talk sense to his brother-in-law. Not that Parnell was inclined to listen to Peter; only Rogan could really take him on.

At the time, however, Arcilla's reaction to Peter's remark had come as a retort for bringing up the burdensome matter when she'd wanted to escape unpleasant things. All during dinner she'd had to endure talk of war with the “stubborn Boers” from Uncle Julien and the others, including Dr. Jameson. War was the boring topic most evenings.

Well, her brother hadn't drunk when he lived in Grimston Way, she'd told Peter, as though the Charter Company were to blame for Parnell's unwholesome change. Laying the blame on Peter's pride and joy allowed her to hit back at what he held in honor, for she believed he put his work ahead of her, his infant son, and their happiness. Her remark wasn't totally in error. Parnell hadn't drunk at Rookswood, and she couldn't understand the change that had come over him here at Bulawayo since the war with Lobengula. Parnell was with Julien when the troopers under Jameson first entered the chieftain's kraal. What had happened there to affect Parnell so, or was it just coincidence?

“You've a bit of a right to your hysterics, Arcilla, ol' girl. We're all balmy for staying here. We're just dupes, waiting to be slaughtered like
the Shangani patrol. And for what? So dear ol' Julien can get his fingers on the Black.” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Well, he won't get me crawling into the Matopos caves.”

Darinda turned her head. “Must you be so harsh on my grandfather?”

“He's been making plans, and now he's just biding his time. Waiting for the moment to form his expedition—the one that will get us all killed.”

“You're being unfair, Parnell,” Darinda said with wearied distaste.

Arcilla disagreed. Her brother was right about Julien. He would go to any lengths to get what he wanted, even if it meant putting others in danger. Darinda preferred to wear a blindfold concerning her grandfather's greedy ambitions.

Arcilla's mind went back to something Peter had mentioned after the attack on Lobengula, about Rhodesian troopers getting trapped at the Shangani River by Lobengula's impis. Yes, that was it. The Rhodesians had followed after Lobengula, but later on they'd been outnumbered, fighting to the last man before being hacked to death by the dreaded assegai.

Arcilla shuddered. “You think Bulawayo will be another massacre?” Her voice sounded rough with fear.

“With Julien planning an incursion into their sacred hills to enter Lobengula's burial cave? Use your head, Arcilla. We'll be lame ducks among the crocs.”

Arcilla's fingers felt tight and clumsy as she moved them to her throat.

“Can't you see you're frightening your sister? She's still recuperating after giving birth.”

Parnell took a mouthful of tea and choked on it. “Better scared than dead. Horrible tea … like dirty river water.”

“Pay him no heed, Arcilla. I don't see the situation being as dire as you Londoners do. I love this land, and I'm going to stay.” Darinda walked about the room, looking thoughtful. “We have six hundred
armed men drawing police pay from the Charter Company. The Ndebele know that. They're not fools.”

Parnell squinted at her over his cup. “No, they're far from fools. That's my point, beautiful.”

“Don't call me that.”

“But think,
my dear
. What if there's war with the Boers? And what if our precious Six Hundred must be sent into the Transvaal to fight with the British?”

Arcilla looked sharply at Darinda to see her response. He was right. All the more reason to have sent that wire to Rogan about Dr. Jameson's plan to aid the Uitlanders in the Transvaal.
This may be why Anthony is here in Bulawayo. Could the high commissioner at Capetown have sent him?

But if she mentioned that now, in front of Darinda, would she run with it to her grandfather? That was always a risk with Darinda. One never knew where she actually stood. Arcilla shuddered to imagine Julien's anger if he ever found out about her wire to Rogan. No one suspected her. It was fortunate Uncle Julien thought her too frivolous to have taken that action.
Well, I'm not so frivolous as they all think!

Oh Rogan, if only you were here to help Peter
.

“Remember what Willet said before he was killed?” Parnell jostled their memories. “It's not the Boers we need to worry about, but a tribe whose defeated hearts burn for revenge.”

“Grandfather says the attack on Tom Willet came from a lion.”

“Nonsense! You're too sensible to believe that, Darinda. Willet was killed with an assegai.”

“The assegai is banned.”

“That doesn't change the fact—he was killed with an assegai.”

Arcilla choked on her insipid tea. Major Tom Willet had been killed a week ago while out on patrol in the bush near the Matopos. Uncle Julien had an assegai on display in his office at Government House. The sight of the short Zulu stabbing blade, adopted by their cousins the Ndebele, was fierce and dreadful to Arcilla. When she'd mentioned how
tasteless she'd thought it was for Julien to display the weapon on his wall, Peter told her it was Julien's prized souvenir, taken from Lobengula's hut on the night of the fighting.

“Look, darling,” Peter had said. “Think how many hours of conversation that blade will evoke in London one day when old colonels gather over their pipes and brandy to discuss past assignments.”

“Is Tom's death worrying you, Parnell?” Darinda asked.

He stood. “We should be worried. Savages, that's what they are. Sooner cut out your gizzard an' hang it up to dry as look at you. Best face it.”

“But they're not all savages.”

“Only takes a few to go on a spree. Dip their assegais in blood, as they like to put it, so they can take a wife. Those young men are itching for their initiation as warriors. Do you think they want to be rounded up by Julien's police to build roads? Their honor has been lashed and bloodied. They want it back.”

Even Darinda looked tense, but Arcilla could see she was trying to hide it.

“We know all that. But there aren't any impis in Bulawayo now,” Darinda objected. “If any of the indunas are suspected of having weapons, Grandfather's police will confiscate them. Grandfather's law is firmly held to—no new weapons.”

So Peter had also said. This did not fully alleviate Arcilla's fears. Parnell was right about Julien's police using the young Ndebele men as conscripted laborers. Uncle Julien, as chief native commissioner, had come up with the law, a boon to farmers and builders, so Peter said. “But neither do we allow them to make their traditional raids against the Shona.” Yet he'd told her gruesome tales of the Ndebele stealing Shona cattle, Shona women, as well as strong young Shona boys for slaves.

Parnell was grim as he paced the floor, teacup in hand, still glowering at its contents. “If we believe those sullen indunas don't have plans to forge weapons and arm their warriors, we deserve what we get. Tom Willet wasn't mauled by a lion, like the Company men are saying. His
death should alert us all. Those cut marks were from a blade. Even Retford says so.”

At the mention of Captain Ryan Retford, who worked for both Peter and Julien, Arcilla glanced toward Darinda. One woman
knew
another. As Arcilla expected, the mention of his name brought a slight pink to Darinda's face. For someone who rarely if ever showed her feminine fluster, Darinda revealed emotions she undoubtedly wished to conceal.

“Captain Retford believes Tom Willet was killed with an assegai?” Darinda asked uneasily.

Parnell's cup paused midway to his lips. A smile came to his haggard but still handsome face.

“Does that change things for you, darlin'? The gallant captain's word is to be trusted, but not mine?”

Darinda's flush deepened. “Not when you're always drinking that awful poison like it's water.”

Parnell banged the cup down on the table. He pointed at her, eyes narrowing. “I'll tell you something else ol' Retford thinks. He knows what the indunas are doing. I heard him telling Peter just yesterday he smells trouble.”

“Trouble? What did he mean? What kind of trouble—”

“Retford heard it from that young Ndebele impi—the son of the induna that Lobengula had his council ‘smell out for witchcraft,' so he could have the induna chopped to death for betrayal. The boy, the dead induna's son, told Retford, ‘The sacred bird images flew from the ruins of the Great Zimbabwe. There can be no peace in Matabeleland.' That's what their Umlimo is telling all the indunas.”

Arcilla drew her lacy pink shawl around her bare arms and huddled on the divan. Her eyes went from Darinda, who looked tense and determined, back to her brother, who had fallen silent.

The wind whispered around the sides and roof of the bungalow. The Umlimo, somewhere in the Matopos in a secret cave, was giving forth oracles that were believed by the Ndebele. They were perhaps
guarding Lobengula's burial cave. Her teeth chattered. She must go
home
. She
must
.

Arcilla stood. “Captain Retford's right. I wish Peter and Uncle Julien would listen to him. And what of all the evil things that are happening in the house? I tell you we must leave for Capetown.”

“Perfect nonsense,” Darinda said shortly, but even she looked uneasy.

“Not at all,” Arcilla argued. “Malicious, frightening things have been happening recently.”

“You mean Grandfather's office burglary?” Darinda scoffed. “Some pesky boy looking for something to steal and sell.”

“It was nothing of the sort.” Arcilla was irritated by Darinda's brave fronts. “Isn't that so, Parnell? You don't think it's all nonsense, do you?”

“I don't like what's happening,” he agreed, “if you're talking about Uncle Julien's office.”

“Peter said it was the wind, but the wind doesn't blow books about,” Arcilla persisted. She frowned at Darinda. “Uncle Julien's office window was
closed
. But someone or something scattered all his things about in the dead of night.”

“The window was found unlocked,” Darinda soothed. “Someone crawled through and left the same way. He closed it after him. It has nothing to do with tribal superstition. All that talk about the Umlimo is exaggerated.”

“Is it?” Parnell countered. “Not according to Derwent and Dr. Jakob.”

“And that splatter of blood across the wall in Peter's office,” Arcilla jumped in.

Darinda winced. “It was red ink, dear. One of the Shona servants spilled it when cleaning Grandfather's desk and feared to admit it.”