Today's Embrace (33 page)

“You don't know what was in the letter Anthony brought him?”

“No.” He bit the stem of his pipe again.

“Weren't you in the meeting with him and Julien this morning?” He shook his head. Arcilla noted a strange expression of wariness on his face.

“No. Just as we were entering Julien's office, Doc Jameson called me away.”

She paused, thinking. “He's always calling you away, like tonight. Don't you think that's suspicious?”

“I doubt if the high commissioner at the Cape had much to say to Julien in that letter. A small reprimand was in order, I imagine. The lofty hinky-dinks would not want a big haroosh to rile the Ndebele over an expedition into the Matopos. Not that Julien will pay heed. Parnell's correct on one point. Julien is obsessed over the Kimberly. I suspect that's why Anthony came. To argue face to face in hopes of getting him to see reason.”

“Darinda would say it's not like Anthony to argue with Uncle Julien over anything. Julien controlled him all his life.”

He waved his pipe. “Why are you asking about the commissioner's letter?”

With all the attention on the Capetown letter, why shouldn't she ask? She debated whether to tell him of the scrap of paper she had hidden. She had no one else to turn to except Parnell, and he was nearly as frightened over things as she. She had a choice to tell Peter or wait for Rogan. By the time her brother arrived it could be too late.

“Peter … suppose that letter wasn't from the commissioner. I don't think the letter talked about Matopos and the Black Diamond at all.”

His pipe became still. His alert gaze flicked over her face. He bit the stem. “Hmm. Odd you'd say that. What makes you say so?”

“Anthony came about the Transvaal. About Dr. Jameson's plan to invade Johannesburg and aid the Uitlanders and provoke the Boers to declare war. The British government wants war.”

Peter gaped at her. He leaned forward.

“How—how did you find out!” He stopped, stood, and stared at her, his face turning slowly into a scowl. “Have you mentioned this to anyone?”

At his low, urgent voice, she turned her head to the side. “I had to. I sent a wire to Rogan.”

“
Rogan!
Great Scot! If you wanted to stir up the cobra's den, then why not just sound the trumpet and send a wire to Kruger himself?”

“Yes, well, Kruger wouldn't have come to Bulawayo, and I wanted Rogan to come. I think Rogan might have gone to London about it.”

“Rogan?
Rogan?
But of course
he
would go to Pall Mall! Do you think he wants a war? It would interfere with the Zambezi gold discovery!”

“Peter, you're upset with me! Do
you
want a war?”

“Great Scot!”

“Stop saying that, darling. You're not a bit Scottish … Look, Peter, I simply had to
tell.
”

“You sound like a girl in a dormitory anxious to spread gossip about her competitors. Do I want a war? Naturally not! I'm working to stop—” Peter rubbed his forehead as if to calm himself. “Do you know what you've done in going to Rogan?”

“But of course.” She widened her eyes. “That's quite why I did it, darling. He must have gone to London with my information, and jolly London must have sent Anthony to warn the high commissioner at Capetown. Somehow or other a Mr. Trotter found out too, who in turn simply must have written Uncle Julien that the monkey was out of the
bag, but to go ahead anyway because ‘R' agrees. It's got to be Rhodes, darling. Rhodes and Jameson and Julien.”

Peter groaned. He set his pipe down in the ashtray and came to her, grasping her shoulders. His worried face frightened her.

“My dear, you should never have interfered like this. This is none of your concern. Don't you see how it can be used against you?”

“None of my concern? Peter! If Dr. Jameson's troopers invade the Transvaal and there's fighting …?”

“You don't understand—”

“I do understand what war means. I'm not as silly as you and everyone else think I am.”

“So I've discovered.”

“In my own way I'm as clever as Darinda.”

“Quite. I don't think you're silly. You're my wife. And I expect and desire you to show more discernment. I do think, however, that you are wholly gullible at times. You should never have told Rogan without coming to me first.”

“You would have stopped me,” she said naively.

“Of course!” His tone showed frustration.

“Well, then?” She blinked. “Naturally, I didn't come to you. I wanted Rogan to know.”

He looked at her askance, then gave a short laugh. “Darling Arcilla, you cannot know all of what you're suggesting about Rhodes. And whatever was that you said about ‘Mr. Trotter and “R” agree'? Wherever would you have heard that? At any rate, say nothing of this to anyone here at Bulawayo. Is that understood?”

“I won't, Peter, but I think more people than Julien and Dr. Jameson know of the plans to aid the Uitlanders at Johannesburg.”

“How did you discover that?”

“I overheard a discussion about Doc Jameson's troopers. People do have a tendency to talk rather loudly, you know, when they think it's safe to boast.”

His hands dropped from her shoulders. He looked dismayed.

She walked quickly to her vanity drawer and opened it, taking out the charred scrap of paper. She brought it to him and explained how Julien was burning a sheet of paper when she walked into his office, surprising him.

“I was upset and didn't knock. It was right after the hideous business with Anthony. The sheet of paper he was burning in the ashtray was a letter, I think, one of the letters Anthony brought from Capetown.”

She watched as his face grew alarmed. “Don't worry, darling,” she whispered. She patted his arm and even managed a smile. “Julien didn't guess I knew what he was burning. There is an advantage to being underestimated sometimes. People do things they think are safe around me, or they say things they don't think I'm clever enough to understand.”

Peter clapped a palm against his forehead and sank into the chair. “That can be dangerous. Very dangerous …” Peter stared at the scrap of paper. After a moment he looked up at her.

She was surprised by the look of concern in his eyes.

“Does he have any reason to suspect you took this?”

She shook her head. “There was an envelope, too. Clearly marked from George Trotter, Cape Mining Fields, to Chief Native Commissioner Julien Bley. I started to remove it, then thought better of it.”

He shook his head again as though overcome. He reached for a match, struck it, and held the scrap to the fire.

“Peter!”

“Hush.” He dropped it into the ashtray and stirred it about until it was gray ash.

“But ‘R' is Mr. Rhodes—”

“You won't mention any of this to anyone, Arcilla. Is that clear?”

She was sobered by his deadly gravity, the tremor of his voice. “Of course not, Peter, if you say so. I said earlier I would not. But I don't see why you're so worried. He doesn't know I took it.”

“My dear, you don't understand. It's not that you took the letter scrap.” He stood and came to her. “You are clever, but there's more to this that you wouldn't know. It's the fact that he had the letter at all. Anthony
never
gave Julien that letter.”

She looked at him, feeling muddled. “But of course Anthony gave the letter to Uncle Julien. I just explained how Julien burned it. You saw the scrap. I told you about the envelope sitting there to the side …”

He gave her a small shake. “Listen to me. Yes, it's the letter! But remember, Retford and I were at Government House when Anthony and Julien met at Julien's office. And when the meeting broke up, Retford saw Anthony leaving in a hurry, clutching his briefcase, and heard Julien shouting that the letter was his. I doubt Anthony even realized at first what Trotter wrote. Cape Mining Fields is connected with Rhodes, De Beers, and the Charter Company. Anthony must have thought it was a reprimand to Julien about Matopos. He must have thought those in Capetown authority supported London in rebuking Uncle Julien and Dr. Jameson for their plans to enter the Transvaal. But at the meeting with Julien he learned otherwise. That scrap you found dealt with the plan to have Jameson's Troopers ride into Johannesburg to aid the Uitlanders. So Capetown knows about the plan and secretly supports it. Anthony must have snatched up the letter as proof and fled the meeting with it.”

She twitched her nose. “Proof?”

“Yes, as a weapon to use against Julien and the others involved if they proceeded with the raid. And if it went badly and London demanded answers, Anthony would then have proof that people at the top were privy to the plan.”

“And what would that mean—?”

“Prison, my dear—if the incursion turned into a bloodbath. The British public's outrage would demand it!”

Arcilla lapsed into silence. “Someone entered Anthony's bungalow tonight and searched through everything,” she said.

“So now you do understand.” His hands tightened on her shoulders until she winced. He drew her to him, embracing her so tightly that she couldn't breathe.

“Say nothing about this—nothing about what you know, or heard, or about finding that scrap of paper, understood?”

She gasped, trying to breathe, and nodded.

“I love you, Arcilla—”

She was confused, yet his unexpected violent emotion in telling her he loved her was also thrilling. It was so unlike Peter.

“Oh, Peter, my love! You really
do
love me and—and our baby.”

“You silly. Darling, of course I love you and our son.” He held her tightly again. “How could you ever question it?”

She looked at him. No … she wouldn't say it. She wouldn't make her desire to go home to Rookswood the
proof of
his devotion.

He held her. Then he kissed her with such emotion that she lost her breath. She pulled her lips away and giggled. “Why, Peter!”

He grabbed her and kissed her again. “You'll not mention any of this to anyone.” He gave her a shake. “It's dangerous. Promise me. Go on, promise me, Arcilla, please.”

“Oh, Peter, I promise.” She stroked his worried brow. “Don't worry, love. They'll find Anthony's murderer, and then everything will be all right.” She offered what she thought was a brave smile. But Peter wasn't smiling. He was looking off in the distance, as though considering something that seemed to upset him dreadfully. Yet, he didn't speak his thoughts. He continued to hold her protectively.

Later that evening, when he thought she was asleep, she saw him get up quietly from bed, check the door, then the baby's cradle close beside the bed. Then he went to his desk.

In the moonlight shining through the window, she watched him open a drawer and remove his pistol. He checked it, then brought it back to bed with him. She lay still, heart thumping. She was sure he put the pistol under his pillow.

Arcilla was afraid again. Peter knew something more. His mind was grappling with something that he hadn't wanted to tell her.

She finally fell asleep, her fingers entwined through Peter's.
Peter actually loves me
. A small smile touched her lips as the moonlight stole across the bed toward the cradle.

The steamship
Endeavor
creaked and groaned. They'd been just a few days out to sea when Evy awoke from a nap feeling as though she had been adrift amid moving mountains and canyons. She couldn't eat much, she couldn't sleep, and last night Rogan had tied her into her bunk to keep her from falling. She was cranky and miserable.

Evy watched as the cabin door opened and Rogan entered, looking offensively cheerful and strong, and carrying a small tray. He encountered her gaze and smiled disconcertingly.

“At your service, madam,” he said with a bow. “I've brought my true love some food.”

“Go away—I think I'm going to be sick again.”

“Optimism, my little rosebud, always optimism.” He set the tray down. “Just a wee bit of soup and a dry biscuit.”

“No—”

“You'll feel stronger after you've had something to eat.”

The small cabin dipped and rose, tilted, sank, and steadied again with an endless sickening rhythm, and the soup in the thick china mug slopped over the rim onto the tray.

“You can count your blessings, sweet, that we've had wonderful weather until now.”

“We've had nothing but ups and downs since last night.”

Rogan grinned. “Well, I warned you, didn't I?” he said cheerfully.

“Where's Mrs. Croft?” she moaned.

“Sick. In her cabin. Poor creature. I've just left her.”

She turned her head and looked into his earthy brown eyes, alive with mischievous good humor. “You're looking after Mrs. Croft, too?”