Ursula's Secret (15 page)

More encouragingly, perhaps, Gregory tells me Cameron claims to have made useful contacts for Buchanan’s in Cape Town and to have found a young native there from Zomba whom we should employ to coordinate matters on our behalf. A certain Richard Chakanaya. I’ve heard the name but can’t quite remember where. Most likely he is one of the ubiquitous Chakanaya clan who seem to have their pick of official postings from chief of police to head of export and trade. If so, then I’m sure his connections could be beneficial. Cameron is giving little away at this stage, however. Information is currency to a man like him.

So. There we have it. Not the best of news, I know. But forewarned is forearmed, my dear. And on the subject of the best of news, the news Gregory and I are so anxious to be able to impart, I have nothing to tell. We long for a child but are yet to be blessed. Believe me, though, when I tell you that you and Evie, as godmothers-in-waiting, will be the first to know!

Dear Ursula, I do so hope we’ll see each other soon. And Evie too. It would be such a joy to have you both here for a few days. After Cameron has gone, of course. Why not think about it? Tell me when you can spare some time and we will send a car for you – and before you protest, let me assure you there’s always something or someone travelling between our offices so it would be no trouble. Please do come.

Your loving friend,

Helen

Lexy put the letter down, thoughtfully. Cameron. Cameron and Ursula. So far it would fit. And Richard Chakanaya. Intriguing. She was more convinced than ever he could give her the answers she wanted. She just had to work out how to get to him. Christopher Chizumu might yet change his mind. Or there was Robert. He seemed to know more than a little about the mysterious Mr Chakanaya. She glanced at the clock. Still plenty of time, so she pulled out the next tranche of diary pages and lost herself again in the swirling emotions of the past.

Blantyre, April 15th

There is something comforting about the African night, rich and black, air lush and warm as velvet on my bare arms. Most times I cannot sleep I sit out on the verandah in the old rocker Evie found for me in the market, let it soothe me in its arms till I’m ready to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight I am too impatient for gentle rhythms. I can hardly sit at all, am struggling to keep myself pinned here at my desk, hands still and steady enough to write. The pages of Helen’s letter are strewn over the floor where I threw them earlier. I don’t want to touch them, to read those words again, but I can’t undo knowing what now I do. Why did she have to write to tell me? Why did I have to hear he was coming back from
her
of all people, the very woman I want to hate even though I know that’s irrational and unfair. She has done nothing. But yet, yet …

It’s so hot in here even with the ceiling fan silently turning above my head, the doors open to catch whatever breeze the night may offer. I can barely breathe with my heart so swollen and heavy in my chest. Cameron. Oh God.
Cameron.
Back here. And staying with Helen! I can’t help it. I am jealous. Of her, and most especially of the way he feels about her. It doesn’t seem to matter that she cares not one jot for him. Nor does it matter that I know he’s a scoundrel and a rogue, dishonest, dishonourable. A liar, a cheat, everything I despise in the human character, but somehow in him, I forgive it. I am drawn to it. What is it in me that makes me want him so badly? Perhaps the Sisters were right – I’m bad, unworthy of love.

Even now, after more than four years,
four years
, I can feel his hand light and warm on my back, strong fingers gently rubbing my vertebrae, setting my skin alight through the silk of the evening gown Helen had leant me. He spun me round and round the ship’s dance floor, making me giddy in a way I’d never been before. No man before or after has touched me like that. Touched me at all. Claimed me. And there’s nothing I can do to stop myself falling all over again, even after these four long years of suppressing every flicker of emotion. I fell in love on that ship and I’m in love still. It makes no sense. Me. Sister Reid, in love with a society playboy. Who would believe it? I can hardly believe it myself.

He said he loved me. No one else has ever said that to me. Not like that. Whispered it in my ear as he burrowed into my neck that night on deck.
Kissed
me. He must have known she and Gregory would find us as they took their turn about the deck after dinner, as they so often did. And of course that’s what he wanted. So obvious now. We sprang apart at the sound of the approaching voices. I was mortified, but he seemed almost elated, I thought because he’d declared himself to me. Fool, fool, fool. It was because he knew she’d seen us.

I couldn’t understand it. Why he dropped me as suddenly as he’d picked me up. I’d never known how much disdain a passing glance could convey. Had no idea how much pain it was possible to feel in that split second of his eyes flickering past me. How much pain it was possible to feel and still be alive.

That next evening as he came towards us, the three of us sitting together with the ever-faithful Gregory at a table, chatting and listening to the band, my heart was in my mouth. I’d thought he’d claim me, let the world see he’d chosen me,
me
. I stood to reach for his outstretched hand, sure it was reaching for me even as his eyes skittered over me.

“Evie,” he said, arm outstretched towards her, “would you care to dance?”

Evie. He might as well have stuck a knife in my chest. I sat down heavily, cheeks burning. I could feel Helen’s rage at my humiliation radiating from her narrowed eyes. Gregory’s hand dropped comfortingly over mine as Evie tried to decline but finally let herself be led away to the dance floor, too stunned, she told me later, to refuse him.

Dear Gregory. He tried. “Perhaps, Ursula,”
he said softly, “you would care to dance with me?” I couldn’t speak, so he’d left us there, Helen and me, no doubt thinking he was being tactful, that a woman would know better how to soothe me. She’d tried. Moved immediately into the empty seat beside mine. When she’d reached for my hand, though, I’d snatched it away, all my anger coming to a head, turning to her, irrationally, unreasonably. But I couldn’t blame Cameron, not him. I knew even then that it wasn’t her fault he’d fixed on her. And to be honest, beautiful and charming though she is, I did wonder if Cameron would have desired her quite so strongly had Gregory not plainly been in love with her. He was always jealous of his older brother. Had to try to outdo him in everything. Wanted, expected, everything Gregory had, and more. I know that now. But that night, I blamed it all on Helen. Dear, kind Helen. For being too beautiful, too rich, too sophisticated. Too everything I was not. I still find it hard not to be jealous of her.

That night, when she’d tried to speak to me I’d turned my head away and ignored her, so she’d just sat there quietly, loyally, beside me as we watched the twirling couples, their motion hypnotic and the music covering our silence. Until Evie’s scene.

I’ll never forget Helen’s laugh at Cameron’s “comeuppance”, as she liked to call it when she joked about it afterwards. So out of character for her to find amusement in anyone’s discomfort but shows just how much she despised him. And I’ll never forget the horror on Evie’s face, either, as she slapped him and walked off the dance floor, stalked in fact, leaving him standing there surprised, holding one hand to his cheek before smiling and making light of it to the dancers who’d stopped in shock around him. Evie disappeared to her cabin and refused to come out for anyone. Such unexpected melodrama from a daughter of the manse, but I was glad of it; it diverted attention from me. Helen – wasn’t it always? – finally talked her way in and calmed Evie down. Cameron and his hand again, it seemed, venturing down a back where, this time, it wasn’t welcomed. I pretended to be as outraged as the rest of them, but really I just felt an ache because I wanted that hand again on me. Fool. To think he’d been taken with me. But I did. I did! And I think, for just a brief moment he was, or could have been, if he hadn’t been besotted with Helen. And by the time I realised he was only toying, playing with Evie and me simply because we were Helen’s friends and he wanted to get her attention, it was too late. I’d fallen. As blindly as a duckling, I would follow wherever he led, this, the first man I’d fallen in love with. The only man.

Later, I fled out on deck, leaving the ballroom to the revellers and the cabin to Evie, thinking I’d be safe there. I can smell that salt air again, feel the sting in my eyes and my heart as I heard them. Cameron and Helen. He was laughing as she scolded him, rebuked him with words I’ve never forgotten: “She doesn’t understand your kind of games, Cameron. She isn’t like us.” I hated her then, for presuming to defend me like that, and for making Cameron say he’d done it to make her jealous. I’d never have had to know that, if Helen hadn’t interfered.

I remember the disdain in her voice as she told him she would never, could never, feel anything for him but contempt. And I heard his voice change too, as he swore he’d make her his. I couldn’t see, of course, from where I hid in the shadows, but in my mind’s eye, I play it over and over. I hear the crack of flesh on flesh, her gasp of pain as he catches the wrist of the hand she’d slapped him with, the muffled noises as she struggled from his kiss.

Then that next night. Any hope that might have been left was dashed, splintering like crystal with every shriek of laughter from that blousy widow …

There’s a green tinge in the sky just above the horizon. Dawn is on its way. I am a fool to brood like this. No better than a schoolgirl suffering her first crush. I must be stronger than this. I’ll fold up Helen’s letter, pin up my hair and put on a clean uniform. And then I’ll work. Work is what I’m good at. My salve, my consolation. I must,
must
find a way to be strong. I have to. I don’t think I could survive him twice. Oh Cameron. Why couldn’t you stay away?

Blantyre, April 30th

I hardly dare write this. I’m frightened it will dissolve if I set the words down on the page, frightened it will vanish like a forgotten dream if I do not. He’s been here. He’s back. He wants me. Cameron. Cameron, my love! My only love.

He was waiting for me on the verandah. I’d started up the steps still thinking about the patients I’d left behind, the nurse I’d had to reprimand, the theatre schedule for tomorrow, when a small movement startled me and I saw a figure in the shadows. But it wasn’t until he stood, said my name, that I knew. Such a wave of mixed emotions swept over me. The world quivered, hummed around me, my skin tingled as blood roared through me. My legs buckled under me, but before I fell, he was there, catching me, holding me, pulling me in close, stroking my hair and saying my name over and over in that way no one else can. I breathed him in and felt the strength of him and knew this was what I wanted. It was where I belonged, and the time since I last was in his arms vanished, the pain worthwhile if it had brought me to this moment. Why had I even tried to pretend I could forget him? He is my heartbeat, my pulse, my breath.

I don’t know how long we stood there like that. Eventually he led me to the sofa, left me for a moment to call in to Cassie to bring out drinks, food, whatever, to revive me. Then he sat next to me, leant forward so our knees were touching and took my hands between his.

“Forgive me, Ursula, my darling. Can you forgive me?”

His
darling
! Did he need to ask?

Blantyre, May 3rd

He’s gone. He came tonight to say goodbye – “
Au revoir,
” he said. And although I feel my heart is breaking without him, he’s right: he always is.
Au revoir
, indeed. One week and we’ll be together again. One long, long week. But I can do it. I will go to work and come home again and write to him, go to bed and think about him, then get up and go to work again until the days are past and I’m back in his arms. I am beyond happy. I am. I just am. I am the woman I am meant to be when I’m with him. To love and be loved is everything.

These last three days have been a revelation. So much has happened. I’m still reeling. Not just from Cameron’s return and his love, although that makes me positively giddy, but I’m reeling from the truth. I was stunned, shocked, when he told me. Couldn’t believe it.

But it all makes sense.

How could I not see it before, even though my instinct, my intuition was screaming it at me, that Cameron would never want to hurt me! When I’d found it hard to forgive Helen, truly forgive her, I thought it was my fault, my jealousy getting in the way. How wrong I was!
She’s
the jealous one. To think, the glorious Buchanan heiress, jealous of
me
. I should have had more faith. More trust. It’s the very basis of love itself, and I nearly lost that. Oh, I have so much to learn about love. But Cameron will teach me, show me. And to think I doubted him, almost started to believe what Helen wanted me to believe. But he forgives me, says it was inevitable, that that’s what makes her so dangerous, her ability to manipulate and control.

She’d had him sent away. I should have realised, but even now I can hardly believe she’d be so brutal. But she was behind it all. She poisoned Gregory against him – his own brother! – and made him leave Cameron in South Africa, told him to ingratiate himself with the smart set there to develop business contacts. They’d already had him cultivate that Gertie woman on the boat as their “entrée to society”, Cameron said, so that’s where he was instructed to start. Helen, Cameron said, had recognised Gertie straightaway as the sort of woman who’d insinuate herself into society in Cape Town – and wouldn’t Helen know, after all? Isn’t she just the same herself? He was horrified at the tales Helen had told me of scandal and affairs. Didn’t I know he loved me, only me, and anything he did was only for his brother’s sake, for the good of the business Gregory was charged with running, and that Cameron had never, never, betrayed our love? I can’t believe I let her taunt me like that. What kind of woman would make up lies like that, knowing the hurt they’d cause someone who called you friend?