Chapter 7
Every so often during her six years in the British Air Corps stationed in West and Central Africa, Verity had found herself in a predicament of such rank absurdity, no halfpenny comic writer could have fashioned it. She cringed at the memories: airlifting a pregnant rhinoceros from a narrow gorge hours before an artificial lake burst its banks and flooded the region; singing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow” to Tangeni on his birthday, in the diving bell, while they suited up to retrieve gold bullion from a sunken Norwegian frigate; being maid of honour at Captain Naismith’s wedding to an exiled Congolese princess under the first heavy rainfall in eighteen months; fleeing downriver in a canoe, half-naked, from a tribe dressed up as leopards. And those were merely the ones she could remember. But tonight, she had put them all to shame. Tonight she had crossed over into the realm of the impossible.
“ Eembu, Tangeni is right. English women crazier by far than English men.” Kibo shook his head. Her engine man, her brave and brilliant automobile driver.
“You were no slouch yourself, Kibo.”
He kissed her hand, nodded politely, then walked away chatting with his engine room pals, who had all come ashore to congratulate him. News of the “harpoon chase” had galvanized the camp for the time being. Tipsy Whitehall gentlemen conversed with salty, dark-skinned aeronauts perhaps for the first time in their lives, but she knew this fraternising would not last. No two peoples could be more different and she dreaded the inevitable hierarchy that would emerge.
Suffering the after-effects of her bump on the head, Verity gave in to her weak knees and climbed back into the car. She sank into the passenger seat, ready to sleep for another day. And next time, the nightmare had better not seem quite so vivid as this one!
No use. The back of her head throbbed, and barbed wire pressed behind her eyes whenever she closed them. Instead, she retrieved the telescope from Tangeni’s top coat he’d lent her, and scanned the survivors. Three definite groups appeared to have formed on the embankment. The first pow-wow, in front of the collapsed station house, comprised a strict-looking woman and about fifteen well-dressed gentlemen, all conversing soberly and exchanging compliant nods. They might be trouble if left unchecked. Those lordly types rarely passed up a chance to seize power from any situation.
The second group, not far from the car, consisted of garrulous white gentlemen and black crewmen, plus Reba and Philomena, her two statuesque female riggers, who drew considerable attention from the younger English dandies. Verity raised a smile. No matter what kind of leadership prevailed within the camp, she would do her utmost to encourage both sides to congeal in this manner. On the whole, the Gannet crews she’d served with had proven Anglo-African compatibility beyond doubt. They had pulled together in times of crisis all across Africa. To survive here, in this prehistoric world, that same commitment would be vital.
She turned her gaze to the final group that sat apart on a flat iron door amid the rubble. The small boy she’d met briefly earlier. Kibo had freed his father’s body before righting the tri-wheel car with the help of the crew. The poor lad was an orphan, then-and gap-toothed, cute as a button. But who were these other two men he’d grown close to? The older one resembled a cross between a dotty librarian and Captain Nemo, his maroon dinner jacket and shock of silver hair remarkably eccentric.
The younger man bent sideways into the shadows, fiddling with something mechanical in his lap. She couldn’t see his face, so she twisted the knob on her spyglass to enlarge the object in his hands. Hmm, some kind of steam weapon? She raised an eyebrow when she saw how youthful and handsome he was. He possessed a sleek, distinguished quality that reminded her of a jaguar surveying the jungle from its untouchable bough. It gave him poise and grace and, even at a distance, a striking authoritative air beyond his years. She pegged him as being in his mid-twenties, a similar age to her?
“Um, Tangeni?”
“ Eembu? ” He was only a few feet away, whispering with Djimon.
“Who’s the Adonis?”
“Who?”
“The blond man sitting with the boy.”
“His name is Embrey.” Tangeni paused, perhaps gauging her reaction. “He reminds me of younger Captain Naismith.”
“How so?”
“He has that same way with him, proud and full of-what’s the wordomafimbo odula. ”
“Seasons?”
“Yes.”
She lowered her telescope and blinked at her lieutenant. “You mean he’s mercurial? Or steadfast?”
“Yes.”
Verity laughed. “My dear old kaume, which one is it?”
“He is more than meets the eye. And he will not bend from his duty. Other men follow man like that.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” Tangeni was not wont to voice his admiration for other men freely, and something about the name-Embrey-seemed familiar. She swivelled, slid out of the car and, after composing herself, made her way over for a proper introduction. It might be forward of her but, given the situation, there wasn’t time for anything else.
“How are you, Billy? Ready for some supper?” she asked.
The boy flinched and shied away from her, clinging to the young man’s tail coat. The latter rose courteously to his feet, took off his coat and draped it around the lad. “It’s all right, chief, she’s a friend-an aeronaut officer. I’m Lord Garrett Embrey. Enchanted.” He offered to take her hand but when she obliged, he couldn’t decide whether to kiss it or shake it. It had to be the masculine uniform befuddling him-Tangeni had likely already explained the meaning of eembulukweya. She cringed while he glanced at her borrowed trousers and muttered something inaudible. Hell, why the deuce didn’t I change first?
“Lieutenant Verity Champlain, acting captain.” She felt it prudent to assert her authority, if only to keep his title in check. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Embrey.” But where had she heard that name before? Lord, it was on the tip of her tongue, its import weighing heavier the longer she paused. To hide her frustration, she turned to the other man. “How do you do, sir?”
“Professor Cecil Reardon at your service, ma’am.” He had no qualms about shaking her hand and despite his balding, odd-looking features, Reardon made a likeable first impression. His peculiar, exaggerated nod and grin suggested he was socially awkward, trying too hard to ingratiate himself, or he was an extravert who didn’t give a fig for social reserve. The only scientists she’d met were the Leviacrum dignitaries she’d ferried from London to Benguela, and they had always kept themselves to themselves. Reardon seemed to be a different fish entirely.
“Please join us, Lieutenant.” He set his coat down for her on the edge of a dusty but flat stone wall collapsed upon the rubble.
“Very kind. Thank you.” Verity immediately glanced at Embrey, whose attentive gaze now appeared to be undressing her baggy midshipman’s uniform. But was it disdain scrutinizing her, or curiosity? Either way, it made her feel uncomfortable. His sharp, sleek face softened into a smile, just for her-even in the dim light from the communal fire on the embankment, his blue-grey eyes were vivid. She swallowed, then pressed her knees tightly together and clasped her hands defiantly on her lap. This was no time for compromising her authority. He was disarming, yes, but Tangeni could still be wrong about him.
“You’re the talk of the town-what’s left of it.” Reardon tapped her knee. “One minute you’re warding off bad dreams in a coma, the next you’re warding off dinosaurs. You’d scarcely credit it, not even if-”
“Bury…” Billy interrupted aloud, checked himself, and then mumbled something that sounded like “Bury oryx.”
“What’s that? You’ve seen a dead oryx?” Even Verity cringed at her own patronising tone. Her experience of childhood and children had been abruptly curtailed by her father’s posting to the Naval fleet off the coast of Van
