Johannesburg. But Mark's anger was still on him, and his voice was rough and scaly with it.
Thank you, he said. Then I could spend my life grubbing money for you to buy those ridiculous clothes, and Don't you insult me, Mark Anders, she blazed.
Try me, Mark told her. And that's what I'm going to be the rest of my life. If you loved me, you'd respect that. And if you loved me, you wouldn't want me to live in a grass hut. I love you, he shouted her down. But you'll be my wife and you'll do what I decide. Don't challenge me, Mark Anders. I warn you. Don't ever do that! I'll be your husband, he began, but she snatched up her boots and ran to her horse, stooping to loose the hobble and then flinging herself on to its back bare-footed and looked down at him. She was breathless with anger, but she struggled to make her voice icy and cutting. Don't take any bets on thad! And she dragged the horse's head around and kicked him into a run. Where is Missy? Sean demanded as he unfolded his napkin and tucked the corner into his waistcoat, glancing at Storm's empty place at the table. She's not feeling very well, dear, Ruth told him, as she began serving the soup, ladling it out of the fat-bellied tureen in a cloud of fragrant steam. I allowed her to have her dinner sent up to her room. What's wrong with her? Sean looked up with concern creasing his forehead. It's nothing serious, said Ruth firmly, closing the door on further discussion. Sean stared at her for a moment, and then understanding dawned. Oh! he said. The functions of the female body had always been shrouded for Sean Courtney in deepest mystery, and awakened in him an abiding awe. Oh! he said again, and leaned forward to blow noisily on a spoonful of soup to cover his embarrassment, and the niggling resentment that his beloved child was a child no longer.
Across the table, Mark applied himself to his spoon with equal determination, but with an empty aching feeling below his ribs. Where is Missy tonight? Sean asked, with what was for him a certain diffidence. Still not well, 'She telephoned Irene Leuchars this morning. Apparently the Leuchars are having a huge party tonight and she wanted to go. She left after lunch. She's driving herself back to Durban in the Cadillac. Where will she stay? Sean demanded.
Vith the Leuchars, naturally. She should have asked me, Sean frowned. You were down at the saw-mills all day, dear. The decision had to be made immediately, or she would have missed the party. I knew you wouldn't mind. Sean minded everything that took his daughter away from him, but he could not say so now. I thought she hated Irene Leuchars, he complained.
That was last month, said Ruth.
I thought she was sick, Sean persisted. That was last night. When is she coming home? She may stay in town for the race-meeting at Greyville on Saturday. Mark Anders listened with the empty space in his chest turning to a great bottomless void. Storm had gone back to join that close group of rich, indolent and privileged young people, to their endless games and their eternal round of extravagant partying, and on Saturday Mark was leaving with two mules for the wilderness beyond Chaka's Gate.
Mark would never fathom how Dirk Courtney knew.
To him it seemed further evidence of the man's power, the tentacles of his influence that reached into every corner and crevice.
I understand you are to make the survey for the Government, to decide whether it's worth developing the proclaimed area beyond Chaka's Gate? he asked Mark.
Mark could still hardly believe the fact that he stood unarmed and completely unprotected here at Great Longwood. His skin tingled with warning of deadly danger, his nerves were drawn like bow-strings, and he walked with exaggerated care, one hand clenched in the hip-pocket of his breeches.
Beside him, Dirk Courtney was tall and courteous and affable. When he turned to make that statement, he smiled a warm spread of the wide and handsome mouth and he laid a hand on Mark's upper arm. A light but friendly touch, which shocked Mark as though a mamba had kissed him with its little flickering black tongue. How does he know it? Mark stared at him, his feet slowing, so that he pulled gently away from Dirk's touch.
If Dirk noticed the withdrawal, it did not show in his smile, and he let his hand fall naturally to his side and took the flat silver cigarette-case from his jacket pocket. Try one, he murmured. They are made especially for me. Mark tasted the incense of the sweetish Turkish tobacco, using the act of lighting the cigarette to cover his uncertainty and surprise. Only Sean Courtney and his close family knew, and of course the Prime Minister's office, the Prime Minister's office, if that was it, as it seemed it must be, then Dirk Courtney's tentacles stretched far indeed. Your silence I must take as confirmation, Dirk told him, as they came down the paved alleyway between two lines of whitewashed loose boxes. From over the halfdoors, the horses stretched out their necks to Dirk and he paused now and then to caress a velvety muzzle with surprisingly gentle fingers, and to murmur an endearment. You are a very silent young man. Dirk smiled that warm endearing smile again. I like a man who can keep his own counsel, and respect the privacy of others. He turned to confront Mark, forcing him to meet his eyes.
Dirk reminded Mark of some glossy cat, one of the big predators, not the tabby domestic variety. The leopard, golden and beautiful and cruel. He wondered at his own courage, or foolhardiness, in coming here right into the leopard's lair. A year ago it might have been suicidal to put himself in this man's hands. Even now, without Sean Courtney's protection, he would never have dared, Yet although it was logical to believe that nobody, not even Dirk Courtney, would dare touch him, now that he was Sean Courtney's protege with all that that implied, yet prickles of apprehension nettled his spine as he looked into those leopard's eyes.
Dirk took his elbow, not giving him opportunity to avoid the touch, and led him through a gateway to the stud pens.
The two pens were enclosed with ten-foot high pole fences, carefully padded to prevent damage to the expensive animals that would be confined here. The earth within the rectangular enclosures was ankle-deep with fresh sawdust, and though one was empty, there was a group of four grooms busy in the nearest pen.
Two of them had the mare on a double lead rein. She was a young animal, a deep red bay in colour, and she had the beautiful balanced head of the Arab, wide nostrils which promised great heart and stamina, and strong but delicate bones.
Dirk Courtney placed a booted foot on the bottom rail of the pen, and leaned forward to look at her with a gloating pride. She cost me a thousand guineas, he said, and it was a bargain. The two other grooms had the stallion in check. An old, heavily built animal, with grey dappling his muzzle. He wore a girdle, strapped under his belly, and up between the hindlegs, a cage like an old-fashioned chastity belt of woven light chain that was called the teaser. It would prevent him effectively covering the mare.
The grooms gave him rein to approach the mare, but the instant she felt his gentle nuzzling touch under her tail, she put her head down and lashed out with both back legs, a murderous hissing cut of hooves that flew within inches of the stallion's head.
He snorted and backed away. Then, undeterred, he closed with her once more, reaching out to touch her flank, running his nose with a gentle ]over's touch across the glossy hide, but the mare made her skin shudder wildly, as though she were beset by bees, and she let out a screaming whinny of outrage at the importunate touch on her
