well that she could anticipate his lightest whim and fancy.
Most of the books were bound in dark green leather, and stamped on their spine in gold leaf with Sean's crest. The exceptions were the three ceiling-high shelves of first editions with African themes. A dealer in London, and another in Amsterdam had carte blanche instructions from Sean to search for these treasures. There were autographed first editions by Stanley, Livingstone, Cornwallis Harris, Burchell, Munro and almost every other African explorer or hunter who had ever published.
The dark panelled woodwork between the book shelves was studded with the paintings of the early African artists; the Baines glowed like rich gems in their flamboyant colours and naive, almost childlike, depiction of animal and countryside. One of these was set in an intricately carved frame of Rhodesian redwood and engraved, To my friend David Livingstone, from Thomas Baines. These links with history and the past always warmed Sean with pleasure, and he fell into a mild reverie.
The deep carpeting deadened her footsteps, but there was the light perfume on the air that warned Sean of her presence, and he swung his chair back to the desk. She stood beside his chair, slim and straight as a girl still. I thought you were walking with Garry and Jan. Ruth smiled then, and seemed as young and beautiful as when he had first met her so many years before. The cool gloom of the room disguised the little lines at the corners of her eyes and the light streaking of silver in the dark hair drawn back from her temples and caught with a ribbon at the back of her neck. They are waiting for me, but I slipped away for a moment to make certain that you had all you wanted. She smiled down at him, and then selected a cigar from the silver humidor and began to prepare it. I will need an hour or two, he said, glancing at the pile of mail. What you really need, Sean, is an assistant. She cut the cigar carefully, and he grunted. You can't trust any of these young people - and she laughed lightly as she placed the cigar between his lips. You sound as old as the prophets. She struck a Vesta and waved it to clear the sulphur before she held it to the tip of the cigar. It's a sign of old age to mistrust the young. With you beside me, I'll be young for ever, he told her, still awkward with a compliment after all these years and she felt her heart swell with her love, knowing the effort it had required.
She stooped quickly and kissed his cheek, and with a speed and strength that still astonished her, one of his thickly muscled arms whipped around her waist and she was lifted into his lap. You know what happens to forward young ladies, don't you? He grinned at her, his eyes crinkling wickedly. Sean, she protested, in mock horror. The servants! Our guests! She struggled out of his embrace with the warmth and wetness of his kiss still on her lips, together with the tickle of his whiskers and the taste of his cigar, and rearranged her skirts and her hair. I'm a fool. She shook her head sorrowfully. I always trust you. And then they smiled at each other, lost for a moment in their love. My guests, she remembered suddenly, a hand flying to her mouth. May I set the tea for four o'clock? We'll have it down at the lake. It's a lovely day. When she had gone, Sean wasted another minute staring after her through the empty doorway into the gardens.
Then he sighed again, contentedly, and drew the silver salver of mail towards him.
He worked quickly, but with care, pencilling his instructions at the foot of each page and initialling them with a regal'S. No! but tell them politely. S. C. Let me have the previous year's figures of purchase and delay the next shipment against bank guarantee. S. C. Why did this come to me? Send it to Barnes. S. C. Agreed. S. C. To Atkinson for comment, please. S. C. The subjects were as diverse as the writers, politicians, financiers, supplicants, old friends, chancers, beggars they were all there.
He flicked over a sealed envelope and stared at it for a moment, not recognizing the name or the occasion. Mark Anders Esq Natal Motors, West Street, Durban. It was written in the hand that was so bold and flourishing that nobody could mistake it for any other but his own, and he remembered sending the letter.
Somebody had written across the envelope, Left, no forwarding address, return to sender. Sean clamped the cigar in the corner of his mouth and slit the flap with a Georgian silver paper-knife. The card was embossed with the regimental crest.
The Colonel-in-Chief and the officers of the Natal Mounted Rifles request the pleasure of MARK ANDERS ESQ.
at a regimental reunion dinner to be held at the Old Fort. . .
Sean had written in the boy's name in the blank space, and at the end of the card, Do try to come. S. C. Now it was returned, and Sean scowled. As always, he was impatient and frustrated by even the slightest check in his plans. Angrily he tossed both card and envelope at the wastepaper bin, and they both missed, fluttering to the carpet.
Surprisingly, even to himself, his mood had altered, and though he worked on, he fumed and gruffed now over his correspondence and his instructions became barbed. The man is a fool or a rogue or both, under no circumstances will I recommend him to a post of such importance, despite the family connection! S. C. After another hour, he had finished and the room was hazed with cigar smoke. He lay back in the chair and stretched voluptuously like an old lion, then glanced at the wall clock. It was five minutes short of four o'clock, and he stood up.
The offending card caught his eye again, and he stooped quickly and picked it up, reading it again as he crossed the room, tapping the stiff cardboard thoughtfully on the open palm of his hand as he limped out heavily into the sunlight and across the wide lawns.
The gazebo was set on a constructed island in the centre of the lake with a narrow causeway joining it to the lawns.
Sean's household and guests were gathered there already, sitting about the table in the shade under the crazily contrived roof of the gazebo with its intricate castiron work painted with carnival colours. Already a host of wild duck had gathered about the tiny island, quacking loudly for pieces of biscuit and cake.
Storm Courtney saw her father coming across the lawns, and she let out one small excited squeak, leapt from the tea table and flew down the causeway to meet him before he reached the lake.
He lifted her easily, as though she were still a baby, and when he kissed her, she inhaled the smell of him. It was one of the lovely smells of her existence, like the smell of rain on hot dry earth, or horses, or the sea. He had a special perfume like old polished leather.
When he lowered her, she took his arm and pressed close to him, matching her light quickstep to his limp. How was your lunch appointment? he asked, looking down on her shining lovely head, and she rolled her eyes and then squinted ferociously. He is a very presentable young man Sean told her sternly. An excellent young man. Oh, Daddy, from you that means he is a weak-minded bore. Young lady, I would like to remind you that he is a Rhodes scholar, and that his father is the Chief justice. Oh, I know all that, but, Daddy, he just hasn't. got zing! Even Sean looked for an instant nonplussed. And what, may I ask, is 'zing? Zing is indefinable, she told him seriously, but you've got zing! You're the zingiest man I know. And with that statement Sean found all his fatherly advice and disapproving words gone like migrating swallows, and he grinned down at her, shaking his head. You don't really believe that I swallow all your soft soap, do you? You'll never believe it, Daddy, but Payne Bros, have got in twelve actual Patou Couture models, they're absolutely exclusive, and Patou is all the rage now, Women in savage, barbaric colours,
