She edged her mare in until her knee touched Mark's, and she turned away from Storm, deliberately looking up at the rider beside her. I hadn't realized you were so tall, she murmured. How tall are you? Six foot two. Mark only dimly realized that something mysterious, which promised him many awkward moments, was afoot. Oh, I do think height gives a man presence. Storm was now laughing gaily with her father, and trying to listen to the conversation behind her at the same time.
Anger clawed her cruelly and she clutched the riding-crop until her fingers ached. She was not quite sure what had affected her this way, but she would have delighted in lashing the crop across Irene's silly simpering face.
It was certainly not that she felt anything for Mark Anders. He was, after all, merely a hired servant at Emoyeni. He could make an idiot of himself over Irene Leuchars and she would not even glance aside at any other time or place. It was just that there were some things that were not done, the dignity of her position, of her father, and family, yes, that was it, she realized. It was an insult that Irene Leuchars, as a guest in the Courtney home, should make herself free, should flaunt herself, should make it so blatant that she would like to lead Mark Anders along the well-travelled pathway to her steamy, she could not continue the thought, for the vivid mental image of that pale, deceptively fragile-looking body of Irene's spread out, languid and naked, and Mark about to, another wave of anger made her sway in the saddle, and she dropped the riding crop she carried and turned quickly. Oh Mark, I've dropped my crop. Won't you be a dear and fetch it for me? Mark was taken aback, not only by the endearment, but also by the stunning smile and warmth of Storm's voice.
He almost fell from the saddle in his haste, and when he came alongside Storm to hand the crop back to her, she detained him with a smile of thanks, and a question. Mark, won't you help me label my cases? it's only a few days and we'll all be leaving for Cape Town. I'm so looking forward to it, Irene agreed as she pushed her mare up on Mark's other side, and Storm smiled sweetly at her. It should be fun, she agreed. I love Cape Town. Grand fun, Irene laughed gaily, and Storm regretted bitterly the invitation that would make her a guest for four months in the Courtney's Cape Town home. Before Storm could find a cutting rejoinder, Irene leaned across to Mark.
Come on, then, she said, and turned her mare aside.
Where are you going? Storm demanded. Mark is taking me down to the river to show me the monument where Dick King crossed on his way to fetch the English troops from Grahamstown. oh, Irene darling, Storm dabbed at her eye with the tail of her scarf. I seem to have something in my eye. Won't you see to it? No, don't wait for us, Mark. Go on ahead with the General. I know he needs you still. And she turned her small perfect head to Irene for her ministrations.
With patent relief, Mark spurred ahead to catch up with the General, and Irene told Storm in honeyed tones, There's nothing in your eye, darling, except a touch of green. You bitch, hissed Storm. Darling, I don't know what you mean. The Dunottar Castle trembled under the thrust of her engines and ran southwards over a starlit sea that seemed to be sculpted from wet black obsidian, each crest marched with such weighty dignity as to seem solid and unmoving.
It was only when the ship put her sharp prow into them that they burst into creaming white, and hissed back along the speeding hull.
The General paused and looked at the southern sky, to where the great cross burned among its myriad cohorts, and Orion the hunter brandished his sword. That's the way the sky should be, he nodded his approval. I could never get used to the northern skies. It was as though the universe had disintegrated, and the grand designs of nature had been plunged into anarchy. They went to the rail and paused there to watch the moon rise out of the dark sea, and as it pushed its golden dome clear of the horizon, the General pulled out the gold hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and grunted.
Twenty-one minutes past midnight, the moon is punctual this morning. Mark smiled at the little joke. Yet he knew that it was part of the General's daily ritual to consult his almanac for sunrise and moonrise, and the moon phases.
The mAn's energy was formidable.
They had worked until just a few minutes previously and had been at it since midmorning. Mark felt muzzy and woolly headed with mental effort and the pungent incense of the General's cigars which had filled the suite. I think we over-did it a little today, my boy, Sean Courtney admitted, as though he had read the thought. But I did want to be up to date before we dock in Table Bay.
Thank you, Mark. Now why don't you go down and join the dancing? From the boat deck, Mark looked down on to the swirling orderly confusion of dancing couples in the break of the promenade deck. The ship's band was belting out a Strauss waltz and the dancers spun wildly, the women's skirts flahng open like the petals of exotic blooms and their laughing cries a sweet and musical counterpoint to the stirring strains of the waltz.
Mark picked Storm Courtney out of the press, her particular grace making it easy to distinguish her, she lay back in the circle of her partner's arms and spun dizzily, the light catching the dark sparkle of her hair and glowing on the waxy golden perfection of her bare shoulders.
Mark lit a cigarette, and leaned on the rail, watching her. It was strange that he had seldom felt lonely in the great silences and space of the wilderness, and here, surrounded by music and gaiety and the laughter of young people, he knew deep loneliness.
The General's suggestion that he go down and join the dancing had been unwittingly cruel. He would have been out of place there among the rich young clique who had known each other since childhood, a close-knit elite that jealousy closed ranks against any intruder, especially one that did not possess the necessary qualifications of wealth and social standing.
He imagined going down and asking Storm Courtney for a waltz, her humiliation at being accosted by her father's secretary, the nudging and the snide exchanges, the patronizing questions. Do you actually type letters, old boy? And he felt himself flushing angrily at the mere thought of it.
Yet he lingered by the rail for another half hour, delighting in each glimpse of Storm, and hating each of her partners with a stony implacable hatred; and when at last he went down to his cabin, he could not sleep. He wrote a letter to Marion Littlejohn, and found himself as warmly disposed towards her as he had been in months. Her gentled sincerity, and the genuineness of her affection for him were suddenly very precious assets. On the pages he recalled the visit she had made to Durban just before his departure. The General had been understanding and they had had many hours together during the two days. She had been awed by his new position, and impressed by his surroundings. However, their one further attempt at physical intimacy, even though it had been made in the urity and privacy of Mark's cottage, had been, if anything, less successful than the first. There had been no opportunity, nor had Mark had the heart to break off their engagement, and in the end Mark had put her on the train to Ladyburg with relief, but now loneliness and distance had enhanced her memory. He wrote with real affection and sincerity, but when he had sealed the envelope, he found that he still had no desire for sleep.
He had found a copy of Jock of the Bushveld in the ship's library and was rereading the adventures of man and dog, and the nostalgic and vivid descriptions of African bush and animals with such pleasure, that his loneliness was
