“Actually I overheard the previous purchaser address you as Miss Soames. Are you by any chance Miss Harriet Soames?”
She looked puzzled. “Yes. I am. But I am afraid I cannot recall our having met.”
It was a polite and predictable reply from a well-bred young woman who did not wish to be rushed into an acquaintance with a person she knew nothing about, and to whom she had not been introduced.
“My name is Charlotte Pitt.” Charlotte smiled. “My husband has been a lifelong friend of Sir Matthew Desmond. May I offer you my felicitations on your betrothal, and my sympathies for the death of Sir Arthur. My husband feels his loss so deeply, I know he must have been a most unusual man.”
“Oh-” Having received a satisfactory explanation, Harriet Soames was perfectly prepared to be friendly. Her face softened into a charming smile. “How kind of you, Mrs. Pitt. Yes indeed, Sir Arthur was one of the nicest people I ever knew. I expected to be in awe of him, as one usually is of a prospective father-in-law, but from the moment I met him, I felt completely at ease.” Memory in her face was touched at once with pleasure and pain.
Charlotte wished even more sharply that she had met Sir Arthur. She would have felt his death more keenly herself, but she would have been better able to share Pitt’s emotion. She knew that his grief bit very deep and was mixed with guilt, and at the moment she was outside it. It was beyond either of them to alter that.
“Sir Matthew came to visit us the other evening,” Charlotte continued, largely for something to say. “I had not met him before, but I found I liked him immediately. I do wish you every happiness.”
“Thank you, that is most kind.” Harriet seemed about to add something further, but was prevented by the arrival of a young woman whose face grew more and more appealing the longer one looked at it. At a glance one would have said she was ordinarily pretty with regular features and typically pleasing English fair coloring, not flaxen, but the warm deep tone of honey, and her complexion was unfashionably glowing with natural color. But with further regard there was an intelligence and humor in her face which made her anything but ordinary.
Not realizing Charlotte and Harriet were speaking as friends, rather than vendor and purchaser, she did not hesitate to interrupt, and then hastily apologized when Harriet introduced them. The newcomer’s name was Miss Amanda Pennecuick.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Amanda said quickly. “How appallingly rude of me. Forgive me, Mrs. Pitt. I have nothing of the least importance to say.”
“Nor I,” Charlotte confessed. “I was merely introducing myself, since my husband is a very old friend of Sir Matthew Desmond’s.” She assumed Amanda knew of Harriet’s betrothal, and her face made it immediately plain that she did.
“I am so cross,” Amanda confided. “Gwendoline Otway is doing those fearful astrology readings again, and she promised she wouldn’t. You know there are times when I feel I could slap her! And she has dressed herself as Anne Boleyn.”
“With or without her head?” Harriet asked with a sudden giggle.
“With it … for the moment,” Amanda replied grimly.
“I didn’t know Anne Boleyn was Shakespearean.” Harriet screwed up her brow.
“Farewell…. ‘A long farewell to all my greatness,’” a beautifully modulated masculine voice said from just behind Amanda’s shoulder, and they turned to see the bright, homely face of Garston Aylmer. “Cardinal Wolsey,” he said cheerfully, looking at Amanda.
“Oh, yes of course. Good afternoon, Mr. Aylmer,” she replied, regarding him levelly, and almost without expression in her face, which was difficult because it was a countenance naturally given to emotion.
“Why does it displease you so much that she should pretend a little astrology?” Charlotte asked. “Is it not a fairly harmless way of entertaining people and raising money for the bazaar?”
“Amanda disapproves of astrology,” Harriet said with a smile. “Even as a game.”
“The stars are not in the least magical,” Amanda said quickly. “At least not in that sense. The truth of them is far more wonderful than a lot of silly names and ideas about classical heroes and imaginary beasts. If you had any idea of the real magnitude …” She stopped, aware that Garston Aylmer was staring at her with intensity, and an admiration in his face so plain no one watching him could have been unaware of it.
“Forgive me,” she said to Charlotte. “I really should not allow myself to get so upset over something so silly. No doubt she is amusing people who would never look through a telescope even if you placed one into their hands.” She laughed self-consciously. “Perhaps I had better buy a pincushion. Please let me see that one with the white lace on it.”
Harriet passed it across.
“Perhaps you would allow me to escort you to tea, Miss Pennecuick? And you, Mrs. Pitt?” Aylmer offered.
Charlotte knew well enough when not to intrude. She had no idea what Amanda felt, but Aylmer’s feelings were apparent, and she rather liked him.
“Thank you, but I have come with my great-aunt, and I should find her again before too long,” she declined.
Amanda hesitated, apparently considering the matter, then coolly accepted, excusing herself to both Charlotte and Harriet. She made her purchase and left, walking beside Aylmer, but not taking his proffered arm. They looked unsuited together; she was so slender and elegant, and he was quite unusually plain, short legged, and definitely too plump.
“You should have gone,” Harriet said under her breath. “Poor Amanda.”
“I really did come with my great-aunt,” Charlotte replied with a wide smile. “Honestly.”
“Oh!” Harriet blushed. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were …” She started to laugh, and a moment later Charlotte joined in.
Fifteen minutes later she found Vespasia and together they went to the tent where afternoon tea was being served. They saw Aylmer and Amanda Pennecuick just leaving, apparently still in conversation.
“An unexpected couple,” Vespasia observed.
“His design, not hers,” Charlotte replied.
“Indeed.” Vespasia looked at the young girl who had come to offer them sandwiches and little cakes decorated and iced in a variety of designs. They made their choice, and Vespasia poured the tea. It was still too hot to sip when Charlotte noticed Susannah Chancellor at the next table, which was rather more behind them so it was half hidden by a samovar on a stand and a large potted plant with a price ticket poking out of it. However, when for a moment neither she nor Vespasia were speaking, Susannah’s voice was just audible. It sounded polite and curious, but there were the beginnings of anxiety in it.
“I think you are leaping to conclusions without knowing all the facts, Mr. Kreisler. The plans have been very thoroughly thought through, and a great many people consulted who have traveled in Africa and know the natives.”
“Such as Mr. Rhodes?” Kreisler’s voice was still on the borders of courtesy, but he was not concealing his disbelief, nor the dislike he felt for Cecil Rhodes and his works.
“Of course he is one of them,” Susannah agreed. “But certainly not the only one. Mr. MacKinnon-”
“Is an honorable man,” he finished for her. His voice was still light, almost bantering in tone, but there was an intensity beneath which was unmistakable to the ear. Charlotte could not see him, but she could imagine the unwavering look in his eyes, even if he were pretending to smile. “But he has to make a profit. That is his business, and his honor depends upon it, even his survival.”
“Mr. Rhodes has a great deal of his own money invested in this venture,” Susannah went on. “Neither my husband nor my brother-in-law would have backed him as they have were he simply an adventurer with no stake in it himself.”
“He is an adventurer with a very great stake in it himself,” Kreisler said with a slight laugh. “He is an empire builder of the highest order!”
“You sound as if you disapprove of that, Mr. Kreisler. Why? If we do not, then others will, and we shall have lost Africa, perhaps to Germany. You can’t approve of that, can you? Or of the slavery that goes on now?”
“No, of course not, Mrs. Chancellor. But the evil there now is centuries old, and part of their way of life. The changes we will bring about will not necessarily get rid of them, only produce war with the Arabs, who are the largest slavers, with the ivory traders and with the Portuguese, and undoubtedly with the Germans and the Sultan of Zanzibar. And most of all, it will set up our own empire in Equatoria, which will eventually overtake Emin Pasha, Lobengula, and the Kabaka of Buganda and everyone else. White settlers with guns will drive out the old ways, and
