Yesterday's Promise (25 page)

“The white men must go now,” Lobengula said as he stood. “I will send for you again later.”

With Thompson in the lead, they crawled away from the wagon into the second circle, where they were permitted to stand. They were then escorted out of the circle of mud huts and through a line of young impis armed with assegais.

Rogan felt the menacing gaze of the warriors as he walked slowly through their ranks, refusing to show fear. They did not part to
give them room to walk until the last moment. Rogan smelled the dust, the sweating bodies, the harsh breathing, the barely controlled hatred.

“I've a feeling they'd turn on us in an instant if they could,” Peter said in an undertone.

“Let's get out of here,” Parnell muttered, wiping the sweat from his fore head with the back of his arm. “This is the last time for me. Never again.”

“Relax, gentlemen. I've been through this several times before,” Dr. Jameson stated. “This is their way. The old savage won't turn on us. He knows he will come to the same end as Cetshwayo.”

Rogan found himself wondering again about Dr. Leander Jameson. He looked more confident than the situation warranted. Then he remembered he was a doctor and that he had treated Lobengula in the past for his sickness.

“What's wrong with the king?”

“Gout. Very painful,” Dr. Jameson said over his shoulder. “I brought morphine along with me. I thought he might need it. It will come in handy indeed.” He looked at Frank Thompson, but Thompson looked nervous.

“Whew,” Derwent murmured. “I thought we'd had it for sure this time, Mr. Rogan. Did you notice that one induna looking at you?”

“So you noticed too.”

“I wonder why. Sure was a tight spot, I'd say, even if Dr. Jameson doesn't seem worried. Just think, Mr. Rogan, how that great Scottish missionary Robert Moffat came to these parts with no protection but the Lord's. He sure was a brave man.”

“We could use some of that protection right about now, Derwent,” Rogan said.

“Well, sir, I've been praying for that ever since we walked into Lobengula's kraal.”

They mounted their horses and rode slowly away so as not to give the impression they were intimidated.

The fresh wind, though warm, felt good as it blew again through Rogan's damp shirt.

“Guess Robert Moffat knew the Lord had specially called him to bear witness to His grace,” Derwent continued thoughtfully. He shook his head, took off his floppy hat, and put it back on. “They sure do need to hear the gospel of Christ. Made me sad to see such great men all bound up in superstition and witchcraft. They were made in the image of God… And now…” He shook his head again. “How Satan must enjoy seeing Lobengula and all of them, bound with chains of darkness. Wish I could speak that Sethuana language. I'd tell them myself.”

“You just keep that rifle of yours loaded, Derwent.”

“Aye, I'll do that all right, Mr. Rogan, but somehow I just wish…,” and he sighed.

Rogan was watching. It didn't surprise him to see the sincere grief in Derwent's face. He, too, had been moved by the spiritual darkness binding the Ndebele.

“You know, Derwent,” he said quietly, “I like you.”

Derwent looked at him, surprised.

Rogan glanced ahead at Dr. Jameson riding along with head high. The smile left Rogan's face. “You bring me a clear distinction between men's motives, Derwent. Jameson called Lobengula an old savage, which he is, don't get me wrong. But where he showed contempt, you show compassion and sadness for those, who, as you say, were made to know God.”

Derwent turned an unflattering pink beneath his freckles and fumbled with his bridle.

Rogan edged his horse away and rode up beside Peter.

“Thanks, Mr. Rogan,” Derwent murmured after Rogan had ridden ahead.

Six months after the dark, mysterious incident on the attic steps, Evy wrestled with her disappointment. Dr. Snow had told her she would walk with a limp for the rest of her life. Walking about her room was not that difficult now. She had been improving, regaining some of her strength, but she was far from strong, and further still from coming to peaceful acceptance of the sudden and unwelcome hindrance in her life. It seemed unfair, needless, and cruel. Had she not loved God? She'd not been willfully disobeying Him.

Evy was living in London now at the Chantry Townhouse. It was as she remembered from that magical night so long ago when Rogan had played his violin for her. It was situated amid other two-story houses in the socially elite Strand, known for royalty and titled families.

The last place I belong
, she thought morosely. The elegance emphasized her defect and made her feel more acutely the gulf between her and Rogan. Inheritance or not, she felt inadequate. Perhaps the thing that grieved her most was living in the place where memories of her crowning musical achievement seemed most acute…and mocking.
Why, heavenly Father?

She limped her way, clumsily at first, using crutches, into the same room where she'd supped with not only Rogan, but Arcilla and Peter
Bartley, now Arcilla's husband. The lovely room was still and empty. On that night after her recital, she had worn a beautiful gown, her hair styled in high fashion. Candles had gleamed, and the atmosphere had been warm and romantic.

She fumbled her way into the same chair where she'd sat near Rogan. Deliberately, she relived each moment, feeling the sting of her present loss, tasting the bitter contrast. She remembered every detail of the conversation, the way Rogan had looked at her. As she sat quietly, she could hear in memory the violin playing, see the romantic challenge in his gaze.

How hopeful that night had seemed! How broken now, the delicate dream that lay smashed. Except for Simms and his daughter, servants of Lady Elosia who kept the Townhouse running smoothly, and Mrs. Croft, the dwelling was deserted. Only distant memories were here, memories that would never live again.

Never again would she waltz in a beautiful gown on the polished floor the way she had done one Christmas with Rogan at Rookswood. Crutches were a part of her life now, and crutches were not romantic. If Rogan were to see her now—

No, no, never
. Her pride insisted that she must not suffer such humiliation.

For weeks she wrestled with her uncertain future. This couldn't be happening to her. How could she live with the reproach of deformity? Rogan was perfectly handsome, rugged, confident. But even if he should suddenly return to London, she would not meet with him. It was too late for that. He would show pity, and the very thought caused her to lift her chin. She wanted no pity, especially from him.

She was strong enough to get outdoors now. With early spring upon them, she would sometimes venture out with Mrs. Croft to one of the nearby parks or public gardens to sit on one of the benches and enjoy the fresh air. But she found the crutches awkward, especially when she needed to carry something or get in or out of the coach, and using them in public made her self-conscious. She imagined the stares of
young women looking in pity, relieved
they
had been spared such uncomeliness, and the embarrassed glances of men meeting her eye, then looking quickly away.

“Horsefeathers! You imagine it,” Mrs. Croft said. “I haven't seen a man yet, be he young or old, looking at you any differently than they ever did. Why, anyone could sprain an ankle or break a leg and look the same way as yourself.”

Perhaps Mrs. Croft was right, but Evy's feelings were too raw to see things that airily. Besides, a sprained ankle usually healed, and since she was painfully aware of the seriousness of her injury, perhaps others could sense it in her eyes.

“You'll get stronger, Evy,” Mrs. Croft encouraged. “The doctor says you may need only a cane later on. The stronger you get, the more you'll see it's so.”

“Maybe, Mrs. Croft. But I'll always feel odd around people. I'm different now.”

“No you aren't, child. If anything, you're even more unique. Always thought so anyway. As for that no-account Rogan Chantry, I wouldn't be wasting my tears on the likes of him.”

“Who says I'm shedding any tears over him?”

Mrs. Croft paid no mind to her defensive tone.

“His running off the way he did to live among natives, promising you he'd write and never taking the time. He's no better than that rebel Derwent, going off to hunt for gold, when his father, the good Vicar Brown, wanted him to enter the church and marry you. Alice Tisdale…poppycock. I'll wager he's groaning about the whole thing by now.”

Mrs. Croft had never trusted Rogan, even when he was a boy, and she was still miffed that Derwent had married Dr. Tisdale's daughter. Evy loved Derwent as a Christian friend, nothing more, so she could smile over Mrs. Croft's loyalty to her in thinking he'd jilted her, but Evy felt no consolation over Rogan.

“I don't want to talk about Rogan, Mrs. Croft.”

“And it's no wonder.”

Night was the worst time for fears and disappointments to loom large as mountains. It was then, alone in her room, unable to sleep, or waking at odd hours in the long night and being unable to return to sleep, when she knew that if she wasn't vigilant, her imagination would run astray. Feelings of isolation threatened to engulf her. Her new sense of weakness would sometimes drift toward panic, so that she would need to sit up and light the bedstand lamp.

During such times she discovered she could bring her spiritual struggles into subjection by filling her mind with the Scriptures she'd memorized since childhood.

Vicar and Mrs. Osgood came to call on her a few weeks after she'd left the hospital for Chantry Townhouse.

“We brought the things you wanted from the cottage, dear,” Mrs. Osgood said when the doorman hauled in a trunk.

“The piano, and your aunt and uncle's trunks in the attic, we left until you're sure of your plans,” the vicar said kindly. “Sir Lyle and I thought it best to just lock up the cottage for now.”

Evy shuddered at the idea of returning to the cottage alone. The mere thought of it brought back fears of that terrible night of the thunderstorm…and the stranger.

Mrs. Osgood looked about the room, clasping her thin, veined hands together in unselfish delight. “I'm so pleased you're here at Chantry Townhouse, Evy dear. Lord Brewster is such a fine man to have arranged it all.”

Anthony had remained in London, where he was dealing with problems in the family diamond business. Evy was expecting him for luncheon tomorrow, when he would explain her financial situation. His motives remained unclear, and that worried her. Lord Brewster had assumed a protective attitude that seemed odd, considering she hardly knew him. His explanation was simple enough, though—he was carrying out the wishes of the family patriarch, Sir Julien Bley.

Lord Brewster treated her kindly, and though she was cautious, she rather enjoyed the long chats with him about her music. He was nothing
like Uncle Edmund Havering, with whom she'd enjoyed a warm relationship while growing up in the rectory. Anthony Brewster was sophisticated, yet he was awkwardly kind to her.

So far, she had not dared tell him about the ugly incident at the cottage, afraid he would think her too imaginative. Everyone continued to assume she had fallen, but no one had bothered to ask why it happened or observed that such a fall might be unusual for her. “It was a wicked storm, all right, all that thunder and lightning,” was all Mrs. Croft had said when Evy had once broken her silence on the subject and suggested that her fall was a bit strange.

Later in the afternoon, outside in the Chantry garden, Evy poured tea for the vicar and Mrs. Osgood. The song sparrows trilled in the garden trees, and the London sky was blue for a change, without a trace of gray mist anywhere.

Mrs. Osgood chatted about the village news. “Lady Patricia Bancroft left Rookswood and returned to Heathfriar, her father's estate.” Evy remembered how much time Rogan and his brother, Parnell, had spent there during their school years in London, horseback riding and attending all the elite socials.

“You mean she didn't sail for Capetown?”

“No, she hasn't left yet. Very disappointed too, poor dear. She was quite morose when she left Rookswood with Lord Brewster.”

“Lord Brewster?”

“Oh yes, he brought her home here to London, or hereabouts. I'm not sure where Lord Bancroft's estate is located… Anyway, Sir Julien Bley postponed her going out to Capetown for as much as another year.”

Another year—that would be enough to infuriate Patricia. Evy almost felt sorry for her. Even with all her prestige and family money, she was having a difficult time capturing Rogan Chantry.

“It's the new colony,” Vicar Osgood commented over his tea, “the one Cecil Rhodes has a Royal Charter to create in the Zambezi. It seems a woman won't be safe out there for some time. So Lord Bancroft finally agreed with Sir Julien that it was best for her to wait.”