Yesterday's Promise (7 page)

“Stirred many a sailor's hopes, that mountain. Been a cheery beacon for ships comin' out of some of the worst storms a man ever did see.

“Table Mountain, she's called. Them's her two companions, Devil's Peak and Lion's Head. That there mountain range 'tween 'tis the backbone for the Cape peninsula. Only thing is, I'da called her Angel's Peak. That there devil gets too much publicity.”

Rogan held to the ship's rail and squinted across the water to Table Bay. “Sir Francis Drake described it as ‘the fairest cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth.'”

“Did he, now? Well, aye, so she is. Mighty fair. The Almighty knew what He were doin' aright,” the old sailor agreed. “He made Table Top flat so as it gathers all that moisture. Then that purt cloud just comes rollin' over the edge nice ‘n' neat as a lady's crocheted dining cloth.”

“What makes the cloud drape across the mountain slope and stop halfway down where it does?”

The old crewman scratched his locks. “Well, sir, I wouldn't be knowin', but today 'tis truly earning its name, ‘Tablecloth.'”

Rogan studied the tablecloth cloud through his binoculars. The way the cloud rolled over its northern edge and stopped—draped just so far down the slope—reminded him of a waterfall wrapped in mist. “It looks to me as though the wind is colliding head-on with the mountains on the peninsula, getting forced up the steep slopes. That would drop the temperature and start condensation, apparently just where the thick cloud edge appears.”

“Aye, suppose you be aright. Wind screams throughout the year ‘round the Cape o' Good Hope. Seldom's the day when there be none. Been in many a bad storm and ocean swell comin' round that tip of southern Africa. Storm t'other night was small turnips compared to the ones I seen. Been sailin' since I were a cabin boy, only a young'un of nine years.” He studied Rogan. “You be goin' to the diamond mines at Kimberly, I suppose?”

“For a short visit. I've family there.”

“Most folks go to Kimberly and stay.”

“See that mountain? I've plans for an expedition that will bring me far beyond to the Zambezi region, to gold, perhaps emeralds, too.” Rogan looked at the old man and grinned. “You can come with me if you like. Ready to give up the sea?”

The old sailor chuckled. “Yer pullin' me leg, lad. Ne'r catch me beyond the land of the Dutchies. Sooner face dragons o' the deep than giant savages with spears. Heard tell they pulls out yer heart and eats it alive. If you can get yer gold and emeralds and make it back to merry old England alive, you be deservin' ever' last one of 'em.”

It was dawn the next morning when the HMS
King George
slid through the rippling water of the Cape into Table Bay and docked at the wharf. Impatient to be about the coming adventure, Rogan hefted his bag over
his shoulder, grabbed his hat, and bolted from the cramped cabin, heading topside to the deck.

His booted feet took the steps with the same confident ring that drove him forward toward his desired destiny.

On the deck, he set his bag down and stood feet apart, one strong hand bracing himself against the rail. Even at dockside, the wind blew in from the sea, but now the salt air mingled with the enticing fragrance of a strange new land. His shirt, partially opened over his bronzed chest, tossed as freely as the new liberty pulsing through his veins. The adventurous wind, like a woman's seductive fingers in his dark wavy hair, was welcoming him, drawing him, toward an uncertain future.

Table Mountain dominated the view, with the mountain range forming a half circle around Capetown, Devil's Peak and Lion's Head on either side. Rogan could see Capetown spread around Lion's Head with some red-roofed, white mansions and smaller bungalows, which clustered near the bay.

The sky was clear as he walked down the ramp to the dock, which teemed with workers awaiting the ship's cargo. A fiery hue touched with gold colored Devil's Peak. Rising thirty-five hundred feet, Table Mountain was unveiled, showing off its glory, its huge mass close enough for him to see the clefts and ravines. Its long flat top stretched behind Capetown, with the blue sky above like a canopy.

Rogan strode along the crowded dock with his heavy bag over his shoulder, taking in everything he could see. Barrels and crates were stacked everywhere as they were hauled from ship to shore on the sweating backs of both Europeans and Africans. The Bantu workers wore short knee pants, their backs bare. One-horse taxis and private coaches jostled for space to greet the disembarking passengers.

Rogan stopped on the wharf to survey the vehicles waiting for passengers. To his surprise, he saw Arcilla seated in an open carriage
attended by two Bantu. She was smiling and waving for his attention. One of the serving boys ran over and relieved him of his baggage.

Should he be surprised to see his sister? His father or Aunt Elosia must have wired Cape House about the ship he was on. Then Julien must know he was here. Rogan set his jaw. He wasn't ready to meet Julien yet. He wanted to go alone to Kimberly to locate Derwent, who had written him from there. Parnell was at Kimberly too, working at the Company office.

But he didn't see Julien or Arcilla's husband, Peter. She was alone, and a pretty picture she was in a lacy pink hat and white blouse with puffed sleeves. He walked toward her carriage, with the Bantu following, carrying his baggage.

Arcilla Chantry Bartley recognized the forceful young man standing at the ship's rail even before the unloading ramp had been secured in place. She smiled with sisterly pride over his handsome, rugged appearance. The confident line of his tanned jaw revealed a hardness of purpose she knew well from their growing-up years at Rookswood. His dark hair curled slightly, and a thin mustache had been added since she'd seen him last, perhaps grown on his voyage to give the appearance of maturity when dealing with gold rands and diamond moguls who would be dogging his steps once they knew of his plans for an expedition to find gold. It also added a certain rakish charm that fit him well. She laughed, thinking of Evy Varley. As if Evy hadn't fallen for her brother years ago. Evy hadn't fooled her a bit, despite all her dignified ways and pretense and all that silly talk about marrying the vicar's boy, Derwent Brown! Arcilla sighed. But how she missed Evy! If only she were here with her now. At least the vicar's niece was a loyal friend, someone she could trust. Darinda Bley was a thorn in her side and she spent most of her time in Kimberly helping her grandfather, Julien Bley, with the diamond business. The other married women, whose husbands worked for
the Company, were even more insufferable. Two-faced and catty, all! She hadn't a friend to confide in anywhere in Capetown.

Is it my fault men prefer to dance with me? If I'd known last week that old lady Willowby would be there spying on my every move, I would have stayed home and not even bothered going to the silly old Company ball, anyway
.

Arcilla swished her fan with renewed vigor. Now there was gossip buzzing in all the social circles, saying she was “carrying on” behind Peter's back. She chewed her lip. If Peter ever found out…

There was also Captain Retford. At Peter's request the captain had been removed from regimental duty and sent to work as his personal assistant in an administrative capacity. Arcilla moved uncomfortably on the carriage seat. Was it her fault he was terribly handsome and that Peter often used him as her personal guard when she had business of her own to attend to about Capetown? But today she had refused his escort, knowing that idle tongues were already wagging and that Sir Julien was furious with her conduct. But she was growing tired of the expectations placed on her by her uncle. Oh, to be free and home again at Rookswood with her indulgent Auntie Elosia, and her preoccupied father, Sir Lyle. At least they allowed her to live her life as she pleased.

But naturally, the gossip was all a pack of lies. Well…almost all. It was just that they didn't understand her, these hard-nosed ladies in black. And they most certainly didn't understand her constant need to be flattered. And Peter was always gone—and when he was home with her, his attention was on matters that bored her to tears.

“You weren't this stuffy in London,” she had accused him.

“The honeymoon, my dear, is over. It is time to settle down and be about our work. What you need, Arcilla,” he said tenderly, “is a baby…”

“I don't want a baby! I want to dance and go places and have lovely people around me, the way it was in London. I want to go home!”

Peter had looked at her bewildered, worried, and then had clumsily tried to make her “happy” for the evening by talking about how brilliant Cecil Rhodes was for wishing to bring all South Africa under the sceptre
of Her Majesty. Arcilla had thrown a book at him, then raced up the stairs to their room and locked the door. The next day he had left with Parnell for Kimberly after receiving a message from Rhodes.

Those women…the old cats! They were jealous, that's all, because they were all getting old and wrinkled, and men like Captain Retford didn't look at them with interest any longer. They had little else to do but make her life miserable here in Capetown.

She swallowed an unladylike chortle. Imagine! That old dowager Jane Willowby daring, yes,
daring
, to come to Sir Julien on the matter. Arcilla felt her face turn warm over the humiliating memory of Colonel Willowby's wife coming to Cape House to talk with Sir Julien about the “untoward behavior” of his London niece.

“I do believe, Sir Julien, that the girl, married though she be, is young and willful. She needs an older, more sensible woman to keep an eye on her. I only mention this for her own good.”

And then the final veiled threat. “I should hate to trouble Lady Elosia Chantry back in England. Elosia has been such a
good
friend of mine through the years that I wouldn't want to bring her worry unless it became quite necessary…”

Arcilla snapped her bright red fan open and closed. She didn't want to bother Elosia, indeed.
Why, I'll wager she can hardly wait to write her, filling Auntie's mind with all kinds of silly lies
.

And now! Worst of all, Uncle Julien had called her into his office yesterday morning and lectured her on her “untoward behavior.” She had bridled, a grave mistake when it came to Julien. He instantly became angry. Once he mistakenly called her “Katie.” Who was Katie?

“I'm bringing you to Kimberly,” he had said, standing and lighting a cheroot. “You can join Darinda there at the house. I'm already making plans with Peter to send him to Rhodes's new colony. He'll be assistant commissioner to Dr. Leander Jameson, Rhodes's partner. And as Peter's wife, you are going with him.”

He looked at her with that one eye of his, so cool and impervious to
argument. “I've no time to play mother hen, Arcilla. Politics and power are at stake here. Peter cannot afford to have his young wife carrying on with other men behind his back.”