Every Whispered Word (25 page)

“It wasn't working so well when I was sick,” Simon pointed out.

Oliver frowned. “Ye didna die, did ye?”

“No.”

“Well, then, what are ye complainin' about?”

“I would have preferred not to get ill at all.”

“Then you should have stayed home,” Jack told him, amused. “Getting sick is part of being on the ocean, Simon—at least until you get used to it.”

“The workers are not all Khoikhoi—they come from many different tribes,” Zareb explained to Oliver. “They each have their own way of fighting evil spirits, and prefer to make their own charms and amulets.”

Oliver scratched his head. “Well, I guess that makes sense. In Scotland ye'll find at least a dozen different ways to ward off witchcraft.”

“Look!” Camelia rushed over to the railing, her heart pounding with excitement. “Land!”

“Are ye sure, lass?” Oliver squinted hard at the horizon. “I dinna see anything.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Camelia insisted, pointing. “It's hard to see—just a thin strip of gray at the edge of the ocean, but it's land—I'm sure of it!” She turned to look at Jack, her expression almost imploring. “Isn't it?”

Jack smiled. “It is. We've moved closer to the coast. By my calculations I'd say we should be docking at Cape Town in a few hours, providing the ocean stays calm and the wind is steady.”

Simon watched in fascination as pure joy spread across Camelia's face like a brilliant beam of sunlight. She turned to focus on the barely discernible sliver of land, her entire body taut with anticipation. The shawl she had kept wrapped so tightly around herself for the last two weeks slipped down to the small curve of her back as she leaned into the wind, straining to be closer to the shadowy emerald coast. He found himself overwhelmed with the need to stand beside her, to wrap his arms around her soft form and feel her body sigh against him, to know the lush curves of her pressing into him as they stood together watching the sun cast thousands of sparkling stars upon the warm turquoise waves of Africa. Desire surged through him, sudden and unexpected, heating his blood and tightening his loins, until he could think of nothing except the exquisite memory of pulsing deep within Camelia, with the scent of sunshine and wildflowers floating around him as he held her close and slowly made her his.

He inhaled a steadying breath, fighting to regain control of his reeling senses.

What in the name of God was the matter with him?

“A few hours?” Oliver regarded Jack with exasperation. “What about my haggis?”

“Don't worry, Oliver. Once we arrive in Cape Town I'll have to arrange for our train tickets to take us to Kimberley, and the train won't leave until tomorrow morning at the earliest,” Camelia told him, seeing his disappointment. “You'll have lots of time to finish your haggis and eat it.”

“Well, that's fine, then.” Clearly relieved, he gave the slimy stomach he was soaking a loving pat and finished brightly, “'Twould be a crime to waste a perfectly good sheep's pluck.”

         

“Godamercy, why don't ye just kill me now and have done with it?” moaned Bert, hanging over the railing of the
Sea Star
.

“The cap'n says ye'll be feelin' better in a day or two, Bert,” Stanley told him cheerfully.

“I'll be dead as a herring in an hour,” Bert countered, weakly clutching the rail. “I'd rather God just bloody well strike me dead now an' leave it at that.”

“Ye shouldn't talk that way, Bert.” Stanley took a bite of the enormous pickled tongue in his hand before adding, “I don't think God likes it.”

“An' who the hell cares what God likes?” demanded Bert, scowling. “If ye wants me to snuff it then do it now, ye soddin' old shanker, do you hear?” he railed at the sky.

“Ye're just upset on account of ye havin' the collywobbles for so long,” Stanley decided, sympathetic.

“I'm dyin',” Bert insisted. “I ain't goin' to make it to Africa. Ye'll have to toss me overboard an' leave me to the bloody fish.”

“Maybe if ye ate somethin' ye'd feel a bit better. Do ye want a bite o' pickled tongue?” He held the gray slab of vinegary meat out to him.

“Get that away from me, ye great bloody simkin!” Bert snapped, cuffing Stanley's hand. “Are ye tryin' to kill me?”

“I'm sorry, Bert.” Chastened, Stanley dropped his gaze to his badly worn boots. “I didn't mean to make ye mad at me.”

Guilt stabbed at Bert, only adding to his misery. He hated it when Stanley stood like that, with his great big shoulders all hunched forward and his grizzled chin drooping down to his bloody chest. It wasn't Stanley's fault that God had seen fit to give the poor clod pole the brains of a baby. If Bert did kick it and ended up in heaven, he was going to have a word with God about that. What was the use of having all that power if God couldn't fix Stanley's brains so that the great looby could take care of himself, at least?

“Never mind, Stanley,” Bert said. “I'm just a bit cagged from being sick, is all.”

Stanley cautiously raised his head. “Ye ain't mad at me?”

“No, I ain't mad at ye.” He sighed. “I'm just tired o' bein' sick, is all.”

“Ye'll feel better once we get to Africa. Ye just need to get some land beneath yer feet.”

“We won't be reachin' Africa for another week at least,” Bert reflected miserably. “'An' once we get there we'll have to head for that place the old toast told us to go to—that Poomoolanee. It's probably out in the middle of the bloody jungle, where the flies are big as bats an' there's savage animals hidin' behind every tree. If God's plannin' to keep me alive just so some buggerin' tiger can eat me, then He might as well finish me now and be done with it.”

Stanley's face paled. “The flies are big as bats?”

“Probably not all of them,” Bert amended. It wouldn't do to scare Stanley. It had been hard enough to convince his friend to get on the ship in the first place. It seemed most unjust that after all that pleading and arguing and ordering, Stanley appeared to be actually enjoying the voyage, while Bert was suffering so mightily. Another one of God's bloody jokes, he mused acridly. Like his whole life had been.

“It can't be too bad, or Lady Camelia wouldn't be goin' there in the first place,” he added. “She's only a woman, after all.”

“I guess you're right about that, Bert.” Stanley took a big bite of the pickled tongue. “Although she don't seem like most ladies.”

“An' how would you know, since the only ladies you know are the wenches an' doxies from Seven Dials?”

“I've seen ladies,” Stanley insisted. “Sometimes I go to Mayfair and watch 'em walkin' with their gentlemen, or ridin' in their fine carriages. They look like pretty dolls—like they might break if ye held 'em too tight. But none o' them is like Lady Camelia. She's a real spanker—an' smart, too.”

“If she was smart, she'd have stayed in London like she was supposed to, instead of makin' us chase her across the soddin' ocean,” Bert mused sourly. “We could be well breeched by now, livin' in a nice little flat in Cheapside, havin' beefsteak-an'-kidney puddin' with gin every day, and sleepin' on a nice clean bed at night.”

“We'll still have that, Bert. You'll see. It's just goin' to take a little longer to get it.”

“If that first bloody captain had only agreed to take us on his ship, we would have been nearly there by now. The sooner we get there, the quicker we can finish the job an' get back home.”

“That's all right, Bert. The old swell said it didn't matter if we got there a few days after her. He said once she got there, she wasn't goin' nowhere.”

“The old bastard should've paid us for what we've done, instead of makin' us sail all the way to bloody Africa,” Bert countered, scowling. “We done everything exactly as he told us to, an' she still didn't scare off. How was we to know she wouldn't pike it after we wrecked her house?”

“That's what I mean about her not bein' like other ladies.” Stanley smiled. “She's got pluck.”

“Once we get to her bloody Poomoolanee, we'll make her wish she'd done like she was told an' stayed in London.” Bert's expression grew dark as he finished grimly, “She won't have much pluck after we've finished with her—I promise ye that.”

S
imon stepped off the train with Oscar perched happily on his shoulder and looked around in astonishment.

“How can they have electricity here in the middle of nowhere,” he asked, indicating the wires strung between the street lamps and the houses, “when they didn't even have it in Cape Town?”

“Kimberley grew out of the diamond mining,” Camelia explained, setting Harriet's cage on top of her valises. “Fifteen years ago it was nothing but dirt and rough shacks. Then huge fortunes started to be made overnight, and those who had money wanted proper homes and stores with electric lights.”

“That has been one of the positive elements of the mining,” Elliott pointed out. “It has turned a godforsaken piece of uninhabited land into a modern, productive town.”

“The land was inhabited, Elliott.”

“By a few Boer families and a handful of wandering, half-starved tribes. If the diamonds had not been discovered, no one would have ever known or cared about this part of Africa—except, of course, your father,” he swiftly added, seeing a familiar flash of irritation in Camelia's eyes.

“And the natives who lived here.”

Elliott sighed. When had he and Camelia fallen into this pattern of always disagreeing with each other? he wondered wearily. It seemed they were almost constantly at odds, despite the fact that he was trying his damnedest to appear supportive of her. She had always been an independent thinker, and was never one to shy away from a debate. Her passionate nature was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. Lately, however, he found himself wishing that she would start to see things differently.

His life would have been infinitely simpler if she had grown disenchanted with Pumulani at the same time he had.

“Ultimately, diamonds will make South Africa rich,” he insisted, knowing she would certainly want to argue that point.

“They will make the white men who send others down into the earth rich,” Zareb corrected. “For the African men who crawl into the darkness to find the diamonds, there will be little.”

“But that's nae fair,” observed Oliver, who was carrying the basket with Rupert inside it. “Why dinna the natives just stake out a piece o' their own land an' search for their own diamonds?”

“They aren't allowed to,” Camelia told him. “Initially there were some native claim owners, and some claims owned by
Griquas
or ‘Cape Coloreds,' who are people of mixed blood. But the European claim-holders didn't like it. Within a few years a law was passed prohibiting natives or colored men from having a digging license.”

“So the natives are only allowed to work for the white claim owners, without any possibility of benefiting from the stones they find in their own land.” Simon shook his head, appalled by the injustice of it. “It is easy to see how they would view such an arrangement as unjust.”

“They are paid for their work,” Elliott argued. “Most of them come from tribes that are starving, so to get a job working in the mines is a godsend. It means they can return to their tribes with the money to buy hunting rifles, ammunition, ploughs—and to make an offering to a prospective bride's family. The mines have given them a chance for economic independence. Now they have money for purchasing goods, whereas before they had only their animal skins or a few primitive weapons to trade.”

“An animal skin can keep one warm or protect one from the sun, and a weapon can save one's life,” Zareb quietly pointed out. “These things are useful for whoever carries them. Coins have no value until they are exchanged for something else. And the Africans are paid with very few coins.”

“You must be tired, Camelia,” Elliott said, changing the subject. “We should go over to the hotel and see about getting some rooms for the night.”

Camelia shook her head. “I don't want to spend the night here. If everyone is willing, I would like to go on to Pumulani.”

Elliott regarded her incredulously. “It is after seven o'clock, and we have been on that blisteringly hot train since early this morning. I'm sure everyone is exhausted. We should stay here for the night, and then head out to the site in the morning.”

Elliott was right, Camelia realized. But somehow she couldn't bear the thought of not going on to Pumulani. She hated Kimberley. To Simon and Oliver it probably seemed like a reasonably prosperous town with electric lights and a decent hotel—all welcome features after nearly three weeks on a ship and twelve hours on a train. But Kimberley was built on the blood and sweat of the African natives who slaved in the mines. For Camelia it represented another link in the long chain that was being tightened around the African people. Also, a number of white investors had committed suicide there recently, as the diamond market plummeted due to an overabundance of stones and newly made fortunes swiftly collapsed. The air was heavy with desperation and greed.

She couldn't bear to be there a second longer than necessary.

Simon watched Camelia closely. Her face was shadowed with fatigue, yet he could see she was most reluctant to spend the night in Kimberley. Although the prospect of a hot bath and a decent night's sleep on a real bed was immensely appealing, he found himself loath to stay there when it was so clear that Camelia did not want to.

“How long is the drive to Pumulani?” he asked.

She regarded him hopefully. “Only about two hours.”

“Or less,” Zareb added. “We will be traveling in the evening, so the air will be cooler. The horses will be able to move faster and not need to stop as much.”

Elliott shook his head. “It isn't wise to travel in the dark.”

“But it will still be light for at least another hour,” Zareb observed.

“And what about after that?”

“I know the way, Lord Wickham,” Zareb assured him calmly. “I do not need the light to find Pumulani. The stars will guide me. If Lady Camelia wants to go there tonight, then I will take her. You can take Mr. Kent and Oliver there in the morning.”

Simon shrugged. “I'm quite willing to go on this evening. What about you, Oliver?”

“I'm feelin' as spry as ever,” Oliver returned cheerfully, rubbing his gnarled hands together. “Must be this warm African air.”

“Good. So we'll go on with Camelia, and you can join us whenever you like tomorrow, Wickham, after you've had what I'm sure for you is a much-needed rest—all right?”

“If you're all insistent upon going on, then I'll go with you.” Elliott would be damned if he was going to let Kent somehow appear more resilient than he was. “You're going to need me for protection anyway—unless, of course, Kent, you know how to fire a rifle?” He raised an enquiring brow.

“Actually, no, Wickham, I can't say that I've ever fired one,” Simon admitted easily. “But I'm sure I could manage it if necessary. My understanding is you just point the thing in the general direction of whatever you want to shoot and squeeze the trigger—isn't that about it?”

“I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that—”

“I can teach you,” Camelia offered.

Elliott grimaced. Inspiring Camelia to spend time teaching Kent how to shoot was not precisely what he had intended.

Oliver knit his white brows together. “How does a bonny wee lass like ye know how to fire a great big rifle?”

“Knowing how to handle a weapon is a necessity in Africa,” Camelia told him. “My father taught me how to shoot a rifle when I was fifteen.”

Oliver scratched his head, bemused. “What are we goin' to need protection for?”

“The land we will be traveling through is filled with wild animals,” Elliott explained. “And they are always hungry.”

“Is that all?” Oliver scoffed. “Then ye needn't worry about me, lad. I can throw a dirk as swift an' true as any bullet.”

“What about you, Kent? Can you throw a dirk?”

Simon scratched Oscar's head. “I can manage, if I need to.”

“The lad can hit a tree at twenty paces,” supplied Oliver proudly. “I taught him myself when he was nae more than a stripling, an' he took to throwin' like a flea to a dog!”

“That will certainly be helpful if we find ourselves being threatened by a tree,” Elliott observed dryly.

“Then it's all settled.” Now that the decision was made, Camelia was eager to get going. “Zareb, would you be kind enough fetch our wagon and our weapons from the livery, and load everything onto it while I go to the store and purchase some supplies?”

“Of course, Tisha.” Zareb bowed his head to her. “I will take care of it.”

“I'll go with you, Camelia, and help you with the supplies,” Simon offered.

“An' Rupert an' Harriet an' I will stay here an' watch our things 'til Zareb gets back with the wagon.” Oliver slowly seated himself on an enormous valise before the small mountain of trunks and the canvas-wrapped steam engine that had been unloaded onto the platform from the train. “Ye can leave Oscar here with us, too, if ye like.”

Oscar shook his head and wrapped his arms tightly around Simon's neck.

“I think Oscar wants to stay with me,” Simon observed, trying to ease the monkey's grip upon him. “What are you going to do, Wickham?”

“I'm going to see about buying a horse for myself,” Elliott returned. “The wagon is going to be full as it is, and I prefer to have my own transportation.”

“That's a good idea.” Camelia knew Elliott didn't like traveling by wagon. It was better to have him on horseback anyway, given how much room their luggage, the supplies, and Simon's precious pump were going to occupy. “We'll meet back here in one hour. Then we'll load the wagon and leave for Pumulani.”

         

Everything was going to be fine.

This was the thought she focused on as she leaned against the hard sack of ground corn she was using as a makeshift chair. The wagon had but one bench for the driver and a passenger, which Zareb and Oliver were occupying. Elliott had purchased a handsome black mount for himself at the livery. Unfortunately, the animal was proving to be as spirited as he was strong, and poor Elliott was spending much of the journey galloping off in one direction and then another, fighting to bring the lively steed under his control. Camelia doubted Elliott would have enough time to forge an understanding with the beast before he had finally had enough of Pumulani and decided to leave.

Despite his insistence on accompanying her back to Africa, Camelia knew Elliott didn't really want to be there. He had come solely because of her. She was deeply touched that he had been willing to sacrifice the many demands upon him in London in order to return with her to Pumulani. For years Elliott had watched over her like an older brother, indulging her in small gifts, trying to make her smile, listening to her when she needed someone to talk to other than her father or Zareb. Camelia had grown up loving Elliott for his serious, patient, practical nature, perhaps because it was so completely different from her own. When he had first told Camelia after her father's death that he was giving up archaeology to start an export business in England, she had been disappointed, but not entirely surprised. Elliott was intelligent and ambitious. He had a right to pursue goals in which he believed he had a greater chance of success. It was only when he tried so fervently to convince her that she should sell the land her father had left her and go to England with him that she realized how little he understood her. Her father had spent his entire life dreaming of finding the legendary Tomb of Kings.

Camelia was determined to make that dream come true, not just out of love for her father, but out of her love for Africa and its people. By celebrating the past, Camelia hoped to help the world understand the richness of Africa's history and culture. Perhaps then some of her people's dignity, which others were working so hard to strip away, could be restored.

“I can feel it.”

She looked at Simon in confusion. He was in the back of the wagon leaning against an enormous basket of sweet potatoes, with his feet propped casually on a sack of rice and his arms folded across his chest. He looked completely comfortable, even though the wagon was jostling back and forth and the basket he was leaning against was digging into his back. Simon seemed to have a unique ability to adapt to his surroundings, even when those surroundings were far from hospitable.

Camelia wondered if he had had that skill when he went to prison, or if it was prison itself that had forced him to hone it.

“You can feel what?” she asked.

“What you were trying to describe to me that night in my study.” His blue gaze was intense as he added in a low, faintly teasing voice, “You do remember that night, Camelia, don't you?”

A ripple of heat pulsed through her. Of course she remembered that night. She remembered everything about it as if it had happened just an instant ago, despite the fact that she had spent countless sleepless nights desperately trying to erase it from her mind. A moment of madness, she had called it, thinking if she dismissed it as such, it would never happen again. But her body did not seem to understand what her mind had decided, especially now that she had recovered from her seasickness. Honeyed warmth spread through her as Simon held her with his gaze, stirring her blood and making her skin prickle with anticipation.