The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
writing books and overseeing the nursing school.
When Godfrey Pickering’s daughters learned his business was to take him to Africa, they had pleaded to go along. Cissy was eager for the adventure. Emma viewed the journey as God’s open door to escape her father and find a mission hospital.
“And how is the railway progressing, Mr. Bond?” Pickering’s voice broke into Emma’s thoughts.
“Quite well, despite a few setbacks.” Nicholas hesitated a moment. “Did you receive the letter about the lions?”
“Lions? No, what about them?”
“We’ve had a bit of trouble, sir. Farther north, in the Tsavo area…” Nicholas glanced at Cissy. “Perhaps we should discuss it later.”
Emma sat up straight. What was this about lions? The Englishman’s classic profile, pale against the black trolley hood, revealed a subtle tension.
“Do speak frankly, Mr. Bond,” Emma told him. “My sister and I are familiar with railway business.”
Nicholas cleared his throat. “It appears…it is quite clear, that lions have taken to…to raiding the workers’ camps.”
“Raiding?” Cissy spoke up. Her eyes darted from Emma to Nicholas. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Bond?”
His cheeks suffused an awkward pink color. “The lions…two of them…have become man-eaters.”
Cissy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Emma touched the foreman’s arm. “Mr. Bond, are you telling us that lions have been killing…and eating rail workers?”
“Do let us discuss this later, sir,” Pickering cut in. “Your first instinct was correct. Such conversation has no place in the company of ladies.”
“I quite agree, sir.” A thin line of perspiration trickled from Nicholas Bond’s sideburn. “The situation is righting itself even as we speak. Lieutenant Colonel Patterson has tackled the problem head on. Your daughters have nothing to fear, I assure you.”
“Have you need for additional personnel or munitions? I can telegraph for the funds from England if need be.”
“No, no.” Nicholas shook his head. “It is under control.”
Emma heard her father give a brief harrumph. This lion business was no small thing. With laborers huddling in fear of their lives, work should be stopped. But her father would never halt the race against the Germans toward Lake Victoria. Surrender was not an option.
Looking out again, she saw that the trolley had taken them into the narrow, cobblestone streets of Mombasa town. Flat-roofed two-story houses sagged upon one another as if weary of standing in the blazing heat. Corroded iron balconies thrust out over the street. Wooden doors, carved in geometric shapes and studded with brass, stood open to let in air.
“This is the business sector,” Nicholas said, his voice stronger now. “Luxurious wares arrive from the Far East on dhows—the small trading ships you saw in the harbor. They sail the monsoon winds up and down the coast. Ah, here we are…”
The trolley rolled up to an iron gate, and the four passengers descended. The grounds of the compound were a sea of lush grass dotted with islands of orange and blue birds of paradise, deep purple bougainvilleas and green philodendrons.
The men deposited their hats with white-gloved servants and walked ahead into the shadows of the wide verandah.
“Emma,” Cissy whispered, catching her sister’s arm. “Do you think there’s danger here? From those lions?”
“No, Cissy,” Emma assured her. “There’s a fence all around. And guards. We’re quite safe.”
“I feel at odds with everything here. It’s dreadfully hot, and the talk about man-eating lions gave me a fright. Oh, Emma, I’m not suited to this sort of place.”
Emma squeezed Cissy’s hand and led her up the stairs into the cool depths of the verandah. “Perhaps you are and you just don’t know it yet.”
“Emmaline, Priscilla, do come here.” Their father stood beside a handsome couple. A tailored tea dress identified the woman as a lady. Her husband’s refined face with its aquiline nose was a study in classic grace.
“Lord and Lady Delamere,” Pickering said. “I present my elder daughter, Miss Emmaline Pickering. Her sister, Miss Priscilla Pickering. Ladies, this is Hugh Cholmondeley, third Baron Delamere of Vale Royal in Cheshire, and his wife, Lady Delamere.”
“Such formality!” Lady Delamere laughed. “I’m Florence, and everyone in the protectorate calls my husband ‘D.’ You must do the same.”
“You have a lovely home,” Emma spoke up.
“Oh, this is not our home! It belongs to Sir Charles Eliot, Her Majesty’s commissioner in East Africa. He’s on leave in England. Hugh and I live up country at Njoro. But you both must be exhausted. Shall I have tea sent to your rooms?”
“Yes, thank you.” Emma looked ruefully at her blood-spattered gown and dusty hem. “I must apologize for my appearance today.”
“Take no trouble over it, Miss Pickering,” Lord Delamere said. “You’ll learn one can’t be terribly proper here—though we try to keep up a good show.”
“Thank you, sir. You see—”
“Never mind, Emmaline,” Pickering interrupted. “Get on with you now. I shall see you at dinner.”
Biting her tongue at being summarily dismissed, Emma watched her father step into the house with Lord Delamere. His wife led the young women into the house. The grand home might have been in England for all the lace antimacassars and porcelain figurines scattered throughout. Only the zebra skin on the hall floor reminded Emma that she was in Africa.
Left alone at last in their suite, Emma and Cissy hurried to the settee and dropped onto the soft cushions. “I could do with a bath to calm my nerves.”
“Nothing better,” Emma agreed. Then she frowned. Actually, things could be better. But a bath would have to do.
With a warm soak and a cup of tea to rejuvenate her, Emma set her sights on the evening ahead. As Cissy laced the corset over her sister’s chemise, Emma worked out her strategy.
She would not allow the evening to go to waste. Nicholas Bond had lived in the protectorate for some time. She must make him tell her everything she wanted to know—locations of hospitals, the need for nurses and all the other questions that clamored to be asked.
Once she had answers, Emma could map out a plan. The sooner she set that plan into motion, the less time her father would have to think up other options for her future.
When the sisters were dressed at last, they descended the stairs to dinner. Cissy floated in a cloud of blue silk and feathers. A pair of nervous African ladies’ maids had managed to arrange her golden hair around an artificial bluebird, and she did look stunning.
Emma felt as awkward as she always did beside her glowing sister. Although her green gown had a silk sash and was trimmed in soft pink roses, she could never compare with the dainty treasure at her side. Her sleeveless shoulders were just as creamy and her waist as narrow, but she knew she would never look as enchanting as Cissy did. Such trivialities had long ago ceased to matter. Neither men nor fashion were the objects of her dreams.
Cissy placed a gloved hand on Emma’s arm and leaned close. “Do I look all right?”
Emma smiled. “You’ll turn all the men’s heads.”
Cissy’s face did not brighten. “I miss Dirk. I miss him dreadfully.”
Stifling the sigh that threatened to escape at the hundredth mention of Cissy’s German soldier, Emma directed her sister’s attention to the opposite side of the room, where their father stood. “You must not speak of Dirk to Father, Cissy. You