The Fever Tree (13 page)

Edwin walked in, holding a lamp. “I let you sleep.”

“Thank you.” Frances stood up with crisp formality, acutely conscious that she hadn’t washed the filth from her hands and face.

He put the lamp down on the table. “Horrible weather. These dust storms come through from time to time.” There was an awkward silence while he stood looking at her. He was dressed in cotton trousers and a loose shirt. His face was damp, and drops of water clung to his hair. He must have just washed. She registered his height—he was not much taller than her—and the lean strength of his body. This was his house that she stood in, not her father’s, and it crossed her mind that she was like a package of goods delivered from England. He was remembering what he had ordered. “They don’t last long. The scenery is actually rather dramatic—you’ll see tomorrow.” He squatted down beside the fireplace, piling kindling into the grate. “We were expecting you sooner. Your ship came in last week.”

“There was a girl in Cape Town who wasn’t very well. I nursed her for a few days.” The lie came out awkwardly.

“Everyone knows everybody in this country,” Edwin said, striking a match and holding it to the kindling. It was a statement, but it carried an air of warning. She wondered what he meant by it.

The fire caught, the wood crackled, and Edwin blew into it for a moment until the smoke pulled a clear line up to the chimney. “There’s not much wood here. We have to get it shipped in.” He stood up and came over to stand in front of her. There was a smear of charcoal on his cheek. The silence in the room was oppressive; she could feel the weight of the night outside pressing in. The prospect of intimacy loomed between them. He cradled her hand. His palms were dry, and his fingers, long and thin, pressed into hers. He kissed the skin on the back of her hand, almost reverently, and she shuddered.

“Frances,” he said, looking at her steadily, “I am glad you are here.”

She smiled and took back her hand, avoiding his eye. “Is there somewhere I can wash? I’m afraid the maid and I didn’t understand each other very well.”

“Of course,” he said, turning away from her and calling to the maid in Dutch.

The woman showed her through to the bedroom and filled the washbasin. Frances stood for a few moments after she had gone, with her back to the door, hands pressed flat against it, relieved to be by herself. She struggled not to give in to tears, and with a determined shrug unpicked the pins from her hair. She was buying time. The washstand here was simple but clean, and a cloth had been laid out along with a jug of water.

It was only when she sat, awkwardly perched on the squat stool in front of the dressing table, that she realized the mirror was missing from its frame. She found herself staring at a blank piece of sacking and wood. It was unsettling not being able to see the familiarity of her own face. She hadn’t brought another glass, and so in the growing dark she felt for the lines of skin and bone; her high forehead running into the deep hollows of her eyes, gritted with dust. She traced the sockets, down and round into the long straight of her nose, and the dry, plump fullness of her lips.

Then she unplaited her hair and ran her fingers through the length of it, working out the knots. The dust and sweat had matted it together, and it felt greasy and thick against her fingers, like sheep’s wool. Finally, after washing, and half satisfied that she was a little cleaner than before, she braced herself to go out and face Edwin. If only it were William waiting for her next door. She pressed her hand onto the white wall. It was cold and faintly damp, and the chalked paint left an imprint of white against her palm.

•   •   •

E
DWIN
WAS
ATTENTIVE
over dinner. The maid served them plates of cold mealies with sliced boiled eggs at the small table in the sitting room, and Frances, who hadn’t had a hot meal since she left Cape Town, had to swallow her disappointment.

“Albert Reitz did offer me rooms in the main farm buildings, but I thought you would rather have a house of your own. You could have a garden if you put your mind to it.”

“A garden?” she asked in disbelief. “I’m surprised anything can survive here.”

“There’s a dam behind the cottage. It wouldn’t be difficult to irrigate. You know the Karoo isn’t nearly as lifeless as it looks. The wildlife has adapted to the conditions in extraordinary ways. Even the lizards have films over their eyes, like windows, so they can see in a dust storm.”

She didn’t know what to say to this piece of information, so she went back to eating. After a few minutes, she asked, “So is that what you’ve been doing next door? Dissecting lizards?”

“In my study? Yes. I’ve been collecting specimens. Insects mostly.”

“What for?”

“What for? I don’t know. Because I’m interested, I suppose.”

It seemed rather a drab, ineffectual answer, and they fell into silence again. He refilled her water glass. “Of course there’s still a lot to do. The outside walls have been filled and painted, and we re-thatched parts of the roof, but it’s still a little run down. I expect you’ll want to make curtains. I have ordered catalogs from Port Elizabeth for you to look through. We won’t be able to buy anything from them, but they might be useful for ideas.” He was trying to put her at her ease, talking about the things he thought she cared about, but he was going too fast. She couldn’t imagine spending one night in this house, let alone staying long enough to make curtains. When he asked what fabric she had brought, she had to shake her head. “It seemed ludicrous lugging yards of fabric all the way out here. Can’t we order some in?”

“Of course.” There was an awkward pause. “It’s just that anything imported carries a premium.” He glanced at her. “You did bring a sewing machine?”

“There wasn’t room in my luggage. I thought we’d find a seamstress in Kimberley.”

She felt sorry for him. He wanted to be kind, but it was clear she was disappointing him. Still, it was hardly her fault. What had he expected, bringing her here?

Eventually, when he didn’t speak and the only sound in the room was the hissing of the candle and the scraping of cutlery against their plates, she asked, “And what is this place? Rietfontein?” The name was awkward to pronounce.

“It’s a farm, but I am working two miles away, running a quarantine station to stop smallpox getting to Kimberley. You heard about the outbreak in Cape Town?”

She nodded.

“And you’ve been vaccinated?”

“They insisted when we arrived.”

“Good. They’re calling it the black pox. It’s already killed over a thousand men.”

“But why is Kimberley so important?”

“Diamonds. South Africa relies on the stability of the industry. And Joseph Baier is determined not to let the disease disturb the smooth running of his business.”

Frances froze at the mention of the name. “And is he so very powerful, Mr. Baier?”

Edwin laughed dryly. “There isn’t anyone in South Africa with more influence.”

“How long will he be keeping us in Jacobsdal?” There was an unpleasant irony in them being here on William’s cousin’s bidding.

“Until Cape Town has received a clean bill of health from the medical authorities.” Then, after a moment, he asked, “Frances, you’re disappointed?” She saw the effort it cost him to ask such a direct question.

“I thought you said you had a chance of success in Kimberley?”

“I did, but Baier is paying me to be here. It’s important work.” Another silence. “Actually, it’s rather an extraordinary place,” he said, looking at her. “It takes some getting used to, but you might learn to like it.”

She gave a laugh of disbelief. “You’re suggesting I enjoy the experience?”

He looked at her with a fixed expression. She met his eye, but a moment later looked away, disconcerted by the directness of his gaze. She imagined the long days stretching in front of her with nothing at all to fill them. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be planning on existing like this indefinitely. A slight panic took hold of her. “Is there any prospect of ever living any better than this?”

“Eventually we should be able to move to Cape Town and start a practice there. With your connections, we can—”

“My connections, Edwin,” she interrupted him, “may not help you as much as you would like.”

He was silent. Then putting together his knife and fork, he said, “As for the marriage, you must tell me what you would like to do. There is a small Dutch Reformed Church in Jacobsdal. Perhaps you saw it when you passed through? The service could be tomorrow. That is, if you are happy with the idea?”

“That sounds fine,” she said, frustrated by how little of himself he revealed.

Sarah, the maid, came in to clear away the plates, and he waited for her to leave before saying, “Mevrouw Reitz has a room for you at her farmhouse tonight, if you would rather stay there? Or you can sleep in the bedroom here, and I will sleep in the study. It’s up to you.”

“I think I would rather sleep here,” she said, embarrassed by the implication that she might not be able to trust him.

•   •   •

A
FTER
DINNER
, E
DWIN
SAID
, “I have bought you something. A wedding present, but I might as well show it to you now.” He walked over to the wall behind the table. A sheet was draped over a large piece of furniture, and he pulled it off, revealing a piano. He watched her as she touched the wood. It was—miraculously—in good condition. She pressed a key and it sounded well.

“I had it shipped from Port Elizabeth.”

She glanced at him and saw an expression of satisfied pleasure on his face. He was enjoying this gift, and she remembered, suddenly, how he had watched her play as a child, and how she had subtly despised him for it. She had the disturbing feeling that in giving her the piano he was fulfilling some boyhood fantasy—that it completed his longed-for picture of her as his wife.

“It must have been very expensive.”

“A small price to pay for our wedding, don’t you think?”

“In the circumstances, it seems, well”—she paused, trying to find the right word—“extravagant.”

“I’d like you to play,” he said with quiet determination. So she pulled out the stool and sat down, and began on a Chopin piano sonata, remembering too late that it was the piece she had played for William. Her body recalled his fingers circling her neck, and she stopped abruptly, putting her hands over her face.

“I know it won’t be easy for you, Frances,” he said, placing a hand tentatively on her shoulder. “I don’t expect it to be.”

“It’s all right,” she said, standing up, and suddenly feeling sorry for him. He had put so much trouble into buying her this present, but it looked mournful in the midst of this squalid room. It made a mockery of his ambition.

Later, as he said good night to her, she remembered. “Edwin? I forgot to say. There was a rodent. In the kitchen.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“Like a ferret. It was there when I came in.”

His mouth twitched into a smile.

She said, “I shut it in your study.”

“Yes, Sarah told me.” His eyes flashed with humor, and she realized she had never seen him amused before. “It’s not just any old rodent,” he said. “She is a meerkat.”

“A meerkat?”

“We call her Nanny. She lives here.”

“In the house? Isn’t that rather unsanitary?”

“She eats insects, which can be useful.”

•   •   •

F
RANCES
BENT
DOWN
to unlace her boots, and lined them up self-consciously by the door. She pulled the blue silk dress from her trunk and shook out the dust which had caught in its seams. There would be no need for this now, except as a reminder of William, and she hung it in the wardrobe. She considered unpacking the rest of her things, but on second thought decided not to. It was too definite a move. She wasn’t married yet. Instead she hung up the white muslin dress she would wear for the wedding. Then she plunged her hand to the bottom of the trunk and felt the sharp wooden edges of her easel. Strapped to the top of it was her sketching portfolio. She took it out and opened it. There was a half quire of sketching paper, another half of watercolor paper, and two dozen pencils. She ran her fingers over them, enjoying the way they turned in their case. Then there was her color box, with fourteen cakes of color. Their names still evoked the old romance which had captured her as a child: Chinese white, Indian yellow, carmine, Prussian blue, rose madder, raw sienna, cadmium yellow. Sitting snugly next to the color box was a water bottle and two single-bladed penknives for whittling. This was what she had brought instead of a sewing machine, and as she closed up the portfolio and slipped it back into her trunk, she felt no regret.

When she had undressed she lay down on the bed. With a leap of pity she saw what a huge commitment it was for him to bring her here. It was a strangely sentimental act for someone so rational. She was completely unsuited to being a colonial wife. She couldn’t cook or clean, sew or garden. She wouldn’t be any help to him at all. As a child, her father had promised her a goldfinch, and she had picked out the prettiest cage, with a silver water bath, and hung a mirror inside so the bird would think it had company. In the same way, with his customary carefulness, Edwin had tried to predict her needs. He had furnished the house in expectation of her arrival, buying this brass bed, so incongruously polished, and shipping in a piano all the way from Port Elizabeth. There was a book on the table about the plants of South Africa, and she was sure it had been placed there for her reading. But his attentiveness didn’t please her; it only made her more conscious of the extent of his control over her.

She heard Edwin settling next door, blowing out his light. Her own candle, made of cheap tallow, guttered and spat, stinking of the fat of the animal that had made it. She blew it out and felt the darkness press in on her. She had never known blackness like this. Certainly not in London, where the streetlight beamed at the end of the street. She blinked, trying to make out shapes, but saw nothing; not even her hand made a gleam in the dark. She reached for the matches to relight her candle but stopped when she realized Edwin would see the light. He would guess something was wrong.