The Fever Tree (26 page)

“And what do you think, Mrs. Matthews?”

She brushed away a fly which had landed on her cheek. “I can see his point. It seems rather unfair. It is their country after all.” She swept a hand out towards the mine. “And all this—the grim spectacle of it all, with the natives in rags, being worked like animals. It’s hardly the civilizing process we hear about in England.”

William looked at her, his face caught between surprise and irritation. “They aren’t forced to work for us. Not unless they’re criminals.”

She put a hand to the edge of her hat, squinting into the sun to look up at him. “Yes, but what choice do they have if the law doesn’t let them own claims in the mines?”

“They can own claims, Mrs. Matthews,” he said in a deliberate voice, patronizingly slow. “They just need the approval of their fellow claim holders.”

“Oh.” This was news to her. It wasn’t quite as Edwin had told it in his article. “So there are African miners?”

“Truthfully? Not many. The kaffirs who have hung on to their claims use them to traffic illicit diamonds stolen from Europeans. They pay our laborers to steal the diamonds they find, and salt their own claims with the stones so they can be recorded as legitimate. Your husband hasn’t been a digger, so he can’t be expected to understand. We estimate that over fifty percent of the diamonds leaving Kimberley are illicit. Anyway, I’m afraid that at the end of the day it makes little difference what your husband or I believe. The future is inevitable. Mining is not what it used to be. It takes greater resources than ever before to extract diamonds, and the days of the small claim holder, black or white, are over. They simply can’t afford the new methods we’re using. And the industry needs regulation—the strength of a few men to keep the market in check.”

“Of course you would say that.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling suddenly at her, his jaw set to one side, his eyes locking onto hers. “It suits me, just as it suits your husband to have his point of view.” Frances swallowed heavily, letting his gaze draw her in. For a moment she was right back in his cabin on the
Cambrian
, just the two of them, with the night unfolding ahead of them.

“And what about my shares?” Mariella asked, interrupting them and nudging Frances. “You’re forgetting my fortune in the making. If it wasn’t for men like Baier, there wouldn’t be a stock market.”

“Exactly. Not all of us, Mrs. Matthews, can afford to be as morally upstanding as your husband. Anyway,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t want to talk to you about the politics of mining. It’s horribly dull. I know something which will make you both happy.”

He led them over to a scrawny white boy who was churning ice cream, and he paid for two double scoops of chocolate in cones. It was cold and deliciously creamy. “You know, it’s worth remembering that Baier didn’t have it easy either. This is how he started out, selling ice cream to the diggers. There wasn’t a chance in a million that he’d make it as far as he has done.” They licked their cones, and he led them back into town, to a wooden-framed building with a large sign overhead which read
BAIER DIAMOND SORTING
. There was a guard at the door, who nodded to William in recognition and let them pass through.

Inside were two long trestle tables. At one were seven natives, well dressed in collared shirts. Each man had a kind of trowel to help him sort through the piles of gravel. At the other were seated in a row five white men in matching shirts and waistcoats, picking through a heap of small stones. There was a shout from one. He rolled a diamond out of the pile. William bent down and plucked it from the table with some tweezers.

“Of course it hasn’t been cleaned yet,” he said, holding it up so it caught the light from the windows. It was a deep, clear green, the color of a lake. “Once the diamonds are assorted they’re sent under armed escort to the valuators. There they are boiled in nitric and sulfuric acids to clean them of impurities. Then they are classified by size, color, and purity.”

“Which is the most valuable color?” Mariella asked, her eyes riveted to the stone.

“The pure white and the deep orange. But they come in all colors—brown, green, pink, yellow, hazel.”

“And what was the largest diamond ever found here?” Mariella asked.

“There was a rough stone which weighed four hundred and twenty-eight carats.”

“How large was it?” Frances asked.

“Two inches at the longest point.”

“And did they manage to sell it?”

“Of course! The Maharaja of Patiala saw it in Paris and couldn’t resist it.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the men at the sorting table. “The natives here are wearing good clothes. They speak English and they earn respectable wages. We run a meritocracy of sorts. Those who are good at their work help us in the sorting office. Here they are free from tribal codes, some of which are unspeakably brutal. They earn salaries, and in terms of their tribesmen still living out on the plains or in the mountains, they are rich. We are bringing money to the native people of South Africa. We still have a long way to go, but it would be difficult to deny that these men are better off than they were before.”

“And yet,” Frances said, “they have no stake in the success of this country. The wealth remains yours.”

“But you have to remember the risk is all ours as well. Baier has invested his life in these mines, and if it isn’t a success he will be no better off than these natives.”

She wanted to believe him. If Edwin was right, then there was too much injustice in Kimberley and it made criminals of everyone: William, the Fairleys—anyone who supported the industry.

Mariella wandered down between the tables to take a closer look, and William turned to Frances and touched her lightly on her forearm.

“You look pale.” His fingers rested on the inside crease of her elbow.

“I haven’t been well.” She spoke with a gulping slowness, her whole being concentrated in the touch of his skin against hers. Everything else was forgotten. “But I’m better now.”

“Did he look after you?” His eyes were kind, but they seemed to know too much. She had no protection when she was with him.

“Yes.”

“And if he doesn’t you’ll come and find me?”

“Yes. And William”—she said his name delicately, enjoying the feel of it on her tongue—“thank you. For the rug, and the soaps.”

“You like them?”

“Very much.”

He smiled and withdrew his hand, and Frances saw Mariella making her way back to them.

•   •   •

“W
HY
ARE
YOU
so determined not to invest?” she asked Edwin later that evening. He was writing in his diary at the table.

“We don’t have any money,” he said, as if it might have escaped her notice.

“We could borrow. Everyone else does.” Hundreds of people in Kimberley were making their fortunes on the stock market every day, and she and Edwin had scarcely two pennies to put together.

He turned back to his diary.

“It doesn’t have to be a long-term investment.”

“I don’t believe in buying on credit,” he said, not looking up.

“Why do you always have to be better than everyone else?” she asked, exasperated. “Maybe other people are right. Maybe, for once, there’s nothing wrong with making some money.”

He put down his pen and looked at her. “Do you have any idea where you would like to invest?”

“Mariella gave me a copy of the
Diamond News
. Look at this.” She passed it to him. It was an article on the launch of a new mining company, with shares available from Ebden Street on the following day. The journalist had interviewed a man from the telegraph office who said that the Rothschilds in London had sent a telegram requesting the purchase of two hundred shares. It was one of Baier’s companies, and William had confirmed it was sound.

“So you want to borrow money and put it into the Du Toit’s Diamond Company?”

“Why not?”

“Do you know who has the largest controlling interest in the
Diamond News
?”

She looked at him in frustration. It was typical of Edwin to try to teach her something. “Does it make any difference?”

“It does when the owner is Joseph Baier.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “Everyone would know about it.”

“Not necessarily. He is a silent investor. He wants the paper to maintain the semblance of independence. It would ruin things if everybody knew.”

“Even if he is, what difference does it make?” He looked at her wryly. “Edwin! Not everything in this world is a conspiracy. What about the telegram from the Rothschilds? Are you going to tell me that was made up?”

“Possibly.”

“Once again, Edwin Matthews against the rest of the world,” she said, slipping into sarcasm.

“Frances, this isn’t just an issue of principle. I don’t believe the stock market is resilient enough to cope with an epidemic.” His gray eyes settled on hers. “Have you thought about your father’s investments in Northern Pacific? He made an impulsive decision, and it ended up costing him everything he had.”

“How dare you bring up my father.” She stood up, her voice seething. “You barely knew him.”

Edwin sighed, as if he was exhausted by her. “Does everything always have to be a battle? I made a simple point. I didn’t say it to upset you. I said it because it is the truth.”

T
he Theatre Royale was packed. She could hear the rabble from halfway down the street. Edwin had told her to stay at home, leaving a native
askari
to guard the tent, but she needed to hear what he had to say. She had to know how bad things were, and whether he had any support from others. It was dark by the time she arrived, and the windows of the building were glowing with light. She could hear the jeers and shouts of the crowd inside, and her husband’s voice projecting over them. She pushed her way into the back of the hall. The air was warm and fetid with the breath of so many men, and they shifted against each other restlessly. She caught sight of Edwin on the stage and felt suddenly nervous for him. It took courage to stand up there in front of all these people.

“Men are dying in droves. I have seen a hundred corpses myself.”

A man shouted, “White men or natives?”

“Natives.”

There was a burst of laughter.

“But Europeans are starting to be infected by the disease. If we are to contain the epidemic we need to start isolating, quarantining, and vaccinating.”

He was interrupted by a heckling voice. “Tell us, Doctor Matthews.” The man elongated the word “doctor” for sarcastic emphasis. “Why, when every respectable doctor in Kimberley tells us this disease is pemphigus, do you insist on calling it smallpox?”

A few men shouted their approval.

“I have experience with smallpox,” Edwin said, trying to talk over them. “There have been clear cases—”

“Have you ever seen a clear case of pemphigus, Dr. Matthews?”

Edwin paused. “No. But the medical journals are clear that—” He was drowned out by a laughing roar from the crowd.

“Gentlemen!” A man shouted to them, jumping up onto the stage. “Are you aware that this man has been disinterring bodies from our graveyard, and dissecting them for his practices?” The hall fell silent in superstitious horror.

“Dr. Matthews, is it true?” a voice called from the crowd.

“Only once, where I felt a case needed to be proven.”

The man on stage cried out, “And did you find smallpox on the body in question? It was a young English girl, I believe.”

“Not in that instance, no.”

“I know what kind of man you are,” he said, spitting his words at Edwin. “You despise our community, and will do everything you can to destroy it.” Frances saw that he was brandishing an old newspaper, rolled up into a baton. He addressed the crowd from the stage. “Shopkeepers, innkeepers, hoteliers, traders, hawksmen, diamond dealers, miners—you are all here today to try to better understand whether this community is under threat. Well, let me tell you, it
is
under threat. But not from smallpox. It is threatened by this man.” He pointed at Edwin. “He wants you to believe that we are in the midst of an epidemic, because he knows it will destroy the industry upon which we rely. Foreign investors will pull out of the mining companies, diggers will go bankrupt, your shares will be valueless, and your livelihoods destroyed. Why would he do this? Let me quote to you from an article Dr. Matthews wrote for a London paper when he lived among us two years ago.”

The man unfurled the newspaper and began reading:

“Kimberley is a filthy, debauched place where extortion is a way of life. The diamond mines disgust me. Every other type of mine in the world produces goods of some intrinsic value to mankind, whether it is coal, tin, copper, or lead. But to extract from the earth at the cost of millions of pounds, and for the wealth of a few men, these tiny crystals—just for the gratification of female vanity—shows a lust for ornamentation which is not far off barbarism.”

Uproar broke out in the hall. Edwin reached out his hand to still the crowd; tried to raise his voice above their roar. Something flew out from the audience and struck the breast of his coat. He wiped the mess away, but another struck him on the face. Eggs. Yolk ran down his cheek into his mouth. A cheer went up. Then a book was thrown. It missed him, but another caught him a glancing blow on his forehead. He staggered and stepped backwards. The air was a blur of missiles. Men scrambled forward onto the stage. She tried to keep sight of Edwin, but there were too many people in the way.

She thought with a leap of horror—they want to kill him. She tried to push her way out of the hall but lost her balance in the crush forward, falling into a man wearing a felt cap. He looked at her and cried, “That’s his wife!” It was the Cornish miner who lived opposite them. She didn’t know the man next to him, who stopped and spat at her. Wet saliva slid down her cheek. She pushed away from them, ducking under the arms of other people until she was at the door and out into the street.

She ran until she was sure there was no one behind her, then stood wiping the spit off her face with her sleeve. Her hand was shaking. Should she try to wait for Edwin? No, it was better to head home before the men started to leave the theater. Then it occurred to her that if he did get away, they might follow him back to their tent, or go there now and wait for him. Where else could she go? There was William. He understood the situation Edwin was in. He had influence and he had offered his help. She needed it now.

She didn’t know where he lived, but the note which had come with the presents he sent had been written on headed paper from the Kimberley Club. There was a good chance he would be there. It was on the better side of town, further on from the baths where she had gone with Mariella.

She hurried past private, gated red brick houses, pausing once to ask directions from a well-dressed man, who looked at her askance when she tried to stop him. She had to ask him twice before he pointed her on. Ornate turrets could be seen between the tips of blue gum trees. The streets were unlit, but each house had a gas lamp above its door and they cast a thin light on gardens bursting with eucalyptus, pine trees, and orchards. There was the sound of running water and the deep croaking of frogs, and behind it the grating of cicadas. This was a world away from the sprawl of canvas on the other side of town. Eventually she came to the Kimberley Club. It was a stately two-story red brick building with large gates. Outside were two hansom cabs, with uniformed servants polishing their brass fenders. Frances stepped up the path, which was flanked on either side by an immaculately trimmed, iridescent green lawn. It must have needed more water in a day than she and Edwin lived on in a week. Everything here told of a different world, one she no longer had access to but which could provide safety and a refuge if only she was allowed inside. She stepped up onto the wide veranda. Three ladies were standing in a group, watching her with curiosity. They were spotless in white dresses, trimmed with lace and ribbons.

“Can I help?” the manager asked at the door.

Frances straightened her black wool bodice. “I am looking for Mr. Westbrook.”

“He isn’t here, Madam,” the man replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He was polite but firm, waiting for her to leave.

“It’s a matter of urgency,” Frances persisted. “Do you know where I might find him?”

“I have no idea, Madam.”

“Excuse me.”

Frances turned. One of the ladies had stepped forward to speak to her. She held a spaniel by a lead. “Did you say you were looking for Mr. Westbrook?” Frances nodded. “Have you tried Mrs. Whitley’s?”

Another of the ladies laughed, a small, tinkling sound. These were the croquet-badminton-playing women Mariella had talked about. There was something surreal about their staid calm. They were too perfect-looking, like mechanical dolls imported straight from England not yet out of their wrapping. She might have known them in London, but here she was a kind of novelty, and they could barely bring themselves to talk to her.

“Where might I find her?” Frances asked, and the lady with the spaniel walked into the street with her, and pointed out the way. As she raised her arm, Frances caught a waft of bergamot. Her gloves gleamed white in the dark.

“You can’t miss it,” the woman said. “It’s made of limed timber, imported from Scandinavia. You’ll know it by the music. She’s rather partial to a bit of piano.

“Good luck,” she called after Frances. And she heard their laughter again, like a taunt, following her out into the street.

As she walked, she tried not to panic. William would tell her what to do. He was good in a disaster. He had helped her during the storm on the
Cambrian
, and he would have an idea now about how she could bring this situation under control. She was walking quickly towards the outskirts of town. There were fewer houses, and barely any light spilled onto the road. Occasionally, she glanced behind her, but there was no one following. Any other night and she would have turned back, but she was desperate. She had to see him.

There was music up ahead: the ribald playing of a jaunty tune on the piano, accompanied by strong male voices. A wooden house stood all on its own on a patch of earth. Outside a horse was dozing, harnessed to a cart.

A woman stood at the door wearing a scarlet gypsy dress with white petticoats and a plunging neckline. She smoked her cigarette and looked at Frances with the disdain of a real-life Carmen.

“Is this Mrs. Whitley’s?” Frances asked her, stepping up onto the veranda.

The woman was much older than she had seemed at a distance. The paleness of her face had been pasted over a crumple of wrinkled skin, and her mouth, which from afar had the perfect, curving roundness of a plum, was a painted red gash.

She ignored Frances and, putting her head round the door, shouted inside, “Girl here wants to know if this is Mrs. Whitley’s.”

“Tell her it depends if she’s willing,” a man shouted.

The woman curled her head back round the door and looked at Frances. “Are you?” She raised her painted eyebrows.

“Am I what?”

“Willing?”

Frances didn’t say anything. “She’s not sure,” the woman called back into the room.

“Are you Mrs. Whitley?” Frances asked, disliking being baited.

“The very same,” the woman said in her deadpan voice. The piano inside stopped, and a gentleman shouted, “Bring her in! Let’s have a look at her.”

The woman nudged the door open with the toe of a heeled boot, and Frances stepped inside. It looked like a bar, not a sitting room, and Frances knew immediately that she shouldn’t have come. Shabby velvet curtains hung across the window, and a group of men were gathered at a round table in the middle of the room, drinking and playing cards. The man nearest her was small and lean, and he had a girl on his lap. Her skirts had been pulled up to reveal a slab of white thigh, and his hand, which curled around her waist, was kneading the soft expanse of skin. No wonder the ladies at the club had laughed.

“Goodness me,” the man said, looking up, his face breaking into a smile. She saw with a twinge of horror that it was Daniel Leger, William’s friend from the
Cambrian
. “If it isn’t Miss Irvine. It’s been a long time since Mrs. Whitley had a piece of business as good as yours.” He didn’t shift the girl from his lap, and she nuzzled her face into his neck, her cropped, dark hair brushing the front of his jacket. He was the last person in the world Frances wanted to see. He knew about her affair with William and would draw conclusions. She looked back at the door, wondering if she ought to leave. Everyone’s attention was riveted on her.

Finally, she nodded at him. “Mr. Leger.” Then she said in a stiff voice, “I was trying to find Mr. Westbrook.”

One of the men thumped the table with his fist. “Well, I’ll be damned. If she isn’t a proper lady!”

“Please. It’s urgent.”

“So is his business here,” one of the men quipped in a low voice.

“How can I help?” Mrs. Whitley asked, coming inside. The door swung shut behind her, and as if on cue, the piano started up again. The men went back to their cards. Frances turned to leave.

“You’re looking for Mr. Westbrook?” the woman asked.

“No. I mean, yes, I was, but not anymore.” She could feel herself blushing.

The woman looked at her appraisingly. “Can I ask what business you have with Mr. Westbrook?”

“It’s of a private nature.”

“It always is with Westbrook,” Mr. Leger said. He had returned to the card game but kept glancing at Frances. One of his hands pulled at the fabric of the girl’s dress, working his fingers down into her bosom.

“Please,” Frances said, looking away. “Don’t trouble him.”

“Hold on,” Mrs. Whitley said, putting a hand on her elbow. Frances hesitated. A tall colored girl had appeared in the doorway to the right of her. She had skin the color of chocolate cream, with sloping, brown eyes. She was dressed in a gown, with bare feet, and her hair fell down below her shoulders. She looked tousled, sleepy, and very young.

Mrs. Whitley said a few words to the girl, and she slipped back through the door. A moment later, William stepped out. He held a cigar in one hand and the hand of the girl in the other. Frances looked at him, her face coloring.

“Frances,” he said, surprised. He handed his cigar to the girl, who disappeared inside with it, and took a step towards her, but she had already turned away from him, walking quickly out of the door and back down the street. A few seconds later she heard the swell of music behind her as the door opened then slammed shut.

“What is it?” William asked when he had caught up with her, buttoning up his shirt with one hand. She kept walking, too mortified to speak. The cart followed behind them. It must have been waiting for him to leave.

“Is everything all right?” He put his hand on her arm, and pulled her to a stop. “Frances, please, what’s wrong?”

She stood facing him. Everything was wrong. She realized that she had wanted to find him as much to comfort her as to ask for his help. And now she felt foolish. He was oblivious to how desperate the situation was with Edwin. He existed in a different world, and she was an idiot for thinking he would understand.

She turned away from him, but he caught hold of her wrist.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“Not until you tell me why you came here.”