Mayenga Farm (16 page)

Rennie's heels dug into the gelding. As her head lowered and her hand clenched over the rein, panic surged up in her throat. Now, she could see a low, advancing wall of flame, the tongues licking high here and there, where the maize lay thickest. Paddy snorted with terror, his forelegs rose and pawed air, hot breaths, pungent and blinding, gushed towards her, but she kept her heels pressed in and prayed for more speed.

Then Paddy jibbed and would go no further. Rennie sprang to the ground and ran, skirting the flames and calling to the boys to beat harder . . . not to be "saba." As an example, she grabbed a bag and raced ahead of them, flailing the fire with all her strength, reckless of everything but the necessity for saving the maize.

Maliciously, the wind worked against her. The fire was too big, and expanding minute by minute. This way of fighting it was hopeless. She cried to the natives to go on while she fetched help.

There would be no money for meat if the mealies were lost, she warned them; their jobs would be gone, their children would starve.

She chased away and caught Paddy, leapt on to his back and pushed him to a gallop. Kent had fire-fighting apparatus for his forests; it would take time to reach him and get the thing working, but there was no other means of salvaging a proportion of the crop. Five hundred acres. Paddy’s hoofs thudded it, so did her pulses. Five hundred acres at, say, twelve bags to the acre. Six thousand bags each carrying 200 lbs. It mustn't be destroyed.

Here was the house. Tall white walls and green shutters visible between tree-trunks, the garden shut in by a low cement wall which began where the trees ended.

Rennie twisted and cantered alongside the wall till she found a gate. Dismounted, she clung to the iron bars a moment before passing into the wide, somnolent flower garden. She hurried, stumbling, up the path, lurched up the veranda steps and entered the open doorway to the lounge.

Desperation put all the remnants of her energy into her voice. "Kent! Oh, Kent!"

He came striding in, halted, utterly incredulous, and took the remaining distance between them in a bound.

"For God’s sake, Rennie!" Roughly, he gripped her shoulders. "How did you get like this? What is it?"

She could have fallen against him, but somehow she kept upright and managed a husky whisper.

"Our maize is afire . . . the boys can't deal with it . . . we mustn't lose it, Kent. We mustn't!"

He took it in at once, as she had known he would.

"Which end?" he demanded swiftly.

"Mayenga . . . across the trade from the rivet. Kent. ... ”

"Don't talk. Get your breath while I ring my superintendent."

He was gone, but not far. Above the hammering of her heart and her own uneven breathing she could hear him speaking in the hall.

"Yes, Maxwell, The Gaynors' maize is alight, nearest Mayenga. Take the whole outfit and all the boys. Promise them a bonus for good work and shove on a boss-boy to keep them at it. The wind's the devil, but do your best, Will you get along without me? Good."

The telephone pinged and Kent came back. At once he poured whisky and brought it over, but the need for fortitude past, Rennie

had slumped into a chair, her smoke-smudged face buried in her hands, the brown hair fallen forward in a tender, shining curtain.

Kent stood over her for a minute. Then he placed the glass on the arm of another chair and waited, his face an angular mask, till her head was raised a little, and she looked at him.

" I. . . I'm sorry, Kent."

"Sorry," he echoed savagely, searching her small, tearless face. "Why the deuce don't you cry?"

"You’d . . . hate that I . . . don’t feel so bad now."

"You look like hell. Drink this, and then you’re going to lie down."

She gulped some of the whisky. It burned, and she shook her head.

"No more, please. I’m all right . . . really. It was the ride."

"The ride on top of three gruelling months," he said. "You don’t have to do any explaining to me, nor fall back on the conventions. I know too much. You're staying here till you’re thoroughly rested."

"But the maize____"

"Hang the maize. It’s taken care of."

He whipped a clean handkerchief from his top pocket; damped it from the carafe and knelt in front of her. With unwonted gentleness he dabbed the stains from her face and bathed a scratch on her cheekbone. A lock of her hair had fallen forward and he tucked it back.

She gave him a wan little smile. "I didn’t know you could be so kind, Kent. You’re like a nice brother."

"So be it," he answered briefly. "I’m going to carry you into a bedroom. Ready?"

She felt his warmth and vitality, the intense comfort of his strong arms; saw the long, thin scar under his jaw and unaccountably ached to lay her lips to it and keep them there forever.

He lowered her on to a blue linen-cover, unlaced her brogues and slipped them off, and dropped a fluffy light blanket about her. He drew the curtains and glanced at his watch.

"It's just after four. I’ll look in again at about seven. It’s going to be dull for you if you don’t sleep."

She started up. "Three hours! Oh, but Kent____"

"There’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t thought of. I’ll let your father know you're here and bring back the latest news of the conflagration. Compose yourself, little one. I don’t want to have to dub you into unconsciousness," He leaned over her, avoiding her eyes. For a second his cheek lay against her forehead, but when he straightened he had a faint, sardonic smile.

"A slight temperature, but nothing alarming. Go to sleep, child. You can talk later."

The door opened and dosed behind Kent. Loudly, ostentatiously, the key snicked in the lock.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

RENNIE was awakened by the full-toned bark of a dog just outside the curtained window. She heard Kent’s hasty, "Shut up, you brute!" and a scuffling sound as though he were thrusting the dog out into the garden. The room was dark, but she knew at once where she was. It needed no effort to recollect the circumstance which had brought her to Elands Ridge this afternoon. It seemed as if the odour of burning maize still lingered in her nostrils.

There came a light tap at the door and she answered, "Come in."

She noticed that Kent did not have to turn the key in the lock. Had he entered before, while she slept? For the moment, Rennie didn't care.

He came and snapped on the reading lamp at the bedside, adjusted the shade and turned to survey the huddled figure in the crumpled blanket.

"Bad head?" he said softly. "I'll get you another pillow and some aspirin." It was strange how so big a man could more around without noise, and his deftness was amazing. "There, is that easier? Swallow three of these, if you can. Not too much water. Is your throat sore?"

"Only horrible dry and hot."

"We'll let in more air." A sweet, scent-laden breeze puffed towards the bed.

"What's the time?"

"Nine o'clock. You had a long sleep."

"I believe you doctored the whisky."

"What an accusation!" But he did not deny it

After a moment, she said: "The .. . maize?"

"The fire had taken hold. We worked for nearly three hours and eventually got control, but about a third of the crop is gone."

Her glance lowered and her mouth trembled. "Thank you, Kent. Does my father know?"

"He does. He wanted to come here for you but I put him off. I told him I'd take you home when you’re ready." He looked down at her white face and tousled hair as she lay back in the pillows. "You see what happens when you overdo it. The shock of the fire and that breakneck ride have used you up. I'll bet you're stiff as a board, feel sick as a pie dog and could scream with nerves — but all you'll admit to is a headache." His inflection altered: "I'm glad you came to me, Rennie. Don't regret it."

"What makes you think I might?"

"The way you hold yourself in. With almost any other man you'd have hung on to him and wept. The state you were in you couldn't have helped it. But there's something pretty powerful in your make-up that won't let you be natural with me."

"Would you have liked me to hang on and weep?"

"That's not the point. It would have relieved you, and you wouldn't now be suffering, among other things, from stifled emotions."

Tanu came in on whispering feet and laid a tray across Rennie's knees. The tall, slim servant stood back examining her gravely, apparently expecting her to fade away on such dainty fare. Kent dismissed him and shifted his own chair nearer the bedside.

"Tanu makes good omelettes — I taught him myself. You'll feel more chipper when you’ve eaten. Mind if I have some coffee with you?"

He didn't watch while she made a courageous attempt to dispose of the omelette. Instead, he raised his feet to the rung of the bedside table, pushed back precariously on two legs of the chair — as was his habit

— and described the battle with the flames.

"When I got there my boys had joined yours, and Maxwell had the pump working. The heat was fierce, the maize was scorched black minutes before the fire swept over it, and the smoke hampered us. Our only course was to saturate a strip of land right cross the fields, about twenty feet wide, and then work back to the flames." He paused. "When it was all over I sacked your boys."

"What . . . all of them?"

"Every one, without wages. You can’t afford to employ that type. My boss-boy saw them off your land, and I had them taken to town in a lorry."

She was distressed. "What shall we do, with no labor?"

"You're going to borrow mine — and like it. The remainder of your maize will be stored in town by Monday; I promise you that. Next week we’ll begin ploughing."

"But how . . ."

"Easily," he broke in. "I've sixty boys, and my operations are the sort that can wait. I shan't feel right till Mayenga is straight and you've lost the hollows in your cheeks and that weary darkness round the eyes. Rest is the medicine you need. Can't you finish the toast?"

"I've eaten one piece," she pleaded.

He slid the tray on to the floor, got out his cigarette case, and opened

it.

"Smoke?"

She shook her head. "You have one, though."

The pain behind her eyes had diminished and she could sit upright without a spasm of vertigo or a knocking behind her forehead. Now that the physical malaise was passing, her heart was lightening absurdly. For the first time she noticed that the furniture was of an uncommon grey pine, the dressing-table set with blue mats to match the curtains and bed cover, the rugs white and fleecy on the gleaming floor. She could see a severe gold monogram on each of the articles on the tallboy and dressing-table, and the tip of a plain burgundy tie peeped through the closed wardrobe door. In one corner stood a pair of highly-polished riding boots. A man's room.

She was on the point of asking him about it; and then she had no wish to know. It was enough that he was here, regarding her keenly but with unusual gentleness, and that she was, suddenly, intensely aware of him as a man.

"My father will worry," she said. "I must go."

He pulled at the cigarette. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that I had a bit of a showdown with Adrian this evening. Don't go all taut — it was nothing catastrophic, but I made him see where he'd landed you. We parted friends and he gave me a free hand at Mayenga."

"I hope you didn't upset him."

"I did at first — explained just how you appeared this afternoon, without embellishments. It shook him rather, so I had to tone it down. Considering how much he cares for you he's annoyingly blind to your needs. By the way, the journalist wasn't there."

"Maybe he stayed the evening in town."

"Hasn't he finished the masterpiece yet?"

"It's halfway through." At this moment she had no time for Michael and his novel. "Kent, what happened to Paddy?"

"He's in my stables, recovering from the fright of the fire and making friends with the polo ponies. I'll bring him back to you tomorrow." He reached over to press out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. "Fit to move?"

Gingerly, she swung down her legs. There was a three-cornered rent in the knee of her breeches, and she was conscious of the much-darned toes of her socks, though Kent appeared not to see them. He tied her shoes and lifted her carefully to her feet.

"May I tidy up?" she asked, a little shakily.

He showed her the bathroom, and when she had washed and pressed back her hair, and taken a long draught of surprisingly cold water, a hint of pink returned to her cheeks. Heartened to discover that nothing fatal had happened to her looks, she made her way down the corridor to Kent’s hall.

He was leaning in the doorway, facing the cool, tempestuous night, but as she joined him he half turned, and moved aside to make room for her.

"Find everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I’m afraid I can’t offer you cosmetics."

She smiled slightly. "You wouldn’t be so nice a person if you could."

"So you’re revising the estimate? It’s about time. You and Elands Ridge have to get really acquainted."

"I’m deeply grateful for all you’ve done for me today, Kent."

"Are you, Rennie? You didn’t know I could be so kind," he mocked drily. "Like a nice brother. A nice brother!" he repeated on a self-derisory note. "No woman ever flung such an insult at me before. I only took it from you because you were laid out."

She raised her face, and tiny sparks shone in the grey eyes. "I’ve had several hours’ sleep since then."

"So you have, little one, but you’re not quite up to being kissed—the way I'd do it!" At her swift flush of alarm he laughed. "Does it frighten you—the thought of being kissed by me?"

"It might if there were any likelihood of it."

"You're much less conceited of yourself than you are of being English," he commented. "Occasionally there are things a man wants to say to a woman that words can’t express. At such times kisses are useful. However," his arm dropped lightly but compellingly across her shoulders; "there's nothing more aggravating than an exciting discussion which can have no climax. You're going home."