A Spear of Summer Grass. Deanna Raybourn

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      “Do be quiet,” she said sharply and promptly vomited into her basin.

      I turned back to the view and watched Africa unrolling before me, mile after mile of emptiness under a sky as big as any in the States.

      * * *

      Some time later, when dusk began to fall, I heard footsteps overhead. Dora jolted awake. “What is that? An animal?”

      I answered her with a peal of laughter. “No, you ninny. It’s the railman lighting the lamps.”

      Just at that moment, a trapdoor opened above us and a cheerful Indian face peered inside.

      “Good evening, memsahibs.”

      Dora gave a little scream and shrank back against the seat, but I smiled at the fellow.

      “Ignore her, I beg you. She has delicate nerves.”

      He reached in to light the oil lamp and the carriage was bathed in the warm glow of civilisation. He gave a single nod and said crisply, “Voi in half an hour,” before dropping the trapdoor neatly back into place.

      “What does Voi mean?” Dora demanded.

      I rifled through the pages of the guidebook before giving her a triumphant smile. “Voi is where we eat.”

      Right on schedule, the train stopped at a bungalow. Hanging outside was a hand-lettered sign proclaiming that we had reached Voi. In the packed-earth yard, third-class passengers crowded around picnic baskets while first-class travellers made straight for the dining room inside. The stewards were wearing pristine white jackets and serving thoroughly English food from the look of it. Dora staggered to her seat and collapsed gratefully, requesting a gingerroot tisane and waving off any suggestion of food.

      Just as I had made up my mind to order a second glass of champagne, a shadow loomed over the table.

      “I say, I’m terribly sorry to intrude, but there don’t seem to be any empty tables.”

      I looked up to see that the Englishman matched his voice, rich and slow. He was good-looking in a slightly seedy way, and I liked the coolness of his blue eyes. His mouth was thin and possibly cruel, but his hands were beautiful. I smiled.

      “There is a free seat at the table over there,” I countered with a nod towards a trio of gentlemen tucking into bowls of muddy brown soup. “Why not sit with them?”

      He didn’t hesitate. “Because a beautiful woman in this place is like a long drink of cool water in the desert. And two beautiful women...” He trailed off, collecting Dora with his gaze. It was the rankest flattery. Dora was not beautiful.

      I waved him to one of the empty chairs as he introduced himself. “I assure you, manners are far more relaxed here in Africa than back home. You needn’t worry about the lack of formal introduction. I am Anthony Wickenden.”

      “And how do you know where home is for me, Mr. Wickenden? I might be accustomed to very casual manners indeed.”

      He raised a brow into a delicate arch. It was a practiced gesture and one I had no doubt he had used often and to great effect. “I think a lady of such sophistication could only come from Paris.”

      I clucked my tongue. “Disloyal for an Englishman,” I scolded gently. “Don’t you have sophisticated women in London?”

      “None like you.”

      I took out a Sobranie and fit it into the holder. Before I could reach into my bag again, he bent forward, a tiny flame dancing at the end of his match. I leaned into him as he cupped his hands to protect the flame. I took two short drags, sucking the fire onto the end of my cigarette, my eyes fixed on his. He swallowed hard, and I blew out the match.

      I sat back and crossed my legs. “Tell me about Mrs. Wickenden.”

      A slow smile spread over his face. “What makes you so certain there is a Mrs. Wickenden?”

      “I can smell a wife a mile away, Mr. Wickenden, and you have the stink of one all over you.”

      He laughed, and the suave stranger disappeared. He was simply a friendly fellow looking for a bit of a chat then, and we settled to our dinner companionably. The stewards served up a succession of depressing courses – brown Windsor soup followed by boiled beef and cabbage, listlessly mashed potatoes, and tinned fruit and custard. I picked the insects out of mine and lined them up on the edge of the plate. Wickenden didn’t even bother.

      “You’ll get used to it in time. Insects and dust will be half of every meal you consume out here.” Between indifferent bites he told me a little about himself. He was on his way home to his farm outside Nairobi. He had been in Africa for many years, having come out as a boy with his parents. He had tried – and failed – to farm a variety of crops and had decided to turn his hand to breeding racehorses.

      “That’s what I was doing in Mombasa,” he said smoothly, “looking at some fresh stock.”

      He was testing out the lie, I could tell, seeing how well it fit his tongue before he tried it at home. I shrugged. I wasn’t his wife; it didn’t matter to me what he’d really been up to in Mombasa, but even I knew it wasn’t exactly a hot spot for horse-trading.

      I told him about Fairlight and he leaned forward, almost dragging a cuff in his custard. “Hold on, now. You know Sir Nigel?”

      “He was my stepfather,” I explained. “He has very sweetly put Fairlight at my disposal while I rusticate.”

      “But we’re neighbours!” he exclaimed happily. He had drunk the better part of a bottle of gin at that point, which might have accounted for his excitement, or maybe a new face in the Kenyan bush was just that much of an event. Either way, it was nice to be welcomed, and I told him so.

      “More than welcome, my dear. You must come to dine with us at Nyama Ranch.”

      “Us?” I teased.

      He had the grace to smile. “Yes, us. Nyama is owned by my wife’s aunt. Jude and I live there with her. Sort of keeping the old girl in line, you understand. Not as young as she used to be.”

      Oh, I understood perfectly. Poor feckless Wickenden had gambled himself into the poorhouse with his farming experiments and had no choice but to live off his wife’s money now. I wondered who was footing the bill for the racing stables.

      We finished our drinks and towed Dora onto the veranda for brandy and cigars. I liked my Sobranies, but I loved a good cigar. It was like French-kissing fire. Dora had long since grown immune to my occasional indulgence, but Wickenden lit up like a boy who had just seen his first naughty photograph.

      “How deliciously scandalous,” he breathed. He leaned close to my ear, whispering a few inappropriate suggestions, but I pretended not to hear. A steward rang the veranda bell just then, sounding the signal for passengers to board the train. Dora hurried on, but Wickenden caught my hand.

      “Silly girl. We needn’t go yet. It takes ages to warm those damned engines up. Unlike mine,” he finished, sticking a fat, limp tongue in my ear.

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