Burning Embers E-Book

Hannah Fielding

• Herausgeber: London Wall Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 542

Beschreibung

An unforgettable passion ignited in the heart of Africa. A fragile love tormented by secrets and betrayal. Coral Sinclair, a beautiful but naïve young photographer, learns within days of calling off her wedding that she has also lost her father. Leaving her life in England, she sails to Kenya to take up her inheritance - Mpingo, the plantation that was her childhood home. On the voyage, Coral meets a charismatic stranger and their mystifying attraction shakes her to the core. Later she finds out his identity and is warned that the man is not to be trusted. Rafe de Monfort, owner of a nightclub and the neighbouring plantation, is not only a notorious womanizer, but also his affair with Coral's stepmother may have contributed to her father's death. Or so the rumours go. As Coral is swept up in the undeniable chemistry between her and Rafe, a tentative romance blossoms in the exotic, dangerous wilderness of Africa. But when Coral delves into his past, she questions his true motives. Is the infamous lothario just after her inheritance? Or does Rafe's secret anguish colour his every move, making him more vulnerable than Coral could ever imagine? Praise for Hannah Fielding's novel, The Echoes of Love: 'One of the most romantic works of fiction ever written … an epic love story beautifully told.' The Sun

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

A Letter from Hannah

About the Author

Also by Hannah Fielding: Indiscretion and The Echoes of Love

Praise for Burning Embers, The Echoes of Love and Hannah Fielding

BURNING EMBERS

HANNAH FIELDING

First published in paperback and eBook in the USA in 2012

by Omnific Publishing

First published as an eBook in the UK in 2014

by London Wall Publishing Ltd (LWP)

24 Chiswell Street, London EC1Y 4YX

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by Faber Factory

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Copyright © Hannah Fielding 2012

EB ISBN 978-0-9929943-2-7

The burning embers flicker, Connection of two sights, A touch of spark, wickers, Forbidden its delight.

U

CHAPTER ONE

1970 — At Sea

Coral Sinclair was twenty-five, and this should have been her wedding night. Instead, she watched a full moon sweep the Indian Ocean with silvery beams as a silent ship carried her through the night, its path untroubled by the rolling swell. It was misty, the air was fresh, and a soft breeze blew through her flowing blond hair. A solitary passenger on deck, outlined by a strapless, white-silk evening dress, she stood upright and still, her slender fingers clenching the rail, her voile scarf floating behind.

Coral could not sleep. She gazed into the tenebrous light, feeling helpless, lonely, and utterly wretched. Not a star interrupted that dense unity, not the smallest star, the tiniest speck of hope. The only sound was the thrumming of the ship’s engines and the rhythmic echo of the waves smashing relentlessly against its hull.

After dinner she had paced up and down in her stuffy cabin, attempted to concentrate on a book, and flipped absentmindedly through a magazine. Unable to fix her attention, she had gone on deck to take some fresh air. It was deserted there except for rows of abandoned deck chairs. Their spectral shadows in the pale moonlight gave the place a desolate character that reflected her mood.

This had been a wonderful cruise, she told herself wistfully, attempting once again to snap out of her depression. She had not made the most of the trip, and she knew that she would regret it one day. After all, this was the kind of adventure Coral had dreamed of during the past years. She felt a lump in her throat. “No, not quite…” she whispered to herself. The circumstance that had induced her to make such a long journey was painful: she was going to take possession of her inheritance.

The ship was taking her back home — or at least the home she had known as a child in Kenya. Mpingo… Even the name warmed Coral’s heart like the morning African sun. In Swahili, it meant The Tree of Music, named after the much sought-after dark heartwood used to make wind instruments. Like much of the white community in Kenya — an eclectic mix of landless aristocrats, big-game hunters, and ex-servicemen — Coral’s family had originally been expatriate settlers. The desolate, treeless landscapes choked with dust and scorched with sun, which could have seemed menacing to some, had been perceived quite differently by Coral during those early years. For the imaginative child, every day had gleamed with tawny and emerald vistas to explore freely in the golden light of the African sun. She had imagined living there forever, and was unprepared when things abruptly changed.

Coral tried to recapture that clear morning in early April sixteen years ago when she had said farewell to the world she loved: to the sun, to Africa, and to her father. She had been nine years old, and although a lot of that period seemed blurry, certain memories remained vivid in her mind.

The constant quarrels of her parents had darkened an otherwise serene childhood. Often the memories came to haunt her nights, always dominated by the towering figure of her father, Walter Sinclair, a man whose debonair charm and reputation as an adventurer (not to mention his eye for other men’s wives) had earned him the endearing nickname the White Pirate among the natives. Nevertheless, Coral had loved and admired her dashing father and had desperately missed him for a long time.

She remembered returning to England with her mother, Angela, in the spring of 1956, the divorce of her parents that followed, and being sent away to boarding school. That was the worst time. For a child who had known the wind-beaten spaces of the bush and the kaleidoscopic scenery of the tropical regions, this sudden confinement at an English school had been a restraint she found difficult to conform to, and never got used to. So she took refuge in the wonderful world of her nostalgic dreams throughout those seemingly never-ending years to womanhood, secretly vowing to return to her true home one day.

Then, when Coral was sixteen, her mother had married Sir Edward Ranleigh, a widowed barrister of great repute. The engagement had come as a shock to her despite his frequent visits to their flat in London. At first she had hated him and flatly refused to attend their wedding. Coral could not imagine someone taking her father’s place in her mother’s heart — or in her bed.

Uncle Edward, as she called him, was a jolly and gregarious man, a bon viveur, generous and unpretentious. Like her father, he had traveled the world, not so much to amass a fortune but mostly for his own pleasure. They had all moved to his luxurious flat overlooking St. James’s Park in London and spent most of their holidays at his country home, Ranleigh Hall, in Derbyshire. With quiet patience, Edward had won her over. He had taught her how to ride and how to sail, and stimulated her imagination with stories of his adventures in foreign countries. Gradually, Coral got used to his presence around them, and her attitude toward him softened. Within a few months they were friends.

The year after had turned her world upside down again with the birth of twins to the newly wedded couple: Lavinia and Thomas, her half siblings. Coral had felt disturbed by the sudden, dramatic change to her life. She had carefully hidden her feelings and would have gladly moved back to Kenya, but it was made quite clear to her that relocating was not an option. Again, she resigned herself, and with time and the patient help of Uncle Edward, who considered Coral his daughter, she had warmed to the children and even learned to care for them. Then on Coral’s eighteenth birthday, Uncle Edward held a ball in her honor and put a large sum of money in a trust for her. By then she had made peace with the new way of life that had been forced upon her. She loved the twins and was very fond of Uncle Edward, but he had never replaced her father in her heart, and she still longed for Kenya, the land of her happy childhood.

Lost in thought, Coral stood on tiptoe and bent over the rail to watch the seething white horses in the ship’s wake. The salty mist blew about her, sending strands of hair across her eyes, and she pushed them away from a wide forehead to let the fine spray refresh her face. Coral never contemplated that circumstances such as these would take her home, and she returned to thoughts of where she had intended to be this evening, her wedding night. “A Fairytale Wedding” the gossip pages had declared unanimously. She had met Dale Halloway, a young American tycoon, at the 1968 opening of the Halloway African Exhibition in New York City. It had been her first professional journalism assignment abroad, a commission to cover the story and take pictures of the fabulous African sculptures and paintings, which offered a golden opportunity to further her career and one not often presented to young photographers, particularly women. Although things were changing fast and 1970 was heralding an exciting new decade, it was still hard to break into such a male-dominated world. Coral had wanted to be a photographer as long as she could remember, and while all her friends had grown up and followed the predictable path of marriage, Coral was pursuing her dream career.

When she’d met Dale at the exhibition, it had been love at first sight. He’d had the looks of an all-American hero and something of a Great Gatsby style about him. Always in the latest Halston or Ralph Lauren suit, he epitomized the powerful and successful American tycoon. That Dale and his family had connections with Africa contributed to the attraction. Dale’s frequent travels round the African continent often took him to Kenya, and his stories helped to satisfy Coral’s thirst for information about life back in the country she missed so dearly.

The couple had been inseparable for months, and although Coral had spent her late teens and early twenties watching the sexual revolution unfold around her, she herself had vowed to keep her virginity until her wedding night, and so the relationship had remained chaste. Dale had been equally smitten by Coral but was less enthusiastic about her traditional views on sex before marriage. Nevertheless, he had reassured her that he would wait until she was ready, and as they were living on opposite sides of the Atlantic, leading their own separate lives, the months seemed to fly by. After eighteen months, they had announced their engagement. The wedding was to take place three months later in New York, and they planned to go to Kenya for their honeymoon.

On a holiday weekend, she had flown to New York, unannounced, to surprise her fiancé. The nasty surprise had been all hers, since Dale showed little concern when she arrived at his office and caught him red-handed kissing his secretary. The typical cliché, she thought. Heartbroken, she had fled from the room and returned to England that same evening.

A month later, Coral had received a letter from a solicitor announcing that her father had died and she was the heiress to a substantial legacy in Kenya. The letter had been delayed — the post in Africa was not that reliable — and she had not been able to attend his funeral. In the space of a few months, her life, which until then had been quite uneventful and orderly, had become chaotic and uncertain.

Inertia had overwhelmed her. For some time, Coral had let herself drift from one day to the next, unable to think straight or make any decisions. Then, out of the blue, something cropped up. Her mother’s friends, Dr. Thomas Atkinson, a member of the World Health Organization, and his wife were leaving for Somalia in the new year. They had been able to secure passenger berths on a cargo ship out of London calling at Kilindini, the new port of Mombasa in Kenya. Coral needed to return to Kenya to claim her inheritance and sort out her father’s affairs, and this fortuitous offer had brought her to her senses.

“It will give you time to recover from the painful experience you’ve been through,” her mother had stated, “and will be a chance to go on a leisurely cruise around the African ports, an opportunity you may never have again. Besides, things have changed in Kenya since Mboya’s assassination. People say that President Kenyatta himself was behind it, but who knows. This tribal politics is getting out of hand. One day, you might not be able to go back to Africa, darling.” As usual, her mother had been blunt.

Coral sighed. Although she was excited at the prospect of returning to her childhood home, Mpingo would not be the same without her father. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” A soft, deep voice emerged from the darkness behind her, disturbing her reverie.

Startled, Coral jumped and swung around.

“Here, this will keep you warm,” said the stranger, slipping off his jacket and wrapping it around her bare shoulders.

She gazed at the man standing before her in the shadows. She tried to make out his features, and then recognized him as the new passenger who had joined the ship that morning when it had docked at the port of Mogadishu. She had been standing on deck, waving at Dr. Thomas and his wife who had just disembarked, and had noticed him coming up the gangplank. Again in the evening she had caught a glimpse of him at dinner, sitting at the captain’s table.

He was tall, dark, and lean. In the moonlight, the eyes that viewed her with slow appraisal seemed black, but she guessed that in daylight they would have reflected other tones. His was not an outstandingly handsome face; it held something stronger, more powerful than conventional good looks: a blatant sensuality, a charismatic magnetism that drew her attention despite her desire to ignore him.

“These tropical nights are deceptive,” he said. “The cold can take you by surprise.” The stranger had a French accent, with a distinct lilt that was not unattractive.

Coral nodded in acknowledgment of his words and smiled demurely, revealing the small dimple at the corner of her mouth.

“We’ll be arriving soon.”

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It’s four o’clock. In a few minutes, dawn will break over the horizon from there.” She was disturbed by his close proximity, his shirt sleeve inadvertently brushing against her cheek as he pointed at some invisible spot. “Sunrise on the Indian Ocean is a breathtaking sight, especially when you’re watching it from the deck of a ship.” He spoke with a warmth that made the deep pitch of his voice quiver slightly.

Another day is starting. Sadness flooded her. Who knew how much more sorrow and loneliness it would bring? Hot tears welled up in Coral’s eyes, clouding her view. Soon they would spill over uncontrollably, and the last thing she wanted was to make a spectacle of herself in front of this stranger. She clenched her teeth and swallowed hard.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Coral shook her head. Usually she would have resented this intrusion into her grief, but in an odd way she found his concern quite soothing.

She turned her face toward the stranger. He had edged away and was watching her, arms folded across his chest. His eyes crinkled into a smile. What did he want? Was he looking for an adventure? Surely not, Coral thought. He seemed unlike the young men she had so often met in her social circle. He was not even a young man, but simply a man: warm, compassionate, and tactful.

She relaxed. “You seem to know this part of the world,” she ventured, now looking down at the dark ocean beneath them.

“I was born in Africa.”

“In Kenya?”

“No, in French Guinea. I came to Kenya only eight years ago, but I’ve traveled around this continent quite a bit.” There was a momentary lull, and the tone of his voice dropped a little. “Untamed Africa…” he whispered as though to himself.

Something in the way he uttered those words made Coral lift her head. The words of her mother echoed through her mind: Things have changed in Kenya… She turned toward him and met the dark gaze that was fixed on her face. He looked hard into her blue eyes and smiled in the semi-darkness. Suddenly she felt the urge to confide in this calm and reassuring man. “I was also born in Africa,” she murmured, “but I left a long time ago, and so many things have changed since then that I’m dreading what awaits me there.”

They stood close to each other, almost touching. His hand reached out and, with infinite tenderness, covered the slender fingers clenching the rail. A pleasant warmth flooded her. She was afraid to move in case she disturbed that initial, yet powerful, contact. For a fleeting moment, in this wan light and because he spoke gently, her wounded heart yielded to this stranger’s soothing voice.

The sky was slowly clearing on the horizon. The black cloak of night began to lift, lazily giving way to a monochromatic dawn of decreasing hues, from indigo to steel blue. The first rays of the African sun broke through in the distance, a sallow slip of color outlining the eastern horizon. Coral felt the stranger looking at her, and heat suddenly rose in her cheeks.

Their eyes locked. She shuddered and pulled his jacket closer around her shoulders. As his gaze dropped to her soft, full lips, he flushed under his deep tan, then suddenly seemed to check himself and turned away. Coral, whose head and heart were throbbing, stood there silently, staring up at him with a mixture of curiosity and wonderment. The sensation she was experiencing was totally new to her. It was as if an unspoken affinity had been discovered and a connection established all in a single moment.

Variant tones of pink were gently spreading into the sky, struggling to seep through the symphony of blues. A few moments later the sun burst forth, dazzling in this multicolored canopy, and the dark outline of the landscape gradually loomed on the horizon, transforming first into the dark green, gray, and russet skirt of the jungle before revealing the bush, rising in layers toward the backcountry. Soon after, the port of Kilindini became visible, comfortably tucked away at the end of the estuary in the midst of vigorous vegetation. Coral could see it peeping out from behind serried ranks of coconut palms and wispy casuarinas trees, while its old lighthouse winked with steadfast tranquility in the half light. To complete the picture, the coastline of thin rolling sand dunes appeared, creating here and there immaculate white beaches.

Even with her mind awash with childhood memories, Coral found it difficult for her eyes, accustomed to the more sedate English countryside, to take in all at once the opulence of color, the sense of space, and the profusion of brilliant life. The burning sky seemed too blue, the rich soil too red, and the irrepressible vegetation too green.

Coral was overcome by emotion, remembering the last time she had seen this landscape. She thought of her father, who today would not be waiting for her. How empty her childhood home would seem without him. A lump formed in her throat, and she bit her lower lip while fighting to control the tears quivering on the edge of her eyelashes. Unable to restrain them for long, they spilled over and down her cheeks. She had forgotten her companion’s presence while engrossed in her sadness, so she gave a faint start when he spoke.

“Please don’t…” he whispered softly.

She did not answer; she did not even move. She simply stood there, limp and weary, tears continuing to mar her lovely features. He brushed her chin lightly with the tip of his forefinger and gently turned her drawn face toward him. With a white handkerchief he produced from his pocket, he carefully wiped away her tears.

“An African proverb says that sorrow is like rice in the pantry: it diminishes day by day.” Despite his solemn tone, he looked at her with laughing eyes that the morning light had turned golden brown but remained almost as hypnotic as they had been in the moonlight.

“Forgive me,” Coral murmured, smiling through her tears. “I didn’t intend to make a spectacle of myself. It was rather childish, I suppose.”

He gave a vague motion of his head and winked at her. “Even big boys cry sometimes, you know.” There was a slightly hard edge to his words, and once again she caught herself thinking how appealing she found his husky voice.

In the light of this splendid dawn, the ship entered the port of Kilindini. All was still. The sea was smooth and glossy, the water so transparent that Coral could see where rainbow-colored fish dozed lazily among waving coral branches.

“We won’t be disembarking before midday. You have time to rest for a while,” the stranger said. “Come, I’ll take you back to your cabin.” Without being bossy, he came across as a self-assured man who was in the habit of making decisions and was unaccustomed to anybody resisting his will.

Coral acquiesced and gave him back his jacket. “My cabin is downstairs,” she told him. As he took her elbow, she tried to ignore the tiny shockwave that pulsed through her body. She steadied herself and let him guide her to the floor below. “Just here,” she whispered when they reached the door.

Coral stared up at him, meeting the brooding dark eyes that engaged her thoughtfully. He placed his large hands on her shoulders. Coral was petite, and he towered over her willowy figure. She became aware of how dangerously close she was to his hard, muscled body. His head was bent toward hers, his gaze fixed upon her parted lips. For a few seconds, she thought he would actually draw her to him and kiss her. Her pulse raced as she held her breath, but his jaw stiffened, his eyes clouded, and his grip tightened just a little on her bare shoulders.

“Now, young lady, you must force yourself to sleep.” His tone was light, but his voice seemed deeper. “You’ll feel much better for it.” He relaxed his fingers, let his palms linger for a moment longer on her skin, then let his arms fall to his side. “Come now…sleep tight,” he said before turning abruptly on his heels and striding away.

Confusion suddenly sprang up in Coral’s mind. Was she disappointed or relieved that he had released her? She could not say; she was only conscious of the furious beat of her heart and the chaos of her thoughts. Never before had she felt such an immediate attraction. It was only when the cabin door closed behind her that she realized she did not even know the name of her kind Samaritan.

She lay on the bunk and closed her eyes, hoping to sweep away all thoughts of him, but it was to no avail — he had moved in there, large as life. Images of him crept into her mind: his powerful, tanned hands running over her body, those strong arms pressing her against him, his full mouth kissing her passionately. Was she going mad? She knew nothing of the man, neither his name nor where he came from. Nevertheless, a shiver ran up her spine as she recalled how he had touched her for a moment and she had felt the warmth of his palms against her skin. Her female senses told her that this would be a lover whose caresses, once experienced, would never be forgotten. Instinct urged her to run and hide, while logic told her she was acting like a silly teenager; he was probably married with half a dozen children, and their paths would never cross again.

*  *  *

Coral woke up with a start. Someone was knocking on the door — short, sharp, repeated raps. She must have dozed off, she realized as she wobbled to the door and opened it.

A young man with a dazzling smile gazed straight into her sleepy eyes. “Miss Coral Sinclair?”

“Yes, that’s me,” she said a little uncertainly.

“Splendid! Robin Danvers at your service. I’m the manager of Mpingo, come to welcome you and drive you to your home.”

“What time is it?” Coral ran her fingers through her rumpled hair.

He grinned. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“I must have fallen asleep,” she mumbled. “Please forgive me; I’m not quite ready yet.”

“There’s no hurry. If you’d care to give me your passport, I’ll see to your luggage.”

The solicitor for her father’s estate had mentioned in his letter that Robin Danvers, the manager of Mpingo, would be meeting her at the ship. Somehow, she had imagined an older man. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved safari shirt and dark trousers, he looked very clean-cut and not unattractive.

“Here you go,” she said as she retrieved her passport from her bag and handed it to the young man. “I’ll be ready when you come back.”

“Are those your cases?” He pointed to two stacked trunks.

She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I’m afraid they’re rather large.”

“Not to worry. I have brought the customs agent on board to clear your luggage. Then I will take them down with me and tend to any other formalities. Take your time. In Africa, we live at a slower pace,” he added cheerfully. “The challenges of everyday life here have taught the Kenyans to take every day as it comes and live for the moment. You’ll become accustomed to it in no time. It’s a very wise and infectious philosophy — we call it going pole-pole, slowly slowly.”

He took leave of her, and Coral was alone again with a moment to gather her thoughts. After saying goodbye to her knight-errant, she had stretched out on the couch, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander. The last thing she remembered was trying to imagine an alternative sequence of events, had circumstances been different — had he kissed her instead of leaving her so hastily at her cabin door. It was probably at that moment she had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. She actually felt much better for it: rested and enthusiastic. He had said she would, and the thought made her smile. Coral wondered whether she would see him again, deciding that she should be on the lookout for him, only to thank him for his kindness, of course.

Thankful that her fresh looks needed no artificial makeup, Coral applied just a tinge of transparent gloss on her lips and pinched her cheeks to add some color to them. Her mirror reflected eyes that were cornflower bright and shiny. Needing some practical traveling clothes for the journey, she had changed into hip-hugging, white cotton flared trousers that accentuated her long, shapely legs. The blue and white striped man’s shirt, ends tied in a big knot at the waist, enhanced the golden tan she had acquired sunbathing on deck and set off the slenderness of her figure. She had just finished putting her hair in a French braid when Robin Danvers returned to fetch her.

Coral stood on the deck at the top of gangplank, dazzled by the reflection of the blazing light. The late morning sun spread its fan of fire over the shimmering sea. The baking heat was suddenly very familiar, and she did not dislike it. Here and there flying fish erupted from the water in a show of sparkles. The air was heavy with redolent scents. It was all coming back to her now: the blend of tar, sea, ropes, moldy timber, spices, and dry fish that haunts every port but which Coral mentally associated with Kenya and her childhood.

After the stillness of her cabin, the noisy clamor that filled the port had a physical impact. Blaring sirens of cargo boats carrying exotic merchandise alternated with the shrill whistles of panting tugboats towing their timber rafts. From time to time they would be drowned out by the din of heavy billets crashing down into the holds. But it was the continuous creak of the harbor’s thick chain booms that grated on her already strained sensibilities.

Down on the quay, the colorful, mixed crowd of African natives, foreigners, animals, and cars was creating its own kind of chaos. Kenyan men and women chatted away, laughing, shouting, and jostling each other. Some hoisted sacks and crates onto trucks bound for Mombasa and the capital, Nairobi; others clustered round stalls of food, noisily bartering with vendors. Children darted through a sea of legs as horns beeped, goats bleated, and chickens flew up in all directions.

It had been too many years since Coral had been caught up in such a scene, and after the peaceful solitude of the ship, it was unexpectedly all too much. She hesitated a moment and looked behind her for Robin Danvers, hoping that he would lend her the courage to face this intimidating new world, but the young manager was nowhere to be seen. Struck by sudden panic, she was on the point of returning to the security of her cabin when a firm hand grasped her by the arm.

“Your companion is not far behind,” said a deep, comforting voice she instantly recognized. “He’s been held up. We’re blocking the traffic. Come, let’s go down together. He will meet you on the pier, no doubt.” It was not a suggestion but an order. His grip was such that it gave her no option but to be marched down the wobbly gangplank and hustled through the crush toward a vaguely familiar looking dark-green Buick parked twenty yards away.

They had almost reached the car when Robin Danvers joined them, quite out of breath. “Forgive me, Miss Sinclair, if I’ve kept you waiting,” he panted. “I was held up by some customs official.”

“That’s all right, Robin,” she replied absentmindedly, still a little shaken up. “This gentleman very kindly looked after me. By the way,” Coral added, turning to address her rescuer, “I don’t even know — ” But he had already disappeared among the motley crowd. “He was here a moment ago,” she cried out, failing to conceal her irritation.

“I wouldn’t worry,” said the young manager sharply. “He must have been in a hurry to find his family.”

Coral shrugged her shoulders dismissively but remained perplexed, feeling as if she was missing something. How did the stranger know where to guide her to go? They reached the car, and a Kenyan chauffeur smoothly appeared to hold the door open for her. “Karibu. Welcome, Miss Coral,” he said with a smile. His inquisitive, friendly eyes reminded her how instinctively warm the Kenyans were, how much they delighted in hospitality.

“Moses is one of the drivers attached to Mpingo,” explained Robin. “He is loyal and has been working with us for eight years. He also speaks good English.”

“Hello, Moses.” She returned the driver’s radiant smile.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to wait another ten minutes,” apologized the manager. “There are some formalities that still need to be dealt with. The bureaucracy here is quite overwhelming. I hope you’ll be comfortable in the car. I suggest you pull down the blinds, which should make it a little cooler and protect you from prying eyes. Mr. Sinclair never got around to installing air-conditioning in this car. He didn’t much care for it.”

“You forget I was born here; I don’t mind the heat,” she reassured him. “Besides, I will enjoy watching the crowd. I am as curious about them as they are about me.”

He laughed. “Very well, but if you feel the need for some privacy, don’t hesitate to call Moses. He’ll take care of you.” Turning to the driver, he spoke to him in Kiswahili. It sounded somewhat familiar to Coral, even though she could not understand a word of it. Long ago, she had spoken Kiswahili, and now that her stay in Kenya could turn out to be a long one, she hoped that it would come back to her with practice.

Coral climbed into the back of the Buick and watched out the window as the manager headed off toward the gray buildings at the far end of the quay, next to which stood long warehouses stacked high with sacks and bales. At the doorway to the buildings, tall, slim, African women were making ropes.

Coral turned her attention to the gigantic cranes swiveling in the air. They reminded her of steel-fanged dragons on the lookout for their next victim as they lifted and lowered their strange cargoes bound for new shores. It was clear that the port was flourishing these days. Coral had kept up with the news in Kenya and knew that while the president, Jomo Kenyatta, was criticized by some for his increasingly autocratic governing of the country, Kenya was at least reaping the economic benefits of increased exports and aid from the West. A vision of a new Kenya seemed to be constructing itself in front of her eyes. And then, farther away to the right, where the marshy green belt of grassland sloped down gently toward the ocean, she saw an age-old scene. Magnificent, half-naked, ebony athletes went to and fro, some carrying on their shoulders and others on their heads, heavy loads brought in by rowing boats from larger vessels anchored off shore.

Coral’s gaze wandered back to the stream of people bustling about frantically on the docks. She scrutinized this hodgepodge of form and color, searching for her stranger.

Suddenly she spotted him. He was striding energetically toward a luxurious, black Cadillac Fleetwood that had just glided into the port. For the first time, she took a good look at him from afar. A giant of a man, he was tall and elegant in his impeccably cut Yves Saint Laurent suit and dark glasses.

His overt magnetism, even projecting from this distance, went straight to Coral’s stomach. The Cadillac pulled up to meet him, and the back door slid open before the uniformed chauffeur had time to step out. Intrigued, Coral strained her eyes so as not to miss any part of the goings-on, but her efforts were poorly rewarded. She only had time to glimpse the heavily bejeweled arm of a woman reaching out to draw him into the rolling palace, which immediately turned around to disappear into the dense traffic.

Robin Danvers was taking his time, and she was tired of watching the scenery around her. She laid her head back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her own thoughts. No matter how hard she struggled to control them, they seemed to catapult themselves right back to her elusive stranger. Who was this man? His bearing, his commanding voice, everything about him spelled out self-confidence, power, and success.

“There, I’ve finished at last,” declared the manager, jerking Coral from her meditation. “I hope you haven’t found the wait too long.”

“Actually, quite the reverse,” she told him. “The bustle in your port provided great entertainment. So many things seem to be happening here.”

“The port of Kilindini has become the largest and the most modern port in East Africa,” he explained. “It serves the whole of Kenya and bordering countries. But the truly fascinating parts of Mombasa are the old harbor and the old Arab town that lie at the other end of the city near the Mombasa Shooting Club. We could have lunch there. On Saturdays they put on a special luncheon for ladies, who otherwise are not allowed in. After lunch, if you’re not too tired, you could browse around the shops before we start back to Mpingo.”

Coral welcomed the suggestion enthusiastically. She had missed breakfast and hardly touched dinner the night before. The heat and the humidity were making her feel slightly faint, and lunch in civilized surroundings seemed a very sensible idea.

They crossed the town, passing through the opulent district where the white settlers, the mzungus lived; here the roads were fringed with their colonial-style villas whose red-tiled roofs were buried under cascades of scarlet bougainvillea, purple wisteria, and yellow mimosa. Gray concrete office blocks and tourist shops occasionally interrupted this colorful sprawl, punctuated here and there by clumps of Arab-style houses, the last remnants of ancient harems. Soon the brooding bulk of Fort Jesus rose into view, guarding the old harbor. They drove past the pink walls before entering the port through high gates. By now, the sun was scorching. Some hundred dhows — graceful, lateen sailboats built to an age-old pattern — dozed, lying apathetically on their sides on the beach.

Moses parked the car in the square next to the Old Custom House, and emerging from the car, Coral felt as though she had entered a new world. Here the atmosphere was impregnated with an eastern ambience of magic, intrigue, and spice.

They walked through a warren of twisting, narrow, unpaved streets. On either side were clusters of tiny houses welded together like honeycomb cells and dark smoky shops where the tangy scent of incense lingered.

“This is where most of the trade takes place: the shopper’s heaven,” explained Robin as they passed vendors of exotic perfumes, dealers of second-hand Persian rugs, and merchants offering Zanzibar chests at discount prices. He led the way, carefully picking a path through the swarm of sly traffickers, smugglers, corrupt policemen, and provocative hookers who shared the space. “Hang on to your bag,” he recommended as he took Coral’s arm. “This neighborhood is pick pockets’ heaven.”

She shrugged her shoulders dispassionately. “That’s all part of the atmosphere.” She loved the unhurried way the people moved, wrapped in happy languor. They stopped from time to time to talk, haggle, or simply admire the variety of merchandise spread out in front of them. “I could spend days rummaging in these dark Ali Baba caves. Who knows, I may just stumble upon an old treasure.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of venturing around here alone. It would be very unwise,” Robin declared. “This district is run by dangerous gangs. From time to time, European women have been attacked. In some cases they have disappeared, never to be found.”

His quick speech and emphatic tone irritated Coral. “The people seem to be harmless enough.”

“That’s just where you’re mistaken. Slave trafficking has not been completely eradicated from some parts of the Middle East, you know.”

“I’ll bear that in mind when on my next expedition,” she retorted. The idea seemed rather far-fetched, but she decided to keep the peace and change the subject. She listened with only half an ear to Robin lecturing her about life in Kenya. She found him boring and patronizing. Pity, since he was so good-looking. What a waste! Unconsciously, she compared him to her elusive stranger, wishing she was having lunch with Sir Lancelot, as she had named him.

She concentrated on the exotic surroundings. In the midst of the clamorous hum of the crowd, she could single out the monotonous tapping of a craftsman’s hammer. From time to time, it was covered by the full-throated cry of a seller, the lamenting wail of a beggar, the repeated trill of a bicycle bell, and very occasionally, by the panic-stricken horn of an automobile.

They turned onto a dark street bordered with small houses of coral rag. The space was so narrow that in some places the upstairs balconies touched those on the opposite side. She had read somewhere that a few of these tiny streets had been built only wide enough for a camel to pass, and that the houses owed their curious color to the large bricks carved out of soft coral which had been allowed to dry to a hard consistency before being used. She thought they probably looked much the same as they had in the early sixteenth century.

“We’ve arrived,” announced Robin as the Mombasa Shooting Club came into view. It was very much what Coral had expected it to be: a little bit of England transplanted into Africa. They climbed a flight of marble stairs and found themselves in a wide hall with a floor of polished teak. A portrait of the queen had prominent place over the fireplace and regally dominated the room. The furniture was European and so were the pictures and carpets. The smell of beeswax lingered everywhere, reminding her of home, and the restaurant resounded with English voices.

They sat next to a window overlooking a sun-flooded garden and the sparkling sea beyond. “I’m afraid only sensible English cooking is served here,” Robin told her. “You would need to try one of the local restaurants for anything more adventurous.”

“The sole recollection I have of Kenyan food is ugali,” she said with a little laugh. “It was a main part of my childhood. Aluna, my yaha, used to insist on serving me a bowl every morning. Actually, I quite liked it. It’s very similar to porridge. By the way, how is old Aluna? I assume she still lives at Mpingo? After Mummy and I left, she didn’t stay in touch, even though I wrote many letters to her, especially at the beginning.”

“Aluna is still there,” he said in an even tone of voice. He paused shortly, then added, rather guardedly perhaps, “She has been very affected by Mr. Sinclair’s death, and — ”

“And?” prompted Coral, sensing the young man’s reluctance to continue.

The manager fidgeted in his seat. Uncomfortable seconds elapsed during which he seemed to be considering his thoughts and carefully picking his words before answering. “Since your father’s death, poor Aluna hasn’t been quite herself,” he said finally. “During the two first weeks that followed his demise, she neither spoke nor ate. The news of your imminent arrival, though, has seemed to revive her. It’s as if she’s been given something new to live for. However, she’s still silent for long periods, and when she does talk, she tells strange stories that come from old superstitions and her own hallucinations.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that Aluna has been so deeply affected. She’s been with the family since the early years. She was in her twenties when she came to Mpingo. She was there when the new house was being built. Daddy taught her English.”

She smiled ruefully. Looking back, she had mixed feelings about those times. As she recalled, Walter Sinclair and Aluna used to stay for hours in her father’s study, a detached outbuilding at the bottom of the garden, while he taught her Shakespeare’s language. She remembered her mother’s resentment and understood it better now. Aluna was a handsome woman, in her prime in those days, and Coral now knew that Walter was known to have a roving eye. He had found in Aluna an intelligent pupil. He had given her classic books to read and even introduced her to opera, which she took to quite seriously, to the extent of wandering around the house warbling arias from La Traviata while getting on with her daily chores. He used to say that if she had been born in a different society, she would have gone far. “She has the brain of a scholar. Pity there’s so much mumbo jumbo still lingering in there — a strange mixture,” he had declared on one occasion. Coral wondered now if there had been an untoward relationship between her father and her yaha. That would explain why Angela Sinclair had decided so suddenly to leave Africa for good, taking her daughter with her.

They ate silently. “How did my father die?” she ventured eventually.

“One day, his heart simply stopped beating,” Robin answered slowly.

“He was such a healthy man.”

“Your father was seventy when he died. He was not a young man anymore, and during the last couple of years, he had been through a great deal of physical and mental stress.”

“Daddy was always energetic and fit,” Coral stated emphatically. “He never looked his age. I met someone a few years ago who had seen him and had been astonished to learn he was over sixty.” She paused. “Daddy loved Africa and his life. What possible stress could he have had? I was not aware that he was sick. Hasn’t the estate prospered?”

She heard Robin suck in his breath, but he recovered his composure almost immediately. “Mr. Sinclair had developed a serious drinking problem. If his heart hadn’t given way, sclerosis of the liver would have definitely killed him within a few months. It grieves me to tell you this, Miss Sinclair, but most nights Aluna and Juma, the head servant, had to carry him up to his room in a stupor.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in a puzzled frown. “Why was that? Did my father have problems? Was the estate not running properly? I wasn’t aware that he was in financial difficulty.”

The manager looked offended. “The estate is running perfectly well, I can assure you. I manage it myself. You can have a look at the accounts and see for yourself this afternoon when we get back if you would like. Everything is in order.”

Coral repressed an irritated gesture. This was not about the estate manager, but about her father. “This afternoon will be fine,” she said curtly. There was a lull in the conversation before she spoke again. “Did Daddy have a fall during one of his drunken sessions? Is that how he died?”

“No. Mr. Sinclair died in his bed, in his sleep. Mrs. Sinclair discovered him in the morning. She called the family doctor who, after a thorough examination, said that he had died a natural and peaceful death. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”

“Did you say Mrs. Sinclair?” Coral was taken aback. “I wasn’t aware that my father had ever remarried!”

Robin Danvers coughed to clear his voice. He was obviously finding this conversation painful. “Your father remarried a few years ago to the present Mrs. Sinclair, Mrs. Cybil Sinclair.”

“We knew nothing of this marriage. Surely Daddy would have written to us about it? Why would he keep this from us? Even after the divorce, my mother and father remained friends,” Coral protested. “True, he seldom wrote, but what I mean is, their divorce was not acrimonious.” A shadow passed over her eyes. “I suppose he felt really estranged from us after Mother’s marriage to Uncle Edward — like he had lost us forever. Every year at Christmas, I sent him a recent photograph of myself, telling him about anything important that had happened in my life; he never commented, though he sent me a Christmas card.” She remained thoughtful for a few seconds. “The lawyer’s letter never mentioned a wife. Does this mean that I’m not the sole heiress to my father’s property?” She disliked the way she sounded, grabbing and uncaring. Still, she sensed something was wrong, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

“Tim Locklear, the lawyer who has been in charge of your father’s interests, is in a much better position than I am to explain to you the intricacies of it all. I’m sure he’ll answer all your questions.”

It was clear that the estate manager was uncomfortable discussing such family concerns with her, and despite the fact that she did not care much for him, she was sensitive to other people’s feelings. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I quite understand your position. Please forgive me. I must sound terribly mercenary, but you’ve taken me by surprise. I shall do as you say and take the matter up with Mr. Locklear.”

They talked about other things, but Coral was left puzzled and uneasy through the remainder of lunch. She would have a look at the accounts and would visit Mr. Locklear as soon as possible, she promised herself.

After coffee was served, Robin cleared his throat. “Miss Sinclair, I don’t know if it is my place to give you this background, but now that you have returned to Kenya, you need to be aware of the general political situation here today.”

Coral sat up straight. Knowing something of the political upheavals that had been going on in Kenya since independence in 1963, this was one issue she knew she had to come to terms with, but she had not realized that it would arise so soon after her arrival.

“Kenya is now set on a new course. The British are no longer in charge, and we have to recognize that we have a new government, hopefully a new démocratie. I am young, and so I can see that it is clearly the future.” Robin shrugged. “Certainly I can see no point in raving against it.”

Coral stirred her coffee pensively. “It seems that much has changed here since I was a child.”

“Yes and no. Kenyatta came up with a slogan, Harambee: ‘let’s all pull together,’ and in that spirit the government has tried to unite people. But one must also remember the old Swahili proverb: ‘When two elephants jostle, what gets hurt is the grass!’ With change comes conflict. Tribal unrest has begun to take its toll on communities. Added to that, many of the older white settlers are afraid of the new order, and certainly the assassination of the government minister Tom Mboya last July has made them feel insecure. Also, some Indian-owned small businesses have been under attack, with the owners leaving for Britain and the sub-continent.” Robin paused and seemed to choose his words carefully. “Let me say this, Miss Sinclair…I believe in a bright and exciting future here, but it is a future for younger and more flexible people who can adjust to the new Kenya. The old ways of treating people are gone, and there is no reason why Mpingo should not continue to prosper — but we must tread carefully.”

Coral digested this and nodded. “I hear you. So, Robin, are you saying I should sell Mpingo? Because I can tell you now that is not why I came here. On the contrary, I want to make it my home again.”

Robin smiled with relief. “I’m delighted to hear it. Let’s drink to that,” he said, raising his glass as they finished their lunch and paid the bill.

Out in the sunshine, they had nearly reached the car when she collided with a man bursting out of a carpet shop. There had been no warning, no time to avoid him. The sensation that rushed through her body, sending tremors to every one of her limbs, should have warned her. She looked up and gave a start as her heart began to beat wildly. Subconsciously, he had occupied her thoughts all morning, and now he was here. A strange coincidence — or perhaps they were meant to meet again. Her lips parted to speak, but he brushed past without seeing her. Her head whirled madly. She stood there, paralyzed for a few seconds, her eyes following the lean, powerful silhouette that towered over the crowd, but he moved swiftly and in no time had merged with the ebb and flow of the human river.

CHAPTER TWO

The green Buick turned onto the estate’s drive through two great wrought iron gates. It glided slowly toward the house along the vaulted avenue of blossoming jacarandas. Here, patches of filtered sunshine and shifting violet-blue shadows mingled happily in the waning afternoon. And there, at the end of the bowered gallery, appearing in a luminous halo, stood Mpingo, the home of her childhood, set among vigorous and colorful vegetation. It looked romantically unreal, inviolate, as though set outside time and space.

For the second time that day, Coral found herself fighting against the onslaught of emotions. How many times throughout the years had she imagined this homecoming? Yet the setting was even more beautiful than what she had pictured in her fondest memories.

Her eyes fastened on Mpingo, Coral lay her slender hand on Moses’s shoulder. “Please, would you stop the car,” she said in a choked voice. “I shall walk up to the house.”

She opened the car door. A vaguely familiar whiff of warm air, heavy with the fragrance of ripe fruit and sweet-smelling flowers, greeted her. Rising and standing there a moment more, Coral drank in the dazzling sight that met her eyes. A world of images, sensations, and conflicting feelings wrestled in her mind. Hesitantly at first, and then gradually quickening her steps, she went along the shaded alley toward Mpingo, a tiny figure among an ocean of flowers.

Mpingo! Was it a residence or an edifice, a challenge, an act of folly, or a dream — the materialization of Walter Sinclair’s dream? Considered the black sheep of the family and rejected by his peers for refusing to conform to the rigid rules of a banking dynasty, Walter Sinclair had chosen to follow the example of so many European settlers in the thirties. After traveling around the world and accumulating a considerable personal fortune by trading in agricultural equipment and war surplus, he had elected to settle down in this far-off corner of the universe.

The property, called in those days Orchard Coast Estate, had belonged to an old English settler. In his late sixties, having neither heirs nor family, he had been happy to give his creation a new lease of life by selling it to the White Pirate and returning to England.

The old house was a simple, functional dwelling of eight rooms and had nothing of note in the way of architecture. The selling point for Walter Sinclair had been a twenty-kilometer stretch of pristine beach on its boundary and five hundred acres of orchard, one hundred of which were planted with the African Blackwood, the rare and rapidly disappearing mpingo tree.

With renovations planned and built with the help of an unknown architect, Walter Sinclair’s new Mpingo was to become the zenith of the pioneer’s ambitions. Not yet thirty, the young adventurer wanted solid foundations for establishing fresh roots and creating a legacy for future generations. All through the eight difficult years of the Mau Mau rebellion, those uncertain times that preceded Kenya’s independence in 1963, he had fought with courage and determination to safeguard the estate for a new dynasty of Sinclairs. It had not always been easy, especially with a wife who hated Africa and a young child.

Built on a grand scale, the façade of the new building was of stone — a warm, rich color that evoked the coral reefs of the Indian Ocean, visible from each of the hand-blown, panoramic French windows on the north elevation of the house that gave the rooms a tinted, luminous air. All the windows had brown shutters that could be tightly closed during the monsoon months. The magnificent curved double staircase, the wall paneling, the large ceiling beams, and the floors had all been intricately crafted on site in imported cedar. Outside the rooms on the upper landing, a galleried veranda encircled the house, from where the extensive out-buildings could be seen. Coral remembered peeping through its lacy balustrade as a child of three to watch the gardeners at work, and later, spending lazy afternoons sipping cold lemonade there with her mother while listening to the birdsong and its accompaniment of rustling palms and whispering sea. Fond memories of playing hide and seek with her friends came rushing back, and she smiled in nostalgia. They could never find her, her favorite hiding place being the potting shed.

As she emerged from the shadow of the drive, Coral thought that Mpingo reflected an extraordinary blend of fantasy and reality. Yet it had been built with a concern for the practicalities of life in this challenging environment. Still, as she looked at it with adult eyes, she realized it had also provided a pretentious backdrop for her father’s vanity.

As she approached the double front doors, they swung open, and a figure emerged on the threshold. Even though she was still far removed, Coral thought she recognized it. She quickened her pace and stared wide-eyed. Aluna! It was her! Coral began to run.

When they were only steps away from each other, the yaha smiled and stretched her arms out toward her former charge. Their hands joined in silence. The woman held Coral for a moment at arm’s length, as though to examine her better. Then, drawing her forward, she clasped Coral tightly, shaking suddenly with unrelenting sobs.

“Oh, Missy Coral, dear Missy Coral,” she said in between two gasps. “Aluna thought she’d die without ever seeing her little malaika again. Let me look at you.” She stepped back and gazed at the young woman, her eyes filled with happy incredulity. “You left a child; you’ve come back a beautiful young lady.” Aluna’s voice resounded with infinite tenderness and pride.

Coral responded with a light, crystal clear laugh. “It’s wonderful to be back. Just now, as I was coming up the drive, it was as though the years had stopped. Nothing seems to have changed.” No sooner had she spoken those words than her eyes clouded over and a lump formed in her throat. “Obviously, everything is changed since Daddy’s no longer here,” she managed to say in a broken voice and turned back into Aluna’s embrace.

“Don’t cry, little one. You’re here now, and that is the most important thing.”

Coral pulled herself together. Aluna was right: she was back at Mpingo and that was all that counted now. Stepping into the hall, her heels clicked loudly on the highly polished floor, filling the room with discordant echoes. She glanced upward, and her eyes fell on the huge crystal chandelier, another of Walter’s eccentric extravagances. She remembered fleetingly her childhood nightmare. It always ended in the same way: the diaphanous monster would come crashing down with such a resounding noise that she would always wake up with a start. The glass droplets moved slightly in the breeze from the open door and tinkled gently as though laughing at her disquieting thoughts.

Coral looked around her. On her right, the polished cedar doors to the library stood open, and she walked into a room she did not remotely recognize. The rich brown paneling, her father’s heavy leather Chesterfield sofas, heirlooms which had been brought out to Kenya all the way from England, the worn Persian rugs, the light hanging curtains that blocked out the sun on hot afternoons — everything that had made it Walter Sinclair’s den — had vanished. An obviously feminine hand had swept over the room with a magic wand, transforming it completely. The modern carpets that dressed its floor, the pastel paint that covered its walls, the soft-hued colors of the curtains and loose covers on the furniture — everything breathed a woman’s exquisite taste. Coral hated it.

“Your father was a great man,” said Aluna, “but like every human being, he had his weaknesses. His was called Eve, the temptress who was the ruin of Adam. It had always been that way for Bwana Walter. Among my people, wise men say that with ropes made from a woman’s hair, one can easily tie an elephant. A wife must keep hold of her husband with smiles and love and good food. Otherwise he strays. Your mother was one of these modern women, and she couldn’t keep a man like that. He never knew how to resist a woman, and because of the last one, he nearly damned his soul.”

“What d’you mean, Aluna?” asked Coral, alarmed by the lugubrious tone her yaha had adopted.

The older woman’s face became closed and reserved like a lump of clay. Only her eyes, peeping beneath heavy lids, were still lively. “Well,” she mumbled, “it’s a long story. I will tell it to you someday, but for now, you must forget all this and rest.”