“Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps I’ll learn the difference between a boy’s dreams and a man’s.” He paused, and then said, “When I marry, my father will live again in my sons.”
He sounded so arrogant, so sure of himself. It made me want to challenge him or put him right. I said, “The man who wants to marry me is very rich and strong. He lives near here. He built his house in three days.”
“A proper house or a hut?” he wanted to know.
“A real house, with shingles and a pitched roof, and glass windows.”
He was silent for a moment, and I was sure I’d finally impressed him. “Three days,” he said at last. “There is no wisdom in such hurrying. This house will not stand long.”
“You haven’t seen it.” My voice rose with irritation.
“How can that matter?” he said. “I would ask him to build another dwelling, just for you, and to take more care.” He turned away, dismissing me, and said, partly over his shoulder, “You should know I have a moran’s name now. I am arap Ruta.”
—
All the way back to the farm I smarted, running over the clever things I should have said to him, things that would wound him and make him feel as small as I did now, and as outmatched. Arap Ruta indeed. I had known him since he wasn’t any taller than a bushpig, and now he’d become worldly and wise after one night’s ceremony? A sharp knife and a cupful of curdled bull’s blood to drink?
As my thoughts buzzed and grated against one another, I realized that if Ruta had even the slightest notion of how scared I was about the coming changes, I would die.
But I was scared, and full of confusion. Cape Town was a world away, and my father was going to be busy and worried there, focused on pleasing new owners and stable managers. I could trail him, trying to stay out of the way, or throw my lot in with Emma to set up house. What a thought that was.
England was another choice, too, I supposed, or might be if I were another sort of girl. I might have considered writing to my mother to see if there was room for me with her and Dickie—but England seemed even more foreign and distant a world than Cape Town in a way, and she had never once tried to reclaim me over the years. Asking for her help now would cost me too much and open the door for all the old hurt again. No, never that—which left Jock.
I didn’t know the slightest thing about marriage, and the only happy union I’d ever seen modelled was D and Lady D, a foggy memory well behind me. The farm and our horses had always seemed better things to hitch my fate to. I hadn’t even let myself imagine something else, but that was all dissolving now, moment by moment. I barely knew Jock and didn’t know why I’d caught his attention in the first place, other than that I hunted well and he liked the way I looked. But marrying him would mean I could stay here in Njoro, seeing the same hills and distances, living the same sort of life. Did Jock fancy himself in love with me? Could I learn to love him?
Everything was so murky suddenly. And it seemed even more unfair that while my future whirled sickeningly, Ruta’s was rolling out exactly as he’d always dreamed. For ten years or more he and I had played at besting each other, practising fearlessness, stretching for more. The games had prepared Ruta for his future, and should have prepared me for mine, too. The manoeuvres had become riskier and more difficult, but maybe each was the same when you got down to it. Jumping had taught me how to jump, hadn’t it? I only had to look at Ruta to know he wasn’t a child any more. Neither was I.
The next afternoon, after I’d practised the pronouncement over and over in my hut, so I could sound certain of myself, I told my father I was going to stay in Njoro.
“Good.” He nodded and tented his fingers, studying me. “I think that’s best. Jock’s sensible and not afraid to dirty his hands. I know he’ll take care of you.”
“I can look out for myself, too,” I bluffed, my pulse thudding in my ears. I had to pause and steady myself to say the next thing. “Can I keep Pegasus?”
“You earned him fair and square. He’s not mine to take back.” He rose to get himself a drink. The peaty odour of scotch flickered up and stung my nose.
“I’d like one of those.”
He looked at me, surprised. “You’ll have to go for water.”
I shook my head.
“All right,” he said. “I guess you’ve earned that, too.” He handed me the rounded heavy glass, and we sat in silence as the sun retreated. I’d had wine and champagne, but this was different. It made me feel older.
“We’ve had a good run here, haven’t we?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to reach words for anything I felt. I looked into my glass, letting the scotch burn through me.