“Yes, well, I never guessed who’d come galumphing over to Kenya hungry for trophies. Two or three times a month some rich banker shoots himself in the leg or offers himself up to a lion. It’s absurd.”
“Maybe that sort deserves what they get,” I said. “If they don’t have the slightest idea what they’re up against, I mean, or even what it means to kill an animal…”
“You’re probably right,” Denys agreed. “I’ve only hunted for myself so far. I’m not sure I’d have the patience for clients.”
“What’s wrong with farming?” Berkeley wanted to know. “It’s a good deal safer without bloody hyenas or what have you trying to nibble off your face in the middle of the night.”
“Safer,” Denys repeated. He had the look of a schoolboy, suddenly, ready for a prank. “Explain the fun in that.”
Denys seemed a few years younger than Berkeley, somewhere near thirty-five, I guessed, and just as well born. In my experience, these sorts of men usually launched into Africa lured by virgin territory, big game, or a sense of adventure. They were the sons of British aristocrats who’d been sent to the very best schools and given every advantage and freedom. They came to Kenya and used their birthright fortunes to buy up thousands of acres. Some were serious at putting down roots and making a life here, like Berkeley, while others were playboys who had grown bored in Sussex or Shropshire and were looking for a bit of trouble. I didn’t know which Denys was, but I liked looking at him. He had a wonderful face, a little pink from the sun, with a sharp strong nose, full lips, and heavily lidded hazel eyes. There was an ease and a confidence in him, too, that seemed to pull the room towards him, as if he were its anchor or axis.
After I had walked away, sipping at my drink and listening to bits of gossip here and there, a clutch of pretty women appeared to swoop down on him, most of them polished to a sheen. They wore nice frocks and stockings and jewels, and had hair that behaved. I could see they were all drawn to him—but that wasn’t exactly surprising. I was too.
“You should have a look at my new horse,” Berkeley said, stepping up to me with a fresh cocktail. “I think he’s Derby material.”
“Wonderful,” I agreed automatically, and before I knew it, we’d collected Denys and headed to the stable, where half a dozen horses were turned out in their loose boxes. The one we’d come to see was Soldier, a big and rangy dark bay with a white moon for a blaze. He wasn’t as proud-looking or fiery as the thoroughbreds my father had always loved, but I found him handsome in a rough way and was instantly intrigued. “He’s a half-breed, then?” I asked Berkeley as the three of us approached the stall.
“Part Somali pony, I think. Not highborn, but you can see he’s got spirit.”
Opening the gate, I moved towards Soldier the way I’d learned as a child, gently but firmly. My father had passed his touch with animals on to me—or maybe I’d been born with it. Soldier felt my authority and didn’t shy or even step back as I passed my hands over his back and rump and hocks. He was sound and strong.
From his place at the gate, I felt Denys watching me. The skin along the back of my neck prickled from the attention, but I didn’t look up.
“What do you think?” Berkeley asked.
“He’s got something,” I had to concede.
“What’s he worth to you?”
As broke as I was, I knew I shouldn’t even pretend to bargain, but it was in my blood. “Fifty quid?”
“I spent more than that on the champagne you’ve been drinking!” Though he and Denys both laughed, I could tell Berkeley loved to haggle, too. “You should see him run. Let me get one of the grooms to take him out for you.”
“Don’t bother,” I told him. “I’ll ride him myself.”
—
It didn’t take me five minutes to borrow trousers and change. When I came out of the house, a number of people had gathered on the lawn, and though Berkeley laughed to see me in his clothes, I knew they fitted me well and that I didn’t have to feel embarrassed about riding in front of this well-born crowd. Being on horseback was as natural as walking for me—perhaps more so.