“I told you I was feeling rash,” he said. “But I should also warn you I’m quite serious. I’m not the sort of fellow who minces around when he sees something he wants.”
We got back into the car and drove for several miles more in silence. I didn’t know what to make of what he’d said, and that soon became obvious.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said after a while.
“Please don’t misunderstand. I really am flattered.”
“And yet?” He smiled sideways at me from behind the wheel. “I feel a large qualification coming. I’ve a special sense for them.”
“I’m just a very proud person. No matter how much I’d love to have a farm like Green Hills, I couldn’t accept such a large gift from you, or from anyone.”
“I’m proud, too,” he said, “and stubborn as well. But it seems obvious to me that we want the same thing. We could be partners in a grand venture. Equally independent, equally stubborn partners.”
I had to smile at that, but didn’t say anything more until we came to Kampi ya Moto Station and began to climb the steep grade. There wasn’t anything left of our farm but a few now-derelict outbuildings and listing paddock fences—but the view from our hill was the same.
“It’s so lovely,” he said, stopping the car and shutting off the motor. “And all this was yours?”
There were my Aberdares, unfurled in blue against the fresher, paler blue of the sky. And the sharp lip of the Menengai Crater, and the darkly fringed Mau Forest humming with life. Even the ruin of my father’s old house didn’t make me sad when I took in everything else. “Yes, it was.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Mansfield said suddenly. He stretched behind him and pulled out an ice bucket he’d hidden well, wedging it against the rear seat. It was half full of tepid water and the curving bottle that had lost any hope of chilling long before. “It will probably be terrible now,” he said as he popped the cork.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “A dear friend once told me that champagne is absolutely compulsory in Kenya. You must belong here after all.”
“You see, then?” He poured for us, into the simple glasses he’d brought along. “What shall we toast?”
I looked past him, through the window glass at the view that had forever been stitched into my heart. “I’ll never forget this place, you know, even if one day it forgets me. I’m glad you wanted to come.”
“Green Hills is a lovely name. What shall we call our farm?”
“You’re going to keep at it until you wear me down, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan, yes.”
I looked at him, so like Berkeley with his fine smooth hands and his beautiful haircut, and suddenly had a strong urge to kiss him. When I did, his lips were feather-soft. His tongue tasted like champagne.
True to his word, over the next few months Mansfield wore down my doubts and my defences little by little. The farm was one thing—I had always longed for a way to replace Green Hills in my mind and heart after all—but soon I realized he was set on marrying me.
“My divorce from Jock has only just come through. You can’t really think I’m mad enough to try matrimony again?”
“Everything will be different,” he assured me. “We’re different.”
Mansfield did seem to be a rare sort of man. He was nothing like Jock or Frank or Boy Long, and also listened to every tale about my thorny past without batting an eyelash. I’d decided not to keep a single thing from him—not even about Denys and Karen. I couldn’t if our relationship was going to have a prayer. That much I’d learned, and painfully.
“Are you still in love with Denys?” he had wanted to know.
“He chose Karen. There’s nothing I can do to change that.” I watched a small cloud pass over Mansfield’s expression and his mood. “Are you sure you want to get involved with me? My heart’s always been restless, and I can’t promise I’ll be good at any of the dull stuff, the cooking and whatnot.”
“I could have guessed that part.” He smiled. “I’m looking for a companion as much as a lover. Life has been awfully lonely at times. Tell me, do you like me, Beryl?”
“I do. Honestly. I like you so much.”
“I like you, too. And that’s where we’ll begin.”
—