A Spear of Summer Grass

25



That evening I was in Nairobi. It was the opening of Kit’s show at the gallery, and the owner had requested my presence. I dreaded it. The press would be there, asking ghoulish questions and sticking their noses into everybody’s business. But it was Kit’s last hurrah, and I felt I owed him at least that.

I had gone straight to the Norfolk to check in. They gave me the tiniest room imaginable, no doubt to discourage me from coming back, but I didn’t mind. It was for Kit. I bathed and dusted myself with rice powder to whiten my skin. I brushed a tiny bit of jasmine oil into my hair to make it gleam, and painted on a deep crimson mouth to match my nails. The white silk dress I had worn to my first party in Africa had burned, but I found another in a little shop near the hotel and I bought it for Kit. He had always liked me in white. I fastened a tiny sprig of stephanotis at each earlobe in place of earrings and tied the black silk ribbon around my wrist.

When I was ready, I took a cab to the gallery and found the place already in full crush. So many flashbulbs popped when I stepped out of the taxi I was nearly blinded, but Mr. Hillenbrank rushed out to escort me in.

“Miss Drummond! It is such a pleasure to have you here tonight for the unveiling. I was hoping you might do the honours?”

I murmured something appropriate and let him take charge of me. He towed me around the room, introducing me to various people. I was only half listening to the names and the faces were a blur. I hadn’t had an answer to the cable I sent Ryder, and I kept thinking of the contents. Just three short words, a scrap of language, but I had thought it enough to bind him to me.

MARRY ME. STOP.

A hundred things could have happened. The cable could have gone awry. They could have crossed, the cable arriving in Narok after he had left. Or Tusker could have exaggerated, I thought with a chill. She could have declared things he didn’t really feel. I pushed that thought aside and walked the gallery, looking at Kit’s paintings. There was one of Gideon, tall and proud, and I felt my heart roll up into my throat as I looked at my friend. I swallowed it down, hard, and it sat like a lump.

Just then a shadow fell over my shoulder. “Enjoying the show, Miss Drummond?”

I turned. “Inspector Gilchrist. I am surprised.”

“Why? Aren’t policemen permitted hobbies?” He peered at the painting. “Is it a good likeness?”

“The best.” I took a deep breath. “Inspector, I know—”

“No, you don’t,” he said firmly. “And whatever you think you know, forget it. He has friends in very high places, Miss Drummond. Very high places. You got lucky this time. But if you cross him again...well, don’t, is my advice.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about Helen then closed it again. What was the point? She was guilty of something dark and terrible—and very soon she would pay for it. As to Rex, at least Gilchrist knew to be watchful of him, and I suspected that without Helen’s careful planning, he would slip up one day, too badly for any of his connections to save him. Africa would take care of her own.

I smiled at Gilchrist. “Very well. But I have friends, too, Inspector. And I hope you’re one of them.”

He put out his hand to shake it. “I think if I were going to back a horse, I would always back you, Miss Drummond. You might be a long shot, but I suspect you always come through.”

With that he bent and kissed my hand and melted away into the crowd.

I was happy to see how many of the paintings bore tiny cards stating that the work had been sold and identifying the buyers.

After a few more toasts and a dozen more introductions, Mr. Hillenbrank moved to the centre of the gallery, bringing me with him. He made a lengthy speech about Kit, his enormous talent, his zest for life. At this last bit, several ladies in the crowd tittered and several more lifted discreet handkerchiefs to dab away a tear or two.

Mr. Hillenbrank carried on as if he heard nothing. “But Kit Parrymore was more than just a talented artist. He was an artist of tremendous potential—potential he only came close to unlocking with his very last work. Around you are hung samples of his youth, his exuberance. But with this painting, he came very close to maturity. With the help of its subject, I give you Delilah Drummond.”

At his signal, I reached for the cord. It hesitated at first, and I had to tug quite sharply to make it move. Then all at once it fell away, a puddle of crimson velvet on the floor at my feet. There was an audible gasp from the crowd. I turned to look at the painting.

Kit had captured me, all of me. I was child and woman, fully present and already gone, entirely his and no man’s at all. My painted self held every contradiction, and it held them in such perfect harmony it was like seeing a symphony spelled out note for note on the canvas.

My glance moved to the card pinned to the wall beside the painting. Delilah Drummond. And neatly typed below it in bold letters on a clean white card, PROPERTY OF J. RYDER WHITE.

Mr. Hillenbrank was at my elbow. “I am particularly pleased to have sold that piece before the show,” he said with a quiet air of satisfaction.

“Is he here?”

“No, but we received a cable only an hour ago from Narok. The gentleman was most particular about the wording on the card. He must be quite an ardent collector.”

I reached up and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a scarlet impression of lipstick behind. He coughed and looked immensely pleased.

“He is not a collector at all, Mr. Hillenbrank. But he is a hell of a stayer.”

With that, I stepped aside then as the crowd moved forward to get a better look. I walked straight out of the gallery and into the street. Around me Nairobi heaved and swelled and parted, like the vast rushing waters of a river in spate. Women carried baskets on their heads and a group of children ran laughing as a baboon chased them for their fruit. Men roasted sweet corn to sell and called out their peddler’s wares in high, piping voices. A dozen languages met and mingled on that street, and the air smelled of spices and smoke and the warm flesh of the African earth. A high, droning noise sounded far overhead. I shaded my eyes and looked up to see a small plane silhouetted against the sun. I took the black ribbon from my wrist and waved it high overhead, signalling. Ryder was coming home.

* * * * *





Acknowledgments



This book, more than any other I have written, owes everything to the kindness of friends and strangers. I am most grateful to:

The stylish and generous Dianne Moggy and her husband, David, for sharing safari photos so spectacular I could almost believe I was in Kenya.

Becky at Busch Gardens Tampa for answering endless questions and giving me a behind-the-scenes tour of the facility—including access to Kasi, a handsome young cheetah who listened politely while we talked.

Jill Martin and Jackie Ogden for arranging access to Gary Noble and Steve Metzler, Disney wildlife experts who graciously shared their time and expertise at Animal Kingdom and the Animal Kingdom Lodge. Heartfelt thanks for the thrill of standing ten feet in front of a roaring lion—an experience I will never forget. Particular gratitude to our safari tour guides at Animal Kingdom, most especially Mark, for making us forget for just a little while that we weren’t actually in Africa. (It was a true delight to return home and find out after the fact that Mark just happened to be a fan of Lady Julia and Brisbane.)

Vee Romero for her passion for Africa and its wildlife.

Dr. Ross Fuller, my dentist, who made endless trips to his office far more bearable by sharing his wealth of knowledge on the subject of historic double-barreled British rifles, specifically the .416 Rigby.

Jana Angelucci and Gail Sauer for their Georgian hospitality and willingness to play chauffeur. Also, to Kim Caudell and Blake Richardson Leyers for providing research that has not made it into this book but will certainly prove too delicious not to use in the future. Many thanks to Gayatri Khosla and Rati Badahur Madan for their contributions regarding the character of Raj Patel and their delightful enthusiasm.

Alecia Hawkes for transcribing by hand the narration of BBC documentaries on the history of safari which I could not access from the U.S. Generous is not a strong enough word to describe her contributions.

The entire Harlequin MIRA team—art department, sales, PR, marketing, editorial and support—all the many hands that labour willingly and with such flair to make my books the best they can be. Particular thanks to Michael Rehder for giving me the breathtaking cover of my dreams. I am especially grateful to the beautiful cover model who graciously allowed her hair to be cut to truly embody Delilah Drummond.

The immensely talented Miranda Indrigo for an elegant, featherlight line edit that has elevated this book beyond what I could have done alone, and to Laura McCallen and Michelle Venditti for their eagle-eyed attention to detail.

My writer friends for encouragement, laughter and perspective. Most especially to Joshilyn Jackson for inspiring me to write fearlessly and to Lauren Willig for her generosity and enthusiasm when we realised we were both writing 1920s Africa books with characters named Dodo!

Chobani for fueling me, Nicole Hunt Sardinas for posting TOTO’s “Africa” video, and Jomie Wilding for providing cupcakes during the home stretch. Frivolity is sometimes an essential component of creativity.

Librarians, booksellers, bloggers and readers who come to events, buy books, sell books, send emails, tweet and kindly share their appreciation with others.

My staggeringly supportive agent, Pam Hopkins, for innumerable kindnesses.

As ever, my family. Without my parents, my daughter and, most of all, my beloved, I would write, but poorly.

And to the people of New Orleans for showing me exactly where Delilah comes from and who she is.