Authors: Jennifer Donnelly
"Let go of me, India," he said. "I didn't know ...I thought..."
"You thought I'd run to Freddie. Changed my mind about you. You
thought I did what I did because I didn't love you enough. Oh, Sid. You
never thought you were good enough. Never thought you deserved to love
and to be loved."
"I can't do this, India. I can't be near you like this and then just walk away again."
"Then don't walk away. Please don't walk away," she whispered. "Love
me, Sid. If only for now. If only for an hour. Please still love me."
She kissed him again. The smell and taste and feel of him felt to her
like rains in a desert. Her soul, dry and parched, nearly dead, came to
life again. She sobbed, then laughed, then held him tightly, burying
her face in his neck. And then he was kissing her, and his arms were
tight around her.
"I never stopped loving you," she whispered to him. "Never, Sid. Not for one day."
He pulled her down with him into the grass and made love to her. It
was hard and fast, angry and bruising. When he finished, he lay on his
back, hands over his eyes. She took them away and kissed his tears, and
then his mouth. She unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his throat, and his
chest, taking her time, wanting to remember it all--the feel of his
skin, the warmth of the sun on her bare back. His body was harder and
thinner than she remembered, his face and arms were bronzed by the sun.
Her lips brushed the place over his heart, where the skin was so pale
and fragile-looking. She kissed him there and then she made love to him,
tenderly and slowly, wanting it to last forever.
When it was over, she lay with her head on his chest and he held her
close, just as they'd done in Arden Street. They talked. He told her
about escaping from London and coming to Africa and finding himself
stranded in Mombasa. He told her about Maggie Carr and how she'd saved
him and all about his life here. She told him about the day she'd
learned he was dead and the tearing grief she'd felt. About going to
London Bridge to throw flowers into the Thames. She told him about her
home in London and the dead and meaningless life she lived there. She
told him how she missed medicine and Whitechapel and, most of all, him.
And she told him about the happiness Charlotte brought her and how much
she loved her.
When she finished, he looked at her and said, "Come back to me, India."
She touched a finger to his lips. "Shh. Don't. It's not possible. He'll never let me go. Never."
"He loves you, then. Loves Charlotte..."
India laughed mirthlessly. "He loves neither of us. It's my father's
fortune he loves. It's a staggering amount of money, but it comes to him
only through me. My father set things up that way to make sure he never
divorced me."
"Can't you divorce him?"
"He's told me that if I ever try, he will take Charlotte. I don't
doubt for a second that he would. He has friends in high places. I could
never do it. Never abandon her to him. It would be like handing a lamb
to a wolf."
"I'll come to London, then. I'll see you. Somehow..."
"No," she said sharply. "If Freddie ever found out you're alive, if he even suspected it, he'd come after you."
"Why? I didn't shoot Joe Bristow. Frankie Betts did and he's been
sent to prison for it. It was in all the papers. Even in Mombasa."
"He'll try to hang you for Gemma Dean's murder," India said.
"But I didn't kill her!"
"Do you think that matters to him? He'd see you as a threat to his
marriage and his money. He's a ruthless man, Sid. A hateful man. You've
no idea how hateful."
Sid's eyes searched hers. "Is he cruel to you, India?"
She looked away.
"And Charlotte?"
"He mostly ignores her. Unless a photographer's lurking."
"But she's his daughter."
India looked away. She almost told him then. Almost said, "No, she
isn't. She's your daughter." She wanted to. Desperately. She wanted him
to know that he had made her; that they both had. But she didn't because
it would have been unspeakably cruel to tell him Charlotte was his and
then take her away from him forever.
Instead she said, "I have to get back. I'll be missed. There's
packing to do. We're leaving for Nairobi tomorrow morning." She picked
up her camisole and blouse and put them on. She buttoned her riding
skirt and stood.
"And then you leave for London," Sid said flatly, standing now, too.
"We've a family holiday at Mount Kenya to endure first. Then we leave."
"I just got you back and now I'm about to lose you all over again."
"And I you."
India felt she should be weeping now, but she didn't. Neither of them did. The pain was too deep for tears.
"I'll wake up and think I dreamed this," he said. "Tomorrow. When I have nothing again."
"We'll have this," she said. "This day. This memory. This love. No
one can take that from us. I know you're alive, Sid. That's so much more
than I had."
"If only I'd got to you. In London. If only I could have found a way..."
"Don't. Please."
"I love you, India."
"And I love you."
They held each other then, not wanting to let go, each knowing it was
for the last time. And then, when she could bear it no longer, India
broke his embrace. She took his hand in hers, held it to her cheek, and
said, "No matter where I am in this world, no matter what I'm doing, I'm
thinking of you and loving you. Always, Sid. Always and forever."
She kissed him one last time, mounted her horse, and rode away toward
the McGregors'. Freddie's there, she reminded herself. She must show no
tears, no emotion, no weakness. She would blame the color in her
cheeks, and her loose curls, on a long ride. He must never, ever suspect
what had just happened. Charlotte's happiness depended on it. And Sid
Malone's life.
She sat up tall in the saddle, rode hard and fast, and did not once look back.
"This is hopeless. Totally hopeless," Dr. Rosendo Ribeiro, Nairobi's
one and only doctor, said. "It's the worst fracture I've ever seen. How
did she do it?"
Seamie explained what had happened on Kilimanjaro and how he'd gotten
Willa to Nairobi. It took everything he had to get the words out. He
was dangerously exhausted. It was evening now. He'd arrived at Nairobi
station only minutes ago, after enduring an endless train ride. He'd
asked the first man he saw where the hospital was and the man had
pointed to a rickety bungalow only yards from the station. He'd run to
the building with Willa unconscious in his arms. The hospital was really
only a doctor's surgery, little better than a field hospital, with its
dirt floors, sagging beds, rusty sink, and flies.
"She broke the leg five days ago?" Dr. Ribeiro repeated. "I'm amazed she's not dead. It's got to go."
"What's got to go?" Seamie asked, confused. "She can't go," he said now. "She needs to stay. She needs help."
"Not her. The leg. The leg has to go. We'll take it below the knee.
We'll try to cut as close to the fracture as we can, but it all depends
on how far the gangrene's spread."
"No!" It was Willa. She was conscious now and struggling to sit up on
the bed where Seamie had placed her. "I heard you. You're not taking my
leg."
"Miss Alden, if we do not amputate, you will die," Ribeiro said. A
young man hurried by. "Mr. Pinto, I need you. Scrub up!" he barked at
him. "The gangrene's spreading," he said to Willa, "and your bones can't
be set. They're too damaged. Surgery's your only chance."
Willa turned to Seamie. "Don't let him. Please don't let him," she begged.
Seamie bent down to her and stroked the hair off her forehead. There
was blood in it. She'd tried to shoot herself--to kill herself--when
he'd left her to run for the train, but she was so weak she'd lost her
grip. The bullet had missed her forehead and grazed her temple. It was
the pain that drove her to it, he'd told himself. She hadn't been in her
right mind.
"Willa, you're too sick," he said to her now. "Your body can't take
anymore. You're going to die if you don't have the operation."
"I'll die if you cut my leg off!" she cried. "I'll die if I can't climb!"
"It's delirium talking. She's not in her right mind, Mr. Finnegan.
But you are and I need a decision from you," the doctor said. "Now."
Seamie pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He didn't know
what to do. If he let them amputate, he would be betraying her wishes,
but if he didn't, she would die.
"Mr. Finnegan?"
"Do it," he said.
"No!" Willa screamed. "Please, Seamie, please!"
"It'll be all right, Wills," he said, his voice cracking. "It'll be all right."
"Mr. Finnegan, if you'd stand aside, please," the doctor said. He motioned for his assistant. "Pinto, chloral."
The man advanced on Willa with a mask. She fought him off, knocking
the mask to the floor. Dr. Ribeiro pinned her arms. "Hurry, please, Mr.
Pinto."
"No!" she screamed, thrashing her head from side to side. "No!"
The assistant hooked one arm around Willa's head, immobilizing her,
then he pressed the mask over her face. Her eyes, fearful and pleading,
sought Seamie's. He had to look away.
"There, Miss Alden, that's a good girl," Dr. Ribeiro said soothingly. "Take a deep breath. Good. Now another..."
After a few seconds Pinto said, "She's out."
"Good. Let's be quick, please. Swab from the knee to the break. Then
get me a bone saw, scalpels, clamps, a cautery iron, sutures, and
needles."
"Good God, what a mess," Pinto said, cutting Willa's blood-stained clothing away. "The muscle's putrid and the--"
"Thank you, Mr. Pinto," Dr. Ribeiro said. He turned back to Seamie.
"Mr. Finnegan, unless you've a very strong stomach I'd advise you to
leave now. There's a good hotel in town. The Norfolk. It's not far.
We'll take care of Miss Alden."
Seamie didn't want to leave Willa.
"Go, Mr. Finnegan. Now, please," Dr. Ribeiro said.
"Is there... is there anything I can do for her?" Seamie asked.
"Yes," the doctor said. "Pray."
Tom Meade poked his head into Freddie Lytton's borrowed office in
Nairobi's Government House. He was heavily laden with folders and
documents.
"Good morning, sir," he said.
"Mmm. Morning," Freddie replied absently. He was busy writing up his
account of bagging a lion at Thika for the readers of The Times. He
would leave out the part about Charlotte going missing. It made the
place look dangerous and him look careless.
"Your schedule, sir," Tom said, placing a typed agenda on Freddie's desk.
Freddie glanced at it.
"You should never have come back to Nairobi," Tom said. "Everyone's
clamoring for you now that you're here again. You've a ten o'clock
ribbon-cutting at the racetrack. New stables, I believe. An eleven
o'clock with the surveyor for Seyidie Province--seems there's a bit of a
bother with the Germans over a boundary dispute in the Vanga
District--a noon luncheon with the Merchants' Association, and a two
o'clock with the DC for the Northern Frontier. I've scheduled nothing
after that as you've the dinner at the governor's residence tonight to
prepare for." Tom then started placing the folders he was carrying on
Freddie's desk one by one. "For your remarks tonight. Here's the
population summary for the whole of BEA by district, farm classification
by size and by type of crop..."
"Is there anything from London?" Freddie asked impatiently.
"Yes. A telegram from Scotland Yard, I believe." Tom reached into yet another folder and drew a telegram from it.
"Good man. Thank you," Freddie said, eagerly reaching for it.
He'd sent a telegram to Alvin Donaldson, now a superintendent at the
Yard, four days ago, asking him to find the coroner's report on Sid
Malone's body and advise whether or not the identification was
irrefutable. Donaldson had replied to say that it was not. The body
fished out of the Thames back in 1900 had been so badly decomposed that
no facial features had remained, only a few patches of red hair. It had
had a few personal effects on it--effects identified as having belonged
to Malone--and those were what had been used to identify it. It was just
as Freddie had thought. Sid Malone had faked his own death. He hadn't
needed Donaldson to tell him that; he'd only wanted him to provide
confirmation. He'd discovered for himself that Malone was alive and well
in Thika.
If Freddie had been concerned about what was going on with India when
he'd ridden out to the Carr farm, he'd become downright fearful of her
intentions by the time he'd returned. This was no stray fancy on her
part; this was Malone. She'd left him for Sid once; she'd do it
again--he was certain of it.
He remembered now how she'd looked the evening before they'd left on
the long journey to Nairobi--upset, flushed, and tousled. She'd been
with Malone; he was certain of it--the devious little bitch. Perhaps she
was already putting her plans into place, figuring out how to escape.
He could not permit that to happen. Would not. He'd worked so hard to
get where he wanted to go, and nothing--and no one--was going to stop
him.
"Is there anything the matter, sir?"
Freddie, tense and anxious, lost in his thoughts, had completely
forgotten about the ADC, who was still in his office, awaiting further
instructions.
He looked at him now and gravely said, "Yes, Tom, I'm afraid there
is. We've a very dangerous man in our midst. A fugitive. He's wanted in
London for murder. I need to speak to the governor this morning. I want
this man found immediately and taken alive. I will accompany the police
and personally oversee the arrest."
"A murderer? Here? Who is he?"
"He went by the name of Malone in London. He goes by another name now. Baxter. Sid Baxter."
"Sid Baxter? I don't believe it, sir."