Traitors Gate Page 7

  A group of young women passed them, giggling and looking over their fans.

  “Yes, that’s right! What a generous description of her.” Christabel’s face was filled with amusement. “You must have liked her.”

  “I did.”

  “If it is not an impertinent question, how did a policeman’s wife come to meet an African explorer like Nobby Gunne?”

  “She is a friend of my sister’s great-aunt by marriage,” Charlotte began, then was obliged to smile at the convolution of it. “I am also very fond indeed of Great-Aunt Vespasia, and see her whenever I am able.”

  They were at the foot of the stair and brushed by an urn filled with flowers. Christabel whisked her skirt out of the way absentmindedly.

  “Vespasia?” she said with interest. “Now there is another remarkable name. Your aunt could not by any chance be Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould?”

  “Yes, she is. You know her also?”

  “Only by repute, unfortunately. But that has been sufficient for me to form a great respect for her.” The banter and air of mockery drained out of her face. “She has been concerned in some very fine work to bring about social reform, most particularly the poor laws, and those regarding education.”

  “Yes, I remember. My sister did what she could to assist. We tried our hardest.”

  “Don’t tell me you gave up!” It was more of a challenge than a question.

  “We gave up on that approach.” Charlotte met her gaze squarely. “Now Emily’s husband has just become a member of Parliament. I am concerned with my husband’s cases which fight injustice of various sorts, which I am not at liberty to discuss.” She knew enough not to mention the Inner Circle, no matter how she might be drawn to anyone. “And Aunt Vespasia is still fighting one thing and another, but I do not know precisely what at the moment.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” Christabel apologized warmly.

  Charlotte smiled. “Yes you did. You thought I might simply have been playing at it, to give myself something to do, and to feel good about, and then given it up at the first failure.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Christabel smiled dazzlingly. “Jeremiah tells me I am far too obsessed with causes, and that I lose all sense of proportion. Would you care to meet Zenobia Gunne again? I see her just at the top of the stairs.”

  “I should indeed,” Charlotte accepted, and followed Christabel’s glance to where a very dark woman in green stood staring across the room from the balcony, her eyes wandering from one person to another, her face only mildly interested. Charlotte recognized her with a jolt of memory. They had met during the murders on Westminster Bridge, when Florence Ivory was fighting so hard for women to have the right to vote. Of course there was no conceivable chance of her succeeding, but Charlotte could understand the cause well enough, more particularly when she had seen the results of some of the worst inequities under present law. “We were concerned for women’s franchise,” she added as she followed Christabel up the stairs.

  “Good heavens!” Christabel stopped and turned; her face was full of curiosity. “How very forward thinking of you!” she said with admiration. “And completely unrealistic.”

  “And what are you concerned with?” Charlotte challenged.

  Christabel laughed, but there was intense emotion in her face. “Oh, something equally unrealistic,” she answered quickly. “Do you know what an ‘odd woman’ is, in modern parlance?”

  “Not ‘peculiar’?” Charlotte had not heard the term.

  “Not in the least, and becoming more common all the time …” Christabel ignored the fact that they were on the stairs and people were obliged to brush past them. “She is a woman who is not paired up with some man, and therefore surplus, in a sense, unprovided for, without her accepted role of caring for a man. I would like to see ‘odd women’ able to educate themselves and take up professions, just as men do, provide for themselves, and have a place of honor and fulfillment in society.”

  “Good heavens.” Charlotte was genuinely amazed at her courage. But it was a wonderful idea. “You are right.”

  A flash of temper darkened Christabel’s face. “The average man is not a whit cleverer or stronger than the average woman, and certainly no braver.” A look of total disgust filled her. “You are not going to quote that belief that women cannot use both their brains and their wombs, are you? That is an idea put about by men who are afraid that we may challenge them in their jobs, and sometimes win. It is a total canard. Rubbish! Nonsense!”

  Charlotte was half amused, half awed, and certainly the idea was exciting.

  “And how are you going to do it?” she asked, squeezing sideways a trifle to allow a large lady to pass.

  “Education,” Christabel replied, and there was a note of defiance underneath the assurance Charlotte felt was paper thin. In that instant she admired her courage intensely, and felt fiercely protective of the vulnerability and the hopeless cause she saw behind it. “For women, so they have the skills and the belief in themselves,” Christabel went on. “And for men, to give them the opportunity to use them. That is the hardest part.”

  “That must need a lot of money….” Charlotte said.

  She was prevented from replying by the fact that they were almost level with Zenobia Gunne, and she had seen their approach. Her face lit with pleasure as she recognized Christabel Thorne, and then after only a moment’s hesitation, she remembered Charlotte also. Then quite comically she also remembered that Charlotte was not always strictly honest about her identity. In the past, for purposes of assisting Pitt, she had affected to have nothing to do with the police, even assuming her maiden name.

  Nobby turned to Christabel.

  “How very nice to see you, Mrs. Thorne. I am sure I know your companion, but it is some little while since we met, and I am embarrassed to say I do not recollect her name. I do apologize.”

  Charlotte smiled, both with genuine friendship—she had liked Nobby Gunne greatly—and with amusement at her tact.

  “Charlotte Pitt,” she replied graciously. “How do you do, Miss Gunne. You seem in excellent health.”

  “I am indeed,” Nobby answered, and she looked happier, and not a day older, than when Charlotte had seen her several years earlier.

  They chatted for a few moments about various subjects, touching on the political and social events of interest. They were interrupted when a tall, lithe man with a heavily tanned complexion accidentally backed into Nobby in his effort to avoid a giggling young woman. He turned to apologize for his clumsiness. He had an unusual face, far from handsome: his nose was crooked, his mouth a little large and his fair hair was receding very considerably, and yet his presence was commanding, his intelligence apparent.

  “I am sorry, ma’am,” he said stiffly, the color spreading up his bony cheeks. “I hope I have not hurt you?”

  “Not in the least,” Nobby said with mild amusement. “And considering the encounter you were avoiding, your haste is understandable.”

  The color in his cheeks became even deeper. “Oh … was I so obvious?”

  “Only to one who would have done the same,” she replied, meeting his eyes squarely.

  “Then we have something in common,” he acknowledged, but with no indication in his voice that he wished to continue further or to make her acquaintance.

  “I am Zenobia Gunne,” she introduced herself.

  His eyes widened; his attention became suddenly real.

  “Not Nobby Gunne?”

  “My friends call me Nobby.” Her tone of voice made it apparent he was not yet included in that number.

  “Peter Kreisler.” He stood very upright, as if it were a military announcement. “I also have spent much time in Africa and learned to love it.”

  Now her interest was quickened also. She introduced Charlotte and Christabel only as a matter of form, then continued the conversation. “Have you? In what part of Africa?”

  “Zanzibar, Mashonaland, Matabeleland,” he answered.<
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  “I was in the west,” she responded. “Mostly up the Congo and that region. Although I did also travel up the Niger.”

  “Then you will have dealt with King Leopold of the Belgians.” His face was expressionless.

  Nobby schooled her features just as carefully. “Only in the very slightest,” she replied. “He does not regard me in the same light as he would were I a man; for example, Mr. Stanley.”

  Even Charlotte had heard of Henry Mirton Stanley’s triumphant progress through London only a week or so since, when on April 26 he had ridden from Charing Cross Station to Piccadilly Circus. The crowds had cheered him to the echo. He was the most admired explorer of the age, a double gold medalist of the Royal Geographical Society, a friend of the Prince of Wales and a guest of the Queen herself.

  “There is some good fortune in that,” Kreisler said with a bitter smile. “At least he will not ask you to lead an army of twenty thousand Congolese cannibals up to defeat the ‘Mad Mahdi’ and conquer the Sudan for Belgium!”

  Nobby was incredulous. Her face was comical with disbelief.

  Christabel looked shocked. Charlotte for once was speechless.

  “You cannot be serious!” Nobby cried, her voice rising to a squeak.

  “Oh, I am not.” Kreisler’s mouth was touched with humor. “But apparently Leopold was. He had heard that the Congo cannibals are excellent warriors. He wanted to do something to make the whole world sit up and take notice.”

  “Well that would certainly achieve it,” Nobby agreed. “I can scarcely imagine what a war that would be! Twenty thousand cannibals against the hordes of the ‘Mad Mahdi.’ Oh, my God—poor Africa.” Her face was touched with genuine pity beneath the wry amusement and the bantering tone. One could not mistake that she was conscious of the human misery it would involve.

  Beyond their introduction, Kreisler had so far practically ignored both Christabel and Charlotte. He glanced at them to avoid rudeness, but all his interest was with Nobby, and the sense of her emotion had quickened it further.

  “That is not Africa’s real tragedy,” he said with bitterness. “Leopold is a visionary, and frankly something of a lunatic. He poses very little real danger. For a start he is extremely unlikely to persuade any cannibals at all into leaving their own jungles. And for another, I would not be surprised if Stanley remains here in Europe anyway.”

  “Stanley not go back to Africa?” Nobby was amazed. “I know he has been there for the last three years, and then in Cairo for about three weeks, I hear. But surely after a rest he will return? Africa is his life! And I believe King Leopold treated him like a brother when he went back to Brussels this time. Is that not so?”

  “Oh yes,” Kreisler said quickly. “It is almost an understatement. Originally the king was lukewarm, and treated Stanley very offhandedly, but now he is the hero of the hour, studded with medals like a porcupine with quills, and feted like visiting royalty. Everyone is buzzing with excitement over news from Central Africa, and Stanley has but to turn up and he is cheered till people are hoarse. The king enjoys the reflected glory.” There was light in Kreisler’s blue eyes, laughter and pain at the same time.

  Nobby asked the necessary question.

  “Then why would he not return to Africa? He has left Belgium, so it cannot be that which is holding him.”

  “Not at all,” Kreisler agreed. “He has fallen in love with Dolly Tennant.”

  “Dolly Tennant! Did you say Dolly Tennant?” Nobby could scarcely believe her ears. “The society hostess? The painter?”

  “The same.” Kreisler nodded. “And there has been a great change in her. She no longer laughs at him. It even seems she returns at least a good part of his regard. Times and fortunes have altered.”

  “My goodness, haven’t they indeed,” she agreed.

  That particular speculation continued no further because they were joined by Linus Chancellor and the tall woman Charlotte had remarked upon earlier. Closer to, she was even more unusual. Her face was curiously vulnerable and full of emotion, which did not detract in the slightest from the strength in it. It was not a weakness, but an ability to feel pain with more intensity than was common. It was the face of a person who would launch herself wholeheartedly into whatever she undertook. There was no caution in it, no withholding for the sake of safety.

  Introductions were performed for everyone, and she was indeed Chancellor’s wife, as Charlotte had supposed.

  Chancellor and Kreisler appeared to know each other, at least by repute.

  “Recently back from Africa?” Chancellor asked politely.

  “Two months ago,” Kreisler replied. “More recently than that, from Brussels and Antwerp.”

  “Oh.” Chancellor’s face relaxed in a smile. “In the wake of the good Mr. Stanley?”

  “By accident, yes.”

  Chancellor was obviously amused. Probably he had also heard of King Leopold’s plans to conquer the Sudan. No doubt he had his sources of information every bit as immediate as Kreisler’s. Perhaps it was Kreisler himself. It occurred to Charlotte that it was more than likely.

  Christabel Thorne took up the subject, looking first at Kreisler, then at Chancellor.

  “Mr. Kreisler tells us he is more acquainted with the east of Africa and the new lands of Zambezia. He was about to tell us that the real tragedy of Africa does not lie in the west, nor in the Sudan, but he was prevented from elaborating by some turn of the conversation. I think to do with Mr. Stanley’s personal hopes.”

  “For Africa?” Susannah Chancellor asked quickly. “I thought the king of the Belgians was building a railway.”

  “I daresay he is,” Christabel returned. “But we were referring to his amorous intentions.”

  “Oh! Dolly Tennant!”

  “So we hear.”

  “Hardly a tragedy for Africa,” Chancellor murmured. “Possibly even a relief.”

  Charlotte was now quite sure he knew about Leopold and the cannibals.

  But Susannah was genuinely interested. She looked at Kreisler seriously.

  “What do you believe is Africa’s tragedy, Mr. Kreisler? You have not told us. If your regard is as deep as Miss Gunne indicates, you must care about it very much.”

  “I do, Mrs. Chancellor,” he agreed. “But unfortunately that does not give me any power to affect it. It will happen regardless of anything I can do.”

  “What will happen?” she persisted.

  “Cecil Rhodes and his wagons of settlers will press further up from the Cape into Zambezia,” he answered, looking at her with intensity. “And one by one the native princes will make treaties they don’t understand and don’t intend to keep. We will settle the land, kill those who rebel, and there will be slaughter and subjection of God knows how many people. Unless, of course, the Germans beat us to it, driving westward from Zanzibar, in which case they will do the same, only worse—if past history is anything to judge from.”

  “Rubbish!” Chancellor said with good humor. “If we settle Mashonaland and Matabeleland we can develop the natural resources there for everyone’s good, African and white alike. We can bring them proper medicine, education, trade, civilized laws and a code of society which protects the weak as well as the strong. Far from being Africa’s tragedy, it would be the making of it.”

  Kreisler’s eyes were hard and bright, but he looked only momentarily at Chancellor, then turned to Susannah. She had been listening to him with rapt attention, not with agreement, but rather with growing anxiety.

  “That’s not what you used to say.” She looked at Chancellor with a crease between her brows.

  His smile had only the barest shadow behind the obvious affection. “Perceptions change, my dear. One becomes wiser.” He shrugged very slightly. “I now know a great deal that I did not two or three years ago. The rest of Europe is going to colonize Africa, whether we do or not. France, Belgium, Germany at least. And the Sultan of Turkey is nominally overlord of the Khedive of Egypt, with all that means to the Nile, and
thus to the Sudan and Equatoria.”

  “It means nothing at all,” Kreisler said abruptly. “The Nile flows northward. I’d be surprised if anyone in Equatoria had even heard of Egypt.”

  “I am thinking of the future, Mr. Kreisler, not the past.” Chancellor was not in the least perturbed. “When the great rivers of Africa are among the world’s highways of trade. The time will come when we will ship the gold and diamonds, exotic woods, ivory and skins of Africa along those great waterways as easily as we now ship coal and grain along the Manchester ship canal.”

  “Or the Rhine,” Susannah said thoughtfully.

  “If you like,” Chancellor agreed. “Or the Danube, or any other great river you can think of.”

  “But Europe is so often at war,” Susannah went on. “Over land, or religion, or any of a dozen other things.”

  He looked at her, smiling. “My dear, so is Africa. The tribal chieftains are always fighting one another. That is one of the reasons why all our attempts to wipe out slavery kept on failing. Really, the benefits are immense, and the costs relatively minor.”

  “To us, possibly,” Kreisler said sourly. “What about to the Africans?”

  “To the Africans as well,” Chancellor answered him. “We shall bring them out of the pages of history and into the nineteenth century.”

  “That is exactly what I was thinking.” Susannah was not convinced. “Transitions as sudden as that are not made without a terrible wrench. Maybe they don’t want our ways? We are forcing them upon a whole nation without taking their opinions into account at all.”

  A spark of intense interest, even excitement, lit for a moment in Kreisler’s eyes, and then as quickly was masked, as if deliberately.

  “Since they cannot conceive what we are talking about,” Chancellor said wryly, “they can hardly have an opinion!”

  “Then we are deciding for them,” she pointed out.

  “Naturally.”

  “I am not certain we have the right to do that.”

  Chancellor looked surprised, and somewhat derisive, but he held his tongue tactfully. Apparently no matter how eccentric his wife’s opinions, he did not wish to embarrass her publicly.