Traitors Gate tp-15 Page 7

  “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.

  “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 eve
n 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.

  Beneath the surface argument he seemed to feel a confidence in her that overrode such things.

  Nobby Gunne was looking at Kreisler. Christabel Thorne was watching everyone, each in turn.

  “I was listening to Sir Arthur Desmond the other day,” Susannah continued with a slight shake of her head.

  Charlotte grasped her empty champagne glass so tightly it nearly shot out of her fingers.

  “Desmond?” Chancellor frowned.

  “From the Foreign Office,” Susannah elaborated. “At least he used to be. I am not sure if he is there anymore. But he was most concerned about the subject of exploitation of Africa. He did not believe we would do it honorably at all….”

  Chancellor put his hand over hers very gently.

  “My dear, I am grieved to have to tell you, but Sir Arthur Desmond died about two days ago, apparently by his own hand. He is not a source to be quoted with any authority.” He looked suitably sad.

  “No he didn’t kill himself!” Charlotte burst out before thinking whether it was in the least wise, or would serve her purposes. All she could think of was Matthew’s weary face and his distress, and Pitt’s love for a man who had befriended him. “It was an accident!” she added in defense.

  “I apologize,” Chancellor said quickly. “I meant that he brought about the situation himself, whether by carelessness or design. Unfortunately it seems he was losing the clarity of mind he used to have.” He turned back to his wife. “Thinking of Africans as noble savages, and wishing that they should remain so, is a sentimentality history does not allow. Sir Arthur was a fine man, but naive. Africa is going to be opened up by us or by others. Best for Britain and for Africa that it should be us.”

  “Would it not be better for Africa if we made treaties to protect them and keep
Africa as it is?” Kreisler asked with apparent innocence which was belied by both his expression and the hard, thin edge to his voice.

  “For adventurers and hunters like yourself?” Chancellor asked with raised eyebrows. “A sort of endless playground for explorers, with no civilized law to dictate anything at all.”

  “I am not a hunter, Mr. Chancellor, nor am I a scout for others,” Kreisler rejoined. “An explorer, I accept. And I leave both the land and the people as I found them. Mrs. Chancellor has an excellent moral point. Have we the right to make decisions for other people?”

  “Not only the right, Mr. Kreisler,” Chancellor replied with absolute conviction. “Also the obligation when the others concerned have neither the knowledge nor the power to do it for themselves.”

  Kreisler said nothing. He had already registered his feelings. He looked instead at Susannah, his face thoughtful.

  “I don’t know about anyone else, but I am ready for supper,” Christabel said in the momentary silence which followed. She turned to Kreisler. “Mr. Kreisler, since we outnumber you two to one, I am obliged to ask you to offer us an arm each to conduct us down the stairs. Miss Gunne, do you mind sharing Mr. Kreisler with me?”

  There was only one possible answer, and Nobby gave it with a charming smile.

  “Of course not. I shall be only too pleased. Mr. Kreisler?”

  Kreisler offered his arms, and escorted Christabel and Nobby to supper.

  Linus Chancellor did the same for Charlotte and Susannah, and together they swept down the great staircase, where at the bottom Charlotte recognized Pitt, who had been speaking to a very quiet, self-possessed man, quite bald, whom she judged to be nearer fifty than forty. He had round, pale blue eyes, a rather long nose, and a sense of calm about him, as if he knew some inner secret which was infinitely satisfying.