Free Green City in the Sun by Barbara Wood

thinking the rain had begun again, Grace went to the canvas doorway and looked out. There was no rain, only a heavy mist. She searched the compound, seeing the ghostly shapes of tents, the halos of lantern light, and she listened. With the setting of the sun the forest had come alive with bird sounds, crickets, the warble of tree frogs. Then she realized that what she had thought was rain was, in fact, someone weeping. The sound was coming from the next tent.
         After putting on her heavy navy coat, she hurried along the planks that had been laid in readiness for the mud and stopped at her sister-in-law's tent. "Rose? Are you all right?"
         She found Rose sitting at a dressing table, bent over with her head in her arms.
         "What is it, Rose? Why are you crying?"
         Rose sat up and dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "It's all so terrible, Grace. Those camps—after we left the train at Thika, I had thought we had seen the last of all that. I had so looked forward to a proper house."
         Grace looked around Rose's tent. It was more elegantly furnished than her own, with a gilt-edged mirror over the dressing table and satin pillows on the bed. Even the sheets were not merely white but shades of antique rose and teal blue, the Treverton colors. Grace saw that her brother had gone to a lot of trouble to please his wife.
         Then she realized that Rose's personal maid was not present. "Where's Fanny?"
         "In her tent. She says she wants to go back to England! Grace." Rose's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please tell him to leave."
         Grace looked over at the African who was standing by the tent door holding a water bottle and a linen towel. He wore a long white kanzu that came to his bare feet and a Turkish fez on his head. "What's the matter with him, Rose?"
         "He frightens me!"
         The man spoke. "My name is Joseph, memsaab. I am a Christian." "Please leave us," Grace said.
         "Bwana Lordy told me to take care of the memsaab."
         "I'll explain to Lord Treverton. You may go, Joseph."
         When they were alone, Rose turned to her sister-in-law with a pleading look and whispered, "Grace, you must do something for me!"
         Grace studied Rose's face. The ivory cheeks were flushed; the lips, trembling. A few strands of moonlight-colored hair had escaped from combs and framed Rose's face. "What do you want me to do?" Grace asked.
         "It's . . . Valentine. You see, I can't—I'm not ready to—" Rose turned

away and fumbled for her silver hairbrush. "You're a doctor, Grace. He'll listen to you. Tell him it's too soon after the baby...."
         Grace was silent. She didn't know what to say.
         "Help me, Grace. I can't face it. Not yet. First I must get used to"—she waved her hands— "all this."
         "Very well. I'll talk to him. Don't worry about it, Rose. Come along now. The men are waiting for us."
         Both women received a shock when they stepped from the cold night into the dining tent.
         "Valentine!" Grace said. "How on earth did you manage it?"
         "It was a bit dicey, old girl, what with the war and all. Sometimes it comes in handy to be filthy rich!" he said as he strode across the tent in a black tuxedo and starched white shirt. Lord Treverton kissed his sister on the cheek, then received his wife with a beaming smile. "Well, my darling, what do you think?"
         Rose's eyes moved over the Chippendale chairs, the Belgian lace tablecloth, the silver candlesticks and china place settings. A gramophone played a waltz; lamplight made the crystal and champagne glasses sparkle; the air was scented with wild jasmine. "Oh, Valentine," she breathed. "It's lovely... "
         "Let me introduce you to our guest," he said, indicating the newcomer among them. He was District Officer Briggs, a portly man in his sixties who wore a pressed khaki uniform and polished Sam Browne belt. Valentine poured aperitifs, and they