her. A smile sprang to his lips instantly, but it didnât last. The boy blanched, struggled to sit, turned his head all around as if searching for something.
Miss Toutournier handed him a shirt she took from a stub protruding from a post in the board-and-banana-leaf wall. She had been young Georgeâs governess, Martha recalled. Now she said a phrase in French that seemed to calm her former charge.
âYouâre all right, then?â he asked Martha, buttoning his stained shirt with scarcely a wince.
âWhat? Of course I am! That was never the question.â Jesus had his eye on her at all times. âThe Lord takes care of his servants.â An expression she didnât care for crossed Miss Toutournierâs bold face.
She knelt so her head was level with his. âThat was courage on your part,â she told the boy, âcoming to Bookervilleâs defense the way you did.â
Surprisingly, he blushed. âWasnât for Bookerville.â
She thought she understood. She nodded. âAny good Christian would have done the same.â
Again that knowing smirk from the mulatto.
âBut I thank you, nonetheless. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.â She stroked his damp hair back from his brow. The red in his cheeks deepened. âYou have done well. Now rest.â
âNo, maâam!â The boy rose with herâsuch a beanpole! He reached nearly to her chin. âIf it wasnât for that dose of laudanum, Iâd be out of here alreadyâthe veriest scratch the rotterâs bullet gave me. Thereâs plenty here worse hurt than me, though Iâm grateful for your visit.â
Let him think sheâd come to the menâs ward expressly to see him. âThen may I walk you home?â
The hut the natives and settlers had insisted on building for Mrs. Albin lay on Bookervilleâs farther side. Martha and the young man stepped carefully, avoiding the largest puddles, but the rain soon fell so thick it soaked them through. Martha wished for her umbrella, as she had over and over again for the past month.
Her wet garments hampered her, and she feared the unseemliness of her appearance. Fortunately, they reached the Albinsâ without encountering anyone. The settlementâs huts, tents, and hovels werenât good for much, but they did provide shelter from the elements, and few of Bookervilleâs inhabitants would be found out-of-doors just now. However, as they approached young Georgeâs home, the low notes of a manâs speech issued from inside it.
No words could be deciphered, but Martha knew who spokeânot the ladyâs husband, who had decamped months ago. Improper for these two to meet alone. Her advent would solve that problem, yet she hesitated, hanging back, catching Georgeâs arm to prevent him going ahead of her. Mr. Owen was a single gentleman but he was, at least, a man .
Then came another voice, thin and piping. Children were not any sort of chaperone, but their presence did indicate Martha wouldnât be interrupting anything romantic in nature. She let loose her hold on the young man and knocked.
Mr. Owen spoke. âHo! Thereâs someone at the door; do you mindââ
âYes! A momentââ The high, sweet voice grew louder, nearer. The door opened to reveal a child sheâd never seen before. Which meant this must be another heathen refugee, another conversion to make, another trial she must undertake in service to Christ. Martha strove to dissect and classify the vision before her: bare feet, canvas trousers, naked torsoâso, likely maleâsharp-chinned, hair black and straight, eyes slanted. Slanted. Skin tanned. But the eyes.
Undoubtedly Chinese. In the middle of Africa. How could this be?
Suddenly she remembered the railway, the camp full of coolies theyâd gone off the path to avoid. But apparently they hadnât gone off it far enough.
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Bookerville,