Free Everfair by Nisi Shawl Page B

her. A smile sprang to his lips instantly, but it didn’t 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 George’s governess, Martha recalled. Now she said a phrase in French that seemed to calm her former charge.
    â€œYou’re all right, then?” he asked Martha, buttoning his stained shirt with scarcely a wince.
    â€œWhat? Of course I am! That was never the question.” Jesus had his eye on her at all times. “The Lord takes care of his servants.” An expression she didn’t care for crossed Miss Toutournier’s bold face.
    She knelt so her head was level with his. “That was courage on your part,” she told the boy, “coming to Bookerville’s defense the way you did.”
    Surprisingly, he blushed. “Wasn’t for Bookerville.”
    She thought she understood. She nodded. “Any good Christian would have done the same.”
    Again that knowing smirk from the mulatto.
    â€œBut I thank you, nonetheless. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She stroked his damp hair back from his brow. The red in his cheeks deepened. “You have done well. Now rest.”
    â€œNo, ma’am!” The boy rose with her—such a beanpole! He reached nearly to her chin. “If it wasn’t for that dose of laudanum, I’d be out of here already—the veriest scratch the rotter’s bullet gave me. There’s plenty here worse hurt than me, though I’m grateful for your visit.”
    Let him think she’d come to the men’s ward expressly to see him. “Then may I walk you home?”
    The hut the natives and settlers had insisted on building for Mrs. Albin lay on Bookerville’s 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 Albins’ without encountering anyone. The settlement’s huts, tents, and hovels weren’t good for much, but they did provide shelter from the elements, and few of Bookerville’s inhabitants would be found out-of-doors just now. However, as they approached young George’s home, the low notes of a man’s speech issued from inside it.
    No words could be deciphered, but Martha knew who spoke—not the lady’s 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 George’s 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 wouldn’t be interrupting anything romantic in nature. She let loose her hold on the young man and knocked.
    Mr. Owen spoke. “Ho! There’s someone at the door; do you mind—”
    â€œYes! A moment—” The high, sweet voice grew louder, nearer. The door opened to reveal a child she’d 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 torso—so, likely male—sharp-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 they’d gone off the path to avoid. But apparently they hadn’t gone off it far enough.

 
    Bookerville,