A cheerful woman bustled in to attend to the pot, smiling at Renzi.
Reinke grunted something. ‘The Vrouw Reinke,’ offered Stoll.
Renzi nodded politely.
‘Ah – plissed to meet!’ she said shyly.
‘You have fine English, Mevrouw.’
She dimpled and fingered her pleated cotton garment. ‘I at Meester Dogwood school when a girl,’ she said. ‘Come – we fin’ you a sleep room, but not s’ great as castle.’
Ignoring her husband’s sullen glare, she picked up a lamp and led Renzi into the gathering gloom to an outhouse. ‘Here!’
It was small but adequate. The stretched bull-hide bed would probably have fewer fleas if spread with his bedding from the wagon, Renzi thought wryly. A capacious clothes chest at one end and two amateurish paintings of the dramatic ranges around them completed the décor.
‘Excellent, my dear. This will do.’ Knowing that his striving must now cease, Renzi gave in to his fatigue. ‘If it does not inconvenience, I should like to rest before the evening meal. Pray be good enough to tell my assistant.’
‘Yiss.’ She smiled and, leaving the lamp, departed quietly.
Renzi flopped on to the bed, which creaked loudly, and stared up at the shadowy recesses. He refused to let his brain dwell on his failure and surrendered his aching bones to rest. Soon he dozed off into a light sleep. At one point he awoke to the sound of voices and a distant jingling of harness. A returning work party? More travellers? It didn’t matter any more and he drifted off again.
Some time later a house-boy arrived with a bowl of water and towel. ‘Din-nah,’ he said, patting his stomach gleefully. Still feeling muzzy, Renzi went with him to the main house, his own stomach growling. The long table was set simply with several dishes, and Reinke sat, frowning, at one end. Renzi was placed apart from him with Stoll opposite, and a lithe young lad, scolded by Mevrouw Reinke – obviously a son.
‘Pens en pootjies, Meester,’ she said encouragingly.
Stoll raised an eyebrow. ‘Tripe and trotters, Mr Secretary,’ he said drily.
Renzi gave a polite smile.
There was one place not yet taken at the opposite end of the table. Then voices came from outside and a woman stepped into the room. Astonished, Renzi recognised her immediately. It was Thérèse.
But she was not the elegant lady he remembered from the castle reception. This woman was dressed in smart but practical bush clothes – a mannish tunic, leather gaiters, boots, her hair tightly gathered.
She stood for a moment in shock. ‘Why, Mr Secretary!’ she said in French. ‘I – I hadn’t thought to see you here.’
Renzi stood and bowed politely. ‘Nor I you, Mam’selle.’
There was a sudden tension in the room and conversation stilled. She tossed her head, avoiding his eye, and took her place at table.
‘Wine?’ Mevrouw Reinke said, holding out a jug. There were no takers, except her husband, who sat glowering, unable to understand what was going on.
Renzi turned to Thérèse. ‘A most interesting country, I’m persuaded. Have you had time to see much of it?’ He was intrigued by her transformation – and seeing her so far into the border lands.
Her expression tightened. ‘No. And yourself, Mr Secretary?’ Her voice was hard, commanding.
Renzi gave a saintly smile and pointedly looked around the gathering, sitting with varying degrees of bafflement. All had Dutch, none had French, and only one spoke English. She picked up on it and rattled off some Dutch, which eased the atmosphere and muttered exchanges began among them. Stoll did not translate but looked troubled.
‘Cabbage bredie, sir?’ Mevrouw Reinke said brightly, looking at Renzi.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and faced Thérèse again, adopting a tone of light conversation. ‘If I might remark it, do you not miss the life in la belle France – the fashions, the salons?’
‘Some things must be borne,’ she answered flatly.
The meal went forward awkwardly. Then Reinke pushed away his plate and growled something, daring comment.
‘He hopes that all present enjoyed their meal,’ murmured Stoll.
Mevrouw Reinke began clearing the table, saying apologetically, ‘He not himself, Meester. He’s worry the Xhosa will cross the Zuurveld.’
Renzi stiffened. An incursion? ‘Please tell me more, Mevrouw.’
She smiled. ‘Reinke don’ want me talking, but we hearing a crazy man live wi’ them, givin’ out muskets. They has guns – there’s to be no stopping of ’em.’
The Boer snapped at her harshly and she fled.
Could this be the real secret army, an unstoppable flood of savages? No – it was weeks of travel across the mountains before they were a danger to Cape Town and the tribe would soon tire of it. None the less it should be attended to as soon as possible. Renzi lifted his head thoughtfully and saw Thérèse staring at him with a set face.
‘Your pardon, Mam’selle, but I do find your presence here somewhat curious.’ There was more than a little about her that was unsettling – known to be aloof and seldom to be seen in Cape Town, keeping to herself and now to be found familiarly in the furthest reaches of the colony, presumably far from her family estate. And what lay behind the brittle defensiveness?
She stood suddenly. ‘I find the question impertinent. It’s no business of yours, M’sieur, and I shall bid you goodnight.’ She turned and left quickly.
‘A strange lady,’ Stoll murmured.
Renzi nodded.
At breakfast Thérèse was composed and icily calm. ‘Did you sleep well, M’sieur Renzi?’ she asked, over the corn and bean porridge.
‘I did – but the dismal howling in the night was not to my liking.’
‘The hyenas? You will be used to them.’ One of her servants entered and whispered something. She nodded, replying briefly, and he left, a remarkably huge man, Renzi noted, with fingers like bananas.
‘We will be leaving directly and I must now say adieu.’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Bon voyage, M’sieur.’
Renzi felt the fingers move slightly and became aware that a small piece of paper was being transferred into his hand. He bowed elegantly. ‘A safe journey, Mam’selle.’
He wandered over to the mantelpiece and discreetly read the note. It was brief and to the point: I have information concerning the Xhosa. I do not want to be seen by others talking with you. I shall stop my horses beyond the first bend and wait.
Renzi lingered a short time, then told his secretary, ‘I do think I’ll take a walk in the morning air for an hour, Mr Stoll. When you’ve finished, please prepare our wagon – we’re returning.’
The freshness of the new day was bracing and he stepped out along the gritty track, careful to look right and left as though admiring the grand scene. Near the bend around the mountain flank, he stopped to inspect a pretty montane flower, taking the opportunity to look back whence he’d come. No one was watching.
The track wound sharply around. Thérèse was standing beside a string of horses with three hard-looking men.
‘Did anyone see you?’ she asked quickly.
‘No. I’m expected back in an hour.’
Her tense manner eased fractionally. ‘That’s good. Now – why are you here?’
Renzi was taken aback by her question and its tone of blunt grimness. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘So high in government, trekking this far up-country – there’s more to you than it seems, Mr Secretary.’