Burning Embers Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  A Letter from Hannah

  About the Author

  Also by Hannah Fielding: Indiscretion and The Echoes of Love

  Praise for Burning Embers, The Echoes of Love and Hannah Fielding

  BURNING EMBERS

  HANNAH FIELDING

  First published in paperback and eBook in the USA in 2012

  by Omnific Publishing

  First published as an eBook in the UK in 2014

  by London Wall Publishing Ltd (LWP)

  24 Chiswell Street, London EC1Y 4YX

  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by

  eBook Partnership

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Copyright © Hannah Fielding 2012

  EB ISBN 978-0-9929943-2-7

  The burning embers flicker,

  Connection of two sights,

  A touch of spark, wickers,

  Forbidden its delight.

  UNKNOWN

  CHAPTER ONE

  1970 — At Sea

  Coral Sinclair was twenty-five, and this should have been her wedding night. Instead, she watched a full moon sweep the Indian Ocean with silvery beams as a silent ship carried her through the night, its path untroubled by the rolling swell. It was misty, the air was fresh, and a soft breeze blew through her flowing blond hair. A solitary passenger on deck, outlined by a strapless, white-silk evening dress, she stood upright and still, her slender fingers clenching the rail, her voile scarf floating behind.

  Coral could not sleep. She gazed into the tenebrous light, feeling helpless, lonely, and utterly wretched. Not a star interrupted that dense unity, not the smallest star, the tiniest speck of hope. The only sound was the thrumming of the ship’s engines and the rhythmic echo of the waves smashing relentlessly against its hull.

  After dinner she had paced up and down in her stuffy cabin, attempted to concentrate on a book, and flipped absentmindedly through a magazine. Unable to fix her attention, she had gone on deck to take some fresh air. It was deserted there except for rows of abandoned deck chairs. Their spectral shadows in the pale moonlight gave the place a desolate character that reflected her mood.

  This had been a wonderful cruise, she told herself wistfully, attempting once again to snap out of her depression. She had not made the most of the trip, and she knew that she would regret it one day. After all, this was the kind of adventure Coral had dreamed of during the past years. She felt a lump in her throat. “No, not quite…” she whispered to herself. The circumstance that had induced her to make such a long journey was painful: she was going to take possession of her inheritance.

  The ship was taking her back home — or at least the home she had known as a child in Kenya. Mpingo… Even the name warmed Coral’s heart like the morning African sun. In Swahili, it meant The Tree of Music, named after the much sought-after dark heartwood used to make wind instruments. Like much of the white community in Kenya — an eclectic mix of landless aristocrats, big-game hunters, and ex-servicemen — Coral’s family had originally been expatriate settlers. The desolate, treeless landscapes choked with dust and scorched with sun, which could have seemed menacing to some, had been perceived quite differently by Coral during those early years. For the imaginative child, every day had gleamed with tawny and emerald vistas to explore freely in the golden light of the African sun. She had imagined living there forever, and was unprepared when things abruptly changed.

  Coral tried to recapture that clear morning in early April sixteen years ago when she had said farewell to the world she loved: to the sun, to Africa, and to her father. She had been nine years old, and although a lot of that period seemed blurry, certain memories remained vivid in her mind.

  The constant quarrels of her parents had darkened an otherwise serene childhood. Often the memories came to haunt her nights, always dominated by the towering figure of her father, Walter Sinclair, a man whose debonair charm and reputation as an adventurer (not to mention his eye for other men’s wives) had earned him the endearing nickname the White Pirate among the natives. Nevertheless, Coral had loved and admired her dashing father and had desperately missed him for a long time.

  She remembered returning to England with her mother, Angela, in the spring of 1956, the divorce of her parents that followed, and being sent away to boarding school. That was the worst time. For a child who had known the wind-beaten spaces of the bush and the kaleidoscopic scenery of the tropical regions, this sudden confinement at an English school had been a restraint she found difficult to conform to, and never got used to. So she took refuge in the wonderful world of her nostalgic dreams throughout those seemingly never-ending years to womanhood, secretly vowing to return to her true home one day.

  Then, when Coral was sixteen, her mother had married Sir Edward Ranleigh, a widowed barrister of great repute. The engagement had come as a shock to her despite his frequent visits to their flat in London. At first she had hated him and flatly refused to attend their wedding. Coral could not imagine someone taking her father’s place in her mother’s heart — or in her bed.

  Uncle Edward, as she called him, was a jolly and gregarious man, a bon viveur, generous and unpretentious. Like her father, he had traveled the world, not so much to amass a fortune but mostly for his own pleasure. They had all moved to his luxurious flat overlooking St. James’s Park in London and spent most of their holidays at his country home, Ranleigh Hall, in Derbyshire. With quiet patience, Edward had won her over. He had taught her how to ride and how to sail, and stimulated her imagination with stories of his adventures in foreign countries. Gradually, Coral got used to his presence around them, and her attitude toward him softened. Within a few months they were friends.

  The year after had turned her world upside down again with the birth of twins to the newly wedded couple: Lavinia and Thomas, her half siblings. Coral had felt disturbed by the sudden, dramatic change to her life. She had carefully hidden her feelings and would have gladly moved back to Kenya, but it was made quite clear to her that relocating was not an option. Again, she resigned herself, and with time and the patient help of Uncle Edward, who considered Coral his daughter, she had warmed to the children and even learned to care for them. Then on Coral’s eighteenth birthday, Uncle Edward held a ball in her honor and put a large sum of money in a trust for her. By then she had made peace with the new way of life that had been forced upon her. She loved the twins and was very fond of Uncle Edward, but he had never replaced her father in her heart, and she still longed for Kenya, the land of her happy childhood.

  Lost in thought, Coral stood on tipt
oe and bent over the rail to watch the seething white horses in the ship’s wake. The salty mist blew about her, sending strands of hair across her eyes, and she pushed them away from a wide forehead to let the fine spray refresh her face. Coral never contemplated that circumstances such as these would take her home, and she returned to thoughts of where she had intended to be this evening, her wedding night. “A Fairytale Wedding” the gossip pages had declared unanimously. She had met Dale Halloway, a young American tycoon, at the 1968 opening of the Halloway African Exhibition in New York City. It had been her first professional journalism assignment abroad, a commission to cover the story and take pictures of the fabulous African sculptures and paintings, which offered a golden opportunity to further her career and one not often presented to young photographers, particularly women. Although things were changing fast and 1970 was heralding an exciting new decade, it was still hard to break into such a male-dominated world. Coral had wanted to be a photographer as long as she could remember, and while all her friends had grown up and followed the predictable path of marriage, Coral was pursuing her dream career.

  When she’d met Dale at the exhibition, it had been love at first sight. He’d had the looks of an all-American hero and something of a Great Gatsby style about him. Always in the latest Halston or Ralph Lauren suit, he epitomized the powerful and successful American tycoon. That Dale and his family had connections with Africa contributed to the attraction. Dale’s frequent travels round the African continent often took him to Kenya, and his stories helped to satisfy Coral’s thirst for information about life back in the country she missed so dearly.

  The couple had been inseparable for months, and although Coral had spent her late teens and early twenties watching the sexual revolution unfold around her, she herself had vowed to keep her virginity until her wedding night, and so the relationship had remained chaste. Dale had been equally smitten by Coral but was less enthusiastic about her traditional views on sex before marriage. Nevertheless, he had reassured her that he would wait until she was ready, and as they were living on opposite sides of the Atlantic, leading their own separate lives, the months seemed to fly by. After eighteen months, they had announced their engagement. The wedding was to take place three months later in New York, and they planned to go to Kenya for their honeymoon.

  On a holiday weekend, she had flown to New York, unannounced, to surprise her fiancé. The nasty surprise had been all hers, since Dale showed little concern when she arrived at his office and caught him red-handed kissing his secretary. The typical cliché, she thought. Heartbroken, she had fled from the room and returned to England that same evening.

  A month later, Coral had received a letter from a solicitor announcing that her father had died and she was the heiress to a substantial legacy in Kenya. The letter had been delayed — the post in Africa was not that reliable — and she had not been able to attend his funeral. In the space of a few months, her life, which until then had been quite uneventful and orderly, had become chaotic and uncertain.

  Inertia had overwhelmed her. For some time, Coral had let herself drift from one day to the next, unable to think straight or make any decisions. Then, out of the blue, something cropped up. Her mother’s friends, Dr. Thomas Atkinson, a member of the World Health Organization, and his wife were leaving for Somalia in the new year. They had been able to secure passenger berths on a cargo ship out of London calling at Kilindini, the new port of Mombasa in Kenya. Coral needed to return to Kenya to claim her inheritance and sort out her father’s affairs, and this fortuitous offer had brought her to her senses.

  “It will give you time to recover from the painful experience you’ve been through,” her mother had stated, “and will be a chance to go on a leisurely cruise around the African ports, an opportunity you may never have again. Besides, things have changed in Kenya since Mboya’s assassination. People say that President Kenyatta himself was behind it, but who knows. This tribal politics is getting out of hand. One day, you might not be able to go back to Africa, darling.” As usual, her mother had been blunt.

  Coral sighed. Although she was excited at the prospect of returning to her childhood home, Mpingo would not be the same without her father. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” A soft, deep voice emerged from the darkness behind her, disturbing her reverie.

  Startled, Coral jumped and swung around.

  “Here, this will keep you warm,” said the stranger, slipping off his jacket and wrapping it around her bare shoulders.

  She gazed at the man standing before her in the shadows. She tried to make out his features, and then recognized him as the new passenger who had joined the ship that morning when it had docked at the port of Mogadishu. She had been standing on deck, waving at Dr. Thomas and his wife who had just disembarked, and had noticed him coming up the gangplank. Again in the evening she had caught a glimpse of him at dinner, sitting at the captain’s table.

  He was tall, dark, and lean. In the moonlight, the eyes that viewed her with slow appraisal seemed black, but she guessed that in daylight they would have reflected other tones. His was not an outstandingly handsome face; it held something stronger, more powerful than conventional good looks: a blatant sensuality, a charismatic magnetism that drew her attention despite her desire to ignore him.

  “These tropical nights are deceptive,” he said. “The cold can take you by surprise.” The stranger had a French accent, with a distinct lilt that was not unattractive.

  Coral nodded in acknowledgment of his words and smiled demurely, revealing the small dimple at the corner of her mouth.

  “We’ll be arriving soon.”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s four o’clock. In a few minutes, dawn will break over the horizon from there.” She was disturbed by his close proximity, his shirt sleeve inadvertently brushing against her cheek as he pointed at some invisible spot. “Sunrise on the Indian Ocean is a breathtaking sight, especially when you’re watching it from the deck of a ship.” He spoke with a warmth that made the deep pitch of his voice quiver slightly.

  Another day is starting. Sadness flooded her. Who knew how much more sorrow and loneliness it would bring? Hot tears welled up in Coral’s eyes, clouding her view. Soon they would spill over uncontrollably, and the last thing she wanted was to make a spectacle of herself in front of this stranger. She clenched her teeth and swallowed hard.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Coral shook her head. Usually she would have resented this intrusion into her grief, but in an odd way she found his concern quite soothing.

  She turned her face toward the stranger. He had edged away and was watching her, arms folded across his chest. His eyes crinkled into a smile. What did he want? Was he looking for an adventure? Surely not, Coral thought. He seemed unlike the young men she had so often met in her social circle. He was not even a young man, but simply a man: warm, compassionate, and tactful.

  She relaxed. “You seem to know this part of the world,” she ventured, now looking down at the dark ocean beneath them.

  “I was born in Africa.”

  “In Kenya?”

  “No, in French Guinea. I came to Kenya only eight years ago, but I’ve traveled around this continent quite a bit.” There was a momentary lull, and the tone of his voice dropped a little. “Untamed Africa…” he whispered as though to himself.

  Something in the way he uttered those words made Coral lift her head. The words of her mother echoed through her mind: Things have changed in Kenya… She turned toward him and met the dark gaze that was fixed on her face. He looked hard into her blue eyes and smiled in the semi-darkness. Suddenly she felt the urge to confide in this calm and reassuring man. “I was also born in Africa,” she murmured, “but I left a long time ago, and so many things have changed since then that I’m dreading what awaits me there.”

  They stood close to each other, almost touching. His hand reached out and, with infinite tenderness, covered the slen
der fingers clenching the rail. A pleasant warmth flooded her. She was afraid to move in case she disturbed that initial, yet powerful, contact. For a fleeting moment, in this wan light and because he spoke gently, her wounded heart yielded to this stranger’s soothing voice.

  The sky was slowly clearing on the horizon. The black cloak of night began to lift, lazily giving way to a monochromatic dawn of decreasing hues, from indigo to steel blue. The first rays of the African sun broke through in the distance, a sallow slip of color outlining the eastern horizon. Coral felt the stranger looking at her, and heat suddenly rose in her cheeks.

  Their eyes locked. She shuddered and pulled his jacket closer around her shoulders. As his gaze dropped to her soft, full lips, he flushed under his deep tan, then suddenly seemed to check himself and turned away. Coral, whose head and heart were throbbing, stood there silently, staring up at him with a mixture of curiosity and wonderment. The sensation she was experiencing was totally new to her. It was as if an unspoken affinity had been discovered and a connection established all in a single moment.

  Variant tones of pink were gently spreading into the sky, struggling to seep through the symphony of blues. A few moments later the sun burst forth, dazzling in this multicolored canopy, and the dark outline of the landscape gradually loomed on the horizon, transforming first into the dark green, gray, and russet skirt of the jungle before revealing the bush, rising in layers toward the backcountry. Soon after, the port of Kilindini became visible, comfortably tucked away at the end of the estuary in the midst of vigorous vegetation. Coral could see it peeping out from behind serried ranks of coconut palms and wispy casuarinas trees, while its old lighthouse winked with steadfast tranquility in the half light. To complete the picture, the coastline of thin rolling sand dunes appeared, creating here and there immaculate white beaches.

  Even with her mind awash with childhood memories, Coral found it difficult for her eyes, accustomed to the more sedate English countryside, to take in all at once the opulence of color, the sense of space, and the profusion of brilliant life. The burning sky seemed too blue, the rich soil too red, and the irrepressible vegetation too green.