Burning Embers Page 11

  “I had no idea it was so big. It seems larger than our plantation at Mpingo.”

  “It is, even though in terms of acreage, yours is a bigger estate, but your land is divided into various crops. You’ve got the orchard, the sisal plantation, and the mpingo tree sanctuary. I have concentrated solely on sisal. We plant it, extract the fiber from it, and sort and prepare it for export.”

  “Isn’t that maize I can see there, between those double rows of sisal?” Coral pointed to a plot on the right, brushing against his arm.

  He started at her contact but regained his composure in a flash. “You’re right, that is maize we’ve planted. In order for the soil to continue to grow sisal, we must grow other crops to give back to the soil the elements it needs to stay healthy. Also, as you know, with Kenya having one of the highest population growth rates in the world, we need as much agricultural land as possible, so growing additional crops like maize alongside the sisal makes sense to maximize our production. I like to think that we do our little bit here to help hold back the problem of deforestation in this country. Come, I will show you our factory,” he said, a tanned hand firmly bracing her arm as he led her to one of the out-buildings.

  Coral had experienced more than once the iron clutch of his fingers, and her heart fluttered like a trapped moth, her senses acutely aware of his presence beside her. She did not dare look up at him in case her thoughts were revealed in her eyes. Coral had the strange impression he could read her like a book.

  “It takes about five years for the plant to come to maturity, with leaves ready to be cut and put through the decorticating machines,” he told her. “Planters like myself must be prepared to wait. It needs determination and patience, and I’ve got both in ample quantities.”

  Coral sensed the smile in his voice. She had not missed the double entendre and had no doubt he was watching her now, assessing the effect his words had on her. Feeling her color rising, she caught herself up sharply. Had she no pride? She was reacting to him like an unsophisticated, gullible adolescent in the throes of her first love — or worse, if she was honest with herself and admitted to the wanton thoughts that crowded her mind.

  “We’re here,” he said, stopping in front of one of the squat buildings she had noticed. He let go of her arm, and they entered the factory. It consisted of a series of large rooms where men were offloading the leaves onto a fixed table sloping toward the feed belts of the decorticator.

  “The leaves of sisal are fed into the machine singly, by hand. The butt-end goes in first because of the need to thrust the thick end through the narrow gap. When the leaf has been pushed in for half of its length, it’s withdrawn, and the exposed fibers are grasped so that the tip-end of the leaf can be stripped in a similar fashion. It’s a very slow and inefficient method, but of course much cheaper.” He spoke with excitement, his features animated, like a child showing off his toys. He was obviously very proud of his achievements and wanted to share them with her.

  “It seems very complicated.”

  “It isn’t at all, and it’s by far the most reliable method for the production of high-quality, clean fiber. In some countries, they still use the primitive method where the fibers in the leaves are extracted by hand. The leaves are beaten to a pulp with a mallet before being scraped on a block of wood and the fibers are washed afterward.”

  “What comes next?” she asked with genuine interest. She could understand Rafe’s pride in his estate. She felt privileged and moved that he should want to show off to her a creation that must have taken years of hard work. This was the farmer, the entrepreneur, the businessman who was talking to her and treating her like an equal, not the cynical womanizer who perhaps thought of her as just a pretty face.

  He seemed delighted by her inquisitive attention. “If you are interested, there is still a lot I can show you. First comes the grading and sorting of the fiber, then it must be sun dried, brushed, packed, and baled before it can be transported to the various factories.”

  “Do all these processes take place at Whispering Palms?”

  “Of course.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if it were ridiculous to assume otherwise. “The fiber comes from the decorticator in bundles for sorting and grading. I have just bought an automatic grader that makes the job relatively easy. It should arrive in the next few days.”

  From there they went back out into the sunshine. Again, Coral was amazed at the number of workers that were spreading the fiber thinly over lines to dry in the sunshine.

  “You’ve provided work to a great number of people,” she said.

  “Yes. I’ve always dreamed of providing jobs, of building a dynastic empire,” he added, dropping his voice a little as though he were talking to himself. Once more she was aware of a sadness in his tone as he spoke, but it was there and gone in a flash, and perhaps had only been a figment of her imagination. “Shall we continue our round? Or maybe you’re tired and would like to rest?”

  “No, no, please let’s go on. I’m finding it fascinating. I haven’t really taken an interest in the sisal plantation part of Mpingo. I’ve left it to Robin, who seems to know what he’s doing.”

  “That’s a shame. Employees never look after one’s interests in the same way, but I can see the difficulty you have. If I can be of any help, let me know.”

  That would set the cat among the pigeons, Coral thought. She could just imagine the reaction that sort of decision would have on the people at Mpingo. “Thank you,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. Amusement had returned in the golden eyes that surveyed her through dark lashes. She sought to keep her expression neutral. “What comes next, then?” She wanted to get him back on a safe subject.

  He complied and took her step-by-step through the next stages of the operation.

  “Where did you learn all this?”

  She felt him stiffen. He shrugged. “Oh,” he said rather dismissively, “I worked for a while on a sisal plantation in Tanganyika.” Maybe she was mistaking the sudden distant note in his voice as he moved away from her a little.

  They strolled along to the next building. Rafe paused, clearing his voice. “Here ends our tour. The packing and the baling that are the last stages of the preparation for export take place in this hall.” He smiled at her with that charm that made her stomach leap. “Once the bales are ready, we transport them to Mombasa Harbor by road.”

  There was a brief silence, vibrating with curious undercurrents, as they locked gazes. Then they meandered back to the house, Coral feeling strangely contented with their afternoon together. In the garden, the masses of flowers were folding their petals for the night. A nightingale sang in a bush of blossom, but when it heard the couple’s footsteps up the path, it stopped suddenly.

  “Will you come up for a drink?” Rafe asked her as they reached the house.

  “Thank you, but I’d better be going. I’ve had such an enjoyable and interesting afternoon.” Without thinking, she laid her hand over his, then, realizing what she had done, pulled it away self-consciously.

  “Why?” he whispered, as he searched her eyes intently. Taking her hand, Rafe turned it over and tenderly kissed the center of her palm with his warm lips. It was a small and innocent gesture, but this most sensual display of his feelings made her heart surge.

  Coral was trembling inside. He was still holding onto her hand, as if mesmerized by the moment. She did not know whether she wanted him to let go of it or not. The physical chemistry between them was again at work, and she was confused as always by his presence. He must have read the panic in her eyes, as he quickly let go of her hand. “I’ll walk you back to your car,” he said softly, “and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, seven o’clock. Wear an evening gown. Time will seem long until then, rosebud.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Coral sat on her bed, staring at the three long dresses she thought would be suitable for her evening out with Rafe. It was already past five o’clock, and she still hesitated. She should soon be making a start if she
wanted to be ready on time. Aluna had been of no help. “You’ll look beautiful in whichever dress you choose to wear,” she had said dotingly. Coral had thought it wiser to tell her yaha as little as possible about the rendezvous, so Aluna was taking it for granted that she was going to the Yacht Club charity ball like most Mombasa young ladies of her group.

  Coral glanced at her watch — time was marching. She must make up her mind between pink, black, and sapphire blue. Pink was nice, but she thought it a little bit too “coming out ball.” Her beloved black Radley dress, sophisticated and chic with its delicate satin straps, nipped in waist, and long column skirt, was so Breakfast at Tiffany’s but maybe too formal for this occasion. Finally, her eyes shifted to her third option. Coral ran her fingers thoughtfully over the layers of diaphanous fabric. It had been especially created for her to match the deep blue color of her eyes. The memory of the one time she had tried it on brought a rueful smile to Coral’s face. There had been no wedding and no ball afterward, so it had remained neglected in her wardrobe. She would wear it this evening for Rafe. That decided, Coral finished getting ready, and as she spent time getting her hair and makeup right, she was aware that the prospect of spending a whole evening with Rafe was making her pulse race a little.

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball,” Aluna proudly told her as she helped Coral slide into the silky georgette gown. The Grecian-inspired garment with its cascading draping, plunging neckline, and low back was figure-enhancing. Coral slipped on delicate, high-heeled sandals, giving height to her slender silhouette. She hesitated before adding a gold Roman arm cuff studded with sapphires and a pair of matching dangling earrings that were specifically designed to complement the outfit. Deciding it would be too much, she laid aside the coordinating necklace.

  Coral surveyed herself critically in the mirror. Her hair was piled up in a mass of tendrils that looked artlessly sophisticated but at the same time retained a youthful vulnerability. She was glad she hadn’t gotten the fashionable Sassoon sleek crop a few years back when it was all the rage. As far as she could remember, she had never taken so much trouble dressing up, not even for her coming-out party. What was it about this man that had so gotten under her skin? Was she playing with fire? But then again, her friends were always telling her to loosen up and have fun. What harm was there in having a flirtatious evening? She smiled at her reflection.

  Coral was on time, arriving at Whispering Palms when the shadows were beginning to lengthen among the giant palms dotting the grounds. As she was turning off the ignition, Rafe appeared from behind the house and began making his way toward the car with that lazy grace that so personified him. He must have been waiting for her in the garden. He wore with casual elegance a white dinner jacket, white shirt, black dress trousers, and a bow tie that hung unfastened around his neck. He was as overpowering as ever, and Coral’s pulse beat a little faster as he helped her out of the Buick.

  “How dazzling you look,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping over her plunging neckline. She colored faintly and looked away so as not to betray how much his inspection affected her. “I thought we’d have dinner on the patio in my secret garden.” He gave her an enchanting smile and took her arm. Unlike his usual iron grip, Rafe’s warm hand barely touched her, as if he was determined to handle her with extra care this evening.

  “That sounds marvelous,” she said in a small voice, smiling up at him, certain he could see the admiration in her eyes. There was a little pause. Coral sensed that Rafe was reading her: her longing to give, and also the pride that held her back.

  His hand had moved to the small of her exposed back as he escorted her along the garden to the secluded spot behind the house. Pleasurable shivers trailed up and down Coral’s spine, making her skin tingle with a delicious sensation. Still she was relieved when they reached their destination and Rafe fell a pace back to allow her onto the patio first.

  Coral saw a temple covered with entwined roses, wisteria, and begonia dwelling heavily on a cedar trellis that sagged in the middle under their weight. The evening air was balmy, heavy with a symphony of scents from dwarf citrus trees in huge, clay planters. A murmuring old fountain with circular seats cut into the stone provided a perfect complement to the surroundings. In a corner, under an elderly fig tree, two rustic chairs and a stone table covered with an ivory-colored linen tablecloth had been set with unaffected elegance. The music of the flowing water and contrast of light and shade evoked a sense of mystery, creating an enthralling scene.

  “This is my haven…” he said while assisting her to sit facing the fountain. “My very private place.”

  How many women had he brought here to dine in this very romantic, very private place of his? The thought gave Coral’s heart a nasty little pinch. “It is truly enchanting,” she said, accepting a glass of champagne. She closed her eyes and breathed in the rich aromas as she savored the fine wine.

  Rafe walked behind her, to the other side of the patio where a service trolley stood. “I’m afraid it’ll be a cold dinner tonight. I thought it would be refreshing and more practical. We’ll start with avocado and smoked venison in a chive dressing.” Coral smiled to herself; his obvious care over the food was so very French.

  “It sounds delicious. I don’t think you would ever hear an Englishman talking so knowledgeably about food!” Coral laughed. The champagne was already having a beneficial effect on her nerves, and she relaxed a bit.

  Rafe returned with the first course which he laid in front of her before taking his place at the table. As she lifted her head to thank him, her eyes fell on the calligraphy engraved at the top of the fountain. “We chase dreams and embrace shadows — Anatole France,” she read out loud, raising her eyebrows and looking at Rafe enquiringly. “Is that your motto?” She smiled with mischievous intent.

  “No,” he replied, regarding her with an indulgent smile, “it is there as a reminder.”

  “A reminder of what?”

  He looked at her steadily, his eyes grave and dark now. “It’s a warning against mistaking one’s hopes for realities. Do you speak Spanish?”

  “No, not really, just a little.”

  “Have you read Don Quixote?”

  She shook her head. “I have very little knowledge of foreign literature.”

  He nodded. “You should read it sometime. It’s very enlightening.” He smiled lazily, watching her intently.

  She shifted a little uncomfortably under his stare and tried to concentrate on her starter. “This is delicious. Did you make it?”

  “Yes, I made it. There’s not much to it, you know.” He laughed deep in his throat.

  “Do you enjoy cooking?”

  “I do. I find it relaxing, but I don’t have the time to do it as often as I would like. I’m seldom in one place for long, as I’m called away on business most weeks.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “Mostly around Africa, sometimes to Europe, and occasionally to the United States.”

  “Why is that?”

  “To find new markets for my sisal, apart from cordage and textile manufacturers. Do you cook, Coral?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Yes, sometimes, but I’m not very good at it. I like eating, though.” She smiled modestly. “The food at your nightclub is of very high quality.”

  “I like to think that everything I deliver is of high quality.” His eyes were twinkling, making her feel uncomfortable at his flirtatious subtext.

  “I really enjoyed that, thank you,” she said, laying down her knife and fork, trying to ignore his steady gaze.

  “My pleasure.” He stood up and took her plate.

  “Can I help?”

  “No, no, please. It’s all under control.”

  Yes, everything seemed perfectly under control; he was very well organized by the looks of it. Practice makes perfect. A league of women must have sampled this cool efficiency, including her stepmother. Again, she noted that nasty little squeeze in her heart. “Is it a coincidence?�
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  “What?” he asked as he busied himself with preparing the main course.

  “The phrase engraved at the top of the fountain.”

  “I hope you are fond of monkfish,” he said, returning with a plate that was altogether colorful and simply arranged. “It’s been marinated in a citrus dressing. That is a mousse of scallop roe with fresh tomatoes picked today in my greenhouse, and it is resting on a bed of julienne root vegetables.”

  “It sounds absolutely marvelous. I’m impressed.” She paused as he regained his place opposite her. “Now, to come back to what we were saying…”

  “Yes, food.”

  “No, Anatole France’s saying.”

  “Umm?”

  “The phrase engraved at the top of the fountain,” she repeated a little impatiently, knowing he couldn’t have forgotten already.

  “Oh yes…” He started on his monkfish.

  “Well? What’s it all about?”

  “You’ll have to read Don Quixote, won’t you?” He was eyeing her again with amusement.

  “I will, but I’m just a little curious. Won’t you give me a taster?”

  He laughed loudly now, a warm, spontaneous laugh. “Oh, Coral, Coral,” he said, pouring them both another glass of champagne. He nodded before taking a sip out of his glass. “All right. It’s about chasing unrealistic dreams.”

  “And why do you need a reminder? Have you been chasing unrealistic dreams?”

  “Maybe,” he said, his voice now guarded.

  Coral gave him a sharp look. “But isn’t there also a saying that goes: He who dreams, dines? That was the White Pirate’s motto.”

  “And it was also the motto that brought down Walter Sinclair, the man,” he said.

  “If it hadn’t been for his dreams, Daddy would have never left the family business back in England, wouldn’t have come to Africa, and certainly would not have risked all his savings in a place which, let’s face it, was still an unknown prospect.”