was a young man,’ Lady Vyvant began slowly, ‘Sir Stewart fell in love with a woman named Lorna in England. But she married another man, a doctor, and they moved to South Africa. They both died of malaria. It broke Sir Stewart’s heart and he came to Africa—’
The door opened. Agnes listened to the server’s footsteps, the knock of three glasses onto the table and the short rising notes of the liquor being poured. The footsteps receded, the door closed, and Lady Vyvant continued.
‘A few years later, Sir Stewart went to a funeral back in England and saw Lorna’s daughter there. And a week after that, he asked her hand in marriage.’
‘Mmhm,’ snarked Miss Higgins. ‘But this Lorna was twenty years younger than him.’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Lady Vyvant matter-of-factly. ‘She had grown up in South Africa with her parents, and desperately wanted to come back to the continent after they died. She essentially married Sir Stewart for homesickness.’
‘And did the young Lorna look anything like her mother?’ Agnes asked.
‘Quite.’ Lady Vyvant took Agnes’s hand and placed it on the stem of a glass.
‘Thank you.’ Agnes paused. ‘But did she know? That he had loved her mother?’
‘Some say that she didn’t. She was very young. Others say she went mad when she found out. She started playing a violin in the turret, taking to bed at all hours, having tantrums in public.’
‘She ought to have figured it out,’ said Miss Higgins. ‘There was a poem about it, for Christ’s sake. “The Two Lornas”. By Thomas blooming Hardy.’
‘Well, now there are three Lornas, as they named their daughter Lorna as well.’
‘The shadow of the dome of pleasure,’ Miss Higgins murmured.
Agnes shook her head and sipped her drink – sherry. It seared her throat with bittersweet warmth.
‘So, Agnes,’ said Lady Vyvant. ‘Tell us about this charming protégé of yours. Ronald?’
‘Oh! You mean my fiancé,’ Agnes smiled.
There was a pause. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been misled, dear child,’ said Lady Vyvant, her tone as cool as ever. ‘Marriage is not legal for Africans here in the Federation.’
‘Oops!’ said Miss Higgins and laughed.
* * *
Meanwhile, the conversation in the library was revolving around suitably male questions – the quality of the cigars, the prospects of hunting, and now, politics. Ever since Northern Rhodesia, Southern Rhodesia and Nyasaland had been consolidated into the Federation, the educated black elite – the veterans and the trade unionists – had begun to agitate for independence from Britain.
‘The colour bar between whites and blacks has risen higher,’ said Sir Stewart. ‘Infuriating business. Herding blacks like cattle on trains, making them queue for hours to receive their goods through a hole in the wall. This “off the pavement, boy” business is simply uncouth.’
‘What choice do we have, old chap?’ said Lord Vyvant. ‘The natives cannot govern themselves.’ He muttered his caveat in Henry Mulenga’s direction: ‘Present company, et cetera.’
‘The problem,’ said Sir Stewart, ‘is that the natives were not even consulted about forming a Federation. At least one African should have been invited to the Victoria Falls Conference.’
‘Oh tosh,’ Lord Vyvant snorted. ‘Do you remember when they demonstrated against federation with those signs? “Down with Ventilation”? Preposterous.’
‘Well, now they are nailing placards on trees here at Shiwa,’ Sir Stewart remarked, lowering himself into a leather armchair. ‘These ones simply say FREEDOM. They are not wrong.’
The fire shuddered in its stone cave and the cigars puffed like chimneys and the glasses of cognac cast copper on the walls. Henry Mulenga spoke up from the sofa.
‘Ah, but it is not okay for them to result to violence, bwana.’
Ronald clucked quietly at the man’s broken English. Why on earth was this muntu butler here? Henry was taking advantage of Sir Stewart’s generosity or perhaps his senility. But Ronald said nothing – to do so would beg the question of his own presence among the guests.
‘These Cha-Cha-Cha animals are holding the country hostage!’ Henry was expostulating now. ‘Even these Luwingu riots! Too much disrespecting!’
‘What happened in Luwingu?’ Ronald leaned up from the fireplace mantel with a frown.
‘That lunatic, Nkoloso!’ Henry laughed scornfully.
‘I was in London with Kenneth at the time,’ said Sir Stewart. ‘He shared the telegrams they sent from Luwingu with me and some lords in Parliament. The colonial officers tortured Eddie Nkoloso, nearly drowned the poor man. Kaunda made great use of it rhetorically, of course. He’s an articulate man, whatever you think of his politics. A true wordsmith.’
‘Words and sticks and stones!’ Vyvant spat. ‘Kaunda’s political party is out of control now