Reluctantly, Eleanor stepped into the water, but relished the pleasure of feeling truly clean, rid of the cloying salt. She let herself sink to her neck, then swiftly plunged her head under the water, as she would have in the bath at home, at Tarala.
“Cursed flint! Eleanor, can you strike a light? I’ve no experience, and the tinder won’t ignite!”
“Oh, ‘tis not so difficult. Here, let me, for there’s a knack—Leelashowed me how.”
“Leela was your nurse?”
Eleanor concentrated on striking the flint. A memory of Leela holding her, just after her mother had died. But she was needed—Mrs. Darcy needed herto light the fire…
There was tea, sugar, and hulled millet. They made gruel in the fire pot and carefully spooned it into their bowls. Afterwards, sweet tea warmed them as the shadows lengthened, the sun disappearing over the hills to the west. Methodically, they replaced the contents of the keg. The grass was surprisingly soft, and with their fire built up from the driftwood littering the beach, they were sufficiently warm to contemplate sleeping the night. Elizabeth hoped that the glowing embers and flames would keep inquisitive animals and insects away. In the distance, she heard the lowing of wild cattle and the high-pitched shrieks of some animal in the trees beyond.
Once again, tiredness overwhelmed them. They fell asleep, and, as before, Eleanor lay cradled in Elizabeth’s arms.
***
This is all so tedious. Are the tigers now awake and prowling?—for sure they are aware of Eleanor’s shrieks. Elizabeth was pulled from a deep sleep. Just dawn, the sun cleaving the horizon, light glinting off the white spray of the waves rolling in from the Indian Ocean. More panicked shrieks,
“Mrs. Darcy! Look, our shifts have been eaten—there really are tigers!”
The bushes were, indeed, bare; their cotton shifts disappeared. Perhaps blown away, but they had been secured on the long thorns of the brush. There was no wind. She felt a primordial fear; not even the great waves of the South East Cape terrified her as those bare branches did now. It wasn’t tigers—someone, or someones, had taken them in the night.
Reluctantly, she struggled to her feet. Many trampled footprints surrounded where they had slept. How many people? Did it matter? But nearby, on the ground, lay a mat of woven reeds, set like a picnick spread with three woodenbowls.
Tears of relief flooded her eyes. “Come, sweetling, there are no tigers—tigers don’t leave gifts of milk and millet cakes.”
The milk was creamy and fresh, the millet cakes so much better than the thin gruel they had eaten the previous evening. She felt as though she could face the day. But to what purpose? Time to take stock, to find where they were. Was there a town or village nearby? Looking around their little oasis, she saw another mat near the place where their shifts had been hung to dry. Laid upon it were two simple aprons, each formed of white and black beads, threaded closely together. One of a size for her, though scarcely modest, the other for Eleanor. An exchange—cotton shifts swapped for beadwork aprons, together with beaded necklaces also placed on the mat. The gift of clothing held significance—cultural, spiritual, status, or friendship? White beads often symbolised purity, new beginnings. Clearly, they would have seen she was with child. Did that signify?
“Eleanor, we must change our clothing; we should wear the aprons left for us. While not as seemly as our chemises, we shan’t offend those living here—we’re their guests and under their protection.”
“But… but Mrs. Darcy, surely knowing you’re the wife of a lieutenant governor—they may have a gown or a morning dress?”
How to explain to a very proper Miss that they were cast so far from English society?
“Eleanor, we’re hundreds of miles from Bombay, possibly the same to Cape Town. For days, possibly weeks to come, we will share only our own company.”
The girl looked to her in confusion; having lived all her life in Bombay, hundreds of miles was incomprehensible.
Let’s try another approach—“May I call youEllie? Eleanor or Miss Needham is too formal. You must call meLizzie—we are family here on the African coast, and that is what my family in England call me.”
Eleanor looked to her; she screwed up her face, thinking furiously. “But I must introduce you to Lord Needham, my father, as Mrs. Darcy; otherwise it would be most improper.”
“Of course. But now, we are to dress as guests of the Africans. A very noble people—perchance, we will meet a king or a queen.”
No kings or queens—in fact, no one came near. It was as though they were as alone as Robinson Crusoe on his island. Not even aFridayto welcome them; or even aMonday, for the ship had struck on Sunday, the 12th of May, so the day following was Monday. Just footprints in the sand; and, in the distance, the lowing of cattle—not wild, but belonging to the mysterious Africans who eluded them, staying out of sight.
She was loath to move from their grassy haven, but ennui and curiosity called. The low tide exposed the rocky promontory bounding the small stream. She took Ellie’s hand, experienced a moment’s anxiety at leaving their belongings now stowed again in the keg, and then walked determinedly towards the rocks. They were covered with dark blue mussels. Taking a loose stone, she pounded against the brittle shells. Several broke off—inside was the flesh of shellfish, familiar, having seen similar at the Portsmouth fish market, next to the wharf where they had boarded the barge taking them to theHindostan.
Nostalgia threatened. No! Wistful thinking would undo all her equanimity—but it was a close-run thing.
That evening, they took off the beadwork aprons and donned their muslin chemises. But the night was cool, and it was only the crackling fire that kept them warm. Shellfishwere boiled in the fire pot, mixed with a little millet, followed by sweet tea. Enough to take them through to Tuesday.
Was theGrosvenorsaved? Would it come back to find them or send a search party? But she had seen the ship’s boat, the cutter, smashed by falling rigging; there would be no rescue by that small boat. Most likely, after the wind had changed, Captain Coxon would hold far out to sea away from this treacherous coast. She could scarcely blame him.
They would stay a full week, in the slight hope a ship would come. On Saturday, she must decide: stay with the village, if there were one, or walk southwards, down the coast to the Cape, and thence to William. Of course, there was but one course of action—she would go south.
***
The evening before, they had placed a handful of glass beads and two brass rings in the wooden bowls—payment for the gift of food.
