The Diamond Hunter Read online

  She knew the butterfly instantly. The sight of it trapped her voice, and the sensuality that had been sparkling through her fled. Now, even though it was suffocatingly warm in the hothouse, she felt chilled. Clem could swear there was a ringing somewhere deep inside, like church bells.

  She felt instantly illuminated and free. It was as if a door was yawning open and she was being ushered through it – back to childhood, the butterfly her guide. She could smell Africa; she could taste it on the wind and hear the haunting sounds of the wilderness in her soul. It was spring in Kimberley and butterflies were emerging to paint the air with their bright orange wings. As a child she had always thought that a famed artist must have come up with the elegant design painted on their wings, the orange striking against the black and white tips.

  ‘We call these tigers,’ Will offered, unaware of the profound effect of her seeing one again.

  ‘And we called them African queens,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ve never heard that,’ he said with an intrigued smile.

  Her voice felt as though it were travelling from far away to speak in the dense humidity of a glasshouse in southern England. ‘No, it’s a familiar name, used only in the Cape. It was Joseph One-Shoe who taught me that name for them. He knew all the creatures of our region. And while you know them in Latin, he knew them by their tribal names as well as how they were known in English or Afrikaans. Why did he have to die, Will? Why does everyone I love have to die?’

  It was Will who spoke first into a silence so taut she could feel the power of its straining tension, desperate to spring back and release them. ‘I’m sorry, Clementine.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Don’t apologise. This is an old hurt. I normally have it under control but just sometimes when the mood catches me off guard, I get sentimental. All this beauty, and to see these African queens again . . .’ She shook her head as if unable to finish.

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He may have been thirty or so when we met. What people don’t understand, and I only grasped as an adult, was that the diamond diggings were different. The Africans may have been segregated in other parts of Africa, but in New Rush the police force was made up of pretty thuggish men who weren’t above breaking the law themselves, and the military had no real reach that far out – it meant we all sort of did our best to get along as one. A lot of the Africans worked shoulder to shoulder with the white men, and many of them were friends. Joseph was quite simply part of my family. I can remember that a lot of the native Africans who worked as diggers had begun to cleave to our ways and thought of themselves as civilised colonials, as opposed to the tribespeople who had not yet fallen under the influence of Europeans. Both white and black would refer to these people from outside our digging community as “blanket kaffirs”.’ She shook her head. ‘Uncle Reggie never understood the relationship we had with Joseph, but he’d never lived outside his cosseted world in England.’

  ‘And why, how, did Joseph die so young?’

  ‘Some sort of poisoning. I kept nagging Uncle Reggie for information about it, so he made contact with the locals via his London club. They somehow got word back that he’d succumbed to an illness, but I never had any detail. Besides, Joseph knew how to cook cassava.’ At his look of query she shrugged, as if to say an explanation of the vegetable wasn’t worth pursuing.

  ‘And you trust what you were told?’

  ‘I had to – I was a child. I had no voice.’

  ‘But now you do.’

  ‘Yes. Now I have a voice. I have the means. I have the desire. I’m going to find where he’s buried and do the right thing for him; for my parents, too. I must visit their graves.’

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To find him. I have contacts, perhaps even better than your uncle’s network. My club can reach out to the Kimberley Club with a simple telegram.’

  Clem grinned. ‘They have the telephone, too – and the railway, and electricity. It’s one of the most modern communities in the world. Apparently being in a desert on a distant continent is no hardship when the land yields a fortune every day for the company that mines it.’

  ‘Then a telephone call might be all it takes to get your hunt started in earnest. May I help you?’

  ‘Will, you hardly know me.’

  ‘I know you, Clementine,’ he said, and reached for her.

  Unaware of any conscious decision to do so, Clem moved into his arms as butterflies took wing and they held one another.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her cheek against his chest. In the silence she could hear his heartbeat: it was powerfully rhythmic against her ear and Clem felt a new stirring. She moved away from it by stepping back. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘And the honey?’

  He gave a burst of laughter. ‘I forgot about it. Let me show you.’

  Will was grateful for the warmth of the glasshouse, which was to all intents staining his cheeks with colour. He was not used to this feeling of wanting to please someone because it mattered so much. ‘This doesn’t always work, I must tell you,’ he qualified as he retrieved the jar.

  ‘Mr Axford, you cannot tease a girl and then disappoint.’

  ‘Never my intention,’ he assured her humbly. ‘Here goes.’ He lifted the large cork stopper and the viscous honey winked at him, all the richer for the dull light around it. He dipped a forefinger in gently and pulled out a glistening whorl of stickiness which he proceeded to daub on his nose, much to Clementine’s surprised delight.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Be patient,’ he said, but they didn’t have to wait long.

  It was one of the passing African tiger butterflies that landed on his nose.

  ‘They taste with their feet,’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  He made a gesture as though crossing his heart. ‘It works better with sugar syrup, I’ll be honest. But my uncle used to do this to amuse me. It’s fun to keep the tradition alive.’

  ‘Priceless,’ she admitted. ‘Thank you. I needed that.’

  ‘Come on, do you feel like a walk? I have one more surprise.’

  ‘How can a girl resist?’ she said, and he felt as though the butterflies had landed briefly and then taken flight in his heart.

  22

  The late afternoon was mild for November but by the time they’d ascended Primrose Hill their breath was still steaming out of them like the famous Puffing Billy of the north from decades ago.

  They stopped to catch their breath, Will clutching a pair of blankets he’d insisted upon carrying.

  ‘We’re lucky the place is deserted.’

  ‘Are you worried about a chaperone again, Will?’

  He hesitated and then admitted it with a nod. ‘It’s your reputation I care about.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Because I don’t really care if the gossipmongers talk. They have no idea that you are honourable and I am impervious to your charm.’ She grinned.

  ‘Aunt Esme is sending someone up the hill for appearances’ sake.’

  She shrugged as if to say, So be it.

  ‘Do you see that oak over there on the slope?’ Will pointed back to where they’d hiked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It was planted nearly one and a half centuries ago, when it was called “Shakespeare’s Tree”, to mark three hundred years since his birth.’

  ‘Good grief,’ she said. ‘And it’s still flourishing.’

  ‘Just,’ he said. ‘I’m very fond of it. Uncle Fred would bring me here and tell me that tree held the wisdom of England in its heart.’

  ‘And you thought you could gain some?’

  He lifted a shoulder almost shyly.

  ‘I was a child who needed reassurance. It felt like the tree could give it to me when I touched it.’

  ‘Reassurance for what, Will?’

  ‘That my mother’s death wasn
’t my fault; when I was little I believed I should have somehow saved her. Also, that my father’s unhappiness wasn’t either.’

  ‘Oh, Will. Truly?’

  ‘Fret not. I did work it out for myself. But while my childhood was privileged it was also a little grim, other than when I was here with my aunt and uncle.’

  ‘We both have lots to thank our uncles for.’

  He threw her a look that said, Touché.

  Will had something on his mind – of this she had no doubt. They were circling each other from a polite enough distance but it felt as though their heartstrings were reaching out to each other and deliberately snagging, weaving themselves together tightly.

  It felt exciting, yet also easy – as though this coming together had been predetermined somewhere in the stars. The stars. She closed her eyes momentarily and reached out.

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘I’m fine. I keep being reminded of the stars, as if they’re important.’

  ‘Ah, good. It’s why we’re here.’

  ‘I wondered why you’d bring me so late.’

  ‘There’s a police constable patrolling. You have nothing to fear.’

  She opened her eyes to look at his earnest expression. It was like their own special secret.

  ‘Nor does it occur to me to worry.’

  ‘Come on,’ he urged, offering a crooked elbow. ‘We have the hilltop to ourselves.’

  As they crested the hill and looked back, Clementine let out a sigh of pleasure. ‘Will, you’ve given me another beautiful gift. I’ve never seen London from this vantage.’

  He smiled. ‘The best is coming.’

  Clem watched him unroll one blanket, liking the way he moved. He was her counterpoint; all sharp angles against her neat curves. His strong jaw angled down from its pronounced hinge beneath his neatly fashioned ear towards his pointed chin. His precise nose was straight, with not so much as a rogue ridge. Even the darker line of his lashes had no gradient, as though they’d required a mere horizontal skim of his maker’s pencil. His obedient features barely cast shadows across the planes of his face. Nothing out of place with Will Axford. Tidy in his appearance, his mind, his words and his emotions.

  He turned to offer a hand to help her sit down and the smile that moved across his orderly lips made her want to disorder them with a kiss. She hoped he couldn’t read her thought because he’d already shown a remarkable tendency to answer a question before it was asked.

  ‘Aunt Esme kindly sent some refreshment. Look.’

  Clem could see a man hurrying up the hill with a basket.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  He chuckled. ‘I think she wants you to feel welcomed.’

  ‘What’s on her mind?’

  His eyes lowered and he tugged at some grass. ‘Keen for you to like me.’

  ‘I do like you, Will. I did from the moment I met you.’

  He still didn’t raise his gaze. ‘I’m usually a bit brusque around women – or so Esme insists. She made me promise I’d be a generous listener to you.’

  Clem opened her mouth to speak but he anticipated this and continued. ‘Before you leap in and ask if it required some sort of coaching from my aunt, the answer is no. I find you easy to talk to . . . easy to be with – and that’s not easy to admit.’ He shrugged, smiling in his own defence.

  The fellow arrived. ‘Mr Axford, sir. I’m Johnny. I was asked to bring this up from the main house and to, er, wait.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Will pulled a farthing from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it; the man caught the copper expertly.

  ‘Thanking you, sir.’

  ‘Are you happy to sit on that bench over there?’ Will pointed halfway back down the hill.

  ‘I am, sir. I shall have a quiet smoke, if that’s all right with you.’ They watched him retreat.

  ‘Is that our chaperone?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Soon he was an indistinct huddle on the distant bench, until both of them forgot he was there.

  Clem noticed now how quickly dusk had crept across the skyline. The Houses of Parliament and the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral were thrown into sombre silhouette as a moody purple began to pull a blanket across the sky.

  Will unpacked the basket and they munched on ham sandwiches with a tangy pickle in a companionable silence as Nature put on a colourful show in the heavens.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘A little.’

  He unfolded the other blanket and offered to place it around her shoulders. ‘May I?’

  She nodded and enjoyed feeling his careful attention as he draped the woolly cocoon around her.

  ‘Tuck yourself in.’

  ‘Thank you for this, Will.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Esme wouldn’t —’

  ‘No, I mean for this.’ She gestured towards the darkening vista. ‘It’s beautiful – and earlier, the butterfly house.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me. It is a true pleasure, to be able to share these places with you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t bring all your female companions here?’

  ‘I’ve never brought anyone here, other than Uncle Freddie’s favourite bulldog, Nelson. I had to carry him most of the way up the hill.’

  She giggled, and felt a fresh eruption of warmth at the thought that this place belonged only to her in Will’s mind.

  ‘Well, you’ve given me two special gifts today, for which I’m grateful.’ She liked him so much for not trying to impress her with fancy entertainment or chocolates and bouquets of flowers. ‘No doubt you write poetry in your spare time. I think you’re a romantic at heart.’

  ‘I hope so, Clem. I think the world needs romantics.’

  It was the right answer. She felt herself melt a little closer.

  ‘Aren’t you cold as well?’

  He turned his hand into a fist and pumped his biceps.

  She laughed and opened up her blanket. ‘Come on, no one’s watching.’

  He looked around and she realised his conservatism was showing now. ‘I won’t offer again,’ she warned him.

  Will allowed her to enclose him within the blanket. Clem felt sure his aunt had deliberately chosen this one for its generous size. Perhaps she had gone so far as to hope that this particular situation might occur? She was pleased to have the sense of the older woman shoving them together as if pushing them in the back – if that’s what was occurring.

  She had no time to think on this further because Will was letting cold air into their shared cocoon as he pointed.

  ‘This is why I brought you here.’

  She followed his line of sight. ‘The North Star?’

  He nodded. ‘I know how much you love the night sky, so I thought you might enjoy gazing at it from this lookout, away from the light of the city.’

  She glanced once more at the horizon, which was surrendering its day into night, but the battle was on. A cauldron of boiling ambers and scarlets were fighting to the death. Meanwhile, a heavy shroud of imperial purple dipped like a crusading army to overwhelm their efforts, blanketing their fire.

  Clem returned her attention to where the North Star winked its sparkling eye at them from the velvet of the universe, feeling something of a seismic shift inside herself towards Will. It wasn’t just his romantic nature that had softened her gaze and banished her defences. It turned out he possessed qualities she couldn’t help but admire – in truth, there was so much to like about him, to fall for. Or was it too late? Had she already fallen? Being needy was not her way, and yet how wonderful it felt to need someone. It was something more than that, though, and this was her most intense surprise: she desired him. Her life since returning to England had been one of adoration and affection, wanting for nothing – until this moment. No one had inflamed her passions but now her heartbeat seemed to be making up its own erratic rhythm. It made her throat ache softly but in a way she hoped might never stop.

  He pointed. ‘Well, I know that one, the North Star, brightest star of
our skies – but tell me about the African sky.’

  This remark, which required her to look up and stay focused on that glimmering star of the north, suddenly felt like the edge of a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting through scar tissue to reveal the original wound.

  His words transported her with the same breathless, dizzying speed as the sight of the African queen butterfly had done. Suddenly Clementine was no longer beneath a blanket atop Primrose Hill in 1894 but sitting beside the Big Hole at New Rush, beneath Joseph One-Shoe’s blanket, flanked by her friend and her father. She could see them so clearly now, as if she were standing to one side and watching this strange, close trio. Her father was in the motley outfit she knew so well, a bottle of beer to his lips. Joseph One-Shoe’s clothes were just as ragged; although he blended into the night, the flash of his eyes and his glorious smile lit his face for her. They were laughing with the little girl between them. She had unruly hair and wore a baggy blouse that had belonged to her mother and second-hand trousers that made her look like a little boy – not that she cared. She was pointing at Orion’s Belt and asking what if it broke – would his trousers fall too, and would the stars fall out of the sky?

  It all returned like an old friend. She didn’t need light. She knew the minutiae of Joseph One-Shoe’s face, down to the tiny depression of his chin, as though he’d been dropped when he was knocked out of his mould. His expression was always thoughtful; she had learned that his words were not plentiful, so she’d taught herself to read his forehead instead. His dark eyes had their own light, always giving her comfort and wisdom.

  Oh, Joseph, she thought with despair, gazing towards the horizon, where the earth disappeared to the other side of the world where he was. Are you following me, as you promised you would?

  Will pulled a small silver flask from the basket and flipped off the lid. ‘Aunt Esme’s idea,’ he explained, offering her a sip.

  She barely hesitated before tipping back her head to swallow a tiny mouthful of smooth cognac, which made her think of fruit for the Christmas cake steeping in the kitchen at Woodingdene. Hints of toffee and warm spices came to mind as she gave a soft groan of pleasure and handed back the flask. She watched his lips pucker to take a sip, and just for a moment it felt like a kiss because he hadn’t wiped the mouthpiece.