The Diamond Hunter Page 9

  There. He’d finally allowed the idea to be exposed. As weeks of churning thoughts coalesced into one, it felt like he was sinking into a bath of soothing warm water.

  Clementine’s trust fund had been set up by her grandfather and massively boosted by the death of her mother and the imminent death of her grandmother. It meant the little girl was presently worth a true fortune.

  He murmured on. ‘I just need to have access for a short while so I can save her fortune and save her heritage. I am doing this for her.’ It felt comforting to outline his plan to another being. ‘She is a child, after all. She needs so little right now. But her livelihood is what I must protect; I’ve promised Lilian I will safeguard her granddaughter’s future and all that my father set up. If I can do this, then I know I will make my father proud and Lilian can go to her death with some regard for me. Above all, I will have done something important in the memory of my sister. I will look after her child as if she were my own.’

  A woman strolled over to him, and he halted his conversation with his bovine companion.

  The newcomer was the only spinster in the wagon party. Much to Reggie’s despair, she and her father had been allocated to his wagon, and as Reggie had dreaded, she was taking a keen interest in his welfare. They were forty days into a tedious and challenging forty-two-day journey and the message of his indifference was not getting through to her.

  ‘Ah, Miss Hampton, how kind of you,’ he said, pushing away his vexation and politely accepting the tin mug Anne had brought to him. Good manners that had been drummed – sometimes beaten – into him at boarding school.

  ‘You looked so engrossed in your writing, Mr Grant, but I didn’t want you to miss out on the coffee we have made. It’s a lovely brew.’

  ‘That’s most generous, thank you,’ he said, knowing that his smile was dangerously inviting but sure that behaving churlishly would be short-sighted. Her father, Percy, was a wealthy landowner in southern England. He had been in Cape Town for many months acquiring land and was now travelling up to Kimberley with his daughter to see whether property there might deliver rich takings down the track. He was even talking about buying some diamond claims. Reggie had learned from his father that it never hurt to extend one’s business network, and so he and Percy had taken to sharing brandy and a cigar each evening, just the two of them, quietly discussing business.

  Reggie couldn’t be sure that he would never need Percy Hampton’s contacts or influence. It wouldn’t be wise to burn the connection so he kept his charm flowing with the man’s daughter. This balancing act took a nerveless approach: he could offend by simply refusing tonight’s mug or later her more intense advances. Anne Hampton was clearly on the hunt for a husband and had decided that he was sound material. Somehow he had to try to keep her appeased yet not lead her on too far.

  ‘Shall I sit awhile with you, Mr Grant? I would hate for you to feel lonely.’

  He wished she would observe the etiquette that she was not chaperoned and should not be joining him. However, it seemed the usual rules did not apply when travelling by ox wagon. ‘By all means,’ he said, sounding far more gracious aloud. ‘Although I should assure you that I am a man who finds peace in his own company. To be truthful, I was just thinking of turning in for the night.’ He felt awkward that he couldn’t stand politely to help her, given he was sitting on the ground and balancing a mug. ‘There’s a convenient boulder,’ he said, pointing, glad it was sufficiently removed that she wouldn’t crowd him but not so far away as to make the suggestion rude. ‘Could that act as a seat for you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she gushed, moving over to arrange herself. She straightened her many skirts and he had to admire how composed and neat she looked, sitting so straight-backed on a stone in the middle of an African desert. She’d removed the bustle for the journey but he was sure that once they reached the town of Kimberley, she would be straight back into full formal attire.

  ‘It’s extraordinary how you ladies manage to keep so clean and pretty despite the dust, the heat, the inconvenience of this terrible journey.’ Reggie deliberately kept it general, not singling her out for admiration.

  ‘Not enjoying it, Mr Grant?’

  ‘Can anyone?’ he asked. ‘I feel like we’re on an expedition to build a new world at times.’

  They smiled and both took a moment to peer through the night towards the piled-up familiar shapes of furniture, household goods, timber, machinery and corrugated sheeting that the oxen hauled north across the vast desert to build new towns. One of their party’s wagons was lugging a portable steam engine to provide power at the Big Hole.

  ‘I am of the opinion, Mr Grant, that the desert is to these transport riders what the sea is to sailors.’

  ‘Born wanderers, you think?’

  ‘Searching for something, perhaps?’ She sounded wistful and he suspected she was referring to herself.

  ‘Believing they may find it in the dark heart of Africa?’ He disguised his sarcasm with a light tone and a grin.

  Predictably, she laughed. ‘I must sound like a silly romantic to you.’

  Reggie swallowed his coffee and gave a sigh as though readying to bring his evening to a close. ‘I see no harm in adopting that view on life, Miss Hampton. There are more than enough of us cynics.’ He changed the subject. ‘Have you noticed, Miss Hampton, that all the oxen have individual characters?’ That should throw her right off the scent.

  She looked at him aghast in the moonlight. ‘Are you making fun of me, Mr Grant?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘I have noted that each has a unique personality, and the skill of the transport men is to know how that ox behaves: some lead, others follow and some are more prone to skittishness.’

  ‘And this beast here?’ she inquired with a smile, playing along.

  He deliberately answered her with care and gravity. ‘They call this fellow Themba. It means “trusted”. Knowing where to place them in the line is vital to a successful journey, I’ve discovered, and much care and training goes into putting together a team of oxen with the right handler.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ she remarked, sounding impressed.

  ‘I didn’t either until I spent some time with the drivers.’

  ‘Where is Themba placed?’ she asked, her smile widening.

  ‘Ah, well, Themba is at the front. He is patient and can be trusted not to panic, not to lead the less reliable animals astray and not to tire first. He also knows how to lower his head when yoked and put his greatest force in pulling forward. I dare not bore you, Miss Hampton, with the science of the bull’s head and the angle when it is relaxing in a field untethered as compared to that angle when it is urged to pull a great weight. It is believed the greatest strength passes through the root of its horns.’ Was he really having this conversation, he paused to wonder, and privately congratulated himself on his brilliance at being somehow engaging and empty at once.

  ‘So Themba is the lead ox?’ She had been paying attention, it seemed.

  ‘Indeed, and my favourite. It seems we’ve been fortunate – I’ve heard unsettling tales of broken wheels having to be repaired, and about the trauma of having to right a capsized wagon with a big load and a trapped ox. How does one keep that ox calm; how to care for it?’

  She shook her head in wide-eyed fascination.

  It was true, he’d learned plenty about these teams. ‘I was talking to one of our drivers, Henry, who told me that the most feared obstacles are the foot-high tree stumps. That’s one of the jobs of the young African lads who run out ahead of us.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Jan must spot the stumps and alert the driver. Hitting a stump can drop the wagon in a dead shock that more often than not results in a violent swerve, which produces panic in the animals and, most chillingly, can result in the main wagon pole being snapped. That can mean many days of delay, frustration and the rationing of water and so on.’

  ‘Good heavens, Mr Grant
. I do hope we cover the next days without incident.’

  ‘Fear not, Miss Hampton. It’s only two days, I’m delighted to say,’ he said, meaning it.

  Anne Hampton didn’t respond to his assurances, instead tilting her chin as a signal for him to look up to the heavens. ‘Until I came to Africa the night sky held no interest for me,’ she remarked. That wistful tone, which he thought he’d sent packing, was creeping into her voice again. ‘But will you look at that velvet ceiling of twinkling wonder?’ she breathed, sounding awed.

  It was certainly a bright moonlit evening, and looking at the elegant shape of her neck as she craned to admire the starlight, he felt an uncharacteristic disappointment that he didn’t feel any attraction to this woman – or indeed any woman – in the way she would want to be admired. She had so much to offer: beauty, fine manners, a good family name – and an increasingly wealthy one at that. Anne Hampton would not have to worry about her future. Reggie believed her only worry to be securing a good husband, who perhaps would marry her for love first and foremost and give her a happy life.

  He toyed with it for a heartbeat. Could he? No. It would be a lifetime of misery for both of them. Her feeling cheated in every possible manner and running to Daddy. His problem could not be revealed.

  Poor Anne, searching for a husband. He felt sure there would be many suitors who would marry her for cynical reasons. No doubt this was why the old man kept his eligible daughter so close. Sadly, he now realised, they were both sizing him up, and those quiet fireside chats with old man Hampton were assessing his potential as a husband without any genuine interest in their conversation. Well, he needed to find a gentle way to extricate himself from the increasingly sticky web she was weaving.

  ‘Do you know much about the stars, Mr Grant?’ she remarked.

  ‘No. I’m the antithesis of a romantic, Miss Hampton.’ He dropped his voice to a sad murmur. ‘I am the archetypal realist.’

  ‘You make that sound like an unenviable quality, Mr Grant,’ she commented, not moving her eyes from the inky sea of the southern skies. ‘As though the trait is villainous.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to think that, Miss Hampton. Let’s agree instead that life has taught me to be an all-round pragmatist.’ And with that he feigned a yawn, shaking his head in apology. ‘Do forgive me, Miss Hampton.’

  ‘I do wish you would call me Anne.’

  ‘Again, my apologies, Anne,’ he said with a slight bow of his head, ‘for such weariness.’

  ‘Well, you walked beside the wagons all day, Mr Grant. That probably accounts for it.’

  So, she was watching his every move, it seemed. He wanted to admit that walking the journey avoided the mind-numbingly boring conversation within the wagon. ‘At home, I fence and ride most days. I feel obliged to keep up my exercise regime.’

  ‘It’s why you cut a fine figure, sir.’ She laughed.

  He tipped the coffee mug in her direction. ‘Thank you again for the kindness. Can I walk you back to the fireside?’ He assisted her to her feet, pausing while she fussed to right her skirts which were already well smoothed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Although it was not offered, she took his arm and caught him unawares. Good grief. Now he was trapped, for to do anything other than smile politely and walk arm in arm with her to the fire would fall into the realm of the very churlishness he had been avoiding. Anne Hampton was making sure that everyone else in their party was aware of their conviviality, giving them all a grand view of them walking back to the large bonfire where later the men would sleep, while the women retired to tented accommodation.

  Is she staking her claim? he wondered. Dismantle her hopes now, urged a voice in his mind.

  He slowed their approach. ‘I never did share why I’ve come to Africa, have I, Miss Hampton?’

  ‘No, Mr Grant. You are indeed rather mysterious about your journey.’

  He gave a mirthless gust of laughter. ‘Hardly mysterious, but I’ll admit I’m a private person. I’ve kept it to myself because it’s for sad reasons that I journey to the interior.’ He briefly explained about Clementine’s situation.

  She stopped walking now, turning towards him, the others forgotten momentarily. ‘You mean you’re taking on your sister’s child?’

  ‘Indeed. That is precisely what I mean.’ He hadn’t mentioned that Clementine was the daughter of his half-sister, or that she had a living father. ‘My role now is to be the very best guardian to Clementine that I can be; I’m driven to protect her, provide for her, raise her, educate and love her so she can grow up with affection and all the care and comfort that her mother would hope for her to have. My sister did not wish to live in Africa; it is up to me now to give her daughter the life that Louisa had planned for her.’

  ‘How very gallant of you, Mr Grant.’

  Reggie gently extricated himself but continued to guide her the last remaining steps so she barely felt their link was broken. ‘Yes, though I’m not sure the special person in my life is ready for a child in hers,’ he said, making his final and more brutal effort to angle sweet Anne Hampton off his trail.

  The lie caught her unawares. She paused. ‘Oh! Forgive me, Mr Grant. I hadn’t realised there was a Mrs Gr—’

  ‘There isn’t. But there is someone I care about deeply. And I am yet to explain my decision to bring Clementine home with me. You see, when I left, I believed my mission was simply to return her to England, but I’ve arrived at the conclusion that her father’s family are not the right people to raise Clementine. The Grants are her rightful guardians and we have the means and, more to the point, the desire to give this child the upbringing she deserves.’

  Anne Hampton looked crestfallen but she raised her chin. ‘I am filled with admiration for your mission, Mr Grant, and look forward to hearing that little Clementine is safely in your care.’

  She held up her hand and he duly placed a light peck upon her skin, confident that her hopes for him as a serious contender for marriage had been dashed.

  ‘Sleep well, Miss Hampton,’ he said. ‘See you in the morning.’ He let go of her hand and, after turning to nod at the others who were surreptitiously watching them, he took his leave to unfurl his bed-roll and sleep beneath one of the unhitched wagons with a sense of relief.

  7

  KIMBERLEY, CAPE COLONY

  May 1872

  Two men and a little girl stared at the small pile of crumbled rock on a table fashioned from old shipping crates. The table was propped up against one of the walls of the hut they called home, one leg sitting on a wad of newspapers because it wobbled badly.

  James Knight sat on a rickety chair he’d bought off a travelling tinker, his daughter sitting on his lap, while their closest friend, Joseph One-Shoe, sat on his haunches. He had adopted this position since he was old enough to walk around alone, and the Knights had been assured it was no discomfort to him, or insult, to be without a timber chair.

  The crudely fashioned door of their corrugated-iron hut was closed. The slit of morning light that squeezed around its poorly aligned edges felt all the brighter because they’d so deliberately shut out the rest of the world. They knew this privacy wouldn’t last and so here they sat, rigid with tension, preparing to make their most important collective decision. Behind them on a bench were the remains of a breakfast they’d shared; normally they’d clear up immediately but that meant going outside to draw water. Instead, scraps of porridge slowly hardened onto tin bowls and three quarter-drunk mugs of tea turned filmy as the washing-up was ignored.

  A stirring of the dust on the table by a sudden gust of wind outside gave extra focus to what they all gazed upon.

  Even in its rough form it had its own fire within.

  ‘It’s a monster. There’s no other word for it,’ James said, none of the previous day’s awe lost from his voice.

  Neither adult had looked at their find since the moment they’d discovered it. Now it was revealed in their private space. Around it, in varying levels of quality,
shimmered other diamonds, tiny in comparison.

  ‘It’s the conker, Daddy,’ Clementine murmured, more thrilled that her father seemed sober and himself today for the first time in what felt like an age.

  ‘Yes, it is, darlin’. What do you think, Joseph?’

  The Zulu didn’t answer immediately, giving it his full attention. Finally, he spoke. ‘It frightens me,’ he admitted.

  Clementine gave him a smile. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It’s dangerous, Miss Clementine.’

  She looked up at her father and noticed that all the skin of his face was shrunken and fell into the hollows around his eyes and at his cheeks. She’d seen a skeleton in a picture book and it was horrible but she had begun to think her daddy looked like that skeleton. She could feel the bones of his legs through his trousers and the angles of his body meant it was no longer comfy to cuddle up close to him. Today he had no fever, though.

  ‘Because bad men may steal it?’ The little girl looked between both her favourite people now. ‘Because they may hurt us?’

  James sighed and nodded. ‘You catch on fast, Clem, and you’re not to worry. No one but the three people in this room —’ he touched her chest, then his own, and squeezed Joseph’s shoulder for effect — ‘even know about these diamonds. Not a soul other than us knows about the conker.’