Chapter 6: Squire

The ride was a long one, made longer by the incessant chattering of her mother; but arrive they finally did, as the carriage clattered up the extensive drive. A long reflecting pond dominated the front, the speckled flames of sheltered candles illuminating the way. She had never seen such a grand house, and was reminded once again how very little and plain her life was: Liziwe Matiwane, the odd duck verging on spinsterhood. The delicate silk gown she had flattered herself in only an hour before now seemed homely and exceedingly modest and, as she stepped from the carriage in her neat little shoes, she shrank from the grandeur in shame. She could not understand the reasons why she and Edward were being pushed together; she was hardly of the same rank as Mrs Mbovane. Perhaps, the niggling voice in her head spoke, he is just as hopeless as you.

‘‘Ah, Dr and Mrs Matiwane, and Lizi!’’ shrilled Nomthunzi as they ascended the rich trappings of the main stairs. Liziwe glanced up to see the dowager standing regally at the top of the stairs, her plump, bare arms glistening white in the glow of her bejeweled dress. ‘‘So good of you to come! Please, come in; refreshments are further along, and if I am not mistaken the instrumentalists will begin soon. Oh, and, Liziwe dear,’’ beamed Nomthunzi, the cloud of curls adorning her head wobbling precariously, ‘‘I believe Edward is within as well- that is, if you had a mind to look for him.’’ She traded a glance with Miriam which was not nearly as discreet as the two old birds were inclined to believe, the unmistakable twitching of their lips betraying barely withheld sniggers.

A curious breed, women are: and as a woman, Liziwe knew this to the utmost. Two lousy sexes and yet, a great chasm divides at the outset. And not so simple a matter as to simply point a scolding finger at one member of the gender or the other; because remember, dear reader, that three of those fingers will always point back at yourself. This chasm, Liziwe realised, was exacerbated by not only the male’s predilection for keeping the female under his thumb, but by the female in allowing the pattern to linger, as well as condoning its value in society. It was with this in mind that Liziwe privately reaffirmed her views on the state of marriage, and gazed impatiently upon the women who would so arrest her ambitions. But, whispered the sneaky little voice grazing leisurely in the back of her head, it needn’t be so black and white; and if it were to come to it, Edward seems a man who would never willingly force his hand upon you. And so she graced Mrs Mbovane with an amicable smile, and continued into the house.

The musicians, crowded together on a small dais, tuned their instruments haphazardly over the joyful murmur of the crowd. Voices caught and whirled, and laughter rang out in the softly lit living room. She wandered through the throng, greeting politely those she knew and trading simple conversation. More than once a lady’s feathered hair adornment tickled her nose in passing, and the rustle and careful step of heeled shoes and silks formed a waltz all in itself. Naturally, it was the toss of a dark, curled head, and the cut of a deep, rapid voice, that drew her attention: for there he was, the insatiable Mr Edward Skweyiya, interrogating the cellist most voraciously. She hid a smile behind her hand, and approached slowly, wending her way through the chattering crowd.

‘‘I am simply asking,’’ came the irritable voice of Edward Skweyiya, ‘‘why one does not even consider the possibility of employing a string made from another material. Surely in this day and age a musician must be open to using something more sophisticated than a string made of sheep gut; it is perfectly antiquated! Consider: it is true that intestine is flexible, else a man of your girth would be in a fix after consuming an ordinary meal of what is clearly overly adequate proportions. This string has a sweet tone, but ah, the piano, the piano! Picture it, if you will: a steel frame and wire strings, with a synthetic core. And the sound produced is enormous! No richer tone could you possibly find in a pianoforte. Now, the possibilities that could be had from the cello, if only the wire string were employed! But I see my words fall on deaf ears: you’ve scarcely a practice bruise on your fingers. No, you are clearly mediocre; a hired player, nothing more, and therefore beneath my scope of interest.’’

‘‘Well- I- but Sir!’’ spluttered the poor fellow, his face beginning to pale as his peers sniggered behind his back.

‘‘No, no, I will have none of it,’’ interrupted Edward with a wave of his hand, ‘‘it hardly matters, not one of these people will listen for anything aside from a beat. Please, my good men: begin.’’ He turned his back on them succinctly and spotted Liziwe, fighting to hold her laughter in check. His face lit with the innocent joy one often spies in a small boy, when he has found something particularly intriguing and delightful. ‘‘Miss Matiwane!’’ he called loudly, causing some of the guests to turn, ‘‘I am glad you could be here.’’ He had strode forward with impatient steps and, as if realising his eagerness was too plain, slowed himself, bowing awkwardly as he met her.

‘‘I am also glad of it,’’ she responded merrily, ‘‘although I am not sure your words to that poor man were awfully kind. Do you not suppose he might play horribly all the night through, if only to spite you?’’

‘‘Not if he wishes to be hired again.’’

She shook her head at him, smiling in bemusement. ‘‘You fascinate me, Edward- that is to say, I should very much like to see you work, one day- and perhaps even help you, if I may.’’

‘‘That would be well, Miss Matiwane; that would be well indeed.’’

As they studied each other, something inexpressible changed between them; some small and fragile flame flickered into being, carefully unheeded by both these young people whose souls had given it form. ‘‘I...’’ she stammered after a moment, searching desperately for words as the silence between them began to claim importance. The question that finally tumbled from her lips was one she had not given thought to, but came unbidden in a fit of self-assurance, ‘‘Can I persuade you to dance?’’ Her eyes grew wide and horrified as it slipped from her mouth, betraying every thought that had been tucked into the corners of her perceptions.

But the response came easily to his tongue, and was accompanied by a smirk, as if he knew how his own words would affect her. ‘‘No, I am afraid I will have to decline: I abhor dancing in all its forms.’’

‘‘Really!’’ she exclaimed, ‘‘You betray yourself: I can see at this instant your fingers twitching in time to the music.’’

He laughed then, a deep chuckle that made his visage grow lighthearted, and she could not but join with him, sure of the echoes in her own expression. ‘‘Very well,’’ he replied, ‘‘you have caught me. Shall we?’’

‘‘Not entirely,’’ she rejoined, her eyes sparkling, ‘‘But you will have to do.’’ And with that she let him lead her to the floor, where they joined the lines of elegant dancers.

It is rare that we, as humans, say what we mean. This may lie at fault with the incongruity of society; the intricate layerings of words that we introduce into our vocabulary to be sure of an absolute lack of infraction. Words may be limiting, and serve only to frame a verbal exchange; but often they skirt around the edges, leaving truth to take residence in the negative space of ink and paper.

Ah, but expression, my friends: that is a different matter entirely. Expression is that which makes us human; expression is the veracity which lies at the heart of art. This truth can be told in any number of ways, be it in the touch of palm to palm, or the meeting of gleaming eyes between kindred souls. And this veracity was communicated now in the quiver and flow of music and dance, meant for only they two. Liziwe had grown fearless in the light of this honesty, and she found Edward had done the same; the flicker of flame grew between them, nurtured and blown into a cheerful flare between their cupped palms. Their eyes locked, and burned with every leisurely twirl, every careful step laden with meaning. Her thoughts had grown still, and she could not but simply allow herself to feel, perhaps for the first time in her life. Every glance held a lifetime in its embrace, and she found herself breathless at the sheer spectacle of ecstatic blood pumping through her veins. The rustle of her skirts swept past her legs, the coolness of his skin now resting against her own..

As the dance ended, they were both suddenly lost in the absence of music; they had become but two ships on placid waters, cut abruptly free from their moorings. They broke apart awkwardly, and she glanced at the floor, adjusting the tug of a misplaced strand of hair. He scuffed at the polished wood with the sole of his shoe, and it was this time he who floundered in the pursuit for words. But at last he spoke, in a voice both uncomfortable and sincere, ‘‘You look lovely tonight, Liziwe.’’

She smiled up at him tentatively, with true warmth in her glance. He had captured her this night, she knew it now with a certainty she could not deny. But before her very eyes, he changed from the peculiar, charming young man she had grown to know and care for, into a cold and derisive Mr Skweyiya she was not sure she knew at all. His eyes turned inward, shuttered and hard; his demeanour became that of a much older and disdainful man. He disappeared into himself with such practiced ease that the transformation jarred her completely, and she took a step back. It had all happened within the space of a moment, and he continued speaking hurriedly, looking away. ‘‘That is, of course, physiologically speaking, you look…well. Am I correct in assuming that you have just completed your menses?’’

He will always be one to keep you on your toes, she thought viciously, as her expression darkened. ‘‘Mr Skweyiya, those words are- ‘‘

‘‘A letter, Mr Skweyiya,’’ interrupted the voice of a flustered servant, bobbing by his elbow. Where he had come from was anybody’s guess. Edward looked down his nose at the servant, who anxiously proffered a silver tray on which lay a singularly unspectacular looking parchment. He looked at it irritably before snatching it up, breaking the seal with annoyance. ‘‘I will take this in my room. Miss Matiwane, if you will excuse me- ‘‘he turned on his heel before she could say a word, beating a hasty retreat by the side door. The servant glanced at her apologetically before disappearing, and she was left, quite suddenly, in a room which had felt warm and engaging only moments before.

Liziwe fought to keep her expression smooth, the turmoil of fury roiling in her bosom at odds with the need to keep a calm exterior. The sheer depravity of his declaration had left her somewhat troubled; for it was not the words themselves that had disturbed her so, but the coldness in which they had been uttered. It was as if he had deliberately raised a wall by leaving all sense of propriety trampled in the dust. Perhaps he feared he had made his feelings toward her too observable; or perhaps they had not been his feelings at all.

She cared not, she decided stubbornly, and made her way to one of the many chairs lining the room. Her footsteps felt heavy and disinclined, and she seated herself without much care to how it must look. Once again she had become a curious, lonely woman, with nothing but the thoughts in her head to thrust her forward. She wondered privately if she ought even to address Edward, if he ever reappeared.

A shadow crept over her as she mused, and she scarcely glanced up at the change of lighting. ‘‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss?’’ said the shadow, in a voice light and smooth as glass. A gloved hand had extended itself into the periphery of her vision, unfurling its nimble fingers; but she paid it no heed, allowing herself instead to brood. ‘‘No,’’ she groused irritably. ‘‘I am sorry to say that I am in no mood to dance. You will have to forgive me.’’

But as she raised her head to address the meddler in her affairs, her breath caught in her throat. The hand had disappeared, but the man it belonged to stepped closer, into the tight circle of her comfort. He was without a doubt the specter from the Church, come to greet her in the flesh. His manner was polished and mild, his demeanour dark and refined, and he leaned towards her, the blackness of his eyes peering into her own. ‘‘It is a pity,’’ he spoke in an airy voice- but did not continue.

Liziwe found herself caught once again in the depth of his stare; and a hidden malice was found within, at odds with his refined deportment. He took another step closer, so close that she could see every one of his dark lashes, and the set of his severe, yet sensual, mouth. She stood swiftly, her own eyes darkening in panic as they darted past him- but her back felt the cold finality of the wall behind her, and though the room was full of people, none had eyes for the scene being played right under their noses. She sidled discreetly along the wall, anxiety flooding through her as he stepped ever closer, a predacious smile curling the corners of his lips. In a fit of agitation Liziwe pushed fiercely at a chair to open her way, tipping it with a loud crash. Only now had attention been called to herself, and whispers began to fill the room as eyes turned their way; but the man spoke again, stepping quickly to block her passage one last time, caring not for the hasty steps of men and servants come to marshal away. ‘‘I will ask once more, in the future, Miss Matiwane... just once. Good evening.’’ And as she opened her mouth to ask how he knew her name, he whirled rapidly around, disappearing into the depths of the room and out into the night.

On steps grown strong from adrenaline, she flew after him, one hand gripping her skirts in a manner she knew was entirely indecent; but the knowledge held no flame to the need to know who this man was, or what his attentions meant. She followed him though he had left no trace, hastening down the grass and out the gate- but he had been swallowed by the night. Her blood pounded in her ears, and she knew, deep in the recesses of her soul, that in this man’s presence was something that had been waiting for her; a secret fear that had been locked away all her life, only to be finally freed. He was the storm in her dreams, the whisper on the Northern Surge; and he had come, at last, to pluck her from the close embrace of Tyoborha. A scream should have passed her lips, as her eyes grew wild, and the lurch of her heart grew louder still- but she made no noise, and instead gasped one heavy breath, and then another. If the steady cultivation of her character had taught her anything, it was that a woman in a man’s world must be strong. She had grasped this knowledge readily, and now used it to steel herself. She was Liziwe Matiwane; she knew who she was, and just as no man was her keeper, she would face her fears herself. Slowly, she steadied her pulse, and the night stilled into the whisper of the breeze over the reflecting pond. It was with grim determination that she stared out into the darkness, seeking answers that would come only with time.

So intent was she that she did not hear Edward’s footsteps as he came to stand behind her, his eyes narrowing into the dark. ‘‘What is it?’’ he enquired sharply, glancing at her with furrowed brows.

‘‘Oh, heavens, Edward!’’ she gasped, her hand flying to her breast. ‘‘It is only you- you gave me a fright!’’

‘‘Did you see something? You look nearly white as a sheet,’’ he moved further down the grassy path as if to inspect the very shadows, his footfalls crunching against the crushed stone.

‘‘Nothing, it is nothing!’’ she said quickly. He turned to look at her queerly, pacing back to stand in front of her- but then shook his head, as if thrusting whatever idea he had had firmly away. ‘‘I must leave, Miss Matiwane- Liziwe- but I- ‘‘

‘‘Leave? But to where, at this hour?’’ she queried concernedly. In her encounter with the dark man, she had all but forgotten about her exchange with Edward; but his agitation was so intensely pronounced that her disappointment in him was brought back to the fore. She pursed her lips and looked directly into his face: his eyes, so different from that of her apparition, were shot through with shame, and she was glad to see it. He had become again Edward, perhaps a bit rough about the edges, but the coldness had dropped from his manner; once again he seemed human.

‘‘Liziwe,’’ he said in a low voice, ‘‘There is a case, in East London, that will not wait. That letter you saw- it was from Professor Barland. I must go, at once.’’ He had the grace to look disappointed, though all the while she could see the cogs of his mind beginning to whir in anticipation. ‘‘Oh,’’ she replied, looking away into the murky darkness of the pond. ‘‘What sort of case?’’ She could not keep the dejection from her voice, and a smile twitched at his lips.

‘‘Murder,’’ he replied enthusiastically, his eyes twinkling, ‘‘And a good one, at that: a classic locked-room mystery!’’

‘‘How intriguing,’’ she mused, finding it hard to be untouched by his growing energy. ‘‘You must write me, then, Edward, and inform me of how it was done.’’

‘‘You may count on it, Miss Matiwane. And please, do forgive my earlier behaviour, it was…unkind of me.’’ he said steadily, and turned to leave, dashing towards the carriage which had begun to clatter up from the stables, his scarce belongings already strapped high to its roof. The door swung open and, with one foot already in, he turned once again, one brow quirked upward. ‘‘Oh, and Miss Matiwane, it was a truth: you really do look quite… beautiful, tonight,’’ and then the door was slammed, the whips raised, and the horses charged took to galloping.

Liziwe was left in the coolness of the night, the breeze tugging at her tresses as she watched the carriage’s lantern curtsy away. It disappeared into the distance, winking at her like a multitude of stars. She turned her face upwards into the heavens, basking in the moon’s lustrous reception, and let out a great sigh. Yes, she thought, releasing herself into the tug of the wind, This would be a night to remember.