The Smouldering Flame
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Anne Mather
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CHAPTER ONE
JUST standing still on the concrete platform, Joanna could feel rivulets of sweat running freely down her spine. The thin denim shirt and pants, worn to protect her from the blistering heat of the sun, clung revealingly to her slender figure, and she was not unaware of the many speculative stares from dark eyes cast in her direction. She had been in hot places before, but none so hot as this, and the insanity of trying to find a man she had not seen since she was fourteen years old was rapidly beginning to mean more to her than actually succeeding in her quest. Her father could have had no idea of the conditions here in Lushasa, or he would never have permitted her to come, she told herself. Or would he? Lately, his powers of reasoning had suffered quite a setback.
It had not seemed so insane in the peace and seclusion of the Lakeland fells where she had her home. The idea of a trip to Africa had sounded exciting, a chance of adventure which had unexpectedly come her way, possibly her last chance to do something on her own before settling down to marriage with Philip.
And finding Shannon had not seemed such an impossible pursuit. They had his address—or so they had thought, and the journey to Johannesburg had proved every bit as exciting as she had imagined. But someone else was living in Shannon’s apartment in the high-rise block, and her visit to the government mining company there had proved fruitless. She had merely learned that five years before he had moved on to work for the Lushasan Mining Authority, and they had no forwarding address.
She had gone back to her hotel’ and cabled this news home, half hoping that Philip, who had not been happy about her making the trip in the first place, would be able to persuade her father that she had done all she could. But she ought to have known that Maxwell Carne would not give up so easily. The answering cable had given instructions for her to travel to Menawi, the capital of Lushasa, and contact the mining authorities there.
Menawi, she had found to her surprise, was a fast-developing community, with well laid out shops and offices, modern hotels set in tropical gardens, and air-conditioning. Joanna’s spirits had risen even more when, after checking into an hotel, she had telephoned the Lushasan Mining Authority and discovered that Shannon Carne was indeed employed by them. That he was working some two hundred miles distant at a place called Kwyana had not daunted her either, even though an elderly British couple staying at the hotel had warned her that conditions outside the capital were not half so civilised. She had been informed that there was an adequate train service running between Kwyana and the capital, built she assumed to accommodate the output from the mines, and she had looked forward to seeing something of the countryside.
It was not until she had emerged from the heat-laden atmosphere of the grimy carriage, hauled by a smoke-belching monster of an engine, and found herself on this desolate platform of concrete that she began to doubt the justification of her actions. Two hundred miles in distance meant a hundred years back in time so far as she could see. There was little evidence of the twentieth century here, with scrubland stretching towards purple shadowed mountains on one side of her, and close-set trees and creepers, noisy with the raucous cries of birds she could not begin to identify, encroaching almost to the iron tracks of the railroad on the other. The arrival of the train, and judging by the barriers this was as far as it went, was obviously quite an event. Dozens of Africans dressed in various garb thronged the platform, hauling out crates of supplies and loading other crates aboard. Joanna was amazed that anyone knew which crates had to go where. The confusion was so immense, the noise so deafening, and always the heat to burn through to her prickling skin.
Beyond the peeling station buildings, a collection of shacks could be seen, and Joanna realised that she could not stand here indefinitely. She wondered uneasily how long the train would remain at the station, and whether, if by some terrible coincidence she missed Shannon, she could get back to Menawi that night. She had brought only an overnight case with her, leaving most of her belongings at the hotel.
Near the station barrier, the lorry which was supplying the crates being loaded on to the train bore the lettering: LUSHASAN GOLD MINING AUTHORITY, and her drooping spirits lifted a little. Picking up her case, she endeavoured to thrust her way between the Africans who were causing such an uproar, brushing against gleaming black bodies, aromatic with sweat, striped tent-like garments, denims and ordinary European gear.
The man in charge of the off-loading was not African, but neither was he wholly European. Joanna guessed he was a mixture of both, with handsome olive-skinned features and curly dark hair. His dark eyes widened to an incredible degree when he saw a white girl pushing her way towards him, and he spat commands at the Africans still blocking her path so that she could reach him without further effort. In a mud-coloured bush shirt and shorts, his sleeves circled with sweat, he nevertheless represented sanity in a world gone mad.
‘Mademoiselle!’ he exclaimed, giving her a perfunctory bow. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez? Ce n’est pas—’
‘Oh, please,’ Joanna broke in, ‘do you speak any English?’ Her French, remembered from schooldays, was not very good, and she prayed that this man had some knowledge of her own language.
‘Yes, mademoiselle, I speak English.’ The man gestured to the gaping Africans to get on with the unloading. ‘But what is an English young lady doing here?’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘You cannot be travelling alone?’
His accent was attractive, but Joanna was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘I am travelling alone, yes—’ she was beginning, only to be interrupted by a flow of invective from his lips as one of the Africans dropped a crate right behind them. After a moment, her companion turned back to her and apologised, indicating that she should go on.
Joanna tried to gather her thoughts, but this was all so strange to her, not least the way this man could switch from smiling urbanity to obviously crude abuse in seconds.
Forcing herself to ignore their faintly hostile audience, she said: ‘Could you direct me to the mine, please?’
‘The mine, mademoiselle?’
‘You are from the gold mine, aren’t you?’ Joanna made an involuntary movement towards the lettering on the cab of the lorry.
He looked in that direction himself, and then swung his head curiously back to her. ‘You want to go to the mine, mademoiselle?’
Joanna tried not to feel impatient. ‘Obviously.’
He shrugged, tipping his head to one side. ‘The mine is over there, mademoiselle.’ He indicated the distant mountains.
Joanna stared in dismay towards the purple-shrouded range. ‘But that must be—five or ten miles away!’
‘Seven, to be exact,’ her companion informed her, thrusting his hands into the hip pockets of his shorts.
‘Seven miles!’ Joanna’s echo of his words was anguished.
‘Why do you wish to go to the mine, mademoiselle?’ the man asked softly.
Discarding prevarication, Joanna sighed. ‘I’ve come to find my brother. I believe he works for the mining company. Shannon Carne?’
The man beside her looked surprised. ‘Mr Carne is your brother?’
‘My half-brother, yes.’
‘Half-brother?’ He frowned. ‘What is this?’
Joanna felt like telling him it was none of his business, but so far as she knew he might present her only chance of reaching the mine.
‘It means we had the same father—different mothers,’ she explained shortly. ‘He is there, then? You do know him?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’ The man bowed his head. ‘I know Mr Carne. But—’ His eyes flickered over her for a moment. ‘I did not know he had a—sister.’
There was something offensive in his appraisal, and Joanna felt her flesh crawl. But short of alienating the only person who might offer her a lift to the mine, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps he thought she was only masquerading as Shannon’s sister. Perhaps wives or girl-friends were not allowed at the mine, and he thought she was only pretending a relationship. It was her own fault. She should not have come here so precipitately. She should have cabled ahead that she was in Lushasa, waited at the hotel in Menawi, trusted that after having come so far, Shannon would at least have the decency to come and see her.
If only he had replied to her father’s letters, but of course, they had gone to Johannesburg, and he had left no forwarding address. He could have advised them that he had left South Africa. That awful row between him and his father had been all of ten years ago now. Had he never wondered about them in all that time? Never cared to know how they were? Little wonder if this man had doubts about their relationship. Since coming to Africa, Shannon had had no contact with his family whatsoever.
That was why Joanna had impulsively boarded the train and come to Kwyana. She could not have borne for Shannon to ignore her, and by coming here she had eliminated any excuses he might make. Besides, she was eager to see him again. He had always been her hero, someone she had looked up to and admired. He had appeared to accept the fact of his parents’ divorce when he was six years old without question, and when his father had married again and subsequently produced Joanna, he had shown no jealousy. Eight years her senior, he had taught her to swim and play games as well as any boy of her age, and she had idolised him. He had never talked about his mother or her rejection of him, even though they had known she was alive and well and living in America at that time, and that was why Joanna had found his rejection of the family so hard to take when it happened. She only knew that the row he had had with his father had something to do with his mother, and he had walked out of the house and never come back. For a while her father had been terribly bitter about the whole thing, but later on he had employed a private detective to find him. The man had traced Shannon to Witwatersrand, but although they had written, he had never replied to any of their letters. And now her father was sick, slowly dying in fact, and in spite of everything insistent that Shannon should inherit the estate.
Now Joanna squared her shoulders, and said: ‘Well, I can assure you, I am Joanna Carne. And I do need to see my brother.’
The man considered her for a few moments longer, and then he said: ‘Does—Mr Carne expect you?’
Joanna sighed. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘He doesn’t even know I’m in Africa. Does it matter?’ She controlled a momentary irritation. ‘Is there any vehicle I can hire to get to the mine?’
‘There are no taxis here, mademoiselle.’ The man’s lips twisted derisively. ‘But…’ His appraisal abruptly ceased as he slapped at an insect crawling across his cheek. ‘Perhaps I could take you there myself.’
Joanna expelled her breath with some relief. ‘Oh, would you? I’d be very grateful, Mr—er—Mr—’
‘Just call me Lorenz,’ replied the man, turning away to shout more abuse at the flagging porters. Then: ‘Is this all your luggage?’
‘Yes.’ Joanna felt obliged to explain: ‘I left the rest at the hotel in Menawi.’
‘You did?’ The man called Lorenz raised dark eyebrows. ‘Then let us hope it is still there when you get back, eh?’
This was one worry Joanna refused to consider. ‘I’m sure it will be,’ she said equably, and allowed him to take her overnight case from her sticky fingers.
Her handbag swinging from her shoulder, Joanna stood waiting nervously for the unloading and loading to be through. The sun was burning the top of her head, and although she had piled up the honey blonde hair for coolness, damp strands were tumbling about her ears. She hoped her hair would be thick enough to withstand the heat of the sun, but she somehow doubted it. She felt as though every inch of clothing was sticking to her, and she thought longingly of pools of cool water, or the stinging spray of the shower back in the hotel. The water there had not been really cold, but it had been refreshing, and she longed to feel her skin tingling with cleanliness again after that interminable train journey. She was hot and grubby, and only the knowledge that Shannon was only seven miles away stopped her from climbing back aboard the train to Menawi.
‘Perhaps you would prefer to wait in the cabin, Miss Carne?’
Lorenz was back, indicating the driving cabin of the lorry, and after a moment’s hesitation Joanna nodded her thanks. She was glad she was wearing trousers as he helped her up. There was nothing ladylike about scrambling up iron footholds on to a seat that scorched like a hot tin roof. But she managed to smile down at her rescuer, and after a few moments of discomfort she could relax.
Flies buzzed in and out of the open doors, the noise outside had not abated, and her mouth felt dry and sandy. She had had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast in the hotel that morning, and as it was now afternoon, she was beginning to feel decidedly empty. An opened can of beer rested on the floor of the cabin, but the flies invading the twist-off lid made her feel sick.
After what seemed like hours, but which was in reality only about twenty minutes, Lorenz appeared below her. ‘Almost finished now, Miss Carne. Soon we will be on our way.’
Joanna forced a smile. ‘Oh, good.’ She shifted a little under that irritating scrutiny. ‘Will it take long? To get to the mine, I mean?’
Lorenz shrugged. ‘Twenty-five—thirty minutes, no more.’
‘So long?’ Joanna couldn’t prevent the exclamation.
Lorenz’s expression hardened. ‘Is not a good road, Miss Carne. You want I should break an axle?’
‘Oh, no, of course not.’ Joanna was quick to apologise. ‘You must forgive me. I—I’ve never been in Africa before.’
Lorenz shrugged and turned away, and Joanna looked frustratedly down at her hands. She didn’t want to antagonise the man, but thirty minutes to do seven miles seemed an exaggeratedly long time. She half wished there was some other way she could get there. She didn’t like Lorenz’s attitude towards her. She was convinced he did not believe that she was related to Shannon, and in his eyes, if she was not, what did that make her?
At last, a creaking and a heavy thud heralded the end of the delay. The lorry was loaded up, and Lorenz came to swing himself behind the wheel of the vehicle. The rank smell of sweat from his body as he levered himself into the cabin beside her made Joanna hold her breath for a moment, and his language when he accidentally kicked over the can of beer and sent a stream of brown liquid across his canvas-clad feet shocked and revolted her.
The engine of the vehicle started without trouble, and soon they were bumping over the siding, passing the shacks where groups of women watched them curiously, sounding the horn as almost naked children ran carelessly in their path. Then even those few signs of habitation were left behind, and they rolled heavily along a road split by the constant rays of the sun.
Joanna soon appreciated the wisdom of not travelling at speed. The lorry was built for carrying anything but passengers, and the end of her spine was soon numb from the buffeting it was receiving. From the somewhat sardonic glances Lorenz kept making in her direction, she guessed he knew exactly how she was feeling, and she determinedly put a brave face on it.
The sight of a herd of zebra some distance away across the plain brought a gasp of delight to her lips, and for a while she was diverted from her thoughts. Coming up from Menawi, she had seen little of the game for which West Africa was famous, and now she turned to Lorenz and asked him whether there were elephants and lions in this part of the country.
‘There is a national safari park, Miss Carne. You can see plenty of game there. Here—well, occasionally I have seen a family of lions, and once we had a rogue elephant causing trouble at the mine, but man brings death to the animals, so they stay away.’
Joanna shook her head. ‘That’s awful, isn’t it?’
‘Wealth, too, has its price, Miss Carne. Once the game was the gold of Africa, but no more.’
‘Are you—were you born in Lushasa, Mr—er—Lorenz?’
He looked her way. ‘No. I was born in the Cape, Miss Carne. That is, South Africa. But I found the—climate here more to my liking.’
Joanna acknowledged this, and for a while there was silence. Then, without preamble, he said: ‘How long is it since you have seen your—er—brother, Miss Carne?’
Joanna straightened her back. ‘Some time,’ she replied evasively. ‘Do you—do you know him well?’
‘A man in my position does not know the General Manager of the Kwyana Mine very well,’ replied Lorenz bitterly.
‘General Manager!’ Joanna’s involuntary ejaculation could not be denied. She had known her brother had taken a degree in engineering. Her father had been furious about it at the time, maintaining that an agricultural college would have served him better than a university. But obviously Shannon had put his knowledge to good use.
Lorenz was raising his eyebrows. ‘You did not know your brother was so important?’
‘No.’ Joanna made an impatient little gesture. ‘I’ve told you, it’s some time since—since I saw him.’
‘What a pleasant surprise, then. A man in Carne’s position should be worth some small investment, wouldn’t you say?’
Joanna caught her breath. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, Mr Lorenz, but I can assure you that my sole purpose here is to deliver a message to him from our father!’
Lorenz studied her flushed face for a moment, and then shrugged, returning his attention to the road. ‘You may not find that so easy right now,’ he commented cryptically.
‘What do you mean?’ Joanna stared at him.
His fingers flexed against the wheel. ‘Our gallant Manager is ill, Miss Carne. I would doubt your ability to deliver any message to him during the next forty-eight hours.’
‘Ill?’ Joanna felt cold inside. ‘What is it? What’s wrong with him?’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘There—there hasn’t been an accident—’
‘Oh, no, no.’ Lorenz shook his head, his tone mocking. ‘Nothing so exciting, I assure you.’
‘Then what is wrong with him?’ Joanna couldn’t hide her anxiety, or her impatience.
‘Just a touch of fever, Miss Carne.’ Lorenz was irritatingly indifferent as he drawled the words. ‘Just a little fever.’
‘Fever!’ Joanna shifted restlessly. ‘What kind of fever?’
‘Relax, Miss Carne. Your concern does you credit, but it is nothing to get excited about. In a couple of days your—er—brother will be as good as new, no doubt.’
Joanna’s brows were drawn tight together above worried eyes. ‘You should have told me sooner,’ she exclaimed.
‘Why?’ Lorenz swung the lorry to avoid an enormous cavity yawning in the road, and she had to clutch the seat to prevent herself from being thrown against him. ‘We could have got here no sooner. Unless—unless in his—er—debilitated state you might have decided not to come.’
Joanna did not answer this. She was too tense to exchange abuse with this man who seemed to be enjoying imparting such information, and besides, she didn’t really know whether he was telling her the truth. But if he was, then perhaps it might have been better if she had not come…
The mountains were nearer now, and as they began to climb the steeper gradient, the air became blessedly cooler. She guessed it was the breeze coming through the open windows of the vehicle which created the coolness and that outside it was still enervatingly hot, but any respite was a relief.
‘Not much farther now, Miss Carne,’ remarked Lorenz, as their wheels churned up a cloud of fine grey dust, and it was questionable whether the dusty air coming through the windows was preferable to closing them and suffering the heat inside. ‘Just beyond this bluff—see!’
Opening out below them was a rugged valley, its base a startling mass of machinery and buildings. After so much that was primitive, the Kwyana mine was aggressively modern, and Joanna was astonished at its size and industry. As well as the buildings immediately adjacent to the mine workings, there was living accommodation for over three hundred men, Lorenz volunteered, pointing out laboratories, ventilation and processing plants, the pumping station and mine hospital, as well as the enormous plant which powered the whole complex.
‘Impressive, is it not?’ Lorenz commented dryly. ‘Over three hundred men, and not a woman—a white woman, at least, within a hundred miles. Except yourself, Miss Carne.’
Joanna did not answer this, but her nerves tightened at his words. If that were so, she ought not to have come here, and she had the feeling that Shannon would not appreciate her having done so. If only they had told her in Menawi how remote the mine was! But then she had not told them that she intended making the journey here herself.
At this hour of the afternoon there were few men about, but those there were stared with unconcealed amazement at Lorenz’s companion in the cab of the lorry. Joanna could feel the hot colour in her cheeks adding to the general discomfort of her body, and she did not like the amusement Lorenz made no effort to hide.
The layout of the site reminded her of an industrial estate back home, only here two-storied dwellings mingled with steel-ribbed girders and the intricate maze of a chemical processing plant. Had it not been for the heat which, even though the sun was slowly losing its power, was still intense here in the valley, they could have been in any industrial complex anywhere in the world.
Looking about her, Joanna finally had to ask: ‘Which of these blocks does my brother occupy?’
‘None of them,’ replied Lorenz laconically, startling her for a minute until he added: ‘Managers don’t live in blocks. They have houses. It’s not much further. Have patience, Miss Carne.’
The sarcasm was back and Joanna clenched her lips. They had turned off the main thoroughfare on to a narrow track leading between the living blocks which were interspersed here and there with stretches of scorched grass. Occasionally she caught glimpses of men playing football behind the buildings, but mostly her attention was fixed on the corrugated-roofed bungalows she could see ahead of them. There were several, set at intervals between scrub hedges, all alike with stuccoed walls painted in pastel shades, and overhanging eaves. Lorenz brought the heavy vehicle to a halt before one of them. The place looked deserted, the blinds were drawn and there was no apparent sign of life.
‘That’s it,’ he announced derisively. ‘I hope you don’t find it disappointing.’
Joanna was sure he hoped she did, but she thrust open her door and climbed down quickly before he could offer his assistance. He handed her out her suitcase, and she had perforce to thank him.
‘I don’t know how I’d have managed without you,’ she admitted.
‘Nor do I,’ he agreed, and let out his clutch; the lorry trundled noisily away.
After he had gone, it seemed incredibly quiet. The tiring journey on the train, the uproar at the station, and the trip in the lorry had all taken their toll of her nerves, and even the low throbbing sound which was all she could hear was welcome. Even so, she half thought her arrival would have disturbed someone, but no one appeared to have noticed.
Stifling the awful feeling of panic which was welling up inside her, Joanna picked up her suitcase and walked determinedly up the path to a meshed door. An outer door stood wide, but the meshed door had a self-closing hinge.
Feeling rather like an interloper, she knocked at the wood which surrounded the mesh and mentally composed how she was going to introduce herself. What if Shannon didn’t recognise her? She was sure she would recognise him. His image was printed indelibly on her mind.
No one answered her knock, and with a sigh she knocked harder. Still there was no response, and she shaded her eyes with one hand and looked hopefully up and down the road. What if Lorenz had brought her to the wrong bungalow? He might have done so deliberately. If only there was someone she could ask.
But the empty road mocked her, and the drawn blinds on the adjoining bungalows did not encourage intruders. When no one replied to her third attempt to attract attention, she tentatively opened the meshed door and went in.
She found herself in a narrow hall covered by some rubber flooring, but otherwise bare. The hall appeared to run from front to back of the building, with several doors opening from it. On impulse, Joanna opened one of these doors and peeped into the room beyond. She saw what appeared to be a study with a desk strewn with papers, a chair, a filing cabinet, and two telephones. A second door revealed a living room—armchairs, dining chairs and table, bookshelves, and a drinks cabinet.
Joanna closed this second door and stood, undecided. If this was not Shannon’s house she was taking dreadful liberties, and even if it was, she had no way of knowing what his reaction to her presence there might be. Perhaps she should go outside again and wait until someone did appear. Surely—she consulted the slim masculine watch on her wrist—surely the day’s work must almost be over. The men who lived in the other bungalows might be returning to them.
She was moving away towards the door when a low groan reached her ears. Immediately she stiffened, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest. The sound was coming from a room further along the hall, and with comprehension came the realisation that Lorenz had not been lying when he had told her that Shannon was ill.
Putting down her case again, she went stealthily along the hall and pressed her ear to the panels of the door. There was no further sound from within, but her hand had found the handle and she could not resist turning it.
The room beyond was darkened, but blessedly cool. Whatever else these bungalows lacked, they had air-conditioning, and for a moment it was heaven for Joanna to feel the cool air against her over-heated skin. But then her eyes adjusted themselves to the dimness and she could make out the figure of a man tossing and turning on a narrow bed. Her nails digging into her palms, she moved forward, and then drew back again as she realised the man was naked. He had kicked the thin cotton sheet aside, and although his body was streamed with sweat, she could see he was shivering.
Joanna hesitated only a moment longer, and then moved forward once more, gathering the sheet from the foot of the bed and drawing it up over his shuddering limbs. Mosquito netting hung suspended over the bed, but when she brushed it aside she could see his face, and a curious weakness assailed her. Shannon’s eyes were glazed and unseeing, but they were the same tawny eyes she remembered, the same heavy lids and long curling lashes. He had changed a little; after all, he was ten years older and therefore more mature. Nevertheless, the lean intelligent features were not so different, and from what she had seen of his muscled body, he still hadn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him. His dark brown hair was longer than it had been, but it was just as thick and virile, and her fingers trembled as she touched it now, smoothing a heavy swathe back from his damp forehead. Her fingers lingered against his burning skin, needing that physical contact, but as he fought her attempts to keep the sheet over him, she looked round desperately, wondering what she could do. She felt angry as she wondered how long he had been lying here like this without anyone to care for him. Why wasn’t he in the hospital Lorenz had shown her receiving proper attention?
‘Shannon,’ she ventured at last, sitting down on the side of the bed. ‘Shannon—it’s me, Joanna! Do you remember me?’
Her softly spoken words seemed to penetrate his delirium, and for a few seconds there was a look of faint recognition in the eyes he turned in her direction. But then it disappeared, and he began twisting restlessly again, licking his lips as if he was parched.
‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?’
The cold angry words brought Joanna almost guiltily to her feet and she turned to find a woman entering the room. In a white uniform, she was probably a nurse, Joanna decided, and she made an involuntary gesture of apology.
‘I—I’m Joanna Carne,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘Shannon’s—sister.’
The woman’s dark brows drew together uncomprehendingly, and as she drew nearer Joanna could see that like the man Lorenz, she was of mixed blood. But the combination was quite startlingly beautiful. Smooth olive features, lustrous dark eyes, and a wide sensuous mouth, her dark hair confined with madonna-like severity at the nape of her neck, she was unlike any nurse Joanna had ever seen, and her presence in this room emphasised the gulf which had opened between Shannon and his family more surely than the distance of miles could have done.
‘You—are Shannon’s sister?’ The woman shook her head now. Then: ‘What are you doing here—Miss Carne? Your brother is ill, as you can see. Please wait outside and I will speak with you after I have attended to my patient.’
The way she said those words made them an order, not a request, and the curtness of her tone caught Joanna on the raw. She had travelled thousands of miles to find her brother, and he was her brother, after all. How dared this woman, this stranger, nurse or otherwise, order her out of his bedroom?
‘There was no one about when I arrived,’ she stated, annoyed to hear the defensive note in her voice. ‘I let myself in, and when I heard—groaning, I came to see if there was anything I could do.’
‘Well, there is not.’ The nurse’s eyes were coolly appraising as she held up her hand to reveal the syringe she was holding. ‘As I have already suggested, if you will wait outside…’
‘What is that?’ Joanna looked anxious.
The nurse sighed, displaying the tolerance she might have shown to a child. ‘It is quinine, Miss Carne. Nothing more alarming than that. Now, if you don’t mind…’
Joanna almost protested, but one look at Shannon still tossing on the bed silenced her. Arguing with this woman was only delaying his treatment, and she had the feeling she would be wasting her time anyway. With a shrug of her shoulders, she walked towards the door, and as she reached it she looked back and saw the woman drawing down the sheet and taking Shannon’s right arm between her fingers. Joanna watched for a moment longer, and then, as the woman turned impatient eyes in her direction, she pressed her lips together and left the room.
