A Passionate Flame

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

When Peril Grant went to Rhodesia to live with her only remaining relative, Amy Johnson, a permanent invalid, she had visions of it as a golden land of rolling plains, the finest countryside in the world. The heart-break, passion and tragedy that followed were nightmares she had never dreamed could never happen anywhere on earth. And when she awoke, there was David... A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1928, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

IN the 1920’s the long, tiring ride from Livingstone in a cart driven by six mules, with a grumbling, sweating Boer driver for sole companion, was not a very pleasant beginning for any girl, especially for Peril Grant in a strange country about which she knew nothing at all.

She had expected her cousin, Mrs. Johnson, to meet her at the station; had imagined an up-to-date vehicle would be sent from Johnson’s cattle-farm to convey her there. But only this badly sprung, ancient old cart with the mule-team had awaited her. Forlornly she sat on the front seat beside the driver, her modest trunk behind. She looked extraordinarily small and pathetic next to the huge, dark-skinned Boer. She clasped a shabby purse against her breast. Her large eyes stared around at the country, which was singularly unattractive.

This was Rhodesia. She had visioned it as a golden land of rolling plains; wonderful veldt, stupendous power, exquisite peace – the Rhodesia of which she had heard so much, back in England.

But she looked at the sun-baked plain and rough road over which the cart was bumping; at the distant blue mountains; and felt the fierce sun beat down on her head through her thin straw hat; brushed a swarm of flies from her face, and felt indescribably home-sick and afraid of South Africa.

She was only eighteen. She had just left a peaceful English convent school where she had seen nothing of the world, and had come out here to her only living relative, Amy Johnson, whose husband was a cattle-farmer, and who had offered her young, orphaned cousin a home.

Peril felt like weeping out her misery and loneliness; wished passionately that she were back in England, and felt sure she would loathe Rhodesia.

At last she neared her future home. They passed great fields of waving cereals which looked fresh and green after the dun-coloured plain; a row of kaffir huts, long lines of kraals and cattle-boys’ compounds. And now they were in sight of the Johnsons’ farmhouse; a charming, modern bungalow with a veranda, on top of a small knoll, surrounded by a garden of charming flowers. The gay colours of the beautiful flowers, the delicate, flowering creeper over the bungalow, and the sense of homeliness given out by the white casement curtains which framed the open windows made the English girl feel less strange and miserable. She cheered up, and an eager look came into her eyes.

“It’s rather lovely, and the farm looks interesting,” she told herself. “After all, life was dull in the convent, and I’ve always wanted life and adventure. I ought to find it on Cousin Amy’s farm. …”

The Boer driver stopped his team at the bottom of the garden, and looked up at the girl with a grin.

She realised that he expected her to descend. She looked doubtfully at the garden path. She was not a country-bred girl, and she wore thin, high-heeled shoes. She did not relish the idea of jumping from her high seat without help, nor did she want to jump into the Boer’s arms.

While she sat there hesitating, she heard a man’s full-throated, rich voice from the back of the bungalow. She did not understand what he said, although she realised he was angry. He was swearing roundly. But a second later he appeared in view and saw her. He strolled down the path toward the cart with its young, English passenger. He lit a cigarette as he came.

Long after that day Peril remembered Kerry Johnson as he looked when first she saw him coming toward her with that sauntering, graceful walk of his. A tall, magnificent specimen of manhood; face and throat, revealed by the open shirt collar, tanned mahogany; hat on the back of his head, showing crisp black curls; eyes a light, vivid blue in a sunburned face. Later, when she knew him better, she realised that cruelty, selfishness, the egoist, was written all over that handsome face. But this afternoon she saw only the magnificent good looks of the man – the panther-like grace of the tall figure in the khaki shirt and riding-breeches.

He flung away a match as he reached the cart, and pushing his hat farther back on his head looked up at the girl with rather bored eyes.

“Hullo!” he said. “You my wife’s cousin?”

“Yes,” said Peril shyly. “Are you Mr. Johnson?”

“I’m Kerry Johnson, yes. Jump down. I’ll catch you.”

She noticed that he made no apology for not having met her. Kerry Johnson never apologised to anybody. He was a spoiled, ungracious creature – a god in his own domain – waited upon hand and foot by those around him. When he chose to be “nice,” and nobody could be more charming than Kerry Johnson in his most agreeable humours, he was forgiven all his lack of consideration, his selfishness, and his sulky moods.

He was accustomed to being obeyed. When he said “Jump down” in that authoritative tone, Peril Grant did not dream of hesitating. She jumped straight down into his arms. He caught her, marvelling as he did so at the lightness of her. Just for a fraction of a moment he was conscious of the slim figure against his own; of a pale gold head that only reached his chest; of a white, delicate face with wide, grey-green eyes, fringed by the longest, darkest lashes he had ever seen, and a small red mouth with a short, passionate upper lip.

He realised that his wife’s cousin, who was coming to make a home with them, was not the gawky, idiotic, dull schoolgirl he had gloomily pictured. She was a fairy thing; a slender, delicate creature with fire and spirit behind her gossamer beauty. The gross sensualist that lived in Kerry Johnson woke up at once and was interested.

The bored look left his eyes. His arms fell away from Peril. He glanced swiftly at the slim form in the pale grey coat and skirt, then looked up at the bungalow.

“Welcome to Smokey Hollow, Cousin Peril,” he said.

Even his voice had changed. When first she had heard him swearing, it had been hard. Now it was soft, richer than ever.

She walked beside him, contemplating.

“How handsome Amy’s husband is,” she thought. Aloud she said: “What an adorable name—Smokey Hollow.”

“H’m—I suppose it is,” said Kerry. “We’ve lived on this farm twelve years—from the day we married.”

“I’m longing to see my cousin,” said Peril. “I’ve never met her, you know. But before poor mother died she used to speak of Amy to me.”

“You’ll find her in the drawing-room on the sofa,” said Kerry. His voice had altered again; the bored note had crept back into it. “A permanent invalid she is, these days. Had an illness two years back and she’s never picked up—always ailing.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” exclaimed Peril. “And she has all the work of the farmhouse to do, I suppose. But I’ll be able to help her now.”

Kerry Johnson did not answer, but opened the swing door—made of wire mosquito netting—to let the stranger pass through to the cool lounge-hall of the bungalow. His gaze followed her. He was thinking how nice it would be to have this girl about the farm—how much more exciting existence might prove now that she had come. She stood for youth … and for all the beauty, sweetness, vivacity that are contained in youth. Amy, his wife, was his senior by two years, and might have been ten years older.

Never had Amy looked more haggard and old than she appeared to Kerry now, when he piloted Peril Grant into the drawing-room. Possibly it was because she had had a bilious attack this morning, and her thin face was sallow, her nostrils pinched, her once beautiful dark eyes sunken, the lids reddish as though she had been crying.

It was cruel to compare her to Peril … cruel to compare eighteen years with thirty-five … but Kerry was by nature cruel, and just at this moment took a morbid pleasure in looking from his wife to the golden-haired, pretty girl who was related to her, and thinking how passé poor old Amy had grown.

Peril was not thinking about Kerry just now. She was genuinely eager to make friends with her cousin, who was a link with the idolised mother who had died back in England, two years ago.

“Oh, Cousin Amy, it is nice to be here at last!” she said, running to the couch on which Mrs. Johnson was lying, languidly fanning herself. “The journey has seemed awfully long, and I’ve been so home-sick!”

Amy Johnson roused herself to sit up. She both moved and spoke as though she had no life left in her.

“Glad to see you, Peril,” she said. “No—don’t hug me, child, for the Lord’s sake! It’s too hot!”

Peril, prepared to embrace her affectionately, drew back, somewhat abashed and flushed. She had that sensitive, delicate skin that colours very easily.

“Please don’t disturb yourself, Cousin Amy,” she began.

“Please don’t call me cousin,” said the woman in a fretful voice. “Just call me Amy. You’ve introduced yourself to my husband, I suppose. Well, well, I’ll take you up to your room.”

“It’s wonderfully good of you to have me here,” said Peril gratefully.

“I’m pleased to have you—it’ll make the work a bit lighter, perhaps,” said Mrs. Johnson in a more gracious tone. She examined the girl with critical gaze. “Very like your poor mother,” she added. “I remember her well, back in England, twelve years ago, before I came out here and married Kerry.”

She moved with tired footsteps across the cool, dim drawing-room, which was shaded from the sun by green rush blinds, and passed her husband, who had thrown himself into a rocking-chair and was chewing the end of a match.

Peril saw her face undergo a transformation. The weary dark eyes lit up; the thin, peevish mouth softened. She put out a thin hand and laid it on Kerry’s head.

“Would you like a whisky and soda, darling?” she asked.

“No, thanks, my dear,” he said.

His gaze went by the thin, angular figure in a washed-out pink cotton frock which trailed to her heels, to the girl, who was so trim, so pretty, so fresh in her neat grey suit and white silk blouse.

“Perhaps Peril would like a drink after her hot drive,” he suggested.

Amy Johnson’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. Then she laughed, and dragged her steps to the door.

“Something new for you to think of any one else, Kerry,” she observed. “Peril is honoured.”

He frowned, then echoed her laugh.

“Oh, come, Amy,” he said lightly. “Don’t give your cousin such a bad impression of me.”

Amy Johnson—neglected, ill, soured by the lack of attention and indifference from the husband with whom she was still wildly in love, after twelve years of marriage and disappointment—responded at once to any note of affection in his voice.

She came back to his chair, put an arm around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth passionately.

“Of course I shan’t give her a bad impression of you. You know how I love you, Kerry,” she said.

Peril stood by, embarrassed and silent. She did not know that the man inwardly chafed against this public embrace, and wanted to thrust his wife’s thin arm away and be rude to her. He was sick of her—sick of her ailments—her haggard, peevish face. Her passion for him had survived the long years, but his had died speedily—never had been very strong. He had only married her because she had money of her own—money enough to buy this farm which he had wanted, and which now occupied his whole time. He was making money out of it. He wanted money … wanted to be independent of Amy, quite independent financially should they ever separate.

Aware that Peril Grant’s eyes were fixed on him, he smiled and touched his wife’s head with careless tenderness. She had thin dark hair untidily looped into a knot at the nape of her sallow neck. He found himself wondering what Peril’s hair was like—what she would look like when she removed her hat.

The girl watched him as though fascinated. He had long, brown supple hands. His tremendous strength awed Peril. She began to imagine that Cousin Amy was very lucky to be married to such a man. …

Later she unpacked her small tin trunk, and made herself at home in the small bedroom which Mrs. Johnson allotted to her. It had whitewashed walls, somewhat faded pink curtains, rush-matting on the floor, and a white enamel bedstead. Quite a nice little bedroom, which pleased Peril after years of sleeping in a convent dormitory.

“It is good of you to give me a home, Amy,” she said shyly to her cousin, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the girl unpack. “I shall try and repay you by working hard.”

“That’s all right,” said the elder woman. “I have a Dutchwoman who cooks, and a house-boy. I only have to do a bit of housework. When I was stronger I used to keep some chickens. But I don’t feel like doing anything now.”

“I’m so sorry you are not well,” said Peril.

Amy started a long recital of her ills. Later, when Peril knew her better, she realised that Amy Johnson’s indispositions were largely of the imagination. She had just let herself “go to weed.” She was by nature an indolent, discontented woman. Her sole absorbing passion was her handsome, virile husband … and she was doing her best to kill his affection for her by making no effort to remain either young or attractive.

During tea, which they had in a cool, oak-furnished dining-room after the sun had started to sink behind the blue range of mountains, Kerry Johnson hungrily ate home-made cakes, drank huge cups of tea, and watched Peril with a queer inner excitement. Amy spoke of her as a child. But to him she was eighteen, and a woman. One of the prettiest girls he had seen since he had left Jo’burg, where he had spent his youth.

“She makes Amy look an old hag,” was his cruel mental observation.

Peril sat opposite Kerry, eating her tea with the healthy appetite of youth. Amy lolled in her chair, yawned, and announced that she felt “too seedy to eat.”

Now Kerry could see Peril’s hair. It was exquisite—pale gold, soft as silk, and “bobbed.” It curled naturally around her ears, and she wore a fringe. In contrast to that pale gold fringe across her brow, her brows and lashes looked startlingly dark.

“She’s a beautiful thing,” Kerry thought.

“I can’t think what made your mother call you a silly name like Peril,” Amy said suddenly. “Why weren’t you called Eleanor, after her?”

“I don’t know,” said Peril, with a laugh. “But I agree. My name is very stupid.”

“I don’t think it is. It’s rather pretty,” said Kerry.

He finished his tea and leaned back in his chair, rolling a cigarette between his strong brown fingers.

Peril looked across at him—met the full gaze of his handsome eyes. She knew not why, but a queer thrill ran through her. She looked away, self-consciously, at her cousin.

“Peril,” thought Kerry. “Yes … rightly named … you lovely, golden-haired child. You are going to be a very great peril to me … and my peace of mind. …”

AFTER a fortnight on the farm, Peril had settled down to the life as though she had been born and bred to it. She not only helped Amy with the work, but took the entire labours of the bungalow, with the exception of the cooking, on her shoulders. Amy kept more and more to her couch, and became more and more sure that she was a hopeless invalid. The consequence was that Peril and Amy’s husband were thrown together a great deal.

Kerry was accustomed now to the sight of Peril, in a blue or pink overall, about the house and farm. He would have missed the brightness she threw around her and the sound of her gay laughter had she been absent from the farm for a single day.

She, on her part, looked forward to the hours spent with Kerry … missed him while he was down on the farm with his cattle-boys … found him a wonderful companion. He never showed her the selfish, intolerant side of his character. In her presence he was long-suffering and gentle with his wife. He did everything he could think of to please Peril. He gave her a beautiful pony; taught her to ride; took her out on the veldt and showed her the beauties of the Rhodesian spring; the starry flowers, gaunt kopjes, the vleis, the little winding riverlets that ran from the great Zambesi. And now Peril loved Rhodesia … was her lover, like everybody else whom Rhodesia took to her broad, lovely bosom.

“One day I shall show you the veldt at night, Peril,” Kerry told the girl—“at night when the sky is blazing with stars, and the moon makes magic of everything and everybody. …”

But he had not shown it to her at night yet. He had not dared. He was growing far too interested in Peril … and he knew that she was growing to care for him. But she, in her innocence, was not yet aware of the fascination this big, strong, handsome South African had for her … told herself that he was just “her friend.”

In the Convent at home she had not thought very often of love … or lovers. But like all girls she had her dreams and ideals. Ke. . .