'This lady horse needs dawa,' Jonathan intoned solemnly, interrupting her thoughts. 'Strong dawa,' he added.

Jonathan had a great belief in the power of Kikuyu medicine. It seemed they had a dawa for everything. There was dawa for making babies, dawa for ripening the maize, and dawa for making a man attractive to a woman.

'If this little sweetheart is going to win the Jeevanjee Cup,' Dana said, 'she'll need juju rather than dawa.'

Jonathan spat on the straw. The mere mention of magic made him nervous. According to Jonathan, it was a known fact that talking about juju was enough to give a malicious medicine man - should he have the mind - the excuse to use black magic against innocent people. Spitting helped to alleviate the risk.

'No, memsahib,' he insisted. 'Kikuyu dawa. We call it mugaita.'

Dana was absorbed in her thoughts. There was a vet in Nakuru who claimed to be successful with bad legs, but it was doubtful he'd agree to come so far when he was sure to be busy helping more influential owners prepare their horses for the upcoming season.

'This dawa, it is very good dawa,' Jonathan went on.

'Very well,' Dana said in resignation. 'Bring this very good dawa, and we'll give it a try.'

In the stable a week later, Jonathan lifted a gourd and poured a dollop of gunk into his hand.

Dana leaned over it. 'Yuk!' she said. 'It smells horrible.'

Jonathan beamed. 'Ndiyo, memsahib. This a very fine dawa. Very, very strong.'

'What is it?' she asked, peering more closely at the substance. It was a green vegetable mash with small purple globules in it - perhaps berries of some kind.

'It called mugaita, memsahib.'

'You told me that, but what is it?'

Jonathan shrugged. 'It is ... mugaita.'

Dana sighed. 'I don't suppose it can do any harm if we just make a poultice of it. Pour some in that bucket and smear it on Dancer's leg after her exercise walk.'

Dana watched as Jonathan trotted Toby out onto the farm's training track - a flat, cleared oval behind the staff huts. He was an able horseman, a skill that Dana had fostered, much to the surprise of her friends and neighbours. It was considered a poor investment to teach an African new skills because labour was so cheap. Why put an African on a horse when you could send a dozen on foot? But Dana needed someone to take the horses for rudimentary circuit training before paying a professional jockey to do the fine-tuning in advance of race days.

At the end of the training gallop, Dana clicked her thumb to stop the timer, but she already knew that something very strange had occurred that bright, crisp morning. A glance at the stopwatch confirmed it. Toby had lopped twenty seconds off his regular three circuits of the farm's training track. Toby, the lethargic, the fluky performer, Toby the indolent, the slacker, had just run his best time. Ever.

Jonathan brought him in, his smile indicating he'd also felt Toby had performed well.

'What did you do to him?' Dana asked.

'This Toby horse feeling very good this morning, memsahib.'

'But, I don't understand.' She looked at the watch again. 'He's run a mile rate of ... under two minutes.'

Jonathan couldn't contain his grin. 'Very, very fast,' he said, nodding vigorously.

'Well ... my ...' Dana was speechless. She was thrilled with the result, but perturbed that she couldn't explain it. Had it been his recent training regime? Dana's closer attention to his feed? Her insistence that Jonathan give him an extra rub down after his runs? None of it could explain his turnaround in form because even before Dancer developed leg soreness, her times had not improved under the same regime.

Like many aspects of horse training, Dana found it a mystery, or as Jonathan might express it - juju. Magic!

There was none of the usual feeling of tedium in the Albion lorry as Dana, Jonathan and Benard made the journey down to Nakuru the next day. They'd been making the trip once a week since the training program for Toby and Dancer began in earnest. It gave the jockeys Dana had signed up for Nairobi the chance to get acquainted with their mounts, and the opportunity to give the horses their heads in a real race situation. The added excitement that day, which had touched all of them, was to test Toby on a proper racetrack and get a better measure of his apparently better times. It would also allow an a.s.sessment of Dancer's recovery - and her ability to compete with horses of Toby's newly improved ability.

After a couple of warm-up gallops, the jockeys trotted the horses to the fourteen furlongs starting point. Dana set the stopwatch, and a moment later the trial race began.

Dancer leaped to the front, as she usually did, but Toby's longer stride slowly gathered her in. As the horses pa.s.sed Dana for the first time, Toby drew level with Dancer. Gradually but indisputably he continued to make up ground. At the end of the race he'd won by three or four lengths.

Dan Tucker, Toby's rider, walked the gelding back to the saddling area where Dana waited with a broad smile.

'He did well, didn't he?' she asked, as Tucker swung down from his mount.

'He did indeed. What time did he make?'

Dana checked the watch again to be sure. 'Twenty seconds better than his previous best,' she said proudly.

'My G.o.d! What have you been doing for him?'

'Why, I ...' She didn't want to admit she had no idea. 'I suppose it's just the new workout schedule I have him on up at Kipipiri.'

The jockey didn't appear convinced.

'And better grazing,' she added. 'That little bit of rain has come at a good time.'

'I see, well, I'd say Toby has made a real improvement,' Tucker said with more conviction than she'd heard from him since hiring him. 'But why hasn't little Dancer seen the same improvement? On her previous form, she should be finishing ahead of Toby by the same three lengths.'

Dana turned her palms up and shook her head. 'I have no idea,' she admitted glumly.

'Maybe you need to think about starting Toby in the Jeevanjee Cup instead of Dancer.'

The prospect of swapping Toby for Dancer in the feature event of Race Week didn't appeal at all. She knew it was unprofessional, but Dancer was her sentimental favourite and nothing would please her more than leading the pretty filly into the presentation ring under the noses of Nairobi's society. She could see the look on Gladys Cartwright's face. It would be sweet revenge for all the scurrilous remarks she'd made behind her back.

Oh, she would do anything to wipe that supercilious smile from her face.

Dana strode down towards the Zephyr stable, Ndorobo trotting behind. Having complied with Edward's wish that she go to Nairobi before him, she was now keen to be on her way. It had only taken a mention of shopping to have Edward agree she should go a few days early.

She felt the first touch of warmth on her bare legs and glanced up at the sun. It was now well clear of the Aberdares, and she chided herself for her tardiness. She wanted the horses stabled in Nairobi by mid-afternoon, and her first gin and tonic in her hand by dusk.

She was pleased to find Jonathan already at the stable with the Albion lorry backed up to the loading ramp. Benard was slouching against the railings at the stable door. He straightened as Dana swept into view.

'Jonathan,' she said without breaking stride, 'have you loaded enough feed for the trip?'

'I am doing it just now, memsahib.' He hurried towards the hay bales, hissing at Benard to follow.

In the stable, Dana entered Dancer's stall. The filly snuffled a greeting. Running her hand down the neck to the flank and foreleg, Dana could feel the ripple of taut muscles under her fingertips.

Dancer accepted her probing fingers on the sore tendon. To Dana's inexpert touch, all seemed well.

'So girl, what are we going to do with you?' she whispered to the horse. 'Are you up to the St Leger? Will I put Toby in the Jeevanjee instead of you?'

Dancer dipped her muzzle into the feed trough.

'I feel you're the better horse for the distance, but Toby is doing so well in training.'

The filly continued to feed.

'I can't let Gladys Cartwright beat us, Dancer. I'll just have to go with the best I've got, and at the moment I'm afraid that's Toby.'

The Albion rolled out of the farm with Dana following in her roadster. She would stay with the horses until they had successfully negotiated the fifty treacherous miles from Kipipiri.

The first part of the journey entailed a steep descent from the foothills of the Aberdare Ranges into the Great Rift Valley near Naivasha. The next section - the climb up the Kikuyu escarpment - was the most difficult. Here Dana would take the wheel of the Albion, entrusting her w.i.l.l.ys-Knight to Jonathan until they reached Kijabe at the top of the escarpment. She valued her horses even more than the roadster.

The remaining twenty miles into Nairobi were relatively safe, so Jonathan would again take over while Dana drove on to ensure the stalls at the racecourse were ready for her two mounts. Dana had taught the sharp-eyed Ndorobo to keep watch for potholes and to thump the dashboard when he spotted one so that Jonathan could take evasive action. It was a task she had no doubt Ndorobo enjoyed as much as Jonathan resented it.

Dana had eased back half a mile to stay out of the Albion's dust cloud. As she reached the Malewa River crossing, she came upon a small herd driven by the same lone horseman she'd seen a couple of weeks previously. This time he had no escape, trapped between the river and the road. She drew the roadster to a halt beside him. She was surprised to find he was someone's black employee.

'Habari,' she said, greeting him in Swahili.

'Good morning, ma'am,' he replied, touching the brim of his hat.

The accent confused her. 'Oh ... I'm sorry. Good morning.'

His smile was broad and, considering she had mistaken him for a native, quite generous. She dragged her eyes from his and studied his herd. They were as she'd at first suspected - Abyssinians.

'You have some very fine horseflesh here,' she said.

'Thank you. They're starting to put on a little condition.'

'Thanks to my husband's Kipipiri gra.s.s.'

'The w.i.l.l.ys-Knight,' he said, running his eyes over the roadster. 'I remember you.'

'Well?' she said with a raised eyebrow.

'Well ... thank you for the short agistment. I appreciate it.'

'I should think an apology would be more appropriate.' A smile played on her lips as she said it. 'People up here don't take kindly to trespa.s.sers, but if you'd knocked on our door we would have been happy to help you out.'

'Well ... I wondered about that. But I thought that if a black stranger knocked on your door, driving a herd like this, maybe I'd be welcomed with a shotgun and a whole lot of questions, rather than a smile.'

'They are beautiful,' she said, again looking over the animals. They were mostly mares with a few yearlings or younger, and a couple of fine stallions. 'But, how ... Where did you get them?'

'As I said, a whole lot of questions,' he replied with a grin.

'Point taken,' she acknowledged. 'Let me put it to you another way. If a person was looking to purchase one of these animals, no questions asked, where would she look?'

He studied her for a few moments.

'Ma'am,' he said, 'if this wasn't the White Highlands I might make an exception and answer you. But since that's a leading question, and I'm still trespa.s.sing on your land, I'll just bid you good day and thank you again for the hospitality.'

He rounded his horse and gave a flick of his whip. 'Hah!' he said, sending the herd trotting off.

Dana watched him go. She liked his style - the way he looked directly at her as if he knew what she was thinking. If he did, she thought, he might be very surprised.

CHAPTER 20.

Pomeroy's on Sixth Avenue, just down from Torr's Hotel, was not only the most stylish clothing store in Nairobi, the tea salon he operated from kerbside tables was a favourite meeting place for women with modern tastes.

Meet me at Pomeroy's, Dana said in a message sent to her sister, but Averil was not yet at the tables when Dana arrived so she strolled into the fashion store, a thin line of cigarette smoke trailing from her long, ivory-tipped holder. She ran her fingers over the dress on the mannequin at the entrance, admiring the soft material on the bodice, and the felt of the fitted cloche hat. Flapper fashion was still in vogue among the affluent Kenyan settlers, and Dana adored it. She loved the short hems and straight lines. They suited her shape, and were perfect for dancing. The bobbed hairstyle, popularised by Coco Chanel, also pleased her. She couldn't imagine the task of maintaining her earlier bouffant coiffures out on the farm at Kipipiri without professional help.

She greeted the sales a.s.sistant, and ordered a pot of tea.

As she was waiting, Averil arrived with a flurry of kisses and greetings, before sitting beside her at the table.

'Oh, I do love that divine hat,' Averil said. 'It's the bee's knees.'

Dana touched a hand to it. 'Thank you. I barely had time to get into the Norfolk and freshen up before dashing here to meet you.'

Averil and her husband, Bill, had followed Dana and Edward to Kenya. Bill was one of the few among their group of friends who had been on the land back home in England. He was interested in cross-breeding the indigenous Boran cattle with good beef cattle. He'd bought a Devon bull from the line originally imported from England by Denys Finch Hatton who, like Edward, was a younger son of an earl. Bill was supportive of Dana's new thoroughbred scheme and gave her the benefit of his experience in cattle breeding.

'Is that a new dress?' Dana asked her sister.

'Hardly, but I'm about to shop for one. Will you help me choose?'

'Love to, but let me finish my tea; and while I do, you must tell me all you know about this new fellow, Whiteman. I hear he has a large stable and has entered several horses over the week.'

'Whiteman? Actually, it's Major Roger Whiteman. Formerly of the Coldstream Guards, apparently. He's married to a countess.'

'A countess with money, apparently.'

Averil leaned forwards, conspiratorially. 'Something of a dark horse himself, I understand.'

'How so?'

'Well, n.o.body knows anything about him.'

'That hardly qualifies for notoriety. I don't know a thing about ninety-nine per cent of Kenya's European population.'

'But they're nonent.i.ties, my dear. I'm talking about society people. Speaking of which, Bill and I quite enjoyed your last dinner party. When's the next?'

'Thank you,' Dana said. 'I'm so glad you had fun.'

'Those saucy little parlour games you invented are very ... stimulating.'

'Everyone seemed to think so,' Dana said. 'Who was your partner for the night? Oh, yes, it was Archie - Polly's Archie. Oh, there's Gladys Cartwright across the road. Don't look. Ghastly woman. Did you read her letter to the editor the other day?'