Chapter 2

The coach moves lightly on the broad leather straps. The gilded emblems on the doors shine in the morning sun. The four pure white show horses lift their forelegs high and their necks are proudly arched while they comfortably trot over the damp, soft farm road.

To the left of the road stretch the vineyards and fruit orchards of Môrester. On the right are the curved branches of oak trees that intertwine with the dripping willows. On the banks of the stream along which the road runs, the grass is fresh and clean and the dew is fresh in the soft rays of the morning sun.

The horses' hooves sound hollow on the narrow bridge where the road between the foreman's house and the old slave quarters ends in the large yard of Môrester. Giant oak trees provide patches of shade on the grass. The coachman gently pulls the reins to bring the coach to a stop with a turn to the left in front of the porch of the house. The white pillars from the high vault stand out sharply against the green trellis that stretches over the length of the porch.

Across the yard, in front of the stables next to the wine cellar, stand two young farmhands. They saw the coach coming, and for a long time, they watched it in silence.

"Today we will surely see many of them again," remarks one. "All the rich people of the Cape who have nothing to do but drive around and offer sympathy if they do not seek the pleasure of the hunt."

"Yes, Fanie," says the other. "That is just the way of the world."

"And you can now notice, Jaap," Fanie continues, "that De Moreaux is always one of the leaders. One could expect him to be the first one here. If there is one man who has never put a spoonful of food in his mouth with his own hand, it is him. You know, they say he is the richest man in the Cape, but he is stingy. He does not care about anyone or anything. He does not have a penny for anyone else."

"He can do whatever he wants with his money," Jaap shrugs.

"What I cannot understand," continues Fanie, "is why someone like Willa Rossouw, a farmer's daughter from our land, could marry such a lazy person."

"Love takes strange paths."

"If it was because she wanted to become a countess, I can understand it. But we are not those kinds of people." He sniffs indignantly. "The Count de Moreaux! What is the use of being a count if you cannot even dig with a count!" He laughs at his own joke.

"If I had money, I would not have dug with a count either," says Jaap.

"Well, that day will come," says Fanie softly. "I am just glad Ben arrived with the wagons last night. You never know how many of these visitors might stay for a few days."

"Do you think any of them," and Jaap points with his thumb towards the coach, "will actually be interested in what is going on in the yard?"

They stand and watch as a footman jumps off the coach box and hurriedly lowers the leather under the door. He is dressed in tasteful livery and stands at attention after opening the door.

The man climbing out is dressed in a showy way. He is not wearing a wig, but his hair is powdered. His face is slightly thin, but his features are well-defined, and his noble nose gives it strength and elegance. That would have been the impression his appearance created if it were not for a pair of eyes already half-closed as if he could fall asleep at any moment. The boredom in his gaze is almost contradictory to his facial expression, yet so dominant that it makes him appear dull and lethargic. The impression is reinforced by the slow, sluggish movements of his body and the way he lets his shoulders droop. He stands by the door but leans against the carriage as if afraid it might tip over. The purple jacket hangs open in front, and the embroidered white undershirt shimmers in the sunlight. The satin knee pants are fastened with silver clasps to the white stockings, and the shiny leather shoes with high heels are almost entirely covered in silver trimmings.

He presses his left elbow against the carriage, and his long fingers with two rings hang loosely but ready to assist the lady with getting off. He shakes his right hand as if it were made of fragile porcelain, and when the lace falls over his joints, he holds it in front of his mouth to suppress a slight yawn.

The Countess de Moreaux stoops out of the door. Her attire is almost simple compared to the Count's, and yet the material is the most expensive. With her slender left hand, she lifts the skirt just above her feet so that she does not snag it when getting off. Her right hand rests lightly on the Count's arm, but it is quite evident that it is merely a formal gesture and that she is not actually using his help.

Her natural hair is brown like her eyes. Her face is rosy and beautiful. In the Cape, Willa de Moreaux has no equal. Yet she is unaware of her beauty, and her appearance is open and friendly, like the field and the fresh air in which she grew up. Her gaze is alert, and there is a sparkle in her eyes when she looks at her husband.

"You could show a little more interest, Jean," she says to him. "Betta is my best friend. She and Dawie lost their parents early... and now it seems Dawie is gone too."

"I will tell her how I feel," the Count replies, but his expression does not change, and his voice is hesitant, almost sluggish.

"I know you will, Jean," she replies quickly, as a young girl appears on the stoop and waves to them. "I also know how you really feel. But Betta does not know. It is not necessary for you to play this role forever. Let her see that you are capable of feeling something."

He shrugs lightly. He winks at the butler standing there with a calm face by the door. Without moving a muscle, the butler nods back.

Then the Count de Moreaux pushes himself away from the coach with a determined effort and resolutely measures the distance between himself and the porch where he will at least get hold of a pillar to maintain this uncomfortable upright position that unfortunately has become a habit among people when they are not sitting or lying down. Willa de Moreaux releases his arm and runs towards Betta Fourie. She embraces her tenderly, and tears stream down Betta's cheeks when the Count reaches them. He straightens himself up and extends his hand.

"My sincere condolences, Betta," he says softly.

"Thank you, Jean." Her eyes flicker in surprise, and she looks intently into his eyes for a moment when she feels the firm, unexpected handshake. He usually leaves his hand limp in yours.

But then Willa hooks her arm in his, and they walk up the steps. The Count follows with a leisurely stride that surprisingly carries him quickly across the path. Most people attribute it to his long legs.

Alert and sprightly, Hendrik Bierman emerges from the front door. His tie is high as if he wants to add additional pride to his stature. With his dry humor, Jean de Moreaux once asked him if he uses it to prop up his head.

Hendrik takes the Countess's hand, bows over it, and touches it with his lips. He lightly taps his heels together while throwing a little bow from the waist towards the Count's side. Jean, who is stumbling up the stairs at that moment, simply nods and then comfortably leans his body against the square pillar. Hendrik Bierman takes a short step forward in a businesslike manner because he thinks the Count might collapse completely.

"Do not worry about it," he tells Bierman. "I just feel tired after the exhausting journey."

"Hendrik stayed here last night," Betta explains. "He arrived late yesterday evening and felt that I should not be alone here now."

"Of course not!" Willa exclaims. "I will stay here too as long as you want," she offers immediately.

Jean de Moreaux looks at her through his half-closed eyelids. The sacrifices that are demanded of him! But Willa does not care about her husband. Without looking in his direction, she takes Betta's arm again, and they walk towards the door.

"We only heard yesterday," she explains, and then they go inside, leaving the Count and Hendrik Bierman alone on the porch.

"You will probably want to dust off and sit somewhere comfortable..." Bierman begins, but Jean lifts his left hand and just lightly rubs his finger.

"No, Hendrik," he responds amiably. "We will stay here for a while in the fresh air on the porch." He makes an effort to smile. "Let the ladies finish their conversation first. In the meantime, you can tell me what happened."

He walks over to one of the porch benches and sits down carefully so that he does not land too hard on it. Hendrik waits politely and then takes a seat beside him. He is fully aware of his position, and he knows exactly how to behave in the company of the true aristocrats, as he freely moves among them due to his position and especially his relationship with Betta Fourie. He shows his respect and his admiration, but he does it because he has decided that it is to his advantage and for no other reason whatsoever.

"I understand that the Oostersee is a complete wreck?" Jean asks as if it does not concern him much.

"Absolutely," Hendrik replies. "It broke apart into pieces by morning. What is left is barely fit for firewood."

"And only Dawie stayed on board?"

"Yes." Hendrik lowers his head. "I should never have allowed him to come with me.

Anyway..."

"She surely does not blame you for it," the Count remarks somewhat surprised.

"Of course not!" Hendrik exclaims. "Fortunately... excuse the word, Count... but the fact remains that everyone...