After lunch, they discussed South Africa.
"We're going to run into trouble soon," David warned. "The government has just imposed poll taxes."
"Exactly what does that mean?" Kate asked.
"It means that blacks, coloreds and Indians have to pay two pounds each for every member of their family. That's more than a month's wages for them."
Kate thought about Banda and was filled with a sense of apprehension. The discussion moved on to other topics.
Kate enjoyed her new life tremendously. Every decision involved a gamble of millions of pounds. Big business was a matching of wits, the courage to gamble and the instinct to know when to quit and when to press ahead.
"Business is a game," David told Kate, "played for fantastic stakes, and you're in competition with experts. If you want to win, you have to learn to be a master of the game."
And that was what Kate was determined to do. Learn.
Kate lived alone in the big house, except for the servants. She and David continued their ritual Friday-night dinners, but when Kate invited him over on any other night, he invariably found an excuse not to come. During business hours they were together constantly, but even then David seemed to have erected a barrier between them, a wall that Kate was unable to penetrate.
On her twenty-first birthday, all the shares in Kruger-Brent, Ltd., were turned over to Kate. She now officially had control of the company. "Let's have dinner tonight to celebrate," she suggested to David.
"I'm sorry, Kate, I have a lot of work to catch up on."
Kate dined alone that night, wondering why. Was it she, or was it David? He would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know how she felt about him, how she had always felt about him. She would have to do something about it.
The company was negotiating for a shipping line in the United States.
"Why don't you and Brad go to New York and close the deal?" David suggested to Kate. "It will be good experience for you."
Kate would have liked for David to have gone with her, but she was too proud to say so. She would handle this without him. Besides, she had never been to America. She looked forward to the experience.
The closing of the shipping-line deal went smoothly. "While you're over there," David had told her, "you should see something of the country."
Kate and Brad visited company subsidiaries in Detroit, Chicago, Pittsburgh and New York, and Kate was amazed by the size and energy of the United States. The highlight of Kate's trip was a visit to Dark Harbor, Maine, on an enchanting little island called Islesboro, in Penobscot Bay. She had been invited to dinner at the home of Charles Dana Gibson, the artist. There were twelve people at dinner and, except for Kate, they all had homes on the island.
"This place has an interesting history," Gibson told Kate. "Years ago, residents used to get here by small coasting vessels from Boston. When the boat landed, they'd be met by a buggy and taken to their houses."
"How many people live on this island?" Kate asked.
"About fifty families. Did you see the lighthouse when the ferry docked?"
"Yes."
"It's run by a lighthouse keeper and his dog. When a boat goes by the dog goes out and rings the bell."
Kate laughed. "You're joking."
"No, ma'am. The funny thing is the dog is deaf as a stone. He puts his ear against the bell to feel if there's any vibration."
Kate smiled. "It sounds as if you have a fascinating island here."
"It might be worth your while staying over and taking a look around in the morning."
On an impulse, Kate said, "Why not?"
She spent the night at the island's only hotel, the Islesboro Inn. In the morning she hired a horse and carriage, driven by one of the islanders. They left the center of Dark Harbor, which consisted of a general store, a hardware store and a small restaurant, and a few minutes later they were driving through a beautiful wooded area. Kate noticed that none of the little winding roads had names, nor were there any names on the mailboxes. She turned to her guide. "Don't people get lost here without any signs?"
"Nope. The islanders know where everythin' is."
Kate gave him a sidelong look. "I see."
At the lower end of the island, they passed a burial ground.
"Would you stop, please?" Kate asked.
She stepped out of the carriage and walked over to the old cemetery and wandered around looking at the tombstones.
JOB PENDLETON, DIED JANUARY 25, 1794, AGE 47. The epitaph read: Beneath this stone, I rest my head in slumber sweet; Christ blessed the bed.
JANE, WIFE OF THOMAS PENDLETON, DIED FEBRUARY 25, 1802, AGE 47.
There were spirits here from another century, from an era long gone. CAPTAIN WILLIAM HATCH DROWNED IN LONG ISLAND SOUND, OCTOBER 1866, AGE 30 YEARS. The epitaph on his stone read: Storms all weathered and life's seas crossed.
Kate stayed there a long time, enjoying the quiet and peace. Finally, she returned to the carriage and they drove on.
"What is it like here in the winter?" Kate asked.
"Cold. The bay used to freeze solid, and they'd come from the mainland by sleigh. Now a' course, we got the ferry."
They rounded a curve, and there, next to the water below, was a beautiful white-shingled, two-story house surrounded by delphinium, wild roses and poppies. The shutters on the eight front windows were painted green, and next to the double doors were white benches and six pots of red geraniums. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.
"Who owns that house?"
"That's the old Dreben house. Mrs. Dreben died a few months back."