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
