Joan Wolf by Lord Richards Daughter Page A

weather was beautifully cool and the temperature remained that way as they proceeded through the Mediterranean. Julianne enjoyed sitting on deck wrapped in the wide, loose cloak of very fine white wool that John had presented her with. It was of Arabian rather than Egyptian style, and all its borders were worked in a beautiful elaborate pattern of colored silks. She had braided her hair securely in a thick plait so it would not blow, and wore no headdress. The area where she sat was off limits to the seamen, who, as good Moslems, never dreamed of intruding into her isolation.
    And, for the most part, she was isolated. She saw very little of John. It was a small ship and he could not have that much to occupy him, Julianne found herself thinking rather frequently. She suspected that he was avoiding her.
    About halfway through the journey he asked to borrow her journal. Since Julianne had been reading his books for several months at this point, she hardly felt she could refuse. She was sitting on deck the following day when he appeared with the worn-looking notebooks in his hands. He sat down in a chair, propped his feet on the rail, and regarded her speculatively. His long fingers moved lightly up and down the discolored red cover of her book. “This is a remarkable document,” he said seriously.
    Julianne felt herself flushing. “I thought you might find it silly.”
    He looked astonished. “I never read anything less silly in my life. Africa comes alive in these pages. You make it live and breathe in a way no one else has ever done. No one else who has your literary talent has ever been to Africa. Certainly no European has seen what you have recorded here. I think you should publish it.”
    “Do you really think it is that good?” Julianne could hear the breathless excitement in her own voice.
     “Yes, I do. You loved Africa, didn’t you?”
    She nodded.  “It’s wonderful.”
    “You make it come alive,” he repeated. “When you get to England you should see about getting this published.” He looked directly into her eyes. “I am serious, Julianne.”
    She felt absolutely radiant. She would never have dared to tell anyone what writing had come to mean to her. His recognition of that something in herself that she had secretly believed in and nurtured was one of the most wonderful things that had ever happened to her. “My father thought I was wasting my time,” she confessed.
    “You weren’t.” He stayed where he was, lounging in his chair, his feet on the rail, his black hair blowing in the breeze. “I read your father’s notes as well.” His voice was noncommittal. “No doubt the missionary society will find them of interest. I didn’t.”
    Julianne stared at the water. “Papa walked through Africa like a blind man. He never saw how beautiful it was.”
    “No,” he agreed. “From his journal one gathers that he was preoccupied with two things: himself and Jesus.”
    Julianne looked for a minute at John’s relaxed body, his calm, splendid profile. “I think I hated him,” she said in a low voice.
    He didn’t move. “I should imagine you must have. You had utterly opposing temperaments.”
    She heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “Doesn’t anything ever shock you, John?”
    At that he turned to look at her. “What should I be shocked about?”
    “It’s a terrible thing to hate your father. It’s a sin.”
    “Well, if it’s a sin, it’s certainly a common one.” He grinned at her astonished expression. “I hated mine, too,” he offered. “Only in my case it was my uncle rather than my father. My parents died when I was very young and I was placed in the care of my father’s elder brother. He was the Earl of Denham and I hated him passionately.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, he didn’t beat me or anything as vulgar as that. He was just so dull, so dreary, so pedantic— and so hypocritical. Everything he touched he blighted. And my cousins were just as bad. I was wild to get away. They