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    I woke to find my tabby cat licking my neck and the sound of crinkling paper at my feet. Not good, I thought. Not at all good. I opened my eyes and winced to see my Pekingese, Harry, sprawled on the silken coverlet gnawing wetly on the pages of the book I’d fallen asleep reading. No wonder I had dreamed of Africa again. It was Mary Kingsley’s magnificent account of her journey up the Ogowe River to collect fishes and fetishes, an expedition she—a woman!—had planned, led, and executed by her very own devices. I snatched the volume from Harry’s teeth and found the pages crumpled and soggy but largely intact.
    I’d been forbidden by Mother to utter the name of Mary Kingsley aloud in the house, as any thought of her daughter traipsing off into the filthy, parasite-ridden jungle was entirely out of the question. At twenty I was already considered by most as a spinster, and my outrageous ideas, atheism, and radical education were every year diminishing my prospects for a good marriage, any marriage.
    I sat up and gazed at the feather-decorated spear and elaborate Maasai tribal necklace that hung on either side of my overcrammed bookshelf. They were my proudest treasures, gifts from Father’s Kenyan expeditions. I rose and padded quietly across the floor, trying hard to avoid the squeaks in the old planks that would, inevitably, bring Constance, Mother’s lady’s maid, knocking on the door to inquire, as she did every morning, if Miss Jane wished assistance dressing. Every morning I firmly but politely declined assistance. It was mad that a grown woman with all her body parts intact would need help putting on her clothes.
    I knew that the refusal was founded on my abhorrence to the idea of servants in the first place. But that was an argument, like the subject of Mary Kingsley (or myself ) traveling to Africa, that was simply unwinnable. Even Father, who was similarly uneasy with servants at his beck and call, had long ago given up trying to change Mother’s mind. The maids, butlers, cooks, gardeners, and stable hands were as integral to country life as the stove and mortar and wood beams of the manor house.
    A floorboard squeaked under my toe, and barely a breath later came the inevitable tapping at my door.
    “No thank you, Constance, I’m already dressed,” I lied before the question could be asked. I pulled my riding habit from the clothes cupboard and put the cinch-waist jacket on over a clean starched blouse and the hated corset. I glared at the ankle-length skirt as I did every morning I dressed for riding, furious that Mother was yet unmovable on the subject of the split skirt for the sport. How senseless it was to ride horse sidesaddle with petticoats and flounces hindering natural movement.
    It brought to mind the ongoing bouts with Mother on the subject of swimming, an activity she thought most unbecoming for a lady. Father, bless his heart, had insisted on teaching his daughter “that manly art,” as my mother called it. What I remembered best was the feel of his strong warm arms enfolding me, bracing me against the slap of cold breakers. His laughter and mine mingled with the sounds of the seashore. “Are you ready, sweetheart? I’m going to let you go.” I’d splash doggy-style as he backed away, his long sopping hair clinging to his neck. “Swim to me, Jane!” And I would. Anything to please him. Facedown I’d slap arm over little arm, turning my head to gulp air the way he’d taught me. But something was dragging me down. Water filled my nose. I flailed, panicking.
    He’d caught me up in his arms again. “Blasted weight!” Propping me on one arm, he raised the long skirt of my wool bathing dress and with the other hand ripped at its hem. The lead weights were thrown into the sea along with the flat-sole shoes. “Let’s try again.” Now when I swam I felt light as a bubble. I could hear his encouraging shouts above my slapping arms and the roar of the surf. He was proud