Excerpt from Cape Fever by Nadia Davids, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Her breath has grown a little labored from all the walking and talking. She steadies herself and begins again at the fourth door. "This room you may enter. It is my bedroom. Come in, come in, don't hover so in the doorway."

Her bedroom is a soft sigh, a place of pale florals and spindly bedside tables. In the rest of the house, the smell of mothballs and wax polish, but here, all tangled up, the scent of dried rose petals and sprigs of fresh lavender.

Downstairs there are wide spaces between large pieces, sturdy tables, big chairs, everything covered in dark, thick brocade, the windows draped in curtains that kneel to the floor, and everywhere, everywhere, that faded maroon wallpaper. But in this room, all is delicate, slender. Even the lamps stand thin with pale bonnets and silk fringes. On each table there is something beautiful—a vase, a photograph, an ornament—and beyond, its door slightly ajar, a dressing room in shadow. Mrs. Hattingh holds herself straight, a pride pulsing off her person, and I understand that this room, unlike the others, has remained unchanged, that nothing from this room has ever had to be sold.

"Soraya?"

"Madam?"

"I see you are one for daydreaming."

"No, madam, I was just—"

"It's a great deal to absorb, I understand. Would you like to see your quarters?"

Before we leave, Mrs. Hattingh pauses for half a minute in front of a mirror as tall as she is. She tugs straight her skirt, pats at her graying reddish hair though it needs no neatening, runs her fingers back and forth over the garnet beads, neck to waist, all the while nodding at herself, smiling. Then she twists, left to right, as though taking the measure of her own trim waist. I am standing a little behind her; we are both caught in the reflection, though just a sliver of me is visible. It is only when she reaches again, as though more for pleasure than reassurance, to run her hands lightly over her bosom and torso, that I lower my gaze and stare fixedly at the carpet, at my boots peeking out from beneath my dress. I stay just like that, a faint burn on my cheeks, until she breaks from the mirror and heads for the door, saying she hopes she won't always have to chivy me along.

We cross the lawn at the back of the house. It's dry brown from a long summer, and there are more trees and fewer flowers than in the front. The garden has been pruned recently, within an inch of its life, I'd say; trees have been cut back, new soil tilled, grass sheaved. "I have a man come in every few months, and in between I will expect you to do some light weeding. As will I, my dear. I daresay there will be times we find we are working side by side. You will find me very democratic in my views." She stops for a moment to look out at her property. "A garden is a sanctuary for the soul and a responsibility for the hands."

We pass a young lemon tree, and she points at it, saying, "I planted that when my son, Master Timothy, left for the Front. In a few years it will bear fruit, and I'll be able to make the curd he loves. As a boy he'd have eaten lemon curd by the bucket if I'd let him… What's wrong? You look a little worried all of a sudden."

"Nothing, madam. Only I thought I'd be working for just you—"

"What's this, now? A confession of laziness?"

"No, madam."

"My son is in London," she says, straightening. "He went there after the war and has no intention of returning to this provincial outpost. He's very happy there. God. Who wouldn't be?"

"Yes, madam."

We've come up to a freestanding dwelling with two small, plain windows and a strong door. I can tell by sight that it will be freezing in winter and hot as hell in summer. Mrs. Hattingh gives a wave as though she were conjuring this all from thin air and asks if I have ever had a room of my own. I have not, I reply, thinking of my sisters at home and the other girls in my previous jobs, and at that she beams, standing taller still.

Excerpted from Cape Fever by Nadia Davids. Copyright © 2025 by Nadia Davids. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.