The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (113 page)

And worst of all, his smell. Stale tobacco and oniony sweat, and a sour man-stink that made her want to retch. She’d washed and washed but she couldn’t get rid of it. He’d left his mark on her, like an alley cat spraying his territory.

It’s our secret
.

She wondered if there was some way to break free of it. Wild images thronged her mind. She saw herself stealing a rifle from the gunroom and shooting him dead on the steps of Parnassus. Or paying Grace McFarlane to put hand on him so that he’d sicken and die. Or running away from Eden to somewhere far away where nobody knew who she was. Or simply walking into the deep, green, salty, cleansing sea.

Her mother came in with a headache powder. Belle drank it and lay back again and shut her eyes. She felt her mother’s hand stroking her hair back from her temples. Then she heard the rustle of her skirts as she went out, closing the door softly behind her.

Belle lay on her side and watched a patch of sunlight moving slowly across the terracotta tiles.

After a while, a small hand tugged at the mosquito curtain, and Douglas appeared, solemnly holding out his favourite toy: a kaleidoscope.

Wordlessly, Belle took it and twisted the tube for him. After a while she took a turn, glancing through the viewfinder at the hundreds of brightly coloured fragments, endlessly breaking and rearranging. She thought, you break something, and even though you put it together again, it’s never the same.

Douglas grew impatient, took back his toy, and left.

It’s our secret
.

Some time later – she knew it was later because the patch of sunlight had moved a couple of tiles – the door creaked again, and Dodo Cornwallis peered in. ‘Oh, phew, you’re not asleep.’ Timidly she perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Poor
you
. I came with my aunt. We were hoping you’d come back with us to make a four for croquet and stay the night. Bad luck, old thing.’

Belle watched her friend’s lips. It was as if Dodo were speaking a foreign language.

‘Your mamma says it’s just a touch of the sun,’ Dodo went on, looking hopefully at Belle. ‘But I expect you’ll be well enough by Saturday, won’t you?’

Belle struggled to marshal her thoughts. What was happening on Saturday?

‘Mrs Traherne’s musical afternoon? I’m playing my piece, and you promised to come. I’ll die if you’re not there.’

Belle blinked. A musical afternoon at Parnassus. His house. His wife. His son and his grown-up daughters and his grandchildren. Mr Cornelius Traherne. The gentleman.

To get rid of Dodo she said she’d do her best, while inwardly resolving that no power on earth would make her go.

The patch of sunlight moved further across the tiles, then faded to darkness. Scout nosed the door ajar and sniffed her mosquito curtain, then padded out. The crickets’ song deepened. Ratbats flitted past the louvres. She heard her father come home. She pressed her face into the pillow. She would never be able to face him again.

She listened to the table being laid, then to her parents talking over dinner.

‘. . . But you’ve got to hand it to old Cornelius,’ her father said, ‘he always manages to keep his head above water. Two years ago I wouldn’t have given a shilling for his chances, but now – with a couple of merchant bankers in his pocket—’

‘—not to mention the Clyne marriage,’ Mamma said drily. ‘Poor little Sibella. Sacrificed on the altar of—’

‘Yes, but she went into it with her eyes open,’ said Papa.

So did I, thought Belle. Does that mean it’s my fault?

But she hadn’t known what he would do. She hadn’t known.

Was this how it was for everyone? Being held down and hurt, like a lump of meat? Was this how it was between all men and women? Between Aunt Sophie and Ben? Mamma and Papa? Was this the poisonous truth beneath the pretty make-believe of tea parties and musical afternoons?

Night deepened. The moon rose. Finally, she slept.

She awoke around midnight, and lay blinking at the moonlight on the tiles.

Then she shook out her slippers, pulled on her dressing gown, and padded across the hall to her father’s study. The doorway glowed golden in the light from the lamp on his desk.

‘You’re working late, Papa,’ she said.

He raised his head and stared at her. ‘Who are you?’

She swayed. ‘I’m Belle.’

He frowned. ‘No you’re not. You’re not my daughter, you’re a stranger.’ He got up and came round the side of the desk, towering over her. His light grey eyes were glassy with anger. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my house?’

She couldn’t breathe. This was a mistake. Any second now he’d break into a smile and tell her it was a joke.

‘What have you done with my daughter?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Belle?’

She awoke with a shuddering start in a tangle of damp bedclothes. The old nightmare. But this time it had felt real.

Outside, an owl hooted. She caught her breath. To hear the voice of Patoo means that something bad will happen. But something bad already had. Was there more to come?

Feeling sick, she shook out her slippers, pulled on her dressing gown, and padded across the hall to her father’s study. The doorway glowed golden in the light from the lamp on his desk.

This is
not
a dream, she told herself. He will recognize me. He will. I may be tainted, but I’m still his daughter.

He glanced up and saw her, and gave her the almost-smile that was habitual with him. ‘Hello, Belle. Feeling any better?’

Relief broke over her like a wave. She nodded, and went to her usual spot on the Turkey rug, and tented her nightgown over her legs.

Scout, sprawled beneath the desk, lumbered to his feet and came over to sniff her ankles, then lumbered back and slumped down again.

Papa said, ‘I don’t think rum and water’s really in order, do you? Would you like a glass of seltzer water instead?’

She shook her head.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded, and went back to his books.

She looked about her at this big shabby room that hadn’t changed since she could remember. The battered mahogany desk under which she’d camped when she was six, and refused to come out. The infamous moth-eaten Turkey rug which Mamma annually threatened to discard. The golden satinwood walls blotched with old damp-stains from the years when her father had lived here alone, and much of the house had lacked a roof.

She’d been coming here since the first nightmare when she was five. She would lie on the rug and gaze at the painting of the old house at Strathnaw, and pester her father about Scotland.

‘Why are the trees all bare?’

‘Because in the winter it’s too cold for the leaves to stay on.’

‘But where do the birds make their nests?’

‘They don’t. They leave the country.’

‘Aren’t there any birds left at all?’

‘Yes, some stay behind.’

‘Which ones?’

‘. . . Robins.’

‘But without nests, where do the robins sleep?’

‘No idea.’

Now Belle watched her father writing in the big leather-bound estate book. The lamplight threw sharp shadows across his strong-boned face.
Not exactly refined
, Mrs Herapath had once remarked,
but
so
attractive
.

But
why
do people think he’s so attractive? wondered Belle. Is it because he’s strong and kind, and we think he’ll keep us safe? But is that true? Is he really kind? After all, he was once a soldier in the Sudan. He was in battles. He killed people.

It was a horrible thought. He was her father, but she didn’t know him.

And he didn’t know her.

‘Why, Belle, dear,’ said Mr Traherne as he stood on the steps to welcome his guests, ‘you’re looking positively grown-up.’

Belle blinked. Bracing herself, she waited for him to say something more, or for some flicker of unease or guilt to show on his face. But he merely passed his hand over his waistcoat, and turned to her parents with a smile. ‘Madeleine, Cameron –
delighted
you could come. You know how much these things mean to Rebecca.’

He looked just as he always did: genial, grandfatherly, and entirely at ease. No covert glance at Belle when Mamma wasn’t looking. In fact he’d already turned away to greet someone else.

Belle broke out in a cold sweat.
Navvies sweat
, Mrs Herapath would have admonished her,
ladies glow
.

But I’m not a lady, thought Belle. I’m a female.

She mumbled an excuse to her mother and stumbled from the sunlight into the cool marble gloom of the vast entrance hall. She found the bathroom, pushed past the bemused maid, and slammed the door. Then she bent over the water closet and heaved until there was nothing left to bring up.

But what did you expect? she told herself angrily. An apology? A guilty start? This is
Cornelius Traherne
.

She thought of her pathetic, childish attempts to cast a spell with the help of the duppy tree. What a fool she had been, to imagine that Eden would protect her.

And just as childish and pathetic was the impulse which had brought her here today. The need to confront him – or at least to find out what he would say.

Well, now she had her answer. He hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. Because as far as he was concerned, it had never happened.

Shakily she went to the washbasin and splashed cold water on her face. The girl who stared out from the looking-glass was a stranger.

From now on, she thought, you’re somebody else. It doesn’t matter who. You’ve just got to pretend.

‘One can always trust Rebecca,’ said Mrs Herapath, deftly capturing a petit four from a passing footman, ‘to do these things
well
.’ Mrs Herapath was the arbiter of taste in Trelawny, for before her marriage she’d been the Honourable Olivia Fortescue. The ladies of Northside society lived in terror of her pronouncements – which, fortunately, were usually benign.

And she was right, Rebecca Traherne did do these things well. The Montego Bay String Quartet was playing Schubert on the upper terrace, while down on the lawn a gentle breeze was fluttering the awnings. In the surrounding gardens, cool green arbours harboured enticing little gilt tables, and everywhere there were flowers: great banks of oleanders, plumbago and frangipani.

And all of it poisonous, thought Belle.

Anger burned her stomach like bile. Jamaica – Trelawny – Eden. Not the paradise she’d always believed it to be. Not with all this poison bubbling underneath.

As a sleeper in a dream she moved unnoticed between the guests. Everywhere she looked she saw dishonesty and pretence.

Mamma and Papa and Aunt Sophie listening to old Mrs Pitcaithley’s interminable laments, and pretending not to be bored.

Mrs Clyne handing back her scared little boy to his nurse, and pretending to smile when she was really annoyed.

Mr Traherne patting Dodo’s cheek, and pretending to be the genial old host. Dodo pretending to like it. Mrs Traherne in her Bath chair, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Lyndon belligerently asking Belle for a dance, and pretending not to care when she said no.

Everyone pretending. Playing a part.

What part should she play? The docile little miss admiring the pretty ladies and the handsome gentlemen? Or the ‘female’ who knew what lay beneath?

Over by the balustrade, lovely Celia Palairet was flirting with Georgie Irving, while casting sharp little glances at her husband to see if he’d noticed. Adam Palairet – tall, reserved and stony-faced – was grimly pretending that he hadn’t.

Belle pushed her way through to him. ‘Why do you pretend?’ she demanded. ‘If you don’t like the way she’s behaving, why don’t you stop her?’

He looked down at her with surprisingly warm brown eyes that seemed curious rather than annoyed. ‘Why should I?’ he asked.

‘But she’s flirting,’ Belle said angrily. ‘Your wife is flirting with another man.’

For a moment he studied her face, as if he was trying to work out why she was acting like this. Then he said gently, ‘You’re very young. Do you really know anything about it?’

It wasn’t the response she wanted. She wanted anger or outrage. She wanted someone else to feel what she was feeling.

Without a word she turned on her heel and left him. She stalked down the steps and into the garden, and from the corner of her eye she saw Lyndon Traherne emerge from behind a potted orange tree and follow at a discreet distance.

She turned into the rose arbour. It was stuffy and deserted. Mrs Traherne’s prized eglantines were dropping their petals in the heat.

Lyndon came after her with his hands in his pockets. Poor lanky, unattractive Lyndon. It seemed inconceivable that only a couple of weeks before they’d had a spat over who would get first prize in a fancy dress competition.

She turned and waited for him to catch up.

Belligerently he thrust out his jaw, but she could see that he was shaking with nerves. ‘Don’t you care to listen to the music?’ he said.

‘No,’ she replied. She plucked a rose and started shredding it.

‘I say, don’t do that. Mamma won’t like it.’

‘Then you’d better not tell her, had you?’

‘Don’t.’ He put out his hand and grabbed hers.

She let her hand go limp in his, to see the effect.

His face went red. She could feel how his fingers shook.

She thought, so this is what it feels like if you don’t get involved. It’s easy. You simply take yourself outside, and watch. She said, ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

His face flamed. His narrow chest rose and fell. ‘You oughtn’t to say things like that.’

‘Why not? You do want to kiss me, I can tell. You think about kissing all the time, don’t you? I heard that last Sunday you asked Becky Frobisher if she wanted a kiss. Our cook said that you—’

‘That was different.’

‘Why? Because Becky’s a servant’s daughter?’

He looked confused. ‘Because I’m a boy, and boys – we can do things that girls can’t.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said drily, ‘I know all about that.’

He threw her a startled look. Then he blurted out, ‘But I have kissed a girl, you know.’