The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (5 page)

Changing the bed had also been easier than Madeleine had expected. ‘Just bundle up the dirty things and throw them out of the bathroom window,’ her mother had said. ‘Someone will deal with it tomorrow.’

But washing the baby had been far, far worse. As soon as Madeleine had put it in the washbasin it started crying, and when she rubbed it clean with a handkerchief the crying became an outraged caterwaul. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the worm coming out of its belly-button, which was probably why she got soap in the baby’s eyes – although it was hard to tell, as its face was so tightly screwed up that she couldn’t see. All this trouble, and it wouldn’t even look at her.

It was an incredible relief to get it clean and dry and wrapped in fresh napkins – ‘Use three,’ said her mother, ‘the thickest flannel ones, we don’t want her catching cold.’ And to Madeleine’s astonishment and annoyance, the caterwauling stopped almost as soon as she handed it to her mother, who told her to turn her back while she ‘got the baby settled’.

‘How did you manage that?’ Madeleine said crossly as she was putting the last of the damp napkins over the fender. It seemed the blackest ingratitude for the baby to howl at her for ages, then snuggle up to her mother and behave.

‘She’s feeding,’ her mother whispered. ‘She’ll be quiet now.’

Setting her teeth, Madeleine picked up the washbasin and stalked off to empty it. Then she stalked back and set it firmly on the wash-hand stand.

Her mother raised her head and gave her a considering look. ‘Poor Maddy. You’re exhausted. And you haven’t eaten a crumb for hours. After everything you’ve accomplished!’

Madeleine tried not to look pleased.

‘Run down to the kitchen and cut yourself the biggest piece of seed cake you’ve ever seen. Take the whole thing if you like. And pour yourself an enormous glass of milk.’

Obediently, Madeleine went out onto the landing. But she never reached the kitchen, for without warning her stomach began to heave. She barely made it to the water closet before she was violently sick. When it was over she stayed kneeling on the freezing tiles with her elbows on the seat. She never wanted to move again.

Then she realized that she hadn’t closed the bathroom door, so her mother must have heard her being sick. A wave of shame washed over her. Her mother had been through much worse, and she hadn’t been sick once.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled when she returned to the bedroom.

Her mother gave her a dreamy smile. ‘You’re exhausted, sweetheart. This has been ghastly for you. I’m so sorry you had to go through it. But you’ve been splendid. Utterly, utterly splendid. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

Madeleine sucked in her lips.

‘Let’s get this little one settled, shall we? Then you shall climb into bed with me, and we’ll sleep till the middle of next week.’

That sounded more like her proper mother. But there was still the matter of ‘settling’ the baby.

According to Dr Philpott, it must be placed in a cot beside the mother. But the cot was in the new nursery, and far too heavy to drag in. So instead Madeleine emptied a drawer from the bureau and put in a pillow for a mattress, and then her mother’s thick Paisley shawl, doubled up. Then she hauled the drawer onto the bed and put it at the bottom, against the footboard. Then she put the baby inside and folded the shawl over it, with the head just showing, like a jam turnover. To her relief, the baby slept through the whole operation. Whatever her mother had given it to eat had obviously worked.

Suddenly, Madeleine was too tired to undress. Fortunately, she was wearing her favourite soft grey jersey sailor frock, with loose flannel petticoats underneath, as her mother didn’t believe in corset-waists for children. Yawning, she tugged off her hairclip and crawled beneath the covers.

It was wonderful to burrow into the great mound of bedding, and her mother felt marvellously soft and warm to curl up against. She also smelled reassuringly of soap and eau-de-cologne – although the smell of baby still lingered in the air.

‘Sorry I was sick,’ Madeleine mumbled.

She felt a gentle breath stirring the top of her hair, as if her mother were trying to kiss her but lacked the strength to reach. ‘You were wonderful,’ her mother said. ‘So grown-up. And
brave
. You’re amazing, Maddy. Quite, quite amazing.’

For a while there was silence, and Madeleine thought her mother had fallen asleep. Then once again she felt the breath on her hair. ‘Tomorrow,’ her mother said drowsily, ‘when you’ve had breakfast and fetched Dr Baines, everything will be back to normal. The doctor will bring a nurse to look after us, and you won’t ever have to wash the baby again. And after that, you shall eat nothing but cake all day long, and I’ll have the biggest brandy in Christendom – and we’ll send an enormous bunch of carnations to Dr Philpott. And then we’ll put our heads together and decide how to execute Hannah.’

Madeleine giggled.

She fell asleep listening to the hiss and crackle of the fire, and her mother’s deep, even breathing.

She awoke once in the night, when her mother rolled against her muttering ‘Cold . . . close the window . . . cold.’

Half asleep, Madeleine got up to check the windows – although she knew they were shut, for Dr Philpott was very stern about draughts. The room was warm but she stoked the fire anyway, then crawled back to bed, and slept.

She was jolted awake by the baby crying. There was no gentle drifting out of sleep. Suddenly she was awake and buffeted by cries.

She lay on her back wondering when it would stop. She could see daylight through a gap in the curtains. She must have slept all night.

Then she became aware of a chilly dampness down her right side, and a strange coppery smell. It must be the baby, she thought in disgust. She wished it had never arrived.

Beside her, her mother still slept. Her face had a waxy tinge, and her expression was strangely absent. It was neither happy nor sad, but simply not there. As if she were dreaming a very deep dream.

Madeleine touched her arm but she didn’t wake up. The arm felt hard, like a doll’s. Madeleine struggled out from under the bedclothes and knelt beside her. Gently she put her finger to her mother’s cheek. The flesh was cool and firm, like an unripe plum.

The baby was still crying.

Madeleine stayed kneeling on the bed. Her frock was cold and damp down the side that had lain against her mother, and when she put her palm to her thigh it came away glistening red. She shuffled crab-like off the bed and peeled back the blankets.

Her mother lay in a great crimson stain that surrounded her like a monstrous butterfly.

A line from Dr Philpott came back to her.
Flooding is a danger, particularly during the first hours after the birth.

What’s flooding? she thought numbly.

This is, came the cold reply inside her head.

The night before, her mother had assured her that the blood was ‘perfectly normal’. Perhaps she hadn’t known about flooding.

It occurred to Madeleine that she ought to change the sheets. She couldn’t get the soiled one out from under her mother, so she left it in place and put a clean sheet on top, then covered that with fresh blankets from the spare room, and the counterpane. She pushed the soiled bedclothes out of the bathroom window as she had done the night before, and watched them land with a
whump
in the snow. Then she took the hot brick from the fender and wrapped it in a flannel and put it beneath her mother’s feet, to warm her up.

The baby was still crying. Madeleine ignored it.

Chapter Eight: After the Birth
said that
the mother may be given warm milk or beef tea to restore her strength
. She padded out onto the landing, wondering how to make beef tea.

The stairwell was freezing, and when she reached the bottom she couldn’t remember what she was doing there. She sat on the stairs, blinking at the pile of mittens, coat and sealskin hat which she’d left on the floor the day before. Jutting from the coat pocket was a corner of Mister Parrot’s green felt wing.

The baby was still crying.

On the mat by the front door she saw a letter. She went and picked it up. It was for her mother. The sender’s address was inscribed on the back in a tiny, extremely regular hand:
Mrs Septimus Fynn, 24 Wyndham Street, Bryanston Square, Marylebone, London
. She replaced the letter on the mat.

The baby was still crying.

She wondered how to make it stop. She padded back upstairs and into her own room, and changed her frock. She didn’t bother about changing her petticoats or stockings or drawers, because the blood hadn’t soaked through that far.

Then she went into the bathroom and washed. In the mirror above the basin a white-faced girl with big dark eyes and wavy dark hair stared back at her.

The baby was still crying. But Dr Baines would come soon, she told herself. Dr Baines would deal with the baby.

She went back into her room and sat on the bed and looked out of the window. It was snowing so hard that she couldn’t see the beach beyond the garden wall.

Then she remembered that Dr Baines came once a week on Tuesdays, and that he’d already been the day before yesterday, which meant that he wouldn’t come again for another five days.

She thought about going to fetch him. But that would take hours, and she had a feeling that she oughtn’t to leave the baby on its own for so long.

She thought about taking the baby with her, but it was far too heavy to carry all the way to Stranraer. So instead she decided to wait in the house until someone came.

Someone would come soon. And they would look after her and the baby, and – and everything. Her thoughts skittered away from what ‘everything’ meant. She was hazily aware that her mother wasn’t going to wake up again, but whenever she started to think about that, a smooth blank wall rose up in her mind, and shut it out.

And the baby was still crying. It didn’t sound as if it would stop.

She got up and went to the door of her mother’s room. It was cavernous and dim, for she had forgotten to open the curtains, but on the floor by the bed she spotted Dr Philpott, where he had fallen during the night. Keeping her eyes averted from her mother, she crossed the room and picked him up, then retreated to the dressing-table and pulled out the stool. Her mother’s blue velvet bonnet lay on the seat, where she had put it the night before. Madeleine put it on the rug at her feet, and sat down.

The dressing-table was covered with the familiar clutter. She looked at the ivory brush set on its little embroidered mat, and the Japanese lacquer ring-tray, the velvet mouchoir case, the jewel casket, the pincushion, and the crystal jar of rice powder that she was sometimes allowed to play with for a treat. She looked at the porcelain pot of almond and glycerine face cream, and the open packet of Barnett’s Hygienic Wood Wool Diapers for Ladies.

She pushed everything to one side to make room for Dr Philpott, and turned to the index at the back. After searching for some time, she found what she was looking for:
Infant, Management Of – Page 57
.

She turned to page fifty-seven and started to read.

Chapter Four

Northern Sudan, 12 March 1884

God, what a country, thought Cameron Lawe as he shouldered his way through the Suakin bazaar.

Mad-eyed hillmen and greasy merchants: fawning over you one moment, and the next, only too ready to slit your throat.

It irritated him to think that in a sense his family’s wealth had originated here, in this squalid, stinking little midden of a town. The forebears of these same Egyptians and Berberines had done a brisk trade with Jamaica’s first settlers, and for two centuries the cane-fields had swallowed up a steady stream of slaves. So where was the difference between his own forebears and these thieving heathens?

An heretical thought, and one which he had no desire to deal with now. He didn’t want to deal with anything. He hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours.

Once again he cursed the vagueness of the orders which had brought him here.
Report to the Muhafaza at Suakin with the utmost despatch.
Why? What for? No doubt it was just another glorious army muddle which had sent him on a headlong rush for no reason at all. A freezing overnight train from Scotland, an overcrowded steamer to Port Said and then another through the canal, a dust-choked train across the desert, and finally a cramped and stinking man-of-war along the Gulf.

And then the
coup de grâce
: to be transferred to ‘special duties’ with another regiment. Special duties. What the devil did that mean?

He stopped at a saddle-maker’s for directions.
Ya sayyid, ayna al Muhafaza?
Which way to the Muhafaza, the Governor’s House?

Nihaya as-suq, ya Kabtan, khud al yamtin wa tumma al yasar ’an awwal az-zuqaq.
End of the bazaar, Captain, turn right, and down the first alley on the left.

As he said it, the saddle-maker slid him a curious look. It was the middle of the afternoon, and far too hot for Englishmen.

Unless, thought Cameron, giving the saddle-maker a cold stare, one happens to have been born in the tropics.

As he passed a spice-grinder’s stall he caught a heady wave of cumin and cloves, and without warning homesickness had him in its grip. Wherever he turned he saw reminders of Jamaica. The dust, the glare, the gaudy robes fluttering in the furnace wind: saffron, crimson, emerald and cobalt. The clamour of voices in a hundred tongues, the teeming black and brown faces. The oiled and intricate plaits of the ebony women.

Why now? he thought angrily. Why here? Hang it all, you don’t have time for this.

But if he was honest, he knew why Jamaica was so much in his thoughts. Because on his last day at Strathnaw he had taken a farewell ride in the park, and met a little girl in the snow.

It had taken just one word – Falkirk – and all the anger, the pain, had come boiling to the surface. There is no
justice
, he had thought as he looked down into the child’s fearless, eager little face. Your father isn’t ‘Alasdair Falkirk’. He’s Ainsley Monroe. Ainsley Randolph Falkirk Monroe, of the Monroes of Fever Hill, Jamaica. And this isn’t some storybook playground for you to explore. It’s the ancient seat of the family that your father dragged through the mud.