The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (70 page)

‘The Boxing Day Masquerade. At Parnassus?’

‘Oh, God,’ said Sophie, ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’ It was
the
Christmas event on the Northside, and everyone would be there. Even Great-Aunt May always sent her carriage as a mark of recognition, along with her butler Kean. And this year, of course, it would be driven by her new coachman.

Sophie put her hands to her temples and stared down at her plate. Sibella would be watching her like a hawk. And by then, too, she would have met Ben at Romilly, and had it out with him. Whatever that meant.

Madeleine got up and came and sat beside her, and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Personally, I’ve always detested masquerades. The drumming gives me a headache, and the masks give me nightmares. Don’t go if you don’t want to.’

Sophie kneaded her temples. ‘But what about Sibella?’

‘Bother Sibella,’ said Madeleine robustly. ‘Listen. Cameron and I will go because we must, but there’s no reason why you should be martyred, too. Send a line on the day, to say you’re unwell. Say you’ve eaten too much plum pudding, or something.’

Sophie looked at her in bemusement. So far, Madeleine hadn’t said a single word to her about Ben, and what Cameron had or hadn’t witnessed at the clinic. And now she was being so understanding about Sibella. Why?

It crossed her mind that this might be some sort of war of attrition. But the next moment she dismissed that as unworthy of her sister. If something was wrong, Madeleine usually just spoke her mind.

Nevertheless, she began to wish that they could have it out, and clear the air. Anything would be better than this looming suspense. But Madeleine was busy with the children all morning, and when Cameron returned for lunch the conversation was general. Then after lunch, Madeleine went out to make some calls.

Sophie skipped the clinic and stayed at home. But as the afternoon wore on, her temper worsened. She snapped at Poppy and at Scout, and finally at the children. Then she felt guilty, and read them two whole stories from their favourite book of folktales:
The Treasure of the Spanish Jar
and
How the Doctorbird got his Tail
.

‘Above and beyond the call of duty,’ murmured Madeleine with a wry smile, after Poppy had put them to bed. ‘Even for the favourite aunt.’

‘Hardly that,’ replied Sophie. ‘The favourite aunt’s been ignoring them for days.’

‘It does them good. They get enough attention as it is.’

Sophie did not reply. She was standing at the edge of the verandah, looking out over the garden. Dusk was coming on. Cameron had just returned from the works, and was dressing for dinner. A low murmur of voices drifted up from the cookhouse, along with the scent of woodsmoke. Below her the garden was settling down for the night. The rasp of the crickets had sunk to a low, throbbing ring, and the whistling frogs were taking over. An early ratbat flitted about among the tree-ferns.

Madeleine came to stand beside her. ‘Sophie,’ she began with a slight frown.

Sophie braced herself. Here it came. A lecture about Ben.

‘I know it sometimes seems as if I’m – rather too conventional,’ Madeleine said quietly. ‘I mean, too keen on making calls and leaving one’s card, and that sort of thing.’

Sophie glanced at her in surprise. It was the last thing she’d expected.

‘But you see,’ Madeleine went on, worrying at a flake of paint on the baluster with her fingernail, ‘I know what it’s like to be on the outside.’ She bit her lip. ‘You were too young to remember, but for me it’s as if it were yesterday. That dreadful sense of being inferior. Never being allowed to mention one’s parents. Never being allowed to make friends. Always shut out.’

‘I remember,’ said Sophie.

Madeleine turned and looked into her eyes. ‘But do you? I wonder.’

Sophie sighed. ‘But Maddy, we’re not in London now. This is Trelawny. Things are different out here.’

‘No, they’re not. That’s just it. It may seem as if they are – as if they’re more relaxed. Certainly, people will turn a blind eye to matters of birth if one’s a Monroe of Fever Hill, or a Lawe of Eden. But that doesn’t mean they’ll overlook – well, indiscretion. Not when one makes it impossible to ignore.’ She softened that with an anxious smile. ‘People can turn on you, Sophie. It can happen in a moment. And it’s a cold place to be: on the outside, looking in. I don’t want that for you.’

Sophie did not reply. She’d been expecting a row. But this was far more devastating. She thought of the note she had sent to Ben. What would Madeleine feel if she knew about it? It would be like the worst kind of betrayal.

‘Well,’ said Madeleine, giving her hand a little pat. ‘Just think about what I’ve said. That’s all I ask.’

For a moment, Sophie did not reply. Then she leaned over and kissed her sister’s cheek.

Madeleine tried not to look too pleased. ‘What’s that for?’

‘Nothing. Just for being you.’

‘Well,’ said Madeleine, colouring, ‘I’d better go and dress.’

‘I’ll be along in a minute.’

‘And Sophie . . .’ she paused in the doorway, ‘don’t worry about Sibella. She’ll come round. And if she doesn’t, we’ll tackle her together.’

Sophie nodded and tried to smile. When Madeleine had gone, she turned back to the darkening garden.

Now she was certain that she’d made a mistake in writing to Ben. And yet – and this frightened her more than anything – she didn’t care.

It’s been five days since Evie met Master Cornelius in Bamboo Walk, but she can still feel the throb of the bite-mark on her breast, and the scratches on her arms and belly and thighs. He’d very nearly got what he wanted.

It’s been five days since it happened, and she still can’t get her balance. One moment she’s close to tears, and the next she’s into a rage. She wants to shout and scream and cry. She wants to holler like a pickney.

He’d been strong, but she’d fought like a cat. She dreams of it every night. She thinks of it all day. Even now, as she’s coming out of Dr Mallory’s clinic with a little bottle of iodine for the scratches, she can’t get it out of her mind. His rough wet tongue. The yellow ridges on his fingernails. The oniony smell of his sweat. Thinking of him makes her feel dirty. It’s like he’s leaving slimy snail-trails in her mind.

With a flush of shame she remembers her pitiful self-deception: that he
respected
her; that he wanted to further her career. She remembers her contempt for her mother’s place, and her pride in her education. What education? She’s as thick-witted as any mocho nigger from the hills.

Luckily for her, Sophie had been away both times that she’d stopped at the clinic. Luckily for her, Dr Mallory had accepted without question her muttered explanation of a fall from a verandah. But then, he’d been so overcome at dealing with a young female patient that he’d have accepted anything. His collar had become dark with sweat, and he’d kept glancing at her breasts as he was putting the sticking-plaster on the scratches on her arms. He hadn’t noticed that she was shaking with anger and self-loathing and disgust. And she’d wanted him dead. She’d wanted her mother to get out her obeah-stick and make him die away of the spirit-sickness before her eyes.

No. No. She doesn’t want that. Dr Mallory is just a lonely, well-meaning, unattractive man whom nobody likes. Besides, it’s not his fault. It’s nobody’s fault but her own.

How could she have been such a fool? How many times has her mother warned her that when a buckra gentleman starts sniffing around a coloured girl he’s only after one thing? Well, Grace McFarlane was right, and her daughter was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Sweet tongue hide bad heart
, as the saying goes. Or as they chant in infant school:
B is for buckra, very bad man
.

She crosses the clearing and starts for home, heading north between the coffee walks and the little plots of cane.

She’s approaching the edge of Greendale Wood when she bumps into Ben. He’s leading a big chestnut gelding and wearing his new coachman’s uniform, a dark green tunic and breeches which suit him wonderfully. He looks handsome-to-pieces, as her mother would say, and unusually carefree and at ease. Evie doesn’t want to see him right now. She doesn’t want to see anyone so carefree and at ease.

‘What you doing up here?’ she says tartly. ‘What about that new job of yours?’

He grins. ‘This job! I got nothing to do all day except exercise the horse. So I thought I’d nip along and see Sophie.’

‘She didn’t come today.’

He frowns. ‘Why not? She in trouble?’

‘How should I know? I’m not her sister.’

He gives her a considering look, then falls into step beside her, with his hands in his pockets. His horse ambles behind him like a dog, with the reins slung over the saddle.

They reach the trees and take the westward path towards the river. Evie watches Ben break off a switch and start slashing at the ferns. Something’s different about him, but she can’t work out what. ‘You won’t keep your job long’, she tells him, ‘if you go gadding about like this.’

Another grin. ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. This
is
the job. Turns out the old witch likes me to go out and pick up the odd bit of news. It’s called “exercising the horse”.’

‘What kind of news?’

He shrugs. ‘Gossip. And the grimmer the better. Who’s just dropped dead. Who’s just gone all to smash and blown out his brains and left his kids to take their chances on the parish.’

Who’s just escaped being raped in a cane-piece, thinks Evie.

‘The way it goes’, he explains, ‘is that I mention it to Kean, sort of in passing, and it filters through to her. Not sure how, but it always does.’

‘And you think that’s a good thing, do you?’ she says between her teeth. ‘Passing on bad news?’

He blows out a long breath. ‘So she likes to find out the worst of people. So what? She’s paying.’ He gives her a narrow-eye look. ‘What’s up with you, then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, yeah? So how’d you get them bruises on your arms?’

‘I fell off a verandah.’

He snorts. ‘Since when did that get you a set of fingermarks on your neck?’

She turns away. Damn him for being so sharp.

‘Tell me who he is,’ he says calmly, ‘and I’ll give him a going over. Next time he claps eyes on you he’ll run a mile.’

His tone is utterly without swagger, but she knows that he’ll do it. And for a second she feels a flash of gratitude. But she shakes her head. ‘You’d only get into trouble.’

He laughs. ‘Me? Never.’ Then his smile fades. ‘So this bloke who give you the bruises. Did he get what he wanted?’

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yes! Now leave me be!’

He gives another shrug, and goes back to slashing the ferns. They walk on in silence. As they near the river, the trees become taller, the undergrowth thicker. They push through great waxy leaves, and Evie blunders into a spider’s web. It’s only after she’s brushed it away and walked on fifty yards that she realizes what she’s done. Every pickney knows that you’ve got to be polite to Master Anancy spider-man, or he’ll bring you bad luck. And if you tear up his place, you need to say sorry fast. But it’s too late to say sorry now.

Automatically her hand goes to her neck to find her charm-bag, but of course it isn’t there. It got torn off in the struggle in Bamboo Walk, along with the little green silk bag that contained his golden chain.

Strange. Since she became a woman, she’s looked down on ignorant superstitions like charm-bags. But without its weight against her heart, she feels vulnerable and afraid.

‘So,’ says Ben, startling her, ‘have you seen Sophie, then?’

‘No. I told you.’

He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Oh, well. I spose I’ll see her soon enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m sposed to be meeting her, day after tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

But he just shakes his head. He’s trying to keep from smiling, but he can’t, and suddenly she knows what’s different about him. He’s happy. She didn’t realize it before because it’s so rare with him, but now she sees it in his eyes and his mouth, and the way he moves.

It puts her into a rage. Here is this buckra man, this handsome carefree
buckra
man, walking beside her and just about boiling over with happiness. Why should he be in love when she’s so wretched? Why is everything so black-feelinged and tangle-up? ‘Ben,’ she says in a hard voice, ‘I got to tell you a thing. You got to stay away from Sophie Monroe.’

He stoops for a stone and sends it whizzing low over the ferns. ‘Now tell me something I don’t know.’

‘No,
listen
to me. Do you know what I see sometimes when I look at you?’

‘What?’

‘I see a red-haired girl standing at your shoulder.’

Oh, Jesum Peace, but he’s not expecting that. He stops in his tracks and stares at her. His face has gone blank with shock.

She’d not thought it’d have this strong an effect on him, and it frightens her. But she can’t stop now. ‘Long red hair,’ she says, ‘and a white face. Like she’s sickening for something.’

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘No.’

‘She died in pain, didn’t she, Ben? Blue shadows under her eyes. Fever-sweat on her skin. And one side of her face turned all to pulp.’

The blood’s gone from his cheeks. His lips are grey. ‘How d’you know?’ he says in a cracked voice. ‘How can you know? I never told you about her. Did I?’

‘She came for a reason, Ben. They always do. She’s warning you. Telling you to keep away.’

He’s shaking his head. A fine sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead.

Now she’s frightened bad. She’d expected him to laugh, and shrug it off. She’d
wanted
him to. After all, he’s buckra. He’s not supposed to be scared of spirits.

‘You can’t of seen her,’ he says dully. ‘She’s dead. Kate’s dead.’

‘Oh, I know it,’ she says. ‘I always know when I see a dead one.’

But he’s not hearing her. He’s staring past her into nothingness.

‘It’s a warning, Ben. You got to heed what she’s telling you.’

‘A warning?’ His gaze swings round to her, and he looks at her from a great distance. ‘Why would Kate want to warn me? I’m the one that got her killed.’