The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (112 page)

Belle’s hands tightened in her lap.

‘What is his name?’

Belle licked her lips. ‘Mr – Mr Traherne.’

The ancient face went very still. The gloved talons tightened on the cane. ‘Which one?’ said Great-Aunt May. ‘The elder – or the younger?’

Belle could not bring herself to say.

‘Ah.
Indeed
. The elder.’ Surprisingly, the inflamed blue eyes gleamed with pleasure.

Belle was alarmed. She’d been wrong to come. What were her troubles to Great-Aunt May, except the source of grim amusement? Great-Aunt May didn’t care about her. She’d been Belle’s age at the time of the great slave rebellion of 1832, when she’d watched the hangings in the square. She’d seen the corpses piled by the side of the road in the cholera epidemic of 1850. She’d witnessed hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. She didn’t
care
.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Belle.

‘Why come to me?’

‘I thought—’

‘You thought that I might help you. Why?’ With her cane she rapped the parquet. ‘The Trahernes have been a stain on this parish for years,’ she went on, ‘and before I die, I intend to see them removed,
root and branch
. However,
I
shall choose the time when that shall come to pass. And I say that that time is not yet come.’

‘But—’

‘I shall not corroborate your story, miss. Upon my word, I shall not. And without me, who would believe you?’

Belle stared at her.

‘
Why
should they believe you?’ said Great-Aunt May, leaning forward. ‘They would simply say that you have a pretty skill at weaving a falsehood, just like your mamma.’

It was so unexpected that Belle’s jaw dropped.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Great-Aunt May. ‘Your mother is a liar, as was her mother before her.’

‘No,’ protested Belle.

Again Great-Aunt May rapped the floor with her cane. ‘Do not interrupt! You are liars, I say! All Durrants are. Feckless. Loose. It is
in the blood
.’

‘I’m not lying,’ said Belle, who didn’t know what feckless meant. ‘I’m telling the truth.’

But was she? Or had she got everything disastrously wrong? Did Mr Traherne simply want to
help
her, because she was different? After all, he’d promised that he wouldn’t touch her again. And she believed him, for he was a gentleman, and gentlemen always keep their word.

‘
Lies
,’ repeated Great-Aunt May with relish. ‘That is what people will say. Wicked, wicked lies.’

Belle leapt to her feet and fled.

By the afternoon the heat had become intense. Tempers frayed. People scanned the sky in vain for rain clouds. Belle and Dodo stayed on the verandah, flicking through back numbers of the
Weekly Gleaner
and getting on each other’s nerves.

To make matters worse, Dodo had developed a crush on Ben, and insisted on going through the albums again. And when she wasn’t doing that, she wanted to talk about kissing.

It turned out that although she still played with dolls, Dodo Cornwallis knew a surprising amount about kissing, but nothing whatever about what came after – although she thought that she did.

‘A girl at school told me all about it,’ she said as they were dressing for dinner. ‘It’s really quite simple. There’s something men need to get rid of from time to time, so they give it to the Piccadilly women.’

Belle paused with a petticoat in her hands. ‘Who are the Piccadilly women?’

Dodo rolled her eyes. ‘You
know
.’ When Belle still looked blank, she leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Bad women. You know.’

Belle didn’t. And the term worried her. She’d never thought about it before, but now she realized that there was a hierarchy. There were ‘ladies’ like Mamma and Aunt Sophie; and ‘women’ like the servants and the market women; and ‘bad women’, whatever that meant. And then there were ‘females’. At Salt River, Mr Traherne had called her a female. Was that like a Piccadilly woman, or was it even worse?

Wednesday dawned hotter than ever, and she still hadn’t decided what to do. Then at breakfast she had a brilliant idea.

What if she did what she was told, and went to Bamboo Walk –
but Mr Traherne wasn’t there
? What if he was taken ill? Not seriously ill; just enough to make it impossible for him to go for a ride. Then she would have fulfilled her obligation, and at the same time avoided anything happening –
and he couldn’t possibly be displeased
.

It was simplicity itself. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? All she needed was a little obeah. And she knew just the person to help.

Her teacher, Evie McFarlane, was a beautiful mulatto lady who’d been friends with Aunt Sophie since they were children. She’d married a coloured planter, Mr Walker, and now lived on his estate at Arethusa, on the other side of Falmouth. But everyone still called her Miss McFarlane, or ‘the Lady Teacheress’, as she’d once been the schoolmistress at Coral Springs.

She’d given up teaching school on her marriage, but still tutored Belle as a favour to Mamma, who couldn’t face sending Belle away to Miss Woolmer’s academy at Kingston. But the best thing about Evie was that she wasn’t only a teacher, but also a witch.

Her mother, Grace, was also a witch – the most powerful obeah-woman in Trelawny – and she lived by herself in the old ruined slave village at the bottom of Fever Hill. But not even Grace could do what Evie could. Evie was four-eyed. Evie could see ghosts.

‘Can you see the future, too?’ Belle asked casually after Evie had arrived in her little dog cart and they’d settled down for a half-hearted history lesson. Dodo had gone back to her aunt at Running Gut, and they were alone on the verandah.

‘No, I can’t,’ said Evie with a wry smile. ‘Why? Can you?’

This was a setback. Belle had been hoping that Evie might simply tell her whether or not she was going to go to Bamboo Walk tomorrow. Then at least she’d know, and she wouldn’t have to ask Evie to do a spell to make Mr Traherne ill. Clearly it wasn’t going to be that simple. She said, ‘But you do know how to set a curse, don’t you?’

Evie’s face closed.

‘I mean,’ floundered Belle, ‘that’s what people do when they make obeah. Isn’t it? Nailing a person’s shadow to a duppy tree, or putting hand on someone, or setting a snake on—’

‘Belle,’ said Evie in her low, soft Creole voice. ‘Obeah is not a game.’

Belle coloured. ‘I know. I do know that. I didn’t mean—’

‘It’s dangerous. Do you understand? You meddle with obeah, even just a little, and it’ll fire back on you so fast—’ she broke off, shaking her head. ‘So fast that it’s like a broken rope snapping back in your face.’

Belle swallowed. She’d never heard Evie talk with such feeling. It frightened her. ‘It was only to make him ill,’ she said in her defence.

‘Who do you mean?’ said Evie.

Belle shook her head.

Evie thought for a moment. ‘So this man,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ve got something of his? You know enough about obeah to know that you need a personal effect?’

Belle nodded.

Evie held out her hand.

Reluctantly, Belle reached into her pocket and brought out Mr Traherne’s handkerchief, that he’d given her to bind up her hand. It was fine white lawn, but it bore no initial. Evie would not be able to tell to whom it belonged.

‘Consider this confiscated,’ said Evie, sounding very much the teacher as she tucked it into her handbag. ‘And now I want you to promise me –
promise
me – that you won’t try anything on your own. Belle? I’m waiting.’

Belle heaved a sigh. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I promise.’

But twelve hours later here she was, standing in the moonlight by the river, getting ready to break that promise.

A hot breeze rustled the dry leaves of the giant bamboo. Fearfully she looked about her. The night was full of spirits. Who would protect her now? She’d broken faith with Ben, and now she was about to break faith with Evie McFarlane. She was about to put herself beyond the protection of one of the most powerful witches in Trelawny.

But what choice did she have? Even without Mr Traherne’s handkerchief, she’d picked up enough obeah from the servants to make a stab at a spell. At least, she had to try.

She turned back to the sliding river. A fish broke the surface with a plop. A mosquito whined in her ear. The night-song of the crickets was low and musical.

Suddenly, to her surprise, her spirits lifted. These sounds were as familiar to her as the sound of her own voice. This was her
home
. Eden would protect her. Eden would make her spell work.

Thursday morning dawned hot and windless, but Belle didn’t mind, for the omens were good.

A mongoose crossed her path as she padded to the bath-house. In the night, Mr Anancy the spider had built his web in a corner of her bedroom – and he didn’t do that for just anybody. The spell had worked.

Then a boy came with a note from Aunt Sophie. Would Belle mind postponing her usual Thursday visit for a couple of days? Another good omen, for Belle had been wondering how to put off her aunt without arousing suspicion. Now she was free to ride to Bamboo Walk and fulfil her obligation, and Mr Traherne couldn’t possibly be angry with her. She would do as she was told; but because of the spell, he would not be able to come. Her spell would see to it that he stayed away.

She had no difficulty getting away, for the twins were being impossible, and Mamma had her hands full. But Belle had to ride slowly because these days Muffin tired easily, and it took an hour to get to Bamboo Walk.

The cane-pieces lay stunned under the heat. Even the crickets sounded exhausted. Muffin wheezed irritably with every step. Already the good-luck charm of rosemary and Madam Fate which Belle had fixed to the bridle was wilting, and so was the sprig she’d pinned to the lapel of her dust-coat.

She reached Bamboo Walk, and reined in. Nothing. At the far corner of the cane-piece, she spotted the guango tree beside a clump of giant bamboo. She put Muffin forward.

Not a breath of wind stirred the cane. The Spanish moss hung limp from the branches of the tree. The bamboo was utterly still.

Weak with relief, Belle dismounted and tethered Muffin to the tree. She would take a quick look round, so as to be able to say that she had, and then water Muffin at the irrigation ditch, and get out of—

He was waiting for her behind the giant bamboo.

Chapter Five

‘Belle? Belle!’ Mamma tapped on the bath-house door. ‘Are you all right in there?’

Belle froze. In the looking-glass her face was sweaty and pale. She looked like a stranger. Would Mamma guess what had happened? Would she
smell
him on her?

Belle could. She’d been in here for hours, and she still couldn’t wash him off. She would be dirty for ever. She’d never be clean again.

On the other side of the door, her mother said, ‘Moses tells me you came back from your ride in a dreadful lather. Poor little Muffin’s quite done in. Were you taken ill?’

Belle glanced at the wet combinations in her hands. It was no use. She’d never get rid of the blood. ‘Just a bit seedy,’ she called. ‘Nothing to worry about. A little too much sun.’

In the looking-glass, the huge-eyed girl mouthed the words. She thought, from now on, this is who you are. A girl who lies to her mother. Who lies to everyone.

‘You can’t ever tell anyone,’ he’d said afterwards, as he straightened his tie. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’s our secret.’

Then he’d taken out his handkerchief and wiped himself clean, and mounted his horse, and given her a grandfatherly smile and tipped his hat as he put the big chestnut into a leisurely trot and headed for home.

‘Belle?’ said her mother. ‘I really think you ought to come out. At once.’

Belle heard Scout the mastiff scratching and snuffling at the door. She heard the unease in her mother’s voice. She rolled the damp combinations into a ball and stuffed them into the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she smoothed back her hair and unlocked the door.

Her mother gasped. ‘Good heavens, Belle, you look like a ghost. Whatever’s wrong?’

Belle met her eyes, then glanced quickly away. Mamma hadn’t guessed. She was merely worried in an everyday sort of way that her daughter was looking peaky.

Belle felt a jolt of terror. If not even Mamma could guess what had happened, then what he’d said must really be true: they were in the secret together. Just the two of them. She would never escape.

‘Belle?’

She swallowed. ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled. ‘I told you, just a bit too much sun. I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine. Not at all.’

Scout nosed at the pocket of her dressing gown. She pushed him away. ‘It’s just a sick headache. I think I need to lie down.’

Her mother laid a cool hand on her forehead. ‘You’ve a touch of fever, too. Bed for you. Straight away. No argument.’

Belle had no intention of arguing.

She lay curled up in bed beneath the mosquito curtain, and tried to think of nothing. But the thoughts squirmed in her head like worms. She couldn’t get rid of them. He was inside her now, and he was never coming out.

He had been so
strong
. That wet, red lizard tongue filling her mouth and making her gag. Those scaly, liver-spotted hands holding her down. That hard body tearing into her.

How could she ever have thought him noble, like a Roman senator?

And he’d been so calm afterwards. Shaking out his white lawn handkerchief. White. Immaculate.

‘Remember,’ he’d said as he smoothed back his hair, ‘you came to me. Not the other way round. Because this is who you are. I merely saw what was in you and brought it out. But don’t worry,’ he’d added, his voice very gentle. ‘It’s our secret. I shan’t ever tell. We wouldn’t want you to be found out, now would we?’

She shut her eyes and ground her face into the pillow. It never
happened
.

But it had. The evidence was all over her. The scratches on her arms. The chafe-marks on her thighs. The throbbing soreness inside.