The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (120 page)

‘But I can’t leave Dodo.’

‘Of course you can. Dodo’s married. Dodo can look after herself. I, on the other hand—’

‘But why do we have to leave?’

‘Kitten, do
try
to pay attention! Cousin Adam wants me to be a farmer. How could we possibly marry if I were herding sheep on some ghastly hillside?’

‘But he couldn’t make you do that.’

‘I expect he could. He’s the head of the family.’ Once again he lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘He probably wants me to go down there at once, so that he can marry me off to some appalling laird’s daughter with ankles like tree trunks.’

Belle knew perfectly well that all this talk of sheep-farming and lairds’ daughters was just a smokescreen; Osbourne often made up stories when he wanted to avoid the truth. But she also knew that it was best not to come right out and confront him.

Busying herself with her hairbrush, she said, ‘But why should it matter what Captain Palairet wants?’

He was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. ‘Because – because, kitten darling, I fear that he wouldn’t quite approve of our engagement.’

Belle set down the hairbrush. ‘He wouldn’t
approve
? Why not?’

Again Osbourne sighed. ‘It’s just the way he is, darling. Grim and dour and disgustingly moral. All the Scottish Palairets are. Apart from me, of course. I’m the glorious exception.’

He was trying to throw her off the scent. ‘Why wouldn’t he approve of me?’ she said quietly.

‘Oh, Lord. It’s just— If you must know, he’s got something into his head about your mamma’s family. The Durrants. But it’s really nothing . . .’

Belle felt her face growing hot. The old taint rising to the surface.
It is in the blood
. . .

‘It’s ridiculous, I know,’ said Osbourne with a yawn. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll square it with him eventually. But now do you see why, just at the moment, I need to stay out of his way?’

Belle thought about that. She felt torn between her loyalty to Osbourne, and her promise to Dodo to stay at Kyme. ‘Osbourne,’ she began. ‘About Dodo—’

‘Oh, Lord—’

‘But I don’t see how I can leave her. She’s having such trouble settling into her new role. She needs me.’

He got up and came over to her, and pulled her gently to her feet. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘After the party, you can come to my room, and we’ll play master and servant.’ His hand moved down to her breast. ‘I’ve always wanted to roger a maid.’

Belle twisted sharply out of his grip. ‘That isn’t funny.’

He dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘It wasn’t meant to be funny, darling. It’s the truth.’

When he had gone, Belle sat down at the dressing table and put her head in her hands. She felt shaky and sick.
I’ve always wanted to roger a maid
. . .

One sentence was all it took to bring it back. Just one sentence.

You wear clothes well, because you only just tolerate them. If you were mine, I don’t imagine that I should allow you to wear any clothes at all. Perhaps just a housemaid’s organdie apron, with a fine gold chain about your neck.

She shut her eyes, and willed the memory back down again. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? The housemaid’s costume. The creeping dread . . .

She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection, and a mask stared back at her. Painted lips. Rouged cheeks. Glossy dark bob beneath the little organdie cap. She was looking at Isabelle Lawe, and at Belle, and Dodo’s best friend, and ‘infant’ and ‘kitten’ and ‘maid’. She was looking at anyone – or no-one.

A sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead. Mechanically, she repaired the damage with powder; but nothing could hide the fear in her eyes. The mask was beginning to crack.

Wrenching open a drawer, she took out the flat lacquer box that she took with her everywhere. Inside, beneath a bundle of her parents’ letters, was a child’s clay model of a yellowsnake, and a plain morocco travelling case for photographs. She took out the case and opened it, and stared down at the image inside.

This was the only way she knew of pushing the memory back down again, but it never really worked. Because in invoking Eden, she was invoking the memory, too. Eden was where it had begun. Like her, it was tainted for ever.

A knock at the door. She started. The photograph case fell to the floor.

‘May I come in?’ said Celia Talbot.

Belle nodded. She didn’t like Celia. But Celia was better than no-one.

‘You’re fearfully pale,’ said Celia. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Belle. ‘Just a little tired.’

Celia looked wonderful. She’d dressed as a lady’s maid, in a gown of dove-grey taffeta, with neat white collar and cuffs, and a small embroidered muslin apron tied by a black velvet ribbon. With her sleek black marcelled hair and clear blue eyes, she managed to look both disturbing and demure.

‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, stooping for the picture frame. Then she gave the photograph a longer look. ‘Heavens, what an attractive man. Who is he?’

Belle swallowed. ‘My father.’

As Celia studied the photograph, she gave a slow smile. ‘Isn’t that odd? Such a strong face, and yet – his eyes are rather similar to Osbourne’s.’

‘No they’re not,’ Belle said quickly.

‘Oh, I rather think that they are. That very clear, light grey? Although your Papa’s eyes are – harder.’

‘No,’ said Belle. ‘Papa isn’t hard.’

Celia’s smile widened. ‘Of course not. Do forgive me.’ She handed back the photograph. ‘Do you know,’ she said, curling up on the counterpane, ‘I fell for Adam for exactly the same reason. Because he reminded me of my papa.’

‘But that’s not why I—’

‘No, darling,’ said Celia soothingly, ‘of course it isn’t.’ She ran a finger along the satin ribbon which threaded the counterpane. Then she frowned. ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m simply out of sorts. I suppose you’ve heard? Adam’s arriving tomorrow.’

Belle was relieved to be back on safer ground. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’re all rallying round. Osbourne will be on guard with Drum, and I shall cause a diversion at the least sign of a scene.’

‘Darling Belle,’ Celia said perfunctorily. ‘But I hardly think Osbourne’s a match for Adam. He can be – relentless. And I ought to know . . .’ She gave a delicate shudder, and Belle realized that she was enjoying herself immensely.

‘Of course, he’s still mad for me,’ Celia went on. ‘Terrified that he’s lost me for ever.’

Belle could think of nothing to say to that. She glanced at her reflection. To her relief, she saw that the mask was back in place. No-one would guess that it had a crack in it.

In the looking-glass she watched Celia open her evening bag and take out a slim gold compact. ‘Do you sniff?’ Celia asked as she opened the compact and withdrew a tiny gold spoon.

Belle shook her head.

Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I think you ought to try it, just this once.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t—’

‘No arguments, darling. You seem
distraite
. A touch of snow will do you no end of good.’

Belle met Celia’s eyes in the mirror. Why am I even hesitating? she thought. It’s not as if I’m a model of purity. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps just this once.’

Chapter Twelve

Dinner passed in a glittering haze.

Belle flirted outrageously with Drum Talbot, and laughed too hard at Esmond’s jokes. She drank too much champagne and barely touched her food – although the turbot, lobster and duckling were the best that the ‘good old BM’ could muster. Belle didn’t care. Celia’s snow was fizzing in her blood like wine.

As the ices were brought in, she leaned forward and gazed down the length of the fifty-foot dining table: at the dazzling damask and the shining silver; at the towering
compotières
of orchids and pineapples and grapes. Brittle laughter dinned in her ears. The glitter of crystal hurt her eyes.

Everything was the wrong way round. She saw housemaids in sequinned evening frocks offering cigars to butlers and gardeners; footmen in white tie and tails dispensing liqueurs to housekeepers and grooms.

Her chemical elation drained sharply away. We’re actors in a play, she thought with a twinge of unease. The flowers and the fruit are the props, and the servants are the stagehands. But where is the audience?

At the other end of the table, Dodo rose to her feet, and like brilliantly coloured shards in a kaleidoscope her guests rose too, and drifted towards the ballroom, where the ragtime band was already striking up. Beyond the ballroom was the Long Gallery, where bridge and bezique awaited the older guests; then there was the Blue Antechamber and the Peacock Salon and the billiards room, and so on and on. There would be Murder and Coon Can until dawn, as well as other, less salubrious games . . .

Suddenly, Belle wanted no part of it. She let the others flow around her like a bright, noisy river, and watched them as if from behind a sheet of glass. She watched them playing their parts.

She saw Esmond leading Celia out for the first dance – although in truth, all he really wanted was to get her alone in some shadowy corner of the library. She saw Celia pretending to have fun. She saw Dodo gamely chatting to the DD as they headed for the bridge tables.

All of them acting, thought Belle. She was puzzled. She hadn’t felt like this in years. Six years ago. Rebecca Traherne’s musical gathering at Parnassus . . .

Suddenly she needed to be alone.

But as she made her way through the chattering throng, a man grabbed her arm. ‘Belle!’ Drum had to raise his voice to be heard above the din. His handsome, boyish face was flushed, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his gardener’s overalls. ‘Be a sport and help me round up a posse for charades!’

‘Later,’ said Belle, removing his hand from her arm.

‘Oh, go on, be a
sport
!’

‘I said later!’ she snapped.

Drum blinked in surprise: a big, bluff golden retriever who didn’t understand why he’d been told off.

‘Later, Drum darling,’ she murmured, patting his shoulder by way of apology. Then she slipped through the throng and let herself out of a side door onto the terrace: out into the sweet, cool, forgiving September night.

The din of the party fell away. She moved to the balustrade and put both hands on the cool stone.

It was a warm, still evening, and the air smelt faintly of roses. Behind her, a gibbous moon crested the turrets and cupolas of Kyme. Below, the great double curve of steps swept down to the carriageway, reminding her disturbingly of Eden. Beyond that stretched the shadowy vastness of the park, washed in blue moonlight, and dotted with dark trees like men standing guard.

To her left, the terrace was banded with gold from the tall Georgian windows. Through the nearest she caught a glimpse of Osbourne. He was dancing with Binty Sheridan, but swallowing a yawn, while surreptitiously casting around for her.

She felt a little better. Darling Osbourne. But perhaps she would just let him wait a little longer . . .

Down in the carriageway, a motor started up. Wheels crunched on gravel. Turning, Belle saw the beam of headlamps as it drove away, leaving its passenger standing at the foot of the steps. Quietly, Belle withdrew behind a marble urn.

The man who had just arrived stood some twenty feet below her, gazing up at the house. He was in uniform, with a greatcoat slung over one arm, and a valise at his feet. Belle couldn’t see him clearly, but she made out that he was tall and very slender, with an air of contained watchfulness which, even after six years, was instantly familiar.

She felt cold. Adam Palairet. But he was not supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

Over her shoulder, she saw Osbourne detach himself from Binty and move through the dancers towards the windows. He was looking for her. If he spotted her and came out, he’d find himself face to face with his cousin: just the man he was desperate to avoid.

Belle glanced down at the man in the carriageway, and heard again what Osbourne had said.
Wouldn’t quite approve of our engagement . . . got something into his head about your mamma’s family
. . .

Anger tightened her chest. If Osbourne wanted to avoid him, then avoid him he would.

Adam Palairet had picked up his valise and was starting up the steps.

Belle moved forward to intercept him.

He’d reached the top of the steps when the sound of her heels tapping across the flags made him stop.

A burst of jazz came from the ballroom. At the noise, he flinched, as if to avoid a blow. Then he gave himself a little shake and squared his shoulders, and waited in silence for her to approach. ‘I seem to have arrived in the middle of a party,’ he said. Then he astonished her by taking off his cap and holding it out to her along with his greatcoat. ‘Would you please find a footman to show me up to my room?’

She’d accepted his things automatically, but now she handed them back.

He took them with an air of slight bemusement.

‘I’m afraid,’ she told him, ‘I’m not a maid. This is a master and servant party. I’m Isabelle Lawe.’

Adam Palairet studied her in silence, and in the golden glow from the great front doors his face gave nothing away. He looked utterly unlike Osbourne. Brown hair, brown eyes beneath strongly marked brows, and a firm, unsmiling mouth. It was a clever face: thin, thoughtful and reserved, but he didn’t look as if he’d laughed in a very long time. In fact, he looked spent. Belle had seen that look before, in men who’d returned from the Front. It was as if a light had gone out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although he sounded tired rather than sorry. ‘I didn’t realize who you were.’ He held out his hand. ‘How do you do. I’m Adam Palairet.’

‘I know,’ said Belle, just touching his hand with the tips of her fingers. ‘I recognized you. We met once before, years ago. You wouldn’t remember.’

‘I remember,’ he said. He made no attempt to pretend that the memory had been a pleasant one.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw to her horror that Osbourne had spotted her – but not, it seemed, his cousin, for he was making his way purposefully towards the entrance hall.