The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (16 page)

The street smelt of rain, wet horses and coal-dust as Madeleine descended the steps of the Reverend’s elegant little town house and crossed the road to where Ben and Robbie were waiting on the pavement.

With twenty pounds in her reticule she ought to feel relieved. Instead she felt humiliated. And strangely bereft.

That photograph on the Reverend’s desk was the face of her grandfather. She had known as soon as she’d seen it. The hawklike features. The angry, sunbleached eyes. Yesterday he had acquired a name. Today he had a face.

Lettice’s words came back to her.
He doesn’t want you. He never wanted you.

She felt again the bewilderment, the ache of loss. She was back in the snow at the gates of the Forbidden Kingdom. The officer’s eyes were glassy and cold as he turned his horse’s head and rode away.

It was that memory of the Forbidden Kingdom which had prompted her to call on the Reverend Lawe under an assumed name. Because she remembered how it felt to have someone look at you with warmth, only to turn away when you spoke your name.

‘So,’ said Ben, cutting across her thoughts, ‘the parson give you any dosh?’

She told him about the twenty pounds.

He whistled. ‘Bugger me. That’ll cost you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said coldly.

‘Oh yeh? Course you do!’

‘He wants me to go back tomorrow. To pray with him.’

He spluttered. ‘“To pray”? I never heard it called that before.’

‘It’s not like that. It’s perfectly proper.’ So why this unease? This queasy sense of obligation?

‘“Perfectly proper”,’ Ben quoted drily. Then his green eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not trying to do me out of my cut, are you?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, he’s a clergyman.’

‘So are half the punters in Holywell Street.’

‘Yes, well I won’t be needing Holywell Street any more.’

He blinked, and she wondered if she’d hurt his feelings. After all, if she no longer needed Holywell Street, she no longer needed Ben Kelly.

They walked on in silence. Ahead of them, Robbie turned and stared at a chimney sweep’s boy across the street, who had carroty hair, just like him.

Madeleine said, ‘What’s the matter, Ben?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

‘You were the one who said I should ask the family for help. Well. Now I have.’

‘Oh yeh? But I bet you didn’t tell him you
was
family.’

There was no answer to that. And she had been shocked by the ease with which she had deceived the clergyman. Of course, she’d had plenty of practice. She had been brought up to lie, and she knew that the best deceptions are the ones that stay closest to the truth. Thus Cousin Lettice had become ‘Aunt Letitia’, Madeleine Fynn became ‘Madeleine Finlay’, while Sophie remained her sister, and their parents still fell victim to childbirth and war. All she had done was fillet out any references to Falkirk, Durrant, Monroe and Jamaica.

Ben said, ‘So when you going to tell him, then?’

‘Tell him what?’

He threw her a look. ‘That you’re family. So to speak.’

What an instinct he had for the weak spot. ‘Soon,’ she said uncertainly.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Ben, please. I just want to get home.’

He turned his head and surveyed the street. ‘So what’s he like, the parson?’

She wondered how to reply. The first thing that had struck her about the Reverend Lawe was his beauty. His features were pale and narrow and severely well proportioned; the eyes an unblinking cobalt, the lips fine and very red beneath the clipped blond moustache. It was the face of a saint or a zealot or a madman.

Which, she told herself sternly, is absolute nonsense. The poor man behaved with delicacy, courtesy and great generosity. What more could you possibly ask?

But she still didn’t like him. The way his hand had trembled as he counted out the banknotes. And those meaningless little smiles. He was vain, too: she had noticed how his velvet smoking jacket exactly matched the colour of his eyes. And she had a sense that he might be a liar. Being one herself, she could usually tell.

‘So what’s he like?’ Ben said again.

She frowned. ‘He’s – very correct. And rather secretive, I think.’ She told him about the heavy damask curtains which had been closely drawn, even though it was still the early afternoon.

It was a strange room, the Reverend’s study: tasteful and sumptuous, but curiously soulless. The gilt-framed watercolours, the Persian rugs, the dark-green morocco chairs were all too pristine and too precisely aligned, like a Household Furnishings display at Shoolbred’s. The only thing with any personality was the photograph of the old man on the desk.

Ben was watching her narrowly, as if he guessed that she hadn’t told him everything. ‘So you’ll not be needing me no longer,’ he said.

‘Of course I shall.’

He spat in the gutter. ‘But you’re going back there tomorrow.’

‘I must. I gave my word.’

‘Oh, well, in that case,’ he said sarcastically.

They turned into the Portland Road. The pavement was busy with shoppers and afternoon callers, and she had to raise her voice above the noise. ‘Will you and Robbie come in and see Sophie?’

He shook his head.

‘Please. Just for a moment. I’ll give you tea.’

He flicked her a cool glance, then called to his brother. ‘Come on, Robbie. Time we was off.’

‘Ben – come back. Don’t go off in a mood.’

He glanced at her over his shoulder and melted into the crowd.

She told herself it didn’t matter, but it did. She needed him. And Sophie needed him, too.

A few minutes later she turned into Wyndham Street, saw the doctor’s carriage outside their house, and forgot about Ben. She picked up her skirts and ran. She met Dr Wray coming down the steps, his face grave.

‘Is Sophie—’ she panted.

‘Not Sophie,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fynn.’

It had taken prayer and mortification, but at last Sinclair understood.

He understood his strange elation over Miss Finlay’s illegitimacy. He understood why she alone among females held no terror for him; why he could even imagine touching her, when until now the mere thought had been repugnant. The answer was better than his wildest dreams.

And if any doubts remained, they were quashed by the final proof: the death of the shadowy guardian, the Aunt Letitia. So now Miss Finlay was quite, quite alone. She had no family left – except for the invalid sister, who didn’t count. It was proof positive of God’s design.

The aunt’s funeral took place on an unseasonably cold Thursday afternoon, and, at Miss Finlay’s request, Sinclair did not attend. She had said that she did not wish to trouble him, and he was happy to oblige. But when the day came he could not contain his impatience, and went to wait for her at the lych-gate outside the church.

As he had anticipated, she was the only mourner. He watched her black-veiled figure standing by the grave as the vicar rattled through the service. No doubt the old fool was anxious to be away, for after a fetid summer and a week of torrential rain, the churchyard stank. Sinclair himself held a handkerchief soaked in spirits of wine to his nose.

He watched her stoop for a clod of earth and toss it in. She looked down into the grave, her face inscrutable behind her veil. Then she turned and walked away. She took the path which skirted the churchyard, and which would soon bring her to him.

As he watched, he was distracted by a movement at her back. Beneath the yews at the far end of the churchyard he spied the chimney sweep’s evil copper head. And beside the chimney sweep stood the same dark, cadaverous urchin who had stared at him the other day.

Sinclair saw the secret knowledge in their vicious little faces – but this time he was not afraid. Slowly he took the handkerchief from his mouth and bestowed on them a cold and noble smile.

Yes, yes, he told them silently, stare all you wish. I know how to deal with you. I
shall
deal with you. You cannot threaten me now. God is on my side.

At that moment Miss Finlay raised her head and saw him, and quickened her step. He thought how overwhelmed she would be when he revealed his purpose.

How could she not be overwhelmed? The beauty of God’s plan was breathtaking. How could he have doubted his Redeemer for an instant?

And yet he
had
doubted. During the long years of darkness he had believed himself polluted and unfit to mate. But he had been wrong. The Lord had given him a creature who, though she might appear pure, had been compromised
from birth
.

With such a creature he need feel no guilt –
for she had already sinned
. With such a creature he need fear no exposure –
for she had no kin
. It was perfection.

As she drew near, she put back her veil to reveal a pale face unmarked by tears.

He took her hand. ‘This has been a great shock for you.’

‘It was – rather sudden. The doctor didn’t hold out any hope after the first seizure, but when the end came it was still a shock.’

Sinclair offered her his arm and they moved out into the street. ‘You miss her.’

She thought about that. ‘In a strange way I think I do. She was harsh and grim, but you knew where you were with Aunt Letitia.’

They walked on in silence. Then he said, ‘Allow me to offer you a moment of prayer before you return home. If you will accompany me to my—’

‘You are very kind, but I can’t. My sister is alone.’

He repressed a movement of impatience. ‘My house is but two steps away. And I have something particular to impart.’

That caught her attention, as he had known it would.

He waited until they were settled in his study, and the tea had been brought and Mary sent away. ‘Miss Finlay,’ he said. ‘It has been – what, eleven days since you first sought my guidance.’

She looked at him with solemn dark eyes.

‘And during that time we have prayed together, and I have provided such modest assistance as lies within my power.’ He paused to let her recall what that ‘modest assistance’ amounted to: the initial twenty pounds from the fictitious charity, a further fifteen while the aunt breathed her last, and a rather generous twelve guineas to cover a headstone.

‘Mr Lawe,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I do of course appreciate—’

‘No, no’ – he held up his hand – ‘you misunderstand. It was not my intention to solicit your thanks. I was merely referring to the manner in which our acquaintance has developed.’ He leaned back in his chair and passed a hand over his mouth. ‘May I speak plainly?’

She nodded, frowning a little, as if unsure whether she would like what was to come. But she would. How could she not?

‘With the passing of your aunt,’ he went on, ‘I believe I am correct in saying that you – and your unfortunate sister – are entirely alone.’

The slightest of nods.

‘Until now, I have been loth to tell you something about my own circumstances, for fear of deepening your despondency at this difficult time. But I must now inform you that I intend shortly to take up a living in Jamaica.’

He was gratified to see her face drain of blood.

‘I am however troubled’, he went on, ‘by the thought of what will become of you. You understand that the proprieties would forbid me from continuing to assist you after I have left these shores.’ He waited for her to agree, but she made no comment.

‘I have prayed for guidance,’ he added, ‘and the All-perfect has vouchsafed it to me. I believe you will find the symmetry quite beautiful.’

‘The – symmetry? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

He smiled. ‘Permit me to continue without interruption.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘You will forgive me for raising a painful subject, but remember that I have nothing but your best interests at heart.’ Again he paused. ‘You have only provided the barest particulars of your unfortunate parentage – and, please, I would not have it otherwise. But we cannot deny that you were begotten in godlessness.’

She coloured.

‘Consider then the perfect
circularity
of a scheme whereby the godless one begets the godly.’ He waited for her to respond, but she merely looked puzzled.

‘I have found a way for you to be redeemed. You shall become my helpmeet.’

‘Your helpmeet. I’m sorry, I still don’t—’

He silenced her with a glance. ‘Understand that I do not make this offer for personal gratification, but for the glory of the Maker. That we may serve together beneath His standard, you and I.’

‘You – you want me to go to Jamaica and help in your missionary work?’

He met her eyes. ‘Not precisely. It is true that you shall assist me in my work. But you shall do more than that. You shall
be
more than that. You shall be my companion. My fellow labourer.’

‘Your fellow—’

‘My wife.’

Chapter Twelve

‘He wants
what
?’ demanded Ben.

He was crouching on the basement steps, watching Madeleine watering Lettice’s ferns. ‘Oh,
Madlin
. You’re never taken in by that!’

‘Ben—’

‘Give him a bit of snug and he’ll make it all right after? That’s the oldest trick in the book.’

Madeleine put down the watering can and kneaded her temples. She hadn’t slept all night. Her face felt rigid with fatigue, and she was absurdly close to tears. ‘It’s not a trick,’ she muttered.

‘Course it’s a trick. Think about it. If you say yes, he gets it for nothing. And you—’

‘– and Sophie goes to Jamaica,’ she snapped, ‘where there’s sunshine and sea air and a sanatorium up in the mountains.’

‘How d’you know all that?’

‘He told me.’

‘Oh, well,’ he sneered, ‘then it’s got to be true.’

There was an angry silence between them.

Ben took off his cap and furiously scratched his head. ‘What’s his game, that parson? Toff like him, with a sodding great house in Fitzroy Square. He could marry anyone he wants. So who’s he go and ask? A bastard with no money. You tell me how that makes sense.’

She couldn’t. As always, he had put his finger on the weak spot. Her only explanation was that the clergyman had developed some sort of regard for her. Which didn’t seem very likely.