The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (19 page)

He was telling himself not to be so childish when he reached the crossroads over the Martha Brae and turned south for Eden. The heat was intense, for it was still too early in the afternoon for the land breeze, so he kept to the shade beneath the poinciana trees.

He had not gone far when he heard the rattle of wheels behind him, and turned to see a smart new trap crossing the bridge and heading west along the Fever Hill Road.

Sinclair wore a white linen suit and a panama hat – no churchman’s black for him – and he drove briskly, staring straight ahead. The young woman at his side wore an all-enveloping dust-coat of russet silk, and a wide straw hat with fluttering bronze ribbons. She was gripping the side of the pony-trap, and, like Sinclair, staring straight ahead without expression. Neither of them saw Cameron.

He only caught a glimpse of the girl as they swept past, but it was a shock. He had imagined any wife of Sinclair’s to be slight and blond, with a little pinched mouth for murmuring psalms. This girl had a chignon of rich dark hair, an olive flush to her cheek, and an extravagantly curved red mouth. She would have made a splendid model for Rossetti or Burne-Jones.

It was an unpleasant surprise to find himself admiring his brother’s choice. Despite the heat, he kicked his horse to a canter.

As evening came on, his mood steadily darkened. He spent two hours at Maputah snapping at everyone, then returned to the house for a stiff rum and water and one of Braverly’s least successful dinners. The old man’s pepperpot was legendary – it had reputedly been simmering for two generations – but tonight his eyes were yellow and wandering after too much ganja tea, and the pepperpot consisted of peppers and very little else.

Still hungry, Cameron went down into the garden and picked a couple of mangoes, and washed them down with another rum and water. Abigail heaved herself off the verandah and followed him.

The night was loud with crac-cracs and croaker lizards and the occasional hoot of an owl. Fireflies spangled the hibiscus, and the air was heavy with the scent of datura and star jasmine. Cameron hardly noticed.

Whenever he thought of his brother it was with a sense of irritation and defeat. Sinclair hated him. Cameron had given up wondering why when they were still at Winchester.

But now Sinclair was back in Jamaica. He was living with Jocelyn at Fever Hill, and driving his handsome young wife about the countryside. He had everything a man could want. He had someone to talk to, to share things with, to work for.

Next to that, what had he, Cameron, achieved in eight years at Eden? What was the point of all his efforts? Who was he doing this
for
?

You’re drunk, he told himself in disgust. Just another drunken planter going native out in the bush. It’s time for bed.

He turned to go back to the house, and was startled to see that he was not alone. Grace McFarlane stood at the foot of the steps, watching him. Her skirts were still hitched to the knees from the long walk up from Eden, and her children were hiding shyly behind her.

It was a shock to see her again. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or not.

Abigail, who tolerated Grace as an erstwhile part of the household, trotted over to welcome her, tail lazily swinging. The children reached out to stroke her ears, and she nosed them as if they were puppies.

‘Hello, Grace,’ said Cameron.

He caught the brilliance of her smile as she inclined her head in greeting. ‘Mas’ Camron,’ she said. ‘Lang time me nuh see you.’

‘A long time,’ he agreed.

He was not in love with Grace, nor she with him. They had settled that years ago. But they understood each other. Both lived alone and were not at peace, and from time to time they still fulfilled a mutual need for warmth.

But these days she only made the journey from Fever Hill when it suited her: when she was looking for birds’ eggs, or visiting one of her countless relations in the hills. He pictured her striding barefoot along the moonlit track: tall, uncompromising and completely unafraid. She was one of the few black people in Trelawny who could walk the Cockpits at night without fear of duppies. And he reflected that Olivia Herapath still had some way to go before she perfected the look of the true obeah-woman – who must be discreet in her attire, since magic was now a flogging offence.

He watched the children becoming more daring with Abigail, who wagged her tail and took their small limbs in her enormous jaws, and finally allowed herself to be chased away through the tree-ferns.

When they were gone, he turned back to their mother. ‘How have you been, Grace?’

She tilted her head in a gesture that could have meant anything, and her slanted eyes were full of secrets. ‘An you, soldierman? What I hear, you in one a your
black
moods tonight. Not so? Tell Grace why you get vex.’

He made no reply.

She came closer. ‘You don’ glad you breddah back.’ A statement, not a question.

He studied the strong planes of her face. The broad cheekbones, the flaring nostrils, the generous, well-shaped mouth. He thought what a shame it was that he was too dog-tired to do anything about it. A shame for her too, if she’d come all this way with any such hopes.

‘You don’ glad Mas’ Sinclair back,’ she said again.

‘Glad?’ he said. ‘What to glad fe, girl?’

She grinned. She liked it when he spoke
patois
. ‘Preacher-man fixing to cut you out de fambly.’

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Hn. I care.’

‘Well you shouldn’t. I don’t have any right to Fever Hill, and neither does Sinclair. It belongs to the Monroes. Not to the Lawes.’

She cocked her head. ‘Maybe so. But preacher-man not only ting troubling you. Eh, soldierman?’

No hiding from Grace, not even in the dark. Especially not in the dark.

She drew her finger down his cheek. ‘Walk a while. Reason wid I.’

He shook his head. ‘I’d be poor company tonight.’

She took the hint and gave him a crooked smile. ‘It don’ mind. You wait. Preacher-man reckon wid

out Gracie McFarlane. She fix it so he get no boy-child.’

‘Grace,’ he said sharply. ‘Don’t go touching him.’

The smile widened to a grin. ‘Oh, I don’ need fe go
touching
him, soldierman. Don’ trouble yourself about dat.’

‘That’s not what I meant . . .’

But she had gone, melting into the darkness and calling to Evie and Victory as she went.

He stayed in the garden, smoking and thinking, until Abigail’s impatient bark reminded him that it was time for bed.

Back on the verandah he poured himself another drink and scowled at it. On the campaign chest beside his bed was a pile of books. On most nights he read a few pages, but tonight he couldn’t concentrate. He kept seeing Sinclair in the pony-trap with his pretty young wife.

With a muttered curse he threw the book aside and turned down the lamp.

You’re being ridiculous, he told himself. This is
Sinclair
. You wouldn’t
want
the sort of woman who’d marry him.

That was the most agreeable thought he’d had all day.

Chapter Fourteen

The Seventh of March, Eighteen Ninety-Five

The West Gallery, Fever Hill Great House

Parish of Trelawny

Jamaica

The West Indies

Maddy has given me this BEAUTIFUL writing-book for my birthday, so I am starting a Journal. I intend to discover:

1) Everything about Jamaican magic;

2) What is troubling Maddy; and

3) What Sinclair’s wicked brother actually did.

Dr Pritchard came today and is DELIGHTED with my progress! But he reminded me that staying in bed on the voyage greatly benefited my knee, so I must be patient. (I am glad the voyage did
some
good, for it was truly horrible and I ran out of books.)

I ADORE Jamaica. It has sugar-cane, magic and alligators, and instead of pigeons they have vultures called john crows. Everything here comes from another country: the mango and banana trees were brought over in olden times, and so were the coffee bushes, the breadfruit, the sugar-cane, the bamboo and the black people. It is exceedingly hot, and there is no rain, for it is the dry season; but there is a sea breeze in the morning and a land breeze at night, which keeps us tolerably cool.

Terrible things have happened in Jamaica, but no-one mentions them, or clears away the mess. At the bottom of the hill on which we live there is a ruined sugar-mill which the slaves burnt sixty years ago in the Christmas Rebellion. They also burnt the original great house (that is Jamaican for mansion), and the Lawe great house on the other side of Falmouth, which is now a sanatorium called Burntwood. Sinclair says that hundreds of estates have since been sold or abandoned. He blames it on when they freed the slaves, which he says was a great mistake.

I don’t think Maddy cares for Jamaica. Or perhaps it is just Fever Hill that she doesn’t like. I ADORE Fever Hill. Sometimes it smells of rum from the New Works, and always of orange peel from the floor polish, and everything about it is strange. The slates on the roof were originally ballast brought over from Cornwall in the sugar boats; the great pots by the steps are the boilers they used in the olden days for extracting the sugar; and even the cement in the undercroft walls contains molasses!

There is no gaslight, only kerosene lamps and candles, and as it is so very shut in, the house is dark and mysterious even in daytime. The walls are wooden, with slats to let through the breeze, so one can absolutely hear what is said three rooms away. Maddy calls it a House of Whispers.

When we first arrived, she was dismayed to learn that we wouldn’t have our own house, but would live here with the family. It is hard for her, as she is only allowed to go for walks at night, for Great-Aunt May disapproves of ladies going out during the day, which they never did when she was a girl. My new friend Evie says that elsewhere things are different now. So does the gazetteer which Maddy bought me in London. It says that in Jamaica, white ladies go about unaccompanied at all times, and it is perfectly safe and respectable. What a shame for Maddy! She says the darkness and confinement are what turned Clemency mad.

Occasionally
, however, Maddy does get permission to visit Mrs Herapath during the day, and yesterday Sinclair took her to see the sanatorium at Burntwood. When she came back, she told me that I won’t be going there under ANY circumstances, as it is a pulmonary hospital.

That is a great relief, because my room here is PERFECTION. Actually my
real
room is just for clothes, I mean the gallery outside it where I live!! A gallery is Jamaican for a verandah which is enclosed by louvres to keep out the sun. This makes it shadowy and hard to see out, but luckily for me, three of the louvres in front of my bed are broken! To begin with, the croton hedge blocked the view, but Maddy cut away some branches with a fruit knife. Her maid Jessie told on her to Great-Aunt May, who was vexed, and so was Sinclair.

My part of the gallery has
my own steps
down into the garden!!! But of course I mayn’t use them yet, and the doors are kept shut to keep out the sun.

Fever Hill was once the greatest estate on the Northside, but now most of the cane-fields are let to the Trahernes, or are left in ruinate. Sinclair says that Uncle Jocelyn has allowed the estate to slide, because he has lost heart. I
believe
that is because of Sinclair’s wicked brother, but no-one will talk of him.

Maddy says she doesn’t care to know about the past. But I do.

Ninth of March

Sinclair has just found an egg beneath his bed, and is greatly perturbed. It was only a little pale-blue egg, but he wouldn’t touch it and nor would the helpers, and there was quite a to-do. Eventually Daphne took it to the cook-house and threw it in the oven. She said she is too old to be frightened of obeah.

Evie says obeah is Jamaican black magic, and that an egg is a bad obeah sign. I asked what it signifies, but she said she didn’t know, which is Jamaican for I’m not telling.

Tenth of March – Just before supper

I have just seen my first RATBAT!!! I was so excited I spilt ink on Pablo Grey, but luckily I didn’t overturn the kerosene lamp and set fire to the musquito curtains!!

I hope to see more ratbats and an ALLIGATOR. The stream which runs at the bottom of our hill sounds perfect for such beasts. I also long to see a PARROT like the ones in Aunt
Lett
Letitia’s window; however there are no trees near the house for them to sit upon, only the croton hedge. Once I got Maddy to open the door to the garden a crack, and put out a dish of sugar-water to entice hummingbirds, but we only got two beetles and a moth.

Clemency has a cat but it prefers to stay with her, and sadly the dogs (Remus and Cleo) are not allowed in the house. However I have seen many beautiful green lizards, several cling-clings (big glossy blackbirds), lots of john crows and jabbling crows, and some fireflies. In Jamaica these are called peenywallies, and Clemency says that in olden times ladies used to pin them to the hems of their ballgowns, which I think is absolutely disgusting.

Twelfth of March – After supper

Maddy has just gone to dinner. She says the talk is always of sugar and that they freed the slaves too soon, which is embarassing in front of the helpers. Sinclair says they don’t understand, but I bet they do. Kean is the butler, and very clever and quiet; Maddy calls him the ‘eyes and ears of Fever Hill’, as he reports everything to Great-Aunt May. Maddy’s maid Jessie is also a sneak, but the others are nicer. There is Daphne the cook, and Rebecca and Susan the housemaids, and Doshey the groom, and Thomas the garden boy, who is extremely old.