The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (22 page)

Neither of them had known what to expect, and in their different ways they had both been profoundly shocked. Not by the act itself, but by the blood.

Sinclair had been terrified. ‘
Blood
’, he had whispered, his face grey with shock, his lips taut with disgust. He had retreated to an armchair and drawn up his legs beneath his nightshirt, like a small boy after a nightmare. Nothing she had said could persuade him back to bed.

It had been different for her. One look at those scarlet blotches on the sheets and she had been a child again, staring at her mother’s body in the crimson butterfly. She had felt again the yawning disbelief, the bewilderment of loss.

The following month they had tried again. This time there was no blood, but by then the damage had been done. Sinclair couldn’t forget that scarlet stain any more than she could, and he couldn’t forgive. She was unclean. She had tricked him into marrying her, and then cheated him of the son who was rightfully his.

Unclean, unclean.

The pony-trap swept across the Martha Brae, and the faded Georgian elegance of Falmouth rose into view. The little town was still slumbering away the afternoon. Goats picked their way through the refuse in the gutters. A trio of pickneys played cricket with a green mango and a bamboo bat. A john crow hitched itself off a fence and flew away.

They were passing the parish church of St Peter’s when Sophie turned her head and gave the ancient silk-cotton tree in the churchyard a dark stare. ‘I didn’t think they’d allow one so near the church,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ said Madeleine.

But Sophie only frowned and shook her head.

Madeleine threw a glance at the churchyard. When she’d first arrived at Fever Hill, she had made a search for her father’s grave. She hadn’t wanted to do it, but she’d needed to know. Lettice had told her years before that his remains had been repatriated to Jamaica, so it had been a shock to find no trace of him at the Burying-place. And no trace of him at St Peter’s, either. The waters had closed over Ainsley Monroe with shocking completeness. He had simply disappeared.

All she had found in the churchyard were the Durrant graves: a clump of crazily tilting tablets encrusted with lichen. And the only one she could read was the tomb of her grandfather – her other grandfather.
Aristide Durrant, 1813–68. Of Your Charity, Pray for His Soul.

Angrily, she flicked the whip across the pony’s rump. It had been a mistake to come past the church. The coast road would have been quicker. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

And why was everything conspiring to remind her of the past?

They found Mrs Herapath in the salon, two-thirds of the way through a bottle of Manzanilla. She wore an empire-lined gown of painted turquoise muslin liberally sprinkled with snuff, for she was half-heartedly manifesting as an attendant of the Empress Joséphine. She greeted them in French, but switched to English when she remembered that Madeleine didn’t understand.

At least, that was the charitable explanation. The less charitable one was that she was in a bad mood, and wanted to vent some spleen by needling her guest.

Madeleine busied herself settling Sophie in an armchair, with a footrest for her splint.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Mrs Herapath after she had poured Madeleine a glass of sherry which she didn’t want.

‘Why should you be sorry?’ said Madeleine.

‘For being perfectly horrid. I’m afraid I’m in one of my moods. Wretched day. Wedding anniversary. Twenty-fifth.’

‘Oh no. We shouldn’t have come.’

‘No, no. I invited you. And we had a good innings, Hector and I.’ Blinking furiously, she quoted under her breath, ‘
Rangy Hector of the flashing helm.
’

Madeleine glanced at the stout gentleman in the photograph above the desk. The eyes held a dry intelligence, but the whiskered cheeks suggested a hamster.

‘Did Mr Herapath become a duppy?’ asked Sophie.

‘Not as such,’ said Mrs Herapath. ‘He ascended to a higher state of being.’

Sophie considered that. ‘Mrs Herapath, do you know about shadows?’

‘Sophie . . .’ said Madeleine.

‘It’s quite all right,’ said the older woman. ‘Sweet child. I take it you mean the Jamaican kind?’

Sophie nodded.

‘As it happens I don’t. But you might find a book in the studio, if you care to look. That is,’ a questioning glance at Madeleine, ‘if she’s allowed to move about?’

Madeleine nodded. Dr Pritchard had said that since the knee was so much better, Sophie should start learning to use her crutches, although she must still wear the hated splint at all times, to keep the joint immobile.

‘Then run along,’ said Mrs Herapath tactlessly. ‘And you may borrow two books to take home with you. But not the Oscar Wilde. I don’t think you’re ready for it.’

When Sophie had been helped to her feet and had hobbled laboriously out, Mrs Herapath turned back to Madeleine. ‘You seem out of sorts, my dear.’

‘Not at all,’ lied Madeleine. ‘I’m fine.’

‘What’s the matter? Some sort of spat with Sinclair?’

Madeleine shook her head.

Mrs Herapath gave an ill-tempered smile. ‘Ah, young love! Strongest force in the world. And the most destructive. You just ask that twisted lot up at Fever Hill.’

‘I’d rather not,’ said Madeleine.

Mrs Herapath threw her a curious glance. ‘I’d noticed that. Whenever I get anywhere near the Scandal About Which We’re Not Supposed to Know, you close up like a limpet. If that’s what limpets do.’

Madeleine did not reply.

Mrs Herapath drained her glass and put it unsteadily on the side table. ‘It’s just that it
bothers
me to see that old man mouldering away up there, missing poor dear Cameron so terribly – and he does, you know, though he’d never admit it – and doing nothing about it!’

Madeleine turned her head and studied the portrait of Hector.

‘And you see,’ said Mrs Herapath, relentless, ‘I’ve always believed that if we could just get the two of them
together
, just once, then at least that part of the wretched muddle could be sorted out.’

‘They’re grown men,’ said Madeleine stiffly. ‘I’m sure they can sort it out for themselves.’

Mrs Herapath gave a mirthless laugh. ‘My dear, how little you know about men!’

Madeleine did not reply.

Out in the square a dog barked. A Chinaman rattled by on his bicycle. A horse snorted and shook its bridle.

Mrs Herapath heaved herself to her feet and refilled their glasses. ‘I knew Rose Durrant, you know. Oh yes. I suppose you’ve heard of Rose?’

Madeleine kept her eyes on the sherry glass in her hand. The pale gold Manzanilla was very slightly shaking, but if she concentrated, she could make it go still.

‘She used to help me in the studio,’ said Mrs Herapath. She subsided onto the sofa and leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Quite a talent for composition. But wild, of course. All the Durrants were. Impulsive. Passionate. And such a temper! Still. I adored her.
Such
a blow when she ran off like that. Why, my dear, you’ve gone quite pale.’

‘I’m fine.’

Mrs Herapath put her head on one side and studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘You know, it’s a part of the family history. Your history now. You ought to take more of an interest.’

Madeleine felt herself growing hot. ‘Why should I want to know about something that happened twenty years ago? What’s it to me?’

Mrs Herapath looked startled. ‘But— I’m sorry. I had no idea that you felt so strongly.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then you
are
out of sorts.’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Madeleine coolly.

‘Oh, what rot!’ snapped Mrs Herapath.

There was an irritable silence between them. Mrs Herapath picked up her glass and scowled at it. Madeleine thought about apologizing, and decided against it.

‘I’m sorry,’ they both said at the same time.

Madeleine put down her glass and smoothed her skirt over her knees. ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘I am out of sorts. I’m a little – indisposed.’

Mrs Herapath leaned over and patted her hand.

To her horror, Madeleine found that she was close to tears. She rose quickly to her feet. ‘Sophie’s been awfully quiet. I ought to go and see—’

‘Oh dear, now I’ve chased you away.’

‘No you haven’t. It’s time we were off.’

‘Shall you come again? Soon?’

‘If I’m permitted.’ She leaned down and kissed Mrs Herapath on the cheek, and hurried out to find Sophie.

Sophie wasn’t in the studio at the front of the house, but the door onto the verandah was open, so she must be outside, watching what was going on in the square.

Madeleine hung back in the studio. She needed to be alone. It had been horrible to hear her mother spoken of with such easy familiarity. It made her feel shaky and exposed: as if someone had peeled away a scab and blown on the raw flesh underneath.

‘Oh
yes
,’ came Sophie’s voice from outside, ‘I do so agree.’

Oh no, thought Madeleine. Just for once, she wished her sister hadn’t managed to strike up an acquaintance with whomever she happened to have met in the street.

Softly she moved closer to the door, and saw Sophie leaning against the balustrade, stroking the nose of a large bay gelding. It wasn’t clear if she was addressing the horse or its owner, a tall European at the bottom of the steps.

He was tying the reins to the hitching-post, and Madeleine couldn’t see his face, but from his clothes she guessed him to be a planter of the not so profitable kind. His topboots hadn’t been polished in years, and his riding breeches and shooting jacket looked as if he’d slept in them. His thick sandy hair was unkempt and in need of a cut.

In no mood for new acquaintances, she drew back into the shadows.

‘His name is Pilate,’ said the gentleman.

‘Pilate?’ said Sophie. ‘You mean, like Pontius Pilate in the Bible?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘But that’s not fair. Pontius Pilate was horrible. Your horse doesn’t deserve a name like that. He didn’t
do
anything.’

‘You’re right,’ said the gentleman. He had an agreeable voice, and Madeleine could tell that he was smiling. ‘But you see, he was called that when I bought him, and horses don’t care to have their names changed.’

‘Like people,’ said Sophie.

‘Like people,’ agreed the gentleman. ‘Did you see how he twiddled his ears? That means he knows we’re talking about him.’

Pilate twiddled his ears again, then bent his sturdy neck and nuzzled Sophie’s chest. She squealed with delight, and would have toppled over if the gentleman hadn’t put out a sunburned hand to steady her. As she regained her balance, she glanced indoors and spotted Madeleine. ‘Oh look, there’s my sister! Maddy, do come out and meet Pilate the horse!’

Madeleine’s heart sank. But it was too late to escape now. Straightening her shoulders and assuming a social smile, she moved out into the light.

The gentleman turned to face her, and the sun went in as she recognized the officer at Strathnaw.

Ten years fell away in a heartbeat. She was back in the snow, in that final moment before he realized who she was and it all went wrong.

He hadn’t changed. Perhaps he was a little more lined than she remembered, and considerably less well groomed. But the vivid grey eyes were the same, and the brief lightening of the sunburned features that was almost a smile.

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. He doesn’t recognize you, she told herself. You can see it in his face. He has no idea who you are.

It was true. His features had stiffened before her continued silence, but his manner showed nothing more than the courtesy which any gentleman might extend to any well-bred young woman whom he had only just met.

Sophie sucked in her cheeks and announced, ‘Maddy, this is Mr
Cameron Lawe
. His estate is called Eden, isn’t that a lovely name? And it’s only eight miles away from us, up in the hills just before the Cockpits, and he has a dog called Abigail, and
parrots
in the garden, and I’m to go there for tea and meet Abigail and the parrots . . .’

Madeleine stopped listening. She was falling from a great height. Cameron Lawe. The officer at Strathnaw. How could she not have seen this coming? How could she have been so stupid?

She realized that the silence was becoming embarrassing, and that he was offering her his hand. When she didn’t respond, he withdrew it, and his face became carefully expressionless.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m Madeleine Lawe. That is, I’m Mrs Sinclair Lawe.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said bluntly.

‘How? Did Sophie—’

‘I saw you with him. With my brother.’

‘When?’

‘A few weeks ago? You were out driving. I’d – just come from town.’ He frowned, aware that that sounded as if he’d been spying on them. ‘You went past before I had time to call out,’ he muttered.

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Sinclair will be sorry to have missed you.’ That was such a blatant lie that he made no reply, and she felt herself colouring.

He doesn’t look anything like Sinclair, she thought, watching him take his wide-brimmed hat from the bench and frown at it. He was taller and broader, and he lacked his brother’s delicacy of feature.

At that moment he threw her a glance and then looked quickly away, and she wondered with a stab of alarm if something had jogged his memory.

With his hat he gestured towards the studio. ‘I wonder, do you know if Mrs Herapath is—’

‘Indisposed,’ she replied. ‘I don’t believe she’ll see anyone today.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Well. Perhaps you’d tell her I called?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would leave a card. But I don’t have any.’

‘Of course.’ He didn’t look like the sort of man who carried cards.

‘Well,’ he said again. ‘I should be on my way.’

‘Of course.’

He raised his head and studied her face for a moment, narrowing his eyes a little, as if it hurt to look. Then he gave her a curt nod, and went down the steps to untie his horse.

‘You were
so
rude to him,’ said Sophie as they were driving home. She sat with her leg propped up on the cushions, clutching her chosen volumes to her chest:
A Folkloric Monograph on the Island of Jamaica
, and
The Count of Monte Cristo
, which she had decided to reread.