The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (38 page)

And now at last he understood. He understood why God had given him this woman to wife. He understood the trials which God had made him undergo.
They were to prove his worthiness for the great office which was his destiny.

Looking about him at the rain-washed cane, he thought, who on earth can stop you now? It is all so clear. Dr Valentine will cure her of her condition, and she will be a proper wife to you at last. She will gratify your needs and bear you a son, and when the time is right you will tell the old man the truth, and watch him dandle his great-grandson on his knee. And your inheritance will be secure.

The old man’s granddaughter.

How strange to think that only days before, he, Sinclair, had been frightened to touch her. But he knew better now. For this was no ordinary woman. This was Ainsley’s child. This was his inheritance made flesh.

It no longer mattered that she was intransigent and unwomanly,
for that was not her fault!
He understood that now. He understood from yesterday’s providential visit to Falmouth that she was simply
ill
. Dr Valentine had explained it all most fully.

‘Women, my dear Mr Lawe, are closer to the infantile state than men. And as such they are impulsive, emotional, and extremely prone to disorders of the nerves. I can well understand your dismay at your wife’s behaviour – but be assured that her condition is not uncommon. That self-will which you describe, that persistent flouting of authority, are, to an experienced physician, merely the familiar symptoms of acute neurasthenia; what one might in layman’s terms call an exhaustion of the nerve power.’

An exhaustion of the nerve power.
What a relief to have it laid bare in cool scientific terms, and to learn that it could be cured! ‘There is much room for hope, Mr Lawe, oh yes indeed. For there is a regimen, well established and of proven efficacy, which I myself have used for many years to treat just such cases as this. Depend upon it, my dear sir. After three months of the isolation cure – that is to say, of bed-rest, seclusion and sedation – in short, no stimuli whatsoever – your wife will be a different woman. Obedient, well regulated, and properly eager to take her place at your side as your helpmeet and comforter.’

The track narrowed, and Sinclair reined in. He could see nothing but empty cane-pieces, and beyond them the eerie grey-green cones of the Cockpits, looming startlingly close. He wondered if he was lost. But just then he spotted a pickney in the distance. He hailed the boy, and tossed him a quattie to lead the way to Master Cameron.

‘Mas’ Camron at de works yard, sah,’ said the pickney, pointing up the track with a grimy finger. ‘Mile or so up ahead. But him have a
short
heart dis morning, sah, dat true to de fact! Swearin, sah! Swearin like half past midnight! An nobody cyan say why.’

Well well, thought Sinclair, putting his mount forward to follow the boy. So my brother is not in the best of humours.

He recalled his wife’s altered features when she had returned from her ride the previous evening. A lovers’ tiff, no doubt. Well, well. It was of no consequence now. Once his brother learned the truth about her, all that would be at an end.

He pictured them together in the squalid old ruin he had just glimpsed in the distance. How often had they met? What was it like? Did she divest herself of
all
her garments? He pictured her in poses he had seen on his visits to Holywell Street . . .

A chicken hawk exploded from the trees, making him start. He passed a shaky hand across his brow. Calm, calm, he told himself. It doesn’t
matter
what sins they have committed in the past. Nothing matters but your destiny. You will take her to Providence for the isolation cure, and Dr Valentine will make her well again, and she will be a proper wife and bear you a son. And when your inheritance is secure, your brother will know the bitterness of eternal defeat.

Smiling, he looked about him at Eden’s shimmering cane-pieces. Yes, yes, my brother, you may toil all you wish, but it will always be in vain. You can never surpass me now.

He rode on up the muddy track, and at last the pickney pointed out the works yard, fifty feet ahead. Sinclair reined in. So this was what his brother did with his time.

A sprawling, untidy compound populated by the usual gaggle of blacks. In the foreground a jumble of workshops and storehouses; at the far end, an enormous cut-stone boiling-house with a towering chimney, and an aqueduct behind it, and a mill; a curing-house, a distillery, and at the furthest remove, a long, low trash-house surrounded by piles of sickly yellow cane-trash spread out to dry in the sun. Croptime was long over, but there must be a tail-end of milling in progress, for the ground was white with trampled trash, and the air thick with the stench of burnt sugar and rum.

How can men live like this? wondered Sinclair in disgust. How can they blind themselves to all that is good and noble and pure?

He dismounted and gave his horse to the pickney, and strolled over to wait at the entrance to the yard.

He could see his brother outside the distillery, supervising a group of blacks unpacking some piece of equipment from an ox-wain. He was hatless and in shirtsleeves, his hair unkempt and curling with sweat. Sinclair was disgusted. This, he thought, is what happens when the white man consorts with the black. The darkness may not rub off on his skin, but it stains his soul.

At last his brother saw him and crossed the yard. He made no attempt to conceal his displeasure.

Sinclair took off his hat and put on a jaunty smile. ‘Hail, brother, and well met!’

His brother wiped his forehead on his arm. He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed, as if he hadn’t slept. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘And a good morning to you too,’ said Sinclair gaily. ‘Working on a Saturday? However did you prevail upon our dusky brethren?

‘I paid them,’ he snapped. ‘Now what d’you want?’

With his riding-crop, Sinclair indicated the track. ‘Walk with me. I have something to impart.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘I assure you, it will not take long.’

‘All the same, I—’

‘Indulge me, brother. I have come all this way.’

His brother glanced at him, then back at the yard, and sighed.

They started walking up the track. It was overhung with poinciana trees, some of them still in late bloom. Sinclair studied the vermilion petals underfoot. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘So you keep saying,’ his brother said irritably. ‘Why don’t you just—’

‘Please.’ Sinclair held up his hand. ‘This is of some moment. Indeed, I should call it little short of a revelation.’

‘Really,’ said his brother, sounding unimpressed.

‘Yes. Really.’

‘Concerning?’

Sinclair turned and met his eyes. ‘Concerning my wife.’

The dogcart clipped smartly along beneath the giant bamboo, and Sophie hugged Pablo Grey and thought what a difference a day could make.

Everything was going to be all right now. Ben would find some way to retrieve her shadow, and she would start to get better at last. And the accident with Victory had, after all, been exactly that: an
accident
. Sinclair had explained it all in great detail.

As soon as she had told him what she’d seen at the hothouse, he had changed completely. He had been really quite nice, and had explained that he’d only been stern with her before because he was worried at her telling a falsehood. Which, considering that he was a churchman, was understandable.

It had been an
accident
. Of
course
he hadn’t known that Victory was inside. In fact, he’d closed the door to
stop
little children from wandering in and getting into difficulties.

It was such a relief. She’d wanted to tell Maddy straight away, but Sinclair had said no, we shall wait until we’re all at Providence together, and then you can tell her.

It had been his idea to arrange the holiday to Providence as a surprise for Maddy. That morning, after he’d returned from his ride, he had suggested to Maddy that she might care to go into town to see Mrs Herapath, and Maddy had jumped at it, for she had been very much out of sorts since her ride the previous afternoon. Then, while she was gone, they had packed Sophie’s valise, and left for Providence – for it was Sinclair’s idea to take her there a day ahead, so that she could supervise the housekeeper in making the house nice for Maddy, as part of the surprise.

As the dogcart clipped along beside the Martha Brae, Sophie’s pulse quickened. Maybe this was the day when she would see an alligator. Certainly there seemed to be plenty of wild creatures about. So far she had seen a large pale-yellow butterfly, a flock of bald-pates, and possibly a mongoose, although Sinclair had said that it was only a cane-rat.

The next moment, her spirits plunged. Victory hadn’t been dead a week, and here she was spotting wild animals as if he’d never existed.

She dreamed about him every night. She wondered if it was lonely being dead, and if it had hurt to die. Maddy had said that he would have become sleepy through lack of water, and not known what was happening. Sophie hoped that wasn’t just a white lie to reassure her.

The afternoon was wearing on, and she began to wonder if they would ever reach Providence. She decided not to risk asking Sinclair. He had been nice about the hothouse, but she hadn’t forgotten what he had told her about going to Hell. With Sinclair, you could never tell.

The road became steeper, and they left the river behind. The hills were suddenly much closer. The Cockpits at last? She longed to consult the little volume in her valise which Clemency had given her as a present:
Tales of the Rebel Maroons of the Cockpits
. The very thing for a holiday in the hills.

She would miss Clemency. She had helped with the packing, and fussed and not wanted Sophie to leave, just like a proper mother. To cheer her up, Sophie had told her about Ben, and made her swear to keep him secret, and Clemency had been touched. She’d cried when they left, and promised to visit Sophie very, very soon – but Great-Aunt May had said No, that would be inappropriate, and Clemency had backed down. She always backed down, and Sophie really wished that she wouldn’t. Real mothers do not back down where their children are concerned.

At last they came to a pair of tall iron gates, and Sinclair reined in and spoke to the gatekeeper. The gates swung open, and they trotted up the carriageway between ranks of rigid yokewood trees.

As the house rose before them, butterflies started up in Sophie’s stomach. She knew that Providence was a hunting lodge, so she’d been expecting something cosy and rustic, like the cottage in
The Children of the New Forest
. But this house was even larger than Fever Hill, and slightly frightening. It had pointed gables like a witch’s dwelling, and blank, unfriendly louvres painted dark grey. And worst of all was the huge wedge-shaped structure with blind stone walls which jutted from the west wing like the prow of an enormous ship.

Sophie asked what it was.

‘That’s a cutwind,’ said Sinclair. ‘In the old days, they used to shelter inside it from hurricanes. And perhaps also’, he added with a curl of his lip, ‘they used it for locking up naughty little children when they were especially bad.’

Sophie told herself that he was only joking. But she didn’t think it funny in the least. Not after Victory.

Helpers in grey uniforms ran down and took charge of the dogcart and Sophie’s valise, and one of them picked her up and carried her up the steps and set her down in a shadowy gallery with her crutches. The gallery was extremely clean, with a floor of brown linoleum like the scullery at Wyndham Street, and it stank of Lysol. It was screened off on either side, but Sophie sensed that there were people behind the screens, although she couldn’t hear a sound. The whole place was eerily quiet, and she realized that there weren’t any dogs, which was unusual for Jamaica.

As she waited for Sinclair, a helper emerged from the house, bearing a tray of small brown phials, and drew aside the screen and disappeared inside. Behind the screen, Sophie glimpsed a woman lying in a bathchair. She was so thin that her chest beneath the sheet was flat like a boy’s, with jutting collarbones. Her face was turned towards Sophie: the nose sharp, the cheeks sunken but curiously flushed. A rope of pink phlegm hung from the corner of her mouth and looped all the way down the side of the bathchair; her bright, indifferent eyes gazed through Sophie as if she weren’t there.

Sophie wondered who she might be. The housekeeper, perhaps? The sick housekeeper being nursed back to health?

Then Sinclair mounted the steps and swept past her and told her to hurry, and she saw no more of the woman, for she had no choice but to start after him on her crutches, with Pablo Grey swinging from her wrist by the new red and yellow halter which Maddy had plaited from embroidery silk.

She asked Sinclair about the sick housekeeper, but he told her sternly to be quiet. He was back to the old, disapproving Sinclair who didn’t like her, and she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

As they hurried along the Lysol-smelling corridor, someone upstairs, possibly a man, began to cough. Sophie had never heard anyone cough like that: a thick, wet, wrenching sound that went on and on, as if the man were coughing up his insides. When it stopped, the silence was deeper than before. Sophie wondered if the man were better or worse.

At the end of the corridor a door opened, and a tall lady came out and ushered them into a study with an enormous desk and two hard black leather visitors’ chairs. Sinclair declined tea for both of them, although Sophie was by now extremely thirsty.

The lady was deferential to Sinclair, but clearly not a servant. She wore a grey silk dress like Great-Aunt May’s, only plainer and without the gloves; but her face when she glanced at Sophie wore a similar expression, as if she would have
liked
to be wearing gloves. She took the crutches from Sophie, along with Pablo Grey. ‘This will have to go,’ she said, holding the donkey by one ear. ‘Toys are not permitted. They harbour dust.’