The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (57 page)

‘Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’

‘Does that mean you’re a frightful blue?’

‘Frightful, I’m afraid.’

‘Dear me, what a pity. But how odd that we’ve never met. Or did we? Yes, on reflection I believe we did, years ago, when I was back for the holidays. No doubt I was the most insufferable prig.’

He was talking too much, and she wondered if he was trying to distract her. ‘As it happens,’ she said smoothly, ‘I saw you yesterday in Montpelier.’

For a moment his smile faltered, but he recovered fast. ‘But how fascinating,’ he said, ‘particularly since I spent the entire day being horribly bored at the races at Mandeville.’

‘Are you sure?’

He laughed. ‘Regrettably, yes. I dropped five hundred guineas in the Subscription Plate.’

‘Then I wonder who it was that I saw at Montpelier.’

‘So do I. I must have a doppelgänger. How wildly intriguing.’

She made herself smile. ‘As you say. I must be mistaken.’

‘Ordinarily I should be loath to suggest that a lady could ever be mistaken. But in this case, I rather fear that you are.’ He met her gaze without blinking, and his light blue eyes were clear. But she knew that he was lying, and he knew that she knew it, too. ‘Oh, look,’ he said, with a hint of relief, ‘here’s Davina, coming to bear you away. If you ever solve the mystery, do let me know.’

‘I shall make a point of it,’ she said.

That earned her a startled glance as he walked away.

She made her excuses to his sister, and passed swiftly through the gallery, and out into the grounds. There were people strolling beneath the pergola, so she walked quickly round to the front of the house, and down a flight of shallow stone steps into the great formal parterre to the right of the carriageway. As she left the shade of the royal palms, the heat hit her like a wall. She didn’t care. She needed to be alone. She found a bench and sat down, clenching her fists.

She was beginning to be genuinely angry with her sister. What on earth was she playing at?
Alexander Traherne?

After the look which had passed between Madeleine and Cameron, it could hardly be an affair, but there was definitely something going on. Some kind of intrigue which was so important that it had to be kept from her own husband and sister.

God
, Maddy, what are you doing? Do you have any idea of the risks you’re running? Don’t you realize that if word gets out, people will only jump to the worst possible conclusion?

She shut her eyes and forced herself to be calm, while the sun beat down on her shoulders, and the crickets’ rasp rang loud in her ears.

When she opened her eyes again, she was still just as angry as before. The sunlight was so stark that it hurt her eyes, and everything about her was blindingly bright. The parterre lay stunned beneath the sun: a joyless formal arrangement of dry grey lavender and small clipped lime trees. To her left, a stiff parade of royal palms cast harsh black shadows on the glaring white marl of the carriage-drive. In the distance she could just make out the blind stone lodges which marked the Coast Road, and beyond it the hard glitter of the Caribbean Sea.

No shade and no respite. Well it’s your own fault for forgetting your sun-umbrella, she told herself angrily.

She got to her feet and walked the length of the parterre, then stopped. She couldn’t face going back inside.

To her right, beyond the low stone wall of the parterre, an avenue of copperwoods demarcated the formal gardens from the stables beyond. In front of the stables, in a broad, sunlit expanse of hard brown grass, a groom was walking a pretty little bay mare up and down, presumably to cool her down, while a clutch of stable boys looked on from their perches on bales of straw.

Sophie climbed the steps and leaned against the parterre wall to watch. Then she shaded her eyes with her hand and frowned. The groom walking the mare was the same one she’d seen in Montpelier. She recognized the way he moved: that graceful, straight-backed wariness which reminded her of Ben Kelly. Grimly, she wondered how Alexander would try to wriggle out of this.

The groom took off his cap and wiped his forehead on his wrist, and she realized that he didn’t just remind her of Ben Kelly. He
was
Ben Kelly.

She wasn’t even all that surprised. In some way, she had known it was him from that first moment in Montpelier.

It was Ben Kelly – and yet it wasn’t. The Ben Kelly she remembered – the image she’d carried around with her – had been a whip-thin street urchin of fourteen or so: more than a boy, but not yet a man, his face hardened by a childhood spent in the slums. The young man she was looking at now must be – what, about twenty-two? Still thin, but with nothing of the child about him. He was clean-shaven, with straight black hair and a sharply handsome but resolutely unsmiling face.

She remembered what Madeleine had said on the verandah when she’d taxed her with seeing him in Montpelier.
Which Ben? Good heavens. Don’t mention that to Cameron, will you?
Madeleine had known it was him all along. And she’d never said a word.

Well, my God, Maddy, thought Sophie angrily, you shan’t wriggle out of it this time. And neither shall that simpering Alexander Traherne.

She pushed herself off the wall and took a step forward. ‘So it
was
you at Montpelier,’ she said loudly, and her voice echoed across the dead grass.

He spun round, saw her, and stopped dead. He was only about five yards away. She was close enough to see how his face went still, and his eyes widened slightly with shock.

‘Hello, Ben,’ she said. ‘Remember me? Sophie Monroe.’

He did not reply. He just stood there in the blazing sunlight, staring at her. Beside him the little mare shook out her mane, then playfully nuzzled his shoulder.

‘I saw you yesterday,’ said Sophie, ‘in Montpelier. But you’d gone before I could come across and say hello.’

Still he did not reply. Instead he gave her a slight bow – the perfect groom – and then, to her astonishment, put his cap back on and turned and started leading the mare towards the stables.

‘Ben!’ she called out sharply. ‘Come back here.’

The stable boys stopped talking and turned to look. Sophie ignored them. ‘Come back here. I need to talk to you.’

But he threw her a glance over his shoulder, and shook his head. Then he walked away.

She moved to follow him, but her knee buckled and she had to steady herself on the parterre wall.

Somewhere behind her, a woman tittered. Sophie glanced round and saw Amelia Mordenner and the lovely Mrs Dampiere standing on the steps by the house, watching her. She glared at them.

And when she turned back to the stables, Ben Kelly had gone.

Chapter Four

He thought he was doing all right until he saw Sophie.

Second groom at Parnassus, and it’s only a matter of time till they put old Danny out to pasture and make him head. Ben Kelly, head groom. That’s not bad for starters.

Then yesterday he was walking Trouble round to cool her off, and suddenly there she was: Sophie Monroe, but all grown up.

He hasn’t thought of her in years. Not once. It’s an easy trick to master when you get the hang of it. You just slam the lid down and put your thoughts to something else. Just slam the lid down hard.

At least, he thought that was how it worked. But then yesterday, just for a moment, everything blew wide open, and he was back where it started. Nine years ago, in that photo shop in the Portland Road, with this posh kid in the stripy red pinafore trying to give him a sodding book.

‘I thought you might care to have it,’ she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘And then you’ll be able to read too.’

For the life of him he couldn’t work out what she was after.
Giving
him things? What for? It made him go hot and prickly in his chest. It made him want to hurt her, so that she’d know better than to give things to people.

And yesterday, as she’d stood there in the glare, telling him to come back and talk to her, he’d got it again: that hot prickly tightness in his chest.

Ah, sod it. She’ll get over it. What’s she expect?

It’s still dark, and in the bunk-house everyone else is fast asleep. He can’t stand it no more, so he pulls on his togs, and puts Sophie out of his mind, and goes out to see to his horses. It’s been a bloody long night.

After he’s done his horses, he fetches a bit of sweet hay for Trouble, his favourite, to get her appetite going. What a daft name, Trouble. Whoever called her that didn’t know shit about horses, cos this one wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t know how. She’s too busy puzzling out what people want of her, so she can obey them, and not get thrashed. Only that’s easier said than done, seeing as she’s a horse, and dumb as a post.

So now she’s happily snuffling up the hay, and he’s scratching her ears, when all of a sudden she jerks up her head, all startled and worried.

It’s Master Alex, come for an early ride. Trouble’s scared of him. Maybe it’s his yellow riding-gloves. Maybe in the past she got thrashed by a groom in a yellow coat, or kicked by a horse with a yellow saddlecloth. Or then again, maybe it’s just Master Alex.

‘Now then, my lad,’ he goes, with that false jauntiness that sets Ben’s teeth on edge. ‘Saddle her up, there’s a good fellow.’

‘What, sir?’ goes Ben, playing for time.

Master Alex gives an irritated little laugh. ‘The mare. Saddle her up. That is, if you have no objection.’

As it happens, Ben does. The thing about Trouble is that somewhere down the line, she had a bad time of it. She was in a right state when she come here: running with lice, scared of her own shadow, and all sorts of bad habits. Ben worked on her for months. He oiled her for lice and washed her out for worms; he talked to her all the time, so she’d know he wasn’t going to hurt her. And as for them bad habits, she was just bored. So he put her in a loose-box where she could see into the yard, and gave her a turnip on a bit of twine to play with, and now she’s happy as a lark. She even looks like a horse again. Nice glossy coat, and the free step of a really good mover.

Not that Master Alex would know about that, as he hasn’t been allowed to ride her yet. Ben’s seen to that. The last thing she needs is a heavy-handed idiot like him yanking her about.

‘When you’re ready, my lad?’ goes Master Alex, all sarky. Funny how Ben’s always ‘my lad’, even though they’re pretty much of an age.

‘Yessir,’ goes Ben, tipping his cap. ‘It won’t take a moment to give her the once-over with a bit of soft soap.’

Master Alex frowns. ‘Whatever for?’

‘On account of the lice, sir. She’s nigh on free of them. But it’s always them last little few that do like to hang on.’

Master Alex shoots him a look, like he
thinks
he’s being played, but he’s not quite sure. At least, not sure enough to risk the lice.

So in the end he gets up on Eagle, a big flashy chestnut with no staying power. They’re made for each other, them two. Ben bites back a grin as he watches them go.

‘Watch youself, bwoy,’ says Danny Tulloch on his way to the tackroom.

‘Why’s that, then?’ goes Ben.

Danny crinkles up his sour old face and spits. ‘You know what I referring to, bwoy. That likkle mare belong to Master Alex, not you. You run you mouth with him, he put you out the door quick-time.’

Ben shrugs. ‘Well then I’ll watch myself, won’t I?’

Danny gives a sour grin and shakes his head.

He’s all right, is Danny. Him and Ben have an understanding. Danny’s a cousin of Grace McFarlane, Evie’s ma, and years ago she done Ben a favour, and he done her one back. So any cousin of hers is all right by him, and that’s how old Danny sees it too.

By now Master Alex is well gone, so Ben slips a head-collar on Trouble and gets up on her bareback, and takes her down the beach, for the iodine.

It’s all right, the beach. Willow trees and white sand, and that clear water: as clear as gin. When he first come to Jamaica, he used to sleep out here. It was the only place where he could find a bit of peace. Everywhere else got him all twisted up inside.

The trouble was, there was too
much
of everything. Every kind of fruit you could think of, just growing wild by the side of the road. All the flowers and the coloured parrots, and the warm, clean, spicy-smelling air. It made him think about Kate and Robbie and the others back in London, rotting away in their freezing, muddy graves. It made him feel so bad. That’s when he learned to slam the lid down hard.

But Trouble likes the beach, and all. So they have a bit of a gallop, with Ben down low against her neck, muttering, ‘Go on, sweetheart, let’s see what you can do.’ She’s got a lovely action. Proper little Jamaican thoroughbred: goes fast, stays well, and runs small and light.

After a bit he slips off her back and they take a walk in the sea. He lets go of the reins and she follows him like a dog, giving little snorty blows to tell him she’s enjoying herself. And when he jumps back on, she twists round and nibbles his knee. That’s horse-talk for ‘We’re mates, you and me’, so he returns the favour by finger-nibbling her neck. More snorty little blows.

The last time he saw Sophie – before she went to England, that is – she was scratching her pony’s neck, too. She was out riding with her grandpa, a little ways past Salt Wash. The old man was up on a big clean-limbed grey, and Sophie on a fat little Welsh Mountain cross. She must of been about fourteen, riding astride in one of them divided skirts, maybe because a side-saddle would of buggered up her knee. And she was chattering, of course, and scratching her pony’s neck.

She didn’t see Ben. He was in a weeding gang in the cane-piece by the side of the road, and she never noticed. Well, why should she? He could of called out to her, but he didn’t. What’s the point? She’s quality and he’s not. It’s all very well when you’re kids, but you don’t want to go mixing things up later on.

Madeleine understands that. The other day at Montpelier, they’d glanced at each other, and she’d smiled and said
Hello, Ben, you’re looking well
, but after that she’d hardly said a word. And she was right. They might of been mates in London, but that was years ago. You can’t go mixing things up.