The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (66 page)

After the glare of Duke Street, it took a moment for Sophie’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The louvres were shut, and the mahogany wall panelling swallowed most of the light that filtered through. No outside sounds penetrated. No clock ticked. The drawing-room was deathly still.

Great-Aunt May sat very straight on a hard mahogany chair, with her gloved hands crossed atop her ivory-headed cane. Great-Aunt May always wore gloves. She hadn’t touched another living being for sixty-six years.

She was just as narrow and rigidly upright as Sophie remembered: encased in a tight, high-collared gown of stiff grey moiré which made no concession to the heat. Great-Aunt May despised concessions, just as she despised sickness, pleasure and enthusiasm.

Behind her hung the famous Winterhalter portrait of herself in presentation dress. At the age of eighteen she’d been imperiously lovely: golden-haired and statuesque, with ice-blue eyes and a porcelain complexion which had never seen the sun.
Look at me and despair
, the portrait seemed to say. Sophie felt its gaze on her as she made her way across the parquet and tried not to limp.

‘Well, miss,’ said Great-Aunt May in her hard, dry voice. ‘I had not expected that you would be so
prompt
to call. It can scarcely be more than three weeks since your ship docked at Kingston.’

Despite her age, the old lady still retained traces of her former beauty. Her complexion had a powdery delicacy, and the famous eyes were still blue, although now rimmed with angry red. She watched in grim amusement as Sophie perched on the edge of a chair, and her gloved talons rearranged themselves on her cane.

‘You’re very well-informed, Great-Aunt May,’ said Sophie, ignoring the jibe.

‘Why have you come? You have never had the slightest regard for me, and you must be aware that I have never entertained any liking for you.’

‘I know that. But—’

‘I must have things about me which are beautiful. You are not beautiful. Moreover you are ill.’

‘Actually, I’ve been better for years.’

The old lady rapped the floor with her cane. ‘You are ill, I say! Why, you are practically a cripple. I saw you limp. Now answer my question. Why have you come?’

Sophie paused for a moment, to bring herself under control. ‘I’ve heard that you’re in need of a coachman,’ she said evenly.

‘Upon my word, miss, you surprise me! What conceivable interest can you have in my household arrangements?’

‘Well, I know of someone who was recently dismissed from another establishment, and might suit.’

‘Dismissed, you say. For what infraction?’

‘For insolence. But that was—’

‘Indeed. A pretty notion you have of the quality of manservant I might care to retain.’

‘I think it may have been a misunderstanding. Mr Traherne . . .’ she paused to give weight to the name, ‘has always had the highest regard for the servant in question.’

Something flickered in the inflamed blue gaze.

Sophie kept very still. If the old lady sensed that she was being manipulated, she would be intractable. And yet – if there was any possibility of vexing the Trahernes . . .

It was common knowledge on the Northside that Great-Aunt May hated the entire clan with a deep, corrosive hatred which had no end. Six decades before, she’d suffered the ignominy of an offer of marriage from Cornelius’s father, and had never got over the humiliation. The great-grandson of a
blacksmith
– and he had the effrontery to aspire to the hand of Miss May Monroe! Sixty-six years later, her rancour remained undimmed. It was probably the only thing keeping her alive.

Again she rapped her cane on the floor. ‘I will
not
be influenced.’

‘I know that, Great-Aunt May.’

‘Should anyone apply for the post, I shall consider him,
if
I see fit. But I will not be influenced. Now tell me the truth. What possible interest can you have in a manservant of Mr Traherne?’

Sophie hesitated. ‘None.’

The old lady pounced on the hesitation. ‘Then why are you here?’

Sophie felt herself colouring.

‘Shall I tell you, miss? Shall I tell you why you show such inappropriate interest in your inferiors?’

‘I don’t,’ said Sophie between her teeth. ‘It’s just that in this case there are reasons—’

‘Do not attempt to exonerate yourself! I have heard reports of your behaviour. Your friendships with mulattos. Your involvement in that – clinic, do they call it?’ She leaned forwards, and her hot blue eyes bored into Sophie’s. ‘You are drawn to your inferiors because you know that you are unfit for anyone else.’

Sophie got to her feet. She didn’t have to take this. Not even for Ben.

But Great-Aunt May had her prey in her talons, and she wasn’t about to let go. ‘You have no breeding,’ she continued. ‘No manner. No health. No beauty.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this—’

‘You
may
find yourself a husband, of course, but he will only be after your property.’

‘Why should you imagine that you can say such things to me? Is it because you’re old? Is that it?’

The blue eyes glittered with grim relish. ‘Since impertinence is your only response, I must assume that you accept the truth of what I say—’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Ah, and now you insult me in my own drawing-room! If it is nonsense, miss, then tell me this: have you ever had a sweetheart? Has one single young man of good family ever made himself attentive to you? No. And shall I tell you why? Look behind me at that portrait on the wall. That is beauty. That is breeding. You have none of it. You never shall. You are not a true Monroe.’

‘I’m as much a Monroe as you—’

‘You are a Durrant. Your mother had the instincts of a guttersnipe, and so have you.’

Sophie turned on her heel and ran. She slammed the drawing-room doors behind her, pushed past a startled Kean, and ran down into the street.

She stood there panting, blinded by the glare.

After the darkness of the drawing-room, Duke Street was absurdly sunny and peaceful. A Chinese man cycled past, raising a little plume of dust. An East Indian girl in a brilliant purple sari crossed the road with stately grace, her bangles clinking on her ankles. She carried a wide, shallow basket of mangoes on her head, and only her dark eyes moved as she glanced at Sophie with polite curiosity.

Sophie breathed in the reassuring smells of dust and mangoes, and felt her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

You are drawn to your inferiors because you know that you are unfit for anyone else.

Your mother had the instincts of a guttersnipe, and so have you.

It wasn’t true. None of it was true. She felt angry with herself for allowing Great-Aunt May to upset her – and, which was worse, for showing it. Why should she be troubled by the rantings of an evil old witch who fed on other people’s fears and twisted them into lies?

She started slowly up the street, and as she walked, the sunny peace of the little town had its effect. She began to feel better.

After all, what did it matter what Great-Aunt May had said to her? She’d achieved what she’d set out to do. She’d shown the old witch a way to discountenance the Trahernes; now it was up to Ben to apply for the position.

Although of course, she remembered suddenly, he doesn’t know about it yet. So now you’ve got to find him.

Chapter Ten

From the Journal of Cyrus Wright Esquire, Overseer, Fever Hill Plantation

May 1st, 1817

On this day I began my duties at Fever Hill Plantation. Mr Alasdair Monroe shewed me over the Property: a vast of cane-pieces, a cattle Pen, citrus & pimento walks, dye-wood, & much livestock & Negroes, including two dozen newly purchas’d at auction. Mr Monroe is sixty-seven years old, but still hale. He counsell’d me to take a wife or at least to keep a Negro girl.

May 10th
Heat very dreadful. The land all scorch’d up, & in places over-run by fire. My new house on Clairmont Hill is very well, but lonely. Have put a Chamboy woman-girl, Sukey, to weeding the garden, but she is impudent. Catch’d her eating sugar cane, & broke my stick over her. This night I dined at the Great House with Mr Monroe, his eldest son Mr Lindsay & Mr Duncan Lawe. Broiled crabs, stewed duck, honey-melon & a cheese. The talk was of Mad Durrant, who is building his Great House at Eden amid the tree-ferns. Much claret & brandy. On returning to my house,
cum
Sukey in the store room,
stans
,
backwards.

May 18th
This day I am forty-eight years old. Still no rains. Parroquets have made sad havoc with my garden, & in the night a cattle has been at the corn, though I had set old Sybil to watch. Had her flogged & rubbed in salt pickle. She made loud commotion.
Cum
Accubah,
supra terram
, in Cotton Tree Piece.

May 31st
Heat excessive, & still no rains. Put two Negro gangs to weed-ing, & the pickney gang to loading manure at Glen Marnoch Cane-Pieces. Much idleness. These Negroes would loiter away the time if I let them. To my supper had
mangrove oysters, cold tongue & ale mixt with sugar.
Cum
Sukey
in dom., bis.

An ackee leaf drops onto the page. Evie stares at it for a moment, then brushes it away.

She gazes at the neat copperplate handwriting crawling across the page, and there’s a sour taste in her mouth. She knows enough Latin to work out the meanings.
Cum
Sukey in the store room,
stans
, backwards. That means, ‘With Sukey in the store room, standing, backwards.’
Cum
Accubah
supra terram
, in Cotton Tree Piece. ‘With Accubah on the ground in Cotton Tree Piece.’
Cum
Sukey
in dom., bis
. ‘With Sukey in the house, twice.’

She shifts position on the aqueduct wall, but can’t make herself easy. Is it just her fancy, or is there a sense of watchfulness roundabout? A secret whisper of leaves in the ackee tree, a stealthy creak in the giant bamboo?

Why, she wonders, did Cyrus Wright feel compelled to record every one of his forced and furtive couplings? And why in Latin? Was he ashamed? But then why not keep silent altogether? No, he had
wanted
to remember. That makes her feel sick.

A ground-dove waddles along the track towards her, and she flaps her hand to shoo it away. ‘Out! Outta here, you duppy bird!’

The ground-dove flies off a few yards. But a minute later it’s back, tilting its head and fixing her with its impassive red eye.

‘Go
way
,’ she whispers. She reaches inside her bodice and grasps the little green silk bag which contains the buckra gentleman’s gold chain. She holds it tight, like a talisman.

On her lap the book is a dead weight. Why does it trouble her so? She knows what went on in slave time. Since she was little, her mother’s told her the stories. Why is it so much worse to read about it? To see the details and the names in that spidery hand, along with what Cyrus Wright
had to his dinner
?

Everywhere she turns it seems like the past is seeping in through the cracks. That day at the busha house, when she saw old Master Jocelyn following Sophie up the croton walk. What’s happening? What’s
about
to happen?

And why did Sophie send this book to her?
Dear Evie
, said the note in Sophie’s big, untidy hand,
I found this book in my grandfather’s library, and thought it might help with your dissertation. With best wishes, Sophie Monroe.

The dissertation? That’s just an excuse. Is Sophie trying to say sorry for the other day? Or is she after something?

But in the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters – what makes Evie feel breathless and trapped – is that Fate has sent this book to
her
: the four-eyed daughter of the local witch.

The book is heavy and alive in her lap. She’s afraid of it, but she can’t escape. She turns the page, and begins again to read.

September 13th, 1817
Excessive hard rain. The Negroes had planted yams & plantain suckers at their provision grounds, but all were washed away. I told them they must plant deeper next year, & in the meantime must content with salt fish. In the forenoon, went to Falmouth for the auction. Purchas’d:

1) A great boy, an Ebo, 5ft 8ins & about 16 yrs. Face & belly much cut about with country marks. Country name Oworia. I have named him
Strap
. £45.

2) A Coromantee boy, 4ft 5ins, about 9 yrs, country name Abasse. Have named him
Job.
£25.

3) A small Coromantee girl, 3ft 5ins, about 6 yrs.
Leah
. Sister to the above. £15.

4) A Coromantee woman-girl, 5ft 4ins, about 14 yrs, name of
Quashiba
. Sister to Job and Leah, & very comely. No country marks on belly or back, small taper fingers, teeth not filed, clear complexion. Somewhat majestic look. £40.

I was about to have them branded when Mr McFarlane’s bookkeeper Mr Sudeley offered me to buy the small girl Leah. He said that Mr McFarlane is seeking a wedding present for his bride Miss Elizabeth Palairet, & that the girl will suit. I concluded the sale right readily, & at a guinea profit. However as the girl Leah was led away, a strange commotion. Quashiba & Job seem’d much attached to their sister, & begged not to be separated. Indeed they protested so violently that they had to be beaten back with sticks. Had them branded & led away, whereupon the boy Strap, who seems their friend, comforted Quashiba in their own tongue. I remark’d to Mr Sudeley that the woman-girl will soon forget her sister, for all the world knows that Negroes are incapable of forming close attachments.

September 14th
Have put Job in the Negro village, in Pompey’s hut by the aqueduct, & mated Strap to Mulatto Hanah, though they protested against it. Have taken Quashiba to my house, intending her for an housekeeper. She persists in lamenting the loss of her sister, & had to be restrained from visiting Job & Strap down in the village. Had stewed guinea fowl to my supper.
Cum
Quashiba
in dom.
, but she would fight. Strange impudence. I have named her Eve.