The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (81 page)

Sometimes, Ben still had to remind himself that he was rich. It felt like play-acting. Isaac felt the same. ‘I dunno, Ben,’ he’d said once. ‘These days I’m “Mr Walker” or “sir”, but inside I’m still plain old Isaac, the nigger-boy from Lambeth.’ It was the same for Ben.

And a lot of things about being rich bored him. Changing your clothes all the time, and the ceremony of meals. Servants creeping about. Having to plan your day in advance.
Shall you be going riding this morning?
How the hell should I know, I’ve only just woken up.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to the window. The coffee was good. It bloody well ought to be; he’d paid enough for it. Six shillings a pound in some fancy shop in Piccadilly. And then he’d got a telling off from the cook when he brought it home – although not to his face, of course; it had come through Austen. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to go out and buy coffee on his own. For some reason a box of cigars or a crate of wine was fine, but nothing else.

Well, sod it, he’d buy what he liked. That was what he liked doing: buying things. Then getting rid of them.

That was the good thing about money: it was entirely predictable. You buy a fine claret or a good cigar, and you know what you’re getting. Money doesn’t let you down, not like people.

But
six shillings
a pound! How d’you square that with Kate getting sixpence a gross for her paper violets?

Again the gnawing sense of loss. That bloody, bloody dream. Until he’d got to London he’d never had a single one. Panama. Sierra Leone. Brazil. He’d slept like a baby.

Maybe it was coming to London that had done it. After all, London held other memories apart from Kate and Jack and the others. Cavendish Square wasn’t very far from the Portland Road. The other day he’d even thought of walking down it, just to see if the photographer’s studio was still there. He’d stopped himself in the nick of time.

So maybe it was thinking of that – or trying not to think about her – that had got him all churned up.

Involuntarily he glanced at the picture above the chimneypiece. It was an oil painting of Montego Bay that he’d seen in Paris and taken a fancy to. It wasn’t very good, but at least the artist knew what royal palms look like, and poinciana trees and bougainvillaea.

Funny, but he still missed Jamaica. It was probably why he’d ended up in Brazil: because he’d felt at home there, with the parrots and the darkies. And now that he was in London, he sometimes went all the way down to the gardens at Kew, just to stand in the Palm House and breathe in that hot, wet, green smell, and see if the vanilla was in flower.

‘Norton,’ he called over his shoulder.

The valet appeared. ‘Sir?’

‘I’ve changed my mind. No riding. I’m going to Kew.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Norton.

Chapter Twenty

‘But Kew’, said Sibella crossly, as the train rattled through the suburbs, ‘is so frightfully middle class. I fail to see why we can’t go to Richmond.’

‘Because’, answered her brother with an amused glance at Sophie, ‘it’s a cold, dank morning, and we wish to be pleasantly warm in the Palm House, rather than shivering with a lot of undernourished deer.’

‘They’re hardly undernourished,’ retorted Sibella. ‘It’s a Royal Park. As far as I’m aware, there’s nothing royal about Kew.’

She turned to the window and studied her reflection. When she was satisfied with her new pouched walking-coat with the sable collar, she renewed the attack. ‘All those ghastly terraced houses. And tramways, and – and day-trippers.’

Sophie wondered in amusement why Sibella believed that they themselves fell outside the term. ‘I imagine’, she said, ‘that we’ll be safe from the crowds on a Wednesday morning in April.’

Sibella ignored her. ‘I so much prefer Richmond. And I wanted to see that new theatre. Apparently it’s the first kind of chic.’

‘You can see the new bridge at Kew,’ said Sophie.

‘Don’t try to humour me,’ said Sibella, turning back to the window.

Again Sophie and Alexander exchanged glances, and Alexander rolled his eyes. He’d joined them at the last minute, much to Sophie’s relief. Sibella had been impossible ever since she’d heard about Fever Hill.

‘But it’s your family
seat
,’ she had complained in a scandalized tone over her chocolate, having ignored Sophie’s request that the subject be deferred.

‘We don’t have a family seat,’ Sophie had replied, taking refuge in pedantry. ‘We’re not aristocracy. But even if we did, our “seat” would’ve been Strathnaw. And if you remember, Madeleine sold that years ago.’

She’d thought that a powerful argument in her favour, but Sibella had brushed it aside. ‘I dread to think what Aunt Clemency will say.’

That put Sophie on the defensive. ‘Clemency could hardly go on living at Fever Hill by herself. Anyway, I hear that she already spends a good deal of her time at Eden.’

‘But still—’

‘Sibella, it’s done. I’ve signed the papers. I’ve—’

‘But
why
?’

Then Sophie had gone into her prepared speech: about feeling morally obliged to repay Cameron for her education, and wishing to recompense Mrs Vaughan-Pargeter more adequately for her keep. Sibella had listened, and asked a sharp question about just how much Sophie felt compelled to repay Cameron, but had entirely missed the fact that Sophie was window-dressing.

Her real reason for selling Fever Hill was simple and stark. She needed to sever her ties with Jamaica. By getting rid of Fever Hill, she was cutting herself loose from all the pain and regret. She was finally setting herself free.

So why wasn’t she feeling any better?

‘When shall we tell Alexander?’ Sibella had asked, stirring her chocolate.

‘Not yet,’ Sophie had said in alarm. ‘First I’ve got to write and tell Madeleine and Cameron.’

Sibella had looked appalled. ‘You mean you haven’t told them? Oh,
Sophie
!’

Again she’d been on the defensive. ‘Why should that matter? It was mine to do with as I pleased.’

‘But—’

‘Sib,
please
. Let’s talk of something else. And not a word to Alexander until I say.’ After that she’d extracted a solemn promise of silence, and then at last the subject was dropped.

You did the right thing, she told herself as she and Alexander wandered through the dripping green jungle of the Palm House. They were alone together, for Sibella had declined to ‘play gooseberry’, and had gone off to inspect an adjacent greenhouse. You needed to cut yourself off, and you did. And now you’re free.

So what was she doing in the one place in the whole of London that reminded her of Jamaica?

She raised her head and studied the intricate green-gold fronds of a tree-fern which wouldn’t have been out of place in the gardens at Eden. She took a deep breath, and the air was as hot and humid as the forest on Overlook Hill. Only the sounds were different. Instead of the rasp of crickets she could hear the soft hiss of humidifiers, and the discreet murmur of the well-to-do visitors admiring the palms.

Alexander reached up and held a frond out of the way of her hat. ‘I’m told’, he said, ‘that there’s a rather fine display of orchids in Greenhouse Number Four. Shall you care to see it?’

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t at all care for orchids.’

‘To tell you the truth, neither do I. I dare say I’m the most dreadful philistine, but I’ve always thought that they look rather badly made.’

She smiled.

Charming, handsome, undemanding Alexander. How he had changed from the old days. If someone had told her two months ago that they would become friends, she wouldn’t have believed it. Alexander Traherne? That indolent, conceited young man?

But as Sibella never tired of pointing out, Alexander had reformed. He’d given up gambling and cleared all his debts. He’d even become a frequent caller on his mother’s wealthy Aunt Salomon. ‘And as for that business of the groom,’ Sibella had confided to Sophie, ‘why, no-one could have been more mortified than Alexander when he found out that Papa had had the fellow thrashed. He moved heaven and earth to make amends, but of course by then he’d fled the country. Skipped off to Peru, or Panama, or some such place.’

The fellow
. With her talent for rearranging the truth, Sibella had pretended to have forgotten Ben’s very name – not to mention the fact that her friend had once been in love with him. But her quick sideways glance to see how Sophie was taking it gave her away.

They turned into one of the quieter paths running along the side of the Palm House, and Alexander tapped his cane on the flags and frowned. ‘Sophie,’ he began, without looking at her.

‘Yes?’

He hesitated. ‘That work you do. That – volunteer affair?’

‘You mean at St Cuthbert’s?’

He nodded. ‘I suppose you’re frightfully attached to it, and all that?’

She was surprised. He’d never mentioned it before, except to josh her about it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am. It makes me feel useful.’

He nodded. ‘You see, I was wondering. Should you be fearfully unhappy if circumstances were to take you away from it?’

She saw where he was heading, and wondered how to put him off.

‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘why the slums? You could be useful, as you put it, just about anywhere. Couldn’t you? You’re not inextricably linked to Lambeth, or – or even London?’

He was right, of course. But ‘why the slums?’ was a harder question than it appeared. She herself had never come up with a satisfactory answer, although sometimes in her darker moments she wondered if Lambeth wasn’t some means of retaining a link with the past. A link with Ben.

But of course that was absurd. And the only reason she’d thought of it now was because she was still upset about Fever Hill. ‘I could leave it tomorrow,’ she said with a sharpness which made Alexander blink.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was rather hoping you’d say that.’

They walked on in silence. Then Alexander came to a halt and took off his hat, and ran his hand through his golden curls.

Why, he’s nervous, she thought in surprise. But he was never nervous. She found that slightly touching.

He replaced his hat and gave her a rueful smile. ‘I dare say you’ve some idea of what’s coming next.’

‘Alexander—’

‘Please. Hear me out, old girl. I promise I shan’t take long.’ He paused. ‘I know that in the past I haven’t always run quite the right side of the post. I mean, I’ve dabbled a bit with cards, and – well, that sort of thing.’

She bit back a smile.
That sort of thing
probably encompassed champagne suppers in Spanish Town with ladies of doubtful reputation, and running up racing debts at the speed of a cane-fire.

‘But I truly believe’, he went on earnestly, ‘that at last I’ve got myself running straight. I know you don’t exactly love me. I mean – not as such.’

‘I’m very fond of you,’ she replied. ‘That’s the truth. You do know that, don’t you?’

He gave her a slight smile. ‘You’re a darling for saying so. But you see, old girl, I’m rather more than fond of you. And I do believe, though it sounds frightfully arrogant to say so, that I could make you happy.’

She believed it too. He was considerate, gentlemanly and handsome. And everyone she knew would thoroughly approve of the match. Of course he would make her happy. At least, as happy as she deserved to be. ‘I think you’re probably right,’ she said.

Again that slight smile. ‘Does that mean you’ll consider it?’

She stood looking up at him. In the greenish light his eyes were a clear, arresting turquoise, and his face had the smooth planes of a classical statue. ‘I’ll consider it,’ she said.

They moved along the narrow path towards the end of the Palm House. Ahead of them, a vanilla plant clambered up the fibrous trunk of a palm. A tangle of peacock ferns dripped moisture. Beneath its fronds, Sophie saw, with an unpleasant little jolt, a small clump of orchids.

They had tubular, leafless stems and insignificant pale green flowers. And they were not, she told herself in alarm, cockleshell orchids. Certainly not. They merely
resembled
cockleshells. But if one looked closely, they were really quite different.

Suddenly she wondered if people put orchids on graves. She wondered what sort of flowers Madeleine put on Fraser’s grave: on the grave that she, Sophie, had never seen.

‘You see,’ she said without turning round, ‘in the main, I’m happy as I am.’

‘But are you?’ he said quietly.

She bit her lip. ‘I am – content.’

‘And yet you miss Jamaica.’

‘No.’

‘Sophie – yes. I’ve seen how you fall silent when Sib talks about it; when we come here to look at the palms. You miss it, and you’re afraid of it.’

She glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t thought he could be so shrewd.

‘You’re afraid of Eden’, he went on, ‘because of what happened to your nephew. And yet you miss it terribly. But don’t you see, here’s your chance? You could go home, without going home. You could be happy at Parnassus, I’d make sure of it. And no-one would put the least pressure on you to go to Eden, not if you didn’t want to.’

She turned her head and looked out through the glass walls of the Palm House. A pair of ladies in enormous hats and modish draped coats tottered across the lawns towards the tea rooms. An elderly gentleman paused on the gravel to lean on his cane. A slender dark-haired man in an astrakhan coat emerged from the adjacent greenhouse and walked swiftly away.

Something about the way he moved reminded her of Ben. He had the same grace. The same taut air of watchfulness.

What’s wrong with you? she asked herself angrily. Why should every good-looking, dark-haired man suddenly remind you of Ben?

But of course she knew the answer. It was because of Fever Hill, and Isaac Walker, and those wretched cockleshell orchids. Because of the hundred little daily coincidences that were always reminding her of Jamaica.

Alexander was wrong. She couldn’t go home. Not ever.

She turned her head and looked up into his face. ‘Dear Alexander,’ she said softly. ‘I’m so sorry. But I can’t marry you.’