The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (89 page)

Her sweetheart, on the other hand, was a perfect gentleman. In fact, he was perfect in every way.

Downstairs, the key turned in the lock. Her heart leaped. She’d made him a present of a latchkey two days before, but this was the first time he was using it. A latchkey for a lover. What a shocking, unteacher-like thing to do. But she couldn’t help herself. She was in love with him.

She heard his well-known step on the stairs, and stared at her reflection as she listened to him reach the landing and come to a halt outside the door. In the mirror her eyes were bright, her lips moist and full and slightly parted.

On the other side of the door, the familiar voice called softly, ‘Evie? Are you there?’

She waited a moment before answering, to savour the anticipation. ‘I’m here,’ she called as calmly as she could. ‘You may come in if you wish.’

A muffled laugh. ‘If I wish? Well, I rather think that I do!’

Then the door was flung open, and in a heartbeat she was in his arms, and he was holding her tight, and pressing his mouth to hers.

She sank her fingers into his golden curls and murmured, ‘Alexander, Alexander. I’ve missed you so.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘I fail to understand’, said Miss May Monroe coldly, ‘why you have done me the honour of calling, Mr Kelly. If that is indeed how I am to address you.’ Her ice-blue gaze fixed on Ben, then slid sideways to Austen, who visibly shrank.

Ben repressed a smile. The old cat knew perfectly well why he’d come. She just liked her little game.

And why not? At ninety-one she was remarkable. She still held court in her shadowy drawing-room; still sat rigidly upright, scorning to touch the back of her chair; and still dressed impeccably, in a high-collared gown of pewter silk which made no concession to the stifling September heat. Perhaps she was just a little shrunken within her carapace of corseting; but clearly her mind was as hard as a diamond. And just as cold.

‘It’s good of you to see me, Miss Monroe,’ he said evenly.

‘So it is. Now answer the question. Why have you called?’

He met the unblinking blue gaze. ‘I’ve a mind to go into Society. So naturally my first thought was to call on its
de facto
head.’

A wintry compression of the lips, which may have been a smile. ‘You have acquired Latin, Mr Kelly. How very droll.’

Ben did not reply.

‘But I regret that I cannot assist you. It is impossible for you to go into Society. You are a coachman.’

Beside him, Austen gasped. ‘I’ve been a lot worse things than a coachman,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘But here’s the thing, Miss Monroe. You could have declined to see me, but you didn’t. So I think I can allow myself to hope.’

‘That does not follow at all.’

‘Then why did you let me come up?’

‘Because it amuses me to see how you have turned out.’

There must be more to it than that. The old cat despised amusement.

‘You are a very clever young man, Mr Kelly,’ she said coldly, ‘but I repeat, what is it that you want?’

Ben hesitated. ‘No doubt you’re aware’, he said, ‘that this summer’s ball at Parnassus was cancelled – out of respect for the death of the King.’

The old lady inclined her narrow grey head. ‘So it was given out.’

He nodded. ‘And it was the proper thing to do.’ He paused. ‘The fact that sugar prices are the lowest they’ve ever been is of course irrelevant to a man like Cornelius Traherne. Saving money had nothing to do with it.’

The gloved claws adjusted their grip on the ivory-headed cane. Now she was interested. Any chance to discountenance the Trahernes.

‘So I was thinking,’ continued Ben, ‘that I might step into the breach, and give some kind of – entertainment. Perhaps at Christmas.’

The blue eyes glittered. ‘But what is it that you want of me?’

Ben met her gaze. ‘I was hoping you might agree to come. Then everyone else would too.’

‘I never go out.’

‘I thought you might make an exception. Or at least send your carriage and your man. I understand that you sometimes do that.’

With surprising force she rapped her cane on the parquet floor. ‘I repeat. I never go out.’

Austen shifted uneasily on his chair, but Ben let the silence grow. He’d expected this. No city falls at the first assault. And he was damned if he was going to beg.

When the silence had gone on long enough, he picked up his hat and rose to take his leave. But as he did so, the doors opened, and Kean announced Mrs Sibella Palairet.

Plump and pretty in modish black and white half-mourning, the young widow swept in, all smiles for Miss Monroe. She didn’t notice Ben. Austen leaped to his feet and turned bright red as Miss Monroe introduced him. The young widow’s smile became gracious when she learned that he was an Honourable. It congealed when she turned and recognized Ben.

‘Mrs Palairet,’ he said with a nod and a slight smile.

She drew herself up. ‘I do not believe, sir, that we have been introduced.’

Ben laughed. ‘One rarely is to one’s groom.’

That earned him a wince from Austen and an unreadable look from Miss Monroe. Once again Ben asked himself what she was after.

The old lady flexed her claws on the head of her cane, and turned to him. ‘Concerning your plans, Mr Kelly. It may be that I shall see fit to send my carriage and my man.’ The ice-blue eyes held his for a moment, then slid to Mrs Palairet, and back to him. ‘It may be,’ she said again.

What the hell is she after? he wondered. He glanced at the little widow, then back to the old witch. Could it be, he thought suddenly, that she planned all this? That it wasn’t mere chance that his visit coincided with that of Sibella Palairet?

Sibella Palairet –
née Traherne
.

Then understanding dawned. Jesus Christ. It was outrageous. It couldn’t be. The old witch was proposing some kind of bargain. The social countenance of her carriage and her man at his Christmas entertainment, in return for a fling with the plump little widow.

No, that can’t be it, he told himself. Not even Miss Monroe would . . .

And yet, when one thought about it, she might. And it would be savagely effective. A scandal like that would topple the Trahernes from social pre-eminence
and
frighten off the wealthy Mr Parnell, thereby scuppering Cornelius’s hopes for shoring up his flagging finances. And seventy-three years after being insulted by a parvenu’s offer of marriage, Miss May Monroe would finally have her revenge.

Provided, of course, that Ben decided to play along with it.

As he watched the young widow talking polite nothings to poor, smitten Austen, he remembered Mrs Dampiere. He remembered the feeling of being used. Suddenly he had to get out.

Abruptly he took his leave, giving Miss Monroe no sign that he’d understood her little game. And when they were once more down in the street, he muttered an excuse to a dazed and silent Austen, and walked on alone through the town to get some air.

He felt angry and disappointed. What an idiot he’d been. To have actually hoped that the old witch would admit him to her charmed circle simply on his own merits!

What naivety! He ought to have known that social acceptance was only ever going to be had at a price. And in his case, that price was a roll in the hay with Sibella Palairet. Once a groom, always a groom, it seemed.

Of course, if he decided to pay that price, there would be advantages. For one thing, he’d be outraging the Trahernes. But he didn’t want to do it like this. This was – ignoble. An odd word for an erstwhile street-Arab to use, but there it was. He was still turning it over in his mind as he rounded the corner into King Street, and walked straight into Cameron Lawe.

Without thinking, Ben stepped back and touched his hat with a muttered apology. ‘I was hoping to bump into you,’ he said.

Cameron Lawe looked at him without expression. Then he touched his own hat, and stepped aside, and walked on without saying a word.

It was early afternoon, and King Street was empty, so there was no-one about to see him snubbed. Despite that, the heat rose to his face. It was one thing to be told that he didn’t belong by some old witch up in Duke Street; quite another to be cut dead by a man he’d always respected. He despised himself for his weakness, but he wanted Cameron Lawe to like him. Or at least, to approve of him.

Feeling very much alone, he walked on up the street, and emerged into the square. It wasn’t a market day, so there was only a sprinkling of higglers. He felt their eyes on him as he passed. They were probably only curious, but he couldn’t shrug off the sense that they were judging him.
You don’t belong
, they seemed to say.
You can try as hard as you like to fit in, but it’ll never work. You’ll always be the street-Arab who made good
.

But why should that bother you now? he wondered angrily. You’ve never belonged. You’ve never wanted to. Who are these people, that you should care what they think?

As he crossed the square, a memory floated to the surface. Fifteen years before, he had wandered across this same dusty space feeling just as angry and alone – and caught sight of a familiar face lighting with joy at seeing him there.

God
, he thought savagely, why think of that now?

The bench on which she’d sat was still there outside the courthouse. But instead of a young Sophie Monroe, it was occupied by a pretty, dark-haired little girl of about twelve, who reminded him painfully of Madeleine.

She wore a white frilled pinafore over a red and green tartan frock, with a straw hat pushed far back on her head. She had her mother’s vivid colouring, and something of her father’s strong will in the modelling of the mouth. And she was watching Ben with intense curiosity, although trying not to show it.

He put his hands in his pockets and wandered over to her. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ she said shyly.

‘So. Have you still got that stripy horse of yours?’

She flushed with pleasure. ‘I didn’t think you remembered me.’

‘I didn’t think you remembered me either.’

‘Of course I do. You told me that Spot had a broken cannon bone, and that I ought to shoot him.’

‘And did you?’

She laughed. ‘No! I’ve still got him. He lives on my bed. And I also have a real horse now. Actually, a pony.’

‘What’s its name?’

‘Muffin. She’s a chestnut, and she’s
extremely
fiery.’

Ben tried not to smile at the thought of a fiery muffin. ‘Chestnuts often are,’ he said.

‘I don’t mean that she’s bad-tempered,’ she put in quickly, as if she’d been guilty of disloyalty. ‘She’s extremely obedient. At least, with me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

It made a change to talk to someone who was pleased to see him, and he was tempted to stay a little longer. But he could hardly do that after what had just passed between him and her father. ‘I think I’d better be going,’ he said.

Her face fell. ‘Oh, but I’ve bags of time, honestly. I’m waiting for Papa, and he always takes ages when he goes to the saddler’s.’

‘That’s why I can’t stay,’ said Ben. ‘You see, your papa and I don’t quite see eye to eye. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.’

‘Oh.’ She sucked in her lips. ‘It’s probably just the weather. Everyone’s grumpy before the rains, even Papa. And then when it does start raining, everyone’s
still
grumpy,
because
of the rain.’

Ben grinned. Suddenly he felt a lot better. ‘That must be it, then,’ he said.

‘So I looked him up and down,’ said Sibella with flashing eyes, ‘and I told him very distinctly, “I do not believe, sir, that we have been introduced.” Oh, you should have seen his face! He was absolutely lost for words. Quite put out of countenance.’

Sophie gritted her teeth and fought the urge to scream. Sibella must have told the story a hundred times. She had returned from Falmouth blazing with triumph, having royally snubbed ‘that Kelly person’.

In the days which followed, she went on telling the story to anyone who would listen, until Sophie began to wonder if something more than mere outrage lay behind those flashing eyes and that heightened colour. Even Gus Parnell, the most phlegmatic of men, started giving his sweetheart thoughtful looks. Eventually Cornelius summoned his daughter to his study. When Sibella emerged she was pale and shaking, and she never again told the story of how she had cut Ben Kelly dead.

Sophie couldn’t bring herself to sympathize. Every time Sibella had told that wretched story, everyone’s attention had been focused on herself, to see how she was taking it. They all remembered that little episode seven years before – even if none of them knew quite how far it had gone.

September gave way to October, but still the rains didn’t come. The heat increased. Tempers grew short. And Sophie began to realize that she’d made a huge mistake by agreeing to marry Alexander.

When they’d first arrived in Jamaica, she had simply been grateful for being cosseted and kept safe from the outside world. But as the months passed, she’d become increasingly restless. She wasn’t used to doing nothing. And at Parnassus, ladies were not encouraged to be active. Alexander gently let it be known that he disapproved of her riding out alone; nor did he wish her to see her old friend Grace McFarlane. ‘It doesn’t do to fraternize with these people,’ he said with his most winning smile. ‘Particularly not the McFarlanes.’

‘But why not?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I’ve been friends with Evie since we were children.’

‘Yes,’ he said patiently, ‘but you aren’t a child now.’

‘But in a month or so she’ll be back for the holidays. Surely you’re not suggesting that I shouldn’t see her?’

‘I can’t imagine why you should want to,’ he said very gently, ‘given where she’ll be living.’

He didn’t have to say any more. Evie’s mother still lived in the old slave village at Fever Hill. Of course Sophie wouldn’t go anywhere near it.

He might be right about that, but it didn’t alter her conviction that she was living a lie. She didn’t belong at Parnassus. She didn’t fit in. She’d been a fool to imagine that she could.