The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (98 page)

‘Leave him alone,’ mutters Ben, wiping the blood from his eyes. ‘He don’t know nothing, he’s just a idiot.’

‘So you’re still not going to tell me, eh?’ goes Pa over his shoulder. He swings Robbie round by the legs, like he’s going to take a bash at the door frame with Robbie’s head. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Pack it in,’ whispers Ben.

‘Robbie or Kate? What’s it to be?’

Ben struggles to his feet and props hisself against the wall. Pain bursts in his head. ‘Pack it
in
!’

‘Why should I? Robbie don’t mind, do you, Rob?’ And all the time he’s swinging round and round, taking that little carroty head closer to the door; and Robbie’s clutching his doll and not making a sound, but his mouth’s going big and square. ‘Come on, Ben,’ goes Pa. ‘You got to choose.’

Ben twists round and grinds his forehead into the wall. Mouldy plaster flakes off, and crusty bits of bedbug. His eyes are stinging and hot, and there’s a lump welling up in his throat. How can he choose? How can he fucking choose?

Kate’s big and strong, he tells hisself. She can hold her own against Pa; and she’s got Jeb to look after her, too. But Robbie can’t hold his own against anyone. And he’s only got Ben.

‘Come on, Ben,’ goes Pa. ‘Which is it to be? Robbie or Kate?’

‘Ben?’ wails Robbie. ‘
Ben!
’

‘Slippers Place,’ croaks Ben through big jerky sobs.

‘What?’ goes Pa. ‘What’s that you say?’

Ben grinds his head against the wall, mashing the plaster to a soggy pulp of blood and tears. ‘She’s at Slippers Place. Slippers Place off the Jamaica Road. Now let him go!’

Sunlight hit him in the eyes and he woke up. He was sweating. His heart was pounding. He didn’t know where he was.

You shouldn’t have told him, Ben. You made the wrong choice, didn’t you? You shouldn’t have told him about Kate.

Under his hand the crusted bedbugs resolved into the lacquered surface of the bedside table. He put his hand to his cheek and wiped away tears.

You lost Kate, he told himself, and then you lost Sophie. That’s why the dreams keep coming. One loss conjuring up another.

The silent maidservant moved from the window to the bed, and held out a salver on which lay a small cream-coloured envelope.

‘What’s that?’ he muttered, propping himself up on his elbow. On the bedside table his watch told him that it was nine o’clock in the morning. Christ. He’d only been asleep for just over an hour. The last guest had left sometime after seven.

‘Message, Master Ben,’ murmured the maid, her eyes politely averted. ‘Carriage waiting for reply. They says it’s urgent.’

Cursing under his breath, he snatched the envelope and tore it open. He scanned the contents. It was from the little widow. He crumpled the note and threw it across the room.

Well, who did you think it was from? he told himself in disgust. Sophie Monroe, writing to thank you for the party?

He remembered how she had looked as she’d ascended the steps with her fiancé. The sardonic gleam in her honey-coloured eyes; the twist of mockery in that mouth of hers.
And when shall you keep this mysterious bargain?

He rubbed a hand over his face. He felt exhausted and still slightly drunk; heavy with fatigue and self-disgust. The dream dragged at his spirits. Wrongdoing and loss, he thought. Is that all there is?

Beside the bed, the maidservant cleared her throat. ‘Carriage waiting, Master Ben, waiting for reply.’

He thought of the little widow in her over-upholstered dress and her artificial flowers. She’d worn a mauve satin ribbon around her neck, like a dog-collar. Just like a little dog.
You shouldn’t have done it, Ben.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. He reached for the carafe and poured himself a glass of water and drained it in one go. ‘Tell the boy there’s no reply,’ he muttered.

Half an hour later, he was dressed and coming downstairs when he saw Isaac in the hall. His partner was in his town clothes, and there was a large portmanteau at his feet.

Ben stopped on the bottom stair, and gripped the banister with a sudden, surprising clutch of panic. Isaac had been threatening to leave for days – they hadn’t been getting along too well since he’d got some ridiculous idea into his head about Ben and Evie – but he’d always allowed himself to be talked round again into staying. At least, until now.

Don’t go, Ben told him silently. Not now. Not today. Please. Out loud he said, ‘So you’re going, then.’

Isaac turned his head and waited while a trio of manservants passed through with potted orange trees in their arms. When they’d gone he said, ‘I’ll be at Arethusa for another week or so. Then I’m off.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. That depends.’

‘Isaac—’

‘I’m thinking of selling up. If I do, I’ll get the lawyer to give you first refusal on Arethusa.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Isaac! I don’t care about that.’

Isaac looked up at him, and his face was taut. ‘What do you care about, Ben?’

Ben ignored that. ‘For the last time, there’s nothing between me and Evie McFarlane. Nothing but friendship.’

‘Then tell me where she is.’

Ben hesitated. ‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘She doesn’t want to be found.’

‘I don’t believe you. I will find her, Ben. With or without your help. That girl’s in some sort of trouble. I could tell when she came up here that day. She needs a friend.’

‘She’s got a friend.’

Isaac shook his head sadly. ‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’

‘Of course I trust you.’

‘No you don’t. You don’t trust anyone. You never have.’ He put on his hat and picked up his portmanteau. ‘Goodbye, Ben. And good luck. Something tells me you’re going to need it.’

Ben stayed on the stairs, listening to the clatter of the carriage dying away. Wrongdoing and loss, he thought. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so bleak.

Ah, sod it. If Isaac wanted to leave, then let him. Besides, he wasn’t a friend. He was just a bloody business partner.

He forced a shrug, and put his hands in his pockets, and wandered through the house and out onto the south lawns, where the clearing-up was in full swing. In the harsh December sunlight the lawns offered a dismal prospect of overturned chairs and smeared glasses, and great bowls of orchids turning brown at the edges. Everywhere he looked he saw footmen and maids clearing away, picking up, and setting to rights. None of them met his eyes.

He wondered if they were afraid of him. Or did they resent him because he had once been a servant too? Because he wasn’t and never would be a gentleman?

He wandered round the side of the house, and found a patch of shade on the bench beneath the breadfruit tree, and sent for a bottle of champagne. Then he sat back and watched a couple of lovebirds having a spat in the aviary.

The strange thing was, he could easily have put Isaac’s mind at rest about Evie, for she was coming down from the cave that very morning. So why hadn’t he told Isaac? Was it because Isaac was in love? Because that was the last thing he, Ben, needed to see right now? Was that it?

The champagne arrived, and he drank off the first glass in one, and waited for the artificial lightening of the spirits. The lovebirds erupted into full-blown war.

There’d been an aviary out here for as long as anyone could remember, but until Ben had had it rebuilt it had always been a ruin. Old Master Jocelyn had built it back in the forties for his young bride, Catherine McFarlane – and then had destroyed it a year later, when she’d died. It was said that he’d never got over her death; that he’d never looked at another woman for the rest of his life.

More fool him, thought Ben sourly as he poured himself another glass.

A shadow cut across his sun, and he glanced up to see Austen standing before him. ‘Hello, Austen,’ he said. ‘Sit down and have a drink.’

Uncertainly, Austen perched on the far end of the bench, but waved away the champagne. ‘No thank you, Mr Kelly.’

Ben shot him a look. These days, Austen only called him ‘Mr Kelly’ when he was on his dignity. And it wasn’t hard to guess what was troubling him this morning. ‘So,’ he said, pouring himself another drink. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Austen cleared his throat and frowned at his feet. ‘I understand that there was a carriage here. And a note from – from a lady.’

‘That’s right.’

‘May I ask what it was about?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ben.

More throat-clearing. ‘Mr Kelly. I need to talk to you.’

‘That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?’

‘Not as employer and secretary. Man to man.’

Ben sighed. ‘The thing is, Austen, I haven’t had much sleep, and I’m feeling a bit rough. Can it wait?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Ben glanced at him in surprise. He hadn’t given his secretary credit for such strength of purpose. Or perhaps for such depth of feeling. Oh God, he thought, not another one in love. I seem to be surrounded by bloody lovebirds. He blew out a long breath. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

Austen’s narrow cheeks became mottled with red, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Last night I saw something. I mean, I saw you and Mrs Palairet – talking, and then – then you both disappeared. So I thought . . .’ his face was burning, ‘that is to say, I witnessed enough to give me cause for concern.’

Ben found such delicacy intensely irritating. ‘Well, of course you did,’ he snapped. ‘You saw, but you didn’t take part. That’s the story of your life, isn’t it?’

Austen pulled at his nose. ‘Mr Kelly. I need to ask – are you – that is, do you intend to marry her?’

Ben blinked. ‘Who?’

‘Mrs Palairet.’

Ben looked at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Sibella? Of course not!’

Again Austen pulled at his nose. Then he put both hands on his knees, and stood up very quickly. ‘Then I regret to inform you that I cannot remain in your employ for another day.’

Ben looked up at him for a moment. Then he waved his hand. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Austen. You don’t even know what—’

‘With respect, Mr Kelly, it’s not ridiculous at all. It’s the only honourable thing for a fellow to do.’

Ben was astonished. He’d read about men who put women on pedestals – he’d often teased Austen for being one – but he hadn’t really believed it until now. ‘Austen,’ he said wearily, ‘don’t be an ass. There really is no need for us to quarrel.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Kelly,’ Austen said quietly, ‘I’m as certain as I could be that there is.’

He was in earnest. Ben’s spirits plunged. First Isaac, now Austen. Wrongdoing and loss. No, no, no.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘I can explain about Mrs Palairet,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But please. I’m asking you – I’m
asking
you – to stay.’

Austen’s face worked. Then he shook his head, and turned and walked away across the lawn.

Ben sat back on the bench and watched him go. A few minutes later, the trap came round to the front steps, and Austen descended with his bags, and rattled off down the carriageway.

Two down and none to go, thought Ben. Now you’re all alone. He was surprised at the strength of his regret.

He poured himself another drink and listened to the crickets gathering force, and watched the lovebirds waging war. Out of nowhere, an image came to him of Sophie at supper the night before. Someone had just trodden on her train and ripped it, and for a moment, before politeness had got the better of her, she’d been ready to snap. He knew that expression so well: the flashing eyes, the shadows at the corners of her mouth deepening ominously. He used to love that look.

He stood up quickly and walked a few paces across the lawn, then returned and threw himself down onto the bench again. In the carriageway, a workman dismantling lights cast him a curious glance.

He could do anything he wanted, but there wasn’t anything he wanted to do. He could go for a ride on one of his beautiful thoroughbreds. He could stay here and drink champagne all day. He could go to his study and look at the plans for the mausoleum. Or he could go up to the hills and collect Evie, and bring her back to her mother’s place.

But he didn’t want to do any of it. He could do anything he liked, and there was nothing – absolutely nothing – that he wanted to do. He felt utterly wretched. He had no idea how he was even going to get through the day.

The night of Ben’s Masquerade, Sophie sat on the upper gallery at Parnassus and waited for the sun to come up.

She’d hung on grimly at Fever Hill in the hope that Sibella would reappear, but that had never happened. Around two o’clock, when she couldn’t take any more, she’d left Alexander still drinking brandy with a group of old racing cronies, and gone home in the brougham with Rebecca and Cornelius.

‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, dear?’ Rebecca had whispered as they’d settled themselves inside.

Sophie had pressed her hand and tried to smile. What could possibly be wrong? she thought. I’ve just jilted your son, and Ben Kelly is having an affair with Sibella. Of course there’s nothing wrong.

As soon as they’d reached Parnassus she’d gone straight to her room. She hadn’t even tried to sleep, but had sat up on the gallery, listening to the whisper of the wind in the cane, and the distant cries of Patoo.

It was the morning of the twenty-seventh of December. Seven years ago she’d been with Ben at Romilly. She remembered every detail. The smell of the orchids. The secret rustle of the night creatures on the riverbank. How young he had looked: how careful and grave as he peeled back her stocking and touched her knee.

She tried to think of him as he was now, but she couldn’t. Every time she conjured up the image, another imposed itself. Ben as he’d been in the clearing on Overlook Hill seven years before. Pale, shaken, and unable to comprehend that she was ending it between them.

Until now she’d never allowed herself to wonder what would have happened if she’d had the courage to be with him. What was the point? She’d been right to put an end to it.