The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  He offered her a chair by the fireplace and took the one opposite, and ordered tea. He noticed that her manners were ladylike, but that when she drew off her gloves to pour, her fingers were reddened at the tips. Ah. A lady in reduced circumstances. He could always tell.

  And she was hiding something. He stopped listening to her commonplace tale of misfortune. ‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ he said, leaning back and steepling his fingers, ‘but I have many demands on my time, and I confess to being surprised that you should come to me for assistance, while concealing the truth.’

  A hit, a palpable hit. Her colour fled, her dark eyes widened with shock.

  He gave her a brief, reassuring smile. ‘I am sorry if I startled you, but my calling has made me expert in these matters. You see, Miss Finlay, you come to me with a tale of a bankrupt guardian and an invalid sister, and an urgent need for guidance, which’ – he forestalled her protest with an upheld palm – ‘I assure you I do believe. But you make no reference to what prevents you from seeking the obvious solution.’

  She looked perplexed.

  ‘Why, marriage, of course. I need hardly point out that a young lady with – permit me – your advantages should not find it difficult to secure a match.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s out of the question,’ she replied in a forthright, almost masculine tone. ‘I can never marry.’

  He sensed that they were nearing the secret, and his pulse quickened. ‘And why is that?’ he said.

  She glanced at her lap and frowned.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I was too direct. It is a failing of mine. But remember, I am a man of God. Whatever passes between us shall be in confidence.’

  Some of the tension left her features.

  ‘I suspect’, he probed, ‘that your concern over marriage derives from some – inherited weakness in your family?’

  She did not reply.

  Again he sensed that he was nearing the truth. He swallowed. ‘Permit to guess. There is some defect in the physical constitution – perhaps of a malignant nature? Or a nervous indisposition?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Perhaps – some flaw in the circumstances of your birth?’

  She went still.

  So that was it. And as he studied her reserved, almost sullen features, he was overwhelmed by a tremendous elation. It came from nowhere, and it shook him profoundly. It was as if he stood on the verge of a great revelation – a revelation which in some mysterious way would alter his destiny. But what could it be? And why should it matter to him if this unknown girl was illegitimate?

  He couldn’t work it out. And he was gripped by a fear that she would leave before he had discovered the answer.

  ‘Mr Lawe,’ she began in her curiously direct yet ladlylike way, ‘I regret having to ask you this when you’ve been so kind – but . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘You see, I need ten pounds. I need it today. If I don’t get it, I don’t know what I shall do.’ She coloured, and he guessed that she knew exactly what she would do.

  Money. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  ‘My dear Miss Finlay,’ he said. ‘God has indeed brought you to the right place. I happen to be the trustee of a small charity conceived to help just such unfortunates as yourself – to keep them from the vice to which they are predisposed by birth.’

  She took that in silence, but regarded him coolly, as if too proud to accept such a judgement on herself, yet too intelligent to dispute its truth.

  That irritated him, so he made her go the final step. ‘Ought I to take it from your silence that you do not wish for my aid?’

  Her colour deepened. ‘I should of course be most grateful for whatever you feel able to do.’

  How she hates having to ask, he thought. His excitement was painful. But why did he have this sense that she held the key?

  Forcing himself to appear calm, he went to his desk and unlocked the money drawer and withdrew four five-pound notes, which he placed on the blotter. ‘Will that suit? I have doubled the amount, to avoid your having to remove to those inferior lodgings you mentioned.’

  To his astonishment, she was no longer listening. She was gazing at the photograph on his desk: the portrait of Jocelyn, which he kept as a reminder of the inheritance that was rightfully his.

  ‘Miss Finlay,’ he said sharply.

  Her gaze swung back to him. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I believe I’m a little distracted.’

  ‘To be sure. I was merely enquiring whether twenty pounds would suit.’

  She looked at the money on the blotter. ‘You are very generous,’ she muttered.

  He tapped the desk with his fingertips. ‘However. I feel it my duty to impose one condition.’

  She raised her eyes to his.

  ‘You must return tomorrow, and every day thereafter until such time as I release you. That we might pray together for your salvation.’

  She looked from him to the money, then back again.

  ‘Have I your word’, he said, ‘that you will return?’

  She rose to her feet. ‘You have my word.’

  When Mary had shown her out, he stood at the window and watched her walk away down the street. Now that he had secured her return, he was glad that she was gone. He needed to be alone, to ponder what this meant.

  What was the cause of this extraordinary elation? This sense that she held the key to his destiny? He knew it had nothing to do with the hell of carnal attraction. How she looked or talked or behaved was immaterial to him. But God had sent her for a purpose. What was it?

  He was turning away from the window when a flash of red on the pavement caught his eye. He forgot to breathe. It was the chimney sweep.

  The creature stood on the other side of the road, openly watching the house. It had found time to shed its brushes, and scrub the soot from its evil little face – but its red hair was unmistakeable. And beside it loitered an associate: taller, thinner, with dark hair and sharp, malevolent features.

  Slowly, as in a dream, the dark-haired urchin turned its head and looked Sinclair in the eye.

  He gripped the curtain.

  There could be only one interpretation of that look. The red-haired imp had told his evil associate what he had witnessed on the roof. And now they meant to tell the world.

  The street smelt of rain, wet horses and coal-dust as Madeleine descended the steps of the Reverend’s elegant little town house and crossed the road to where Ben and Robbie were waiting on the pavement.

  With twenty pounds in her reticule she ought to feel relieved. Instead she felt humiliated. And strangely bereft.

  That photograph on the Reverend’s desk was the face of her grandfather. She had known as soon as she’d seen it. The hawklike features. The angry, sunbleached eyes. Yesterday he had acquired a name. Today he had a face.

  Lettice’s words came back to her. He doesn’t want you. He never wanted you.

  She felt again the bewilderment, the ache of loss. She was back in the snow at the gates of the Forbidden Kingdom. The officer’s eyes were glassy and cold as he turned his horse’s head and rode away.

  It was that memory of the Forbidden Kingdom which had prompted her to call on the Reverend Lawe under an assumed name. Because she remembered how it felt to have someone look at you with warmth, only to turn away when you spoke your name.

  ‘So,’ said Ben, cutting across her thoughts, ‘the parson give you any dosh?’

  She told him about the twenty pounds.

  He whistled. ‘Bugger me. That’ll cost you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Oh yeh? Course you do!’

  ‘He wants me to go back tomorrow. To pray with him.’

  He spluttered. ‘“To pray”? I never heard it called that before.’

  ‘It’s not like that. It’s perfectly proper.’ So why this unease? This queasy sense of obligation?

  ‘“Perfectly proper”,’ Ben quoted drily. Then his green eyes n
arrowed. ‘You’re not trying to do me out of my cut, are you?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, he’s a clergyman.’

  ‘So are half the punters in Holywell Street.’

  ‘Yes, well I won’t be needing Holywell Street any more.’

  He blinked, and she wondered if she’d hurt his feelings. After all, if she no longer needed Holywell Street, she no longer needed Ben Kelly.

  They walked on in silence. Ahead of them, Robbie turned and stared at a chimney sweep’s boy across the street, who had carroty hair, just like him.

  Madeleine said, ‘What’s the matter, Ben?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You were the one who said I should ask the family for help. Well. Now I have.’

  ‘Oh yeh? But I bet you didn’t tell him you was family.’

  There was no answer to that. And she had been shocked by the ease with which she had deceived the clergyman. Of course, she’d had plenty of practice. She had been brought up to lie, and she knew that the best deceptions are the ones that stay closest to the truth. Thus Cousin Lettice had become ‘Aunt Letitia’, Madeleine Fynn became ‘Madeleine Finlay’, while Sophie remained her sister, and their parents still fell victim to childbirth and war. All she had done was fillet out any references to Falkirk, Durrant, Monroe and Jamaica.

  Ben said, ‘So when you going to tell him, then?’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  He threw her a look. ‘That you’re family. So to speak.’

  What an instinct he had for the weak spot. ‘Soon,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Ben, please. I just want to get home.’

  He turned his head and surveyed the street. ‘So what’s he like, the parson?’

  She wondered how to reply. The first thing that had struck her about the Reverend Lawe was his beauty. His features were pale and narrow and severely well proportioned; the eyes an unblinking cobalt, the lips fine and very red beneath the clipped blond moustache. It was the face of a saint or a zealot or a madman.

  Which, she told herself sternly, is absolute nonsense. The poor man behaved with delicacy, courtesy and great generosity. What more could you possibly ask?

  But she still didn’t like him. The way his hand had trembled as he counted out the banknotes. And those meaningless little smiles. He was vain, too: she had noticed how his velvet smoking jacket exactly matched the colour of his eyes. And she had a sense that he might be a liar. Being one herself, she could usually tell.

  ‘So what’s he like?’ Ben said again.

  She frowned. ‘He’s – very correct. And rather secretive, I think.’ She told him about the heavy damask curtains which had been closely drawn, even though it was still the early afternoon.

  It was a strange room, the Reverend’s study: tasteful and sumptuous, but curiously soulless. The gilt-framed watercolours, the Persian rugs, the dark-green morocco chairs were all too pristine and too precisely aligned, like a Household Furnishings display at Shoolbred’s. The only thing with any personality was the photograph of the old man on the desk.

  Ben was watching her narrowly, as if he guessed that she hadn’t told him everything. ‘So you’ll not be needing me no longer,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I shall.’

  He spat in the gutter. ‘But you’re going back there tomorrow.’

  ‘I must. I gave my word.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case,’ he said sarcastically.

  They turned into the Portland Road. The pavement was busy with shoppers and afternoon callers, and she had to raise her voice above the noise. ‘Will you and Robbie come in and see Sophie?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Please. Just for a moment. I’ll give you tea.’

  He flicked her a cool glance, then called to his brother. ‘Come on, Robbie. Time we was off.’

  ‘Ben – come back. Don’t go off in a mood.’

  He glanced at her over his shoulder and melted into the crowd.

  She told herself it didn’t matter, but it did. She needed him. And Sophie needed him, too.

  A few minutes later she turned into Wyndham Street, saw the doctor’s carriage outside their house, and forgot about Ben. She picked up her skirts and ran. She met Dr Wray coming down the steps, his face grave.

  ‘Is Sophie—’ she panted.

  ‘Not Sophie,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fynn.’

  It had taken prayer and mortification, but at last Sinclair understood.

  He understood his strange elation over Miss Finlay’s illegitimacy. He understood why she alone among females held no terror for him; why he could even imagine touching her, when until now the mere thought had been repugnant. The answer was better than his wildest dreams.

  And if any doubts remained, they were quashed by the final proof: the death of the shadowy guardian, the Aunt Letitia. So now Miss Finlay was quite, quite alone. She had no family left – except for the invalid sister, who didn’t count. It was proof positive of God’s design.

  The aunt’s funeral took place on an unseasonably cold Thursday afternoon, and, at Miss Finlay’s request, Sinclair did not attend. She had said that she did not wish to trouble him, and he was happy to oblige. But when the day came he could not contain his impatience, and went to wait for her at the lych-gate outside the church.

  As he had anticipated, she was the only mourner. He watched her black-veiled figure standing by the grave as the vicar rattled through the service. No doubt the old fool was anxious to be away, for after a fetid summer and a week of torrential rain, the churchyard stank. Sinclair himself held a handkerchief soaked in spirits of wine to his nose.

  He watched her stoop for a clod of earth and toss it in. She looked down into the grave, her face inscrutable behind her veil. Then she turned and walked away. She took the path which skirted the churchyard, and which would soon bring her to him.

  As he watched, he was distracted by a movement at her back. Beneath the yews at the far end of the churchyard he spied the chimney sweep’s evil copper head. And beside the chimney sweep stood the same dark, cadaverous urchin who had stared at him the other day.

  Sinclair saw the secret knowledge in their vicious little faces – but this time he was not afraid. Slowly he took the handkerchief from his mouth and bestowed on them a cold and noble smile.

  Yes, yes, he told them silently, stare all you wish. I know how to deal with you. I shall deal with you. You cannot threaten me now. God is on my side.

  At that moment Miss Finlay raised her head and saw him, and quickened her step. He thought how overwhelmed she would be when he revealed his purpose.

  How could she not be overwhelmed? The beauty of God’s plan was breathtaking. How could he have doubted his Redeemer for an instant?

  And yet he had doubted. During the long years of darkness he had believed himself polluted and unfit to mate. But he had been wrong. The Lord had given him a creature who, though she might appear pure, had been compromised from birth.

  With such a creature he need feel no guilt – for she had already sinned. With such a creature he need fear no exposure – for she had no kin. It was perfection.

  As she drew near, she put back her veil to reveal a pale face unmarked by tears.

  He took her hand. ‘This has been a great shock for you.’

  ‘It was – rather sudden. The doctor didn’t hold out any hope after the first seizure, but when the end came it was still a shock.’

  Sinclair offered her his arm and they moved out into the street. ‘You miss her.’

  She thought about that. ‘In a strange way I think I do. She was harsh and grim, but you knew where you were with Aunt Letitia.’

  They walked on in silence. Then he said, ‘Allow me to offer you a moment of prayer before you return home. If you will accompany me to my—’

  ‘You are very kind, but I can’t. My sister is alone.’

  He repressed a movement of impatience. ‘My house is but two steps away. And I have something
particular to impart.’

  That caught her attention, as he had known it would.

  He waited until they were settled in his study, and the tea had been brought and Mary sent away. ‘Miss Finlay,’ he said. ‘It has been – what, eleven days since you first sought my guidance.’

  She looked at him with solemn dark eyes.

  ‘And during that time we have prayed together, and I have provided such modest assistance as lies within my power.’ He paused to let her recall what that ‘modest assistance’ amounted to: the initial twenty pounds from the fictitious charity, a further fifteen while the aunt breathed her last, and a rather generous twelve guineas to cover a headstone.

  ‘Mr Lawe,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I do of course appreciate—’

  ‘No, no’ – he held up his hand – ‘you misunderstand. It was not my intention to solicit your thanks. I was merely referring to the manner in which our acquaintance has developed.’ He leaned back in his chair and passed a hand over his mouth. ‘May I speak plainly?’

  She nodded, frowning a little, as if unsure whether she would like what was to come. But she would. How could she not?

  ‘With the passing of your aunt,’ he went on, ‘I believe I am correct in saying that you – and your unfortunate sister – are entirely alone.’

  The slightest of nods.

  ‘Until now, I have been loth to tell you something about my own circumstances, for fear of deepening your despondency at this difficult time. But I must now inform you that I intend shortly to take up a living in Jamaica.’

  He was gratified to see her face drain of blood.

  ‘I am however troubled’, he went on, ‘by the thought of what will become of you. You understand that the proprieties would forbid me from continuing to assist you after I have left these shores.’ He waited for her to agree, but she made no comment.

  ‘I have prayed for guidance,’ he added, ‘and the All-perfect has vouchsafed it to me. I believe you will find the symmetry quite beautiful.’

  ‘The – symmetry? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  He smiled. ‘Permit me to continue without interruption.’