The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Not a trace of recognition showed in his face. Only puzzlement, and something else that she couldn’t fathom. The relief was so great that her knees nearly gave way.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, putting out a hand, then withdrawing it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered. ‘Perfectly fine.’

  A gust of wind stirred the feathery leaves of the poinciana tree. A flock of wild canaries swooped down onto it, squabbling noisily, and put the sugarquits to flight.

  Cameron Lawe glanced up at them. ‘Rain on the way. I should be going.’ He thought for a moment, then held out the heliconias to her. ‘I wonder, would you mind? These are for Ainsley.’

  The ground tilted in front of her. ‘What?’

  He gestured at the blue slate behind her. ‘Ainsley Monroe? Jocelyn’s son. That’s the grave. – I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

  She pulled in her skirts from the slab on which she’d been sitting moments before. ‘B-but – there’s no inscription,’ she stammered. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘It’s underneath.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The inscription. The old man had it turned over, so that he wouldn’t have to look at it.’

  She put her hand on Kitty’s tomb to steady herself.

  ‘You’re not all right, are you?’ he said. ‘You’ve gone quite pale. You really should sit down.’

  The buzz of the crickets was loud in her ears, the sun fierce on her back. She felt sick. ‘His own son. He did that to his own son.’

  He moved round to her side, careful to keep some distance between them, and went down on one knee and placed the heliconias on the hot blue slate. ‘You’ll soon find out’, he said, ‘that forgiveness isn’t a very marked trait in that family.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you know the Monroe motto? Death before dishonour. Poor old Ainsley got it the wrong way around.’

  ‘“Poor” Ainsley? But I thought you were terribly angry with him.’

  He threw her a curious look. ‘Why would you think that?’

  She remembered the officer’s cold, unforgiving eyes as he had stared down at her in the snow. Tell them they’re dead to me, he had said, before he had turned and ridden away.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ he said again.

  She swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose – because everyone else is.’

  ‘Twenty years is a long time to stay angry,’ he said. He glanced at the heliconias, and to her surprise his lip curled. ‘Those were his favourites. When I was little he used to tell me that they were dragon’s claws. And of course I believed him. I always did.’

  It had never occurred to her that he had grown up with her father. That he might have cared about him. The thought threw everything into disarray.

  She watched him silently contemplating her father’s grave. He no longer looked threatening. He looked dusty and tired, and he had cut himself shaving. There was a raw scrape along his jaw, and a smudge of dried blood on his collarless shirt.

  As she looked at him, she felt a lightening inside her, as if something tight had worked itself loose. This man had loved her father, and her father had loved him. In the end that was all that mattered. It was as if, at last, the officer in the park had turned his horse’s head, and ridden back for her.

  She cleared her throat. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I didn’t really come up here by accident.’

  He kept his eyes on Ainsley’s grave. ‘I did wonder about that.’

  She put a hand to her temple and smoothed back her hair. ‘Sinclair made a fearful row when he heard that I’d spoken to you at Mrs Herapath’s. It’s too ridiculous for words. So I thought I’d really give them something to row about.’

  He turned his head and looked at her, and his light-grey eyes were warm. ‘That wasn’t a very good idea.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it was.’

  They exchanged tentative smiles.

  Above the Cockpits a thick, straight cord of lightning split the sky. A few seconds later there came a terrific, rippling crack of thunder. The canaries rose in a cloud and flew away. A grey curtain of rain moved towards them across the emerald cane.

  Cameron Lawe stood up. ‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘but you’re not at all what I expected of Sinclair’s wife.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Oh. Someone little and blond and pious, I suppose.’ He thought about how that sounded, and coloured. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not pious.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said, biting back a smile. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never cared very much for the Bible.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘That’s very direct.’

  She made no reply.

  Another ripple of thunder. He glanced up at the sky, then back to her. ‘You should go in or you’ll get wet.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Well. I do.’ He stooped to retrieve his hat from the grass.

  Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to stay and talk to her about Eden. And she found herself wondering about the ‘Negress’ with whom he’d cohabited, and what dreadful crime he had committed to get sent to prison. She said, ‘According to Sinclair, you did something “unspeakable”. Can that really be true?’

  He turned his hat in his hands. Once again his face had become unreadable. ‘Quite true, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Surely Sinclair’s told you by now? I’d have thought he’d rather enjoy that.’

  ‘He never talks about you. Nobody does. But – sometimes I get the feeling that you’re all they think about.’

  He rubbed a hand over his face. Suddenly he looked very tired.

  She knew she shouldn’t press him, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted him to stay and tell her everything. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you did?’ she said again.

  ‘Why? To satisfy your curiosity?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Mrs Herapath thinks there’s been some kind of misunderstanding between you and Jocelyn. She thinks that if you were to meet, just once, you might be able to sort it out.’

  ‘That’s rather a naïve way of looking at it,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He sighed. ‘Some people need outrage in their lives. It helps them screen out what they’re too afraid to confront.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? What happened between Ainsley and Rose Durrant, of course.’ He paused. ‘As long as the family has me to condemn, they can go on forgetting about those two.’

  There was another ripple of thunder, this time much closer. The sky had darkened to pewter. In the stormy light the feathery leaves of the poinciana glowed preternaturally green.

  ‘But what did you do?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Why should I?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Because – I want to know.’

  He blew out a long breath. Then he stooped and picked up his riding-crop, and studied it with a frown. ‘I was in the Sudan,’ he said without looking at her. ‘Ainsley was my CO. I—’

  ‘You were in the Sudan? With him? You saw him die?’

  ‘Well, of course. My God, hasn’t Sinclair told you anything?’

  ‘I told you, no. That’s why I need you to tell me now.’

  He cast around for some means of escape. ‘We were on the battlefield,’ he said shortly. ‘Ainsley had just been killed. I despoiled the body. I rifled through the pockets while he was still warm.’ He looked down and spread his hands, as if to let something fall. ‘Conduct unbecoming. Discharge with ignominy. Two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. There. Now you know.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  28th June 1895

  To Cameron Lawe Esq.

  Eden Estate

  Parish of Trelawny

  Dear Mr Lawe,

  I am extremely sorry but I shall not be able to come to tea at Eden, for my sister says that Uncle Jocelyn would not approve. Pleas
e be assured that at some future date I should very much like to visit Abigail and the parrots. And of course yourself.

  In the meantime, I should like to ask your opinion on a matter of some concern. There is a silk-cotton tree in our garden, which as you know is also called a duppy tree. I have heard that if a person falls ill, it is because their shadow has been stolen and nailed to the trunk, and that only a shadow catcher can restore it and make them well again. Is this true? Does Jamaican magic work, and does it work on white people as well as black people?

  I await your opinion most earnestly.

  Yours with great respect,

  Sophie Lawe.

  P.S. -I hope that this reaches you soon. Evie McFarlane has promised to deliver it, but I hope that is not another of her inventions.

  2nd P.S. In prison, what did they give you to eat?

  2nd July

  To Miss Sophie Lawe

  Fever Hill Estate

  Dear Miss Lawe,

  Evie was as good as her word, and your note arrived with commendable speed. As regards your questions, I’m afraid I must be brief, for we’re having trouble with the distillation apparatus, and my time is limited.

  First, does Jamaican magic work? My answer is that it only works on those rare souls who believe in it implicitly. Thus if an obeah-woman tells a particularly gullible cane-cutter that she has ‘put hand on him’, he may feel unwell simply because he expects to do so. However this is rare, and only occurs among black people who have been brought up to believe in magic. It has no effect on white people who are predisposed by religion and education to disbelieve it.

  You also asked whether people fall ill because their shadows are stolen and nailed to duppy trees. Emphatically not. People fall ill because of poor nutrition, infectious agents, or inheritance. Not because of trees. Your silk-cotton is merely an imposing plant; nothing more.

  I hope this helps, and trust that Evie will be as prompt as before. However I think it would be prudent to pass any future correspondence by your sister. As you know, relations between Eden and Fever Hill are somewhat strained. I wouldn’t like you to get into trouble.

  With best wishes for the swiftest possible recovery,

  Cameron Lawe.

  P.S. -In prison we ate salted herrings, suet pudding and cold Australian meat. I grew accustomed to it surprisingly quickly, but found the constant cold less agreeable, and the fact that I never saw the sky.

  Ninth of July – written while Maddy is at luncheon

  I have had a slight cough for the past three days, and Maddy has imposed strict inactivity and taken away my books. I am therefore writing this in secret.

  Maddy has been out of sorts since she met Cameron Lawe at the Burying-place – although I do not see why, for that was two weeks ago, and by her own admission she got off astonishingly lightly, with no telling off from Sinclair. She says that he doesn’t know what to do when one simply defies him, then owns up to it and apologizes straight away.

  It vexed me greatly that she didn’t tell me before she met Cameron Lawe, for if she had, I could have met him too.

  Tenth of July

  Cough no better. Maddy is worried, although she tries not to show it. She apologized for being preoccupied over the past two weeks, which was nice.

  Dr Pritchard came, and said she was right about the strict inactivity. He told Maddy that we must guard against the slightest shadow on the lungs, which in my weakened state would prove fatal. I wasn’t supposed to hear that, but I did.

  So now I know that white people have shadows as well as black people – although it is puzzling that Dr Pritchard thinks it so important to keep mine out of my lungs.

  I wonder what Cameron Lawe would say about this. I should like to write to him again, but I don’t think Maddy would let me; and Evie is too busy to take another note, for she has to work at their ‘ground’ after school. Their ground is a patch of land on Clairmont Hill behind the New Works, where they grow callaloo and chocho and all sorts of breadkind such as yams and sweet potato. I wish I had a ground, and could grow things and keep fowls, like in The Children of the New Forest.

  Eleventh of July

  Cough persisting. Maddy very worried.

  I have been thinking a great deal about why this is happening to me. When I first became ill, Maddy told me about the little bacilli, which she said are the cause of the disease. (I think they must be what Cameron Lawe calls ‘infectious agents’.) It seems clear that the bacilli are indeed A cause, but I do not think that they can be the complete explanation. The question is, WHO SENT THE BACILLI?

  I asked Maddy about this at tea, and she said that no-one sent them: they simply came. I have thought about this a great deal, and I don’t believe that it can be right. I think someone stole my shadow and nailed it to the duppy tree. I think that’s why the bacilli came.

  Twelfth of July

  Cough seems to be lessening, but I’m still feeling extremely seedy. To cheer me up, Maddy has given me back my books.

  Mrs Herapath’s folkloric monograph is excellent: SO detailed about obeah and myalism, even though it was written by a Reverend. It appears that black people sometimes give duppy trees presents of rum if they want a favour. Surely it can do no harm for me to give our tree a present of rum? Evie says that if I give her my pocket money, she will buy me a bottle of rum at Pinchgut market. That is nice of her. I think things may be taking a turn for the better.

  Fourteenth of July

  Cough very nearly gone!

  Everyone is busy with preparations for the Trahernes’ ball on the twentieth. Even Clemency is busy, although she isn’t actually going. She is helping Maddy to take in her ball gown, as she has lost flesh since she had it made. Maddy doesn’t care to go at all, but Sinclair says that they must, for the Trahernes’ July Ball is THE event on the Northside. Even Uncle Jocelyn will be going, for although he calls Cornelius Traherne a parvenu (when Clemency isn’t there), he is obliged to be nice to him. I don’t know why.

  Clemency dislikes Cornelius Traherne, even though he is her older brother, because after her husband died and she refused to re-marry, he wanted to send her to the nervous clinic at Burntwood. It is now a sanatorium for pulmonary cases, but Clemency says it is still the same place, and if you are a difficult patient they tie you up in restraining sheets, and in hot weather if they forget to untie you, you die.

  Clemency was only saved from being sent to Burntwood when Uncle Jocelyn said that she could stay at Fever Hill. That is another reason why she is eternally grateful to him.

  Later

  I had an argument with Sinclair. Occasionally Uncle Jocelyn comes to my part of the gallery for tea (which is a great treat, for usually only Maddy and Clemency care to sit with me), but unfortunately whenever Uncle Jocelyn comes, Sinclair comes too.

  I asked Sinclair about the paragraph in my gazetteer on the branding of slaves. I said that branding must have hurt a great deal, and is surely proof that slavery was a bad thing. Uncle Jocelyn looked at Sinclair and made a strange hee-haw noise that may have been laughter, and Sinclair was vexed, and said I was misinformed. As proof he fetched a small silver branding-iron which he keeps for a paperweight on his desk. He said that if the iron were heated until red-hot in a flame of spirits of wine, and then applied to skin previously anointed with sweet oil, the pain was minimal and fleeting. He said he has many historical accounts which confirm this, and that children as young as six used to submit to the brand quite willingly, and without ill effect.

  I had no answer to that, but I mean to test it for myself.

  Fifteenth of July

  Sinclair is wrong. Last night I anointed my forearm with cocoanut oil procured by Victory, and then held a quattie in the flame of my lamp, using tongs also procured by Victory. Then I applied the hot quattie to my forearm. It hurt extremely, and I now have a nasty red burn, which still hurts. I can’t show it to anyone. Maddy would be distressed, and Sinclair would only say that I didn’t do it correctly, or some such thing. />
  I have sworn Victory to secrecy, and I believe implicitly that he won’t tell, for he says I am his favourite buckra (which means white person). I think that’s because when we play guessing games, I sometimes let him win. Evie never does.

  Sixteenth of July

  Evie has procured the rum, which is hidden under the croton bush by the steps. Tonight I shall give it to the duppy tree and ask it to make me well again.

  Later

  I got caught by Grace.

  I waited till extremely late, and went across the lawn on my crutches. It took ages, but there was moonlight, and Remus and Cleo came and sniffed at me, which was a help, for if I had met an alligator or a duppy they would have chased it away. The duppy tree was enormous and scary with creepers, and then I saw a shape, and dropped the rum in fright and nearly screamed, but it was Grace. Evie had told on me. She is a sneak.

  Grace was EXTREMELY angry, she said I had no business messing with powers I didn’t understand. She grabbed my arm and I cried out, and that’s when she saw the burn where I’d put the hot quattie. She said what is that? So I told her how Sinclair had said that branding didn’t hurt, but that I’d tried it and it jolly well did. At that she absolutely laughed, and said of course it hurts, Master Sinclair was lying!!

  After that she was quite nice, and took me back to bed and said we wouldn’t tell Maddy, and that she would take the rum, so that I wouldn’t get into trouble about it. Then she fetched an aloe leaf and split it and put it on my burn. It REALLY helped, which is proof that she is a good witch.

  But when I asked if she would fetch my shadow back from the duppy tree, she said no – BECAUSE IT ISN’T THERE.

  But if the duppy tree doesn’t have my shadow, then where is it? I have to find it. Whatever Maddy says, and Dr Pritchard and Cameron Lawe, if I don’t get my shadow back, I shall die.