He shook his head. ‘Only my belt. And that’s not nearly long enough.’
‘What about the stirrup leathers? And the reins? Couldn’t you knot them together?’
Again he shook his head. ‘They’d never hold. And we’d have nothing to tether the horses.’
Dizzy and sick, she put her elbows on her knees and forced herself to take deep breaths. ‘Well then,’ she said, sounding a lot more robust than she felt, ‘I suppose you’d better go for help.’
Above her there was a lengthy pause. ‘Yes,’ echoed Sinclair. ‘I shall go for help.’
She looked up at him. His face was dark against the glare. ‘Come back soon,’ she said.
He nodded. Then he was gone. Soon afterwards she heard the clatter of hooves disappearing down the track.
Hot, bruised and thirsty, she found a patch of ground without too many rocks, and sat down to wait.
It must be around noon, for the sun was directly overhead, and there was no shade to be had. Thank God she still had her hat. But why hadn’t she had the sense to unearth her dust-coat from the trunk, and her riding habit, instead of this ridiculous morning dress? Already she could feel her shoulders burning through the insubstantial muslin.
After a while, a thin rind of shade appeared at the other side of the sink-hole. She crawled over to it. As she did so, something crunched softly beneath her hand. She remembered the passage on sink-holes in Sophie’s gazetteer, and wished that she hadn’t. Recalcitrant slaves tossed down here and left to die. She wondered if what had crunched beneath her hand was bones.
Don’t be absurd, she told herself. That was sixty years ago, they’d be dust by now. Besides, there are hundreds of sink-holes in the Cockpits; how do you know it was this one?
She clasped her arms about her knees, and forced the thought of dying slaves from her mind.
She had more pressing concerns. Thirst was becoming a problem. Why hadn’t she had the sense to make Sinclair throw down his water bottle? More proof – if proof were needed – that she was still affected by the drugs.
The afternoon wore on, and the rind of shade grew wider. Surely Sinclair would find someone soon? A labourer or a smallholder? Or perhaps he’d decided to ride all the way back to Providence to raise the alarm? But even so, he would be here soon. It couldn’t be more than five or six miles to Providence.
She curled up against the wall and tried to doze. Her head was still throbbing from the knock she had taken when she fell. Her thoughts were tangled and confused.
When she opened her eyes, she was alarmed to see that the shade had eaten up most of the sink-hole floor. The breeze had dropped, and the creepers at the lip of the hole had stilled. In a few hours it would start to get dark.
That was when it hit her. Sinclair wasn’t coming back.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cameron awoke before dawn, still drunk from the night before. Abigail sensed that he was not to be trifled with, and wisely stayed at the other end of the verandah.
At breakfast he snapped at Braverly, at the stables he snapped at Moses, and on the way to Maputah he snapped at Pilate. Three days had passed since he’d left Madeleine outside the church. Three days and three nights which had brought him no answers; only more questions.
The ride to Maputah took him past some of his best cane-pieces, but the sight did nothing to lighten his mood. He had thought that by rescuing Eden he was making peace with Ainsley’s ghost. What a shameful piece of self-deception that turned out to have been.
For ten years he had scarcely given Ainsley’s children a thought. When he’d remembered them at all, it had been with a sense of distant relief. He’d done the right thing by them, hadn’t he? He’d given them half his patrimony; what more did they need?
It astonished him that he could have deceived himself for so long. And that dream. Why had he never grasped its meaning, when it was staring him in the face? Simply because he hadn’t wanted to? Was that all it took to ignore the truth?
He studied the young cane trembling in the breeze. How could he have been so blind? She even looked like Rose. The same rich colouring, the same dark, almond-shaped eyes. And the same extraordinary blend of candour and secretiveness and naivety. Sinclair had told him once that she was not as innocent as she seemed. Well, perhaps that was true – but surely not in the way that Sinclair had meant. She didn’t even know how to kiss.
The thought made him reach for his hip flask and take a long, burning pull of Scotch.
And to think that he had actually believed that she cared for him; that he reached something in her, as she did in him. God, he had been such a fool.
A flock of parakeets exploded from a guinep tree, and he watched them furiously beating their wings as they scudded across the sky.
The night before, as he had worked his way steadily through a bottle of rum, he had been so angry with her that a red haze had misted his vision. He had felt a physical need to do her harm. For lying to him; for leading him on; for not feeling as he did. And what right had she to ask him to help her sister? She had lied to him over and over again; she had no right to ask him anything. No right.
He was still carrying that anger inside him as he rode up the dusty red track in the harsh morning sun.
When he reached Maputah, he threw himself into work. He supervised the test run of the new still; he climbed to the boiling-house roof to check the repairs. The hours flew by. Gradually, the demons retreated. Some of the anger leached away.
After all, what crime had she committed? What had she done, except to make what was already a confounded mess just a little bit worse?
None of this was her fault. It was his fault: his and Jocelyn’s. If they hadn’t been so eager to sweep Ainsley’s ‘monumentally inconvenient bastards’ under the carpet, none of this would have happened. Septimus would not have emptied the trust and left them with nothing. Sophie would not have fallen ill. And Madeleine would not have felt compelled to marry Sinclair.
But what could be done about that now? Nothing. Stay out of it. Try to forget.
The bell tolled for the noonday break, and he watched the men settling down in the shade to tackle their lunchpails. He wondered what to do until the break was over and he could get back to work. He couldn’t face returning to the house for a solitary meal that he didn’t want, and it was too hot to go for a ride. An unwelcome image came to him of Sophie in Burntwood, and he pushed it away.
Just then, he noticed a stranger loitering under the poinciana tree at the entrance to the yard. The stranger was small and thin, in tattered dungarees and crumpled straw hat: plainly one of the poor white vagrants who wandered the countryside in search of a day’s casual work.
Behind him, Cameron heard Oserius snort. ‘White lubba,’ the foreman muttered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and rising to his feet.
Cameron motioned him down. ‘Finish your meal. I’ll see him off.’ He put his hands in his pockets and made his way across the yard. ‘There’s no work for you here,’ he told the stranger. ‘You’d better be on your way.’
‘Din’t come for a job, did I?’ came the sharp retort.
Oh Lord, thought Cameron, this one’s after a scrap. ‘As I said,’ he repeated in a firmer tone, ‘there’s nothing for you here. Now be off, there’s a good fellow.’
‘I got somethink to tell you,’ said the stranger, belatedly snatching off his hat.
Cameron was surprised to see that he was much younger than he’d thought. Thirteen? Fourteen? It was difficult to tell, for poverty had hardened the thin face beyond its years. But the expression was oddly familiar: an edgy mix of belligerence and apprehension. Where had he seen that before?
Then it came to him. There had been boys like this in prison. Cynical, quick-witted and startlingly amoral, no missionary could reach them, no prison visitor make them see the light. What light? They’d been thieving since they could walk.
Cameron was intrigued. A Cockney street Arab on the Northside. What were the odds on
that? And what are the odds, he reminded himself, that this wily little urchin isn’t on the lookout for something to steal?
He put his hands on his hips and gave the boy a hard look. ‘What’s your name,’ he said, ‘and what are you doing on my land?’
The boy raised his chin and met his gaze. ‘Don’t matter who I am,’ he snapped. He was making a good job of not looking frightened, but all the same, Cameron felt like a bully. Because he saw now that this boy was different from the Millbank lads. The worst of those had had something dead about the eyes, for they were long past feeling; but this boy’s eyes looked bruised and exhausted, as if he’d felt too much.
‘Very well,’ said Cameron, ‘we’ll dispense with the introductions. Now what do you want?’
The boy licked his lips. ‘You the parson’s brother, yeh?’
‘The parson . . . ? Yes. I suppose I am. What’s that to you?’
‘Miss Clemmy sent me.’
‘Miss Clemmy? What the devil are you talking about?’
The boy bridled. ‘She did. Miss Clemmy of Fever Hill. I seen her on Monday.’ He flicked a sideways glance at the men in the yard, and lowered his voice. ‘It’s about Sophie. She’s in the san, Burntwood san. That’s what I come to tell you. You got to get her out.’
Cameron was too astonished to reply. What was Clemency thinking of, recruiting an urchin to run her messages?
And yet – on reflection, was that so bizarre? It wouldn’t be the first time that she had befriended a waif. In the old days, he and Jocelyn used to tease her about her ‘followers’: mostly pickneys hoping for a ginger bonbon or a story or a chance to play with her cat. Few were sent away disappointed.
But that left the little matter of Sophie: an astonishingly familiar form of address for a street boy to use about one of his betters. How did he imagine that he could make so free?
Behind him, the men were watching them with undisguised curiosity. Cameron jerked his head at the boy to follow, and started up the road. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me that you know – that you claim some acquaintance with – Miss Sophie Lawe?’
Shading his eyes with one hand, the boy squinted up at him. ‘Well I can’t get her out of there, can I?’ he said, dodging the question. ‘And the grandpa’s in Kingston and won’t be back for—’
‘The grandfather?’ Cameron cut in.
‘The old man. The one they call Uncle J—’
‘You said “the grandfather”.’
Impatiently, the boy tossed his head. ‘Yeh? So? Madlin’s and Sophie’s.’
The grandpa. The way the boy had said it. Casually dropping it in as if it were common knowledge. Cameron ran a hand through his hair. ‘Did Mad— did Mrs Lawe send you?’
‘Course not, how could she? Parson’s gone and locked her up.’
‘What?’
‘Some place called Providence. Up in the hills. He says she’s cracked, and he’s put her on some kind of cure. Anyway she can’t get out, so she can’t—’
‘Who told you this? Who are you? How the devil do you know Mrs Lawe?’
He’d spoken sharply, and the boy clenched his fists, bracing his scrawny frame for a fight. He seemed not to have noticed that Cameron was twice his size.
‘Who are you,’ Cameron said again, ‘and how did you come to know Mrs Lawe?’
‘Who cares who I am,’ muttered the boy. ‘And as for Madlin and Sophie – if that’s any of your business – I got to know them back in London.’
In London? This urchin had ‘got to know’ Madeleine in London? But how? And what was he doing in Jamaica? Was there no end to what she hadn’t told him?
‘Point is,’ the boy insisted, ‘Madlin can’t do nothink for Sophie. That’s the point.’ He seemed genuinely anxious, and he flushed under Cameron’s scrutiny, as if such concern were a cause for shame. ‘That’s why I come,’ he muttered. ‘To tell you she’s in the san. So now you can go and get her out. Yeh?’
Cameron did not reply. As he stood there in the sun, the lunacy of the situation came crashing in on him. Here he was, arguing with a child – a denizen of the slums – about the merits of rescuing another child, whom he hardly knew.
And surely that, he told himself, is – to borrow this creature’s expression – ‘the point’? You don’t know Sophie and you don’t know Madeleine. It was an illusion to think that you did.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ he said, feeling his temper rise. ‘Ride up to Burntwood like some medieval champion, and break down the door?’
For the first time, the boy was lost for words.
‘Perhaps you’re not aware’, Cameron went on, ‘that Miss Sophie Lawe is my brother’s responsibility. He is her legal guardian, not I.’ As he said it, he felt himself colour with shame. Because he knew that it was just an excuse: an excuse to cover his anger at Madeleine.
Well, and what if it is? he thought. My God, hasn’t she given you cause?
He turned back to the boy. ‘Do you understand what it means to be a child’s legal guardian?’ he said. ‘It means that he’s the only one who can get her out.’
The boy was staring at him with his mouth open. Suddenly he looked very young. ‘You knew,’ he said. ‘You already knew she’s in the san. And you done nothink.’
‘I don’t need you’, said Cameron between his teeth, ‘to teach me my duty. Now be off with you. I’ve got work to do.’
The boy was shaking his head. ‘I thought you was different. I thought, if Madlin likes him, he can’t be the same as them others. Shit. I should of known.’
Cameron put down his head and gave the boy a look that made him flinch. ‘I’ve let you have your say,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but don’t imagine for a moment that I’ll tolerate disrespect. Now do as you’re told and get off my land.’
But the boy stood his ground, though he threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure of his escape. ‘You’re narked at Madlin,’ he said. ‘That’s it, innit?’
‘How dare you, you little—’
‘You’re narked at her, so you’re taking it out on Sophie. What’s the matter with you? You think Madlin done it for fun? All she ever done, she done for Sophie. Don’t you know that yet?’
Bloody hell, thinks Ben. Now what d’you do?
He’s still puffing and blowing after cutting the lucky up that hill. He didn’t like the look of that brother’s face one little bit. Them light-grey eyes, as clear as gin and sharp as glass. Them big hands clenched at his sides. Just itching to knock the stuffing out of him. If he hadn’t legged it when he did, he’d be spitting out teeth right now, and wondering what bones wasn’t broken.
What a sodding waste of time. What were you thinking of, Ben Kelly? Parson’s brother? What’s he care about Sophie? Him with his big posh house and his fancy horse and all them fields. You should of known better. You should of known they’re all the same.
Still. That’s not the point, is it? Point is, it’s down to you now, and nobody else. So what you going to do about it?
Think. Think. Sophie’s in the san. Who put her there? The parson. Of course. So if you take away the parson, then anybody can get her out. Madeleine. Grandpa. Even that Miss Clemmy could see to it. So what does that tell you, Ben Kelly? Tells you to take away the parson, like you was going to in the first place!
And it’s all very well Madeleine saying it’s not what Robbie would of wanted – but this isn’t only about Robbie no more. It’s about Sophie, too.
Shit but it’s hot.
He goes to the side of the road and squats down under one of them flame-colour trees to think. Parrot on a branch looks down at him, like it’s wondering if he’s going to chuck a stone at it; it decides not to pross around and find out, and lifts itself off the branch and flies away.
Only trouble is, thinks Ben, watching the parrot cut the lucky up the road, only trouble is, Madeleine went and took the sodding gun. Bloody Madeleine.
Then all of a sudden he gets this idea. It’s
sort of killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.
Course, it’ll mean going back the way he come. Sneaking past that brother again, and padding the hoof all the way to Fever Hill. A good few hours on the road that is; be lucky to get there by dark. But that’s all right. He’s got the time.
He sits there under the tree, turning the plan over in his head and looking for holes. But whichever way he looks at it, it’s not bad. Not bad at all.
Chapter Thirty
She had tried everything she could think of, but nothing had worked.
She had tried making steps in the sink-hole walls by hammering wedges of rock into cracks. The limestone crumbled on impact, or splintered beneath her weight. She had tried ripping up her gown and plaiting a rope. Without scissors it was impossible to tear the muslin into even strips, and she managed only an unwieldy chain of knots. Nevertheless, she had tried throwing the ‘rope’ over a sapling which jutted halfway up the sink-hole wall. She had managed to haul herself a few feet off the ground before the sapling gave way.
Finally, she had tried shouting for help. She had given that up the soonest of all. It was frightening to hear her voice buffeted from wall to wall, with no reply.
She forced herself to sit down and think. How long since Sinclair had left? Five hours? Six? The breeze had dropped but the sky was still blue, the heat still intense.
Her face felt stiff, her eyes scratchy and sore. It was becoming difficult to think of anything but water. She’d had nothing since well before dawn, when she’d stolen a drink from the Providence cook-house. Why hadn’t she thought to take anything with her?
But if she had, it would be out of reach now.
Just like Ben’s gun.
That wretched gun. If she had it now, everything would be different. She could fire off shots that would be heard for miles; she could shoot one of the john crows which wheeled overhead, and drink its blood.
If only she had that gun. She’d been rooting around in the trunk when she’d found it, neatly rolled in a pair of cambric combinations. She remembered bundling it up with her clothes before slipping out of the house and finding her way to the stables, but after that she’d forgotten all about it until she’d stopped to rest beneath the calabash tree, and found it in the saddlebag, and put it on the ground and stared at it. How alien it had looked, lying there in the dust. Why had she taken it? What had she imagined she could do with it?
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 33
