The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  I have forgiven you, Ainsley, he told the rippling cane-pieces. Look. Here’s your daughter. I’m bringing her home.

  It had been ten years since he’d driven up this carriageway. Ten years since he’d been anywhere near the house. Why so long? What had prevented him from simply riding up one day and making his peace with Jocelyn? He had wasted so much time.

  I think you’ve become accustomed to living like this, she had told him. Separate. Isolated. It’s become a way of life. She was right.

  He passed a weeding-gang walking home across Bullet Tree Piece. They raised their hats to him, and turned their heads to watch his progress. Soon word would be all over the estate. Mas’ Camron try for come home.

  God, why was this carriageway so infernally long? Everywhere he looked, he saw the ghosts. Every tree, every cane-piece, was familiar as only a land learned in childhood can be. Off to the right was the guango tree which he’d climbed when he was nine, and lost his footing, and nearly throttled himself on a strangler fig. There to the left was Congo Walk, where they used to race their polo ponies and hold jousting tournaments. Beyond that was the Old Pond, where Jocelyn had taught them to swim. And up there on Clairmont Hill were the marl-pits, where a sixteen-year-old Ainsley had made himself into a luminous spectre for the Boxing Day masquerade – incensing his father, appalling May, and delighting Aristide Durrant’s mischievous young daughter Rose.

  They swept past the New Works, and suddenly the great house rose into view. Cameron caught his breath. The dilapidations were cruelly apparent: the broken louvres, the peeling paint; the great copperpots flanking the steps, which used to overflow with oleander, but now held nothing but thistles. But none of that mattered. This was still the only place he could remember calling home.

  He wondered what sort of reception he would receive. Jocelyn was safely in Kingston, but what about May? And Clemency? He and Clemency had once been close; or as close as two people of vastly different natures could be. When Ainsley had run off, they had helped one another to cope. And when she’d lost her child he had watched her take refuge in a kind of deliberate madness, with her constant illnesses and her secret plans for the ‘journey’ that only he was allowed to know. He had pitied her, but he hadn’t interfered, for behind the breathless little laugh and the propitiatory smiles there was a single-mindedness about Clemency which he couldn’t help but admire.

  The carriageway in front of the house was empty, except for Remus dozing at the foot of the steps. The mastiff recognized Cameron from his visits to the Burying-place, and heaved himself up to make way.

  A harried-looking groom ran round from the servants’ quarters, and opened his mouth to exclaim when he saw who it was, and thought better of it, and took charge of the trap. Cameron carried Sophie up the steps and into the gallery.

  He was shaken by the wave of emotion which swept over him. The gallery hadn’t changed at all. The same slatted amber light. The same battered old rattan chairs with their throws of the red and green Monroe tartan. The same never-to-be-forgotten scent of cigar smoke and orange-oil polish.

  This gallery had been his first experience of Fever Hill, and the centre of his world when he was growing up. When he’d had nightmares, he would come out here and curl up with the dogs. When there was a storm, he would stand with Jocelyn on the steps and watch the rain sweeping the cane-pieces. And on his sixteenth birthday, the old man had poured him his first whisky and soda, and raised a toast. ‘By fire and sword,’ he had declaimed, ‘that’s for the Lawes. Death before dishonour. That’s for the Monroes.’

  He put Sophie in the nearest armchair, and fetched a footstool to support her splint. As he did so, he realized that he’d put her in Jocelyn’s chair. Here was the aged tapestry cushion, and the old throw of the McFarlane tartan, its heathery mauves and sage greens tempering the red. He remembered a stiff old gentleman settling a six-year-old boy on this same throw, and introducing him to a pair of mastiffs, and sending the helper for a bowl of red pea soup. If he shut his eyes, he could still taste that soup.

  From the shadowy ballroom, the grandfather clock brought him back to the present. Half-past seven. It would be dark soon. Even by moonlight, it would be slow going up into the hills. He would be lucky to reach Providence by midnight.

  As he was straightening up, a woman hurried round the corner of the gallery, feverishly searching for something.

  She was elaborately dressed in a modish travelling-costume of crisp white brocade, and laden with all the accoutrements of a fashionable outing. In one hand she clutched a pair of white kid gloves, in the other a card-case, a scent bottle, and a handful of pearl-headed hatpins. Dangling from one wrist was a sumptuous hat brimming with white chiffon roses, while over the other arm hung a carriage-cloak of snowy silk damask, and – curiously, given the impending dusk – an ivory-handled parasol of white satin and lace.

  Cameron saw with a pang that she had hardly aged since he’d last seen her. Still the same delicate, pretty features beneath the startling chignon of dyed grey hair. ‘Hallo, Clemmy,’ he said.

  She gave a violent start, and her face froze guiltily, as if she’d been caught in some crime. Then guilt gave way to round-eyed astonishment as she recognized him. ‘Cameron? Is that you?’

  He went to her and reached for her hand, then – mindful of the accoutrements – awkwardly withdrew it. ‘How are you, Clemmy?’

  She opened her mouth, but no words came. The carriage-cloak slid off her arm to the floor, quickly followed by the gloves, the scent bottle, the card-case and the hatpins. Cameron stooped to retrieve the cloak, and put it over a chair. ‘I got your message,’ he said.

  She looked blank.

  ‘The boy? D’you remember?’

  There was such bemusement in her china-blue eyes that he wondered if she’d heard.

  He tried again. ‘I went to Burntwood. I’ve brought S—’

  ‘I can’t find my purse!’ she burst out. ‘It was here a minute ago, I know it was, and now it’s simply vanished!’

  ‘Clemmy—’

  ‘Oh, it’s all such a muddle! I had everything perfect, perfect! But just as I was about to put on my hat I heard the carriage outside, so unexpected, I never thought he’d be back so soon. And now here I am discovered with all my special things, absolutely discovered . . . and May will be so vexed!’ Her lips quivered, as if she might burst into tears.

  Still the same Clemency, thought Cameron with exasperated affection. Plainly she was far more exercised over the loss of her purse than by his own unexpected arrival.

  Knowing it was useless to rush her, he helped to retrieve the rest of her belongings from the floor and put them on a side table. She still hadn’t noticed Sophie, who was gazing at her gravely from the depths of her incongruous pink flounces.

  Cameron gestured to her and said, ‘Look, Clemmy. See whom I’ve brought back.’

  At last Clemency saw her. Her face crumpled, and her hand flew to her cheek. ‘Oh, now I really don’t know what to do! I prayed and prayed for this to happen – but May will be so vexed!’

  Cameron suppressed a flicker of impatience. ‘Forget about May. I need you to look after Sophie. Can you do that?’

  ‘What? But you can’t go yet! What about my purse?’

  ‘You don’t need your purse.’

  ‘Yes I do. I—’

  ‘Clemency, what would you do with a purse? You never go out.’

  That brought her up short. ‘I wasn’t going out,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I was – practising.’

  ‘Practising? For what?’

  Frowning, she shook her head, as if she’d already said too much.

  Then he remembered. The journey. The practice sessions. Oh, Clemmy, not now. ‘Clemency,’ he said firmly, ‘it’s time for you to give that up. You’ve got to stay here and look after Sophie. Surely you can see that?’

  She shook her head, and two more hairpins clattered to the floor. A lock of grey hair came loose and tumbled over one shoulder.


  ‘The fact is,’ he said none too gently, ‘there’s no point to your journey. There never was. Your baby isn’t in hell. Why should he be in hell? He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s in heaven. He’s been there all along.’

  She looked horrified. ‘But that can’t be right! May told me. She knows all about it. She—’

  ‘May knows nothing about it. She isn’t a priest. She’s just a wicked old woman who likes to hurt people.’

  She flinched. After decades in semi-darkness, reality was clearly too much for her. He wished he’d had the sense to tell her this years ago.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said with mounting impatience. ‘I don’t have time to explain everything now, but I’ll send Reverend Prewitt to you, and he’ll tell you all about it, and you can ask him whatever you like, and then you’ll know that I’m telling the truth. But just for now you’ve got to put it out of your mind, and think about Sophie. She needs you. She’s had a bad time of it. Don’t let her down.’

  Her face worked. ‘I don’t know what to do. May will—’

  ‘May will what?’ said Great-Aunt May.

  Oh hell, thought Cameron.

  Great-Aunt May stood at the entrance to the ballroom, her hands serenely clasped at her waist. Despite the heat she wore a high-collared evening gown of iron-grey moiré, and long, narrow-fingered gloves of pewter kid. From the silver chain at her waist hung a collection of keys like those of a medieval châtelaine.

  Her inflamed blue gaze flickered over Clemency, lingered briefly on Sophie, then locked with Cameron’s. ‘What’, she said, ‘is the meaning of this?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought Sophie home.’

  May permitted herself the slight tightening of the lips that was her version of a smile. ‘Against her guardian’s wishes, no doubt.’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  May inclined her head as if he had paid her a compliment. ‘Then she shall be returned in the morning.’

  He opened his mouth to contradict her, but Clemency got there before him.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘No no no! I absolutely will not allow that!’ She rustled over to Sophie and plumped herself down in the adjacent chair. Then she realized whom she had just countermanded, and her jaw dropped.

  ‘That will do, Clemency,’ said Great-Aunt May, keeping her eyes on Cameron. ‘Now go to your room, remove that preposterous attire, and dress yourself appropriately for dinner.’

  Clemency drew a deep breath, and sat her ground. Her face was pink, and she was clearly astonished at her own audacity. After a moment she frowned and reached beneath her, and pulled out a small rectangle of white plush embroidered with pearls. ‘Why, here it is! Look, Sophie, my evening purse! Isn’t it beautiful? Do you see all the tiny pearls? And the dear little silver chain with the ring on it to fit over my finger, so that it won’t get lost?’

  Cameron glanced from her to Great-Aunt May, and realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t leave Sophie with them. Which meant that he would have to take her all the way down to Olivia Herapath before he could even make a start for Providence. And with every passing minute, he was becoming more uneasy about Madeleine. The more he thought about Sinclair’s ‘rest cure’, the less he liked it.

  He was wondering if Sophie was well enough for another long drive, and whether he could persuade Doshey to give him a fresh horse from the old man’s stables, when he was astonished to hear the familiar tapping of a cane approaching across the ballroom floor. My God, he thought, but he’s in Kingston. Isn’t he?

  Then Jocelyn walked out onto the gallery, and drew himself up like a battered old eagle as he caught sight of Cameron and came to an abrupt halt beside Great-Aunt May.

  The old man had always possessed impeccable self-control, and it did not fail him now. He contrived to look only mildly irritated at seeing Cameron in the gallery: as if he were merely an unwelcome caller who had arrived inconveniently close to the dinner hour. ‘What the deuce’, he said, ‘is all this rumpus?’

  May lifted her chin and waited for vindication. Clemency glanced fearfully from Cameron to the old man. Sophie ignored them all in favour of the evening purse which Clemency had placed in her lap.

  Plainly, Jocelyn had only just arrived, for he hadn’t had time to change out of his travelling clothes. He looked dusty and exhausted, and very much his age. But he took in May’s glacial expression, Clemency’s extraordinary outfit, and Sophie’s sallow, unsmiling presence without a flicker. Finally, his gaze returned to Cameron. The sunbleached eyes gave nothing away.

  For ten years they had avoided coming face to face. In town they always made sure to cross over to the other side of the street; at the few social events they both attended, they circled one another like hostile mastiffs unwilling to engage in an out and out fight.

  For ten years Cameron had thought about this moment. He had worked out exactly what he would say, and how he would act. Now all that deserted him. ‘I thought you were in Kingston’ he muttered.

  ‘Evidently not,’ snapped the old man. ‘I had a wire from Clemency. Now answer the question.’

  Cameron gestured at Sophie, whose head was still bowed over the evening purse. ‘Sinclair sent her to Burntwood. I—’

  ‘I know that,’ barked Jocelyn. ‘It’s a rum do, but there we are. You seem to have forgotten that he is her legal—’

  ‘I don’t care about that. What he did was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’ The silver brows drew together. ‘And I suppose you’re the man to decide that?’

  Cameron bit back a retort. My God, he thought, some things never change. All it takes is two minutes, and we’re at each other’s throats.

  In the ballroom, the grandfather clock struck the quarter-hour. An elderly helper in evening uniform appeared in the doorway and hovered at his master’s elbow, with a salver bearing a crystal tumbler of whisky and soda. Jocelyn dismissed him with a jerk of his head, and turned back to Cameron. ‘Be so good as to leave. We dine in a quarter of an hour. I’m dashed if I see any reason to put that off.’

  ‘What about Sophie?’ said Cameron.

  The old man blinked fiercely. ‘Not your concern. Sinclair’s responsibility.’

  Cameron drew a deep breath. ‘Don’t you think she’s yours as well?’

  Again the sharp eyes met his. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. ‘The child is Sinclair’s responsibility,’ he repeated, as if it were an article of faith.

  A quarter to eight, thought Cameron, and if I don’t cut the Gordian knot soon, we’ll be here till next week. ‘I don’t have time to argue,’ he said shortly. ‘So I’m just going to tell you the truth, and then you can work out what to do.’ He glanced at Sophie, then back to the old man. ‘That’s your grandchild. That’s Ainsley’s daughter.’

  Jocelyn’s eyes never wavered from his own.

  From the corner of his vision, Cameron saw Clemency rise to her feet, then sit back doll-like in her chair. May had gone very still. Only Sophie remained oblivious, her fingers moving slowly over the pearl-encrusted plush.

  ‘Jocelyn,’ May said calmly, ‘this is outrageous. Sinclair is the only one who—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Cameron. ‘Haven’t you done enough harm already?’

  May’s eyes widened with shock.

  ‘You knew who she was,’ Cameron told her. ‘You’ve known for days. But you didn’t see fit to tell Jocelyn – or, heaven help us, to get her out of that God-awful place.’

  May opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again.

  Cameron turned back to the old man. ‘I need your assurance that Sophie stays here. No matter what Sinclair says.’

  Jocelyn’s shoulders seemed to have lost some of their parade-ground stiffness. He put out his hand and grasped the back of a chair.

  Cameron saw how he clutched at it, and felt contrite. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I was too blunt. Madeleine was going to tell you, she’d have made a better job of it.’
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br />   Jocelyn dropped his gaze and scowled at the floor. ‘You’ve said your piece. Now go.’

  ‘Not until you promise that Sophie stays here.’

  Jocelyn made no reply. Cameron wondered if he’d heard.

  ‘Jocelyn,’ said May, ‘this has gone far enough. I will not tolerate—’

  Enough!’ barked Jocelyn.

  Cameron didn’t see the look which passed from the old man to May, but a moment later she dropped her gaze, and her gloved hands sought the chain about her waist, and Cameron saw how her fingers shook. If it had been any other woman, he would have pitied her.

  Still grasping the back of the chair, the old man turned, and for the first time since Cameron had told him, he looked at Sophie. There was no softening of his expression. His face was concentrated and inward-looking. Perhaps he was beginning to feel the truth of what he had learned. Or perhaps, punctilious to the last, he was making up his mind to obey Sinclair’s wishes, regardless of his own inclination, and send her back to Burntwood.

  ‘What will you do?’ said Cameron.

  Jocelyn did not reply.

  ‘Jocelyn—’

  ‘I told you to leave.’

  ‘Well I won’t. Not until I know what you intend to do. Dammit, Jocelyn, if you mean to send her back to that place, I’ll take her down to Falmouth right now, and have Olivia Herapath put her up.’

  The old man ignored him. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Sophie.

  She raised her head from Clemency’s evening purse and gave him her solemn stare. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Jocelyn said sharply. ‘Speak up. I can’t hear a word.’

  Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. She tried again. ‘Uncle Jocelyn,’ she said.

  The old man blinked. His hand tightened on the back of the chair.

  ‘They burnt Pablo Grey.’

  There was a silence. Then Jocelyn cleared his throat. ‘Did they,’ he said. He let go of the chair, and squared his shoulders, and passed one liver-spotted hand over his waistcoat. ‘Well. I dare say it was quick.’