Sophie paused for a moment, to bring herself under control. ‘I’ve heard that you’re in need of a coachman,’ she said evenly.
‘Upon my word, miss, you surprise me! What conceivable interest can you have in my household arrangements?’
‘Well, I know of someone who was recently dismissed from another establishment, and might suit.’
‘Dismissed, you say. For what infraction?’
‘For insolence. But that was—’
‘Indeed. A pretty notion you have of the quality of manservant I might care to retain.’
‘I think it may have been a misunderstanding. Mr Traherne . . .’ she paused to give weight to the name, ‘has always had the highest regard for the servant in question.’
Something flickered in the inflamed blue gaze.
Sophie kept very still. If the old lady sensed that she was being manipulated, she would be intractable. And yet – if there was any possibility of vexing the Trahernes . . .
It was common knowledge on the Northside that Great-Aunt May hated the entire clan with a deep, corrosive hatred which had no end. Six decades before, she’d suffered the ignominy of an offer of marriage from Cornelius’s father, and had never got over the humiliation. The great-grandson of a blacksmith – and he had the effrontery to aspire to the hand of Miss May Monroe! Sixty-six years later, her rancour remained undimmed. It was probably the only thing keeping her alive.
Again she rapped her cane on the floor. ‘I will not be influenced.’
‘I know that, Great-Aunt May.’
‘Should anyone apply for the post, I shall consider him, if I see fit. But I will not be influenced. Now tell me the truth. What possible interest can you have in a manservant of Mr Traherne?’
Sophie hesitated. ‘None.’
The old lady pounced on the hesitation. ‘Then why are you here?’
Sophie felt herself colouring.
‘Shall I tell you, miss? Shall I tell you why you show such inappropriate interest in your inferiors?’
‘I don’t,’ said Sophie between her teeth. ‘It’s just that in this case there are reasons—’
‘Do not attempt to exonerate yourself! I have heard reports of your behaviour. Your friendships with mulattos. Your involvement in that – clinic, do they call it?’ She leaned forwards, and her hot blue eyes bored into Sophie’s. ‘You are drawn to your inferiors because you know that you are unfit for anyone else.’
Sophie got to her feet. She didn’t have to take this. Not even for Ben.
But Great-Aunt May had her prey in her talons, and she wasn’t about to let go. ‘You have no breeding,’ she continued. ‘No manner. No health. No beauty.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this—’
‘You may find yourself a husband, of course, but he will only be after your property.’
‘Why should you imagine that you can say such things to me? Is it because you’re old? Is that it?’
The blue eyes glittered with grim relish. ‘Since impertinence is your only response, I must assume that you accept the truth of what I say—’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Ah, and now you insult me in my own drawing-room! If it is nonsense, miss, then tell me this: have you ever had a sweetheart? Has one single young man of good family ever made himself attentive to you? No. And shall I tell you why? Look behind me at that portrait on the wall. That is beauty. That is breeding. You have none of it. You never shall. You are not a true Monroe.’
‘I’m as much a Monroe as you—’
‘You are a Durrant. Your mother had the instincts of a guttersnipe, and so have you.’
Sophie turned on her heel and ran. She slammed the drawing-room doors behind her, pushed past a startled Kean, and ran down into the street.
She stood there panting, blinded by the glare.
After the darkness of the drawing-room, Duke Street was absurdly sunny and peaceful. A Chinese man cycled past, raising a little plume of dust. An East Indian girl in a brilliant purple sari crossed the road with stately grace, her bangles clinking on her ankles. She carried a wide, shallow basket of mangoes on her head, and only her dark eyes moved as she glanced at Sophie with polite curiosity.
Sophie breathed in the reassuring smells of dust and mangoes, and felt her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
You are drawn to your inferiors because you know that you are unfit for anyone else.
Your mother had the instincts of a guttersnipe, and so have you.
It wasn’t true. None of it was true. She felt angry with herself for allowing Great-Aunt May to upset her – and, which was worse, for showing it. Why should she be troubled by the rantings of an evil old witch who fed on other people’s fears and twisted them into lies?
She started slowly up the street, and as she walked, the sunny peace of the little town had its effect. She began to feel better.
After all, what did it matter what Great-Aunt May had said to her? She’d achieved what she’d set out to do. She’d shown the old witch a way to discountenance the Trahernes; now it was up to Ben to apply for the position.
Although of course, she remembered suddenly, he doesn’t know about it yet. So now you’ve got to find him.
Chapter Ten
From the Journal of Cyrus Wright Esquire, Overseer, Fever Hill Plantation
May 1st, 1817
On this day I began my duties at Fever Hill Plantation. Mr Alasdair Monroe shewed me over the Property: a vast of cane-pieces, a cattle Pen, citrus & pimento walks, dye-wood, & much livestock & Negroes, including two dozen newly purchas’d at auction. Mr Monroe is sixty-seven years old, but still hale. He counsell’d me to take a wife or at least to keep a Negro girl.
May 10th Heat very dreadful. The land all scorch’d up, & in places over-run by fire. My new house on Clairmont Hill is very well, but lonely. Have put a Chamboy woman-girl, Sukey, to weeding the garden, but she is impudent. Catch’d her eating sugar cane, & broke my stick over her. This night I dined at the Great House with Mr Monroe, his eldest son Mr Lindsay & Mr Duncan Lawe. Broiled crabs, stewed duck, honey-melon & a cheese. The talk was of Mad Durrant, who is building his Great House at Eden amid the tree-ferns. Much claret & brandy. On returning to my house, cum Sukey in the store room, stans, backwards.
May 18th This day I am forty-eight years old. Still no rains. Parroquets have made sad havoc with my garden, & in the night a cattle has been at the corn, though I had set old Sybil to watch. Had her flogged & rubbed in salt pickle. She made loud commotion. Cum Accubah, supra terram, in Cotton Tree Piece.
May 31st Heat excessive, & still no rains. Put two Negro gangs to weed-ing, & the pickney gang to loading manure at Glen Marnoch Cane-Pieces. Much idleness. These Negroes would loiter away the time if I let them. To my supper had mangrove oysters, cold tongue & ale mixt with sugar. Cum Sukey in dom., bis.
An ackee leaf drops onto the page. Evie stares at it for a moment, then brushes it away.
She gazes at the neat copperplate handwriting crawling across the page, and there’s a sour taste in her mouth. She knows enough Latin to work out the meanings. Cum Sukey in the store room, stans, backwards. That means, ‘With Sukey in the store room, standing, backwards.’ Cum Accubah supra terram, in Cotton Tree Piece. ‘With Accubah on the ground in Cotton Tree Piece.’ Cum Sukey in dom., bis. ‘With Sukey in the house, twice.’
She shifts position on the aqueduct wall, but can’t make herself easy. Is it just her fancy, or is there a sense of watchfulness roundabout? A secret whisper of leaves in the ackee tree, a stealthy creak in the giant bamboo?
Why, she wonders, did Cyrus Wright feel compelled to record every one of his forced and furtive couplings? And why in Latin? Was he ashamed? But then why not keep silent altogether? No, he had wanted to remember. That makes her feel sick.
A ground-dove waddles along the track towards her, and she flaps her hand to shoo it away. ‘Out! Outta here, you duppy bird!’
The ground-dove flies off a few yards. But a minute la
ter it’s back, tilting its head and fixing her with its impassive red eye.
‘Go way,’ she whispers. She reaches inside her bodice and grasps the little green silk bag which contains the buckra gentleman’s gold chain. She holds it tight, like a talisman.
On her lap the book is a dead weight. Why does it trouble her so? She knows what went on in slave time. Since she was little, her mother’s told her the stories. Why is it so much worse to read about it? To see the details and the names in that spidery hand, along with what Cyrus Wright had to his dinner?
Everywhere she turns it seems like the past is seeping in through the cracks. That day at the busha house, when she saw old Master Jocelyn following Sophie up the croton walk. What’s happening? What’s about to happen?
And why did Sophie send this book to her? Dear Evie, said the note in Sophie’s big, untidy hand, I found this book in my grandfather’s library, and thought it might help with your dissertation. With best wishes, Sophie Monroe.
The dissertation? That’s just an excuse. Is Sophie trying to say sorry for the other day? Or is she after something?
But in the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters – what makes Evie feel breathless and trapped – is that Fate has sent this book to her: the four-eyed daughter of the local witch.
The book is heavy and alive in her lap. She’s afraid of it, but she can’t escape. She turns the page, and begins again to read.
September 13th, 1817 Excessive hard rain. The Negroes had planted yams & plantain suckers at their provision grounds, but all were washed away. I told them they must plant deeper next year, & in the meantime must content with salt fish. In the forenoon, went to Falmouth for the auction. Purchas’d:
1) A great boy, an Ebo, 5ft 8ins & about 16 yrs. Face & belly much cut about with country marks. Country name Oworia. I have named him Strap. £45.
2) A Coromantee boy, 4ft 5ins, about 9 yrs, country name Abasse. Have named him Job. £25.
3) A small Coromantee girl, 3ft 5ins, about 6 yrs. Leah. Sister to the above. £15.
4) A Coromantee woman-girl, 5ft 4ins, about 14 yrs, name of Quashiba. Sister to Job and Leah, & very comely. No country marks on belly or back, small taper fingers, teeth not filed, clear complexion. Somewhat majestic look. £40.
I was about to have them branded when Mr McFarlane’s bookkeeper Mr Sudeley offered me to buy the small girl Leah. He said that Mr McFarlane is seeking a wedding present for his bride Miss Elizabeth Palairet, & that the girl will suit. I concluded the sale right readily, & at a guinea profit. However as the girl Leah was led away, a strange commotion. Quashiba & Job seem’d much attached to their sister, & begged not to be separated. Indeed they protested so violently that they had to be beaten back with sticks. Had them branded & led away, whereupon the boy Strap, who seems their friend, comforted Quashiba in their own tongue. I remark’d to Mr Sudeley that the woman-girl will soon forget her sister, for all the world knows that Negroes are incapable of forming close attachments.
September 14th Have put Job in the Negro village, in Pompey’s hut by the aqueduct, & mated Strap to Mulatto Hanah, though they protested against it. Have taken Quashiba to my house, intending her for an housekeeper. She persists in lamenting the loss of her sister, & had to be restrained from visiting Job & Strap down in the village. Had stewed guinea fowl to my supper. Cum Quashiba in dom., but she would fight. Strange impudence. I have named her Eve.
Evie shuts the book with a thud. A cold sweat breaks out on her forehead. Her heart starts to pound. She wants to throw the book in the aqueduct – to consign Mr Cyrus Wright to the scummy green water, where he belongs.
I have named her Eve.
No. No. This has nothing to do with her. She’s not some long-ago nigger from the Guinea country. They just happen to have the same name.
Besides, what does she care about slave time? It’s nearly seventy years since the slaves were freed. They’re nothing to her. She’s Evie McFarlane, teacheress at Coral Springs. She’s half white.
A breeze stirs the bamboo leaves to a hot, dry rustle. Evie reaches out to a nearby bush and snaps off a ginger lily, and crushes the waxy white petals in her hand. The scent is so sharp that it stings her eyes – but that’s good, for it washes her thoughts clean.
What you’ve got to remember, she tells herself, is that this is not who you are. Any time you want to, you can get away from here. Any time. You’ve only to say the word to that buckra gentleman, and he’ll help you. You name the place and the time, he said. Just to talk, of course. I only want to talk.
And he promised to treat you respectful, and to never get fresh. Not unless you want him to.
‘Hello, Evie,’ says Sophie at her shoulder.
Evie jumps, and the book nearly topples into the aqueduct.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Sophie, ‘I startled you.’
Evie tosses away the crushed petals and swings her legs off the wall, and searches for her shoes. ‘Hello, Sophie,’ she mutters.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie says again. She’s nervous, twisting her riding-crop in her hands. She’s much less elegant than when Evie saw her up at the busha house, in a calf-length divided riding-skirt, and a short brown jacket and bowler hat. Does she think that by dressing like this she can make it seem that there’s less of a gulf between them? Well, she can’t. Her boots are calfskin, and at the collar of her blouse there’s a little silver brooch.
Looking at her, Evie feels the familiar confusion of jealousy and liking and self-loathing. She hates that she’s been found in her old print dress and her canvas shoes, in this rundown ruin of a place. She hates that she’s pleased to see Sophie.
Sophie glances at the book. ‘Is that any use?’
Evie shrugs. ‘Why did you send it?’
‘I thought it might help for your dissertation.’ She hesitates. ‘And I felt bad about the other day. I mean, just assuming that you were in service, like that.’
Evie ignores that. ‘Did you read it?’ she asks.
‘No. Why?’
She snorts. ‘It’s all about slaves.’
Sophie sighs. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Evie. I genuinely didn’t realize.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
Sophie turns and gazes out over the scummy green water, then back to Evie. ‘The thing is, I need to see Ben. Can you tell me where he is?’
So that’s it, thinks Evie. I should have guessed. Sophie always did have a peculiar deep regard for Ben. ‘Ben’s gone,’ she says.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sophie doesn’t believe her. ‘You see, I’ve found him a position, and I need to tell him, or it’ll get filled. It’s in Duke Street, at Great-Aunt May’s.’
‘Miss May?’ Evie’s surprised. ‘Cho! Ole Higue herself!’ Then she remembers who she’s talking to, and puts a hand to her mouth.
Sophie grins. ‘Ole Higue indeed! I saw her yesterday, and she still frightens the life out of me. But you see, she really does need a coachman. It’s ridiculous, she only ever drives eight hundred yards to church, but I thought that if Ben were to apply, she’d probably take him. It would appeal to her, to cock a snook at the Trahernes.’
Clever Miss Sophie. Clever, unwise Miss Sophie, walking into trouble with her eyes wide open and blind.
And now Evie really doesn’t know what to do. Of course she knows where Ben is. He’s over east in the hills back of Simonstown; Daniel Tulloch found him a bed at his cousin Lily’s who teaches school in the village. But always at the back of Evie’s mind is that vision of old Master Jocelyn following Sophie up the croton walk. Maybe it means trouble for Sophie, or maybe for Ben. Or maybe for both of them.
With the toe of her shoe she draws a pattern in the dust. ‘Better stay away from him, Sophie.’
‘Everyone keeps telling me that.’
‘Everyone?’
She taps her riding-crop against her boot. ‘I’m just trying to put things right. That’s all.’
Evie wonders if Sophie truly belie
ves that.
‘Will you at least see that he gets the message?’ says Sophie.
Evie shakes her head.
‘Why not? Don’t you want to help him? He’s your friend too.’
Evie does not reply.
‘Just take him the message,’ urges Sophie.
Well, and why not? thinks Evie. After all, you’re not really friends with Sophie any more, so why worry about keeping her out of trouble? And why worry about Ben? Ben can look after himself. He always has.
‘Evie – please.’
She sighs. ‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’
After that Sophie doesn’t stay long, and Evie doesn’t try to keep her. But still she’s sorry when she’s gone. It’s lonely by the aqueduct, with the ackee tree whispering overhead and the wild bamboo creaking to itself, and the journal of Cyrus Wright calling to her from the wall.
She half expects it to have moved by itself, but when she turns round it’s still there, waiting for her. With a sense of foreboding, she curls up on the wall and opens it.
But to her frustration she can find no further mention of Eve. With mounting apprehension she flicks through pages of crop-times and how many hogsheads per acre, and terse Latin accounts of forced couplings in cane-pieces. What happened? Was there an illness? A beating that went too far?
Just when she’s beginning to lose hope, she finds it.
December 3rd, 1817 Yesterday I gave Eve my old blue Holland coat, but by nightfall she had lost it, or so she said. Old Sybil says that Eve gave it to Strap. I was vex’d, and sent Eve to the field gang for a punishment. Had a search made of Strap’s hut, but found no coat. (NB: Old Sybil says the Negroes have taken to calling Eve ‘Congo Eve’, to tell her apart from Mr Durrant’s Chamboy Eve, up at Romilly. But this is without my leave.)
December 15th Congo Eve has gone runaway. Have sent men to make search, and am too vex’d to take more than ham & a cheese to my supper. Cum Accubah in dom.
December 17th Congo Eve has been catch’d & brought back by Mr McFarlane’s overseer. She went runaway to Caledon to see her sister Leah. Had her flogged & rubbed with brine. In the evening, noticed that she wears an anklet of john-crow beads. She told me that her brother Job made it for a present. Suspecting it to be some vile Obiah practice (i.e. Black Magick), I made her throw it on the midden.
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 51
