He gave her a long, steady look. ‘Because I asked Dr Pritchard. And Dr Mallory. And they both told me, quite categorically, that it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference if you’d been there or not.’
Sophie sat in stunned silence. So it had occurred to him to blame her. He had considered it. And then, being Cameron, he had found out the facts. And he had asked both doctors. There was something about that which frightened her. It showed such a need for confirmation.
She wondered what he would have done if the doctors’ answers had been different. I won’t have Madeleine hurt, he had told her once. I won’t let anyone do that. Not even you. She looked at his strong, uncompromising features, and wondered if he truly believed – not in his head, but in his heart – that she was wholly without blame.
For herself, she couldn’t do it. The events of that night had taken on an unreal quality, and she couldn’t untangle them in her mind. She’d been with Ben, and then Fraser had died. She couldn’t think of Ben without seeing Fraser’s wide grey eyes. Fornication Leads to Misery and Hell.
A small noise from inside the house, and they turned to see Belle standing in the doorway.
She wore a black frock with a wide black sash around her hips, and black stockings, and short black buttoned boots. A big black bow was sliding off her hair, and she was scowling and clutching the ever-present Spot by one ear.
She’d been impossible ever since her brother died, whining and clingy one moment, and the next throwing a screaming tantrum. It wasn’t until Clemency had put her into full mourning dress that she’d become a little better. ‘It’s only proper,’ Clemency had murmured when Sophie protested. ‘And it’ll make her feel part of things, which is what she needs.’
Scout jumped up and trotted over to the five-year-old, and nudged her in the chest. She gave him a smack on the nose. Scout shook his head with a soft flapping of dewlaps, and padded back to Cameron.
‘Papa,’ said Belle, ‘Clemency says I’ve got to stay indoors, and it’s boring. Why can’t I play outside? We’ve only just had Christmas.’
Cameron blinked as if he was having trouble recognizing her. ‘Just do as Clemency says,’ he said quietly.
‘But can’t I—’
‘No. Not yet.’
Sulkily, Belle thrust out her lower lip. She stalked across to the sofa and leaned against her father’s calf, and put one small hand on his knee. ‘But it isn’t fair. Somebody’s taken down the swing. Please, please make them put it up again?’
Cameron met Sophie’s eyes above his daughter’s head, and lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. The children had always been Madeleine’s responsibility. He was too busy around the estate to see much of them, except on Sundays, when he was usually too tired.
‘We’ll see,’ Sophie told her niece.
‘Who took it down?’ said Belle crossly. ‘I bet Fraser will thump them when he finds out. And so will I.’
Again Cameron met Sophie’s eyes. ‘Qu’est-ce que je peux lui dire?’ he said. ‘Elle ne comprend rien.’
‘Mais bien sûr,’ she replied. ‘Elle est beaucoup trop jeune.’ Of course Belle didn’t understand. How could a five-year-old understand that her brother was never coming back?
Fraser, too, had been too young. He had died before he understood what death was.
Still in French, Cameron asked Sophie if she would mind summoning Poppy, or Clemency, or – or anyone to take his daughter off his hands.
Sophie considered that for a moment, and then got to her feet. ‘I don’t think she needs Poppy,’ she told him in English. ‘Or Clemency. She needs you.’
Belle was still leaning against his calf, scowling and chewing the zebra’s ear as she struggled to follow what they were saying. There was a determined set to her chin that was very like her mother.
Cameron looked down at her for a moment, and his face tightened. Sophie wondered if he was remembering all the afternoons when he’d gone off alone to the works, or to some cane-piece, or to town, without taking his son along with him.
He rubbed a hand over his face, and cleared his throat. Then he leaned forward and picked up his daughter beneath the arms, and swung her onto the sofa beside him.
Sophie left them sitting side by side: Belle quietly scolding the zebra for some imaginary transgression, Cameron with one arm on the back of the sofa behind her, absently stroking her glossy dark hair as he gazed out at the lime trees to where Fraser’s swing used to hang.
Chapter Seventeen
‘So that’s where you were that night,’ said Madeleine between her teeth, as she paced up and down the verandah the following afternoon. ‘You were with Ben Kelly.’
Sophie sat on the sofa and watched her sister twisting her hands together, and held her breath.
It had happened without warning, like a thunderclap. She’d come out to join Madeleine for tea, and found her alone and tautly waiting. Apparently the previous evening, Ben had sent word by Moses, asking Sophie to meet him on Overlook Hill – and somehow Madeleine had intercepted the message.
The previous evening. Which meant that Madeleine’s anger hadn’t sprung from the impulse of the moment.
‘I asked you not to go to him,’ Madeleine said accusingly. Her face was pale, except for a dark red streak on either cheek. ‘You promised that you wouldn’t.’
Sophie opened her mouth to say that she’d never promised. Then she shut it again. What was the use?
‘Did you sleep with him?’ Madeleine said suddenly.
Sophie looked down at her fists, clenched in her lap.
‘My God,’ said Madeleine, ‘you did, didn’t you? He summoned you – so you left Fraser to go to him. And then he—’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No!’
‘My God. My God.’ She put both hands to her temples. Then she looked at Sophie. Her eyes were hard. Her face had a rigidity that Sophie had never seen before. ‘I’ll never forgive him,’ she said in a low voice.
Sophie stared at her. They both knew that she didn’t just mean Ben. She meant her sister, too.
Sophie spread her cold hands on her knees. ‘Madeleine . . .’ she began. ‘It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t—’
Madeleine turned on her. ‘Don’t you ever speak of this again. D’you understand? I’ll never forgive him. I hope he rots in hell.’
Vapour misted the tree-ferns as Sophie rode her mare up the overgrown forest track on Overlook Hill. The woods echoed with early morning birdcalls: the harsh rattle of the jabbering crows, the purring cru-cru-cruuu of the baldpates, and the lonely, explosive cry of the red-tailed hawk.
It had been shamefully easy to get away. Cameron had left for the works at daybreak, and Clemency was still asleep. Belle was in the nursery, cutting out pictures of ponies from back numbers of The Equestrian Journal. Madeleine hadn’t yet woken up. After the scene on the verandah the day before, she’d gone to her room. She hadn’t emerged for dinner, and Cameron had told Sophie that she’d taken a Dover’s powder and gone to bed. He’d given Sophie a thoughtful look, and she’d wondered how much he knew. She hadn’t had the courage to ask.
She kept seeing that look in Madeleine’s eyes. That hard, accusing stare which told her what her sister couldn’t bring herself to say out loud. I’ll never forgive you.
And who could blame her? She’d begged Sophie not to go to Ben, but she had, and then Fraser had died. The two events were unrelated, but not in her heart.
Sophie understood that, because she felt it herself. And now more than ever she knew that she had to get away. Away from Madeleine and Cameron, and Eden and Ben. She felt exhausted and fragile, as if the slightest touch would break her into pieces. She longed for the grey anonymity of London.
With her riding-crop she swept aside spiders’ webs strung across the path. Dewdrops pattered onto great waxy leaves. Lizards darted up tree trunks netted with creepers. She smelt the sharp green scent of new growth, and the heavy sweetne
ss of decay. The smell of Eden.
Tomorrow it would be nothing more than a memory. And that was the way it should be. She couldn’t face it any more. Eden had become terrible to her.
She reached a point in the path where the way was blocked by the tilting trunk of a fallen breadnut tree. Dismounting to lead her horse, she came face to face with a tangle of cockleshell orchids on the mossy bark. She blinked at the twisted pale green petals, and breathed in their funereal sweetness. With a dull ache she remembered how they’d glowed in the moonlight, just before he’d kissed her.
Thank God he hadn’t suggested meeting at Romilly. She couldn’t have taken that.
Half an hour later she reached the glade of the great duppy tree. He was waiting beneath it. His face lit up when he saw her. He came towards her, took the reins and tethered her horse, then helped her down.
He’d dispensed with the crutches, and his bruises had faded. In the forest light his eyes were very green, the lashes long and black. They made him look young, and easy to hurt. ‘I missed you so much,’ he said, putting his hand against her cheek.
‘I missed you too,’ she muttered. But when he bent to kiss her she twisted her head away. She felt sick at the thought of what she was about to do. Sick and empty inside.
‘You all right?’ he said.
‘No. I’m not.’ She looked down and saw that she was gripping her riding-crop with both hands, her knuckles straining her gloves. Why had he asked her to meet him? This was only making it worse. Didn’t he realize everything was over?
She heard him move closer, then felt his arms about her as he drew her to him. For a moment she shut her eyes and relaxed against him, and listened to his heart beat. Then she breathed in, and put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away. ‘What about you?’ she said without meeting his eyes. ‘How’s your leg? And – and your ribs? Are you all right?’
‘Me?’ His lip curled. ‘I’m always all right.’
Oh, God, I hope that’s true, she thought. Close up, she saw that the cut on his eyebrow had nearly healed, and was already acquiring the sheen of a new scar. He’s tough, she told herself, he heals quickly. It’ll be the same with this.
‘I’m sorry about the little lad,’ he said, running his hands up and down her arms, as if to warm her. ‘I was going to write Madeleine a note, only I didn’t have no paper. Tell her I’m sorry.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
There was a silence. Then his arms dropped to his sides. ‘You told her about us.’
‘She found out when you sent the message to Moses. I had to tell her the rest.’
‘Oh, Sophie.’ He turned and walked away a few paces, and then back to her. ‘What did she say?’
She hesitated.
‘She blames me,’ said Ben. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Why do you say that?’
He snorted. ‘Because it happens.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, then shook his head. ‘Christ, Sophie. Christ.’
She felt a spark of anger at him. Why was he thinking only of them, when Fraser lay dead in the little marble tomb behind the house? Why couldn’t he let her go, without putting them through this?
Suddenly she wondered if she’d ever really known him. Looking at him standing there, he seemed rough and unfamiliar. His blue cotton shirt had lost a couple of buttons, and there was a rip in the knee of his breeches. Shirt and breeches were crumpled, as if he’d washed them in the river and not bothered to dry them properly.
She wondered how he’d survived over the past three weeks. Perhaps a few days’ casual labour in the cane-fields, or on a fishing smack or a coffee plantation; sleeping rough and living on his wits. Perhaps he simply stole. As a boy he’d been a thief; it was how he’d survived. And in Trelawny, where people never locked their doors, it must be easy pickings.
How was it possible that three weeks ago they’d been lovers? Three weeks. She was a different person now.
She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I came to see you – because I need to tell you something.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving. I’m starting for England tomorrow. I won’t be coming back.’
To her surprise, he only looked startled. ‘That’s a bit sudden.’
‘I can’t stay here any longer.’
He scratched his head, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. But it’ll take me a while to follow you. I got to get up the fare, and—’
‘No. You can’t.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t follow me. It’s over, Ben. That’s what I came to tell you. We can’t see each other any more.’
She watched the understanding dawn; the stillness come down over his features. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘You can’t – no.’
‘I have to.’
‘No, listen. Don’t go to London. Come with me. I been thinking about it, I got it all worked out. We can go to Panama. Or America. We’ll do all right there. Nobody’ll know us. We can be together.’
‘Ben. I can’t be with you. Not anywhere. Not after this.’
He stood with his hands by his sides, watching her. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said at last.
‘I have to.’
‘It’s wrong. It’s—’
‘Why did you have to send for me?’ she burst out at him. ‘Why make me come? What good does it do?’
‘I had to see you. I missed you.’
‘Don’t you understand? We can’t do this. It’s over.’
‘No, Sophie. No.’
She pushed past him and ran to her horse. ‘I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here any more.’ She was amazed at how calm she sounded, when inside she was breaking. She was amazed at the steadiness of her hands as she threw the reins over the mare’s head, and put her foot in the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle.
‘If you do this,’ he said, ‘it’s for ever. Don’t you know that?’
‘Of course I do,’ she flung back at him, ‘but what choice do I have? How can I be with you after what happened?’
After what’s happened, Evie just wants to get away.
Away from Fever Hill and her mother; away from Sophie and Ben and that poor dead child. And most of all, away from her own self. Away from Evie Quashiba McFarlane, the four-eyed daughter of the local obeah-woman.
So here she is, sitting on the train in an empty third-class compartment, craning out the window as the whistle goes, and Montego Bay drops away behind her. In her whole life she’s never been further than Montpelier, ten miles down the line, but now she’s clutching a ticket all the way to Kingston. Even as the john crow flies, that’s more than a hundred miles.
But she’s glad. She is, true to the fact. She’s been so full of black feeling that it’s a fat relief to be on her way. Home, family, friends. Leave it all behind. Including that damn journal of Cyrus Wright.
Last night, after she’d finished packing her tin case, she’d sat down under the ackee tree to finish it. Only a couple more pages to go. Finish it and then leave it behind with everything else.
It’s 1825, a full year since Cyrus Wright caught Congo Eve with her lover Strap, and sent him back to Parnassus. A year since Congo Eve went runaway to see her younger sister and her newborn daughter Semanthe.
October 4th, 1825 This past sennight, I have had another attack of the clap, but have taken a vast number of mercurial pills, & am now fully restored, by the grace of Providence & my own industry and forbearance. Cum Mulatto Hanah behind the trash house.
October 7th Last night found Congo Eve dancing the shay-shay, all on her own, by the aqueduct. On her ankle she wore a band of john-crow beads very like to that which her brother Job had given her, and which I had made her throw on the midden. I was greatly vex’d & shouted at her to stop, but she would not. Whereupon I struck at her & tore away the anklet, & had her flogged & put in the collar for the night.
October 8th In the morning I went to the stable & had her releas’d, & bade her come inside. She looked at me most strang
ely, & said that if this is living, then she wants no more of it. I told her that if she will not help herself but persists in defying me, then misfortune will surely be her lot. After that she would say no more. Had stewed mudfish to my supper, & a bottle of French brandy sent by Mr Traherne’s Penkeeper. I have drunk too deep, & am now much put beside myself & disturb’d in spirit.
And there, abruptly, the journal cut off.
There was plenty of room for further entries – two whole pages – but they’d been left blank. Not even a final line in someone else’s hand, to tell what had become of Cyrus Wright. So now Evie would never find out if her namesake ancestor ever went runaway for good, or found Strap again, or a measure of peace.
She’d been so into a rage that she’d wanted to throw the book in the aqueduct. But instead, she’d run back to her mother’s place, and penned a quick note to Sophie, and wrapped the book up in brown paper, and given it to her mother to take up to Eden the next time she went.
Eden.
That poor, dead child. If only she hadn’t wasted her time on that damned book, and had spent it instead trying to untangle the signs – then maybe he’d still be alive.
At one point, a few hours before she caught the mail coach, she’d thought about going to see Miss Madeleine and telling her about it. Perhaps it might ease her heart to know that old Master Jocelyn had been waiting to take her little one’s hand and help him over to the other side. But then she’d thought better of it. How could she tell Miss Madeleine, when it was through her own self mistake that the warning got missed?
No. Just leave it. Leave it all behind.
The train’s whistle sounds. She turns her head and watches the cane whipping past beneath a wide, bleaky sky. Montpelier is long gone, and Cambridge, and Catadupa. Everything looks different here. The cattle picking over the stubble are grey instead of white. On a dusty track two women carry big stacks of cane on their heads, but Evie doesn’t know them. She would if she was home.
With an effort of will she puts all thoughts of home from her mind, and leans back and shuts her eyes. Soon she begins to doze asleep.
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 59
