But as Sibella never tired of pointing out, Alexander had reformed. He’d given up gambling and cleared all his debts. He’d even become a frequent caller on his mother’s wealthy Aunt Salomon. ‘And as for that business of the groom,’ Sibella had confided to Sophie, ‘why, no-one could have been more mortified than Alexander when he found out that Papa had had the fellow thrashed. He moved heaven and earth to make amends, but of course by then he’d fled the country. Skipped off to Peru, or Panama, or some such place.’
The fellow. With her talent for rearranging the truth, Sibella had pretended to have forgotten Ben’s very name – not to mention the fact that her friend had once been in love with him. But her quick sideways glance to see how Sophie was taking it gave her away.
They turned into one of the quieter paths running along the side of the Palm House, and Alexander tapped his cane on the flags and frowned. ‘Sophie,’ he began, without looking at her.
‘Yes?’
He hesitated. ‘That work you do. That – volunteer affair?’
‘You mean at St Cuthbert’s?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose you’re frightfully attached to it, and all that?’
She was surprised. He’d never mentioned it before, except to josh her about it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am. It makes me feel useful.’
He nodded. ‘You see, I was wondering. Should you be fearfully unhappy if circumstances were to take you away from it?’
She saw where he was heading, and wondered how to put him off.
‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘why the slums? You could be useful, as you put it, just about anywhere. Couldn’t you? You’re not inextricably linked to Lambeth, or – or even London?’
He was right, of course. But ‘why the slums?’ was a harder question than it appeared. She herself had never come up with a satisfactory answer, although sometimes in her darker moments she wondered if Lambeth wasn’t some means of retaining a link with the past. A link with Ben.
But of course that was absurd. And the only reason she’d thought of it now was because she was still upset about Fever Hill. ‘I could leave it tomorrow,’ she said with a sharpness which made Alexander blink.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was rather hoping you’d say that.’
They walked on in silence. Then Alexander came to a halt and took off his hat, and ran his hand through his golden curls.
Why, he’s nervous, she thought in surprise. But he was never nervous. She found that slightly touching.
He replaced his hat and gave her a rueful smile. ‘I dare say you’ve some idea of what’s coming next.’
‘Alexander—’
‘Please. Hear me out, old girl. I promise I shan’t take long.’ He paused. ‘I know that in the past I haven’t always run quite the right side of the post. I mean, I’ve dabbled a bit with cards, and – well, that sort of thing.’
She bit back a smile. That sort of thing probably encompassed champagne suppers in Spanish Town with ladies of doubtful reputation, and running up racing debts at the speed of a cane-fire.
‘But I truly believe’, he went on earnestly, ‘that at last I’ve got myself running straight. I know you don’t exactly love me. I mean – not as such.’
‘I’m very fond of you,’ she replied. ‘That’s the truth. You do know that, don’t you?’
He gave her a slight smile. ‘You’re a darling for saying so. But you see, old girl, I’m rather more than fond of you. And I do believe, though it sounds frightfully arrogant to say so, that I could make you happy.’
She believed it too. He was considerate, gentlemanly and handsome. And everyone she knew would thoroughly approve of the match. Of course he would make her happy. At least, as happy as she deserved to be. ‘I think you’re probably right,’ she said.
Again that slight smile. ‘Does that mean you’ll consider it?’
She stood looking up at him. In the greenish light his eyes were a clear, arresting turquoise, and his face had the smooth planes of a classical statue. ‘I’ll consider it,’ she said.
They moved along the narrow path towards the end of the Palm House. Ahead of them, a vanilla plant clambered up the fibrous trunk of a palm. A tangle of peacock ferns dripped moisture. Beneath its fronds, Sophie saw, with an unpleasant little jolt, a small clump of orchids.
They had tubular, leafless stems and insignificant pale green flowers. And they were not, she told herself in alarm, cockleshell orchids. Certainly not. They merely resembled cockleshells. But if one looked closely, they were really quite different.
Suddenly she wondered if people put orchids on graves. She wondered what sort of flowers Madeleine put on Fraser’s grave: on the grave that she, Sophie, had never seen.
‘You see,’ she said without turning round, ‘in the main, I’m happy as I am.’
‘But are you?’ he said quietly.
She bit her lip. ‘I am – content.’
‘And yet you miss Jamaica.’
‘No.’
‘Sophie – yes. I’ve seen how you fall silent when Sib talks about it; when we come here to look at the palms. You miss it, and you’re afraid of it.’
She glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t thought he could be so shrewd.
‘You’re afraid of Eden’, he went on, ‘because of what happened to your nephew. And yet you miss it terribly. But don’t you see, here’s your chance? You could go home, without going home. You could be happy at Parnassus, I’d make sure of it. And no-one would put the least pressure on you to go to Eden, not if you didn’t want to.’
She turned her head and looked out through the glass walls of the Palm House. A pair of ladies in enormous hats and modish draped coats tottered across the lawns towards the tea rooms. An elderly gentleman paused on the gravel to lean on his cane. A slender dark-haired man in an astrakhan coat emerged from the adjacent greenhouse and walked swiftly away.
Something about the way he moved reminded her of Ben. He had the same grace. The same taut air of watchfulness.
What’s wrong with you? she asked herself angrily. Why should every good-looking, dark-haired man suddenly remind you of Ben?
But of course she knew the answer. It was because of Fever Hill, and Isaac Walker, and those wretched cockleshell orchids. Because of the hundred little daily coincidences that were always reminding her of Jamaica.
Alexander was wrong. She couldn’t go home. Not ever.
She turned her head and looked up into his face. ‘Dear Alexander,’ she said softly. ‘I’m so sorry. But I can’t marry you.’
He was too gently bred to take it other than well. His features contracted slightly, but he managed a strained smile. ‘It’s because you don’t care for me,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘That isn’t it at all,’ she said with perfect truth. On the contrary, the fact that she didn’t love him was his main attraction. She didn’t want love. She was done with that. She only wanted peace, and perhaps a little affection.
He squared his shoulders and gave her another slight smile. ‘Well, I give you fair warning, old girl. I shall ask you again in a month or so. And who knows, if I’m very lucky, you might even say yes.’
She put all thoughts of Fever Hill and cockleshell orchids and Ben firmly from her mind, and returned his smile. ‘Who knows,’ she said, ‘one day, I might.’
The headless angel sat very straight on the sarcophagus by the cemetery gate, its legs nonchalantly crossed beneath its flowing marble robe. It looked as if it had just alighted for a moment’s reflection on one of the quality tombs.
The inscription read George Solon Ladd, aged 47, of San Francisco. 1889.
Long way from home, thought Ben.
He started slowly up the wide gravel avenue, between the tidy battalions of the better class of dead. Sharp granite obelisks and windowless mausolea. A whole convocation of angels, serenely ignoring each other.
Kensal Green necropolis. Necropolis. He’d had to look it up. It meant a city of the d
ead.
He tried to picture his family relocated here. Kate and Jack, and Lil and Robbie and Ma. He couldn’t do it. They’d lived in a city all their lives, and it had killed them. How could he drag them into yet another city, and leave them here for eternity?
And even if he did, they’d be right at the bottom of the heap. Everywhere he looked there was a Sir William this and a Lord Justice that. A Member of Parliament, a Fellow of the Royal Society, a Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. That last one brought a wry smile to his lips. He could just see Jack’s face if he was put to rest beside a copper. Poor old Jack. He’d never catch a wink.
No, it had been a mistake to come here. Just as it had been a mistake to go to Kew. Bloody Kew.
Still, how was he to know that he’d see her there? How was he to know?
Sibella Traherne. Miss Sibella, he’d automatically called her in his mind, and then corrected himself. Besides, she wasn’t a Traherne any more, she was a Palairet. And maybe a widow – unless she’d been in mourning for her father, or for that brother of hers.
Still, at least she hadn’t recognized him. She’d only glanced at him as they’d passed each other in the greenhouse, with the casual appraisal which any young woman gives to any man under sixty.
She’d put on a bit of flesh since he’d last seen her, but she was still pretty enough in a bovine kind of way, although she’d acquired a line of discontent between the eyes, and was beginning very slightly to resemble the dear, departed old Queen. In her younger days, of course.
Well, well, he’d thought as he walked past her. Sibella Palairet in London. And when you think about it, why not? She probably comes over once a year for the shopping, and to keep in touch with her friends. She probably sees quite a bit of Sophie.
Christ. Sophie. That was when he knew that he had to get out of Kew.
Thinking of that now, he quickened his pace and walked rapidly up the main avenue of the necropolis, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. He passed a well-dressed couple taking a stroll, and gave them a sharp, angry stare.
Maybe it had been a mistake to come to London in the first place. After all, the idea that he might chance across her had kept him away for years. But then one morning he’d woken up and thought, bloody hell, you’re letting her tell you what to do. If you want to go to London, then sodding well go. Don’t let her dictate to you.
Fine words, he thought, as he walked across the gravel. But still a mistake. Grinding his teeth, he moved swiftly up the avenue between the silent yews and the whispering poplars, and finally emerged onto a well-tended lawn before the chapel.
He found himself looking up at an enormous twenty-foot plinth which occupied pride of place in the middle of the lawn. On the plinth stood an ornate sarcophagus supported by four winged lions. The inscription on the side read: SOPHIA 1777–1848. Her Royal Highness the Princess Sophia, 5th daughter of His Majesty King George III.
The Princess Sophia.
He forgot to breathe. It felt like a message. A message aimed directly at him. You may think you’ve made something of yourself, Ben Kelly, but the truth is, you don’t belong with the quality, and you never will. There are some things that’ll always be as far out of your reach as a princess on a pedestal.
The Princess Sophia.
Astonishing how it all came crashing back. The pain. The loss. The anger. Sophie’s pale, determined face in the dappled shade of the forest. Telling him she was leaving, telling him it was over. Casually destroying his dreams, like a child smashing a sandcastle.
The Princess Sophia. For ever out of reach.
He turned up the collar of his astrakhan coat and walked swiftly through the Grecian colonnade of the chapel and down the steps on the other side. He walked fast, and almost fell over Austen, kneeling on the verge.
‘You!’ cried Ben. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?’
Austen flushed and nearly overbalanced in the grass. ‘N-no, of course not,’ he stammered.
‘Then what the hell are you doing?’
Austen reached for a bunch of lilies he’d dropped in the grass, and his large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Um. Visiting my grandmother?’
Ben blinked. ‘Oh. Sorry. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you.’ He turned on his heel and started back the way he’d come. Bugger Kensal Green necropolis. Bugger the whole daft idea.
Behind him he heard hesitant footsteps, and turned to see Austen lagging a discreet distance behind, but definitely following. ‘I thought you were visiting your grandmother,’ Ben said roughly.
Austen gave the characteristic ducking nod that always reminded Ben of an ostrich. ‘And also my mamma,’ he said, wincing and holding up the lilies as evidence. ‘In point of fact, she’s just over there, past the chapel.’
Well of course she is, thought Ben. Where else would she be but in the main avenue with the rest of the top brass? Again he felt constrained to apologize. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be off and leave you to it.’
‘Oh please, not on my account,’ said Austen.
Ben shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered, and slowed his pace a little.
Austen fell into step beside him. They passed the chapel again, and shortly afterwards Austen came to a halt before a hideous mausoleum of pink speckled granite, guarded by four sludge-green marble sentinels sporting turbans and heavy moustaches.
So not angels, then, thought Ben, moving away to give him some privacy.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched his secretary stoop to lay the lilies before the blank stone door.
In the pediment above the door, five lines of large Roman capitals trumpeted the achievements of Major General the Honourable Sir Algernon Austen KCB, of the Bengal Army and Member of the Supreme Council of India, Knight of the Legion of Honour . . . et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Below it, an inscription in cramped Gothic lettering had been squeezed in: Euphaemia, 1860–89, widow of the above, and beloved mother of five grieving children.
Austen straightened up and came to stand beside Ben.
Ben nodded at the lilies. ‘Are they for your old man too, or just your mother?’
‘Just Mamma,’ said Austen with startling promptness. He caught Ben’s glance, and looked sheepish. ‘To tell the truth, I never much cared for the governor.’
‘Me neither,’ said Ben.
Austen gazed thoughtfully at his father’s epitaph. ‘He couldn’t abide children. We were always supposed to keep out of his way. And if we forgot, and he happened across us, he used to wave his hand and murmur, “Vanish, vanish,” and we fled like hares.’
Ben thought that sounded like the upper class equivalent of a clip round the ear.
He had an odd feeling that he ought to match Austen’s confidence with one of his own. So in a few words he explained his idea of having the family relocated to Kensal Green. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘I’ll have to find them first. And that won’t be easy. They weren’t exactly buried in a mausoleum to begin with.’
Austen nodded vigorously. ‘Hence, the, um, private detective?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I did wonder.’
There was a silence. Then Austen said, ‘I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.’
‘What was? Wondering?’
‘No. Saying that I did.’
Ben threw him an amused glance. That was what he valued about Austen. His discretion, and his precise way of expressing himself.
‘So if the detective succeeds,’ said Austen, emboldened by Ben’s silence, ‘do you think that you’ll go ahead? I mean, with the – er – relocation to Kensal Green?’
‘No,’ said Ben. He looked about him. ‘Too posh. Too built-up. And too bloody cold.’
Austen buried his large nose in the collar of his greatcoat and nodded. ‘So where else, do you think?’
Ben did not reply. He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder at the sarcophagus of the Princess Sophia. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, unwill
ing to reveal more of his plans. ‘I’ll have to give it some thought.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Sibella took her brother’s walking-stick and hammered on the roof of the brougham, and told the driver to keep circling the park. Then she turned back to Alexander and pursed her lips. ‘It’s high time that you faced it,’ she said importantly. ‘You’ve simply got to marry money.’
‘But that’s what I’m trying to do,’ he protested. ‘It’s scarcely my fault if she said no.’
With cordial dislike he watched her settle back against the cushions. She was enjoying herself immensely. She adored it when he misbehaved, for then she could play the responsible daughter, and ‘do her duty’, as she called it, by relaying the governor’s increasingly irate messages. ‘I don’t believe’, she said severely, ‘that you fully appreciate the gravity of your position. Sophie Monroe is positively your last chance.’
‘My last chance?’ he said indignantly. ‘What about her?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Well, hang it all, Sib. I’m fond of Sophie and all that, but you’ve got to admit she has some pretty serious drawbacks.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for one thing, she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. And she’s a frightful blue. And definitely damaged goods, what with that illness, and that appalling business about the groom.’
‘It’s because of those “drawbacks”’, she snapped, ‘that you even stand a chance. Any other girl with a fortune like hers wouldn’t touch you with a polo stick.’
‘Oh, I say—’
‘Well it’s true! Tell me, Alexander. Give me a rough estimate. How much do you actually owe on the horses?’
Alexander ran his forefinger along his bottom lip, and wondered what to tell her. ‘At a rough estimate, I should say – about five thousand?’
His sister’s eyes became enormous. ‘Alexander! I never dreamed it would be as much as that!’
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 63
