The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  The gloved claws adjusted their grip on the ivory-headed cane. Now she was interested. Any chance to discountenance the Trahernes.

  ‘So I was thinking,’ continued Ben, ‘that I might step into the breach, and give some kind of – entertainment. Perhaps at Christmas.’

  The blue eyes glittered. ‘But what is it that you want of me?’

  Ben met her gaze. ‘I was hoping you might agree to come. Then everyone else would too.’

  ‘I never go out.’

  ‘I thought you might make an exception. Or at least send your carriage and your man. I understand that you sometimes do that.’

  With surprising force she rapped her cane on the parquet floor. ‘I repeat. I never go out.’

  Austen shifted uneasily on his chair, but Ben let the silence grow. He’d expected this. No city falls at the first assault. And he was damned if he was going to beg.

  When the silence had gone on long enough, he picked up his hat and rose to take his leave. But as he did so, the doors opened, and Kean announced Mrs Sibella Palairet.

  Plump and pretty in modish black and white half-mourning, the young widow swept in, all smiles for Miss Monroe. She didn’t notice Ben. Austen leaped to his feet and turned bright red as Miss Monroe introduced him. The young widow’s smile became gracious when she learned that he was an Honourable. It congealed when she turned and recognized Ben.

  ‘Mrs Palairet,’ he said with a nod and a slight smile.

  She drew herself up. ‘I do not believe, sir, that we have been introduced.’

  Ben laughed. ‘One rarely is to one’s groom.’

  That earned him a wince from Austen and an unreadable look from Miss Monroe. Once again Ben asked himself what she was after.

  The old lady flexed her claws on the head of her cane, and turned to him. ‘Concerning your plans, Mr Kelly. It may be that I shall see fit to send my carriage and my man.’ The ice-blue eyes held his for a moment, then slid to Mrs Palairet, and back to him. ‘It may be,’ she said again.

  What the hell is she after? he wondered. He glanced at the little widow, then back to the old witch. Could it be, he thought suddenly, that she planned all this? That it wasn’t mere chance that his visit coincided with that of Sibella Palairet?

  Sibella Palairet – née Traherne.

  Then understanding dawned. Jesus Christ. It was outrageous. It couldn’t be. The old witch was proposing some kind of bargain. The social countenance of her carriage and her man at his Christmas entertainment, in return for a fling with the plump little widow.

  No, that can’t be it, he told himself. Not even Miss Monroe would . . .

  And yet, when one thought about it, she might. And it would be savagely effective. A scandal like that would topple the Trahernes from social pre-eminence and frighten off the wealthy Mr Parnell, thereby scuppering Cornelius’s hopes for shoring up his flagging finances. And seventy-three years after being insulted by a parvenu’s offer of marriage, Miss May Monroe would finally have her revenge.

  Provided, of course, that Ben decided to play along with it.

  As he watched the young widow talking polite nothings to poor, smitten Austen, he remembered Mrs Dampiere. He remembered the feeling of being used. Suddenly he had to get out.

  Abruptly he took his leave, giving Miss Monroe no sign that he’d understood her little game. And when they were once more down in the street, he muttered an excuse to a dazed and silent Austen, and walked on alone through the town to get some air.

  He felt angry and disappointed. What an idiot he’d been. To have actually hoped that the old witch would admit him to her charmed circle simply on his own merits!

  What naivety! He ought to have known that social acceptance was only ever going to be had at a price. And in his case, that price was a roll in the hay with Sibella Palairet. Once a groom, always a groom, it seemed.

  Of course, if he decided to pay that price, there would be advantages. For one thing, he’d be outraging the Trahernes. But he didn’t want to do it like this. This was – ignoble. An odd word for an erstwhile street-Arab to use, but there it was. He was still turning it over in his mind as he rounded the corner into King Street, and walked straight into Cameron Lawe.

  Without thinking, Ben stepped back and touched his hat with a muttered apology. ‘I was hoping to bump into you,’ he said.

  Cameron Lawe looked at him without expression. Then he touched his own hat, and stepped aside, and walked on without saying a word.

  It was early afternoon, and King Street was empty, so there was no-one about to see him snubbed. Despite that, the heat rose to his face. It was one thing to be told that he didn’t belong by some old witch up in Duke Street; quite another to be cut dead by a man he’d always respected. He despised himself for his weakness, but he wanted Cameron Lawe to like him. Or at least, to approve of him.

  Feeling very much alone, he walked on up the street, and emerged into the square. It wasn’t a market day, so there was only a sprinkling of higglers. He felt their eyes on him as he passed. They were probably only curious, but he couldn’t shrug off the sense that they were judging him. You don’t belong, they seemed to say. You can try as hard as you like to fit in, but it’ll never work. You’ll always be the street-Arab who made good.

  But why should that bother you now? he wondered angrily. You’ve never belonged. You’ve never wanted to. Who are these people, that you should care what they think?

  As he crossed the square, a memory floated to the surface. Fifteen years before, he had wandered across this same dusty space feeling just as angry and alone – and caught sight of a familiar face lighting with joy at seeing him there.

  God, he thought savagely, why think of that now?

  The bench on which she’d sat was still there outside the courthouse. But instead of a young Sophie Monroe, it was occupied by a pretty, dark-haired little girl of about twelve, who reminded him painfully of Madeleine.

  She wore a white frilled pinafore over a red and green tartan frock, with a straw hat pushed far back on her head. She had her mother’s vivid colouring, and something of her father’s strong will in the modelling of the mouth. And she was watching Ben with intense curiosity, although trying not to show it.

  He put his hands in his pockets and wandered over to her. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ she said shyly.

  ‘So. Have you still got that stripy horse of yours?’

  She flushed with pleasure. ‘I didn’t think you remembered me.’

  ‘I didn’t think you remembered me either.’

  ‘Of course I do. You told me that Spot had a broken cannon bone, and that I ought to shoot him.’

  ‘And did you?’

  She laughed. ‘No! I’ve still got him. He lives on my bed. And I also have a real horse now. Actually, a pony.’

  ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Muffin. She’s a chestnut, and she’s extremely fiery.’

  Ben tried not to smile at the thought of a fiery muffin. ‘Chestnuts often are,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t mean that she’s bad-tempered,’ she put in quickly, as if she’d been guilty of disloyalty. ‘She’s extremely obedient. At least, with me.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  It made a change to talk to someone who was pleased to see him, and he was tempted to stay a little longer. But he could hardly do that after what had just passed between him and her father. ‘I think I’d better be going,’ he said.

  Her face fell. ‘Oh, but I’ve bags of time, honestly. I’m waiting for Papa, and he always takes ages when he goes to the saddler’s.’

  ‘That’s why I can’t stay,’ said Ben. ‘You see, your papa and I don’t quite see eye to eye. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sucked in her lips. ‘It’s probably just the weather. Everyone’s grumpy before the rains, even Papa. And then when it does start raining, everyone’s still grumpy, because of the rain.’

  Ben grinned. Suddenly he felt
a lot better. ‘That must be it, then,’ he said.

  ‘So I looked him up and down,’ said Sibella with flashing eyes, ‘and I told him very distinctly, “I do not believe, sir, that we have been introduced.” Oh, you should have seen his face! He was absolutely lost for words. Quite put out of countenance.’

  Sophie gritted her teeth and fought the urge to scream. Sibella must have told the story a hundred times. She had returned from Falmouth blazing with triumph, having royally snubbed ‘that Kelly person’.

  In the days which followed, she went on telling the story to anyone who would listen, until Sophie began to wonder if something more than mere outrage lay behind those flashing eyes and that heightened colour. Even Gus Parnell, the most phlegmatic of men, started giving his sweetheart thoughtful looks. Eventually Cornelius summoned his daughter to his study. When Sibella emerged she was pale and shaking, and she never again told the story of how she had cut Ben Kelly dead.

  Sophie couldn’t bring herself to sympathize. Every time Sibella had told that wretched story, everyone’s attention had been focused on herself, to see how she was taking it. They all remembered that little episode seven years before – even if none of them knew quite how far it had gone.

  September gave way to October, but still the rains didn’t come. The heat increased. Tempers grew short. And Sophie began to realize that she’d made a huge mistake by agreeing to marry Alexander.

  When they’d first arrived in Jamaica, she had simply been grateful for being cosseted and kept safe from the outside world. But as the months passed, she’d become increasingly restless. She wasn’t used to doing nothing. And at Parnassus, ladies were not encouraged to be active. Alexander gently let it be known that he disapproved of her riding out alone; nor did he wish her to see her old friend Grace McFarlane. ‘It doesn’t do to fraternize with these people,’ he said with his most winning smile. ‘Particularly not the McFarlanes.’

  ‘But why not?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I’ve been friends with Evie since we were children.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said patiently, ‘but you aren’t a child now.’

  ‘But in a month or so she’ll be back for the holidays. Surely you’re not suggesting that I shouldn’t see her?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why you should want to,’ he said very gently, ‘given where she’ll be living.’

  He didn’t have to say any more. Evie’s mother still lived in the old slave village at Fever Hill. Of course Sophie wouldn’t go anywhere near it.

  He might be right about that, but it didn’t alter her conviction that she was living a lie. She didn’t belong at Parnassus. She didn’t fit in. She’d been a fool to imagine that she could.

  But how could she jilt Alexander – Alexander who was always so kind and considerate, and who hadn’t done anything wrong. It would be the biggest and most humiliating about-turn of all.

  She pictured the consternation at Parnassus. She had been their honoured guest for months. Rebecca had showered her with trinkets. Sibella had treated her like a sister. Cornelius had even bought her a horse. And everything was arranged. The lawyers had drawn up the settlements. The trousseau was bought. Everyone expected the marriage to go ahead.

  Besides, even if she did get up the courage to break it off, where could she go? She still hadn’t been back to Eden, not even for an afternoon; she couldn’t face the thought of it. So seeking refuge there would be out of the question. That only left London, and Mrs Vaughan-Pargeter.

  The days merged into weeks, and she did nothing. She had endless bitter arguments in her head. She called herself a liar and a hypocrite and a hopeless coward. She let things slide.

  In the middle of October, the rains finally came, turning the roads to rivers and confining her to the house. She shut herself up in her room and went through the trunk of ‘odds and ends’ which Madeleine had sent down from Eden. She spent hours curled up with an old mildewed journal of some overseer from Fever Hill, which opened her eyes to the nature of true misfortune, and made her long for the real Jamaica, and the salty company of Grace McFarlane and Evie. She let things slide.

  Finally, one afternoon during a particularly thunderous downpour, she couldn’t take it any more, and determined to have it out with Alexander.

  She found him in his study, reading a newspaper. ‘Alexander,’ she said as soon as she got in the door, ‘we need to have a serious talk.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said, glancing up with a smile. ‘I’ve been an utter brute. Going off to Kingston all the time, and leaving you on your own.’

  ‘It’s not about that—’

  ‘But I promise it’ll be different when we’re married,’ he cut in earnestly. ‘For one thing we’ll be living at Waytes Valley, so you’ll have your own house. That’ll give you something to do.’

  She gritted her teeth and wondered how to begin.

  Alexander must have seen something in her face, for he put down his newspaper and came over to her, and put his arms on her shoulders. ‘You know, old girl, we really ought to fix a date. How about it, eh? When is it to be?’

  As gently as she could, she twisted out of his hands. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  His face lit up. ‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am! So. When is it to be?’

  She looked up into his face. He was so undemanding. So unfailingly good-natured. And so happy. ‘Um – next spring?’ she said. Coward, coward, coward. Now you’ve just made it ten times worse.

  ‘Oh, I say,’ he murmured with the slightest of frowns, ‘isn’t that an awfully long wait? I was thinking rather of November.’

  Her stomach turned over. ‘But – that’s next month.’

  He gave her his most charming smile. ‘I know I’m a brute to press you, but it’s just that I’m tired of waiting.’

  ‘November’s too soon,’ she said, turning away so that he couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Very well. What do you say we split the difference, and make it December?’

  ‘How about after Christmas?’ she countered weakly.

  For a moment he hesitated. Then he smiled. ‘So be it. January. I’ll run and tell the governor. He’ll be over the moon.’

  She gave him a tight smile.

  When he’d gone, she went out onto the gallery and stood watching the rain hammering the grounds and making the carriageway run red. She was the worst kind of coward. She had missed her chance, and now it was going to be even harder to break it off.

  The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of activity. The invitations were sent out; the wedding breakfast was planned like a military operation; every day Sophie resolved to say something, and every day passed with nothing being said.

  Then, on the twenty-fifth of November, something happened which made matters a great deal worse.

  Scores of engraved, gilt-edged invitations of impeccable simplicity went out to everyone who was anyone in Trelawny. Mr Benedict Kelly, At Home on Monday the twenty-sixth of December, at eight o’clock. Masquerade. Dancing. Rsvp.

  Northside Society had a wonderful time being completely appalled.

  ‘Outrageous,’ declared Sibella, opening her eyes very wide.

  ‘The man’s a cad,’ said Gus Parnell with satisfaction.

  ‘Of course he is, my dear fellow,’ chuckled Cornelius, slapping him on the back. ‘Only a blackguard would flout the rules by not bothering to make a single call, then expect everyone to kow-tow, simply because of his money. I call it caddish in the extreme.’

  ‘But how can he imagine that we should wish to know him?’ wondered his older daughter, Davina.

  ‘And how is it conceivable that we could?’ put in Olivia Herapath. ‘A man of no blood? No breeding? Why, who were his people? What were his grandparents?’

  ‘In my day,’ said old Mrs Pitcaithley, greatly distressed, ‘gentlemen were born, not made. I don’t understand it at all.’

  ‘I’ve always rather liked him,’ said Clemency, startling everyone. She had adapted su
rprisingly well to the move from Fever Hill, and now often made the trip from Eden to Parnassus in her little pony-trap.

  ‘Oh, Aunt Clemmy,’ cried Sibella impatiently, ‘you’ve never even met the man!’

  ‘Yes I have, dear,’ replied Clemency mildly. ‘Years ago, when he was a boy. I gave him a ginger bonbon. In fact, I think he ate several. I wonder if he remembers.’

  ‘What on earth does that signify?’ snapped Sibella. ‘The point is, no-one can possibly go. That’s the point.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Alexander, glancing at Sophie. ‘Don’t you agree, my love?’

  She put on her blandest smile and said that of course she agreed. And everyone nodded and tried not to show that they were desperate to discover how she really felt.

  They would have been astonished if they’d known the savagery of her reaction. For a week she had been berating herself for her cowardice in not breaking it off with Alexander, but now all that was swept away in her fury at Ben. Boxing Day? Boxing Day? The very night when she’d gone to him at Romilly – when Fraser had died. How could he do it? How could he do it?

  A week later, the fashionable world was set agog for a second time, when word got around that no less a personage than Miss May Monroe herself had accepted her invitation: at least to the extent of letting it be known that she would send her carriage and her man Kean.

  ‘I suppose that that makes it all right?’ asked Rebecca Traherne with her hand to her cheek.

  ‘I should rather say that it does,’ said Cornelius. ‘One can hardly argue with a family as old as the Monroes.’ And he gave Sophie a courteous little bow.

  ‘That goes without saying,’ said Olivia Herapath. ‘Indeed, I consider it my duty to attend. Besides, it’s too intriguing to miss. I hear he’s desperately good-looking, and a Roman Catholic. I’ve always rather liked RCs. A whiff of incense is almost as exciting as sulphur, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for worlds,’ said Davina, eyeing Sibella with sisterly acidity.

  Sibella made no reply. She was scanning the latest issue of Les Modes for ideas for new gowns.