The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  He stooped to pick up the mare’s hoof in order to show her, and she saw how the muscles of his shoulders strained his jacket. Then he set down the hoof again and straightened up, and repeated the instructions for Danny. She watched his mouth and didn’t hear a word. Then he took out his handkerchief and brushed off his hands. ‘You know,’ he said calmly as he pocketed the handkerchief, ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’ Then he put his hands lightly on her shoulders and bent and kissed her.

  She’d been over it a hundred times, but she could never recall exactly how it happened. One moment she was standing beside him, thinking that he was taller than she remembered, and that the green of his eyes had little flecks of russet, and was that a sign of danger; and the next moment, without any force or compulsion, he’d placed his hands on her shoulders – gently, gently, she mustn’t be rushed – and covered her mouth with his own.

  Never in her life had she experienced anything so wonderful as that kiss. The heat, the dizziness, the spiralling down into a pleasure she’d never known or imagined could exist. He parted her lips with his own and invaded her mouth – gently, gently, she mustn’t be rushed – and her knees buckled and she moaned like an animal and threw her arms around his neck. She opened her mouth fiercely wide to take him in. She clung to him until she could no longer breathe, until black spots darted before her eyes. Then he broke from her and his mouth moved down to the tender spot beneath her jaw and he sucked at her pulse, and the pleasure was so intense that she nearly passed out.

  Suddenly, but as gracefully as he’d begun, he stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have done that.’

  She couldn’t speak. She was still clinging to him, panting and shuddering like an animal.

  Without another word he led her back to the pony-trap and took her by the waist and lifted her lightly into the seat. Then he put the reins into her nerveless hands, and told her to make the mare go gently on the way home. He seemed quite unruffled, and merely concerned that she and her equipage should get safely home.

  She sat trembling in the pony-trap. She could still taste him; still feel the strength of his hands on her shoulders, and the heat of his mouth on her throat.

  In a blur she watched him walk to his horse. But then he stopped and stooped for something in the dust. It was the little pink foulard scarf that she’d been wearing about her neck.

  He walked back to her as if to return it, then seemed to think better of it. He folded the scarf and put it in his breast pocket. ‘Perhaps some other time,’ he said with a curl of his lip.

  She did not reply. She couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

  It was only after she’d reached the turn-off for the estate that she remembered that the scarf had been a gift from Gus Parnell, as was the little diamond brooch with which it had been fastened.

  But what does that matter now? she’d thought as Princess plodded through the cane-pieces. Everything is different. Everything.

  That had been three weeks ago. Since then she’d lived in a whirlwind of terror and remorse and sudden, shameful heat. She kept reliving that kiss. How could it have happened? How could she have let it happen? She cared nothing for him. He was so far beneath her that it was a degradation to be in the same room. And yet – she wanted him so.

  But to kiss a woman like that! Was it some vile guttersnipe talent? Or did gentlemen also know how to give such pleasure? Eugene certainly hadn’t. He’d regarded kissing as a distasteful waste of time. He’d only known how to hurt.

  Every Sunday in church, she had prayed that she might forget all about Ben Kelly. But instead, to her horror, she found herself thinking of him all the time. And she found herself studying men’s mouths. It didn’t matter where she was or who they were; she couldn’t help looking at them and comparing. Her brother Alexander’s upper lip made a self-indulgent ‘M’ like a permanent sneer. Her father had a fleshy lower lip that went dark plum when he was vexed. Gus Parnell had no lips at all.

  How could that be? How was it possible for a man of birth and breeding to have no lips at all, while a scoundrel from the gutter had a mouth as beautiful as a statue’s?

  ‘Here you are,’ said Gus Parnell behind her.

  She spun round.

  ‘Did I startle you?’ he said as he handed her the ice. ‘I do apologize.’ He paused. ‘Such a pleasant air on this side of the house. I quite understand why you should have preferred it.’

  She muttered her thanks and bent over her ice. The first spoonful felt wonderfully cold against her swollen lips.

  ‘I fancy you were in danger of becoming too heated,’ said Parnell, watching her narrowly.

  She forced a smile.

  Midnight at the Burying-place, she thought. And it’s still only half-past eleven.

  She wondered how she might contrive to get rid of Parnell. She wondered how she was going to get through the next half-hour.

  Alexander watched his sister despatching Gus Parnell on yet another pretext, and swore under his breath. What did the stupid little bitch think she was playing at? Couldn’t she see that Parnell wouldn’t stand for much more of this? Did she imagine that rich, admiring bankers grew on trees?

  He snatched another brandy from a passing tray and downed it in one. Then he descended the steps to the lawns, to smoke a cigar.

  Everything was going to blazes, and he didn’t know what to do. Good God Almighty, he needed Sib to make this match. Once Parnell was safely hooked, he’d be a sure touch for a loan. But did she ever think of that? Did she ever consider anyone but herself?

  He needed Parnell, and he needed Sophie. But now Sophie was cutting up rough because of that wretched little mulatto. God, women were such infernal hypocrites. He couldn’t count the number of times Evie had said that she loved him. Love? Was it love to ruin his prospects over a tiff?

  He turned and gazed up at the great house, ablaze with light. It didn’t seem possible that God could be so unfair. That a low scoundrel like Ben Kelly should have the power to squander thousands!

  The house was unrecognizable from the peeling ruin of a year ago. The galleries had been opened up, the woodwork restored, the grounds landscaped and new terraces cut. Even old Jocelyn’s aviary had been rebuilt. It was so horribly unfair. What had that scoundrel done to deserve it?

  The world had gone mad. It was only five days till the debt fell due, and none of the filthy Jew money-lenders would advance him a penny. They’d all heard rumours that things weren’t running straight with Sophie, and that the governor was thinking about taking back his gift of Waytes Valley. Everything was going to blazes. And ghastly little Lyndon was loving every minute of it, sneering at him down his greasy Jew-boy nose. Even Davina had begun to make sharp little jokes about careers in sheep-farming in Australia. Dear God, what was he to do?

  He could hardly force Sophie to marry him. Despite his attempt in the phaeton, they both knew that.

  But was it possible that he might still bring her round? Or if not, might they remain friends – at least to the extent that she’d simply lend him the money? He’d thought about that a great deal in the course of the evening, and at times it had seemed like a goer. But there was always that damned brother-in-law of hers. Cameron Lawe was sure to ruin the whole thing.

  So what was he to do? What if Sib made a fool of herself and Parnell slipped the hook? What if Sophie couldn’t be brought round? What if New Year’s Day came and went and the money remained unpaid?

  He would be finished. Utterly smashed. Word would spread like wildfire that Alexander Traherne had welshed on a debt. He would be black-balled at every club he’d ever put his name to. The governor would cut him off without a penny. He’d be a nobody. He might as well slit his throat.

  And all for a paltry gambling debt. It was so outrageously unfair.

  He threw away his cigar and stood for a moment, irresolute. He must do something. But what?

  At his feet, the cigar flared briefly in the darkness. Frowning, he ground it out
under his heel, and turned back to the house.

  It was all so outrageously unfair.

  It was a quarter to midnight, and Sophie had had enough.

  She had danced a slow gavotte with Cornelius, and another with Alexander, who’d scarcely spoken a word to her all evening. She had encountered Ben Kelly’s business partner Mr Walker at supper, and been astonished to recognize him as the mysterious black gentleman from St Cuthbert’s, eight months before. But he had spoilt things by asking after ‘Miss McFarlane’, and she’d felt obliged to deny all knowledge, so he’d given her a strained smile and gone away, snubbed. It was a small wrong note in an evening composed of nothing but wrong notes.

  She hated being back at Fever Hill. For her it would always be a magical place of shadows and whispers, wearing its dilapidation with a faded elegance. She hated to see it brightly illuminated and swarming with brittle, inquisitive gossips. It was like watching the foibles of some ancient aunt exposed to an uncaring public. And what was worse, it reminded her of Maddy. Maddy, a thousand miles away at Eden. It was all wrong.

  She hated being back, and she hated being in fancy dress. At supper her train had snagged beneath a chair, and as she’d sat in the ladies’ cloakroom while the maid sewed up the rent, she’d caught sight of herself in the looking-glass. What had possessed her to come as the River Mistress? She looked thin and hollow-eyed: like something drowned.

  After that, she had returned to the ballroom, and stood for hours with a fixed smile on her face, listening to the gentle complaints of old Mrs Pitcaithley, and watching Ben Kelly dancing. And gradually, as she listened to the gossip, public sentiment swung round in his favour. Well, of course, she thought sourly. He’s rich, good-looking and single, and there are daughters to be married off.

  To be sure, my dear, there is that question of birth to be considered – but as I’ve always said, although lack of breeding is a misfortune, it’s hardly a fault. After all, how is Society to renew itself without new blood? What were the Trahernes three generations ago? And even the Monroes – I mean today’s Monroes, not dear old Jocelyn – why, they can scarcely pretend to have been born on the right side of the blanket . . .

  How fickle people are, she thought as she moved from the ballroom out onto the north verandah, nearly knocking into one of those wretched bowls of orchids. Seven years before, everyone had thrown up their hands in horror at the notion of Sophie Monroe befriending a groom. Now they were only too happy to drink his champagne and dance in his ballroom.

  She caught sight of Alexander at the other end of the gallery, and moved back behind the orchids. Why, she wondered, had he thought it necessary to make that clumsy attempt at a threat? He must know that he couldn’t force her to marry him.

  But what about Eden? There was the rub. Alexander was vindictive enough to start some scandalous rumour about her and Ben. And when Cornelius, the most powerful financier on the Northside, learned that she wasn’t going to marry his son, his goodwill towards the Lawes would evaporate like morning mist. And again she would have brought trouble to Eden.

  She minded that more than anything. More than the outrage of the Trahernes. More than the humiliation of the cancelled invitations, and the polite little notes returning the wedding presents, and the gossip.

  And after Parnassus, where would she go? Eden was out of the question. But she could hardly stay anywhere else on the Northside. Back to England? Her heart sank. Something told her that if she left Jamaica again, she would never return. It would be the ultimate defeat.

  She pictured herself living with Mrs Vaughan-Pargeter, and paying for her keep out of the sale of Fever Hill. She would be living on Ben’s money.

  She could see him now, standing by the doors amid a throng of people, watching the waltz. He hadn’t spoken to her since that edgy greeting out on the steps. Not once had he come up to her and said a quiet word about Evie, as she had thought he might. But he hadn’t avoided her, either. Several times in the course of the evening their paths had crossed, and he’d simply given her a polite nod, and moved away. Clearly, as far as he was concerned they had made their goodbyes up in the hills, and there was nothing left to say.

  She watched him stoop to speak to the woman at his side. The woman turned to listen, and with a shock Sophie recognized Sibella Palairet. She was looking up at Ben with total concentration, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fixed on his mouth.

  Sophie glanced from Sibella to Ben, then back again. She remembered the ancient brougham stationed at the edge of the carriageway, with Great-Aunt May’s man inside. She had a sensation of falling. Could it be that this was the mysterious ‘bargain’?

  It wasn’t possible. And yet the pieces slotted into place as precisely as a Chinese puzzle. What a fine revenge for Great-Aunt May that would be: to put an end to the Parnell–Palairet match and bring down scandal on the Trahernes at a single stroke. And all it would take was one vain, stupid, self-deceiving little widow, prettily gift-wrapped in mauve satin and gold lace.

  And Ben would do it, too. He couldn’t have forgotten what the Trahernes had done to him.

  That, she thought suddenly, is what this whole wretched ball has been about: to show the Trahernes how far he’s come, and to bring them down.

  And the worst of it, she thought, plucking an orchid from a bowl and shredding it in her fingers, the very worst of it is that he must have known all about it that day in the hills.

  She felt shaky and sick. She’d never imagined that he could have changed so much – that he could be capable of an act so calculated, so sordid and so destructive.

  This, she told herself in disbelief, really is the end. The Ben you knew is gone for ever.

  She opened her hand and watched the shredded petals drifting down around her feet. Then she raised her head and searched for him through a blur of tears.

  He was no longer there. Neither was Sibella.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘For the last time,’ yells Pa, ‘where’s Kate!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbles Ben.

  Pa grabs his arm and yanks him to his feet and wallops him. Bam, bam, bam. The room goes round. Lights burst in his eyes.

  Robbie’s hunched in the corner with his face to the wall, rocking from side to side. Good boy, Ben tells him silently. Stay there and let me take care of this.

  ‘Where’s she fucking gone?’ goes Pa, shaking him by the arm till it’s near out of its socket.

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbles Ben between his teeth.

  Pa knocks him about some more, then slams him against the wall. More lights flare. Salty-sweet blood fills his mouth. He slides down in a heap. One good kick, he thinks fuzzily, and it’s all up with you.

  Pa stands over him, swaying. The brewery stink is hot and strong, but he’s miles from passing out, worse luck for Ben. ‘So you’re not going to tell me, eh?’ he says, very low and quiet.

  Shakily, Ben wipes his face on his sleeve. He tries to move but he can’t. His legs are bits of string.

  Pa turns and stumbles over to the corner and grabs Robbie by the ankle, and hoists him upside down. Robbie don’t say nothing, not even a yelp. He just dangles there like a sewer rat, clutching his straw doll to his chest.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ mutters Ben, wiping the blood from his eyes. ‘He don’t know nothing, he’s just a idiot.’

  ‘So you’re still not going to tell me, eh?’ goes Pa over his shoulder. He swings Robbie round by the legs, like he’s going to take a bash at the door frame with Robbie’s head. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Pack it in,’ whispers Ben.

  ‘Robbie or Kate? What’s it to be?’

  Ben struggles to his feet and props hisself against the wall. Pain bursts in his head. ‘Pack it in!’

  ‘Why should I? Robbie don’t mind, do you, Rob?’ And all the time he’s swinging round and round, taking that little carroty head closer to the door; and Robbie’s clutching his doll and not making a sound, but his mouth’s going big and square. ‘Com
e on, Ben,’ goes Pa. ‘You got to choose.’

  Ben twists round and grinds his forehead into the wall. Mouldy plaster flakes off, and crusty bits of bedbug. His eyes are stinging and hot, and there’s a lump welling up in his throat. How can he choose? How can he fucking choose?

  Kate’s big and strong, he tells hisself. She can hold her own against Pa; and she’s got Jeb to look after her, too. But Robbie can’t hold his own against anyone. And he’s only got Ben.

  ‘Come on, Ben,’ goes Pa. ‘Which is it to be? Robbie or Kate?’

  ‘Ben?’ wails Robbie. ‘Ben!’

  ‘Slippers Place,’ croaks Ben through big jerky sobs.

  ‘What?’ goes Pa. ‘What’s that you say?’

  Ben grinds his head against the wall, mashing the plaster to a soggy pulp of blood and tears. ‘She’s at Slippers Place. Slippers Place off the Jamaica Road. Now let him go!’

  Sunlight hit him in the eyes and he woke up. He was sweating. His heart was pounding. He didn’t know where he was.

  You shouldn’t have told him, Ben. You made the wrong choice, didn’t you? You shouldn’t have told him about Kate.

  Under his hand the crusted bedbugs resolved into the lacquered surface of the bedside table. He put his hand to his cheek and wiped away tears.

  You lost Kate, he told himself, and then you lost Sophie. That’s why the dreams keep coming. One loss conjuring up another.

  The silent maidservant moved from the window to the bed, and held out a salver on which lay a small cream-coloured envelope.

  ‘What’s that?’ he muttered, propping himself up on his elbow. On the bedside table his watch told him that it was nine o’clock in the morning. Christ. He’d only been asleep for just over an hour. The last guest had left sometime after seven.

  ‘Message, Master Ben,’ murmured the maid, her eyes politely averted. ‘Carriage waiting for reply. They says it’s urgent.’

  Cursing under his breath, he snatched the envelope and tore it open. He scanned the contents. It was from the little widow. He crumpled the note and threw it across the room.