The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Well, who did you think it was from? he told himself in disgust. Sophie Monroe, writing to thank you for the party?

  He remembered how she had looked as she’d ascended the steps with her fiancé. The sardonic gleam in her honey-coloured eyes; the twist of mockery in that mouth of hers. And when shall you keep this mysterious bargain?

  He rubbed a hand over his face. He felt exhausted and still slightly drunk; heavy with fatigue and self-disgust. The dream dragged at his spirits. Wrongdoing and loss, he thought. Is that all there is?

  Beside the bed, the maidservant cleared her throat. ‘Carriage waiting, Master Ben, waiting for reply.’

  He thought of the little widow in her over-upholstered dress and her artificial flowers. She’d worn a mauve satin ribbon around her neck, like a dog-collar. Just like a little dog. You shouldn’t have done it, Ben.

  There was a sour taste in his mouth. He reached for the carafe and poured himself a glass of water and drained it in one go. ‘Tell the boy there’s no reply,’ he muttered.

  Half an hour later, he was dressed and coming downstairs when he saw Isaac in the hall. His partner was in his town clothes, and there was a large portmanteau at his feet.

  Ben stopped on the bottom stair, and gripped the banister with a sudden, surprising clutch of panic. Isaac had been threatening to leave for days – they hadn’t been getting along too well since he’d got some ridiculous idea into his head about Ben and Evie – but he’d always allowed himself to be talked round again into staying. At least, until now.

  Don’t go, Ben told him silently. Not now. Not today. Please. Out loud he said, ‘So you’re going, then.’

  Isaac turned his head and waited while a trio of manservants passed through with potted orange trees in their arms. When they’d gone he said, ‘I’ll be at Arethusa for another week or so. Then I’m off.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. That depends.’

  ‘Isaac—’

  ‘I’m thinking of selling up. If I do, I’ll get the lawyer to give you first refusal on Arethusa.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Isaac! I don’t care about that.’

  Isaac looked up at him, and his face was taut. ‘What do you care about, Ben?’

  Ben ignored that. ‘For the last time, there’s nothing between me and Evie McFarlane. Nothing but friendship.’

  ‘Then tell me where she is.’

  Ben hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I will find her, Ben. With or without your help. That girl’s in some sort of trouble. I could tell when she came up here that day. She needs a friend.’

  ‘She’s got a friend.’

  Isaac shook his head sadly. ‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’

  ‘Of course I trust you.’

  ‘No you don’t. You don’t trust anyone. You never have.’ He put on his hat and picked up his portmanteau. ‘Goodbye, Ben. And good luck. Something tells me you’re going to need it.’

  Ben stayed on the stairs, listening to the clatter of the carriage dying away. Wrongdoing and loss, he thought. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so bleak.

  Ah, sod it. If Isaac wanted to leave, then let him. Besides, he wasn’t a friend. He was just a bloody business partner.

  He forced a shrug, and put his hands in his pockets, and wandered through the house and out onto the south lawns, where the clearing-up was in full swing. In the harsh December sunlight the lawns offered a dismal prospect of overturned chairs and smeared glasses, and great bowls of orchids turning brown at the edges. Everywhere he looked he saw footmen and maids clearing away, picking up, and setting to rights. None of them met his eyes.

  He wondered if they were afraid of him. Or did they resent him because he had once been a servant too? Because he wasn’t and never would be a gentleman?

  He wandered round the side of the house, and found a patch of shade on the bench beneath the breadfruit tree, and sent for a bottle of champagne. Then he sat back and watched a couple of lovebirds having a spat in the aviary.

  The strange thing was, he could easily have put Isaac’s mind at rest about Evie, for she was coming down from the cave that very morning. So why hadn’t he told Isaac? Was it because Isaac was in love? Because that was the last thing he, Ben, needed to see right now? Was that it?

  The champagne arrived, and he drank off the first glass in one, and waited for the artificial lightening of the spirits. The lovebirds erupted into full-blown war.

  There’d been an aviary out here for as long as anyone could remember, but until Ben had had it rebuilt it had always been a ruin. Old Master Jocelyn had built it back in the forties for his young bride, Catherine McFarlane – and then had destroyed it a year later, when she’d died. It was said that he’d never got over her death; that he’d never looked at another woman for the rest of his life.

  More fool him, thought Ben sourly as he poured himself another glass.

  A shadow cut across his sun, and he glanced up to see Austen standing before him. ‘Hello, Austen,’ he said. ‘Sit down and have a drink.’

  Uncertainly, Austen perched on the far end of the bench, but waved away the champagne. ‘No thank you, Mr Kelly.’

  Ben shot him a look. These days, Austen only called him ‘Mr Kelly’ when he was on his dignity. And it wasn’t hard to guess what was troubling him this morning. ‘So,’ he said, pouring himself another drink. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  Austen cleared his throat and frowned at his feet. ‘I understand that there was a carriage here. And a note from – from a lady.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘May I ask what it was about?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ben.

  More throat-clearing. ‘Mr Kelly. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not as employer and secretary. Man to man.’

  Ben sighed. ‘The thing is, Austen, I haven’t had much sleep, and I’m feeling a bit rough. Can it wait?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Ben glanced at him in surprise. He hadn’t given his secretary credit for such strength of purpose. Or perhaps for such depth of feeling. Oh God, he thought, not another one in love. I seem to be surrounded by bloody lovebirds. He blew out a long breath. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

  Austen’s narrow cheeks became mottled with red, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Last night I saw something. I mean, I saw you and Mrs Palairet – talking, and then – then you both disappeared. So I thought . . .’ his face was burning, ‘that is to say, I witnessed enough to give me cause for concern.’

  Ben found such delicacy intensely irritating. ‘Well, of course you did,’ he snapped. ‘You saw, but you didn’t take part. That’s the story of your life, isn’t it?’

  Austen pulled at his nose. ‘Mr Kelly. I need to ask – are you – that is, do you intend to marry her?’

  Ben blinked. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Palairet.’

  Ben looked at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Sibella? Of course not!’

  Again Austen pulled at his nose. Then he put both hands on his knees, and stood up very quickly. ‘Then I regret to inform you that I cannot remain in your employ for another day.’

  Ben looked up at him for a moment. Then he waved his hand. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Austen. You don’t even know what—’

  ‘With respect, Mr Kelly, it’s not ridiculous at all. It’s the only honourable thing for a fellow to do.’

  Ben was astonished. He’d read about men who put women on pedestals – he’d often teased Austen for being one – but he hadn’t really believed it until now. ‘Austen,’ he said wearily, ‘don’t be an ass. There really is no need for us to quarrel.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Kelly,’ Austen said quietly, ‘I’m as certain as I could be that there is.’

  He was in earnest. Ben’s spirits plunged. First Isaa
c, now Austen. Wrongdoing and loss. No, no, no.

  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘I can explain about Mrs Palairet,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But please. I’m asking you – I’m asking you – to stay.’

  Austen’s face worked. Then he shook his head, and turned and walked away across the lawn.

  Ben sat back on the bench and watched him go. A few minutes later, the trap came round to the front steps, and Austen descended with his bags, and rattled off down the carriageway.

  Two down and none to go, thought Ben. Now you’re all alone. He was surprised at the strength of his regret.

  He poured himself another drink and listened to the crickets gathering force, and watched the lovebirds waging war. Out of nowhere, an image came to him of Sophie at supper the night before. Someone had just trodden on her train and ripped it, and for a moment, before politeness had got the better of her, she’d been ready to snap. He knew that expression so well: the flashing eyes, the shadows at the corners of her mouth deepening ominously. He used to love that look.

  He stood up quickly and walked a few paces across the lawn, then returned and threw himself down onto the bench again. In the carriageway, a workman dismantling lights cast him a curious glance.

  He could do anything he wanted, but there wasn’t anything he wanted to do. He could go for a ride on one of his beautiful thoroughbreds. He could stay here and drink champagne all day. He could go to his study and look at the plans for the mausoleum. Or he could go up to the hills and collect Evie, and bring her back to her mother’s place.

  But he didn’t want to do any of it. He could do anything he liked, and there was nothing – absolutely nothing – that he wanted to do. He felt utterly wretched. He had no idea how he was even going to get through the day.

  The night of Ben’s Masquerade, Sophie sat on the upper gallery at Parnassus and waited for the sun to come up.

  She’d hung on grimly at Fever Hill in the hope that Sibella would reappear, but that had never happened. Around two o’clock, when she couldn’t take any more, she’d left Alexander still drinking brandy with a group of old racing cronies, and gone home in the brougham with Rebecca and Cornelius.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, dear?’ Rebecca had whispered as they’d settled themselves inside.

  Sophie had pressed her hand and tried to smile. What could possibly be wrong? she thought. I’ve just jilted your son, and Ben Kelly is having an affair with Sibella. Of course there’s nothing wrong.

  As soon as they’d reached Parnassus she’d gone straight to her room. She hadn’t even tried to sleep, but had sat up on the gallery, listening to the whisper of the wind in the cane, and the distant cries of Patoo.

  It was the morning of the twenty-seventh of December. Seven years ago she’d been with Ben at Romilly. She remembered every detail. The smell of the orchids. The secret rustle of the night creatures on the riverbank. How young he had looked: how careful and grave as he peeled back her stocking and touched her knee.

  She tried to think of him as he was now, but she couldn’t. Every time she conjured up the image, another imposed itself. Ben as he’d been in the clearing on Overlook Hill seven years before. Pale, shaken, and unable to comprehend that she was ending it between them.

  Until now she’d never allowed herself to wonder what would have happened if she’d had the courage to be with him. What was the point? She’d been right to put an end to it.

  But – what if?

  They might be man and wife, and living together at Fever Hill. They might have children. She tried to imagine what their children would be like. Would they be dark and beautiful like him? Or mousy and plain like her?

  Around five o’clock, the song of the crickets changed from a low, pulsing night-ring to an early-morning rasp. A breeze began to blow off the sea. A flock of grassquits descended on the hibiscus bushes around the steps.

  She drew up her knees beneath her nightgown and pulled her shawl closer around her. December the twenty-seventh. Seven years ago, she’d spent the night with Ben, and Fraser had died.

  She wondered if Madeleine was sitting on the verandah at Eden among the tartan cushions, with her knees drawn up beneath her nightgown, thinking of Fraser. She pressed her knuckles to her eyes. Everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. Why was she down here in this great cold-hearted house, while Ben was up there with Sibella? Why was she down here, while Madeleine was at Eden without her? How had she let this happen? And how could she make it right?

  Around eleven o’clock she was woken by a maidservant tapping her on the arm.

  Blearily she raised her head. Her eyes felt scratchy, her neck sore from sleeping curled up.

  The maid told her that Miss Sibella was downstairs in the blue drawing-room, and that she needed to speak to her ‘quick-time’.

  Sophie was instantly awake.

  ‘I had to see you,’ cried Sibella as soon as Sophie reached the drawing-room.

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder to check that the door was closed, then turned back to Sibella. She looked terrible, her gown haphazardly fastened, her face puffy and blotched from crying.

  Sophie couldn’t find it in herself to feel sorry for her. She could only remember how Sibella had gazed up at Ben as they’d stood together in the ballroom; how she had watched his mouth as he spoke. ‘What d’you want?’ she said harshly.

  Sibella twisted the rings on her plump fingers. Then she threw herself onto the sofa and burst into tears.

  Sophie stood in stony silence, wishing she were a million miles away.

  ‘I feel so ashamed,’ sobbed Sibella. ‘So dirty and – and humiliated. I – I wrote to him. I begged – I even waited at the house for a reply.’ She made a gobbling sound in her throat. ‘Do you know what he did?’ She pushed back her hair from her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and outraged. ‘He sent word that there was no reply. Can you imagine? No reply.’

  Sophie didn’t want to imagine anything. She was trying hard not to picture Ben and Sibella together.

  But Sibella clutched her hand and pulled her down beside her onto the sofa. ‘You’ve got to go and talk to him.’

  ‘What? But—’

  ‘Sophie, you’ve got to! There’s no-one else who can help.’

  Sophie tried to withdraw her hand from the feverish grasp, but Sibella clung to it. ‘You’re not making any sense,’ Sophie told her as gently as she could. ‘You’re tired and overwrought. You need to go to bed.’

  Sibella stared at her with incomprehension. Then she broke down again.

  The maid put her head round the door, but Sophie motioned her out, while Sibella clutched her hand and sobbed.

  Gradually, reluctantly, Sophie pieced together the story. There was something about a missing scarf and a diamond brooch – both gifts from Gus Parnell – and a promise by Ben to return them: a promise which hadn’t been kept; and a midnight tryst at the Burying-place. The idea of the tryst hurt more than anything. A lovers’ tryst among the Monroe tombs. It felt like a calculated stab at herself.

  And now, according to Sibella, Parnell was ‘cutting up rough’ and demanding that she produce the wretched things, and Papa was being horrible to her, and what was she to do?

  ‘You’ve got to get them back,’ she cried, clutching Sophie’s hand so tightly that her rings bit into the flesh. ‘He’s a liar and a scoundrel, but he’ll listen to you, I know he will. He’ll give them back if you ask him to.’

  ‘Sibella,’ she said wearily, ‘he won’t listen to anyone. Least of all me.’

  Sibella took a shaky breath and wiped her eyes with her fingers. ‘But there’s no-one else. You’re my only, only friend.’

  Her only friend?

  Sibella pounced on her hesitation. ‘Say you’ll go. Oh, Sophie, do say you’ll go!’

  What can you possibly say to him? she wondered as she rode between the great cut-stone gatehouses of Fever Hill.

  For the Masquerade the gatehouses had been cleared of creepers, and for
the first time since she’d known them, the Monroe crest could plainly be seen. She wondered when Ben would get round to having it removed. For a man who had kept a lovers’ tryst at the Monroe Burying-place, it was presumably only a matter of time.

  Slowly she rode up the carriageway. Twice she reined in and resolved to turn back. Let Sibella sort out her own sordid little affairs. Thoughtless, insensitive Sibella, who – if she remembered it at all – had doubtless assumed that Sophie had got over her feelings for Ben years ago.

  The men taking down the coloured lanterns strung between the palms watched her pass with undisguised curiosity. She ignored them. For the hundredth time she cursed Sibella. For being vain. For being weak. For being pretty.

  At last she reached the house, and there was no more time for second thoughts. A boy ran out to take her horse. A maid came down the steps to conduct her inside. She was shown straight into his study.

  It had been her grandfather’s study, and she was surprised to see how little it had changed. It still had books from floor to ceiling, and oil paintings of Jamaica on the walls, and at the far end, in front of the doors leading onto the south verandah, a great walnut desk.

  Ben was sitting behind it with a sheaf of what looked like blueprints spread out before him. When she was shown in, he stood up, and his face briefly lightened. Then he caught her stony expression, and his own became unreadable. He looked pale and tired, with dark shadows under his eyes.

  As well he might, she thought grimly, remembering Sibella’s blotchy, tear-stained face. I feel so humiliated. So dirty and ashamed.

  Ben and Sibella at the Burying-place. It didn’t seem possible. She pushed away the images that kept floating before her eyes. ‘I didn’t think you’d see me,’ she said as she walked the length of the study.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he replied. He motioned her to a chair on the other side of the desk, and resumed his own.

  She sat down and clasped her hands in her lap. They felt shaky and cold. ‘How could you do it?’ she said quietly.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘What have I done this time?’