The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Margaret? wondered Belle. Surely he can’t be waiting to take her on one of his ‘drives’?

  It felt unreal even to think it. By now he had to be at least seventy-three. Surely he couldn’t still want to . . .

  At that moment, he turned and caught her staring at him, and his face went still.

  The shadow of the cutwind sliced across his features, putting half of it in deep shade, and half in harsh sunlight. He certainly looked his age, the liver-spotted skin hanging loose from the jowls; but the full lips were as glistening red as ever, the pale blue eyes as unassailable.

  He met her gaze, and inclined his head to her with old-fashioned courtesy. He knew that she knew. He also knew that she would not, and could not, tell.

  It’s still our secret, the pale eyes seemed to say. And we don’t want to get found out. Now, do we?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘Walk with me,’ said Evie when they reached Fever Hill.

  Belle didn’t have much choice. The maid had told them that Sophie was in Falmouth, although expected back soon, and Ben was down at the stables. Belle could hardly leave Evie all by herself on the verandah.

  Together they started across the lawns behind the house. It was a hot afternoon: the kind of afternoon when you can almost see the grass shrivelling before your eyes.

  Belle hardly noticed. She was thinking of Margaret Cornwallis, who used to follow her about and pester her with questions, but was now so silent and withdrawn. She was thinking of the shadow of the cutwind carving the face of Cornelius Traherne into light and dark.

  He’s doing it to someone else . . .

  ‘We’ll go up the hill,’ said Evie, making her start.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To the Burying-place. Catch a nice cool breeze.’

  Belle gave a distracted nod. But as she glanced sideways at her companion, she felt a shiver of apprehension. She liked Evie, but she was also a little afraid of her, for Evie Walker, née McFarlane, was unlike anyone else she’d ever met. Evie knew the trick of inhabiting two very different worlds, and she moved effortlessly between them whenever she chose.

  On the one hand, she was the beautiful, educated wife of the master of Arethusa: an old friend of Sophie and Ben, and a highly respected schoolteacher (the Lady Teacheress, as the local children still call her), who’d tutored Belle when she was small.

  On the other hand, she was the four-eyed daughter of the local witch. She knew more about obeah than anyone else in Trelawny, and was rumoured to be able to see the dead. When she wanted to, she would visit her country cousins up in the Cockpits, where she would lapse into patois and spell-weaving as easily as slipping off her shoes.

  And there was something else, too. Seven years before, when Belle had been desperate to avoid Cornelius Traherne, Evie had flatly refused to weave a spell for her. Rationally, Belle knew that Evie had been right; but part of her had always resented it. Like anyone else who’d grown up on the Northside, Belle knew the power of country magic. And sometimes she asked herself if things would have been different had Evie granted her request.

  Now, as they passed beneath the shade of a breadfruit tree, she glanced at the slender woman walking beside her, and wondered which Evie she was looking at: the one-time teacheress, or the powerful witch.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out. They took the path that wound over the crest of Fever Hill and a short way down the other side, to the Monroe family Burying-place. It was a peaceful green hollow surrounded by coconut palms and wild lime trees, where, in a scattering of raised barrel tombs, seven generations of Monroes dreamed away the decades in the long silver grass.

  As Evie passed between the graves, she brushed one or two of them with her fingertips. When she reached the old poinciana tree at the far end, she glanced about her and gave a little nod, as if satisfied that the dead were resting quietly, and she could begin.

  Taking her seat on the bench beneath the poinciana, she indicated that Belle should sit beside her.

  Belle’s apprehension grew. She wished she had the courage to walk away.

  As she took her place beside Evie, something made her turn and glance south, past the emerald cane-pieces to the blue-grey line of the Cockpits. There, she thought, among those trees at the edge of the Cockpits, lies Eden. She repressed a surge of homesickness.

  ‘So,’ said Evie, following her gaze, ‘you’ve not been spending much time at home these past few months.’

  Belle turned back to her. ‘Sophie’s been talking to you.’

  Evie smiled. ‘Sophie tends to do that. Given that she’s my friend.’

  ‘I mean, about me.’

  ‘Well, now. Some things I can see for myself, you know.’ She leaned down and plucked a small purple flower, and turned it in her fingers. ‘At Burntwood,’ she said quietly, ‘when you were standing on the steps. I saw your face.’

  Belle’s skin began to prickle.

  ‘Cornelius Traherne,’ said Evie, looking down at the flower. ‘The way you looked at him. There’s bad blood between you, I think.’

  Belle did not reply.

  Above her head, a flock of sugarquits descended on the poinciana tree, squabbling noisily. The rasp of the cicadas was loud in her ears. She smelt spicy red dust and the sharp green tang of the asparagus ferns among the graves. She felt trapped.

  ‘He’s a bad man, that Mr Traherne,’ said Evie. ‘A destroyful man, as my mother used to say. God rest her soul.’

  Belle put her hands on either side of her. The bench felt sun-hot under her palms. ‘I wonder,’ she said as lightly as she could, ‘who am I talking to at the moment? Mrs Isaac Walker, or four-eyed Evie McFarlane?’

  ‘Which do you want to be talking to?’

  Again Belle did not reply.

  ‘You know,’ Evie said calmly, ‘I have my own reasons for wishing him ill. And before me, my mother had hers.’

  Belle stared at her. He’s done this before . . . He’ll go on doing it . . . ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

  Evie shook her head. ‘You don’t need to know. What you do need to know is something my mother told me a long time ago. She said, “Evie, sometimes you can get vengeance for you own self. Other times, not. That man – he done lot, lotta bad things. And vengeance will come to him in the end, but not from me, and not from you either.”’ Again she twirled the flower in her fingers. ‘She made me swear on the grave of my great-grandmother never to try to confront him or face him down.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Belle.

  Evie shook her head. ‘No need for you to know,’ she said again. ‘The point is, vengeance will come. That’s what my mother said.’

  Belle felt herself becoming angry. ‘But from whom? And when? He’s rich. He’s powerful. He’s well-regarded. Who would ever believe me? I mean,’ she corrected herself hastily, ‘who would ever believe ill of him?’

  Evie raised her shoulders in a shrug. ‘That I don’t know, Belle. But something’s going to happen, and it’s not far off. I’ve been feeling it on me for a while now.’ She opened her hand and let the flower fall, and Belle saw with a shiver of unease that it was a sprig of Madam Fate.

  Evie shaded her eyes with her hand, and with the other she pointed to the far side of the Burying-place. ‘You see that tomb over there? The one with the crest carved on its side?’

  Belle was puzzled. ‘The Monroe arms. Of course. What about it?’

  ‘Your mother’s a Monroe,’ Evie said thoughtfully. ‘So is Sophie. And so, in part, are you.’ She was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘A strange thing to put on a crest, I always thought. A crow carrying a snake in its claws.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Belle. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  Evie rose and dusted off her skirts. ‘Only this,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s time for that crow to decide what to do about the snake.’

  Belle turned her head away. ‘Evie, it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Well, all right, then,’ Evie said mildly. ‘But
think about this. Think about finding some way to give yourself power over him.’

  Belle frowned.

  ‘You don’t have to use that power. But it would make you feel better if you had it. To know that if you wanted to, you could lance the boil.’ Her lip curled. ‘If you’ll forgive so indelicate an expression.’

  Belle’s frown deepened. ‘Evie, I don’t know what you mean.’

  Evie looked down at her, and in the glare of the sun her face was unreadable. ‘Take time, Belle. Think about it. If it’s meant to be, you’ll find a way.’

  After she’d gone, Belle sat on by the graves, listening to the surge and fall of the cicadas in the long grass, and the sugarquits squabbling overhead. The midday sun was harsh, and the glare off the graves was blinding. In the crow’s claws, the serpent writhed.

  As a child, Belle had been fascinated by that crest. What would the crow do next? she used to wonder. Would it tear the snake to pieces? Would it let go, so that the snake fell to its death? Or would it alight on a patch of grass and release it, so that it was free to slither away and do more harm?

  She didn’t want to think about that now. And she didn’t want to think about little Margaret Cornwallis, who’d once been the family tearaway, and now spent her days rolling bandages by herself.

  How could she, Belle Lawe, put an end to something that had been going on for so long?

  And yet, how could she live with herself if she didn’t?

  She broke off a frond of asparagus fern and crushed it in her fingers, breathing in the sharp green tang.

  Adam would know what to do, she thought suddenly.

  Angrily she tossed the fern away. Why think of Adam now? What was the point? All that had ended months ago.

  Return to sender. No reply.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘He just needs more time,’ Dr Ruthven had told her, but Maud was beginning to have her doubts. These days Adam had time in abundance, but he wasn’t getting better.

  I simply want peace, he’d written at the end of March, before discharging himself from hospital against the doctors’ advice. So please, Maud, don’t change your arrangements for me. Stay at the House with Max; he’s settled with you now, it’d be bad for him to move again. I shall be perfectly happy on my own at the Hall. In fact, I should prefer it. I’m fine now, really. The arm is quite healed, I have scarcely a limp, and all that remains of the head wound is a scar down the left side of my face that wouldn’t even frighten Max. Of course it’s a bore not being able to talk, but I’m getting accustomed to that too.

  I know you think I should have listened to the doctors, but the truth is, I’m sick of hospitals. First it was Wimereux, now Farnborough. I just want to come home.

  That had been four weeks ago. Since then, things had gone on perfectly well – on the surface. Adam visited them almost daily, and took Max for long walks on the beach. Often Felicity Ruthven joined them for the day. Twice they let Julia out, and watched in awe as she swept low over the beach, scattering terns and oystercatchers with imperious squawks.

  But Maud was too honest to fool herself. Adam was not the same. A light had gone out of his eyes. His smile seemed forced. He was playing a part.

  She could see perfectly well what was going on, and it surprised her that he could not. Or perhaps, she told herself, he doesn’t want to see.

  Belle had written to her twice from Jamaica. To begin with, Maud had considered ignoring the letters. She was furious with the girl. She didn’t deserve a reply.

  But Belle was Belle, and her letters had been so frank, and so desperate to know if Adam was all right, that after much angry deliberation, Maud had relented.

  She had not, however, told Adam about the correspondence. Nor had she told him that Belle had gone out to Jamaica. She simply hadn’t mentioned the girl at all.

  Unfortunately, Max was unaware of this. Which was why, one afternoon, as they sat at tea in Cairngowrie House, he proudly showed Adam an engraving of an emerald parakeet in his new bird book and said, ‘And this one’s Caribbean, so I expect Miss Lawe sees them all the time in Jamaica.’

  There was a silence. Maud set down her teacup. Adam pretended to study the engraving with interest. Max, never slow to pick up an atmosphere, realized that he’d caused it, and looked at Maud in alarm.

  I expect there are lots of parakeets in Miss Lawe’s garden, Adam wrote on his notepad, in an attempt to reassure the boy.

  But Max wasn’t fooled, and neither was Maud. Soon afterwards, Adam made an excuse and left. Some time after that, Max quietly put on his outdoor things and went out to the beach to brood. Maud found him halfway to the Point, clambering solemnly onto a favourite rock, then jumping down onto the wet sand, to see how deep he could make his footprints.

  It was a raw April day with only an hour of daylight left, and the wind roared across the beach, tugging at Maud’s hat and reddening Max’s cheeks.

  ‘I upset Captain Palairet,’ he said when she got within earshot.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ she replied. ‘Miss Lawe was the one who did that.’

  ‘But why did she leave?’ said Max for the hundredth time. He’d admired Belle enormously, and still talked wistfully about the zoo biscuit morning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Maud. She took his hand and gave it a little shake. ‘But we know why she had to go to Jamaica, don’t we? Because her papa was hurt in an accident, and she had to be with him. Which is just as it should be.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Max doubtfully. He was too intelligent to be fobbed off with less than the whole story. ‘But I thought Captain Palairet liked her.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Max, that’s enough. Now come along. It’ll be dark soon. It’s time we went inside.’

  As they made their way back to the House, Maud thought about Adam up at the Hall: dressing for his solitary dinner, drinking his solitary whisky, then settling down to a solitary evening with a book, while doing his best not to think about what Max had let slip over tea.

  She wondered if she ought to speak to him – try to persuade him to write to Belle, instead of just walking away like this. But then she remembered the postscript he’d added to his letter a month before.

  In answer to your question, Maud: yes, I was aware that Belle was in Flanders, and no, I didn’t see her. What would have been the point? It’s over. I see no reason to rake it up.

  Belle sat hunched on her bed in her room at Fever Hill, contemplating the sky-blue envelope lying on the counterpane.

  It had taken her a week, but she’d finally managed to do what Evie had suggested. She’d found a way of gaining power over Cornelius Traherne.

  And all because of little Margaret Cornwallis.

  The day after the conversation with Evie at the Burying-place, she had sought out Margaret at the sanatorium.

  As usual, the girl was alone, winding bandages. When she saw Belle, she gave a guilty start.

  Belle hoisted herself onto a table and sat swinging her legs. Remembering her own confusion and guilt, she knew that she had to approach the younger girl with care – but not too obliquely. It might help to hint that she suspected what was going on. It might give Margaret a chance to talk.

  Still swinging her legs, she said, ‘I got a letter from Dodo.’

  Margaret went on with her work. She was a smaller, prettier version of her sister, with limpid hazel eyes and a clear complexion, but the same imposing Cornwallis nose.

  ‘She says,’ Belle went on, ‘that you’ve become friends with Mr Traherne.’

  Margaret nearly dropped her bandages.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Belle said quietly. ‘I understand. I really do. I – know.’

  Margaret did not reply. Ungainly red blotches were spreading up her neck and inflaming her cheeks.

  ‘I also know,’ said Belle, very deliberately, ‘that it’s not your fault.’

  Margaret bit down hard on her lower lip. She had bony, boyish hands with badly chew
ed cuticles. Watching her struggling with emotions she was far too young to understand, Belle felt a surge of pure rage at Traherne. ‘These drives,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘Where does he take you?’

  Another silence. Belle could feel her own cheeks growing red. She was hating this as much as Margaret. Feeling the same guilt. The same sense of being dirtied for ever . . .

  It had been painful for both of them – but it had been worth it. For now, several days later, the sky-blue envelope lay before her on the counterpane. Her proof. If she chose to use it, she could bring him down. If.

  But Evie was wrong about one thing. Gaining power over Traherne didn’t make her feel better. It made her feel worse. Because if she chose to use what lay before her, then she too would be found out. Mamma and Papa would know that she was not who they thought she was. They would know that she was someone else altogether.

  On the counterpane, the envelope seemed to throb like a live thing. With the tip of her forefinger she touched its corner, then snatched back her hand. Damn Evie. Damn her for giving her the choice.

  And after all, why should she do anything at all? There was no longer any need to worry about Margaret Cornwallis. Belle had lost no time in seeing to that, sending a cryptic wire to Dodo: Mags coming home. Be patient. She will tell in time. I will write soon with more. Belle. Then she’d arranged for the child to be sent back to Southampton with a motherly cousin of Mrs Herapath’s, and resolved to have a last talk with her before she went, to try to start repairing the damage.

  So, yes, Margaret was safe now, and would soon be home with her sister.

  And yet – Belle knew perfectly well that this had never been about protecting Margaret Cornwallis; or not only about that. It was about telling Mamma and Papa.

  ‘But I can’t,’ said Belle out loud. ‘I just can’t do that.’

  Coward, she told herself silently. How can you simply do nothing? Margaret won’t be the last. You can’t fool yourself into thinking that any more. If you don’t do something now, and it happens again, how will you live with yourself?