by Sarah Bryant
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
PART ONE
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
PART TWO
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eve takes the dress and lays it carefully on Elizabeth’s bed. She closes the carpetbag that sits open there, and pushes the handles into her sister’s hands. Eve embraces Elizabeth, then leads her to the French door. Lightning flickers again, illuminating the trees and the gardens with eerie blue light. It is followed closely by a roll of thunder.
Somewhere down the corridor, a low wailing begins. They look at each other, Elizabeth with intensified fear, Eve with steely resolve. “You’ve got to go now,” Eve says, apprehension finally apparent in her voice. “God go with you.” Eve kisses her sister on both cheeks and pushes her through the dark doorway and into the night.
As Eve stands there alone, her previously calm face contorts with unfathomable emotions. Simultaneously the disembodied wail becomes a word, a name: “Eliiiiizabeth!”
Eve shivers but stands listening a moment longer, and then, drawing herself together again, she calls, “I’m coming, Maman.”
She picks up Elizabeth’s dressing gown from the bed and ties it over her nightgown, then opens the door onto the dim hallway. The voice becomes hysterical, shrieking strings of gibberish. But one discernible strain breaks through:
“They watch me . . . no peace . . . Elizabeth, cover them, cover them—”
Eve shuts the door behind her, and the wailing ceases.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by arrangement with Snowbooks Ltd. License Agreement.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The lines in Part Two, Chapter 7, are taken from John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi, c. 1614.
Copyright © 2001 by Sarah Bryant.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Warner Books edition / 2001
Snowbooks UK edition / 2006
Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2009
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bryant, Sarah.
The other Eden / Sarah Bryant.—Berkley trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-10884-0
1. Women pianists—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Grief—Fiction. 4. Louisiana—Fiction.
I. Title.
PR6102.R935O84 2009
823’.92—dc22 2009004047
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Pamela Alexander, my first piano instructor, and Linda Jiorle-Nagy, my last—true teachers whose gifts for inspiration reach far beyond the notes and staves
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, many thanks are due to Colin and Nuala for their patience and belief in me and my writing, even when the tea is late! I would also like to thank Elaine Thompson for her friendship and much-valued criticism; my mom, Suz, grandmother extraordinaire; Mara Lang, Sean Montgomery, Lucy Newman, John Caughie, Bar Purser for readings and advice; and Anasta sia Karpushko Cardownie for being my willing, walking Russian dictionary.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said the Lady of Shalott.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
PART ONE
PROLOGUE
APRIL 1903
EDEN’S MEADOW PLANTATION
IBERVILLE PARISH, LOUISIANA
NIGHTTIME in a room lit by a solitary guttering candle. It is a bedroom—that is clear from the shapes of the furniture looming out of the shadows. The faint scroll of a decorative cornice, the sheen of dark wood, suggest that it belongs to a person of privilege, but even in the bad light the room’s trappings seem vague, impersonal, long since abandoned by their owner.
She herself reveals little more. She stands in a plain, dark dress, facing an open French door. Whether she looks out at something in the overcast night or inward at something less corporeal is impossible to tell. She is slender and small, and exudes a feeling of being almost fully developed. Her stooped shoulders and dejected arms convey a lack of confidence. Her head, piled with black hair, bends like a heavy rose on a stalk too slight.
For several minutes she stands unmoving. Then a flash of lightning sears the sky, and she turns from the doorway. The candlelight reveals full lips, smooth skin, high cheekbones, black eyes with a faintly Byzantine slant. Hers is a beauty of fits and starts: the tinge of sadness in her eyes; the stray curl of hair on her blue-shadowed temple; the fear battling pride in the set of her jaw.
As she moves, the room seems to shrink and darken by contrast, her face to grow more luminous. Another flash of lightning; as the ensuing thunder subsides, a faint knocking becomes audible. The girl hears it, runs to open the door. A second girl slips into the room, wearing a white nightdress, her black hair loose down her back. There are subtle differences between them. This girl’s face and posture are more assured, her eyes more artful than the other’s. Nonetheless, the resemblance between them is undeniable.
“Ready, Lizzie?” the bolder one asks.
“Evie . . .” Elizabeth’s voice falters with the candlelight.
“Too late now,” Eve says. Smiling, she reaches up and pulls the pins from her sister�
��s tightly bound hair.
“But what if he finds out?” Elizabeth asks, as Eve feels for stray pins.
“He won’t find out until I want him to.”
“How can you say so? We’re so different; he’s bound to realize.”
“We’ve switched on Maman and Papa without their realizing.”
“That’s Maman and Papa. You and he will be married. What of your . . . your relations as such?”
Eve smiles archly. “Surely he has no knowledge of you in that way, to realize the difference!”
Elizabeth colors, but continues, “But if he does realize, you’ll be all alone. What if . . . what if he—”
“Lizzie.” Eve puts her hands on her sister’s shoulders. Her eyes are calm and certain. “It will be all right. I know that you don’t like him, and you have your reasons, but he’s never done anything to earn your distrust.”
“He’s so passionate—so moody.”
“Many have said the same of me. Besides, I’ve watched him love you for five years, and even you must admit that his loyalty has never wavered.”
“But there’s a compulsion in that itself that makes me afraid.”
“And the same makes me love him.”
Elizabeth shakes her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes never leaving her sister’s. “You should wait for someone who loves you for yourself.”
Eve turns away, but she can’t keep the bitterness out of her voice when she answers, “We aren’t all so lucky as you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s mouth quivers. Eve’s face is still averted; what emotion she hides is impossible to tell. Yet she does not seem surprised when Elizabeth relents. “If you have faith in him—”
“Oh, I do!” Eve cries. She smiles a smile full of hope and promise, and after a moment her sister returns it, if wanly. “You’ll go through with your part,” Eve continues, “and once Mother is better”—she falters as she says this, her voice losing some of its softness—“I’ll find you, and we’ll tell them all. And by then . . . well, by then he’s sure to understand. Now, come here and fix my hair.”
Elizabeth follows Eve to the dressing table, picks up a brush and a hank of her sister’s long hair, then stands staring at it, as if seeking an answer.
“It’s the best thing,” Eve persists, “the only thing—” A skirl of wind extinguishes the candle.
“Eve!” Elizabeth cries. Quickly Eve relights the candle, then takes the brush from her sister’s clenched hands and begins to untangle her own hair. After a moment Elizabeth takes over. The girls are silent for a time, Eve’s eyes fixed on her reflection, Elizabeth’s on the dark hair in her hands as she braids and binds it.
Even after Elizabeth has finished, Eve continues to stare at her reflection, as if trying to pinpoint something amiss. Finally she says, “The necklaces!” She unclasps the ruby that hangs from a gold chain around her neck, and holds it toward Elizabeth. It glints in the candlelight like a drop of blood.
Elizabeth looks at it, touches the diamond at her own throat, and says, “No. You can tell everyone we traded, to have something to remember each other by. They’re . . . they’re who we are.”
Eve laughs. “You, superstitious?” Seeing the serious set of her sister’s face, however, her smile dies. “All right, if you’re set on it.”
Elizabeth watches Eve replace the necklace. “That’s it, then,” she says, kneeling so that her face in the mirror is level with her sister’s.
“Now no one will know,” Eve answers with finality.
They watch their own faces in the mirror until Eve stands up, and pulls Elizabeth to her feet. “Come on.”
“Wait.” Elizabeth takes a bundle from the bed and shakes it out. It is a wedding dress, its bodice exquisitely embroidered with leaves and butterflies. She holds it toward Eve, whose hands stop her own.
“I can’t take that, Lizzie.” Her eyes are entreating and, for the first time, betray uncertainty.
“I want you to. If I can’t be there myself, I want you to have a piece of me with you.”
“No, Elizabeth,” Eve repeats. “I can’t wear your wedding dress. You should wear it to the wedding it was meant for.”
“It was meant for my wedding to Louis,” she answers, her tone sounding authoritative for the first time. “Besides, we both know you’ll never make one in time.” The girls look at each other for a long moment, then burst into laughter, as incongruous to the scene as daylight would be.
Eve takes the dress and lays it carefully on Elizabeth’s bed. She closes the carpetbag that sits open there, and pushes the handles into her sister’s hands. Eve embraces Elizabeth, then leads her to the French door. Lightning flickers again, illuminating the trees and the gardens with eerie blue light. It is followed closely by a roll of thunder.
Somewhere down the corridor, a low wailing begins. They look at each other, Elizabeth with intensified fear, Eve with steely resolve. “You’ve got to go now,” Eve says, apprehension finally apparent in her voice. “God go with you.” Eve kisses her sister on both cheeks and pushes her through the dark doorway and into the night.
As Eve stands there alone, her previously calm face contorts with unfathomable emotions. Simultaneously the disembodied wail becomes a word, a name: “Eliiiiizabeth!”
Eve shivers but stands listening a moment longer, and then, drawing herself together again, she calls, “I’m coming, Maman.”
She picks up Elizabeth’s dressing gown from the bed and ties it over her nightgown, then opens the door onto the dim hallway. The voice becomes hysterical, shrieking strings of gibberish. But one discernible strain breaks through:
“They watch me . . . no peace . . . Elizabeth, cover them, cover them—”
Eve shuts the door behind her, and the wailing ceases.
ONE
I have no childhood memory of my parents’ faces. My father left my mother when I was a baby; my mother died of tuberculosis three years later. I bear my father no more ill will in leaving me than I do my mother, for both served to exempt me from the poverty we had shared in the dingy mill town where she taught music and he played the church organ to earn our living.
Not long after my mother’s funeral, I learned that I was not bereft of relatives, as she had led me to believe. Her body had not been a day in the ground when William Fairfax, her father, strode into my world of dirt and insufficiency, showing me my first glimpse of his own. My first memory of him is of his arms, which smelled of pipe smoke and leather, and more subtly of wealth, though at the time I was aware of it only as something foreign to all I had ever known. He lifted me to eye level and told me that my mother had died of grief, as her mother had before her. With such a lineage, he said, I would be prone to the same melancholy, and I should work to avoid their fate by living avidly. Not understanding a word he had said, I promised to do my best. His reply—a smile—was the beginning of my good fortune.
So my mother’s life of poverty was never mine, but it was years before I could accept that it need never have been hers either. At the end of the nineteenth century, William Fairfax was the wealthi est man in New England. Before his twentieth birthday he had turned a reasonable inheritance into a small fortune on the stock market. Five years later he married the sole heiress to a Louisiana plantation. If he built a wall of silence between himself and his daughter Elizabeth when she eloped with my father, the only wall that existed when she died was that of her own stubbornness and pride, and the only ill will he ever showed her memory in my presence could barely be described as such. Rather than refer to her by her Christian name, or even as “my daughter,” he insisted always on referring to her as “Eleanor’s mother,” as though that were her only claim to any worth.
I had little cause to quibble with this. Blessed with my mother’s beauty and a talent that was the culmination of an extraordinarily musical bloodline, I grew up spoiled and praised. Far from the despot our introduction had led me to expect, my grandfather proved to be a moody, kindly, eccentric man who was far more
lenient with me than I deserved. Throughout most of my childhood I took his kindness for granted, earning erratic marks at the exclusive schools he paid for, constantly serving punishments, even running away once, to be coaxed out of my self-righteous indignation by his gentle words and promises. The only area in which I was irreproachable was music but, fortunately, this more than made up to him for my faults.
My childhood was the real-life fairy tale every little girl dreams of. Boston in the early days of the century was itself a scene from a picture book, a metropolis of gingerbread brownstones orbiting parks and cobbled streets as yet unmarred by motorcars, which were still a novelty. We lived in a townhouse on Beacon Street, which overlooked one corner of the Public Garden. My nursery was at the top of the house, with a picture window that looked down onto the angel statue in the northwest corner of the park through riotous tangles of ivy and roses spilling from our rooftop garden. I would sit sometimes for what seemed hours on end, studying the angel’s downcast eyes and beatific expression, open arms and mighty wings. I liked to lift the diamond pendant that had been my mother’s only relic of her girlhood—and was now my only relic of her—and look at the angel through its mutable lens. It gave him a semblance of life that his stone form alone could never have. As a very little girl, I had the idea that he was my guardian angel. I suppose I needed him as a tangible connection to my mother.
All told, though, I didn’t find much time to miss her.
On Sundays my grandfather and I had tea at the Ritz-Carlton at four o’clock. I knew every waiter by name, and they petted and spoiled me atrociously. Every Thursday evening my British nanny, Emmeline, would button me into dresses made of the finest silk or velvet, pinch my cheeks for color, and torture me with bows like cabbage roses to hold the unruly yellow curls out of my eyes. Then my grandfather would come in a trail of tweed and pipe smoke to take me to the symphony, where the fine ladies and gentlemen always stared at me, the only child to attend regularly. It was the only place where I didn’t care about the attention. I sat with my legs straight out before me on the leather seat, oblivious to all but the music.
