The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (145 page)

Belle began to feel hot. It was a relief when the great iron gates of Burntwood swept into sight. ‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Sophie threw her a look.

As they turned into the carriageway, Belle stared stubbornly out of the window. She’d never felt so relieved to reach the sanatorium.

It was an enormous old great house which had originally belonged to Papa’s family. In those days it had been called Seven Hills: a monument to the power and prestige of the Lawes in the Golden Age of sugar. But old Duncan Lawe had been savage to his slaves, and in the Christmas Rebellion of 1832 they’d burnt it to the ground. Stubbornly, he’d raised an even larger great house on the original site – bigger than Fever Hill, more magnificent even than Parnassus – and in his bitterness he’d named it Burntwood. He’d died the following year without sleeping a night in his new house, and as the rebuilding had crippled the estate, his heir had been forced to sell soon afterwards.

Since then, it had passed through several hands, and acquired a reputation among the local people for being ‘bad luckid’. It was said that when disaster was imminent, a spectral stench of ashes permeated the outer gallery – although this was only discernible to the prescient, or ‘four-eyed’, as they were called on the Northside.

Belle was not four-eyed, and she’d never smelt ashes in the gallery. But sometimes on overcast days, she thought she sensed an air of misfortune about the place. Margaret Cornwallis, too, seemed to notice it, for recently she’d become subdued, and now spent most of her time winding bandages on her own. Belle was relieved. The pestering had been getting wearisome.

The driver drew up at the foot of the steps, and the old house reared above them like a witch’s castle from a fairy tale. It had high, pointed gables, and as the verandahs were enclosed by louvres to make an old-fashioned gallery, a curiously blind façade. But what made it extraordinary was the massive, windowless, wedge-shaped structure of cut-stone and cement which had been built onto the west wing. It was fully two storeys high, and its knife-sharp edge jutted fiercely north, like the prow of an enormous ship.

When Belle had first seen it as a child, she’d been terrified. She’d refused to get out of the carriage until Papa had explained that it was a Hurrycane Cellar, or cutwind: a place of safety in which people used to take shelter from hurricanes.

‘There’s room for at least ten people inside,’ he’d told her. But that had merely set the seven-year-old Belle to wondering how they’d decided
which
ten people had been allowed to survive inside, and which had been left to face the onslaught of the hurricane.

‘I think,’ said Sophie, gazing up at the windowless stone, ‘I finally understand why you like this dreadful place.’

‘I don’t exactly like it,’ said Belle. ‘I simply work here.’

‘Mm,’ said Sophie doubtfully. ‘You give the odd photography class, and read newspapers to convalescents. I suppose one might call that work.’

Belle’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Mamma suggested I come here,’ she said defensively.

Sophie brushed that aside. ‘The truth is, you’ve got a lot in common with this place, haven’t you?’ She craned her neck at the cutwind’s blank, forbidding walls. ‘Closed to outsiders. Repel all comers. It’s no way to live, Belle darling.’

Belle got out of the motor car and closed the door. ‘I’ll see you this evening,’ she s

aid.

Damn Sophie for being so shrewd.

Of course Burntwood was a bolt-hole. That was why she liked it. She
liked
its ugliness and its blind façade; she liked the steady monotony of the work, and the fact that it left her too tired to think at the end of the day.

With an effort, Belle put Sophie from her mind, and spent the morning reading articles from the
Gleaner
to a ward full of blind veterans, and the afternoon teaching the importance of focal length to a trio of mildly flirtatious officers in Bath chairs. By the time she got back to the cubbyhole where she stowed her camera, and which Matron grandly called ‘Miss Lawe’s office’, it was teatime, and there was a letter waiting for her on her desk. She recognized the engraved coat of arms of the Duke of Kyme.

I thought I’d send this to you at the san
, wrote Dodo,
as you don’t seem to be staying with your mamma (hope nothing’s wrong!!). This way it’ll be sure to reach you
.

Belle sighed. Not another one who thought she ought to be staying at Eden.

I’m writing with a request for help
, Dodo went on with her usual bluntness,
though not for me, for Mags.

Mags? wondered Belle. Oh, of course. Margaret.

It’s just that she’s changed so awfully over the past few weeks. I can tell from her letters. She used to draw the most screamingly funny cartoons in the margins, and scribble all sorts of appalling jokes, but suddenly it’s just dutiful little notes. I can’t
think
what’s got into her, and I wondered, could you bear to have a bash at finding out? She was always the chatterbox of the family, absolutely fearless, ready for anything
. . .

Belle felt a stab of guilt. She too had noticed the change in the girl, but she’d been too preoccupied with her own concerns to do anything about it.

. . .
and now she’s – well, so different. Esmond says it’s just that she’s not used to the tropics, but privately I don’t think it can be that, as she’s visited lots of times and always adored it. Of course, if I say anything, Esmond counters it by saying that she’s simply growing up. Obviously I tell him that he’s right, because there’s no point in telling him anything else
. . .

Oh, Dodo, thought Belle sadly. Is that the way it’s going to be with you from now on? Kowtowing to Esmond for the rest of your life?

. . .
but strictly
entre nous
, I can’t help feeling that there must be something else. Sorry to burden you with this when I know your pater still isn’t quite well, but I’m really beginning to get a little worried
– which with Dodo probably meant that she’d been having sleepless nights for weeks –
although of course I’m not asking you to bear the brunt completely. Of all people, old Cornelius Traherne has been absolutely marvellous, and quite taken her in hand; lovely long drives, showing her over his estate, that sort of thing
. . .

The world tilted sickeningly.

Someone knocked at the door.

Belle jumped.

One of the maids put in her head. ‘Missy Belle? Miss Evie come by on her way to Fever Hill to visit wid Missy Sophie, an ax to say do you want a ride?’

Belle swallowed. ‘Um. Thank you. Yes. Tell her – I’ll be down soon.’

The maid glanced at the letter in Belle’s fist, and softly withdrew.

Cornelius Traherne has been absolutely marvellous, and quite taken her in hand
. . .

The words swam before her eyes. Until now, it had never occurred to her that there might be others.

It can’t be true, she told herself. It can’t be happening again.

And yet – Margaret Cornwallis was only fourteen . . .

Quickly she skimmed the rest of the letter, but there was nothing more about Margaret; just news of Kyme – to which Dodo seemed to be resigning herself.
Sorry to be such a bore
, she finished,
but anything you can do for Mags would be so
very
kind
. . .

Anything I can do? thought Belle.

And what
could
she do? He wouldn’t stop if I told him to; he’d just pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about. And if I told anyone else, they’d never believe her. And even if they did, it would mean that she’d be found out, too.

Found out, found out
. The mere thought made her feel physically sick.

Somehow, she got to her feet and got her things together. Stuffed the crumpled letter into her bag. Found her way out into the corridor.

He’s doing it again, she thought. The knowledge pounded through her to the rhythm of her blood. He’s doing it to someone else . . .

Teatime was well under way and the corridors were busy with nurses and trolleys as Belle left the sanatorium and went out through the gallery and onto the front steps. Two motor cars were waiting in the carriageway. As there were only eight motors in the whole of Trelawny, the sight had attracted a little cluster of admiring garden boys and porters.

One of the motors was the grey Mercedes-Benz owned by Isaac Walker of the neighbouring estate, Arethusa. In the back, smiling up at Belle, sat his wife, Evie, elegant as ever in a mint-green afternoon gown which perfectly set off her smooth, coffee-coloured complexion.

The other was the mustard-coloured Daimler which belonged to the Parnassus estate. Cornelius Traherne stood beside it, immaculate in a white linen suit and a Panama hat, chatting amicably with the matron, who’d come down herself to greet so important a visitor. He was making no move to go inside. Clearly he was waiting for someone to come out to him.

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.’