The Fever Tree (3 page)

She hesitated. It could be compromising if someone walked in and found them alone together, but in the end curiosity got the better of her. She wanted him to reveal himself, so she agreed to play.

He picked up an ashtray and placed it on the card table. There was a cigar ground down in the bottom of it. She could smell the rich, sweet tobacco. He pulled out a chair for her, and as she sat his knuckles brushed against the back of her dress. He began setting out the pieces. She remembered his tendency towards silence. “Is it true,” she asked, prompting him into conversation, “that if all the diamonds at the Cape were sold at once, a diamond wouldn’t be worth more than a pebble?”

“Perhaps,” he said, straightening up the pawns so that their rectangular bases ran parallel with the squares. “If they could all be sold at once. But most of them are still in the ground.” He glanced up at her. “To be honest, I am more concerned with the people who mine the diamonds than the stones themselves.”

“The magnates?”

“And the natives who work for them.”

“Are they very savage?” she asked with a dramatic flourish.

He glanced at her but didn’t answer, and irritated by his disapproval, she turned her attention to the board. The chess pieces were intricate imitations of the Battle of Waterloo, the upper torsos of the soldiers flattened into ivory, blue uniforms against red. He took up a pawn and put his arms behind his back, then brought them forward in front of him for her to choose. His hands were white and hairless, and when Frances touched one lightly it turned and unfolded like a flower, revealing long fingers with the ivory piece resting on a creased palm.

Frances didn’t concentrate on the game. Instead she watched the doctor play. There was a contained satisfaction in his body, an accuracy of expression in the way he moved his pieces around the board that frustrated her. She was ashamed to find herself wanting him to acknowledge her position, and she regretted agreeing to play. Occasionally there was a swell of noise as the door to the ballroom was opened, and they heard low voices and the steady footsteps of men going out into the night to smoke.

When the opening moves had been played out, Frances deliberately moved her bishop so that he could take her, but he avoided her and instead slid his knight neatly around it. She countered quickly, opening up her board, exposing herself over a series of moves, but still he wouldn’t take her, not even when her queen was open to his bishop. She became more reckless, but still he held back. Finally he executed a perfect checkmate, removing just one of her pawns from the board in order to bring his queen into attack. When it was over he leant back in his chair and studied her.

“I don’t interest you, Miss Irvine?”

He was looking straight at her, and she met his gaze. “Quite the opposite. You convincingly proved yourself the better player.” She felt a small satisfaction in refusing to engage. She stood up to go, but he motioned for her to sit.

“I have to return to the Cape before the end of the year.” He was looking steadily at her, eyes calm, but a blue vein pulsed across the surface of his forehead.

Voices and rapid steps came down the corridor. They paused outside the library door and then moved on. “The Cape, Miss Irvine, would interest you.” He moistened his lips. “I hope, in time, that I could interest you.” For a brief moment the music had stopped, and all Frances could hear was the slow ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Interest me in what, exactly?”

“In marriage. I am asking for your hand in marriage.”

Frances blinked back at him in surprise. She had expected an artful declaration of passion, perhaps, but no more than that.

“There’s a chance I’ll make some money.” He leant forward, his eyes flickering over her face. “Others have done it . . . if I can establish myself in certain circles . . .” He paused, lowering his voice. “You could help me. Introduce me to the right people.”

“Introduce you to the right people?” she asked in disbelief. “What do you think my father would say if he were here now? Don’t you think you are rather taking advantage of his charity?”

“Are you happy living in London?”

The question threw her, and it took her a moment to say, “I can assure you my happiness is no concern of yours.”

She drew back her chair and stood up. It was possible she had encouraged him, certainly she had played his game, but now that he had delivered his lines, she realized their situation was completely inappropriate.

He stood up and walked with her over to the door. “If you change your mind . . .”

He was too confident, and she suddenly disliked him. “You play a good game of chess, Dr. Matthews, but I’m quite sure it will have been our last.”

She left him standing by the door and walked quickly out of the room.

F
rances waited for her uncle in the drawing room on the first floor of his Mayfair villa. Lucille and Victoria hadn’t appeared, and though manners dictated they should greet her if they were at home, she suspected, from the occasional squeals of girlish laughter and thrum of feet upstairs, that they had simply decided not to come down. She was nervous and would rather be standing, but had instead chosen to position herself in the corner of a deep, rust-brown velvet sofa. She didn’t want to seem confrontational, a criticism that her uncle might have applied to her father, and which she supposed could be extended to herself. Her father had been dead two weeks, and her uncle had called her here, she hoped, to offer her a place in his household.

The drawing room was an impressive space, with high, corniced ceilings and an excess of dark, claw-footed furniture. Varnished mahogany tables with curving, white marble tops and gilt lamps stopped up every gap in the sea of velvet. Her aunt collected De Morgan vases, and the luster-glazed, ocher-red images of dogs chasing a variety of beasts gleamed from the corners of the room. The easy grandeur of this house had enthralled her as a child. It had been in the family for over sixty years, and Frances wasn’t sure whether it was this fact, or the convincing size of her uncle’s family, which lent it an air of invulnerability. How flimsy the trappings of her father’s life had proved in the wake of his death. There was none of the stability that Frances saw here. More than half a century after the family had moved in, this house seemed as resistant as ever to calamity.

The pattern of green and maroon stained glass on the windows facing her cast a gloomy light over the room, keeping out the brightness of the August day outside. There was no fire burning in the grate and the lamps hadn’t been lit. Her uncle admired what he called
quality
, but he had a distaste for excess, another criticism which had been extended to her father, who had loved cigars and long nights at his club with a passion that suggested he hadn’t believed in a correlation between indulgence and longevity.

After a few minutes, she stood up impatiently, her black crepe skirts rustling, and walked to the far side of the room, where a piano stood to the right of a wide bay window. She leant an elbow on the mahogany and looked into the Wardian case that stood embedded in the bay. It was a large ornate structure made of glass and lead with a rock garden at the bottom barely visible beneath a riot of ferns. They grew too closely together, palms pressed against the glass as though appealing for escape. The case had steamed up with a clammy heat. She bent closer and smelt the sweet rot of damp vegetation. A few lime-green shoots were unrolling themselves in the bottom corners, sprouting dense buds that looked like a collection of soft, furry snails. The glass case offered protection—the ferns wouldn’t last a minute exposed to the pollution of London air—but it would also, eventually, suffocate them.

“You share my daughters’ fascination?” Frances turned and saw her uncle walk a little way into the room. “They are quite passionate about natural history.” Frances didn’t contradict him, though she seemed to remember her cousins had long ago abandoned their interest in the natural world; a passing obsession that had lasted long enough to convince him of their diligence.

“Uncle, thank you for finding the time to see me.”

He was dressed in his customary black suit and was frowning slightly, like a man under threat, not a little afraid of what the world might be mustering to throw at him. He was someone, she thought, who might be cowardly in all things except in the protection of his family. This single passion precluded close relationships with outsiders, and Frances, who had never had reason until now to test his feelings towards her, was unsure whether she would be considered one of those to be protected.

He waved her to a corner of the brown sofa and sat down in a chair opposite. “How is Mrs. Arrow keeping?”

“Quite well, thank you.” He had leapt straight to the heart of her problem, but she wanted to avoid having to spell out her fears. Her father’s sister—Mrs. Arrow—had arrived two weeks ago from Manchester. She took a shrill pleasure in denouncing her brother’s fall into penury, and demanded a gratitude from Frances which exhausted her. Every conversation began with a veiled criticism. “When we get to Manchester, I shan’t want you. . . .” She had five children, three of whom needed a nurse, and she had agreed to take Frances with her to Manchester on the understanding that she fulfill that role.

“Good. Now, I have received a letter that pertains to you.” He unfolded a piece of paper from his waistcoat. “From a Dr. Matthews.”

Frances felt the muscles in her face freeze up.

“He asks for your hand in marriage.” Her uncle smiled at her. “What do you think of that?”

“I think nothing of it.” She tried to keep her voice level, conscious that too much emotion unsettled him. “I can’t marry Dr. Matthews.”

“I understand it might not have been what you were expecting, Frances, but on reflection it is a good match. And he has written a convincing letter. He talks about his friendship with your father, and your father’s charity towards him as a child. He is a qualified physician with a practice in Kimberley, and while he has little money right now, he is young and there is every chance he will do well in the colonies.”

“Please, Uncle. You don’t understand.”

“Frances.” His voice was cautionary, tipped with steel.

“I barely know him.”

“He tells me he saw you not long ago, in this house? You played chess together? That sounds almost like a courtship.”

“I don’t like him.” Frances took a deep breath, trying to suppress the panic which was welling up inside her. She needed to appeal to her uncle on a practical level. “You can’t imagine what he is like. He is all ambition. From the moment he came down from Manchester to stay with us he has wanted to sidle his way into our family.”

Her uncle looked unmoved. He put his palms together, placed the tips of his fingers under his chin, and spoke in a measured, even tone. “I have spoken to him myself. Ah—you are surprised? Yes, I asked him to call on me here. You see, despite what you may think, I have taken your future very much to heart. He spoke warmly of you, and I was reassured that he is a good man with appreciable prospects. Your father exposed you to a great deal of privilege and your life will—undoubtedly—have to change, but he will see that you are well looked after.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you will live with your aunt in Manchester.”

“You know very well I can’t!” Desperation crept into her voice. “I’ll have to work for my aunt for the rest of my life.”

Her uncle looked at his hands and said nothing.

“She is so different!” Frances stood up, biting her lip.

“Not so different from you, Frances,” her uncle said carefully. “She is, after all, your father’s sister.”

Frances caught sight of herself in the gold-crested mirror over the fireplace. She regretted standing up. Her uncle would take it as a sign of bad breeding. Beneath the eagle with his wings unfurling, the dark, convex glass threw a distorted impression back at her. Sparks of red hair swirled away from her in dense curls, and the narrow, angular lines of her face warped so that her mouth twisted with bitterness. Her Irish blood was too visible for her uncle’s liking, reminding him of everything her mother had given away, and she wondered whether he would be happy never to see her again. “So—you won’t have me?”

“Good God, Frances! You are just like your father,” he said in exasperation, turning down the corners of his mouth in distaste.

“Imagine Lucille living with her!” Frances raised her voice in accusation. “Do you think she could stand it?”

He paused for a second. When he spoke, it was with a certain detachment, his voice freezing up at the edges. “I have been very careful to make sure that my daughters are provided for should anything happen to me. And I must remind you, though I struggle to see how you have forgotten, that neither Mrs. Arrow nor Dr. Matthews is any relation of mine. But, since you ask the question, I hope I have brought my girls up with grace and humility enough to accept what life throws at them. The last few weeks have been difficult for you, Frances, and of course I sympathize, but I would also encourage you to accept that life cannot always be easy.”

Either he hadn’t quite understood the position she was in or he had chosen not to engage with it. She felt misunderstood. In his distrust of others he had drawn a circle around his family, and it was clear to her now that she had been excluded. With nothing left to lose, she approached that part of her which was most appalled. “And what about your loyalty towards my mother?”

“Your mother thought your father’s family was good enough for her, and I’m sure if she were here today she would think they were quite good enough for her daughter. Your lack of resolve does her a disservice.”

He sighed and stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. “I think you know your father left behind some considerable expenses. I wouldn’t want you to think we haven’t been generous. But this isn’t an issue of cost. I won’t say I approve of your frankness, but since you have been honest I will give you honesty in return. My wife and I have discussed your situation at length. We are not sure it is in your nature to play second fiddle, as it were, to anyone. You should ask yourself whether you would really be happy living here under the umbrella of your cousins. I am inclined to think you would not.”

Frances didn’t tell him that she would do everything in her power to please her cousins if it would save her from living as a servant in her aunt’s house. She saw that he wouldn’t change his mind, and her pride had been wounded enough. “Please write to Dr. Matthews and tell him I can’t accept his offer.”

“If that is your decision.”

She nodded. How could it be otherwise? She couldn’t marry a man for whom she felt no affection, a man who was prepared to use her sudden fall in fortune as an opportunity to coerce her into marriage. She turned to go, and her uncle said, as if piqued that she was leaving so soon, and in a sudden remembrance of magnanimous generosity prompted not so much by Frances’s situation as by paternal pride, “You must come and see the family before you leave London. They are very generous, my girls, and I know they will have all sorts of things they will want you to take with you to Manchester.” She glanced back once as she walked out of the door, and saw her uncle deadheading a geranium bush that was beginning to droop, his attention already diverted to the safe running of his household.

•   •   •

I
T
WAS
LATE
in the afternoon by the time she got home. Her aunt stood in the doorway of the morning room clutching her youngest child. She was a stout woman with wiry red hair streaked with gray, and a red rash that crept down her nose and across her cheeks when she was upset. Frances could see herself dimly reflected in the older woman’s features, and wondered whether this was what age had in store for her.

“What on earth took you so long?” her aunt asked, casting a neat, sharp slap across her cheek. Before Frances could react, the woman had thrust the child forward. She had no choice but to take the placid weight of him in her arms. His face was white and shiny like a porcelain jug, and a thin mucus streamed from his nose. When he made a grasp for her mouth with a wet hand, she smelt the creases in his fingers, damp and sour like soft cheese.

“Poor Jimmy! What he needs, Frances, is a nurse who can keep the time. Honestly, you behave as if I weren’t doing you a favor, taking you with me. Heaven knows it’s only out of the goodness of my own heart. It’s not as if you know the first thing about bringing up children. Just look at you!” she cried as Frances struggled to keep hold of the wriggling boy. “You’re no stronger than a child. You’ve never done a hard day’s work in your life.”

Frances bent down and placed the boy on the floor and, ignoring her aunt’s protests, walked quickly upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door, barely registering the howl which had started up downstairs. For the first time since her father’s death she felt something stronger than grief take hold of her.

Her father had taken her once to her aunt’s house; a small terraced cottage in a street so long you couldn’t see to the ends of it. There were so many people crammed inside its four rooms, wailing and crying and climbing up her skirts, that Frances thought her head might explode with the noise. It was winter and the windows dripped with condensation. The walls were covered with a cheap imitation wallpaper which the gas lamp had turned from orange to black, and the rug was matted with damp. The maid had red eyes that streamed as if weeping were a fact of life. Frances had stepped out to the privy in the backyard. Its door had frozen shut and she had to kick at it to loosen the hinges. Cockroaches nestled their wriggling bodies between thin cracks in the wood. She had stood there, hands pressed together, renouncing this place as a kind of personal hell.

Now her father was dead, his protection was gone, and she was being sent back to where he had come from. Unlike him, she didn’t think she would ever escape. It wasn’t unusual for a household to keep an overworked relation, who sweated for her keep and had no family of her own, until she was too old to be of any use. She couldn’t rely on her aunt’s children to keep her in her old age. They wouldn’t remember their obligation to her father. More than likely, she would be cast out to the workhouse. If she didn’t find a way to escape going to Manchester, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it.