Once, he had demanded in exasperation if there was anything else that she hadn’t told him.
‘Probably,’ she had replied. ‘Is there anything about your own life that you haven’t told me?’
Touché. That was one of the things he loved about her: that bluntness which could flash out without warning and take one’s breath away.
They had reached the overgrown part of the churchyard behind St Peter’s, and were drawing near to the Durrant graves: a handful of lichen-crusted tablets in an untended, disorderly cluster. Cameron watched her shut her parasol and loop its cord over her wrist as she stopped to read the legend on her grandfather’s tomb. Aristide Durrant, 1813–68. Of Your Charity, Pray for His Soul.
‘Madeleine,’ he said, ‘it’s been eight months.’
Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the tomb.
‘Eight months,’ he repeated, ‘and you’ve never allowed me to say it.’
‘Cameron . . .’
‘Well, this time you can’t stop me.’ He went to her and reached out and gently took her hand in his. She tried to pull away, but he kept his hold.
‘People will see,’ she muttered.
‘No they won’t. There’s no-one about.’ He was silent for a moment, looking down at her hand. Then he turned it palm upwards, and slowly unbuttoned the three little black jet buttons of her glove, and peeled it back. Then he bent and kissed the soft, pale skin on the inside of her wrist. He felt her tense; he heard the sharp intake of her breath. He caught the milky scent of her flesh.
Dizzily, he straightened up.
She was looking down at his ungloved hand grasping her black-sheathed fingers. Her dark brows were drawn together. Her mouth was set.
‘You know that I love you,’ he said, still holding her hand. ‘You know that.’
She made no reply.
‘And I thought – at least I hoped – that you—’ He broke off. ‘Marry me. I want you to marry me.’
Still no reply. Her head was bowed. She was biting her lip.
He drew her closer to him. ‘I’m not asking you to name the day,’ he said. ‘If you want a long engagement, then you shall have it. I just – I just need you to tell me that some day, in the future, you will be my wife.’
At last she raised her head and looked at him. To his dismay he saw that her face was pale and agitated, her eyes bright with tears. She put her free hand on his chest and gently pushed. ‘Not here,’ she said.
‘Madeleine—’
‘Not here.’ With a kind of violence she twisted from his grasp and turned, and took a few unsteady steps, and put her hand to her temple and smoothed back her hair.
And as he watched her, a terrible feeling of risk swept over him. He realized that if he could not bring her to accept him now, today, he would have lost her for ever. His life without her would stretch before him as a meaningless blank. He would never stop wanting her. He would never want any other woman. He would end up like Jocelyn: hopelessly longing for a love whom he had lost decades before.
He felt as if he were standing at the top of a high cliff, looking down over the edge. ‘If you’ve stopped loving me,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, ‘it would be kinder to tell me now. One word will be enough. I’ll do whatever you say. You can tell me to go the devil and I’ll do it. I’ll never trouble you again. But God damnit, Madeleine, just tell me.’
‘I haven’t stopped loving you,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘You know I haven’t.’
‘Then what?’
She shook her head. ‘We can’t talk about this now. Jocelyn’s waiting—’
‘And he’ll go on waiting. He doesn’t mind.’
‘This isn’t the right place. People might—’
‘They don’t matter. Nothing matters but this. You can’t put it off any longer. I won’t let you.’
She turned away.
Again he had that appalling sensation of risk. He fought the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she told him what was holding her back.
At last, to his incredulous relief, she simply nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We can’t put it off any longer. Come. Let’s walk.’
They turned and took the path that ran the length of the churchyard, heading for the silk-cotton tree at the end.
When she still made no move to begin, he decided to help her. He said, ‘I’ve been trying to work out what’s troubling you.’
He felt her turn and look at him, but he kept his eyes on the path. The silk-cotton was still in bloom, and he watched her black skirts stirring the creamy white flowers that littered the gravel. ‘It seems to me’, he went on slowly, ‘that if you do still care for me, then whatever’s troubling you must have something to do with – I’m not sure exactly what, but perhaps you feel some – disinclination – for marrying again.’
He threw her a glance, and saw that he had guessed correctly. He thought, well, one can hardly blame her for that; not after Sinclair. He cleared his throat. ‘You said something once’, he went on, ‘that’s stayed with me. You were talking about Sinclair, and you said, “He’s the husband. He has all the power.” Is that what’s troubling you? Do you fear that as your husband I might have too much power?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘it isn’t that. I do – trust you.’
He caught the hesitation in her voice. ‘But I’m not far off, am I?’
She turned her head and studied the tombstones in the grass. He saw her fingers tighten on her black kid reticule, and open the clasp, and snap it shut. ‘When two people marry,’ she said at last, ‘neither of them has any real idea whether it will work. And if it goes wrong, there’s no way out. It’s irrevocable.’
‘True,’ he said slowly. ‘But I don’t see what—’
‘That’s what happened when I married Sinclair. We made each other miserable, but we were trapped.’ She caught her lower lip in her teeth. ‘I couldn’t bear it if that happened with you. I just couldn’t—’
‘But why should it?’ he broke in. ‘Why should we make each other miserable? I’m not Sinclair.’
She glanced up at him and gave him her quick wide smile. ‘Of course you’re not.’ Then the smile faded. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’
‘What do you mean?’
But she shook her head, and turned away.
He had never felt so mystified. She seemed to be blaming herself for something: something that she couldn’t even bring herself to name. And how was he to counter that?
‘Madeleine,’ he began, ‘I don’t pretend to have understood Sinclair. But I do know that whatever went wrong between you, it wasn’t your fault. There was something in him that wasn’t – that would never be right. And it began a long time ago. Long before he met you. I don’t think we’ll ever know what it was, but—’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ she put in, startling him.
‘What do you mean?’
She dug at the gravel with her heel. ‘After he was killed, I thought I knew what had gone wrong.’ She glanced about her to make sure that no-one could overhear. ‘I thought’, she went on in a whisper, ‘it was because of Victory. Because he – Sinclair – believed that I might turn him over to the authorities. But then I realized that it wasn’t only that. It couldn’t have been.’ She paused. ‘He had a horror of me from the very first night we were married. No, don’t interrupt. I know it’s true. There was something about me that truly horrified him.’
That was so absurd that he nearly laughed. ‘Well, I can assure you that there’s nothing about you which “truly horrifies” me.’
‘But you don’t know that, do you?’ she said quickly. ‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘Yes I do. I—’
‘And you won’t know for sure until we’re married. And then it’ll be too late.’
Now he was well and truly adrift. He had thought that he was following her at last, but she had lost him again and headed off into unfathomable water.
She was still opening and closing that wretched reticule. He wanted to snatch it from her and throw it into the bushes. Then he saw her taut face, and felt contrite. Whatever the problem, it was making her just as unhappy as it was him. He longed to help her, but he didn’t know how.
‘With Sinclair’, she went on, twisting the reticule in her fingers, ‘it went wrong from the very first night. I didn’t perceive that to begin with. Or – perhaps I did, and I just didn’t want to admit it. But I’ve thought about it a great deal since, and I know that I’m right. It went wrong because—’ She broke off.
‘Yes? Because of what?’
She flushed. ‘Because of – that.’
Oh, dear God. This was going to be even harder than he’d thought.
They walked on a few paces in silence, neither of them looking at the other.
He cleared his throat. ‘So your – concern’, he said, ‘is that the same sort of thing might happen to us.’
She turned to him, and he saw that she was fighting back tears. ‘Well, it might, mightn’t it? I mean, how do you know, absolutely know, that it won’t?’
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Well,’ he began awkwardly, ‘as regards – um, that side of things – one can usually sort of – I mean, if there’s real regard, if there’s love . . .’ Now it was his turn to colour.
‘But there’s no guarantee,’ she insisted.
‘Well – I suppose not, but—’
‘I won’t take that risk. No, not with you.’
‘But Madeleine—’
‘What, and have you look at me the way he did? As if I were some sort of monster? No. I can’t. How can I do that?’ Her tone was decided.
His heart sank. Once again he stood at the edge of the cliff. ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ he said. ‘You can’t possibly want to end things between us simply because of some theoretical risk that it might go wrong.’
She didn’t reply.
‘Tell me that’s not what you want,’ he said. ‘Look at me and tell me that.’
She raised her head and met his eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not what I want.’
He drew a shaky breath. ‘Then what the devil are you talking about?’
They had reached the end of the path, where the silk-cotton tree towered overhead. She came to a halt, and turned her parasol in her fingers, and stood there stabbing at the gravel with its point. He sensed that she was nerving herself to say something, but that she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
‘Madeleine,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is, you’ve got to tell me—’
‘I’ll only marry you’, she broke in with peculiar intensity, ‘if we find out beforehand whether it’s going to be all right.’
He blinked. Then understanding dawned. Jesus Christ.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said when he’d got his breath back. ‘Are you telling me that you’ll marry me if we – if we sort this side of things out first?’
Again she stabbed at the gravel. ‘And only’, she added, ‘if it turns out that it’s all right.’
He raised his head and looked up into the branches of the silk-cotton tree: at the vivid emerald leaves and the creamy white flowers against the brilliant, tender blue of the sky. How beautiful, he thought. The most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
He turned back to her, and reached out and took her hand in his. Then he met her eyes, and gave her a slight smile. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I can agree to that.’
The End
Acknowledgements and Author’s Note
First and foremost, I owe a special debt of thanks to my cousins Alec and Jacqui Henderson of Orange Valley Estate, Trelawny, Jamaica, for their unfailing help, hospitality and good humour when I was researching this book.
I’m also most grateful to my aunt, Martha Henderson, for the loan of many invaluable old books on Jamaican history and folklore – and to my uncle, Ian Henderson (who sadly died before the manuscript was finished) for his insights into life as it used to be lived in Jamaica.
I’d also like to thank the following for their very kind help: Mary Langford and Enid Shields, both distinguished members of the Jamaica Historical Society, who gave so generously of their time in taking me round Kingston and its environs; David and Nicky Farquharson, who showed me over their beautiful estate at Hampden (after a never-to-be-forgotten rainstorm); Diane and Mark McConnell, who were so friendly and welcoming at their gloriously situated great house at New Hall; and also Christina Mantle, Patricia Gould, and David Wiggan. In addition, I must also mention Abigail the mastiff, who took time off from her duties to follow me about at Orange Valley, and graciously allowed me to include her in the story.
Finally, I should deal with a few points concerning the narrative itself. The principal Jamaican families and properties featured in the book are entirely fictional, and I have taken some liberties with the local geography around Falmouth in order to accommodate the estates of Eden, Fever Hill, Burntwood and Parnassus. As regards the patois of the Jamaican people, I haven’t attempted to reproduce this precisely, but have instead tried to make it more accessible to the general reader, while retaining, I hope, at least some of its colour and richness.
Michelle Paver
To find out more about Michelle Paver and her novels, visit her website at www.michellepaver.com.
She enchanted you with Wolf Brother. She chilled you to the bone with Dark Matter. Now, prepare to have your heart stolen away to another place and time. From the carnal pleasures of Ancient Rome to the grim battlefields of Flanders… you will live many lives, love many loves – brought to life so convincingly you will wonder where reality ends and fiction begins.
Yes, the past is another country. Let Michelle Paver take you there.
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FEVER HILL
Part two of the Daughters of Eden trilogy
Michelle Paver
Digitally published by
Michelle Paver was born in Malawi; her father was South African and her mother is Belgian. They moved to England when she was small and she was brought up in Wimbledon, where she still lives.
Please visit Michelle's website to watch her talk about all her books, and to receive her newsletter.
Also by Michelle Paver
Without Charity
A Place In The Hills
The Shadow Catcher: Book One in The Eden Trilogy
Fever Hill: Book Two in The Eden Trilogy
The Serpent's Tooth: Book Three in The Eden Trilogy
Wolf Brother: Book One in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Spirit Walker: Book Two in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Soul Eater: Book Three in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Outcast: Book Four in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Oath Breaker: Book Five in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Ghost Hunter: Book Six in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness series
Dark Matter: A Ghost Story
The Outsiders: Book One in the Gods and Warriors series
The Burning Shadow: Book Two in the Gods and Warriors series
FEVER HILL
Copyright © Michelle Paver 2004
The right of Michelle Paver to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Condition of Sale
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cove
r other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First publication in Great Britain by Transworld Publishers, a division of The Random House Group Ltd
ISBN 978-0-9927494-3-9 (ePub)
This edition digitally published by
FEVER
HILL
Part One
Jamaica 1903
Chapter One
The doctors said she had tuberculosis, and blamed it on invisible creatures called ‘bacilli’, but Sophie knew better.
She was ill because the duppy tree was trying to kill her. The washerwoman’s little girl had told her so, and Evie knew all about things like that, for her mother was a witch.
The following year when Sophie was twelve, she recovered. But she still had bad dreams about duppy trees. So one night her brother-in-law took her up into the hills to meet one. Cameron rode his big bay gelding, and Sophie her new pony Puck, and when they reached the great tree in the glade on Overlook Hill they sat on the folded roots, and ate the fried plantain and johnny cake which Madeleine had packed for them. Sophie felt scared, but safe, because Cameron was with her.
And as she sat beside him in the blue moonlight, she watched the little lizards darting up and down the enormous trunk, and the fireflies blinking in the leaves; she listened to the whirr of the mango-bugs and the ringing pulse of the crickets; and Cameron said, ‘Look, Sophie, there’s a yellowsnake,’ and she glimpsed a tail disappearing behind a root.
She thought about all the small animal lives sheltering in the branches above her head, and realized that she must have been mistaken about the tree wanting to kill her. And after that she wasn’t scared of duppy trees any more. Instead, she became passionately interested in them, and tried to grow one in a pot.
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 40