Sophie climbed the steps and leaned against the parterre wall to watch. Then she shaded her eyes with her hand and frowned. The groom walking the mare was the same one she’d seen in Montpelier. She recognized the way he moved: that graceful, straight-backed wariness which reminded her of Ben Kelly. Grimly, she wondered how Alexander would try to wriggle out of this.
The groom took off his cap and wiped his forehead on his wrist, and she realized that he didn’t just remind her of Ben Kelly. He was Ben Kelly.
She wasn’t even all that surprised. In some way, she had known it was him from that first moment in Montpelier.
It was Ben Kelly – and yet it wasn’t. The Ben Kelly she remembered – the image she’d carried around with her – had been a whip-thin street urchin of fourteen or so: more than a boy, but not yet a man, his face hardened by a childhood spent in the slums. The young man she was looking at now must be – what, about twenty-two? Still thin, but with nothing of the child about him. He was clean-shaven, with straight black hair and a sharply handsome but resolutely unsmiling face.
She remembered what Madeleine had said on the verandah when she’d taxed her with seeing him in Montpelier. Which Ben? Good heavens. Don’t mention that to Cameron, will you? Madeleine had known it was him all along. And she’d never said a word.
Well, my God, Maddy, thought Sophie angrily, you shan’t wriggle out of it this time. And neither shall that simpering Alexander Traherne.
She pushed herself off the wall and took a step forward. ‘So it was you at Montpelier,’ she said loudly, and her voice echoed across the dead grass.
He spun round, saw her, and stopped dead. He was only about five yards away. She was close enough to see how his face went still, and his eyes widened slightly with shock.
‘Hello, Ben,’ she said. ‘Remember me? Sophie Monroe.’
He did not reply. He just stood there in the blazing sunlight, staring at her. Beside him the little mare shook out her mane, then playfully nuzzled his shoulder.
‘I saw you yesterday,’ said Sophie, ‘in Montpelier. But you’d gone before I could come across and say hello.’
Still he did not reply. Instead he gave her a slight bow – the perfect groom – and then, to her astonishment, put his cap back on and turned and started leading the mare towards the stables.
‘Ben!’ she called out sharply. ‘Come back here.’
The stable boys stopped talking and turned to look. Sophie ignored them. ‘Come back here. I need to talk to you.’
But he threw her a glance over his shoulder, and shook his head. Then he walked away.
She moved to follow him, but her knee buckled and she had to steady herself on the parterre wall.
Somewhere behind her, a woman tittered. Sophie glanced round and saw Amelia Mordenner and the lovely Mrs Dampiere standing on the steps by the house, watching her. She glared at them.
And when she turned back to the stables, Ben Kelly had gone.
Chapter Four
He thought he was doing all right until he saw Sophie.
Second groom at Parnassus, and it’s only a matter of time till they put old Danny out to pasture and make him head. Ben Kelly, head groom. That’s not bad for starters.
Then yesterday he was walking Trouble round to cool her off, and suddenly there she was: Sophie Monroe, but all grown up.
He hasn’t thought of her in years. Not once. It’s an easy trick to master when you get the hang of it. You just slam the lid down and put your thoughts to something else. Just slam the lid down hard.
At least, he thought that was how it worked. But then yesterday, just for a moment, everything blew wide open, and he was back where it started. Nine years ago, in that photo shop in the Portland Road, with this posh kid in the stripy red pinafore trying to give him a sodding book.
‘I thought you might care to have it,’ she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘And then you’ll be able to read too.’
For the life of him he couldn’t work out what she was after. Giving him things? What for? It made him go hot and prickly in his chest. It made him want to hurt her, so that she’d know better than to give things to people.
And yesterday, as she’d stood there in the glare, telling him to come back and talk to her, he’d got it again: that hot prickly tightness in his chest.
Ah, sod it. She’ll get over it. What’s she expect?
It’s still dark, and in the bunk-house everyone else is fast asleep. He can’t stand it no more, so he pulls on his togs, and puts Sophie out of his mind, and goes out to see to his horses. It’s been a bloody long night.
After he’s done his horses, he fetches a bit of sweet hay for Trouble, his favourite, to get her appetite going. What a daft name, Trouble. Whoever called her that didn’t know shit about horses, cos this one wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t know how. She’s too busy puzzling out what people want of her, so she can obey them, and not get thrashed. Only that’s easier said than done, seeing as she’s a horse, and dumb as a post.
So now she’s happily snuffling up the hay, and he’s scratching her ears, when all of a sudden she jerks up her head, all startled and worried.
It’s Master Alex, come for an early ride. Trouble’s scared of him. Maybe it’s his yellow riding-gloves. Maybe in the past she got thrashed by a groom in a yellow coat, or kicked by a horse with a yellow saddlecloth. Or then again, maybe it’s just Master Alex.
‘Now then, my lad,’ he goes, with that false jauntiness that sets Ben’s teeth on edge. ‘Saddle her up, there’s a good fellow.’
‘What, sir?’ goes Ben, playing for time.
Master Alex gives an irritated little laugh. ‘The mare. Saddle her up. That is, if you have no objection.’
As it happens, Ben does. The thing about Trouble is that somewhere down the line, she had a bad time of it. She was in a right state when she come here: running with lice, scared of her own shadow, and all sorts of bad habits. Ben worked on her for months. He oiled her for lice and washed her out for worms; he talked to her all the time, so she’d know he wasn’t going to hurt her. And as for them bad habits, she was just bored. So he put her in a loose-box where she could see into the yard, and gave her a turnip on a bit of twine to play with, and now she’s happy as a lark. She even looks like a horse again. Nice glossy coat, and the free step of a really good mover.
Not that Master Alex would know about that, as he hasn’t been allowed to ride her yet. Ben’s seen to that. The last thing she needs is a heavy-handed idiot like him yanking her about.
‘When you’re ready, my lad?’ goes Master Alex, all sarky. Funny how Ben’s always ‘my lad’, even though they’re pretty much of an age.
‘Yessir,’ goes Ben, tipping his cap. ‘It won’t take a moment to give her the once-over with a bit of soft soap.’
Master Alex frowns. ‘Whatever for?’
‘On account of the lice, sir. She’s nigh on free of them. But it’s always them last little few that do like to hang on.’
Master Alex shoots him a look, like he thinks he’s being played, but he’s not quite sure. At least, not sure enough to risk the lice.
So in the end he gets up on Eagle, a big flashy chestnut with no staying power. They’re made for each other, them two. Ben bites back a grin as he watches them go.
‘Watch youself, bwoy,’ says Danny Tulloch on his way to the tackroom.
‘Why’s that, then?’ goes Ben.
Danny crinkles up his sour old face and spits. ‘You know what I referring to, bwoy. That likkle mare belong to Master Alex, not you. You run you mouth with him, he put you out the door quick-time.’
Ben shrugs. ‘Well then I’ll watch myself, won’t I?’
Danny gives a sour grin and shakes his head.
He’s all right, is Danny. Him and Ben have an understanding. Danny’s a cousin of Grace McFarlane, Evie’s ma, and years ago she done Ben a favour, and he done her one back. So any cousin of hers is all right by him, and that’s how old Dan
ny sees it too.
By now Master Alex is well gone, so Ben slips a head-collar on Trouble and gets up on her bareback, and takes her down the beach, for the iodine.
It’s all right, the beach. Willow trees and white sand, and that clear water: as clear as gin. When he first come to Jamaica, he used to sleep out here. It was the only place where he could find a bit of peace. Everywhere else got him all twisted up inside.
The trouble was, there was too much of everything. Every kind of fruit you could think of, just growing wild by the side of the road. All the flowers and the coloured parrots, and the warm, clean, spicy-smelling air. It made him think about Kate and Robbie and the others back in London, rotting away in their freezing, muddy graves. It made him feel so bad. That’s when he learned to slam the lid down hard.
But Trouble likes the beach, and all. So they have a bit of a gallop, with Ben down low against her neck, muttering, ‘Go on, sweetheart, let’s see what you can do.’ She’s got a lovely action. Proper little Jamaican thoroughbred: goes fast, stays well, and runs small and light.
After a bit he slips off her back and they take a walk in the sea. He lets go of the reins and she follows him like a dog, giving little snorty blows to tell him she’s enjoying herself. And when he jumps back on, she twists round and nibbles his knee. That’s horse-talk for ‘We’re mates, you and me’, so he returns the favour by finger-nibbling her neck. More snorty little blows.
The last time he saw Sophie – before she went to England, that is – she was scratching her pony’s neck, too. She was out riding with her grandpa, a little ways past Salt Wash. The old man was up on a big clean-limbed grey, and Sophie on a fat little Welsh Mountain cross. She must of been about fourteen, riding astride in one of them divided skirts, maybe because a side-saddle would of buggered up her knee. And she was chattering, of course, and scratching her pony’s neck.
She didn’t see Ben. He was in a weeding gang in the cane-piece by the side of the road, and she never noticed. Well, why should she? He could of called out to her, but he didn’t. What’s the point? She’s quality and he’s not. It’s all very well when you’re kids, but you don’t want to go mixing things up later on.
Madeleine understands that. The other day at Montpelier, they’d glanced at each other, and she’d smiled and said Hello, Ben, you’re looking well, but after that she’d hardly said a word. And she was right. They might of been mates in London, but that was years ago. You can’t go mixing things up.
That’s what Sophie needs to understand. The way she’d looked at him yesterday. Sort of puzzled, and maybe a bit hurt that he wouldn’t stop for a word.
But then – oh, how she’d glared at that Mrs Dampiere, when her knee went, and they laughed at her! So she’s still got a temper on her, just like the old days.
One time back in London, they were in the kitchen of that Cousin Lettice’s, and he was standing by the door, ready to cut the lucky at the first sign of trouble, while Madeleine and Sophie and Robbie were sitting at the table, eating soup. And all of a sudden Sophie twisted round in her chair and hiked up her pinafore dress a few inches, and peeled back her stocking. ‘Look, Ben, I’ve got a bruise.’ And she pointed to a tiny pink swelling on the cleanest knee he’d ever seen.
‘That’s no bruise,’ he’d snarled.
‘Yes it jolly well is,’ she’d flashed back.
Oh, she had a temper all right. But the rum thing was, she was also easy to hurt. Like when she give him the picture-book and he snapped at her, and for a moment her honey-coloured eyes filled with tears.
So had he hurt her yesterday, when he walked away? Had he? Ah, sod it. Who cares?
Once there was this old bloke in London, Mr McCluskie, and he said, ‘You know, Ben Kelly, you’re better than you think you are. Why not give yourself a chance?’ But that’s just bollocks. And the sooner Sophie works that out, the better.
He puts Trouble into a canter, and they cross the Coast Road and go up through the gates of Parnassus. The lodges are big stone affairs with blind windows and a Latin motto on the front. Deus mihi providebit. Danny’s brother Reuben, who’s a preacher at Coral Springs, says that means ‘God will provide for me’.
Well, that might be true if you’re Alexander Traherne or Madeleine Lawe or Sophie Monroe, but it don’t mean a sodding thing if you’re Ben Kelly. God leaves the Kellys to shift for themselves.
So what? It’s the way of the world. But the point is, you don’t want to go mixing things up.
It’s midday when he gets back, and the stableyard’s silent and still beneath a hammering sun. Nothing but the red dust shimmering, and the crickets loud in your ears.
He gives Trouble a rub-down, and now she’s leaning over the door of her loose-box, all happy and relaxed.
She’s all right, is Trouble. In the morning when he brings her her feed she nickers at him. The first horse he ever met, actually met, so to speak, it nickered at him too. Till he got the job in Berner’s Mews he’d never given much thought to horses. But on his second day there, this ratty old bay nickered at him. He asked Mr McCluskie why it did that, and he said, ‘It’s because you fed him last night, lad.’
‘So?’ said Ben. ‘That don’t mean I’ll do it again.’
‘Yes, but he don’t know that, do he, lad?’
That’s horses for you. Not much in the upper storey, but they never forget. Not ever. What a way to live. To remember everything. Everything about Madeleine and Sophie, and about Robbie and the others, and – and Kate. Bloody hell. He’d sooner top himself.
So now it’s the afternoon, and the ladies are going out calling. They always like Ben to drive, as it adds a bit of class to have a white groom instead of a darkie, so he’s got to get all poshed up in his buckskin breeches and topboots, and the tight blue tunic with the high collar. All to drive the quality about, so they can leave their little bits of pasteboard on each other.
This afternoon it’s just Madam doing the rounds, so he’s back in time for tea. Only there’s a riding party going out, and four horses wanting tacking up, so no tea.
Master Alex and Master Cornelius are taking that Mrs Dampiere up to see Waytes Lake. They’ve both got the hots for her, and they’re dragging Miss Sib along to keep it respectable. So off they go. But an hour later Master Cornelius is back again, all hot and cross. Miss Sib’s mare’s gone lame. Ben’s to take her a fresh horse, and then walk the lame one back.
So off he goes on Samson, heading south-west through the cane-pieces of Waytes Valley. It’s good being on his own. Nothing but the creak of the tack and the wind in the cane. To his right he can see the vast flat acres of the Queen of Spain’s Valley, that Master Traherne bought from Sophie’s grandpa; to his left, far in the distance, the giant bamboo along the Fever Hill Road.
He finds them up the southern end of Waytes Valley, and swaps round the saddles, and helps Miss Sib up onto Samson. The mare’s lame, all right. It’ll be a long walk back.
But now the quality are having a squabble. Miss Sib’s got a headache and wants to go home, but she don’t want ‘the groom’ taking her, as that’d be too slow; she wants her brother and Mrs Dampiere. Master Alex isn’t having any of that, he wants to take Mrs Dampiere to the lake by hisself. Well he would, wouldn’t he?
In the end, of course, Miss Sib wins, and Master Alex has to do the gentlemanly thing and take her back. That’s when Mrs Dampiere puts in her oar. ‘I’d so set my heart on seeing the lake,’ she goes, all apologetic. ‘I wonder, Alex dear, would it be too much trouble – could the groom possibly show me the way?’
She’s a pretty bit of muslin. Very young and very meek, with pale gold hair and surprised grey eyes, and a little soft pink mouth. The sort that always gets their way.
And Master Alex grits his teeth and smiles at her, and says, ‘Why, of course.’ Then he tells Ben to walk the lame mare up to the house at Waytes Point, pick up a fresh horse, then take the lady on to the lake.
‘Yessir,’ goes Ben. Like he hasn’t thought o
f that already.
Master Alex shoots him a look. He’s got the Traherne eyes: pale blue, with the centres black and bottomless, like a goat’s. ‘Make sure you’re back before dark,’ he goes, with a hint of a warning in his voice. ‘There’s a good lad.’
So now they’re off to Waytes Point, him and Mrs Dampiere. And pretty soon they’ve left the lame mare grazing in the paddock, and Ben’s up on Gambler, who’s fifteen if he’s a day, but only too glad of an outing. Mrs Dampiere rides behind and don’t say a word, which is fine by Ben. He’s not sure about her. Why did she have to go and laugh when Sophie nearly took a tumble?
He slams the lid on that, and in half an hour they get to the lake. It’s not much of a lake. Just a cut-stone dam to catch the runoff from the hills, with a sheet of slimy green water behind. Not Ben’s favourite place, neither. That dead water, smothered in waterlilies. The big flat sickly yellow leaves. The whole place stinks of rottenness and graves.
But Mrs Dampiere don’t seem to notice. They stop beneath a clump of trees by the dam, and she tells him to help her down. It’s the first thing she’s said to him all afternoon.
While he’s seeing to the horses, she walks out onto the dam wall. It’s smooth underfoot and over a yard wide, but on one side there’s a nasty drop into some thorn bushes, and on the other that swampy green water; so he goes after her, to see her all right. Master Cornelius would have his hide if she took a tumble.
Halfway along she nearly does, and he offers her his arm, and she takes it without a word.
She’s wearing a dark blue riding-habit, very nipped in at the waist, and long black gloves with black pearl buttons, and a glossy top hat with a dark blue spotted veil. He can see a wisp of pale gold hair escaping at the nape.
For some reason, that puts him in mind of Sophie when she was a kid. Her hair wasn’t fine like Mrs Dampiere’s, but thick and coarse like a horse’s mane, and strawberry blonde. Only now that she’s grown up it’s darker, sort of light brown.
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 44