‘No they’re not,’ Belle said quickly.
‘Oh, I rather think that they are. That very clear, light grey? Although your Papa’s eyes are – harder.’
‘No,’ said Belle. ‘Papa isn’t hard.’
Celia’s smile widened. ‘Of course not. Do forgive me.’ She handed back the photograph. ‘Do you know,’ she said, curling up on the counterpane, ‘I fell for Adam for exactly the same reason. Because he reminded me of my papa.’
‘But that’s not why I—’
‘No, darling,’ said Celia soothingly, ‘of course it isn’t.’ She ran a finger along the satin ribbon which threaded the counterpane. Then she frowned. ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m simply out of sorts. I suppose you’ve heard? Adam’s arriving tomorrow.’
Belle was relieved to be back on safer ground. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’re all rallying round. Osbourne will be on guard with Drum, and I shall cause a diversion at the least sign of a scene.’
‘Darling Belle,’ Celia said perfunctorily. ‘But I hardly think Osbourne’s a match for Adam. He can be – relentless. And I ought to know . . .’ She gave a delicate shudder, and Belle realized that she was enjoying herself immensely.
‘Of course, he’s still mad for me,’ Celia went on. ‘Terrified that he’s lost me for ever.’
Belle could think of nothing to say to that. She glanced at her reflection. To her relief, she saw that the mask was back in place. No-one would guess that it had a crack in it.
In the looking-glass she watched Celia open her evening bag and take out a slim gold compact. ‘Do you sniff?’ Celia asked as she opened the compact and withdrew a tiny gold spoon.
Belle shook her head.
Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I think you ought to try it, just this once.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t—’
‘No arguments, darling. You seem distraite. A touch of snow will do you no end of good.’
Belle met Celia’s eyes in the mirror. Why am I even hesitating? she thought. It’s not as if I’m a model of purity. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps just this once.’
Chapter Twelve
Dinner passed in a glittering haze.
Belle flirted outrageously with Drum Talbot, and laughed too hard at Esmond’s jokes. She drank too much champagne and barely touched her food – although the turbot, lobster and duckling were the best that the ‘good old BM’ could muster. Belle didn’t care. Celia’s snow was fizzing in her blood like wine.
As the ices were brought in, she leaned forward and gazed down the length of the fifty-foot dining table: at the dazzling damask and the shining silver; at the towering compotières of orchids and pineapples and grapes. Brittle laughter dinned in her ears. The glitter of crystal hurt her eyes.
Everything was the wrong way round. She saw housemaids in sequinned evening frocks offering cigars to butlers and gardeners; footmen in white tie and tails dispensing liqueurs to housekeepers and grooms.
Her chemical elation drained sharply away. We’re actors in a play, she thought with a twinge of unease. The flowers and the fruit are the props, and the servants are the stagehands. But where is the audience?
At the other end of the table, Dodo rose to her feet, and like brilliantly coloured shards in a kaleidoscope her guests rose too, and drifted towards the ballroom, where the ragtime band was already striking up. Beyond the ballroom was the Long Gallery, where bridge and bezique awaited the older guests; then there was the Blue Antechamber and the Peacock Salon and the billiards room, and so on and on. There would be Murder and Coon Can until dawn, as well as other, less salubrious games . . .
Suddenly, Belle wanted no part of it. She let the others flow around her like a bright, noisy river, and watched them as if from behind a sheet of glass. She watched them playing their parts.
She saw Esmond leading Celia out for the first dance – although in truth, all he really wanted was to get her alone in some shadowy corner of the library. She saw Celia pretending to have fun. She saw Dodo gamely chatting to the DD as they headed for the bridge tables.
All of them acting, thought Belle. She was puzzled. She hadn’t felt like this in years. Six years ago. Rebecca Traherne’s musical gathering at Parnassus . . .
Suddenly she needed to be alone.
But as she made her way through the chattering throng, a man grabbed her arm. ‘Belle!’ Drum had to raise his voice to be heard above the din. His handsome, boyish face was flushed, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his gardener’s overalls. ‘Be a sport and help me round up a posse for charades!’
‘Later,’ said Belle, removing his hand from her arm.
‘Oh, go on, be a sport!’
‘I said later!’ she snapped.
Drum blinked in surprise: a big, bluff golden retriever who didn’t understand why he’d been told off.
‘Later, Drum darling,’ she murmured, patting his shoulder by way of apology. Then she slipped through the throng and let herself out of a side door onto the terrace: out into the sweet, cool, forgiving September night.
The din of the party fell away. She moved to the balustrade and put both hands on the cool stone.
It was a warm, still evening, and the air smelt faintly of roses. Behind her, a gibbous moon crested the turrets and cupolas of Kyme. Below, the great double curve of steps swept down to the carriageway, reminding her disturbingly of Eden. Beyond that stretched the shadowy vastness of the park, washed in blue moonlight, and dotted with dark trees like men standing guard.
To her left, the terrace was banded with gold from the tall Georgian windows. Through the nearest she caught a glimpse of Osbourne. He was dancing with Binty Sheridan, but swallowing a yawn, while surreptitiously casting around for her.
She felt a little better. Darling Osbourne. But perhaps she would just let him wait a little longer . . .
Down in the carriageway, a motor started up. Wheels crunched on gravel. Turning, Belle saw the beam of headlamps as it drove away, leaving its passenger standing at the foot of the steps. Quietly, Belle withdrew behind a marble urn.
The man who had just arrived stood some twenty feet below her, gazing up at the house. He was in uniform, with a greatcoat slung over one arm, and a valise at his feet. Belle couldn’t see him clearly, but she made out that he was tall and very slender, with an air of contained watchfulness which, even after six years, was instantly familiar.
She felt cold. Adam Palairet. But he was not supposed to arrive until tomorrow.
Over her shoulder, she saw Osbourne detach himself from Binty and move through the dancers towards the windows. He was looking for her. If he spotted her and came out, he’d find himself face to face with his cousin: just the man he was desperate to avoid.
Belle glanced down at the man in the carriageway, and heard again what Osbourne had said. Wouldn’t quite approve of our engagement . . . got something into his head about your mamma’s family . . .
Anger tightened her chest. If Osbourne wanted to avoid him, then avoid him he would.
Adam Palairet had picked up his valise and was starting up the steps.
Belle moved forward to intercept him.
He’d reached the top of the steps when the sound of her heels tapping across the flags made him stop.
A burst of jazz came from the ballroom. At the noise, he flinched, as if to avoid a blow. Then he gave himself a little shake and squared his shoulders, and waited in silence for her to approach. ‘I seem to have arrived in the middle of a party,’ he said. Then he astonished her by taking off his cap and holding it out to her along with his greatcoat. ‘Would you please find a footman to show me up to my room?’
She’d accepted his things automatically, but now she handed them back.
He took them with an air of slight bemusement.
‘I’m afraid,’ she told him, ‘I’m not a maid. This is a master and servant party. I’m Isabelle Lawe.’
Adam Palairet studied her in silence, and in the golden glow from the
great front doors his face gave nothing away. He looked utterly unlike Osbourne. Brown hair, brown eyes beneath strongly marked brows, and a firm, unsmiling mouth. It was a clever face: thin, thoughtful and reserved, but he didn’t look as if he’d laughed in a very long time. In fact, he looked spent. Belle had seen that look before, in men who’d returned from the Front. It was as if a light had gone out.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although he sounded tired rather than sorry. ‘I didn’t realize who you were.’ He held out his hand. ‘How do you do. I’m Adam Palairet.’
‘I know,’ said Belle, just touching his hand with the tips of her fingers. ‘I recognized you. We met once before, years ago. You wouldn’t remember.’
‘I remember,’ he said. He made no attempt to pretend that the memory had been a pleasant one.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw to her horror that Osbourne had spotted her – but not, it seemed, his cousin, for he was making his way purposefully towards the entrance hall.
‘We thought you were arriving tomorrow, Captain Palairet,’ Belle said loudly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Osbourne freeze.
‘I decided to come early,’ said Adam Palairet. ‘I need to see my cousin Osbourne rather urgently. Do you know where he is?’
Belle had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d guessed exactly what she was up to.
She lifted her chin. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ she said crisply. ‘But I’m not at all sure that he wants to see you.’
‘I’m quite sure that he doesn’t,’ said Adam Palairet.
Behind him Belle saw Osbourne slip across the hall and disappear into the library. ‘Then perhaps,’ she said, ‘whatever it is that you want to see him about can wait till tomorrow.’
‘It concerns you too,’ said Adam Palairet, startling her. ‘I understand that you – that you’re a rather close friend of his?’
‘I don’t like your tone,’ she said sharply. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Does it matter?’ He stooped for his valise. ‘When you see him, would you tell him I’ve arrived? Would you ask him to look me up?’
‘No, I don’t think I shall,’ said Belle. ‘Besides, I have things to attend to. For one thing, I’m supposed to stop you from accosting your ex-wife and causing a scene.’
He turned back to her. ‘Celia? Is she here?’
‘Please don’t try to make out that you didn’t already know.’
‘As it happens, I didn’t,’ he said mildly. ‘But why should I wish to cause a scene?’
‘Apparently you used to beat her. Or something equally sordid.’ She felt herself colouring. Spoken out loud, it sounded ludicrous.
Adam Palairet seemed amused. ‘Is that what they say?’
‘Yes, it is. Why do you smile? Don’t you even care?’
‘Should I?’
‘Why do you always answer with questions? It’s most uncivil.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I suppose it’s because for the last four years I’ve been giving orders – that’s what one does in the army – and it’s a relief not to have to do it any more.’ He gave her a brief smile which only made him look more tired. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better find Dodo and reassure her that I’m not about to make a scene.’
She stood in the doorway and watched him walk away across the echoing marble hall.
Something about the way he moved reminded her powerfully of that day on the beach at Salt River. She remembered standing in the sand with Cornelius Traherne, willing the young man who’d just quarrelled with his wife to come towards them. Please, please, she’d begged him silently, and for a moment, when she’d caught his eye, she’d thought that he would. But then he’d turned and walked away, leaving her alone with Traherne.
If only he’d joined them, everything would have been different. Traherne wouldn’t have been able to carry on talking to her; he wouldn’t have had the chance to order her to meet him in Bamboo Walk; and then she would have stayed a child, just a normal child, and Papa wouldn’t have looked at her as if she were a stranger, like in the old nightmare . . . And all because this remote, unsmiling man had walked away.
And now, because of his prejudice against her family, he meant to make trouble for her and Osbourne.
On impulse, she ran after him. ‘Why did you have to come here?’ she cried. ‘Why do you have to spoil things?’
At the sound of her voice, a footman peered from a doorway, then discreetly disappeared.
Belle didn’t care.
Adam Palairet stood looking down at her with his tired, steady brown eyes that gave nothing away.
‘What good does it do?’ cried Belle. ‘We’re so happy! Why must you ruin everything?’
Adam Palairet opened his mouth to say something. Then he seemed to think better of it, and turned on his heel and walked away.
Osbourne wasn’t in the library, but a maid told Belle that he’d been seen leaving the West Gallery, heading for the glasshouses, so she set off in pursuit.
Osbourne had chosen an excellent hiding place. Kyme had four enormous glasshouses from which an army of gardeners kept the house supplied with oranges, grapes, pineapples and peaches; it also had a gardenia house, a conservatory and an orchid room. All were far from the party, being across the lawns from the house, and only dimly lit by gas.
As Belle made her way through the first glasshouse, she began to feel better. And she regretted her outburst at Adam Palairet. She’d made a fool of herself. Besides, what could he actually do? Osbourne was of age, and had his own money from some sort of trust. Let the dreaded captain do his worst.
She searched the conservatory and the gardenia house, then the other glasshouses. All in vain. Osbourne, she thought with a smile, knows how to hide.
Grapes hung overhead in luscious clusters bloomed with pearl. She passed a tree laden with the infamous peaches which had got poor Dodo into trouble. She picked one and took a bite. It tasted incredibly sweet and juicy.
With the peach in her hand, she reached the orchid house. Here the sound of ragtime had faded to an insect whine, and a fountain in a white marble basin made its own gentler music. Orchids twined naked green stems about the hairy trunks of palms beaded with moisture. Belle breathed in a draught of hot, humid air. She smelt jasmine, and the heavy sweetness of Dames de Noces . . .
The scent of Jamaica.
For the first time in years, she thought of her secret place by the Martha Brae. The giant bamboo creaking and whispering overhead; the young duppy tree snaking its folded roots towards the green water . . .
A sharp sense of danger swept over her. Eden had been ruined for her, ruined for ever. She could never go back. Would it be like that with Osbourne? Would Adam Palairet find some way of ruining that too?
She threw away the peach. Broke off a sprig of jasmine and inhaled its heavy, funereal perfume. Then she caught another scent.
Cigar smoke.
In the far corner, through the fronds of an enormous umbrella palm, she made out a faint blue haze of smoke; a corner of a rattan armchair; a man’s hand resting on the arm. Even from this distance she could see that it wasn’t Osbourne.
That smell of cigars . . .
If she shut her eyes she could almost see her father. ‘Hello, Belle,’ he would say when she padded into his study in her nightgown. And if the nightmare had been particularly bad, he’d pour her a tiny glass of rum and water, and she’d lie on the Turkey rug gazing up at the great oil painting of Strathnaw, and ask him impossible questions about robins and snow . . .
Shaking off the memory, she walked the length of the orchid house, and drew aside the palms.
The gentleman in the armchair turned his head, recognized her, and gave a delighted smile.
‘You? But how extraordinary,’ said Cornelius Traherne.
Chapter Thirteen
She was back in Jamaica, and nothing had changed.
Dodo, Sibella, Osbourne – they’d all been a dream. Once agai
n she stood before Cornelius Traherne in the moist half-darkness, amid the dripping palms and the jasmine. Its heavy perfume caught at her throat. The trickle of the fountain was a distant echo of the Martha Brae.
He hadn’t changed. By now he must be in his early seventies, but his lips were still a plump, vigorous red, and his pale, slightly protuberant blue eyes were as avuncular as ever – until one noticed the pupils, as blank and black as a goat’s.
‘It really is you, isn’t it?’ he said with the kindly, old-gentleman smile that she remembered. ‘Little Isabelle Lawe from Eden.’
Her blood thudded in her ears. For a moment the urge to run was almost overwhelming. But if she ran, he would have won. He would know that he still had power over her.
There was a lamp on the cane table at his elbow: a hurricane lamp with a tall glass shade, like the ones on the sideboard at home. Reluctantly, she moved forward into its light. ‘What brings you to Kyme?’ she said.
‘The dear old DD,’ he replied, tilting back his head to draw on his cigar, and regarding her through lowered lids. ‘We’ve been friends for ever. Although as you can see, I’ve eschewed this notion of dressing as a servant in favour of a dull old evening coat. More befitting for an elderly duffer like myself. Don’t you agree?’
Belle did not reply.
‘But tell me,’ he went on, ‘how is your papa? And your beautiful mamma?’
Another silence, which he affected not to notice. ‘And my daughter? How is Sibella? I take it that you left her well?’
She licked her lips.
‘Such a pity that I never seem to see her when I’m in Town.’
‘I thought it was rather that she would not see you.’
He chuckled. ‘It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? And how is my grandson? How does Max go on?’
‘I really can’t say. Sibella has him down in Sussex with a governess.’
Traherne nodded sagely. ‘Safest place for him. Such a sickly child. And always rather fearful, as I recall.’
Belle swallowed hard. She wondered why she didn’t just leave. What was keeping her here, standing before him like a supplicant?
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 93