The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  For years she had imagined this moment. She had planned precisely what she would say to this man who had ruined her life; this man who haunted her nightmares and infected her mind.

  Sometimes in her fantasies, she destroyed his reputation before an awestruck crowd with a few well-turned phrases. Sometimes she achieved it with an icy, contemptuous glance. More recently, her daydreams involved cutting him dead as she walked in unimpeachable respectability on the arm of her handsome new husband, Osbourne Palairet.

  But none of the fantasies worked. None of them could take away that sense of being for ever tainted. That deep conviction that only he really knew who she was.

  Like a supplicant she stood before him in her maid’s uniform – dear God, in her maid’s uniform, just as he’d once told her she would. She was inside his fantasy. The intervening years had been a dream . . .

  ‘I must say,’ he said, ‘you’re looking uncommonly well. And that costume is rather a success. You make a very fetching maid.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ said Belle.

  He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m not a child any more.’

  ‘What an odd thing to say.’ He paused. ‘But then, you always were an extraordinary little girl.’

  ‘No,’ said Belle. ‘No I wasn’t.’ But she knew that her voice lacked conviction.

  ‘Oh yes, quite extraordinary. You seemed to know things at thirteen which most grown women—’

  ‘You ruined me,’ she said.

  He reached over to the ash-stand at his elbow and ground out his cigar. Then he drew another from his dinner jacket, rolled it between his fingers, lit it, and leaned back with a sigh. ‘I rather fancy,’ he said, ‘that you’re confusing me with someone else.’

  Belle stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.

  ‘Oh, you needn’t trouble to apologize,’ he said gently. ‘It’s easy to do. One’s memories of childhood are so unreliable, aren’t they? Events run together. Faces blur.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she whispered.

  ‘However, because you’re the daughter of an old friend,’ he went on, ‘I’m inclined simply to draw a veil over such a regrettable misunderstanding.’ Frowning slightly, he picked a fleck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. ‘Although if I’ve understood you correctly – if it’s true, as I hope it is not, that something unfortunate happened to you when you were a child – then for the sake of the regard I have for your parents, for the sake of their standing in society, and indeed for the sake of the respect I have for you – then you have my word as a gentleman that it shall go no further.’

  There was a roaring in her ears. She put out a hand to steady herself, and beneath her palm the window pane felt clammy and cold. ‘In all these years,’ she said, ‘it never occurred to me that you might lie about it.’

  The pale goat-eyes met hers steadily. Patient. Unassailable. She could see that he did remember, but that he would never allude to it.

  You can’t ever tell anyone. You know that, don’t you? It’s our secret.

  Of course she knew it. If anyone found out – if Osbourne got to hear of it – the engagement would be over, and her last chance of safety would be at an end.

  And yet – it appalled her that he could pretend like this.

  ‘You used to tell me,’ she said in a low voice, ‘that I was born to play the part of a maidservant.’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  ‘You used to say that if I was yours, you would see to it that I wore nothing but an apron—’ her voice broke.

  He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘But how extraordinary. I have no recollection of that whatsoever.’

  With astonishment she realized that at least in this, he was telling the truth. He’d forgotten all about his own fantasy. He’d simply forgotten. Somehow that was more humiliating than if he’d remembered. And more frightening. It was like being rubbed out.

  ‘I was thirteen years old,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And you did – that.’

  He rose to his feet, looking down at her with polite concern. ‘You clearly are a most unfortunate young woman,’ he said, his voice full of sympathy. ‘You seem to have created some sort of terrible fantasy in your mind, and for some reason which escapes me, you have woven me into it.’ He gave her a brief, pitying smile. ‘I wish you well, my dear. I truly do. And I hope that in time, you will recover your sense of proportion.’

  He moved past her, and she pressed herself against the panes of the glasshouse to avoid touching him. But as she did so, she heard men’s voices on the lawn outside. She spun round.

  Traherne stopped with his cigar halfway to his lips.

  Through the window, Belle made out Drum Talbot hurrying towards them up the path that skirted the glasshouse. He seemed agitated, talking urgently to another man behind him whose face she couldn’t see. Plainly, Drum didn’t know they were there, watching him from behind the glass.

  ‘An altercation,’ murmured Traherne. ‘Dear me, what very poor taste.’

  Belle turned back to him. ‘You need to be clear on one thing,’ she said. ‘If you ever try to speak to me again, I shall cut you dead. I don’t care who’s there to see it. I don’t care if the whole world knows, and it causes the most dreadful scandal.’

  Traherne raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re more likely to make a fool of yourself than to cause a scandal,’ he remarked. ‘Although of course, you must act as you think best.’

  He was right. If she cut him, she would only bring ridicule on herself. She was powerless. There was nothing she could do.

  Once again she turned her back on him, and this time she saw Drum pleading with his companion. In the moonlight she recognized Adam Palairet.

  As she watched, Palairet glanced over Drum’s shoulder and saw her. For a moment his eyes held hers; then his gaze flicked to Traherne beside her. She could tell by his stillness that he was puzzled to see them together. Then he turned and spoke to Drum, and put his hand on his arm and led him away. There was a gentleness in the gesture which surprised her. It was as if he were soothing a troubled child.

  Beside her, Traherne was watching the little pageant on the lawn with amusement. ‘I wonder what that’s all about.’

  She took a breath and put her hands together. ‘Don’t ever speak to me again,’ she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘My dear girl—’

  ‘I’m not your dear girl. I’m engaged to be married.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘If you try to spoil things, I shall—’

  ‘Yes?’ he broke in gently. ‘You shall what? Try to make people believe in some bizarre misfortune which never took place?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Osbourne when she reached the safety of his room.

  She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard.

  ‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘you’re shaking. What the devil has happened?’ He drew her into his arms and she leaned against him. ‘Is it Adam?’ he said. ‘Has that brute—’

  ‘No, no, it’s—’

  ‘Has he been interrogating you about me?’

  ‘Take me to London,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you wanted to get away. Well, now I want it too.’

  ‘But – what about Dodo? I thought you couldn’t possibly leave her?’

  ‘I’ll square it with Dodo.’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, the inconstancy of woman!’ He bent and kissed her mouth. ‘We shall leave at dawn,’ he murmured. ‘It’s already arranged.’ He kissed her again, more deeply, but she twisted her head away. ‘Darling infant,’ he whispered as his arms tightened about her.

  ‘Osbourne, not now . . .’

  ‘Darling, darling infant.’

  ‘No . . .’

  But in the end, she let him. She didn’t want to. But neither did she want to be alone.

  As she lay beneath him on the counterpane, she caught sig
ht of her maid’s costume lying crumpled on the rug. It looked like a sloughed-off snakeskin.

  ‘Darling kitten,’ gasped Osbourne, squeezing her breast.

  She remembered the flick of the yellowsnake’s tail as it disappeared round the tree trunk; just before Traherne put his hand on her breast . . .

  Later, when Osbourne had rolled off her, she lay staring up into the darkness. She saw again that avuncular, old-gentleman smile.

  It was a chance encounter, she told herself. It means nothing.

  Beside her, Osbourne had fallen asleep. She turned on her elbow to look at him, and he suddenly seemed unfamiliar: a handsome, golden-haired stranger who had wandered into her life and promised to make everything better.

  And it will be better, she thought. Everything will be better once we’re married.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sibella was in a state of ‘utter distraction’ when they reached Berkeley Square. This meant that she was reading a novel on her favourite peach-coloured sofa, and looking the dernier cri in a gauzy mauve afternoon gown which suited her fair hair and plump figure to perfection, while a cold three-course luncheon awaited them in the dining room.

  ‘My new walking costume is a disaster,’ she announced briskly as she offered her cheek to Belle and then to Osbourne. ‘Addisons sent it round yesterday, and they’ve used the most ghastly machined lace in the panels. I’m minded to send it straight back. Added to which, Max’s wretched governess is ill; what am I to do if it’s serious and he has to come up to Town? I’ve a skeleton staff here as it is: Cook’s in an isolation ward at the Nuffield, and Mary and Jim are threatening to run off and nurse their relations. Osbourne, darling, do go down to Sussex and sort things out.’

  ‘Sort out what?’ said Osbourne.

  ‘Max!’ cried Sibella. ‘I can’t have him with me, not with half the world falling ill of this beastly ’flu. Even the doctors are going down with it. They’re so short-staffed that they’re talking of calling in the veterinary surgeons.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ said Osbourne. ‘I’ve affairs of my own to sort out.’ He caught Belle’s eye and winked. On the drive up from Kyme, he’d spoken of finding them an apartment for after they were married. ‘Something quiet and delightful, in one of those pretty little streets off Cheyne Walk.’

  Belle gave him a tight smile. She hadn’t slept well, worrying about Traherne. ‘But you will be staying with us, won’t you, darling?’ she said. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it, Sibella?’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ said Sibella. ‘We need a man in the house at times like these.’

  Osbourne sighed. ‘I can’t possibly.’

  ‘Why not?’ Belle said uneasily. The prospect of being without him alarmed her. It was no use telling herself that Traherne would never come here – and that even if he did, he wouldn’t be admitted; that Sibella hated her father, and the servants had permanent instructions to say that she was not at home.

  ‘I simply can’t,’ Osbourne said again. ‘This is the first place Adam will look.’

  Sibella rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not still avoiding him?’

  He looked pained. ‘It’s rather a case of him hounding me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Sibella, ‘but I do wish he were here to sort things out about Max. Adam’s the kind of man who gets things done.’

  ‘The solid, dependable type,’ said Osbourne with a yawn.

  Sibella gave him a wry smile. ‘That’s not quite what I mean.’

  ‘Well, as I’m not the solid, dependable type,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘and I’ve an obscene amount to do, I’m off to my club.’

  Belle’s hands tightened in her lap. She had an irrational sense that things were slipping away from her; that Traherne had been only the beginning . . . ‘Shall we be seeing you tomorrow?’ she said, hating how clinging that sounded.

  ‘What barnacles women are,’ murmured Osbourne. ‘Kitten, I shall come if I can. But really, I—’

  ‘Luncheon,’ Sibella said crisply. ‘One o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  When he’d gone, Sibella cast herself onto the sofa with a sigh of relief. ‘Actually, I’m rather glad he’s gone. Now we can have a quiet time on our own.’ She threw Belle an appraising look. ‘What’s wrong? Have you two had a tiff?’

  Belle shook her head. ‘Everything’s fine. And you? How are you?’

  Sibella threw her a look that said she knew she was being fobbed off; then went along with it. ‘Yet another proposal from dear old Sir Monty,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Belle, why do they imagine I want to become a wife again? It’s so much more fun being a widow. But speaking of wives, how’s Dodo?’

  Belle told her, and Sibella listened avidly. She had an unquenchable appetite for gossip, and a starkly unromantic view of relations between men and women, which her enemies called callous. When Belle had finished, she reached for the bonbon dish. ‘It sounds,’ she said, ‘no different from most marriages I know.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit harsh? After all, this is Dodo.’

  Sibella shrugged. ‘She’s tougher than you think. She’ll get over it. One can get over anything, darling. Even marriage.’

  Belle studied her for a moment. Then she broke into a grin. ‘Oh, Sibella. What would I do without you?’

  She meant it. It always struck her as bizarre that the Trahernes should have furnished both the man who’d shattered her life, and the woman who’d put it together again. Sibella Clyne was shrewd, pragmatic and unsentimental, but she’d been briskly kind to Belle: never questioning her hatred of school, and lying fluently to the headmistress on the numerous occasions when she’d run away. She’d never once badgered Belle about her lack of involvement in war work, and in recent months she’d turned a discreet blind eye to the affair with Osbourne.

  To the outside world she was a plump, gossipy socialite who gave excellent dinners and talked amusing nonsense. But sometimes Belle caught a flash of another woman underneath: a woman who’d ‘got over’ two deeply unhappy marriages; who treated her wealth with disdain and her friends with quiet generosity; who rebuffed her numerous suitors with firmness and grace.

  ‘Belle, what’s wrong?’ Sibella said again.

  Belle hesitated. She was longing to tell Sibella all about her engagement, but something held her back. With a shock she realized what it was. She didn’t know if Sibella would be delighted or appalled. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said.

  Sibella gave an unladylike snort.

  ‘If you want to know,’ Belle said lightly, ‘while I was at Kyme, I had a bad bout of homesickness.’ She paused. ‘And I happened to run into your father.’

  ‘Oh Lord, no wonder you’re out of sorts.’ Sibella leaned back and stared at the ceiling. She’d never told Belle what lay behind her animosity to him, and Belle had never asked. It was simply a given between them. ‘I’d heard he was in the country,’ she said at last. ‘No doubt he’s seeing to poor Lyndon’s affairs.’

  There was a silence while they thought about that.

  Sibella got up and went to the looking-glass above the chimney-piece. Suddenly her face showed every one of her thirty-four years. ‘It’s so odd,’ she said in an altered voice. ‘I never thought I cared for Lyndon when he was alive; he was simply my odious little brother. But now that he’s gone . . .’ She sat down again, shaking her head.

  Belle went to sit beside her.

  ‘This wretched war,’ Sibella said shakily.

  Belle took her hand.

  Sibella gave her a watery smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m just a bit down. So many gone. It’s so – so hard to accept . . .’ She gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Do you know, this morning I was reading quite an amusing piece in The Times, and I actually made a mental note to cut it out and send it to Freddie? The poor man’s been dead for over a year, and I still can’t . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Belle.

  ‘It’s not as if I loved him,’ said Sibella. ‘People
like me aren’t capable of love. But I was used to him. With him I never had to pretend.’ She took a ragged breath, then put both hands to her hair. ‘Heavens, I must look a perfect fright.’

  Belle stood up. ‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll see about this disaster of a walking costume. And if there’s the slightest doubt about it, I shall take it back to Addisons myself.’

  The costume did need altering, and the next morning Belle seized on it as an excuse to get out, and made her way to Bond Street, leaving Sibella laid up with a headache.

  Belle had slept badly, for Osbourne had neither telephoned nor sent a note. She couldn’t shake off the sense that her house of cards was about to come tumbling down.

  Having declined Sibella’s offer of the motor, she made her way on foot, in the hope that the walk would lift her spirits. As she turned into Bond Street she was engulfed by the familiar crowds in khaki and mourning: the Tommies and the officers, the conductorettes and munitions workers; the Dominion troops whose dark faces always evoked Jamaica. She saw VADs pushing the wounded in Bath chairs: pale, shrunken young men in jaunty blue flannel suits and red neckties. She passed a newspaper stand where headlines screamed of the Allies’ triumph in driving the Germans back beyond the Antwerp–Metz railway.

  She felt the familiar twinge of guilt. Her mother and aunt worked hard for the Jamaica War Relief Fund; Dodo sent books to officers in the trenches; even Sibella organized parcels to the Front. But she herself had resolutely avoided all that. It was as if any involvement in war work might bring her too close to reality – to the reality she’d been running from since she’d left Jamaica. In London she had her mask: her identity as Belle Lawe, the irrepressible socialite. If she gave that up – even temporarily – then real life would intervene, and she might be found out . . .

  She saw to the alterations at the dressmaker’s, then, as the anxiety still hadn’t worn off, she decided to cheer herself up with a visit to the park, and hailed a cab: one of the aged hansoms that had been pressed back into use now that the motor-taxis and omnibuses were on restricted service.