The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 30

  As she waited for Sinclair, a helper emerged from the house, bearing a tray of small brown phials, and drew aside the screen and disappeared inside. Behind the screen, Sophie glimpsed a woman lying in a bathchair. She was so thin that her chest beneath the sheet was flat like a boy’s, with jutting collarbones. Her face was turned towards Sophie: the nose sharp, the cheeks sunken but curiously flushed. A rope of pink phlegm hung from the corner of her mouth and looped all the way down the side of the bathchair; her bright, indifferent eyes gazed through Sophie as if she weren’t there.

  Sophie wondered who she might be. The housekeeper, perhaps? The sick housekeeper being nursed back to health?

  Then Sinclair mounted the steps and swept past her and told her to hurry, and she saw no more of the woman, for she had no choice but to start after him on her crutches, with Pablo Grey swinging from her wrist by the new red and yellow halter which Maddy had plaited from embroidery silk.

  She asked Sinclair about the sick housekeeper, but he told her sternly to be quiet. He was back to the old, disapproving Sinclair who didn’t like her, and she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

  As they hurried along the Lysol-smelling corridor, someone upstairs, possibly a man, began to cough. Sophie had never heard anyone cough like that: a thick, wet, wrenching sound that went on and on, as if the man were coughing up his insides. When it stopped, the silence was deeper than before. Sophie wondered if the man were better or worse.

  At the end of the corridor a door opened, and a tall lady came out and ushered them into a study with an enormous desk and two hard black leather visitors’ chairs. Sinclair declined tea for both of them, although Sophie was by now extremely thirsty.

  The lady was deferential to Sinclair, but clearly not a servant. She wore a grey silk dress like Great-Aunt May’s, only plainer and without the gloves; but her face when she glanced at Sophie wore a similar expression, as if she would have liked to be wearing gloves. She took the crutches from Sophie, along with Pablo Grey. ‘This will have to go,’ she said, holding the donkey by one ear. ‘Toys are not permitted. They harbour dust.’

  ‘Oh, he’s extremely clean,’ said Sophie. ‘When I first became ill, Maddy soaked him in Lysol overnight. It took ages to dry him out. And now I brush him every single day.’

  The lady did not reply. She crossed to the other side of the room and laid the crutches and Pablo Grey across a chair. Then she gave Sophie a book and told her to study it in silence while she talked to the Reverend Lawe.

  By now Sophie was convinced that she was missing something. She didn’t like this place, and she was sure that Maddy wouldn’t like it either. And the lady was wrong about Pablo Grey.

  Sinclair and the lady were talking in low voices about ‘registration’, so Sophie stopped listening and opened the book. In fact it wasn’t a book, but only a single page of thick grey paper bound between two sheets of olive-green pasteboard.

  RULES, it said in large black letters. Patients must be silent at all times. Patients must not move or indulge in ANY exertion without Doctor’s permission. Patients must not read, write, draw, sew, indulge in music or conversation, or otherwise make ANY noise whatsoever. Patients must not indulge in unnecessary coughing. Patients . . .

  Sophie began to feel sick. She raised her head and cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me?’

  Sinclair and the lady stopped talking and turned to her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said again, ‘but is this place called Providence?’

  The lady tightened her lips, and did not reply.

  Sinclair regarded Sophie with distant calm, as if she were no longer his concern.

  Sophie looked down at the book in her lap. The cover said: Rules for Patients. Burntwood Private Clinic for Afflictions of the Lungs.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘She’s where?’ said his wife.

  Quietly, Sinclair repeated what he had just said, and invited her to sit down.

  He could not have planned this better himself. His study was where he felt most powerful, and she had chosen to burst in upon him here, while he sat at his desk: the patient churchman enduring yet another onslaught from his increasingly unstable wife. ‘Be seated,’ he said again, ‘and calm yourself.’

  ‘No I will not “calm myself”! Not until Sophie’s back where she belongs.’

  ‘She belongs where I choose to place her.’

  ‘Nonsense. She—’

  ‘I say again, calm yourself!’ This time he allowed the steel to enter his voice, and it had its effect.

  His wife sat down. Her face was pale and altered, and he could see the effort it took to restrain herself. ‘Sinclair,’ she said in a low voice shaking with emotion, ‘whatever you feel about me, don’t take this out on Sophie. She’s done nothing to you.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I have only her best interests at heart.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand. ‘Your sister’s condition requires constant nursing. That has made you ill. Yes, ill. It is futile to deny it. I have taken medical advice. I know I am right.’

  ‘This is because of Cameron, isn’t it? You’ve sent Sophie to that awful place to punish me.’

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her face. She clearly had no idea that he knew her secret. He could bring her down any time he wished. ‘There is no question of punishment,’ he said. ‘It is a matter of rest and recuperation. For you and your sister.’

  ‘Sinclair, listen to me.’ She put her hands on the desk and leaned forwards, and for one alarming moment it seemed that Rose Durrant’s unfathomable dark eyes stared out at him. ‘Sophie cannot stay at Burntwood. It’s a hospice for consumptives. People go there to die. I won’t allow you to do this. I—’

  ‘You will not allow me?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Have you forgotten that I am the husband and you the wife? Do you have any conception of what that means? It means that you have given yourself into my care. Do you understand? You have given yourself spiritually, legally and bodily into my care.’

  Ah, now he had her attention.

  ‘You ought to be grateful to me,’ he went on. ‘If I were a less forgiving man, I might do as many a wronged husband has done before me, and have you committed to an asylum.’ He paused to let the word reverberate around the room. ‘I could have you committed right now,’ he said. ‘One stroke of my pen is all it would take. Dr Valentine has confirmed that, and so has my attorney.’

  She licked her lips. ‘Dr Valentine? And who is he?’

  ‘Dr Valentine is my physician.’

  ‘He’s never even met me. How can he say that I’m mad?’

  With weary patience he kneaded his temples. ‘He predicted that you would react like this. He warned me that contentiousness is one of the symptoms.’

  ‘Symptoms of what?’

  ‘Exhaustion of the nerve power.’

  She snorted. ‘What nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.’

  ‘Dr Valentine would disagree. And since he is the physician and you are not, it is his opinion which decides the matter.’

  She sat back in her chair, and he watched her struggling to take it in. Just as he had watched his brother that morning, struggling to master his shock.

  ‘I did try to warn you,’ Sinclair had told him as they walked beneath the poinciana trees. ‘That night at Parnassus. Do you remember?’

  But it was doubtful that his brother heard a word. His face was taut, his gaze turned inward. Perhaps he was recalling all those stolen moments with his mistress which were now revealed as lies.

  ‘It was a shock to me too,’ Sinclair assured him. ‘Indeed, I remain in a state of utter disbelief.’

  Still that silence.

  ‘So tell me,’ Sinclair said gently, ‘for I would have a brother’s counsel on this. What ought I to do?’

  At last the grey eyes met his. But they were distant and unfocused; still trying to comprehend.

  Sinclair felt a stab of jealousy. What right had
the lover to take this harder than the husband? ‘Tell me,’ he repeated, ‘what ought I to do? Should I go to the old man and tell him that the woman he has come to esteem is in fact his bastard granddaughter, an adventuress who duped his adopted son into marriage, for who knows what vengeful purpose of her own? Or should I, as her husband, feel duty-bound to keep her secret – even if by doing so, I become complicit in her deception? Tell me, brother. What ought I to do?’

  But his brother had only blinked and shaken his head, and walked away.

  Sinclair had felt cheated. As always, his brother had disappointed him.

  In the study, the grandfather clock struck seven. Sinclair pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘You must hasten’, he told his wife, ‘and dress for dinner. We must not keep Great-Aunt May waiting.’

  She was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘But can’t you see that this is pointless? In a fortnight Jocelyn will be back from Kingston. He won’t allow her to stay at Burntwood.’

  ‘Yes he will,’ he replied. ‘He will respect the wishes of her legal guardian.’

  ‘Not when he learns where she is.’

  ‘Oh yes, even then. Remember, the old man lives by his principles. Not by his affections. He would never come between a man and his wife. Or between a man and his legal charge.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Yes. You do. Remember his conduct towards his only son.’

  He was gratified to see how she flinched.

  ‘The old man’, he added, ‘may not like my decision, but he will most certainly respect it. You may depend upon it.’

  At last she saw the force of that. Yet still she opened her mouth to protest.

  ‘Enough!’ he cried. ‘Understand that in this I am not to be moved! Now for the last time, do as you are told and dress for dinner. And after dinner you shall pack your trunk, for tomorrow morning, directly after church, we leave for Providence.’

  ‘What? But I can’t possibly—’

  ‘And I warn you, any attempt to defy me, and I shall have you sedated.’

  ‘Sedated? But Sinclair—’

  ‘If you defy me,’ he repeated, raising his voice to conquer hers, ‘I shall have you sedated. But if you obey me, and if you do all that Dr Valentine requires, then I may decide, in time, to permit your sister to join us. Think carefully. The choice is yours.’

  That found its mark. No more protests. No more resistance. At last she had grasped that further disobedience would only delay her sister’s return. And delay was not something she could afford, for the child was among consumptives, and would not last long once the disease had taken hold of her lungs.

  In fact, he was counting on it.

  The Reverend Grant was not known for the brevity of his sermons, but this morning he outdid himself. He spoke until Madeleine’s jaw was knotted and she wanted to scream. A quarter past ten o’clock, and she still had no plan for getting Sophie out of Burntwood.

  She sat in the family pew, flanked by Sinclair and Great-Aunt May like two highly respectable gaolers, while around her gentlemen coughed and children squirmed, and ladies fanned themselves and buried their noses in handkerchiefs sprinkled with Florida water, and the coolness of the great stone church gradually gave way to a scent of packed bodies and eau-de-cologne.

  She had lain awake all night, and the thought of Sophie in that place had been a physical pain in the chest. Wild schemes whirled through her mind. Steal a horse and make her way across country. Send for the police. Kill Sinclair. She could do that, couldn’t she? She was a Durrant; wasn’t that what Durrants did?

  But when morning came, the hopelessness of her position became apparent. She was watched constantly, and the helpers had orders not to let her anywhere near the stables. She had no allies at Fever Hill. Clemency was too frightened to help, and her maid reported straight to Great-Aunt May. Olivia Herapath wouldn’t dream of interfering in what she would regard as a purely family affair; and although Ben Kelly might be prevailed upon to help, she had no idea where he was.

  Which left Cameron. But how could she get a message to him? He never came to church, didn’t observe the Sabbath, and was probably in some distant cane-piece right now, with no idea of what had happened.

  At last the sermon ended, and the final prayers were said. Gentlemen stretched, nursemaids hissed at their charges, and ladies sought parasols beneath the pews. With agonizing slowness, the congregation filed out.

  Sinclair preceded Madeleine into the porch, and paused to say a few words to the Reverend Grant. Great-Aunt May drew down her veil and put up her parasol to protect herself from the sun on the way to the carriage.

  Madeleine went out into the glare, and stared blankly at the little groups of parishioners talking in the churchyard; at the carriages jostling each other in the street; at the pickneys trotting along beside their mothers in their Sunday best. This couldn’t be happening.

  She turned, and saw Cameron standing beneath a cassia tree on the other side of the road.

  He was in his work clothes, as if he’d decided on impulse to ride down and see her, and he was looking straight at her. No pretence that he had come for any other reason.

  Relief washed over her. It’ll be all right now, she told herself. He’ll get her out. It’ll be all right now.

  She went to Sinclair and touched his arm. ‘Your brother is here,’ she whispered.

  He glanced across the street. ‘Ah, to be sure,’ he murmured. To her surprise he did not look dismayed, but quietly pleased.

  ‘I must speak to him,’ she said. ‘I need – to—’

  ‘To say goodbye?’ he supplied. To her astonishment, he inclined his head in assent. ‘But you seem surprised,’ he said. ‘Why? I am not your gaoler, you know. I have no objection to your speaking to your brother-in-law after church.’

  She didn’t wait for him to change his mind. Ignoring the curious glances of her fellow parishioners, she crossed the street almost at a run.

  Out in the open, the heat was intense. She could feel the perspiration breaking out between her shoulder blades.

  ‘I haven’t much time,’ she told Cameron as she drew near.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said.

  They started slowly up Duke Street, keeping to the shade beneath the trees. Acquaintances nodded at them, then murmured behind their backs.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ he said when they were out of earshot. ‘I need to—’

  ‘Sophie’s in Burntwood,’ she broke in. ‘Sinclair took her there yesterday when I was in town. You’ve got to get her out.’

  He stopped and turned to her. His expression was strangely withdrawn, and she felt a prickle of unease.

  ‘Just get her out,’ she said, ‘and bring her home. Or better still, keep her at Eden until Jocelyn returns. Just until then, when the whole thing can be sorted out.’

  Still he did not reply. Still that unnerving scrutiny.

  ‘Cameron? What is it?’

  He glanced up and down the street. When there was no passer-by within earshot he said, ‘Sinclair told me who you are.’

  Outside sounds receded. She felt herself sway. Sinclair knows, she thought. God. Sinclair knows.

  She thought back to their talk the evening before. His chiselled features so calm and so assured; his serene blue eyes. She glanced back at the churchyard and saw him standing in the porch, watching her. ‘He knows,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Which, I imagine, is why he let you come and talk to me. It’s his little game. Letting you find out from me.’

  She turned and met his eyes. He seemed neither angry nor reproachful, but simply withdrawn.

  He said, ‘You were going to tell me at Eden, weren’t you? That’s why you came. But you didn’t trust me enough.’

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  He took that in silence.

  They started walking again. She fiddled with the clasp of her reticule: open, shut, open, shut. She wondered how to reach him.

  He said,
‘I feel as though I don’t know you any more. But I suppose the truth is, I never did.’

  ‘Cameron—’

  ‘I always knew there was something wrong between us. I mean, something more than just Sinclair.’ He gave a little half-smile that was painful to see. ‘I still can’t believe it. Ainsley’s daughter. The little girl in the park. You know, I always felt bad about that. I felt such a blackguard for frightening a child.’

  ‘I know. I never blamed you for it.’

  He put his hands behind his back and studied the ground. ‘You see, if that were true, I think you’d have told me sooner.’

  Oh God, she thought. He doesn’t believe me. She said, ‘You think I’m saying it now to persuade you to help Sophie.’

  ‘I think you’d do anything for your sister. Yes.’

  ‘Cameron—’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why did you marry him? I mean really. Why?’

  ‘What does it—’

  ‘It wasn’t some kind of – I don’t know, some kind of revenge? Revenge against the family?’

  ‘Of course not. You asked me before, don’t you remember? And I told you the truth. I married him for money. For Sophie.’

  He looked unconvinced.

  ‘We had no money, Cameron. Can’t you understand? Oh, I know there was a trust, but Septimus took it all, and when he died there was nothing left. Then Sophie fell ill, and suddenly we needed a great deal of money, very soon, or she wouldn’t survive.’ Again she snapped open the reticule: open, shut, open, shut. ‘What was I to do? If I’d been a man I’d have got a job, or robbed a bank or something. As it was, the only plan I could come up with was to become a prostitute.’