The Fever Tree by Jennifer McVeigh Read Free Book Online

remoteness and scale of the terrain. There was a map in the paper. They had meant to extend the line almost across the breadth of America, from the Great Lakes to the Pacific Ocean. Frances understood why the idea of a railway across the wilderness might have appealed to her father. When she was a child, he had loved to show her his collection of maps. He would unfurl them on his desk and point out uncharted territories in Canada or Africa. His face would become animated as he described their remoteness, and she had the sense, as she listened to him, that he felt trapped in London, hemmed in by the conventions of Society.
    Now his debts had to be paid, the lawyer’s fees and the staff wages. Her uncle had stepped in to help, and she was grateful but also unnerved by his efficiency. The funeral, his arrangements for the staff, and the sale of the house had all been accomplished in a little over a month. Kerrick had been with them for fourteen years, and in just a few days he would be gone. There was almost nothing left of her father’s life. Irvine & Hitchcock, his furniture business, one of the largest in England, had been sold off for less than the value of its stock. And now the auction, as if in opening up the house to Society he could satisfy its appetite for scandal. Even Frances was to be tidied away, and once she was gone her mother’s family could get on with the business of forgetting.
    If she sent the letter then she would have to accept Edwin’s offer. She was intrigued by Africa. It could offer her a fresh start. And she could get used to a less affluent life, going without the things she was used to. The problem was that she didn’t think she would ever come to like him. He was too serious. Always analyzing everything until he had squeezed all the joy out of it. When she was with him she felt he expected something from her, a kind of moral rectitude to match his own. And she couldn’t imagine letting him touch her. Worse than that, she distrusted him. He had appealed to her uncle, unashamedly using her father’s death to strengthen his claim, even when she had made it quite clear the last time they had spoken that she wouldn’t consider his proposal. It was ambition. He wanted her not because he cared about her, but because she would be a mark of his success.
    She remembered him as a boy, dazzled by this house with its broad garden and white Kensington façade, by their hushed rooms and walls lined with books. Unable to have these things for himself, his ambition had crystallized into marrying the girl who had grown up with them. He really didn’t know her at all, and it was these parallel motives of worship and control which unnerved her. It was possible he equated these feelings to love, but to her it looked like little more than grasping self-interest.
    Yet it had to be better than living with her aunt in Manchester. At least she would have her independence. She read the letter again and in a moment of quick decisiveness folded it and slipped it into an envelope, held it for a second more between her fingers, then dropped it onto the silver letter tray. Kerrick came in with the tea, set it out on the low table, picked up the letter, and was gone.
    Frances turned back to the window. She blinked into the hot glare of light and caught sight of two figures standing on the lawn; ladies from the auction looking for something to report back to their friends. They peered through the windows, and when they saw her watching, one of them waved at her guiltily. Frances leant forward quickly and closed the shutters, boxing herself up in the dark.
    •   •   •
    I T HADN ’ T OCCURRED to her that he might not come. She waited all day in the morning room. The house was hot and silent. Groups of men arrived from time to time to remove furniture, and the quiet was broken by their thick, labored grunts and the scrape of wood on marble. When she was sure that he wouldn’t come, she went up to her bedroom to