silence followed. He searched the greenery. Where was the little imp? Stopping at the lattice of a chest-high fan palm that arced across the path, he saw curious green eyes peeking at him through the pinnate fingers of the palm frond.
His heart beat faster. With a gentle motion, he slowly pushed the broad, flat leaf aside—and there she stood.
He held her wary gaze with a strange sense of soft delight. The girl was even lovelier up close. She gave him a guileless smile, then her glance flicked past him.
“Miss Farraday, allow me to present my assistant, Lieutenant Christopher Trahern.”
The younger man bowed to her. “Miss Farraday.”
“ Eden , please,” she corrected them both with a warm, rather bashful smile. “We are not so formal here. Welcome. This way.”
She showed them up the walkway until they reached her scientist father’s elaborate camp ringed by unlit torches on bamboo stakes set every few feet apart. The thirty-foot clearing had a fire-pit in the center; across from the stilt-house were two large military-style tents, one closed, the other open on three sides.
The open tent contained a large work table with two microscopes, several compasses, a small scale, and an array of more obscure scientific instruments. A few black servants went about various tasks, but stopped and gaped at the strangers, then grinned and waved.
Eden introduced them all. She showed them into the stilt-house, informing them it was called a
palafito
. Inside, there were a few hammocks slung here and there, and makeshift pieces of furniture that led Jack to suspect they were standing in the young lady’s bedroom.
One bamboo table held three stacks of old books that were moldering in the unwavering humidity. Shakespeare, Aristotle, Rousseau, and the poetry of Scott.
“I see you like to read,” Trahern observed while Jack examined a long, native blowgun hanging on the wall.
“Oh, yes. Well, there’s not much else to do around here.” She cast him a demure smile over her shoulder and then whacked the top off a pineapple with her machete—deadly aim with barely a glance.
Jack marveled privately and shook his head. Eden Farraday was surely the strangest female he had ever met in his life. She proceeded to carve the pineapple into flat, neat slices with a series of unhesitating blows. He watched her warily, hands on hips. “You’re pretty good with that knife.”
“You should see me with a blowgun,” she replied with a saucy smile, turning to offer him a piece of the sweet, juicy fruit.
He took it with a guarded nod of t hank s. Trahern accepted a slice, too, then Miss Farraday helped herself to a piece and invited her servants to have the rest if they desired it.
Meanwhile, Jack inspected a dainty music box that sat on a shelf next to a few other small tokens of civilization: a foggy hand mirror, a hairbrush with a rusty pewter handle.
“Isn’t that pretty? It plays Mozart.” She came over to Jack and opened the lid of the music box. A few lingering notes rose out of it before dwindling into silence. “It needs to be wound up again.” She glanced at him with somber eyes. “This once belonged to my mother.”
He looked askance at her, reminded anew after these many years that Victor’s wife was dead from a fever outbreak that had hit portions of London some twelve years ago. A sad fate for a physician, failing to save his own wife. No wonder Farraday had turned his back on the medical profession. None of his art could save her.
Dr. Farraday had explained in the introduction to his book that, after his wife’s death, he and his only child, a daughter, had moved to the West Indies . Some Creole friends trying to cheer him from his despair had suggested a short visit to the Orinoco jungles, knowing his longstanding interest in natural philosophy and the sciences. He had thought it might be good for his soul, so he had agreed to the trip. In the forest, however, the bereaved doctor had caught a fever that
His heart beat faster. With a gentle motion, he slowly pushed the broad, flat leaf aside—and there she stood.
He held her wary gaze with a strange sense of soft delight. The girl was even lovelier up close. She gave him a guileless smile, then her glance flicked past him.
“Miss Farraday, allow me to present my assistant, Lieutenant Christopher Trahern.”
The younger man bowed to her. “Miss Farraday.”
“ Eden , please,” she corrected them both with a warm, rather bashful smile. “We are not so formal here. Welcome. This way.”
She showed them up the walkway until they reached her scientist father’s elaborate camp ringed by unlit torches on bamboo stakes set every few feet apart. The thirty-foot clearing had a fire-pit in the center; across from the stilt-house were two large military-style tents, one closed, the other open on three sides.
The open tent contained a large work table with two microscopes, several compasses, a small scale, and an array of more obscure scientific instruments. A few black servants went about various tasks, but stopped and gaped at the strangers, then grinned and waved.
Eden introduced them all. She showed them into the stilt-house, informing them it was called a
palafito
. Inside, there were a few hammocks slung here and there, and makeshift pieces of furniture that led Jack to suspect they were standing in the young lady’s bedroom.
One bamboo table held three stacks of old books that were moldering in the unwavering humidity. Shakespeare, Aristotle, Rousseau, and the poetry of Scott.
“I see you like to read,” Trahern observed while Jack examined a long, native blowgun hanging on the wall.
“Oh, yes. Well, there’s not much else to do around here.” She cast him a demure smile over her shoulder and then whacked the top off a pineapple with her machete—deadly aim with barely a glance.
Jack marveled privately and shook his head. Eden Farraday was surely the strangest female he had ever met in his life. She proceeded to carve the pineapple into flat, neat slices with a series of unhesitating blows. He watched her warily, hands on hips. “You’re pretty good with that knife.”
“You should see me with a blowgun,” she replied with a saucy smile, turning to offer him a piece of the sweet, juicy fruit.
He took it with a guarded nod of t hank s. Trahern accepted a slice, too, then Miss Farraday helped herself to a piece and invited her servants to have the rest if they desired it.
Meanwhile, Jack inspected a dainty music box that sat on a shelf next to a few other small tokens of civilization: a foggy hand mirror, a hairbrush with a rusty pewter handle.
“Isn’t that pretty? It plays Mozart.” She came over to Jack and opened the lid of the music box. A few lingering notes rose out of it before dwindling into silence. “It needs to be wound up again.” She glanced at him with somber eyes. “This once belonged to my mother.”
He looked askance at her, reminded anew after these many years that Victor’s wife was dead from a fever outbreak that had hit portions of London some twelve years ago. A sad fate for a physician, failing to save his own wife. No wonder Farraday had turned his back on the medical profession. None of his art could save her.
Dr. Farraday had explained in the introduction to his book that, after his wife’s death, he and his only child, a daughter, had moved to the West Indies . Some Creole friends trying to cheer him from his despair had suggested a short visit to the Orinoco jungles, knowing his longstanding interest in natural philosophy and the sciences. He had thought it might be good for his soul, so he had agreed to the trip. In the forest, however, the bereaved doctor had caught a fever that
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