A Company of Swans

14

The disaster that Simonova’s accident represented struck the Company afresh on Friday as they rehearsed with Masha Repin for the evening performance of Giselle. The Polish girl, having plotted and schemed for just this chance, was nervous and hysterical, abused the conductor for his tempi, complained of Maximov’s lifts and threw her costume at the wardrobe mistress. Simonova’s rages had been no less violent, but in a curious way they concerned — in the end — the performance as a whole. Masha’s panic was for herself.

For Harriet, Simonova’s injury had been a personal blow. As long as she lived she would never forget the moment when the proud, arched body crumpled and fell — and if she hated any human beings it was those doctors who, uncaring of the injured woman’s presence, had pronounced their horrendous verdict.

The tragedy had entirely put out of her mind her own danger. She had not seen Edward at the banquet and if she thought of him at all, it was to assume that he was still away on his collecting trip. Of Rom she did think, and incessantly. He had said he would be absent for two days, but had been away for almost a week and the city was rife with rumours of some cloak-and-dagger affair up-river in which he was said to be involved. Knowing what she would feel if anything happened to him made it impossible for her to remain in ignorance of her emotions, and she could only be glad of the incessant rehearsals which filled the day.

Not so Marie-Claude.

‘Oh God, those dreary Wilis,’ she complained, jamming a myrtle wreath on her golden curls.

‘They’re not dreary, Marie-Claude. They’re sort of vengeful and icy and implacable, but they’re not dreary,’ said Harriet.

But Marie-Claude, who had danced her first Wili at the age of sixteen, had scant patience with those spectres of betrayed maidenhood who endeavour to dance to death any gentlemen foolish enough to cross their path — and two hours before the start of the evening performance, she announced her intention of going to look at the shops.

Neither of her friends went with her. Kirstin had joined the group of girls comforting Maximov — who needed to be told some twenty times an hour that he was not to blame for Simonova’s accident — and Harriet had decided to hurry back to the Metropole to see if the new doctor expected that afternoon held out any more hope.

The city was golden in the late afternoon sun. People sat in cafés on the mosaic pavements; children splashed in the fountains. Marie-Claude walked with pleasure, enjoying the full delights of window-shopping as experienced by those untroubled by any intention to buy.

Rejecting a pink and white striped silk suit, approving a blue organdie, she wandered along the Rua Quintana, crossed a busy square and paused by a kiosk at the edge of a small park overlooking the harbour where she bought a bottle of lemonade.

She was just selecting a bench on which to sit and drink it when she saw, coming down the steps of the porticoed police station, the gangling figure of Dr Finch-Dutton. He was carrying a small wooden box and apparently dressed for travelling.

So he wasn’t away in the jungle as Harriet had thought. Strange… why had he made no contact? And what did he want with the police?

Repressing the natural instinct of flight so common in people acquainted with the Englishman, Marie-Claude studied him. He had entered the park by the other gate, sat down in a chair by the bandstand and now proceeded to take out of the wooden box something at which he stared with great intensity.

‘Bon jour, Monsieur.’

Edward looked up, blushed, jumped to his feet. He had avoided all truck with the ballet company — complete surprise was the essence of his plan to snatch Harriet away — and he no longer felt capable of trusting anyone. But the sight of Marie-Claude, her face gilded by the rays of the westering sun, entirely overset him. Whoever had been responsible for Harriet’s eruption, it could hardly be this enchanting girl with her staggering facility in oral French. And lifting his hat, he held out the glass specimen bottle he had been studying and said simply, ‘Look!’

Marie-Claude looked, gave a small shriek and retreated. Inside the bottle lay a large, dead reddish-brown worm with a great many baggy legs and two stumpy antennae.

‘It’s Peripatus!’ said Edward raptly, staring for the hundredth time at this miracle which he had been vouchsafed. ‘I found it this morning. You can’t imagine what this will mean to the head of my department. It’s absolutely crucial, you see — the missing link between the Arthropods and the Annelids.’

He launched into an account of the creature’s significance, while Marie-Claude’s jaw tightened in an effort not to yawn.

But there was no stopping Edward, who saw himself as a man sanctified and set apart. For he had not meant to go into the forest again; he had been packed and ready, made his farewells at the Club when, with half an hour to wait before the cab was due, he had decided to go bug-hunting just once more.

And there on a damp patch of leaf-mould beneath a clump of kapok trees, he had found it!

Edward’s joy had at first been purely entomological. But no man can feel a rapture as intense as his without undergoing a general change in outlook. As he prepared Peripatus for the long journey home, Edward had seen himself as a man who had failed in magnanimity. Harriet, it was true, had to be apprehended; she had to be taken to the Gregory by force — there was no way out of that — but he had intended to have as little to do with her on the journey as possible. She would be aired and exercised like the prisoner she effectively was until he restored her to her father, and that was all.

But as he drowned the wriggling creature in alcohol, Edward had realised the pettiness of such thoughts. Once the ship was safely away and there was no question of Harriet making scenes or asking to be taken back, he would make it his business to help her… to heal her. He would go into her cabin… her dark, quiet cabin… he would let her weep; he would even put his arm round her and stroke her hair. There was no question of marriage now, of course, but there were… other relationships, thought Edward, seeing afresh his duty to this luckless and fallen girl.

‘That it should happen like this,’ he said now, holding up the bottle to the light. ‘On my last day!’

‘Your last day?’ said Marie-Claude sharply, putting down her lemonade.

‘My last day… in the jungle, I meant,’ said Edward, mopping his brow with his free hand. This wretched fever was making him stupid. It was most important not to reveal his movements to anyone. And anxious to confirm that Captain Carlos had done his work properly, he said, ‘You are dancing in Giselle tonight, aren’t you? All of you? Harriet too?’

‘Yes.’ Marie-Claude sighed. ‘We are Wilis in three-quarter-length tutus and veils with much mist.’

‘Veils!’ said Edward, horrified.

‘Only at first. We’re the souls of deceased girls who have been betrayed by men. It is extremely tedious.’

‘Not a very long ballet, I believe?’ asked Edward casually. ‘Curtain comes down about ten thirty, I understand?’

‘That’s right.’ Marie-Claude’s suspicions were now definitely aroused. ‘Do you expect to be there?’

‘No… no. Too much work to do, I’m afraid.’ He looked down at the bottle once more and as always when he gazed at the wondrous worm, exaltation overcame caution. ‘You were always Harriet’s friend, I know,’ he said. ‘So I want you to understand that in spite of all she has done—’

‘Done?’ put in Marie-Claude quickly. ‘What has she done?’

Edward, confirmed in his assessment of Marie-Claude’s virtue, said hoarsely, ‘I don’t want to talk about it… it was in the Sports Club… last week…’

Marie-Claude’s heart sank. He had been at the banquet then, this priggish oaf, compared with whom Monsieur Pierre was a dangerous libertine.

‘But you will not be angry with Harriet?’ she prompted and moved closer, in spite of the loathsome creature in its bottle, to look entreatingly into his face.

Edward swayed slightly, overcome by the scent of her hair and the sweetness of her breath.

‘No. I was angry, I admit it; but not now. And I want you to know that I shall let no harm befall her. She will be safe with me.’

‘With you?’ enquired Marie-Claude, who had not missed Edward’s involuntary glance at the Gregory riding at anchor in the harbour below. ‘But you are leaving soon, I think? And Harriet is staying with the Company. So how will she be safe with you?’

Too late, Edward saw his mistake. ‘I spoke in general terms. When she is back in Cambridge I shall visit her, that’s all I mean. I shall not cut her dead.’

And afraid of giving himself away further, he replaced Peripatus in its mahogany travelling case and took his leave, walking away — a little unsteady with fever — across the park.

Left alone, Marie-Claude came close to panic. What she had heard could only have one explanation: Edward, shocked by Harriet’s performance at the Club, had decided to take her back to England by force. If he was acting alone the attempt would be futile, but if he had the support of the police…

Oh, God, thought Marie-Claude, blaming herself; what shall I do? She could warn Harriet not to dance tonight, to shut herself in her room — but what was to stop them following her there? She could speak to Dubrov, but he had scarcely left Simonova’s side since the accident. And it was only an hour until curtain-up..

Below her, she could see the ant-like passengers already making their way up the gangway of the Gregory. The ship left at dawn, everyone knew that. Then she started forward, staring intently across the water. Still under sail, lovely as a dream, the Amethyst was coming into harbour.

Picking up her skirts, Marie-Claude began to run.

Rom stood on deck, his eyes narrowed against the rays of the setting sun. He wore a stained khaki shirt, a gun-belt; a strip of linen covered a bullet graze on his hand. There had been no time to attend to his own affairs, for he brought the men who had been wounded at Ombidos to the hospital. Yet his eyes as he looked at the gilded city were peaceful. It was done. Alvarez and de Silva were still collecting evidence, taking statements — but the Ombidos Rubber Company was no more.

He himself had not stayed behind on the Amethyst while the others went to Ombidos. It had never been his intention to do so. From his own encounter with the men who ran that hell-hole, he knew that they would not stay to argue with anyone who surprised them at their sport; they would try to shoot their way out and take to the jungle. Rom’s own business was with one man who must not escape. He had not done so and Rom’s thoughts now were of a long, cool bath, a meal and then Follina… and sleep.

The sails were lowered. The Amethyst came in quietly on her engine. One by one the stretchers were carried down the gangway to the ambulances waiting on the quay.

‘Jesu Maria! I didn’t realise I was dead already,’ said the last of the casualties — a handsome and cheeky lieutenant with a flesh wound in his leg. ‘I suppose it’s no good asking an angel to give us a kiss?’

Rom turned his head. Panting, agitated, her eyes huge with entreaty, Marie-Claude came running up to him.

‘Please, Monsieur… I must speak to you. Oh, quickly, please…’

Act One was safely over. Masha had done well enough as Giselle, the village girl in love with the nobly born Albrecht, who is secretly betrothed to a princess. She had discovered his treachery, gone mad, killed herself. Only Count Sternov and a handful of connoisseurs had missed the pathos and depth which Simonova had brought to the role.

In the bel étage, Verney’s box was empty.

And now Act Two — the last act. Not swans this time, nor snowflakes but Wilis, all eighteen of them, entering the moonlit grove in the wake of their Queen… Welcoming Giselle as she rises from her grave… Telling her that she too is a Wili now and must be revenged on any man she meets.

Albrecht, bereft in black velvet, appears with lilies. The Wilis surround him. He must be danced to death. No, begs Giselle… not Albrecht! Save him!

It was at this point that Captain Carlos reached the stage-door, showed his police pass and was admitted. With him were the hulking Sergeant Barra detailed to perform the actual snatch and Leo, the Negro gaoler, to act as assistant and interpreter.

And following behind them Edward Finch-Dutton, feeling like Judas. He had only to point out Harriet, himself remaining out of sight. Compassionate as he knew himself to be, afraid that a struggling, terrified Harriet might weaken his resolve, he had arranged for Carlos and his men to push her into the cab and take her down to the ship without him. It was they who would see that she was locked in her cabin, where the stewardess, aware that the law was taking its course, had agreed to administer a mild sedative. By the time he came to open Harriet’s door the next day, it would be as a saviour rather than an assassin that she would regard him.

All the same, his heart was pounding as he followed the policemen, in their ill-fitting uniforms, into the wings.

At once the sound, the heat, hit him. The girls were in a V-formation, those on his side comfortingly close. This was not like it had been in Verney’s box, just seeing a row of faceless girls. He could make out the individual dancers quite well. Well, fairly well…

‘Which one?’ whispered Leo. ‘The Captain wants to know which one’s the girl?’

Edward narrowed his eyes, frowning. The Wilis were getting into rather a state, dashing about a lot, and in the centre Giselle and her Albrecht were dancing a pretty ferocious pas de deux. Then his brow cleared. There were several lightly built, brown-eyed girls, but here now was Harriet, conveniently close to their side of the stage.

‘That one,’ he said, pointing. ‘Fourth from the end.’

Leo scratched his head. ‘You’re sure? They all look alike to me.’

Edward nodded. Any kind of hesitation at this stage would be fatal. ‘She’s the thin one with dark hair.’

‘Jesus, that darn stuff gets up my nose,’ complained Leo. ‘Do they have to have so much blooming mist?’

There was certainly a lot of mist. From swirling round the dancers’ legs it had risen to envelop them to the waist. Now it was rolling out towards the footlights and the conductor had begun to cough. Still it crept across the stage, while old Fernando chuckled with glee and poured another bucket of hot water on the crystals in his tray. He had recognised the chairman of the Opera House trustees instantly, even with the stubble on his chin and the old clothes he wore, and the instructions Verney had given him had made the old man extraordinarily happy. Even without the bank-note Verney had slipped into his pocket and the quick promise of recompense afterwards, Fernando would have gone on making mist. They never let him go on long enough with anything: not the thunder sheet, nor the coconut for the horses’ hooves… and now to be ordered to go on making mist and mist and still more mist…!

A Wili, whipping into a chaîné turn, cannoned into her neighbour and cried out as she received a slap across the face. Mist or no mist, one did not cannon into Olga Narukov. Maximov, groping for Masha’s arm, grabbed the extended leg of the Wilis’ Queen, who crashed to the ground. Upstage yet another Wili lay, felled by the tombstone on Giselle’s grave.

The mist had reached the front of the stalls and a lady in a tiara rose and hurried away, a handkerchief across her mouth. There were exclamations, titters.

‘Just keep your head, Doctor,’ said Leo. ‘She’ll be coming off this way if she’s the one you said. No need to panic.’

‘I’m not panicking,’ said Edward as he peered with watering eyes into the gloom.

Masha Repin came off after her solo, letting off a volley of oaths in Polish. This was Simonova’s doing, all of it — a plot to ruin her triumph — but she would not be beaten, the curtain was to stay up — and hearing her cue, she shot on stage again in search of Maximov.

Two stage-hands came and dragged away Fernando, who was laughing like a maniac, but it was too late, for he had tipped out another bucket full of water and the mist rolled on unimpeded. The act was drawing to a close; soon now the clocks would chime for daybreak and the Wilis melt away into the forest…

‘Now!’ Leo whispered. ‘The Captain says they’ll do it now, while she’s on her own. That is her over there by that rock?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s definitely her.’ Edward spoke with authority, for the pose was one he knew well — the dark head bent, one foot resting against the opposite leg.

‘Hell!’ Sergeant Barra swore under his breath. One minute the girl had been there, standing by the jutting plywood rock. The next minute she had vanished.

‘We’ve lost her,’ said Leo. ‘She must be with that bunch just coming this way. Look out for her as they come through those trees.’

Edward searched frantically among the milling girls just dancing off. Perspiring, confused, rubbing their eyes, they halted in the wings. One was bending over an injured comrade, another was groping for her lost wreath… That wasn’t Harriet… nor that one…

Then someone opened a door, there came a gust of air dispersing the clouds of mist… and with an upsurge of relief, Edward found himself looking straight at Harriet.

‘There!’ he hissed. ‘Over there, quickly! Standing with her foot on the chair.’ Harriet’s familiar face, narrow and grave, her contemplative pose as she tied her shoe, nearly unnerved him. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ he begged — and turned away as Judas himself had done while Sergeant Barra, his cloak at the ready, moved purposefully forward.

And after all it was over very quickly. She struggled, but her cries were lost in the noise and confusion and no one saw her bundled out by the two ruthless men. Hurrying after them, Edward caught only a glimpse of a pinioned white figure being pushed into the cab — and then the driver whipped up his horses and the deed was done.

‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Harriet. She sat leaning back against the seat of the car, still in her white tutu, the wreath of myrtle leaves tumbled in her lap. The terror and agitation one might have expected from a girl snatched off the stage by an attacker who had put a hand over her mouth and pulled her backwards into the shadows was absent. Though her expression in the darkness was not clearly visible, she appeared rather to emanate a kind of dreamy peace.

‘To Follina, of course,’ said Rom, frowning at yet another patch of water through which it was necessary to nurse the great black car. ‘I must say that you seem to have behaved rather strangely. Why no struggles? Why no screams?’

‘I knew it was you. As soon as you put your hand over my mouth, I knew.’

‘In the dark, from the back, you knew?’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet.

He had negotiated the swamp. The road to Follina, impassable in the wet season, was not the best of roads even now, but he had wanted to get Harriet away as quickly as possible. Heaven knew what Edward would do once he discovered his mistake.

‘I don’t mind being kidnapped,’ said Harriet. ‘Don’t think that. Only I wondered why? I mean, I would have come anyway.’

‘I was… constrained by circumstances. Edward had arranged a rather less agreeable form of kidnapping. You were supposed to have been snatched by a most unattractive policeman and bundled on to the boat. In fact you should even now be a captive on the Gregory, preparing to steam out into the river.’

‘Oh!’ The news should have terrified her, but it was difficult to be frightened of anything when she was sitting close to Rom. ‘I thought we had convinced him that I was leading a blameless life?’

‘We had, till you burst out of that damnable cake. He was at the banquet and you can imagine the kind of conclusions he would come to.’

‘I didn’t see him.’ She looked sideways at Rom’s shadowy profile. ‘I’m sorry about the cake. I did have a reason, only I—’

‘I know the reason; Marie-Claude told me. It’s because of her that I was able to get you away. She met Edward in the park and guessed what he was up to. I meant to go to the police first and call them off, but then I decided it would be cruel to keep Edward here any longer: the climate really doesn’t suit him!’

‘Yes, but when he finds out that the police haven’t got hold of anyone—’

‘Ah, but they have! I don’t exactly know who, but I can guess. Edward finds it a little difficult, you see, to tell one dancer from another — and of course the mist didn’t help. It was inevitable that once I had grabbed you from behind the rock he would think some other girl was you. But don’t worry — it’s only a week to Belem — whoever she is, she can be brought back and compensated before the Atlantic crossing starts. I have an office there and I shall see to that. Don’t worry, Harriet.’

‘I’m worrying a bit about that,’ admitted Harriet. ‘And about poor Monsieur Dubrov being two Wilis short. But mostly I was worrying about your hand. If someone hurt it on purpose, I could kill him perhaps?’

He briefly turned his head. ‘It’s already done, my dear. And it’s only a scratch.’

Oh, God, thought Rom, this is going to be hell. I will not touch her until I can cut the legal tangle and ask her to marry me. She shall have sanctuary at Follina and nothing else — but she should not say such things to me.

‘Marie-Claude told me about Madame Simonova’s injury,’ he said, determined not to be personal. ‘It’s serious, I understand?’

‘Very serious. The doctors don’t seem to know what it is. They’re trying everything — electrical pads, injections of bee venom… one old doctor even suggested leeches — but nothing seems to help.’

‘The Metropole must be an awful place in which to be ill. I’ll offer Dubrov the Casa Branca until they leave — if she is strong enough to be moved. Carmen and Pedro will look after her.’

There was still one other thing, which Rom told her as they drove down the hazardous jungle track. That he had decided to return to Stavely — and in doing so would make himself responsible for Henry as she had asked.

‘I think I would have done so anyway, once my brother was dead. The place meant everything to my father. He was one of the best men who ever lived and I don’t think I could bear to think of it going to rack and ruin. God knows I love Follina, but the Amazon is no place to bring up children.’

‘No. I don’t think Henry is exactly delicate, but—’

Rom smiled, for it was not Henry that he had had in mind. But he would say no more to Harriet now. When MacPherson confirmed that the purchase of Stavely was completed he would speak to her of the future, but not now — not to a tired child just plucked from danger.

So he is going back to Stavely now that Isobel is free, thought Harriet. It was what I expected and I am glad. I must be glad. It was because of Henry that I came here and was allowed to know Rom and I must not — I must not — make a fuss when it happens, because it’s what I want. It has to be what I want. Only, let me not waste one minute of the time that I am allowed with him. That’s all I ask, God — that you give me the courage not to waste one minute, not one second of that time…

An hour later they drove up the sweep of gravel to Follina. Late as they were, light streamed from a window; Lorenzo came running down the steps and other servants, their dark eyes bright with relief at their master’s safe return, clustered round them.

I have only been here once before in my life, Harriet told herself. It is not my home. But the sense of homecoming, the lovely familiarity of everything she saw was overwhelming. The coati coming to rub itself against her legs, Lorenzo’s gold-toothed smile… Maliki and Rauni, her bath attendants, who had tumbled out of their hammocks at the sound of her voice and now bobbed their welcome, fingering admiringly the skirts of her white tarlatan — so much prettier than the brown dress they remembered.

Though Rom had been absent for a week his rooms were filled with flowers, the furniture gleamed with beeswax, the chandeliers blazed…

‘You must be starving. I’ve asked Lorenzo to serve supper in half an hour — I must clean myself up; I’m not fit to join you like this. Only listen to me carefully, Harriet.’ Rom was very tired and his frown as he groped for the right words was formidable. ‘The only way you can be safe now, for a while at least, is here at Follina. My estate is guarded and no harm can befall you here. If Edward gives up and goes back to England, then it will be different — and once de Silva returns from Ombidos there will be no nonsense from the police. The laws on extradition and repatriation are far more complex than poor Carlos realises. But for the moment, it would be disastrous for you to leave here.’

‘Yes. I see that.’

‘However, in view of what happened the last time you were here… I want to assure you that what I offer you is sanctuary pure and simple. You are very young and—’ He broke off, too weary to make a speech about her youth. People, in any case, were apt to know how old they were. ‘I expect nothing from you, Harriet. I’m arranging for you to have the guest-rooms on the other side of the house — they are completely self-contained and private. The last person to sleep there’ — his mouth twisted in a wry grin — ‘was the Bishop of St Oswald. So you see!’

‘Thank you. You are extremely kind.’

Rom looked at her sharply as she stood before him in her favourite listening pose: her hands folded, her feet in the third position. It occurred to him that neither in her face nor her voice was there the relief and gratitude that he expected — that indeed he felt to be his due.

He went away to take a shower then and Harriet was led by the Rio-trained chambermaid to the rooms which had been occupied by the bishop, where she washed her face and hands and combed her hair. She could see how suitable the accommodation had been for the eminent cleric: the rooms were panelled in dark wood, books lined the wall, there was a high and unmistakably single bed. Nothing less like the Blue Suite, with its exotic bathroom and voluptuously curtained bed, could be imagined.

Lorenzo had set a meal in the salon, at a table by the window. In order not to embarrass Harriet, Rom had dressed informally in a white open-necked shirt and dark trousers. Showered and shaved, his hand lightly bandaged, he had shaken off his fatigue and felt tuned-up and expectant, a change that he regretted. There was nothing that he must expect.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t put on anything different,’ said Harriet apologetically. ‘I suppose I must do something about getting hold of my clothes.’

He smiled. ‘There’s nothing more becoming than what you’re wearing. Most of the clothes women buy are aimed at achieving just that effect — ethereal… a bit mysterious… and exceedingly romantic.’

No, that was a mistake. He must not be personal; he must pay her no compliments and quite certainly he must not stretch out a hand to where her winged and devastating collarbone curved round the hollow in her throat. A ‘neutral topic’, that was what was required. Her work, then…

‘They’re a strange lot, those Wilis,’ said Rom. ‘Why are they so determined to dance all those poor men to death?’

‘Well, they’re the spirits of girls who died before their wedding day — because they were deserted by their fiancés, I think, though one is never told exactly.’

‘But Albrecht seemed to be all right? Maximov was still going strong when I pulled you from the rock, as far as I could see.’

‘That’s because Giselle saves him by dancing in his stead. She goes on and on, throwing herself in front of him, until the dawn comes and the Wilis have to leave.’

‘Why, though? Surely he betrayed her, didn’t he, in Act One?’

Harriet lifted her head from her plate, surprised. ‘She loved him. Him. Not what he did. So of course she would try to save him.’

The topic was not turning out to be as neutral as he had hoped. He began, in response to her shy questions, to tell her a little about Ombidos now that the horror was past, and of Alvarez’ courage once he had decided to go.

And another ‘neutral topic’ ran into the ground as he recalled the Minister’s voice when he spoke of Lucia, who had had Harriet’s eyes… and who must have looked at Alvarez as Harriet was looking now, her lifted face full of trust and happiness.

Only why, thought Rom a little irritably, for he felt that Harriet somehow was not really helping. Why does she look like that? She must be aware of my reputation… of what everyone would think.

‘It’s late,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be tired — don’t let me keep you up.’

‘Could we go on to the terrace first,’ she begged. ‘Just for a moment?’

He nodded, pulled out her chair and led her out through the French window.

Another mistake. The scent of jasmine overwhelmed them with its sweetness and the moths hung drunkenly over the tobacco flowers. There was a moon.

‘It’s a proper in such a night as this night, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Shakespeare’s words, over-familiar, endlessly quoted but indestructible, unfolded their silver skeins in both their minds.

In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love to come again to Carthage… In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs that did renew old Aeson…

In such a night…

And Rom, staring out at the moonlit strip of river, was pierced by a deep and unconquerable sense of loss, of waste. If all went as he hoped, he would marry her; they would be together and it would be good. But this particular night as they stood on the terrace, both released from danger, bathed in the scent of jasmine, this would never come again.

And roughly he said, ‘Come! We must go in.’

She followed him in silence. Back in the salon, he asked, ‘Did you find everything you wanted in your rooms?’

‘Yes, thank you. It was all very comfortable.’

‘I’ll say good-night, then.’

She did not go immediately, but stood with bent head looking down at a bowl of lilies. Then, ‘It seems very difficult to be ruined in this house,’ said Harriet petulantly.

He was certain that he had misheard her. ‘What?’

She did not repeat her sentence, merely looked up once in order to scrutinise his face. Then she nodded, for she had found what she sought, and walked over to the bell-rope and pulled it.

The bell rang loudly as it had rung on that other night, which, incredibly, was less than four weeks ago.

‘Coronel?’ Lorenzo, still shrugging on his jacket, turned to his master.

‘It was I who rang.’ The authority in her voice surprised Rom and augured well for the future he had planned. ‘I have decided to sleep in the Blue Suite — please see that it is prepared. And be so kind as to ask Maliki and Rainu to come to me. I wish,’ said Harriet, ‘to take a bath.’