A Company of Swans (21 page)

"It's The Times, you know," he said, thinking that Verney had not understood. "It's just come off the boat."

"I know. I won't be a moment. You mentioned a name I thought I knew."

"Ah." Well, if the fellow had suffered a bereavement that wasn't quite so bad. He handed over the paper, pointing with his rheumatic finger at the obituary column.

There was silence while Rom looked at the entry.

BRANDON: On May the 3rd, suddenly, at Toulouse, Henry Alexander St. John, of Stavely Hall, Suffolk, Aged 38. Funeral private. No flowers by request.

"Friend of yours?" inquired Carstairs presently.

"No," said Rom and handed back the paper.

La Fille Mai Gardée is a light and charming ballet without the depths of Swan Lake or Giselle. It ends happily: the village girl, Lise, gets her handsome young farmer; the rich and foolish suitor departs in confusion. There are dances with ribbons, harvest frolics and of course the chickens with their échappés.

But there is, in the last act, an extraordinarily moving passage of mime which has become a classic. It occurs when the heroine, shut into her house by her strict mother, lives in imagination—and to the tenderest of melodies—the future that she hopes for with her love.

It was this passage which Simonova was rehearsing while Harriet—who should have been elsewhere-stood in the wings, unable to tear herself away. Almost a week had passed since Verney had stormed away from her at the Casa Branca and the ache of his rejection never quite seemed to go away, but now she forgot herself utterly as she watched… and saw the gaunt, eagle-faced woman turn into a tremulous young girl… saw her put on with reverence her wedding-dress… saw her pick up her first-born and rock it in her arms… count out the other children she would have—and chide them, as they grew, for disobedience.

There were no props and only ancient Irina Petrovna with her cigarette playing the upright piano. Simonova was in a tattered practice dress and hideous bandeau, but it was all there: the glory of married love and its marvelous and celebratory ordinariness.

"So! What are you doing here? There is no rehearsal for the corps!"

The ballerina, sweeping off, had encountered Harriet.

"I'm sorry, Madame… only I had to watch," said Harriet, rising from her curtsey. "You were…" She shook a wondering head. "I shall never forget it. Never! It seemed so simple… there isn't even really any dancing."

"Oh yes, there is dancing," said Simonova. "Make no mistake! Every finger dances." She looked for a moment at Harriet's rapt face. "It is one of the glories of our tradition, that mime. When Karsavina does it, it is impossible not to weep."

"Nobody can do it better than you!"

Harriet's husky-voiced adulation made the ballerina smile. "Kchessinskaya taught it to me. Perhaps one day I shall teach it to you, who knows?" She patted Harriet on the cheek, swept up her accompanist and was gone—but her words sang in Harriet's head. It meant nothing of course, it was only nonsense; she would never dance Lise. But if just once in my life I could do that mime, thought Harriet—and still in a dream, she moved out on to the empty silent stage.

Thus Rom, coming to find her, stood in the wings and watched as she had watched Simonova. He had put out of his mind this girl who had been Henry's creature: he would do nothing now except gently break to her the news he had brought, and leave her. Yet for a moment it seemed to him that the men who had dragged marble from Italy and porphyry from Portugal, who had ransacked the jungle for its rarest woods and paid their millions to build this opulent and fantastical theater, had done so in order that a young girl with loose brown hair should move across its stage, drawing her future from its empty air.

Harriet was humming, trying to remember… After Simonova had stretched out her hand in church for her lover's ring—had she knelt to pray? No, surely she must have looked up, lifted her face for the bridal kiss. Yes, of course she had. She had pushed back her veil, turned, lifted her head…

So Harriet turned, lifted her head… and saw Verney standing in the shadows.

"I must speak to you, Harriet." His words were curt, his face guarded again. The insane desire to step forward into her dream had passed. "We can go to the trustees' room; there will be no one there."

He led her through a baize door, along a corridor… up a flight of steps to a richly paneled room dominated by a vast, satinwood table.

"Sit down."

She sat obediently, looking very small in one of the twelve carved and high-backed chairs, like a studious pupil facing a board of examiners.

"What I have to say will upset and sadden you," he began and she made a movement of acquiescence. Anything he said while he still looked so angry and bitter would do just that. "But I felt you should know while you were out here and had a chance to… forget a little. Henry is dead, Harriet. Henry Brandon. He died a week after you left England."

Her reaction was worse than anything he could have imagined. The color drained from her face and she shrank back in the tall chair. She was completely stricken.

"No… Oh, no, he can't be! God couldn't…"

She had really loved him then, that pale deceitful slug of a man, thought Rom, noting with detached surprise the degree of his own wretchedness.

"I'm afraid it's true, Harriet. I cabled for confirmation."

"He was perfectly all right when I saw him… he was in the maze… he was reading your book," she said wildly. "He admired you so much." Her mouth began to tremble and she bit her lip with a desperate effort at control. "How did he die?" she managed to say. "What happened?"

He had decided to tell her only if she asked. "He shot himself."

Her head jerked up. "Shot himself? But that's impossible! How can a little child shoot himself? Did they let him play in the gun room? Surely even that horrible Mr. Grunthrope wouldn't have let—"

"Wait!" Rom took a steadying breath. At the same time everything suddenly grew lighter—the room, the lowering sky outside. "Harriet, I am talking of Henry Brandon, the owner of Stavely—Isobel's husband. A man of thirty-eight."

"A man? Oh, I suppose that's his father. I never met him. My Henry will be eight in June." Her face as she took in what Rom had said became transfigured. "It's all right, then? My Henry is all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure he is. We'll cable anyway, but there's not the slightest reason to assume otherwise." He had been standing, needing to be distanced from her grief. Now he pulled out a chair in order to sit beside her. "I didn't know there was a child," he said slowly. "I took good care to know nothing about what went on at Stavely." He stared for a while at the swirling clouds outside, massing for the afternoon downpour. Then: "When you talked of meeting Henry… of loving him… it was of my brother that I thought you spoke. Of the man who has just died."

She looked up, amazed. "But I never even met him! And if I had, I wouldn't plead for a grown man who had deserted his family. It would be none of my business… well, it isn't anyway, I suppose. But if you had seen Henry—my Henry—he's lost all his milk teeth and he worries about wearing spectacles and he had this image of you. I think the idea of you somehow kept him going."

She fell silent, realising how uncannily accurate the child's description of Rom had been. Rom could save Stavely; he could save anything or anyone he chose.

"Yes, I see. I'm afraid it's a case of Romeo and the chicken feather," he said ruefully. "I should have thought—it was obvious really—but I was too angry. I have no reason to be fond of my half-brother." There was a pause. Then, "Did you see Isobel Brandon?"

"I saw her for a moment through a doorway. She seemed very distressed. And very beautiful."

"Yes, I can imagine she would still be beautiful." He looked about for something to help him through what was to come, found Harriet's hand and appropriated it, feeling it to be his due. "I think it's time I told you about my youth at Stavely. I was once engaged to Isobel, you see."

He began to speak then, and in the hour that followed he held back nothing.

Harriet learned of his childhood, his veneration for his father, the desolation he had felt at his mother's death. Of his brother he could not speak even now without hatred, but the passage of time made it possible for him to be fair to Isobel. He emphasized her youth, the agony she had experienced when her grandfather was ruined.

"I saw only her betrayal," he said. "Now I see that she must have suffered. I expected too much from someone so young."

"No." Harriet's denial was scarcely audible, but he caught it and smiled, unfolding her fingers to make a fan which he spread out on the satinwood table.

"I was penniless, futureless; she wanted to be safe."

He went on then to tell Harriet of the kindness of Madeleine de la Tour, of his early adventures on the river. But there remained with Harriet the image of a woman, beautiful and high-born, whom he had passionately loved—a woman who belonged to his own world—and a place for which he still craved. And she saw that in calling up help for Isobel's child, she had also invoked help for Isobel whose first—and surely last—love he had been.

Chapter Ten

"I'm sorry," said Henry in a small, croaking voice. It hurt him to speak, his head throbbed and though the nuns had closed the shutters of the long windows of the sanatorium, a ray of light entering through a crack pierced his eyes as if it were a dagger. "I'm awfully sorry I'm ill," said Henry to his mother.

"Don't be silly, Henry," said Isobel, sitting beside his bed. "It's not your fault."

But she found it hard to conceal her impatience. It was there behind her words, in her quick, restless movements so different from the gentle movements of the nuns in their white habits. Feverish as he was, Henry knew them all: Sister Concepcion, round and soft and soothing; Sister Annunciata, beautiful and stately with hands that seemed cool even in the dreadful heat; tall, bony Sister Margharita with her pebble glasses, who could make the pillow stop wrinkling and the medicine slip down his aching throat.

Oh, why did I bring the child, thought Isobel for the hundredth time. It was unbearable being trapped here in Belem, with a thousand miles still to travel down the Amazon. Henry had been good on the Atlantic crossing, it had to be admitted, making friends with the Portuguese crew in spite of the language barrier and not troubling her much—which was as well, for the only other British passenger, a rather ludicrous entomologist, had not been at all helpful about amusing the child. Dr. Finch-Dutton had been pleased enough to introduce himself as an erstwhile visitor to Stavely, but when it came to answering Henry's questions or making himself useful, that was another matter. But as they approached the coast of Brazil, Henry had become evidently and unconcealably ill.

The doctor of the Vasco da Gama, only too aware of the lethal fevers which raged in that part of the world, had greeted with unconcealed relief the appearance, the day before they were due to dock at Belem, of the tell-tale white spots inside Henry's mouth.

"Measles, Madame, without a doubt," he said in excellent English. "You must be extremely relieved…"

"Yes, indeed. Now we can travel on down to Manaus. I have friends there who can make him comfortable."

"Travel on!" The doctor was shocked. "Certainly not! There is no question of subjecting the child to the river journey in this heat. He needs careful nursing—and I have my other passengers to think of."

"It is probably the other passengers he caught it from," flashed Isobel. "Those dirty people in the steerage."

But the doctor was adamant. "I hope there will be no complications, but damage to the eyes or the chest cannot be entirely ruled out. We shall ask the nuns of the Sacred Heart to take him in. They are excellent nurses and will not, I think, refuse the child."

And the nuns, seeing Henry with streaming eyes and a temperature of 104°, had not refused.

"I'm absolutely all right." Henry's painful croak came once more from the high white bed. "You don't, have to stay."

"I shall stay until Sister Concepcion comes back," said Isobel. But she took her watch surreptitiously from her pocket and looked at it. There was really nothing to do for Henry—all the proper nursing was done by the nuns—and it made these vigils very long.

How dreadfully unattractive he looked, poor scrap. His rash was at its blotchiest; his hair, darkened by sweat, clung to his scalp. The nuns had removed his glasses and the gray eyes were swollen and streaming. Would Rom be put off by such a charge? After all, Henry was the child of a man he had every reason to detest. She had rehearsed so often her appearance before Rom—helpless, a little penitent, holding her defenseless child by the hand.

But not a child who looked as Henry looked now.

Oh, God, the frustration of being balked when she was so close to her goal! Should she have sent a message to Rom by Doctor Finch-Dutton, who had traveled on with scant concern—it seemed to her—for the fate of his stranded countrywoman? No… Her instinct to surprise Rom was sound, she was sure. Warned of her appearance he might refuse to see her; she had not forgotten his face that last day at Stavely. To keep the reason for her journey secret from everyone, even the child, had been wise, she was certain.

Henry moved his aching head on the pillow. His mother's impatience came across to him as tangibly as if she was pacing the floor or biting her nails. Yesterday, knowing how badly he had failed her, he had tried to get out of bed and find some of that white stuff which the nuns put on his rash to make it itch less. He had thought that if he covered his face with it properly, they might think he was better and let him travel on—and then his mother would be happy again. It was a silly thing to think, but measles made you muddled… and anyway it hadn't worked, because before he could get to the cupboard the room had begun to spin round and Sister Concepcion had come and scolded him and carried him back to bed.

Only I must get better quicker, thought Henry. It was awful, letting down his mother when she had taken him on a proper adventure. The ship had been lovely; everyone had been so kind. They had seen dolphins and flying fish and the captain had let him go on the bridge. And then, just when the best bit was about to begin—the journey down the Amazon—God had sent him the measles.