A Company of Swans (23 page)

"Oh, I say! Yes! That's jolly decent of you. Didn't expect to see a fellow countryman here," said Edward. "My name's Finch-Dutton—Dr. Edward Finch-Dutton, from Cambridge. The truth is, I'm in a bit of a fix. I've just come off the Vasco da Gama and spent the whole afternoon driving around trying to find somewhere to stay. I tried the Hotel Metropole, but it's booked to the roof—so is the Europa, not that I'd put a dog there. And then that scoundrel"—he glared at the driver, busy spitting melon seeds into the road—"drove me to a place he said was a hotel—" But there Edward broke off, unable to speak of what had happened after he had asked for a room at Madame Anita's. "And now he proposes to dump me and my luggage and charge me a perfectly ludicrous sum which I have not the slightest intention of paying."

Rom turned and fired off half-a-dozen rapid sentences at the cabby, who became servile and explanatory. The Englishman had not understood: he had tried to tell him that the hotels were always full when a company was performing at the theater but the man would not listen. He himself had done his best, but he now wished to receive his fare and attend the festivities for his niece's confirmation at which he was already overdue.

"Your niece's festivities—which interest me little-will, however, have to wait," said Rom pleasantly. "And if you don't want to lose your license, you will stop spitting into the road." He turned back to Edward. "Perhaps I can help. My name's Verney, by the way. I'm on my way to the Sports Club to pick up a message; it's quite a decent place, run by an Englishman—Harry Parker. They sometimes accommodate travelers for a few days—members of expeditions and so on. I can't promise anything, but I daresay he might fit you in."

"I used to know a Harry Parker at my prep school," said Edward. "He kept a weasel in his tuck-box. Don't suppose it's the same chap." But he brightened visibly at the thought of someone in this steam-bath of a city who might conceivably have been at Fallowfield preparatory school on the bracing and healthy Sussex Downs.

"You're a zoologist, I see," said Rom, giving the driver his orders and climbing over Edward's collecting gear and large tin trunk—for Edward was not a person who traveled light or thought that field work excused one from appearing decently dressed for dinner.

"Well, yes. Entomology's my field, actually. The Aphaniptera in particular. Fleas," explained Edward. "I'm a Fellow of St. Philip's."

"So you'll be staying a while?"

"Yes… Well, not too long, I hope. I mean…" He looked at the man who had come to his rescue. Handsome; a bit foreign-looking but obviously a thoroughgoing gentleman by his voice and his clothes, and the cab-driver had become positively servile in his presence. So Edward, who had manfully kept his secret on the long journey, now said, "I don't mind telling you that I'm also here for another reason—not just collecting. I'm looking for a girl who has run away from home. A dreadful business. Her father's the Merlin Professor of Classics, and I… well, before this happened I was interested in the girl myself. Not now of course," he added hastily. "We think she's with the ballet company which is playing here at the Opera House. As soon as I'm settled and have got rid or my stuff, I intend to start making inquiries."

"What is her name?"

Edward hesitated, but his rescuer's face as he looked out at the street showed only the most polite and casual interest.

"Harriet Morton. This is strictly between you and me, of course."

"Well, she may be here," said Rom lazily. "But as I understand it, all the girls are Russian. However, perhaps I may be able to help you. I happen to be the chairman of the Opera House trustees and the director might let me have information he would not disclose to a casual inquirer. The girls are very strictly guarded, you see."

"I say, that's terribly decent of you! It's for her own good, but she must be brought back and the whole thing hushed-up if possible."

Rom turned his head. "Hushed-up?" he said, surprised. "One would rather imagine it to be a cause for boasting, to have a daughter accepted by such a distinguished company."

Before Edward could digest this unexpected remark, they had reached the club. The Harry Parker who welcomed them was not the one who had kept a weasel in his tuck-box and Edward had not really expected such a stroke of fortune, but all was not lost for it turned out that the Featherstonehaugh for whom Parker had fagged at Stowe had mentioned being related to a Finch-Dutton of Goring-on-Thames who had stroked for Cambridge in the year in which they sank.

"My father," said Edward with quiet pride.

Rom's patronage would have secured for Edward one of the rooms in the annex in any case, but these revelations made it certain that in Harry Parker he had found a lifelong friend.

"Well, I shall leave you to settle in," said Rom, "and see what I can find out for you. The great thing is not to hang around the stage-door or go to the theater by yourself. Monsieur Dubrov is apt to set the police on stage-door johnnies!"

And waving away Edward's thanks, he climbed back into the cab—whose driver had disclaimed all interest in his niece's confirmation—and was driven back to the theater.

"Well," said Dubrov, "what's the position?" News of Harriet's pursuer had spread through the cast like wildfire.

"He's certainly after Harriet and has been instructed to bring her home. As you may have gathered, he once intended to become her fiancé. However, he himself has no legal power and he is also an oaf. If we can keep him quiet, I see no reason why Harriet shouldn't finish her tour in peace… and then we shall see."

Dubrov looked at him curiously. "Might I ask why you are taking so much trouble over Harriet's career as a dancer when…"

He left the sentence unfinished, but Rom did not pretend to misunderstand him.

"I want her to have a choice. She's eighteen, Dubrov, and I don't want her to come to me because there's nowhere else for her to go. However, I'm sure we can manage—only if her father gives orders to have her repatriated could there be trouble, and I cannot see why he should do that. Above all, he seems anxious to avoid a scandal and if he starts involving the law he can hardly do that. As a matter of fact, I have an idea which might serve. If Madame Simonova would cooperate… ?"

He outlined his plan to Dubrov, who burst out laughing. "Well, nothing can be lost by trying it. Will you speak to Harriet? She is very upset."

"Yes, I will speak to Harriet."

She came already dressed for her part in Fille, wearing a white dirndl with a laced bodice, a blue apron and a blue kerchief around her neck.

"You look charming. That blue is a perfect foil for your eyes."

She tried to smile, but her face was wretchedly anxious.

"Is he… does he know I'm here?"

"Not yet, but he will very soon because I am about to tell him!"

"Oh no! Oh please, please, no!" She put a hand entreatingly on his arm. "I know it can't go on forever… being happy… but just a little longer!"

"Harriet, you cannot hide night and day for as long as he chooses to pursue you. He seems to be a very persistent and obstinate young man. I think it would be much better if, so to speak, we turned the tables on him."

"How? I don't understand. How could we do that?"

"Leave it to me. And have courage, my silly little swan. You're so intrepid, paddling about among the pirhanas, yet you let an oaf like that frighten you."

"It's not just him; it's my father. I'm under age, you see, and if he chose—"

"But he won't choose; we'll see to that. You will go back to England at the appointed time and with your head held high—if that is what you wish. You might even get your father's blessing on your career as a dancer."

"No… never! You don't know what he's like." She tried to smile. "I must go. Will you be watching? No, of course, you saw the premiere."

"All the same, I'll be there, holding my breath while you thread the ribbons like everybody else." He lifted a corner of the kerchief. "You should wear blue," he said. And, breaking his rule, "You shall wear blue," he said—and left her.

Edward was in the bar drinking with Harry Parker and a few of the regulars, when a servant came with a message to say that Mr. Verney would be pleased if Dr. Finch-Dutton would join him in his box at the theater at eight o'clock.

"I say," said Harry Parker, "that's a real honor. Verney nearly always watches alone."

"Yes, but I didn't bring my tails," said Edward, fingering his black tie anxiously.

"If you're with Verney you could go in plus-fours," said Harry Parker. "There's nothing you can't carry off when you're with him."

Edward had seen the Opera House during his fruitless search for a hotel, but the sheer opulence of the foyer and the clothes and jewels of the patrons here in this place amazed him.

"Ah, there you are!" Rom detached himself from a group of friends and came forward. "Look, we only have a few moments. Better come up to my box, where we can talk quietly." And as they went, he continued, "Your girl is here. She's known as Natasha Alexandrovna, but there is no doubt she is the girl you're looking for; I've checked with Dubrov. Only you must be very careful: your coming here could make things extremely awkward for her."

"For her?" said Edward, dumbfounded, and stumbled on a marble step.

"Naturally, for her. One hint that she is being pursued by a man and her position in the Company might be seriously jeopardized. Followers are strictly forbidden and Madame Simonova is an absolute stickler."

"But I'm not pursuing her! I'm trying to save her!" cried Edward.

"Better not put it like that to the Company. Or to anyone in the audience. I'm afraid Professor Morton is under a misapprehension regarding—" He broke off. "Ah, here come the Sternovs!" and he led Edward toward his friends. "Allow me to introduce Dr. Finch-Dutton, just out from England. Count and Countess Sternov and the Countess Sophie."

By the time they were seated in Verney's box, Edward's head was spinning. The Countess had taken him aside to confide that her sixteen-year-old daughter was ballet-mad and quite heartbroken because an inequality of the toes prevented her from being accepted by the Dubrov Company. A young Englishwoman, Mrs. Bennett, had congratulated him on being allowed to see these dedicated and unapproachable dancers perform. Was it possible that the Professor really was mistaken about the status of ballet girls in polite society, thought Edward, unaware that Rom's friends would have done a great deal more for him than utter a few white lies.

But now the conductor entered, the house lights dimmed and all thoughts vanished from Edward's mind except one. After the long, exhausting journey, the sorrow and wrath she had caused him, he was going to see Harriet again.

Or was he?

The curtain went up on a farmyard and a ballet of chickens of whom Harriet was not one… A funny lady who was really a man came and chided her daughter for dancing with a handsome farmer… It was all rather jolly and the tunes were nice.

And now a lot of village girls came on and danced with the heroine. Pretty girls in white dresses, each with a different colored apron and scarf around her throat.

"Well, what do you think of your friend?" whispered Rom. "They are very pleased with her work in the Company."

Edward frowned with concentration. Harriet must be on stage then—and indeed there were so many village maidens that one of them was bound really to be her. He leaned forward, peering intently at the twisting, shifting patterns made by the girls with their twirling skirts. There was a thin girl with brown hair at the end on the right, but there was another one at the front and a third just vanishing behind a hay-cart.

"It is a bit difficult to pick her out, actually. I'm not used to dancing," he said helplessly.

Rom shot him a look of contempt and handed him the opera glasses. But the glasses only made things worse. One got a head here and an arm there and then they were gone. Edward tracked now this girl, now that, before handing back the glasses with a disconsolate shake of the head.

"She's the one with the dark red kerchief," said Rom maliciously.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course! I see now," said Edward gratefully.

And for the rest of the evening, Rom had the satisfaction of seeing the moron who had professed an interest in Harriet devoutly pursuing Olga Narukov across the stage.

As Rom had expected, he experienced no difficulty in setting up the luncheon which was to put Edward in his place once and for all. In every ballerina there smolders the conviction that she is also a great actress; Rom's plan had only to be outlined and Simonova was already planning her costume and instructing her underlings, and by the time he returned to the theater at noon with a case of Chateauneuf du Pape as a thank-offering, the transformation from glamorous ballerina to fierce duenna was already complete. "The girls know what they have to do," she said.

"and everything is ready. My clothes are good, you think?"

"Indeed I do." Simonova wore black to the throat; a black hat with a veil shielded her face and a jet-handled parasol lay on the chair. He bent for a moment over her hand. "I am truly grateful, Madame. Not everyone would go to such trouble for a girl in the corps."

Simonova shrugged. "She is a good child… though she does not have Natasha's ears," she murmured mysteriously, and swept out into the corridor where she could be heard yelling instructions at the girls.

Rom had called at the Club earlier to brief Edward. "It's a great honor you understand, this invitation? In fact, I know of no one else who has been allowed to lunch with Madame and the girls." And he went on to caution Edward to be extremely careful in his use of language and not to mention that he was staying at the Sports Club, which would certainly be considered flighty.

"I myself," said Rom with perfect accuracy, "never mention my connection with the Club to any lady of my acquaintance."

At a quarter to one, therefore, Edward—in his new light-weight suit—made his way toward the theater. He had imagined his first meeting with Harriet a hundred times. He had visualized her abandoned in a hovel, backstage in a scandalously short skirt, or driving with a rich protector in a carriage. But he had not imagined her crossing the Opera Square in crocodile with twenty other girls, wearing a straw hat and long-sleeved foulard dress, in the wake of a formidable woman in black and a portly gentleman in a frock-coat.