Eva Ibbotson - A Company of Swans

‘How tame he is!’

‘Most things can be tamed if you take the time,’ he said, sending the little creature off again with a pat on its rump. ‘I found him when he was a few days old. Come, if you like animals I’ll show you one more thing and then we really must get back.’

But as she followed him Harriet, in her mind, had left this magical garden and was back at Stavely while Henry told her what the family’s disagreeable butler had said about the ‘secret boy’: ‘Grunthorpe didn’t like him… he said he was a changeling… because he could talk to animals, Grunthorpe said…’

She was sure, really — and had been from the moment she saw him step out from the trees. A straight line ran from the boy who had built a tree-house in the Wellingtonia and owned a dog who was his shadow, to this man, but oh, for proof!

They had reached the igarape and he led her on to the bridge which crossed it.

‘I’ve told you how important it is to keep the water moving. Well, here is one of the methods I use.’ He leaned over and slapped the surface of the water with his hand. ‘Agatha!’ he called. ‘Come here. I’ve brought you a visitor!’

Harriet looked down into the water. At first she could make out nothing. Then slowly from under a patch of weed there appeared a mass of mottled grey and white whiskers, a snout… A soft blowing and snuffling noise followed; the almond-shaped nostrils twitched and opened… Then the head lifted and Harriet found herself looking into a pair of round, liquid, unutterably soulful eyes.

‘Oh, what is it? What is it?’ Harriet, who had taught herself never to touch anyone for fear of rebuff, had taken this stranger’s arm. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not a seal?’

‘It’s a manatee,’ said Verney softly. ‘A kind of sea cow. The sailors say that this is the basis for the stories of mermaids. Have you ever seen a more human face? More human than most humans, I always think.’

Harriet could not take her eyes from the trusting beast which was now looking at her unperturbed, a bunch of water hyacinths dangling like a dotty bouquet from her mouth. ‘They’re sacred to some of the Indian tribes,’ said Rom, ‘and anyone who tries to poach them on my land is in trouble. They keep the channels running clear, you see, by eating the water-weed.’

‘A manatee!’ said Harriet raptly. ‘I’ve seen a manatee!’ She turned away to trace the pattern of the creeper which had laid its stippled leaves along the hand-rail of the bridge, but not before he had seen the glint of tears on her lashes.

‘What is it?’ he asked gently. ‘Is anything the matter?’

She gave a small shake of the head. ‘It’s just that everything is so beautiful… so right … And it was here all the time, this rightness… While I was in Scroope Terrace in that cold dark house. If only I’d known how to come out — if only I’d known that a place like this existed.’

‘You know now,’ said Verney lightly. ‘And I have to tell you that there is absolutely nothing right about Agatha’s husband; he’s an entirely different kettle of fish — a nasty servile beast perpetually on the lookout for gratuities. In fact, I doubt if he’ll come at all since I haven’t brought any biscuits. No… wait; I’ve maligned him. Here he is!’

The animal which now surfaced did indeed look quite different from the gentle domestic-looking creature still staring lovingly out of the water. The male manatee’s eyes seemed incorrigibly greedy; the short snorts he gave had a vaguely petulant air and the round head which imparted to Agatha such a benign and soothing look was covered, in his case, by large liver-coloured spots.

And as Rom had intended, Harriet laughed and said, ‘I see what you mean.’

Furious at the lack of largesse, the male manatee nudged his wife a couple of times, gave a snort of disgust… and sank.

‘Does he have a name?’ asked Harriet.

‘I call him Grunthorpe,’ said Rom — and led her back to the house.

The party was in full swing. Sitting at damask-covered tables decked with exquisite silver, the guests ate roast tapir more delicate than pork, forest grouse wrapped in plantain leaves, a fricassee of turtle meat served in the upturned shell… Only where wine was concerned did Verney turn to Europe, serving a Chateauneuf du Pape which had Dubrov and Count Sternov exchanging a glance of solemnity and awe.

So now I know, thought Harriet, sitting with the girls of the corps at a long table. I have proof. He is Henry’s ‘secret boy’ and that means I must speak to him, even though I don’t know why he left Stavely or what scandal or grief may be hidden in his past. I must tell him how bad things are there and I must plead for Henry even if I am rebuffed and snubbed, because that was what I promised I would do.

She looked at the top table where Verney was sitting, saying something to Simonova which made her throw back her head and laugh, and a stab of pity ran through her for the red-haired child who had turned to her with such trust. ‘If you find him, Harriet, ask him to come back,’ Henry had said, but this man would never return to England. She had never seen anyone who belonged to a place so utterly as he did here.

She accepted a second helping of an unknown but delicious fish. Beside her, the indomitable Olga was crunching to smithereens a leg of roasted guinea-fowl. Tatiana, who spoke no word of English, was bent over her plate.

Only when? thought Harriet, thus left free to pursue her thoughts. When do I speak to him? After tonight I won’t see him again, not ever, she thought — wondering why the exotic fish she was consuming seemed, after all, not to be in the least delicious. Verney might go to the other performances at the Opera House, but he would hardly trouble to seek out a humble member of the corps.

The entrée was cleared; bowls of pomegranates, paw-paws and pineapples were set out. Sorbets arrived in tall glasses and a concoction of meringue and passion fruit… The wine changed to the lightest of Muscadels…

But Harriet’s appetite had suddenly deserted her, for the result of her deliberations had become inescapable. If she wanted to plead for the child who had so inexplicably wound himself round her heart, there was only one way to do it — alone. And only one time — tonight.

As a host Verney might appear relaxed to the point of being casual, but the ingredients which made up his famous parties — the food, the wine, the lights, the music — were most precisely calculated. So after the formality of the dinner he loosed his guests into the flower-filled enfilade of rooms which ran along the terrace and replaced the Viennese trio who had played earlier by a group of Brazilian musicians, knowing that guests too shy to waltz or polka in the presence of these professionals would soon be caught by the syncopated rhythm of Los Olvideros. And soon Maximov was dancing with young Mrs Bennett, the sharp-faced Harry Parker beat all other contestants for the hand of Marie-Claude and Simonova herself had led the enraptured Count on to the floor.

But a man who knows exactly when to welcome and feed and amuse his guests, knows also when to send them back. At midnight his servants came with jugs of steaming coffee, and with a flourish the curtains were drawn aside — to reveal a shining avenue of light from lamps strung between the jacaranda trees and at its end the Amethyst glowing with welcome, waiting to take them home.

‘That went off very well, Lorenzo,’ said Rom. ‘You can clear up in the morning. I’m going to bed.’

But he lingered for a while, enjoying the silent house; relishing that moment of well-being which attacks even the most hospitable of men when their guests have gone. He opened a French window to let in the coati. The night was clear — the Milky Way spectacularly bright and Pegasus, up-ended and undignified to someone from another hemisphere, pointing to the north and what had once been home.