Eva Ibbotson - A Company of Swans

And before Edward could think of anything suitable to say, gloves had been donned, parasols unfurled and two-by-two the girls set off across the square.

His luncheon with the Company left Edward deeply confused. He went to the post office to send a cable to the Mortons and tried at least five different variations before settling for: HARRIET SAFE FURTHER NEWS FOLLOWS. This at least would set their minds at rest and give him time to think. For of course Harriet must be returned to her father’s house — only it was not easy to see how.

‘Do you think I ought to put the whole thing to the British Consul?’ Edward had asked Verney. But it seemed the Consul was on leave in São Paulo and Verney advised most strongly against Edward taking the matter into his own hands. ‘Quite honestly, if you tried to force her to return with you they would think you were abducting her for your own purposes and you might well find yourself cooling your heels in the local gaol. Now you are here, why don’t you concentrate on your work? In any case, there’s no sailing for another week. I would be very happy to help with transport and in any other way I can.’

This was advice Edward was inclined to take. He had replenished his collection of fleas most effectively on the boat — there had been fleas on the crew, fleas on the passengers, fleas on the captain’s fox terrier… But he had glimpsed, here in Manaus, insects as fabulous as any he had dreamed of in Cambridge.

The annexe of the Sports Club, in which Edward slept, was a low wooden building edging on to the forest. On the morning after his luncheon with Harriet, he took his nets, his collecting bottles and his tins — and entered his heritage.

He had expected the morphos, the nymphalids, the humming-bird hawk moths — but their sheer size, their musculature, the power it needed to kill them, intoxicated him. In an hour, on the track leading from the back of the Club, he collected enough specimens to line the walls of his little research room at Cambridge and for the first time in his life he felt a catch of butterflies as weight. The heat was staggering and he was not only the hunter but the hunted as sand-flies, tabanids and piums feasted on his crimsoning skin. But Edward hardly noticed the discomfort. That butterfly with the red wing-eye — he had never seen that described anywhere… And to fill his cup of happiness to overflowing, there on a cluster of sloth droppings was what he could see, even with the naked eye, as an entirely new species of flea.

His meeting with Harriet the next day only confirmed what he had learned at luncheon: that she was as closely guarded as a religious postulant. Harriet had been polite and friendly, but it was clear that nothing less than brute force would get her to leave the Company and at the moment he could see no justification for applying it, nor any likelihood of success should he attempt it.

This being so, Edward felt free to accept the invitation from two German naturalists, who had arrived at the Club annexe on the previous night, to join them in an expedition to a valley above the Tamura Falls. Even without a sighting of that fabulous missing link, the ‘insect-worm’ Peripatus , he felt confident of adding to his collection in a way which would gratify the head of his department and make the whole journey worth-while.

‘So you see,’ said Rom, reporting to Harriet on the morning of Alvarez’ arrival, ‘everything is going splendidly. With luck he’ll be away until Tuesday at least and you can concentrate on supporting Madame Simonova through her ordeal!’ For the dreaded première of Nutcracker , with all that it implied, was almost upon them.

Harriet smiled. ‘Yes… I suppose it’s wrong to hope that Masha Repin doesn’t have too much of a success, but I can’t help hoping it just the same.’ She looked up at him, her eyes warm with gratitude. ‘You have been so kind. I still can’t believe that it can come right… that they will just let me dance. But at least you have shown me how not to be frightened.’

‘There’s a lot more to show you still,’ said Rom lightly. ‘I shall be tied up with business for the next two days.’ Even to Harriet, he could not speak of Ombidos and his determination to make Alvarez see what went on there. ‘But after that I intend to take you out in the Firefly. Just you, this time. If you will come?’

‘I will come,’ said Harriet.

The dinner for Antonio Alvarez was the grandest and most elaborate the Club had ever prepared. Harry Parker was everywhere, supervising the decorations, the arrangement of the vast silver epergne of knights in armour, the seating of the musicians. The arrival of Alvarez’ chef — with the pomp attending the appearance of a field marshal at manoeuvres — had been less of a disaster than expected. Monsieur Pierre, whose moustaches were the most impressive ever seen on the Amazon, had brought a case of gleaming instruments and taken possession of the kitchens; but his personality was such that within a few minutes the staff, who had been hostile and resentful, were scudding about at his bidding, and it was clear that the menu would be as impressive as his reputation.

But the undoubted triumph, the chef-d’oeuvre of the evening — Parker was sure of it — would be the eruption from her cake of the prettiest girl to arrive in the New World for a decade… He himself had personally supervised the construction of this cake: a massive three-tiered plywood gateau painted a mouth-watering pink and decorated with ribbons, mock icing-sugar hearts and cupids — the whole delectable concoction resting on a trolley whose mechanism was concealed by a sea of subsidiary confectionary lapping at its base.

Now, looking round the Club’s banqueting room with its mirrors, gilt lamps and red-damasked walls, Parker could not help feeling that he was upholding a fine and worthwhile tradition. Not at Maxim’s, not at the Café de Paris could they offer anything better than Marie-Claude, clad in her hair, erupting to the music of La Belle Hélène.

In the smoking room, Parker’s satisfaction was far from being shared by Rom. He had been drinking with Alvarez for nearly an hour and the Minister continued to be charming, urbane and impeccable. Immaculately dressed, his hair and moustache pomaded to perfection, his feet in their narrow, hand-made shoes resting on a brocaded footstool, Alvarez showed interest in Rom’s horticultural innovations, gossiped about his fellow politicians, was informative about the state of Brazilian drama — and again and again led the conversation away from Ombidos.

‘If you could go there yourself, sir — just for a day. That damnable company must be disbanded and the people brought to book!’

‘My dear Verney, if I personally investigated every rumour of that sort on the river, I would be quite unable to attend to my work.’

‘Ombidos is like nowhere else. I assure you that the report seriously understates what is going on up there.’

‘Well, well, we shall see.’ Alvarez selected a cigar, a matter which appeared to absorb his entire attention. ‘I’ll have a second look at the report in the morning and then we can have another talk. Now tell me, is it true that Calgeras is selling his interests in the Minas Gerais? It seems an odd move just now in view of what’s happening to rubber, but de Silva swore it was true…’

Half an hour before the dinner was due to begin, a message was brought to Parker to say that young Wetherby was down with a bad attack of malaria and would be unable to attend.

‘Damn! That means we’re down to thirty-five — I hate odd numbers,’ he said to his assistant. ‘I suppose it would be best just to remove his place — he was right down at the bottom of one of the side tables anyway.’ He stood for a moment, frowning. Then: ‘No, wait a moment!’