Eva Ibbotson - A Company of Swans

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…