Eva Ibbotson - The Morning Gift

Ruth did not care for this. ‘It has nothing to do with dabbling,’ she said reproachfully. ‘It’s beautiful. But I suppose now you paint the river and the places round here?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I haven’t put a brush to paper for years.’

‘Why is that? Because there is so much to do here?’ she said, following him into the office.

‘Well, yes… but I suppose I could find time. One gets discouraged, you know, being an amateur.’

Ruth frowned. ‘I don’t want to be impertinent when you’ve been so helpful about getting me naturalized and now annulled — but I think that’s very wrong. An amateur is someone who loves something. In all the Haydn Quartets there is a part for an amateur — the second violin, usually, or the cello — but it’s just as beautiful.’

But the sight of the document Mr Proudfoot had prepared for her now silenced Ruth as she waded, biting her lip, through its several pages of parchment, its red seal, its Gothic script and the strange words in which she wished the law to know that she had never been laid hands on, or laid hands herself, on Quinton Alexander St John Somerville.

‘I don’t know if this will work, Miss Berger — some judges won’t accept an affidavit without medical evidence and Quin is determined not to put you through anything like that.’ He flushed, unable to pursue the subject.

‘Yes. He is being so kind — so very kind — which is why I must get this annulment through quickly so that he can marry someone else.’

Proudfoot, who had been led to believe that it was Ruth who was in a hurry, looked surprised.

‘Does he want to marry anyone else?’

‘Perhaps not he, but other people. Verena Plackett, for example.’

‘I don’t know who Verena Plackett is, but I assure you that Quinton can look after himself. People have been trying to marry him since he was knee-high to a goat.’ He pulled the formidable paper closer. ‘Now listen, my dear, because this document is unique and it’s complicated and you have to get it right. You must sign it exactly where I’ve pencilled it — there and there and again over the page — with your full name and in the presence of a Commissioner for Oaths. He’ll make a charge and Quin has asked me to give you a five-pound note to cover the cost. Any commissioner will do, there’s sure to be one in Hampstead. When you’ve done it, bring it back to me — I wouldn’t trust the post; if it’s lost we’ll miss the next sitting of the courts and then we’re in trouble. And if there’s anything you don’t understand, just let me know.’

‘I think I understand it,’ said Ruth. ‘Only perhaps you could wrap it in something for me?’ For her straw basket contained, in addition to her dissecting kit and lecture notes, the remains of Pilly’s sandwiches which, now that Heini was eating with them, she took back to Belsize Park rather than feeding to the ducks.

‘Don’t worry — there’s a cardboard tube — it gets rolled up and put inside. I’ll expect you in a few days, then. Take care!’

‘What do you think?’ said Milner, looking at Quin with his head on one side and an ill-concealed glint of excitement in his eyes.

Quin stood looking down at the drawer of fossil-bearing rocks which Milner had pulled open, first unlocking the storage room with rather more formality than usually went on in the Natural History Museum.

‘You’re right, of course. It’s part of a pterosaur. And I’d have sworn it was from Tendaguru. The Germans have got two casts like that in Berlin from the 1908 expedition. I’ve seen them.’

‘Well, it isn’t. Do you know where this was found?’

Quin, tracing out the beaked skull, still partly embedded in the matrix, shook his head. A wing-lizard, immemorially old and very rare.

‘On the other side of the Kulamali Gorge — eight hundred miles away. He showed me the place on the map. Farquarson may be no more than a white hunter, but he’s no liar and he knows Africa like the back of his hand. I’ve written down the exact location.’

Quin laid the bone back in the tray. ‘Are you serious? South of the Rift?’

‘That’s right. He didn’t know how important it was and I didn’t tell him. It’s a bit of luck, him not being a palaeontologist, otherwise we’d have everyone down on us like a ton of bricks. Whereas as it is…’

Quin held up a restraining hand. Milner had been six months in England, caught in the administration of the civil service which ran the museum, sorting, annotating, preparing exhibitions he regarded as a waste of time. That he wanted to be off again was clear enough.

‘I can’t follow this through now. I spent most of last year away; it isn’t fair on my colleagues.’ He pushed the steel cabinet shut, turned away. ‘Still, I’d like to see Farquarson’s report. You do get those sandstone plateaus there… it’s not impossible. Oh, damn you, Jack — I’ve got to go and set the end of term exams; I’m a staid academic now!’

Milner said nothing more, content to have sown a seed. Sooner or later Quin would crack. Milner had other chances to travel, but he would wait. Journeys weren’t the same without Somerville — and it would do the Professor good to get away. He hadn’t been quite himself the last few weeks.

Verena had returned well satisfied with her time at Bowmont. True Quin had not declared himself, but he had been extremely attentive at the dance, and if it hadn’t been for that madwoman throwing a stone, they might have got much further. Quin had come back from dealing with her in a different mood: sombre and absentminded, and who could blame him? Having an insane person on one’s estate could hardly be a pleasure.

Meanwhile back at the Lodge, she settled down to work. For one of the best ways to approach Quinton was through his subject and Verena, as the Christmas exams approached, worked harder than she had ever worked before.

Needless to say the Placketts did everything they could to help. No one was allowed to talk outside the study door, the maids knew better than to hoover when Verena was writing her essay; a special consignment of textbooks was brought over from the library, including reference books which were needed by the other students.

Not only did Verena work, she also exercised with even greater vigour for she had never lost sight of her ideal: that of accompanying Quin to foreign parts. There was only one point on which she had been doubtful and Quin himself now provided the assurance that she sought.

It happened at a dinner party to which her mother had invited Colonel Hillborough of the Royal Geographical Society. Hillborough was a celebrated traveller and a modest man who worked selflessly for the Society, and he had expressed the hope that Professor Somerville, whom he knew well, would be present.

Whatever Quin’s views on the Placketts’ dinners, there could be no question of refusing, and three days after he had talked to Milner in the museum, he found himself once more sitting at Verena’s right hand.

It was a good evening. Hillborough had just come back from the Antarctic and seen Shackleton’s hut exactly as he had left it: a frozen ham, still edible, hanging from the ceiling, his felt boots lying on a bunk. As he and Quin talked of the great journeys of the past, most of the other guests fell silent, content to listen.

‘And you?’ asked Hillborough as the ladies prepared to leave the room. ‘Are you off again soon?’

Quin, smiling, put up a hand. ‘Don’t tempt me, sir!’

It was then that Verena asked the question that had long been on her mind. ‘Tell me, Professor Somerville,’ she said, giving him his title, though in private, now that she had waltzed in his arms, she always used his Christian name. ‘Is there any reason why women should not go on the kind of expeditions that you organize?’