A Swans - Eva Ibbotson

“Thank you. You are extremely kind.”

Rom looked at her sharply as she stood before him in her favorite listening pose: her hands folded, her feet in the third position. It occurred to him that neither in her face nor her voice was there the relief and gratitude that he expected—that indeed he felt, to be his due.

Fie went away to take a shower then and Harriet was led by the Rio-trained chambermaid to the rooms which had been occupied by the bishop, where she washed her face and hands and combed her hair. She could see how suitable the accommodation had been for the eminent cleric: the rooms were paneled in dark wood, books lined the wall, there was a high and unmistakably single bed. Nothing less like the Blue Suite, with its exotic bathroom and voluptuously-curtained bed, could be imagined.

Lorenzo had set a meal in the salon, at a table by the window. In order not to embarrass Harriet, Rom had dressed informally in a white open-necked shirt and dark trousers. Showered and shaved, his hand lightly bandaged, he had shaken off his fatigue and felt tuned-up and expectant, a change that he regretted. There was nothing that he must expect.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t put on anything different,”

said Harriet apologetically. “I suppose I must do something about getting hold of my clothes.”

He smiled. “There’s nothing more becoming than what you’re wearing. Most of the clothes women buy are aimed at achieving just that effect—ethereal… a bit mysterious… and exceedingly romantic.”

No, that was a mistake. He must not be personal; he must pay her no compliments and quite certainly he must not stretch out a hand to where her winged and devastating collarbone curved round the hollow in her throat. A “neutral topic,” that was what was required. Her work, then…

“They’re a strange lot, those Wilis,” said Rom. “Why are they so determined to dance all those poor men to death?”

“Well, they’re the spirits of girls who died before their wedding day—because they were deserted by their fiances, I think, though one is never told exactly.”

“But Albrecht seemed to be all right? Maximov was still going strong when I pulled you from the rock, as far as I could see.”

“That’s because Giselle saves him by dancing in his stead. She goes on and on, throwing herself in front of him, until the dawn comes and the Wilis have to leave.”

“Why, though? Surely he betrayed her, didn’t he, in Act One?”

Harriet lifted her head from her plate, surprised. “She loved him. Him . Not what he did. So of course she would try to save him.”

The topic was not turning out to be as neutral as he had hoped. He began, in response to her shy questions, to tell her a little about Ombidos now that the horror was past, and of Alvarez’ courage once he had decided to go.

And another “neutral topic” ran into the ground as he recalled the Minister’s voice when he spoke of Lucia, who had had Harriet’s eyes… and who must have looked at Alvarez as Harriet was looking now, her lifted face full of trust and happiness.

Only why, thought Rom a little irritably, for he felt that Harriet somehow was not really helping . Why does she look like that? She must be aware of my reputation… of what everyone would think.

“It’s late,” he said abruptly. “You must be tired—don’t let me keep you up.”

“Could we go onto the terrace first,” she begged. “Just for a moment?”

He nodded, pulled out her chair and led her out through the French window.

Another mistake. The scent of jasmine overwhelmed them with its sweetness and the moths hung drunkenly over the tobacco flowers. There was a moon.

“It’s a proper in such a night as this night, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes.”

Shakespeare’s words, over-familiar, endlessly quoted but indestructible, unfolded their silver skeins in both their minds.

In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love to come again to Carthage… In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs that did renew old Aeson …

In such a night…

And Rom, staring out at the moonlit strip of river, was pierced by a deep and unconquerable sense of loss, of waste. If all went as he hoped, he would marry her; they would be together and it would be good. But this particular night as they stood on the terrace, both released from danger, bathed in the scent of jasmine, this would never come again.

And roughly he said, “Come! We must go in.”

She followed him in silence. Back in the salon, he asked, “Did you find everything you wanted in your rooms?”

“Yes, thank you. It was all very comfortable.”

“I’ll say good-night, then.”

She did not go immediately, but stood with bent head looking down at a bowl of lilies. Then, “It seems very difficult to be ruined in this house,” said Harriet petulantly.

He was certain that he had misheard her. “ What ?”

She did not repeat her sentence, merely looked up once in order to scrutinize his face. Then she nodded, for she had found what she sought, and walked over to the bell-rope and pulled it.

The bell rang loudly as it had rung on that other night which, incredibly, was less than four weeks ago.

“ Coronel ?” Lorenzo, still shrugging on his jacket, turned to his master.

“It was I who rang.” The authority in her voice surprised Rom and augured well for the future he had planned. “I have decided to sleep in the Blue Suite—please see that it is prepared. And be so kind as to ask Maliki and Rainu to come to me. I wish,” said Harriet, “to take a bath.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I am ruined,” said Harriet, waking in the great white-netted bed. The word seemed to her so beautiful that she spoke it again to herself, very softly: “Ruined. I am a fallen woman.”

She turned her head on the pillow. Rom’s dark head was half-buried in the sheet, one arm thrown out in sleep. The problem now was what to do with so much happiness; now to contain it and not let it spill out and disturb him. Happiness like this could almost certainly disturb people and Rom must not be woken by her. Not ever woken…

I have put myself beyond the reach of decent women, thought Harriet, trying out different variations of her fall and smiling at the ceiling.

A new world lay before her—a world at whose existence she had not even guessed. The mystics knew it, and perhaps God Himself and possibly Johann Sebastian Bach in places… but none of them had been ruined by Rom, so they could not know it as she knew it.

Moving very slowly, very carefully, she put one foot on the ground, looking at it speculatively because the foot, like the rest of her, had been ruined and felt totally beautiful and totally good, as though each separate toe had shared the extraordinary bliss of the previous night. The negligee that Maliki had wrapped around her after her bath was lying across a chair and she put it on, because she was not yet accustomed to being a loose woman and was not certain that she ought to walk around the room with nothing on. Moreover she was going on a pilgrimage, and pilgrimages were better conducted in negligees.

Because she had to remember this room. It was Rom’s own room, to which he had carried her from the Blue Suite, and she had to remember every single thing in it so that years later she could come back here in her mind. Even on her deathbed she must be able to come back here and walk across the deep white carpet, knowing that behind her Rom still slept… Particularly on her deathbed. She had to remember this chair on which his clothes lay and the pattern made by his shirt against the gold brocaded silk… and she traced with one finger the fleurs de lys woven in Lyons two hundred years ago so that she, a ruined girl and the happiest person in the world, could delight in their intricacy.