A Swans - Eva Ibbotson

And so the days passed and nothing the Mortons could do deflected her, though her stricken eyes seemed to grow ever larger in her face. Then, during the fifth week of her incarceration, she woke as usual and in her mind walked as usual across Rom’s room, drew aside the curtains, turned to cross the Persian rug so as to make her way back to the bed where he waited… and found that she could not remember the pattern of that rug. She had known it would be hard to remember, but she had studied it so carefully—so very carefully. Was it the outer border that was amethyst, with diamonds and zig-zags of bronze? Or was it the pearl-gray rim with its stylized flowers that came first? Desperate, she sat up in bed, her heart pounding. She had to remember, she had to! If she could forget one thing, she could forget it all—she could forget even Rom, and then there would be nothing left to live for in the world.

But the pattern would not be recalled. In her exhausted brain shapes and colors swam in an indistinguishable blur and whatever she did she could not reassemble them.

It was Hermione Belper who came that day to remove Harriet’s luncheon tray, and when she came down again she had good news for Louisa who was returning from the shops.

“She is weeping uncontrollably, Louisa—and she has not touched her rood. It seems her spirit is broken at last. How thankful you must be!”

And the Mortons were thankful. But if Harriet now lay listlessly on the pillow and showed none of her former defiance, she still did not speak of her time in Manaus and she was growing so thin that it was not easy to see how she could, as it were, be “produced” again in public. Moreover they themselves were being subjected to an increasing amount of unpleasantness. It was easy enough to discount the smear campaign of a woman like Madame Lavarre, but when the Provost of St. Anne’s crossed the road rather than speak to the Professor, the Mortons were increasingly compelled to seek ways out of their dilemma.

It was at this point—just two weeks before the beginning of the Michaelmas term—that the Professor came home in a state of more than usual indignation.

“Do you know who I met today? Edward Finch-Dutton! He was creeping around the walls of the Fountain Courtyard and trying to avoid me, I’m sure.”

“Good heavens! But why has he not been in touch with us?”

“I have no idea. Apparently he tried to bring Harriet back and it went wrong. He had a black eye and his nose was covered in sticking-plaster; I can only conclude that he has taken to the bottle. But I will tell you this, Louisa. I asked him what had made him send that second cable and he said it was because Harriet came out of a cake. In her underclothes.” And as Louisa stared at him, speechless with incredulity: “That’s what he said. In her underclothes . Then he mumbled some nonsense about her perhaps not having meant any harm and bolted. I tell you the fellow was drunk; he will have to resign his Fellowship, no doubt about that.”

But the news had given Louisa her cue. “Bernard, don’t you think we ought to face the fact that Harriet is seriously unbalanced? I have thought so all along, but this really decides the matter. Isn’t it time we found a good institution where she can be helped? Homes for the mentally ill are extremely liberal these days: wholesome food, fresh air, baskerwork… Dr. Smithson knows of a specialist in London who has made a study of cases like hers. If Mr. Fortescue certified that Harriet is not in her right mind, Smithson would second the diagnosis and her removal to somewhere suitable would follow automatically.” And as the Professor still seemed to hesitate, she concluded, “I am thinking only of Harriet. She needs professional care and attention if she is to be healed. To refuse her that would be very selfish, would it not?”

This was a plea to which the Professor could scarcely be deaf. Dr. Smithson accordingly was appealed to, and contacted his eminent colleague in Harley Street and it was arranged that Mr. Fortescue would come down as soon as possible in order to examine Harriet.

After which, having got her way, Louisa was really quite kind to Harriet and sent up jam with her semolina and butter with her rusks, but for Harriet-slipping away into the shadows—these attentions came a little late.

Fate had played into Isobel’s hands in a most remarkable way. The Raimondo brothers, who had taken Harriet back to Manaus to catch the Lafayette , took the absurdly large sum she had given them, collected two girls from Madame Anita’s brothel and set off for their home town of Iquitos in Peru. The seraphic urchin to whom she had entrusted the note for Furo had been less seraphic than he appeared; he got into a fight in an alley on the way to the Casa Branca , lost the note and bolted for home. Thus Furo, waiting in increasing anxiety for Harriet, had not returned to Follina until the small hours and by the rime Rom was back in the city to see what had become of her, the Lafayette had sailed. It was thus only Henry who remained as a witness of Harriet’s return to Follina and it was he himself who had given Isobel her cue.

“uncle Rom will be awfully sad too,” said Henry, blinking back his tears at the news that Harriet had decided to go and be a famous dancer, that she would not be coming back. “He likes Harriet; he likes her very much.”

“Yes, he does,” said Isobel. “So I’m afraid he will be extremely sad. What will make him particularly sad is that she said goodbye to you and not to him. It will hurt his feelings, don’t you think? So perhaps, Henry, it would be really kind not to tell him? Just to keep it a secret? You’re grown-up enough for secrets, aren’t you?”

Henry was. Sinclair of the Scouts, in the Boy’s Own Paper , was continually keeping secrets, some of them calculated to burn a hole in a lesser person’s breast. Aware of the child’s passionate desire to please her, Isobel was sure that he would keep his word—and if anything went wrong she could plead, naturally enough, an unwillingness to cause Rom pain. There had only remained the sending of the cable to Professor Morton—for it was not Isobel’s intention to let Harriet reappear in Rom’s life as a glamorous ballerina—and the deed was done. After which she settled down to her role as comforter.

“You must be happy for her, darling,” she said to Rom. “I met Dr. Finch-Dutton at Belem and he told me that it was all that Harriet had wanted all her life. Just to dance… always to dance.”

“We will not speak of Harriet,” was his only answer.

Yet he accepted without question Isobel’s version of what had happened. Count Sternov, whose friendship it was impossible to doubt, had been at the Metropole just after Simonova’s miraculous recovery and had heard her offer to take Harriet to Russia. Both he and the Metropole manager had seen the ballerina depart in triumph, walking to the hansom with her arm around the shoulder of the English girl, while Miguel himself had seen Harriet go aboard with the company.

So what had occurred was clearly what Rom had both feared and expected. Overcome by this sudden marvelous opportunity, Harriet had gone and perhaps wisely made the break cleanly without messages or farewells.

He made no further inquiries and, concealing from everyone the degree of his wretchedness and the hurt she had caused him by not trusting him enough to speak honestly of her ambitions, he pursued his plans: transferring his possessions, making provision for his Indians, issuing instructions to MacPherson concerning Stavely. He had set himself to restore his father’s house and he would do so, but the burden of loss he rolled through his days—as Sisyphus rolled his stone-seemed only to grow heavier as the gray weeks passed.