A Swans - Eva Ibbotson

Isobel, however, did not give up nope. It was of course absurd that she should live in Paradise Farm, even with the generous allowance Rom had proposed, while he ruled alone at the Hall. The suggestion was an insult. Her place was by Rom’s side and as his wife, and now that the detestable girl was gone he would come to see this. So she changed her clothes five times a day, flirted, brushed against him “by accident” and would have been surprised to learn how infrequently Rom even noticed that she was there.

Harriet had been gone for a month when, in the hour before sunset, Rom walked through the tall trees toward the Indian village, bound on business with old Jose. The light had slanted in just that way when he had first gone in search of Harriet and found her cradling Manuelo’s baby. He had known then really, that he wanted no children which were not hers—and suddenly the sense of desolation so overwhelmed him that he stopped and put out a steadying hand to the trunk of a tree.

At which point there entered a deus ex machina .

It entered in an unexpected form: that of a lean, rangy and malodorous chicken. Exuding the sangfroid of those reared as household pets, enjoying its customary evening stroll from the village, the bird stopped, examined the unexpected figure blocking its path, gave a squawk of displeasure—and retreated…

Leaving behind a small mottled object… A single chicken feather, to which Rom stooped and which he held for a surprisingly long time in the palm of his hand.

Then he turned abruptly and made his way back toward the house.

Henry, conversing on the bridge with the manatees, was the first person to see him. Uncle Rom looked different—the way he had looked on the first day, not all grim and shut-in as he had appeared since then—and emboldened by the change in his hero, Henry beamed and said, “Hello!”

“Hello, Henry!” Rom, ashamed now of the way he had been neglecting this endearing child, held out his hand. “I was just on the way to find your mother. I’m going back to Europe tomorrow; I’ll book a passage for you soon, on a fine steamer, but I have to leave at once.”

Henry nodded. “You’re going to find Harriet, aren’t you?” he said with the quick insight of those who love.

“That’s right,” said Rom, greatly surprised.

“I’m so glad!” The little face was transformed with relief. “I’ve been awfully worried about her because I knew she shouldn’t dance when she had the measles! I went to a dancing class once and it was horrible: you go round and round very fast in slippy shoes, and if you did that with the measles you’d fall down and get bronchitis and—”

“Wait a minute, Henry. When did you think Harriet had the measles? In the maze at Stavely?”

“No, when she came here to—”

He broke off, bit his lip, hung his head in misery. He had betrayed a secret and now would never grow up to be like Sinclair of the Scouts.

“When was that?” Rom had managed to speak calmly, almost casually, but the child shook his head and cast an involuntary glance of fear in the direction of the terrace where Isobel reclined.

They had reached a trellised arbor with a stone seat, to which Rom led the little boy. “Henry, do you remember what it says on the mantelpiece in the Hall at Stavely? Carved into the wood?”

“Yes, I do remember. It says: TRUTH THEE SHALT DELIVER—IT IS NO DREDE. And ‘deliver’ isn’t like delivering milk, it’s like making you feel better. Only keeping secrets is good too,” said Henry and sighed, caught on the horns of this ancient and troublesome dilemma.

“Yes, it is. It’s very good.” Rom made no attempt to minimize the seriousness of the problem. “Except when someone is in danger—or ill—and then keeping a secret is not as important as telling the truth.”

Henry deliberated in silence, made up his mind. “You see, Mummy said it would hurt your feelings if you knew that Harriet had come back and not said goodbye to you. Only, I didn’t realize she was going away because she had a basketful of presents all wrapped up in interesting paper. And she was so nice to me when I was afraid of you being my stepfather.” He paused, flushing, but his uncle’s race was so utterly kind that Henry knew he would not be offended by anything he said and in a rush—blessed with the total recall of those who have uncluttered minds—Henry repeated his last talk with Harriet. “She said she didn’t have measles, but her eyes were streaming like anything when I kissed her good night and she was shivering—and the spots come later, you know.” His face grew pinched again. “And I’m sure she shouldn’t dance if she feels like that. If she got that thing you get after bronchitis, she could die ! And I don’t want Harriet to die!”

“She won’t die, Henry,” said Rom. “I promise you!” And as Henry gazed up at his uncle he knew that he had been a little bit silly once again. Because when Uncle Rom looked like that—so powerful and triumphant—no one could possibly die. No one could do anything except live and be happy.

“I’m extremely grateful to you, Henry,” said Rom, getting to his feet. “Indeed, I am utterly in your debt. And I don’t think it’s necessary for us to mention our conversation to your mother. Gentlemen often have private conversations of this sort among themselves. I’m leaving very early in the morning, but we shall meet in England and have some splendid times.” And shaking Henry’s hands with gratifying formality, he strode away.

Left alone, Henry made his way back to the manatees. The carving on the mantelpiece had been quite right, he reflected. Truth did deliver you. He felt much better. He felt, in fact, absolutely fine!

Half an hour before Mr. Fortescue was due from London, Aunt Louisa went upstairs to Harriet’s room to put a clean towel on the washstand and to change Harriet’s nightdress for a high-necked one of bleached calico. It was her own, but she did not grudge it to the errant girl, for the few but shamefully luxurious things which Harriet had brought from Manaus had all, of course, been confiscated and sold.

“Goodness, she has got thin!” said Mrs. Belper, who had come to be with Louisa on this important day. Just returned from a week’s visit to her sister, she was startled by the change in Harriet.

“She is thin because she doesn’t eat!” snapped Louisa. “I hope you don’t think that we are starving her.”

Mr. Fortescue was due at two-thirty and in deference to the occasion Louisa had ordered coffee and even a plate of digestive biscuits to be sent to the drawing room.

“I wish Bernard could be here,” she said. “But he never will miss giving a lecture.”

“Perhaps it is as well, Louisa; it might be a little painful. After all, if the diagnosis is what we expect, it will virtually be a statement that his daughter is—”

A shrill peal of the doorbell brought both ladies to their feet and out into the hall.

Mr. Fortescue was as well-dressed as they expected and the gleaming Rolls-Royce in which his chauffeur waited was evidence that his Harley Street specialist was in the top rank, but he was surprisingly young.

“I have come to see Harriet Morton,” he announced, handing his hat and gloves to the maid.

“Yes, indeed. We were expecting you,” said Louisa, all affability. “It is good of you to come all the way from London. We have naturally been very much concerned—my poor brother has been distracted—but we really feel that an institution of some kind is the only answer. Though of course it is for you to say after you have examined her.”

Mr. Fortescue did not appear to be a man of many words.