Eva Ibbotson

“St. John’s Wood, I think,” said Harriet, recalling the novels she had dipped into while doing her homework in the public library. “Somewhere near the Regent’s Park Canal. A Gothic villa with a wisteria in the garden.” Her eyes grew bright at the thought that she might after all have a future as a kept woman, awaiting Rom’s visits twice a week in a violet tea-gown. No, that was greedy. Once a week. Once a fortnight, because the trains were dreadful from Stavely and the roads even worse. It was ridiculous of course. Isobel would not have met someone else—no one who had ever loved Rom could possibly stop—and a man married to a woman as beautiful as Isobel would scarcely trouble to travel to London to visit his mistress in St. John’s Wood. Moreover Rom, once he married, would be faithful, Harriet was sure of that. But the daydream had done her good and trying to work out how many days she would see him if he came every other week for, say, five years… wondering if that was what the pomegranate seeds had meant… she fell asleep.

In the morning there was an unexpected development. Grisha and some of the Russian girls, going down before breakfast to meet the Bernadette as she docked, returned to say that Olga had not been aboard, nor had the crew any idea of her whereabouts.

“It is extremely strange,” said Grisha, returning to the Metropole dining room where the rest of the company sat at breakfast. He turned to Harriet. “Monsieur Verney sent some men to fetch her from the Gregory, I think?”

“Yes, he did,” said Harriet, and beamed at the ballet master because he had pronounced Rom’s name. “I’m sure of it.”

Grisha shrugged. “I suppose she has decided to wait for us in Belem,” he said, and instructed Tatiana to pack Olga’s things and see that they were put on board.

The rest of the day passed in a bustle of last-minute shopping, packing, promises and plans. Harriet bought farewell presents for her friends: a deceptively demure nightgown for Marie-Claude and a blouse for Kirstin. She also bought a record of “The Last Rose of Summer” for the Indians and found for Rom, in a dusty shop full of maps and oleographs, a book with pictures of the tapestry of “The Lady and the Unicorn”—a wonderful stroke of luck, for above the golden-haired virgin and her obedient beast were embroidered the words: Mon seul désir—and these were the words which Rom had whispered to her two nights ago as she lay in his arms.

By the time she returned with her purchases, the preparations for Simonova’s removal were already under way. Two orderlies were coming from the hospital to lift her onto the stretcher and carry her to the ambulance; a nurse had just arrived and was sterilizing her instruments in the kitchens prior to giving the ballerina the pain-killing injection which would enable her to endure the unavoidable jolting as they drove to the quay.

Under these circumstances Harriet would not have attempted to seek out Dubrov, to whom she had not yet said goodbye, but as she made her way across the hall she was waylaid by the harassed stage manager. “If you’re going past his door, could you give this to the boss? It’s just arrived at the theater, sent on by the London office, and looks as though it might be important,” he said, handing Harriet a letter with a Russian stamp and a massive and elaborate seal.

Dubrov was not in his own room, but Harriet’s quiet knock brought him at once to Simonova’s door.

“I came to bring this letter, Monsieur, it’s just arrived. And to say goodbye—and thank you.”

He put up a hand to pat her cheek. “There’s no need to thank me. You have worked hard and could have been—” He paused, the blue eyes suddenly sharp, took the letter and quickly broke the seal. “Wait!” he threw over his shoulder at Harriet, and carried the heavy embossed paper over to the window.

“Well, what is it?” came Simonova’s fretful voice from the bed.

Dubrov, however, was unable to answer. It was necessary for him to mop his eyes with his handkerchief several times before he could trust his voice. Then: “It is from St. Petersburg,” he said. “From the Maryinsky.” Another sniff, another dab at his watering eyes… “From the director, the man who dismissed you.”

“And?”

“He asks… he invites you… to dance at a gala for the Romanov Tercentenary! To dance Giselle before the Tsar!” Dubrov abandoned the effort to check his tears, which now ran unhampered down his cheeks. “The honor! The incredible honor! Now, at the end of your career! We will keep it always, this letter. We will frame it in gold and hang it on the wall and when we sit in our armchairs in Cremorra—”

“Armchairs? Cremorra?” Simonova’s voice pierced like a gimlet. “What are you talking about? Give the letter to me!” And to Harriet, tactfully edging her way out of the door: “You will remain!”

The letter which caused Dubrov to weep, overcome by pride and the tragedy of its timing, had an entirely different effect on Simonova.