Eva Ibbotson

“He had no right,” she heard him murmur. “Not the garden…” and for a moment he leaned his head against the smooth gray bark as if in unutterable weariness.

“There was no need for that,” he said, coming back to stand behind his chair. “My father left enough.”

“Your father?”

“My father was General Brandon. I am his son by his second marriage.” He made an impatient gesture. “I don’t wish to go into that; I simply want to know why you have come to tell me all this. Why you, Harriet?”

“Because of Henry.”

She was looking down, her head bent over the table, and missed the whitening of his knuckles as he grasped the chair-back, the shock that passed over his face.

Henry! As clearly as if he stood before him, Rom saw the smug pale face of his hated step-brother. Henry who had cheated him, betrayed him… who had stood smirking down at Isobel in the Orangery on that last day…

“Yes, it was because of Henry,” said Harriet. “I met him there when I went on a visit and I liked him so much. I loved him, I think.” Her voice was ineffably tender; she made the gesture that women make when they express a sensuous surrender, cupping her hands round her own throat. “I wanted to help him.”

Rom did not speak. His face as he struggled with the blow she had dealt him was that of a Tartar chieftain, foreign and cruel.

“Henry thought you might be here.” Her voice was still dreamy with remembrance. “Because of the book you left behind with Nannie. Because you were always talking about the Amazon. He said, if I found you, would I ask you to come back. He thought you would be able to make everything all right again at Stavely. It was because of him, really, that I came,” finished Harriet. “He made me brave.”

Only now did she look up. “What is it?” she faltered. “What have I done?”

Rom was in control again. She had spoken for scarcely two minutes, yet in that time he had torn from his heart every feeling she had aroused; every hope that loneliness was ended. Only his anger remained—the anger with which, since his mother’s death, Rom had responded to loss.

“Let me get this clear, Harriet. When you stayed behind last night, it was to tell me what you have told me now? It was to plead for Henry Brandon?”

“Yes.” Separated by fear from the common-sense which might have saved them both, stupid with bewilderment, she could only repeat, “I wanted to help him, is that so terrible? What have I done?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You have done nothing. On the contrary, you have fulfilled your mission excellently. And now please go back and tell your protege that I will see him in hell before I raise a finger to save Stavely. Just tell him that.” He stood for a moment looking down at the fruit on the table with the ghost of a smile. “How wise you were not to open it,” he said, picking up the pomegranate. “Not a single seed eaten. No reason ever to return.”

He balanced the golden orb for a moment on his hand—then threw it with all his strength in a high arc over the wall. “Pedro will take you back in the car,” he said—and without a goodbye, without a handshake, was gone.

Two days later the redoubtable Olga fell ill. Since their arrival Dubrov had relentlessly patrolled the Metropole dining room, forbidding anyone to drink unboiled water on pain of instant dismissal; he had handed out quinine, had himself checked the mosquito netting in the girls’ bedrooms and confiscated all fruit bought from barrows in the street. Even so, several members of the company had complained of stomach pains and with three days of the first week’s run of Swan Lake still to go, Olga was definitely too ill to dance.

“Seventeen swans again,” said Grisha gloomily.

But more serious than the inconvenience of rearranging the choreography for the corps was the need to rehearse a new ‘Odette-at-the-window.’ For Olga had been the girl who, dressed as the Swan Queen in her white tutu and glittering crown, flutters at the window in such anguish to show the Prince that he had been tricked—that the girl he has just promised to marry is not the real Odette, but a usurper.

It is a short scene, scarcely three minutes in all—yet it is rare for anyone to leave the theater without recalling the image of that beseeching, moonlit figure, exiled from happiness and love.

“Kira is the nearest to you in size,” said Dubrov to Simonova as she lay on the yellow silk couch of her dressing room, fanning herself with a moulting ostrich fan.

“Impossible! I will not be represented by a girl with square thighs.”

Dubrov sighed. “Lydia then. She is a little taller than you, but the coloring’s right.”

There was a pause while Simonova pulled up her kimono and studied her left knee. Then, “Give it to Harriet,” said the ballerina.

“Harriet?” Dubrov looked up, surprised, from the knee he had automatically begun to massage. “I hadn’t thought of giving her anything extra—she is so new. But you’re right, she is the same height as you and the same build.”

“She will know what to do,” said Simonova. “A little too well, perhaps.”