Eva Ibbotson

He briefly turned his head. “It’s already done, my dear. And it’s only a scratch.”

Oh, God, thought Rom, this is going to hell. I will not touch her until I can cut the legal tangle and ask her to marry me. She shall have sanctuary at Follina and nothing else—but she should not say such things to me.

“Marie-Claude told me about Madame Simonova’s injury,” he said, determined not to be personal. “It’s serious, I understand?”

“Very serious. The doctors don’t seem to know what it is. They’re trying everything—electrical pads, injections of bee venom… one old doctor even suggested leeches—but nothing seems to help.”

“The Metropole must be an awful place in which to be ill. I’ll offer Dubrov the Casa Branca until they leave—if she is strong enough to be moved. Carmen and Pedro will look after her.”

There was still one other thing, which Rom told her as they drove down the hazardous jungle track. That he had decided to return to Stavely—and in doing so would make himself responsible for Henry as she had asked.

“I think I would have done so anyway, once my brother was dead. The place meant everything to my father. He was one of the best men who ever lived and I don’t think I could bear to think of it going to rack and ruin. God knows I love Follina, but the Amazon is no place to bring up children.”

“No. I don’t trunk Henry is exactly delicate, but—”

Rom smiled, for it was not Henry that he had had in mind. But he would say no more to Harriet now. When MacPherson confirmed that the purchase of Stavely was completed he would speak to her of the future, but not now—not to a tired child just plucked from danger.

So he is going back to Stavely now that Isobel is free, though Harriet. It was what I expected and I am glad. I must be glad. It was because of Henry that I came here and was allowed to know Rom and I must not—I must not—make a fuss when it happens, because it’s what I want. It has to be what I want. Only, let me not waste one minute of the time that I am allowed with him. That’s all I ask, God—that you give me the courage not to waste one minute, not one second of that time…

An hour later they drove up the sweep of gravel to Follina. Late as they were, light streamed from a window; Lorenzo came running down the steps and other servants, their dark eyes bright with relief at their master’s safe return, clustered around them.

I have only been here once before in my life, Harriet told herself. It is not my home. But the sense of homecoming, the lovely familiarity of everything she saw was overwhelming. The coati coming to rub itself against her legs, Lorenzo’s gold-toothed smile… Maliki and Rauni, her bath attendants, who had tumbled out of their hammocks at the sound of her voice and now bobbed their welcome, fingering admiringly the skirts of her white tarlatan—so much prettier than the brown dress they remembered.

Though Rom had been absent for a week his rooms were filled with flowers, the furniture gleamed with beeswax, the chandeliers blazed…

“You must be starving. I’ve asked Lorenzo to serve supper in half an hour—I must clean myself up; I’m not fit to join you like this. Only listen to me carefully, Harriet.” Rom was very tired and his frown as he groped for the right words was formidable. “The only way you can be safe now, for a while at least, is here at Follina. My estate is guarded and no harm can befall you here. If Edward gives up and goes back to England, then it will be different—and once de Silva returns from Ombidos there will be no nonsense from the police. The laws on extradition and repatriation are far more complex than poor Carlos realizes. But for the moment, it would be disastrous for you to leave here.”

“Yes. I see that.”

“However, in view of what happened the last time you were here… I want to assure you that what I offer is sanctuary pure and simple. You are very young and—” He broke off, too weary to make a speech about her youth. People, in any case, were apt to know how old they were. “I expect nothing from you, Harriet. I’m arranging for you to have the guest-rooms on the other side of the house—they are completely self-contained and private. The last person to sleep there,”—his mouth twisted in a wry grin—“was the Bishop of St. Oswald. So you see!”

“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.