Eva Ibbotson

But the news young Captain Carlos gave him when he inquired about the troublesome English girl was entirely reassuring. Yes, they had taken the girl onto the Gregory and locked her into her cabin. Dr. Finch-Dutton had gone on board an hour later—since when neither the girl nor the doctor had been seen.

“But what a girl!” said Captain Carlos, shaking his head. “No wonder the English are like they are if that is how their women carry on.” Then, looking anxiously at the influential Mr. Verney—known to be Colonel de Silva’s closest friend—he asked, “I did right? The Colonel will be pleased?”

“You did quite right, Carlos,” said Rom and left the Captain a happy man.

His next call was at his quayside office, where he gave instructions to Miguel to cable Belem and order the overseer to send a man to meet the Gregory, escort the girl traveling with Dr. Finch-Dutton to a hotel and return her to Manaus on the next boat.

“He is to see she has everything she wants for the return journey—no expense spared.” Then, grinning as if at some private joke, “No… better tell him to send two men!”

After which he made his way to the Hotel Metropole.

He found the members of the Company depressed and listless, for Simonova’s accident had affected everyone. Masha Repin, convinced that the world was against her, shut herself into her room between performances; Maximov still needed to be reassured constantly that he was not to blame for the ballerina’s injury; and attendances were falling. It was not of fame and triumph that the tired dancers thought now, but with increased longing of Europe and home.

But Marie-Claude, when Rom found her reading a novel in the lounge, was rapidly transported into a state of bliss by the request Rom made of her.

“Ah yes, Monsieur, I will be delighted to do that! I know her size exactly and you will not be disappointed.”

“Good girl,” said Rom, placing a wad of bank-notes into her hand. “I would like one of the dresses to be blue—the color of that kerchief she wore in Fille.”

Marie-Claude nodded, “I will do my best. Madame Pauline has some new stock from Paris: I’ll go there first.”

“And I would like you to buy a dress for yourself, to compensate you for your trouble. Something not too suitable for a restaurant proprietress!”

Marie-Claude shook her head. “No, Monsieur, that is not necessary. Harriet is my friend and I love shopping. I want nothing for myself.”

“Nevertheless, you will please me very much if you accept. And you will not be so cruel as to deprive Vincent of the pleasure of seeing you beautifully dressed,” said Rom—and went upstairs to knock on the door of Simonova’s room.

Entering, he found himself in an atmosphere of gothic gloom and hopelessness. The shutters were three-quarters closed; bouquets of heavy-headed flowers sent by well-wishers wilted in vases; a macabre arrangement of electric batteries and spinal pads lay on a table and the sickly smell of chloroform pervaded the air.

Rom had brought some French novels, a basket of fruit, a single spray of the Queen’s Orchid which Harriet had picked dew-fresh at dawn, but as he moved over to the bed he saw that the ballerina was beyond reading or any of the consolations of the sick-room. Even to lift her emaciated hand to kiss it would be to jolt the frail exhausted body.

But Simonova, pain-racked and despairing though she was, could still respond to the presence of a handsome man.

“So! You have taken the only girl who might have made a serious dancer. I hope you are ashamed of yourself!”

He smiled, shook his head. “No, Madame; I am not ashamed.”

“Well, you are right,” she said, relapsing into apathy. “See how it ends.”

Rom turned to Dubrov, who was keeping watch as always in his chair. “I came to offer you the Casa Branca, but I imagine it would be difficult for Madame to be moved?”

“Impossible,” came Simonova’s weak voice from the bed. “I cannot even turn over by myself. To be carried to the boat will be bad enough.”

“And the doctors have no suggestions?”

Dubrov shrugged. “One says it’s a hemorrhage into the spinal column, another that it’s a compression of the intervertebral space… Yesterday a young German came from the hospital and said she had torn the lumbar nerves… We are only anxious now to reach Leblanc in Paris; we think perhaps he can operate.”

Rom frowned. Without a diagnosis, a back operation on a woman as exhausted as this seemed a recipe for disaster. But he hid his disquiet and for a quarter of an hour set himself to amuse and please Simonova—talking of her triumphs, flirting with her, until a little color came back into the hollow cheeks.

“Bring the child to say goodbye to me,” she said, as he made his farewells.

Outside in the corridor, Rom spoke to Dubrov. “It seems strange to me that the doctors can’t find the cause of her injury. Many of them are fools, but not all. Dr. Stolz from the hospital has an excellent reputation. You were there when Madame was injured. Can you tell me exactly how it happened?”