‘Forgive me, madam, I would not have insulted you with Mrs Gore had I known. Perhaps I may interest you in George Eliot’s latest tome Adam Bede, or the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam—it is a fascinating read.’
‘I have got what I came for, and I cannot deny that it has been a most illuminating visit.’
‘We aim to please,’ he replied po-faced, then pressed the guinea back into her hand. ‘It will give me great pleasure to charge the purchase directly to Colonel Huntington’s account, madam.’
17
JAMES HUNTINGTON SAT AT THE large centre table, his papers scattered before him. His notebook—one of many—was open at a photograph of three Bakairi men involved in a dance ritual. He was immediately transported to that evening, the damp undergrowth of the rainforest scratching at his haunches, the smoke from the fires smarting his eyes, the hypnotic gyrations of the young men sending him into a trance. The wooden masks metamorphosed each of them into a god, and their hands carved stories from the smoky air about them, the beauty of their painted limbs transformed them into flying skeletons as the light faded between the trees.
This is my vocation, he thought, staring at the bound notebook, the edges of its pages stained faintly with smudges of red clay—a souvenir from his writing beside the Amazon river, the scent of the night still lingering on the paper. It is the only time I transcend my base nature, the only time my instincts are sharpened to the brink of survival. He looked over to the Indian leopard skin stretched in front of the fireplace—a hunting trophy. Of late he had felt his intellect deteriorating; he had slipped into the mannered wit and repartee of the gentleman, but craved the edge of danger that exploration brought. Such challenges kept him noble, and Lord knew he had been guilty of the most ignoble actions, he conceded, his mind returning to his recent encounter in Bond Street.
The Colonel reached for his snuffbox—a miniature silver casket in the shape of a travelling chest, an heirloom from his father—and placed a large pinch of the opiated tobacco into the crook of his thumb and forefinger. Lifting it to his nostrils, he inhaled deeply. An intoxicating wave swept through his sinuses and hit the back of his brain. The rustle of a skirt and the soft wash of lavender did not make him open his eyes.
‘Thank you for visiting Aidan, his nanny told me you read him a story.’ Lavinia’s voice broke his reverie, he smiled up at her.
‘As any father would.’
‘I thought I might find you in here,’ she held her new book under one arm.
‘Indeed, my dear. I am somewhat overwhelmed by the plethora of research that seems to stare at me more accusingly with every passing day. How was your church visit?’
‘Attending St George’s is always an illuminating experience.’
‘As it should be: that building has sanctified more scandalous liaisons than a bordello.’
Lavinia pulled off her kid gloves and observed her husband far more closely than her casual air suggested.
‘You seem jovial,’ she said.
‘And why not? I spent a pleasant morning with my accountant, lunched with several colleagues of the scientific persuasion, then ended the afternoon at the Athenaeum where I studied the Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Gazette with much curiosity.’
She wondered how he could lie with such panache, but then the possibility that his visit to Bond Street might have an innocent explanation occurred to her.
‘I visited a bookshop after church.’ A questioning ran under the tone of her voice. ‘A bookshop on Bond Street.’
The Colonel allowed the languid effect of the snuff to exorcise astonishment from his face. ‘So I gather from that dubious tome you are brandishing at me.’ Squinting, he could just see the title: Quincy Whig. More Irish politics, he thought, his heart sinking. ‘Rather late for shopping, Lavinia.’
‘Apparently so. Apparently it is an opprobrious time for a respectable married woman to be seen in Bond Street. Naturally, a different standard of decency applies for respectable married gentlemen.’
The Colonel rose from his chair and strolled to the window. If there was anything he abhorred it was hypocrisy; besides, Lavinia’s lack of sophistication was beginning to annoy him. He didn’t want to argue; their confrontation of the night before had cast a gloom upon his entire day. In fact, it had been this ill humour that had compelled him to visit the brothel in the first place. The Colonel felt aggrieved; surely a gentleman’s private actions should remain private?
Outside, it had begun to rain—a wet drizzle that transformed the lit trees into blurred grey-green infantrymen, reminding him of the harsh beauty of the Crimea.
‘I trust the book was worth risking your reputation in such a way?’ he asked his wife.
‘Indeed. Without my even opening its pages, it has already proved to be educationally invaluable.’
Determined to shift the conversation to safer ground, the Colonel walked back to his desk. Gazing down upon his notes, he couldn’t help but envy the comparative ease of sexual and marital union in the Amazon.
Lavinia followed his gaze. ‘Are these your research notes?’
‘I have finally begun to collate my work.’
‘You have organised the chapters?’
‘I am uncertain whether to prioritise the habitat and customs of the natives, or begin with chapters describing the fauna and flora. It is altogether overwhelming.’
The great collection of notes and illustrations stretched before him. Jumbled in a chaotic parody of order, it felt like a metaphor for his own life: a superficially organised façade concealing duplicitous pandemonium. It occurred to the Colonel that he no longer had the youth or the patience to contemplate the task of unravelling such confusion.