Klaus moved towards the door. ‘I knew this was a mistake.’
‘Klaus, wait! We can’t just separate like this. At least let’s go to a therapist—surely you’d do that for me?’
He looked directly at her for the first time.
‘You don’t understand. I’m not prepared to give up my future.’
‘Klaus, don’t go! Don’t…’
As she crumpled into silence, the front door slammed.
22
&
nbsp; Mayfair, 1861
OVER THE WINTER, LAVINIA spent her afternoons in the study collating the notes for each chapter, which James then used as reference for the writing itself. And so the two of them worked together, marking their labour by the lengthening shadows.
Promptly at three, announcing his arrival with a distinctive little cough, Mr Poole would light the gas lamps, then kneel and stir up the embers of the fire with the poker before throwing fresh coal into the grate. Lavinia would then hear the characteristic wheezing of the leather and copper bellows as the servant encouraged the flames.
Tea was brought on a tray at five and left carefully beside the table, the maid not daring to disturb the couple as they sat side by side. The mantelpiece clock under the domed glass would chime and, for a moment, both the Colonel and Lavinia would glance up from the rainforest, the savannah, the rocking hull of a river steamship or whichever landscape lay described on the page and then look down again.
A symbiosis developed. Lavinia found that she could deduce the next piece of research James needed, handing over the page before he even asked. The need to communicate verbally evaporated as quickly as the words manifested beneath James’s furiously scratching pen. It was an inspired dialogue that gave new hope to Lavinia, who decided she would attempt to seduce her husband anew. But opportunity proved elusive. Most evenings, he excused himself to attend a science lecture, a late supper at his club, a theatre opening. Sometimes Lavinia went with him, but on many occasions he insisted on going alone.
It was on one such evening in February that Lavinia received a card informing her that Lady Morgan would be visiting the following Sunday.
‘It is not my custom to be this familiar, my dear, but there it is and here I am. You are, after all, the wife of one of my dearest friends.’ Lady Morgan turned from Lavinia to hand her ermine and velvet cape to the maid. ‘Your husband has wanted me to make this visit for several weeks and you must forgive my tardiness. I entirely blame the distraction of the oncoming season. It must be difficult for you, my dear, to be so alone amidst such social activity. This will be your first London season, will it not?’
Lavinia smiled, a slight tic under one eyelid her only sign of discomfort. ‘I am content to work by my husband’s side.’
‘Mrs Huntington, you may be a good bluestocking, but you are a bad actress.’ Lady Morgan pulled off her kid gloves. ‘I am positive the season must hold a certain fascination, particularly to a peculiar creature like yourself. You have to understand: society is to the daughters of a family what business is to the sons. I cannot believe your father has been so neglectful in this area of your education. We have a steep climb ahead of us, but fortunately for you, I have no fear of heights.’
The aristocrat perched carefully on the edge of a chaise longue and took Lavinia’s limp hand into her own. ‘A wife is a reflection of both a gentleman’s taste and his estate. The Huntingtons are an old and respected family. Impeccable lineage. You, as James’s wife, are the family’s current frontispiece. As you know, the official season begins in June and finishes by mid-August. By that time, we aim to have you firmly established in the upper echelons. After all James has been known to hunt with the Prince Consort himself.’
‘Twelve weeks is not long.’
‘In my first season, I attended fifty balls, sixty parties, thirty dinners, twenty-five breakfasts and received five marriage proposals. But then, my dear, I was on a quest, whereas you, with your extraordinary good fortune…’ Here she faltered, suddenly realising such a line of conversation might lead to the topic of her own questionable lineage, a subject Lady Morgan considered strictly taboo. ‘Well, at least your treasure hunt is over. Still, even a young wife needs female companionship and social mobility. We must make sure you attend one of Lady Waldegrave’s famous Friday to Monday parties—both Gladstone and Disraeli have been known to breakfast at Strawberry Hill and an interesting Celt is always welcome. Then in May we have the annual exhibition at the Royal Academy of the Arts—always an opportunity to display one’s latest Paris acquisition. Oh, how could I forget! You must be presented to the Queen at St James’s Palace. I believe you have not yet undergone that momentous experience?’
‘I have not. I will need a sponsor.’
‘Say no more, my dear girl, St James’s Palace in August it will be. I shall have it arranged in a flash. After that, of course, it will be de rigeur to attend one of the royal soirées—you wait and see.’ Lady Morgan continued relentlessly, counting the months off with her fingers. ‘The Derby is May also. June is Ascot—by far the more desirable event, but one must put in an appearance at the Derby, the hoi polloi does expect it. The end of June brings the Henley Regatta, and then there are the cricket matches at Lord’s. Personally, I always favour Oxford versus Cambridge over Eton versus Harrow. Yachting at Cowes in August, not to mention the obligatory morning ride along Rotten Row. And, of course, by now, what with the balls, the fetes, the charity galas, the whole of society is completely exhausted, so by the twelfth of August, when Parliament adjourns, all and sundry vanish to the north. Suddenly Mayfair is fini. Why, you could hear a sparrow expire, it is so deathly quiet. Luckily for you, your husband has a lovely estate just south of Inverness, and some fine grouse, if my memory serves me. Shooting continues through September and October—partridges, then pheasants—and foxhunting begins on the first Monday of November. And then the whole merry cycle begins all over again. You will be so terribly busy.’
‘And I shall resolve to enjoy myself terribly.’ Lavinia tried to sound enthusiastic.
‘Poppycock! No one cares about enjoyment; like nuptial rights, it is one’s duty.’
Lady Morgan accepted the glass of sherry handed to her by the maid then leaned toward Lavinia as if she were about to impart some great secret.
‘The Colonel is, of course, a complicated individual, that we both know. If I may speak candidly…’
‘I would not expect less from you, Lady Morgan.’
Lady Morgan glanced at the girl sharply; she couldn’t tell whether Lavinia was insulting her or not but this was the confusing audacity of young women, she noted, they were all so contemporary in their directness.
‘Then candid I will be. James is an individual who is used to certain pleasures. A man of his status may enjoy freedoms we women, married or otherwise, cannot begin to imagine.’ Here Lady Morgan faltered, distracted by the ambition of her own imagination. A polite cough from Lavinia drew her back to the demure setting of the drawing room.
‘I was saying?’