Soul

‘“We cannot begin to imagine…”’

‘Quite.’ The aristocrat relaunched into a lecture Lavinia suspected she had uttered more than once. ‘It is the unspoken understanding between a man and his wife that contributes to the success of such a union. This is the sacrifice we women have to make. Do you understand my meaning?’

‘Concisely, you wish me to ignore certain behaviours?’

‘My dear, like many before you, it has been your fate to marry a multifarious man. But I have concluded that the only worthy asset in a man—apart from an income of at least two thousand guineas per annum—is complexity. It is the one asset that improves with age, and will never bore. Trust me, beauty does become somewhat predictable the older one gets.’

Lady Morgan sat back, reflecting on the aesthetic contribution Hamish Campbell had made to her own salon; a contribution she had lately begun to miss.

‘But I have a great and natural affection for my husband.’

‘In that case, I trust you will be sensible and turn a blind eye when appropriate.’

‘A blind eye, Lady Morgan?’

Sighing meaningfully, Lady Morgan studied the stuffed parrot that sat on a branch in the corner of the room—one of the Colonel’s Amazonian companions, which he had had immortalised out of sentiment. The quizzical expression in its glass eyes irritated her. It was as if the parrot embodied the obtuse nature of the young wife. If only Lavinia had a comprehension of the innate struggle between man and woman, the nuances upon which society turned; if only she were a pragmatist and not the deluded fantasist she appeared to be.

‘I blame the French,’ Lady Morgan said, ‘and those dreadful novels they write. They have reduced love to a malady of victimhood, and suffering is so bad for the complexion.’

‘I suppose you hate Hugo too?’

‘Stendhal, George Sand—all charlatans. Protéges-moi de cette bêtise nôble. (Protect me from this well-intended folly.) You must appreciate that love is the last reason for which a man marries, Mrs Huntington. He might think it so at the time, but men…’ She leaned forward, fixing Lavinia with her black eyes, ‘men do not think with their brains, even gentlemen, except in matters of money.’

Lavinia did not break her gaze. ‘Is it truly naive to believe in passion, honesty and integrity?’

‘In sophisticated circles, it is not only naive, it is positively hazardous.’

Lady Morgan had come out of friendship, but the girl was trying in that wilful way that was typical of the Irish. Sensing Lavinia’s rising ire, she feigned interest in several Japanese artefacts in the room. Lavinia leaned forward.

‘My dear Lady Morgan, I was taught to believe that the relations between a man and his wife were a private matter. But because I respect the lengthy friendship between yourself and my husband, I forgive you your indiscretion.’

Horrified by the young woman’s impertinence, Lady Morgan spluttered madeira down her dress. Lavinia handed her a napkin.

‘With regard to the season,’ she continued with enforced cheer, ‘James informs me that you are able to engineer invitations to the Holly Ball on the twenty-first?’

Appalled at Lavinia’s further presumption, Lady Morgan broke into a stammer. ‘He di-di-did?’

‘And I think it would be most Christian of you to invite James and myself as your guests,’ Lavinia insisted, deliberately oblivious. ‘No doubt the occasion will provide an excellent opportunity to introduce me to society and for my husband to engender support for his next publishing venture.’

23

THE PARCEL SAT ON THE NURS

ERY FLOOR, a huge mass of brown paper and string, a small card tied to one corner.

‘Look, Aidan! A present from your grandpapa in Ireland!’

The child clung to her, eyes wide, as Lavinia carried him across the room and placed him onto wobbly feet beside the parcel. She pulled the card off—her father’s formal handwriting made her instantly homesick. She pictured him bent over his desk, his arthritic fingers twisted around the quill.

Lavinia opened the card then knelt beside her son. ‘To my dearest grandson, so that he may grow up to be the bravest dragoon in the world!’

She pushed the wrapped parcel and watched Aidan’s face light up with delight as it swayed on its rockers.

‘I wonder what it could be?’

Tearing off the paper, she encouraged Aidan to do the same, until, both laughing, they sat in a swirl of flying brown paper and the rocking horse was revealed. It stood shiny with red and black paint, gold embellishing its saddle, a mane of real black horsehair hanging over one shoulder.

‘Horsey! Horsey!’ Aidan clapped his hands with impatience as Lavinia lifted him into the saddle. To her surprise, he instinctively grasped the miniature leather reins and began riding. Leaning down, she kissed him. ‘My wee man, your ma is so proud of you.’