Soul

Aloysius, suddenly lost for the appropriate protocol, turned to leave.

Such awkwardness in men always reminded Lavinia of bears, the likes of which she had once seen goaded into ridiculous antics at a visiting Russian circus in Dublin. She had felt for the animal then, his dignity destroyed as a short man in scarlet pantaloons danced around him shouting orders, the bear swaying in outraged bewilderment.

‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake, sit down. The chair will not bite.’

And so the coachman sat, a little intimidated. Lavinia finished writing, then carefully secured the letter with a blob of sealing wax.

‘I have written the address on the outside; the postmaster should be able to deliver it,’ she said.

‘Many thanks, Mrs Huntington.’

‘My name is Lavinia.’

Amazed, Aloysius stood up again, his large hands dangling uselessly. Lavinia, mortified at her audacity, could only conclude that she had been prompted by acute loneliness; as if she needed to hear her name spoken in the accent of her girlhood.

‘My apologies for my lapse of manners, and I have made you uncomfortable.’

She went to the French doors and stared up at the skyline of chimneys leaking their inky spirals into the darkening sky.

‘Sometimes it is difficult to breath in London.’ Lavinia stretched her hand out and touched the glass for a moment then turned back, ‘The air is so foul and thick with industry. I miss Ireland and my father. I fear I might have taken his affection for granted in the past.’

‘Madam, my Ireland has been a grave for a good ten years and I’m thankful to be out of it. I am practical; I don’t long for memories that never were. I live only for now.’

‘A wise sentiment, but do you not also think of the future?’

‘Plans are for the rich,’ he replied bluntly, then regretted his harshness; was her birthright her fault?

He is like a sealed box, Lavinia thought, watching him shifting restlessly in his knee-high riding boots. Did she trust him because he was from the same country, or was it because his obstinacy revealed a shared loathing of artifice?

‘There must be something you miss,’ she ventured.

‘I miss my horse; the salt on the night breeze when there’s a storm out at sea; and a small finch I had trained as a pet. The rest can go to Hell.’

Lavinia held out the letter.

‘One day perhaps we will both go back.’

‘To Hell or to Ireland?’ he replied with a bitter smile.

No matter how old or how young a person, the full flowering of spring, with its daffodils and crocuses, creates a renewal of sensuality, however icy the preceding winter.

And so Lavinia found herself basking in a newfound optimism as she and James drove along Rotten Row, for it seemed as if the whole of Hyde Park was illuminated by a golden light that caught at the unfurling buds and tendrils.

The notorious avenue, where reputations were both cemented and destroyed, was crowded with society’s elite: some on horseback; some in open carriages; some walking with nursemaids, children, lovers. This was the time for acquaintances to mend their rifts, for the desirer to ‘accidentally’ encounter the desired, for commercially minded men to exchange stock suggestions and the odd racing tips, and all the while advertising their most precious asset—their marriageable daughters. Some of the most important mergers of the powerful dynasties of the Empire had been initiated here under the seemingly innocent guise of a casual introduction. But nothing was casual in the choreography of this weekly pageant. Many were the mothers who encouraged their daughters in their horsemanship, knowing an upright spine, a well-fitting riding habit and a good seat to be as seductive as any beautifully performed Mozart sonata.

Aloysius, dressed in his smartest livery, sat in front of the Huntingtons’ phaeton, guiding the two prancing geldings along the gravelled road. The Colonel, sitting next to Lavinia, who had Aidan on her lap, kept his eyes trained straight ahead, a tactic that enabled him to avoid acknowledging all but his oldest acquaintances or those worthy of introduction.

‘Colonel Huntington!’ Hamish Campbell rode up beside the phaeton and tipped his riding hat politely at the couple.

‘Colonel, I have taken the liberty of writing to the Anthropological Society of Paris and, after reading more of your work, I’m afraid I must canvass you again regarding the endorsement of my essay and the perusal of your Bakairi artefacts.’

‘You really are most persistent,’ the Colonel responded drily.

‘I am also a man who is not used to being refused, nor do I intend to make rejection a bedfellow,’ the young man replied, his arrogance offset by his charming delivery. ‘Would Sunday at three suit you?’

‘We will expect you on the hour,’ the Colonel replied, puzzled at how he had been manipulated into agreeing.

‘Until then, good afternoon, Mrs Huntington, Colonel.’ Tipping his hat again, Hamish Campbell trotted off.