Soul

While Celeste tried to work out what the word ‘faculty’ meant, Clementine glanced at Lady Morgan. ‘But surely that would be most unusual, even for an Irish Lord—’

Lady Morgan, determined to avoid further social chagrin, interjected before Lavinia had the opportunity to answer. ‘Mrs Huntington’s illustrious father was the most delightful eccentric who did so want a male heir.’

‘Their name means “Sons of the Sun” and their goddess is Evaki. They consider her the guardian of both the day and the night. At night, she keeps the sun hidden in her cooking pot; in the morning, she releases it, thus creating the day. If we agree on the connectivity of all of these gods, who in other mythologies would be Evaki’s match?’

In the silence of the study, Colonel Huntington and Hamish Campbell were examining the tribal groupings and icons of the Bakairi.

‘The Egyptian goddess Bast, the Irish Aimend and Sul,’ Hamish answered, proud of his knowledge.

‘Exactly. You see, under the skin humanity’s dreams are identical. We all dream the same symbols—of the god we would like to become, of the monster we fear we might really be.’

Secretly enthralled by the notion of encountering his mentor’s inner demons, Hamish looked down at the notebook, hoping to conceal his sudden distraction. ‘Mrs Huntington has done an extensive job on the first few chapters,’ he said. ‘I hope I can continue the task in such a professional manner.’

‘You are generous. Her writing style has a theatrical flair it is true, but it is exact observation I require not dramatic ornamentation. Confidentially, your work is superior.’

Exhilarated by the praise but not wanting to show it, Hamish carefully studied the various artefacts on the table, paying particular attention to two huge Yakwigado masks made from tree bark and daubed in white, red and black. Next to them sat a small figurine of a man. Made from ebony, the polished phallic head held a certain fascination and Hamish couldn’t help but extend a finger to stroke the smooth satiny surface.

The Colonel watched him. The symmetry of the youth’s face was a source of endless fascination. He observed how the light caught at the blond down that ran across the upper planes of the boy’s face; the hair became coarser as it dipped into the hollow between cheek and jaw then flared out with an erotic violence across his lips and mouth. The azure of his eyes was so deep it did not look to be natural, and his dark brow served to illuminate the gold of his hair. There was something perturbing about extreme beauty in either sex, the Colonel philosophised. It was like a third presence, an independent entity separate from the observer and the observed.

‘I have read about your experience with the Bakairi,’ Hamish said, breaking the extended silence. ‘You consumed a local hallucinogen?’

‘It is called ayahuasca, made from the vine Banisteriopsis caapi, a powerful narcotic. The experience taught me that our perception of the known universe is defined by our cultural understanding of it, and that alone.’

Hamish Campbell showed a certain inquisitiveness that the Colonel recognised as being one of his own most powerful characteristics as a youth: an enthusiasm for the mystical.

‘But to have experienced such intense transportation…’ Campbell began, then faltered as he met the Colonel’s gaze.

For a moment, the two men looked at each other, each fighting the compulsion to touch the other. The tension was broken by a bell ringing elsewhere in the mansion.

‘I believe we are called to dinner. I insist you stay and eat with us,’ the Colonel said, distracted by the sculptural quality of the young man’s well-formed hands.

‘But I am not dressed…’

‘I have a dress coat of dark broadcloth which you may borrow.’ The Colonel placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder in a gesture he hoped would be seen as paternal, despite the tremor that ran through his body.

‘I am not sure your wife would find my presence at your table desirable.’

‘Poppycock! Besides, it is my table.’

The table was set formally, and all eight candles in the walnut and silver Dutch chandelier that hung over the long mahogany table were blazing. Set defiantly in the centre of the jacquard tablecloth was a heavy, flamboyantly moulded silver epergne, its stand supported by two Rubens-like female figures. A pair of candelabra stood either side of the epergne, their light setting the five or six crystal decanters and the silver serving dishes aglitter.

The dining room itself was a square room, heavily panelled and draped with thick blue velvet curtains. Consoles and side tables crowded the walls, some covered with family memorabilia and others with silver serving dishes. A painted firescreen stood before the huge hearth, to shield the diners nearest to it from the heat.

The immensity of the table was emphasised by the fact that only three places were set for dinner, each with fine crystal glasses, and heavy silver forks, spoons a

nd knives either side of the green Wedgwood plates.

Lavinia, in a low-cut, short-sleeved muslin dress, a simple choker of jade around her neck, sat to the right of her husband, picking at her plate of oysters. Hamish Campbell watched her, wondering at the strained awkwardness between husband and wife.

‘Your kitchen boasts a good cook,’ he complimented Lavinia, and picked up the handwritten menu Mrs Beetle had prepared. ‘Oysters Katharine, cream of celery soup, fillet of sole with Gruyère, pheasant Mandarin with carrots Vichy, followed by gooseberry fool and a savoury—you indulge your guest.’

‘Lady Morgan has been talking to our cook,’ Lavinia replied drily. ‘Lady Morgan has begun to dictate much of what happens in this household; she has even insisted that I subscribe to the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. It is full of information—from recipes for ginger beer through to a hundred uses for an old muslin dress. A talented individual, she has even managed to establish a salon of voyeurs, all of whom are breathlessly awaiting my husband’s forthcoming publication. We only pray that you are a speedy and proficient midwife, Mr Campbell.’

Hamish laughed politely, but noted that the Colonel remained silent.

Lavinia, deliberately ignoring her husband’s discomfort, continued. ‘Indeed, I myself have been reconstituted, grammatically parfait, and am to be served up with the appropriate amount of relish. I just wonder how long society will remain intrigued by this enigma Lady Morgan has so successfully constructed.’

It was hard to keep the anger out of her voice. How could James imagine she would be content to pursue such banality? How could he reject her contribution to his work so easily? I must play his game, she thought, then find a way back to his study.