Soul

Surprised, Naomi and Gabriel watched her push her way through the thronging parents.

Gabriel stood facing the pinboard. He didn’t want to turn around; he was too angry.

‘You do understand?’ Julia said. ‘I’ve transgressed. By sleeping with you, I’ve broken the unspoken code between lecturer and studen

t—’

‘You’re not my professor, you’re my employer. Besides, I seduced you, remember?’

Ignoring him, Julia paced the room. ‘Not to mention the trust Naomi has in me. How dare you place me in that situation!’

He swung around. ‘I’m a grown man, I can get involved with who I like.’

Outside, Jennifer Bostock, seeing the arguing couple through the glass panel of Julia’s office door, paused, her hand still clutching a test tube.

‘Gabriel, I’m in the middle of a separation. I’m not ready for anything except a breakdown!’

‘Speaking of which, I do think you should get some help. You know, maybe a psychologist or something—’

‘Don’t tell me what I need!’

Gabriel, glancing over Julia’s shoulder, caught sight of Jennifer Bostock outside the door.

‘Julia, you’re shouting and people are noticing.’

Spinning around, Julia looked through the glass panel of the door, then flung it open.

‘Just a difference of opinion about methodology,’ she said sharply.

Jennifer retreated and Julia slammed the door behind her. Suddenly exhausted, she collapsed onto the edge of the desk.

‘I am so tired of trying to control everything.’

Gabriel caressed the back of her neck. ‘Then don’t.’

She leaned against him. ‘You don’t understand, I have to.’

61

Mayfair, 1861

LAVINIA HAD BEEN SUMMONED to the conservatory; a large domed structure that jutted out from the side of the main building. Filled with palms and succulents, with jasmine curling around the white iron trellis that formed the glasshouse’s internal skeleton, it was a place where Colonel Huntington had attempted to recreate the tropical rainforest he had experienced in his travels. A macaw named Horatio sat on a perch in the corner, a chain wrapped around its ankle. Around the parrot, reaching up toward the roof in multicoloured fronds, stood a mass of exotic orchids. It was the latest fashion in London, and Colonel Huntington was famous for the variety and obscurity of his own Paphiopedilum collection, which included wild orchids as well as the miniature orchids of the Amazon.

Positioned in the centre of the conservatory was a cane table and chairs. A maid served out tea and scones as the Colonel sat reading, his face buried in a copy of Punch magazine.

Lavinia, a sticking plaster across her bruised face, limped past the ferns and quietly took a chair opposite her husband. It was difficult to be near him.

The Colonel laughed out loud, startling her. ‘The cartoonists are parodying the endless debate between the Anglicans and the Darwinists yet again,’ he said, ‘and this hunter, Du Chaillu, continues to provide amusing fodder with his extraordinary tales of gorillas kidnapping female missionaries and the like. All complete poppycock.’

In the ensuing silence, Lavinia heard an orchid blossom fall to the ground. Finally, the Colonel lowered his paper. Unable to help herself, Lavinia flinched again. Noticing, he dismissed the maid, then settled back into his chair and examined his wife.

‘I am full of repentance, Lavinia.’ He took her limp hand.

Unable to meet his gaze, she stared at an orchid, the beauty of the flower mocking her misery.

‘I had no wish to injure you. But you will not accept that I must be true to myself.’

‘You have a child, a career.’ Angry, she pulled her hand away.