Banks listened in silence, and when Solander finished speaking he remained quiet, his eyes shut. The moments ticked away between them, and Solander was about to speak again when Banks looked up at his friend and grimaced.
“Honor, is it? That is to be the banner under which I sail? Very well. I thank you for your concern and I own the truth in what you say. Let me know what needs to be done.”
And Solander departed, hastily, before whatever anguish gripped his friend could return to change his mind.
AT DINNER on that first night in Madeira, Mrs. Drake introduced her new lodger to the two other English visitors. The introductions were made in the villa’s long dining room, a room lined with green paper and pale English prints, where the heat and the foliage pressed against the windows with equal urgency. The light was still bright when they took their places, so all three could examine each other with ease. Of the two, Mr. Dunivant was a loud, ruddy man in his fifties, a Bristol merchant with interests in Madeira wine. He talked more than he listened and did not seem unduly curious when Mrs. Drake introduced him to his new dining companion. The second guest, Mr. Maddox, was a much younger man, slim and handsome, with inquiring eyes. Those eyes seemed to linger on their new acquaintance, and when he spoke he smiled lazily.
“Welcome to Madeira, Mr. Burnett. I understand you are a botanist,” he began.
“An amateur, sir. I am here to draw and paint some of the island’s flora.”
“It amazes me where you find the interest in that,” Mr. Dunivant interrupted. “A good many young fellows seem interested in that sort of thing, but I can’t see what it profits them.”
Mr. Maddox smiled politely. “Yet does not the successful cultivation of your vines owe a great deal to the observations of those who have studied them over the years, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Well, I daresay. I have nothing against study when it is applied, you understand. But digging around amongst the things that grow in hedgerows and the like, that is surely not adding a great deal to human progress, Mr. Burnett?”
In response she hesitated, and Mr. Maddox answered for her. “Are not a great many of our common medicines the result of just such digging around, sir?”
Dunivant pondered this, nodding, his mouth full of bread.
“I daresay you have a point,” he acknowledged before pausing to swallow. Maddox seized the opportunity to turn to the newcomer.
“Mrs. Drake tells us that you are to join Mr. Banks’s party and go with Cook to the South Seas, Mr. Burnett?”
“That is my intention, yes.”
Maddox pondered. “I confess that I am a little surprised. My cousin is a friend of Banks and I understood that his whole party was assembled in London. Perhaps you are replacing one of the original party?”
She could feel herself blushing.
“Perhaps I gave you the wrong impression, Mr. Maddox. I said it is my intention to join his party, but perhaps I should better have described it as a hope. I am only a little acquainted with Mr. Banks, and yet I am hoping that an opportunity might arise when he arrives at Madeira for me to offer my services.”
Maddox paused again before replying. When he did, his tone was light and careless. “I see. It’s no matter. Mrs. Drake must have been mistaken. She told me that you were a good friend of Banks. I wondered that I had never met you before, for I have been often in his company.”
“I fear she has been very much mistaken. Indeed I hardly know him. He has in the past been good enough to compliment my work, that is all.”
Before Maddox could reply, Dunivant interrupted. “I hear that fellow is one for the ladies. I hope neither of you have joined him in that, eh?”
His roar of laughter allowed her a moment to recover, and before the conversation could resume, Mrs. Drake bustled in with three servants behind her to serve the first course. Dunivant, delighted to be ceded the floor, began a series of anecdotes about the laziness of the islanders that lasted almost as long as the meal. By the time he fell quiet to apply himself to a glass of Malmsey, the night had fallen and the table was lit by candles. A warm draft from the window licked across the table from time to time and made the flames flicker. It was in this uncertain light that Maddox turned to her again.
“I understand, Mr. Burnett, that Mrs. Drake’s boy is engaged to guide you into the mountains tomorrow.”
“That is true, sir. In time I hope I shall need no guide.”
“Perhaps we shall meet. I am here to look after some of my father’s interests on the island, but I confess I am a lazy fellow. I frequently ignore my father’s business and take a stroll in the hills instead.”
“Perhaps we shall,” she replied, making a note to herself to walk far and high.
“I should like that,” he replied quietly. “You see, I should very much like to see you draw.” And before she had a chance to reply to that, Mrs. Drake reappeared to draw the meal to a close. That night, exhausted, she slept heavily. When she woke it was with a vague anxiety playing on her mind.
THE PLANS for Iceland developed despite him. The charter of a ship, the Sir Lawrence, was negotiated largely by Solander; the itinerary was decided almost without Banks noticing; and the movement of supplies on board began while he still watched the calendar and waited, hoping she would arrive. His occasional bursts of energy were enough to convince the public that his zeal for exploration was undiminished, and in his letters he roused himself to a fitting show of enthusiasm. But to those closest to him he still seemed lost and without purpose.
Those days taught him for the first time what it was to wait. His thoughts were constantly at sea, traveling with his letter to Madeira, searching for a wind to speed her return. If the passage had been smooth, his letter could be with her now. Or now. Or now. He tried to imagine what she would feel when she broke the seal and read his words. What would she think of him then? How could she respect him when he had failed her so? And sailing to Iceland before her return merely compounded his sin a hundred times over. Part of him longed for her to reach London before he sailed. Another part seized gladly at the idea of escape.
So instead of planning he listened to the entreaties of his boyhood companions, the ones who knew the town and the town’s clubs. When Solander next called on Banks, he was not at home, nor had he been seen since the previous evening. The reason for his absence became clear later that afternoon when Banks arrived at his own door suspended between two footmen, almost insensible, and for the first time in weeks not caring where he was or why he was there.
HER FIRST days in Madeira passed largely in a state of wonder. Rising early, she would leave the villa at dawn and head for the mountains. There she would follow the levadas, the ancient irrigation channels that snaked the contours of the hills, until she found the place where she had been working the previous day. On the first two mornings the houseboy had shown her certain paths, but thereafter she found her own way, under cinnamon trees, amid mangoes or bananas. She sketched flowers and leaves she had never seen before, and after a long morning of walking and drawing she would settle in the shade and look out over the sea and eat the food she had brought with her. By then the sun was up and she would often doze for a little, lulled by the heavy scent of the afternoon and the music of the goat bells above her as the drowsy animals browsed fitfully on the mountainsides.
On the fifth morning she ventured into the town while it was barely awake, the air still cool but the sun already warm when it touched her. The quiet of the streets filled her with calm. As she made her way, she passed a carpenter’s house where a man was already at work, singing a song apparently without words, almost tuneless, but sad and vital at the same time. Farther on, under the window of a large house, she heard chords being played on a violin as if a child was practicing. Like the song, the sounds seemed fitted to the empty streets and the morning’s coolness.
If her days seemed perfect, they were doomed to end with the ordeal of the dinner table. As well as Maddox and Dunivant, she met others there, members o
f the English fraternity who came to pay their respects to the new visitor. All asked about Banks, and in her confusion she began to contradict herself. Some came away believing that the awkward Mr. Burnett was already assured a place with Banks, others that he scarcely knew him. And as she struggled, Maddox watched her, half amused, intervening from time to time and deftly turning the conversation into different channels.
Then came the day when she was interrupted in her drawing. She had returned to a favorite place and was making a study of guava leaves. It was late morning and the air was already still and weighty with heat. Beyond the shade, the light was dazzling, and where she sat seemed a sanctuary. She could hear water flowing through a nearby stream and into a stone tank cut into the hillside. Engrossed in her work, she did not hear anyone approaching, and the first she knew of Maddox’s arrival was the sound of his footsteps close behind her.
“I confess I owe you an apology,” he said, stepping out of the shadow and into the sun. “I was inclined to disbelieve your claims to be a draughtsman. There are so many who believe they can draw, I find, and I thought you would be one of those. But without pretending to be an expert I can see that you really are an artist. Perhaps you really do plan to join Banks’s party after all.”
Once again in his presence she felt the heat in her cheeks.
“As I told you, sir—”
“Oh, I don’t mind very much what you told me.”
He threw himself down on the bank beside her, so close that she drew away from him.
“So this is where you pass your time. I admit that I bribed the boy to point me in the right direction. I find you a most interesting character, Mr. Burnett.”
She ignored him, apparently intent on her work.
“It is getting hot, isn’t it?” Maddox continued. “Are you not warm in that jacket?”
“I am very comfortable, thank you.”
“Really?” He pondered this. “I know…” He pointed to the water tank, cool and green in the shade. “Do you swim?”
She carried on drawing. “No. I have never learned.”
“Come!” He reached out and took her by the elbow. “The tanks are not deep and are wonderfully cooling. And there are no peasant girls here for us to shock, are there?”
She shook him away. “No, really, Mr. Maddox. I don’t care to swim.”
He smiled back at her, amused. “You surprise me. Perhaps you will object to my carrying on without you?”
She looked at him steadily, not prepared to blink. “Why should I object? You may do as you please.”
He jumped to his feet and, standing in front of her, began to unbutton his shirt. “It will not disturb you at all?”
She returned his gaze. “Of course not. Why should it?”
He continued to tug at his buttons, then dropped his shirt to the ground and began to undo his boots. “You see, there’s something about you,” he said as he undressed. “Something intriguing. I thought you might shy away from joining me. Perhaps you find the thought of such physical exertions…distasteful?”
She looked at him carefully. “No, not distasteful. But hardly inspiring.”
He raised an eyebrow at that and continued to undress. When he was naked he turned his back to her and walked slowly to the water’s edge, then lowered himself in. As he bathed she returned to her drawing, unsettled but determined not to show it. When Maddox emerged from the water he took his clothes and retired a discreet distance to dry himself and dress. When he’d finished he returned to where she sat and resumed his position on the bank beside her. She went on drawing as if he were not there, and for a while there was silence between them. When he spoke, his mocking tone was gone.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly.
“My name is Burnett,” she replied.
“I thought you would scream and run away,” he said, smiling a little to himself. “You called my bluff.”
“Why should I run?”
He looked at her carefully. “I took you for a lady.”
She already knew he had guessed. But the words still made her tremble inside. She succeeded in keeping her voice low and steady.
“Well, you were wrong. It’s obvious that I am not.”
He raised his eyebrow again. “No, it is clear you are quite another sort of woman. I find that even more intriguing, I confess. If not a lady, you did not strike me as…as that other thing. I find the fact that you are not a lady rather stimulating.”
For a moment she wanted to strike him, to deliver with all her strength a blow across his face that she knew he deserved. But there was a calmness deep inside her now. She would not break. She would not run.
“I think, sir, it would be better if you were to leave me now. I have work to complete.”
To her surprise he rose to his feet. “Very well, Mister Burnett.” He seemed about to go but he hesitated. “Mrs. Drake knows. They’ve all guessed. Are you aware of that?”
She continued to draw, the blood hot in her cheeks, her eyes very firmly fixed ahead of her.
“Oh, one other thing, Miss Burnett.” Maddox reached into his jacket. “A letter. For you. It arrived this morning. From Mr. Banks. About plants, no doubt.”
He dropped the letter onto the grass in front of her and she left it there until she had watched him out of sight around the curve of the mountain. Then, still shaking, she reached down and opened it.
After reading its contents she sat for a long time, very still inside. She would finish her drawing before dusk, she decided. The next day she would look for a passage to England.
I woke up the next morning still determined to get away from Lincoln. After hearing Anderson’s logic of the night before, I had absolutely no desire to hang around and witness his triumph. And although it was true that something could still go wrong for him, that was hardly a help to me. The Stamford letter was the best chance any of us had of finding the bird. If it proved a dead end, then we were all back where we started. The bird would stay hidden, if it had even survived this long.
When I was dressed, I set out to look for Katya. I wasn’t sure what she’d say when I told her I was going back to London, but I expected her to be disappointed. The night before, working out the name switch on the Stamford letter, she’d been glowing with excitement. Even Anderson’s confidence hadn’t seemed to daunt her.
But finding her the next morning proved difficult. The woman at the reception desk told me she had gone out early without leaving a message, and so I went looking for her. I tried the county archives and the public library, and then a couple of the cafés we’d been to. Not finding her left me at a loss. I was anxious not to hang around Lincoln, but I couldn’t go without Katya, and I hadn’t a clue where to find her. For want of a better plan I began to wander the streets, studying faces and peering into shops.
In the end, I found Gabby, not Katya. I saw her through the window of an old bookshop, and after a moment’s hesitation I went in. She was leaning elegantly against the shelves in the antiquarian book section, looking through a very old copy of Gerard’s Herbal. She smiled when I joined her, but now there seemed to have grown up between us a distance that for some reason hadn’t been there when we met in London.
“I thought you’d be out looking for the bird,” I told her, aware as I said it that I sounded slightly bitter, like a poor loser pretending not to be.
“Not yet.” With great care she placed the book back on the shelf. “I’m meeting Karl at lunchtime to see the photos.”
“You must be feeling good. Even if there are no pictures, it looks like you’ll get your introduction to Ted Staest.”
If there was anything amiss in my tone, she pretended not to hear it.
“I hope so.” She paused. “I wanted to ask you, Fitz. Last night…Do you see what I mean about Karl now? Deep down, he’s like you. Can’t you see? I mean, he loves the search. The mechanics of it. The detective work. Part of him knows that those pictures could be total moonshine. Perhaps they never existed in the
first place. Or perhaps they’re not by Roitelet. Or they might be damaged, or just not any good. But they just might be everything we hope for, and it’s the thought of them out there, waiting, that drives Karl on.”
That and a million dollars, I thought, but decided not to say so.
“So what do you think?” she went on. “Will he find the bird?”
“If it was part of that sale he’ll probably find it.”
“And if it wasn’t part of that sale you think no one will find it?”
I met her eyes. “Oh, if it exists someone will find it. Sometime. But not one of us. That sort of find comes about when someone gets curious about the things in their attic and takes them to an expert. If the Ulieta bird is ever seen again, that’ll be how it happens.”
Outside in the street, glimpsed through rows of books, shoppers were passing. I checked their faces idly.
“I fly back to Rio this weekend,” Gabby said, and hesitated. “Look, I’ve been thinking about you, that photograph by your bed…I know you won’t forget her, John, but you have to move on. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”
That afternoon I drove out to Revesby. I set off in the fraying light of a winter afternoon, edging out of Lincoln cautiously, not sure what I was going to do. It crossed my mind to go to Ainsby, but Ainsby was all about the bird’s recent history, and Anderson had reduced that to a piece of forensic analysis, a sort of relentless square-search that would either succeed or fail. I was prepared to leave it to him. It was the bird’s distant past that interested me now, the half-glimpsed story in the background—the one that Hans Michaels had glimpsed when he made his drawing of the woman with no name. What was the story there? How had the Ulieta bird become a part of it? These things were interesting in a way Anderson’s search would never be, and when I came to the road that would lead to Ainsby, I ignored it and drove south, toward Revesby.
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