"As for you," Leonora suddenly said. "What's the state of your own love-life? You haven't contributed much, this evening."
"How could I have?"
"Touché. I do go on. But that suits you fine, you're all uptight about your own sexuality. You were hurt by that bastard, Fergus Wolff, but you shouldn't have gotten so annihilated, it's letting the side down. You should branch out. Try other sweet things."
"You mean women. Just at the moment, I'm trying celibacy. I like it. Its only hazard is people who will proselytise for their own way of doing things. You should try it."
"Oh, I did, for a month, back in the Fall. It was great at first. I got to be quite in love with myself, and then I thought I was unhealthily attached to me, and should give myself up. So I found Mary-Lou. It's much more thrilling bringing someone else off- more generous, Maud."
"You see what I mean about proselytising. Give up, Leonora. I'm happy the way I am."
"It's your choice," said Leonora, equably. She added, "I tried calling you before I flew out. No one knew where you were. Gone off in a car with a man, I was told by the Department."
"Who? Who said that?"
"That would be telling. I hope you had a good time."
Maud became like her namesake, icily regular, splendidly null. She said frostily, "Yes, thank you," and stared tightlipped and white into space.
"Point taken," said Leonora. "No trespassers. I'm glad there is someone." There isn't. "OK. There isn't."
Leonora splashed a long time in Maud's bathroom and left it covered with little puddles of water, lidless bottles and several different spicy smells of unknown unguents. Maud put the lids back, mopped up the puddles, had a shower between curtains redolent of Opium or Poison, and had just climbed into her cool bed when Leonora appeared in the doorway, largely naked except for an exiguous and unbelted crimson silk dressing-gown.
"A good-night kiss," Leonora said.
I can't.
You can. It s easy.
Leonora came to the bed and folded Maud into her bosom. Maud fought to get her nose free. Loose hands met Leonora's majestic belly and heavy breasts. She couldn't push, that was as bad as submitting. To her shame, she began to cry.
"What is it with you, Maud?"
"I told you. I'm off the whole thing. Right off. I did tell you."
"I can relax you."
"You must be able to see you have exactly the opposite effect. Go back to bed, Leonora. Please."
Leonora made various rrr-ooof noises like a large dog or bear, and finally rolled away, laughing. "Tomorrow is another day," said Leonora. "Sweet dreams, Princess."
A kind of desperation overcame Maud. The bulk of Leonora lay on her sofa in her living-room, between her and her books. She noticed a kind of rigorous aching of her limbs, from tense confinement, which was reminiscent of the last terrible days of Fergus Wolff. She wanted to hear her own voice, saying something simple and to the point. She tried to think whom she wanted to speak to, and came up with Roland Michell, that other devotee of white and solitary beds. She did not look at her watch-it was late, but not so very late, not for scholars. She would let it ring, just a few times, and then, if he didn't answer, ring off quickly, so that if seriously disturbed he would never know by whom. She picked up the telephone by her bed and dialled the London number. She would tell him what? Not about Sabine de Kercoz, but just that there was something to tell. That she was not alone.
Two rings, three, four. The phone was lifted. A listening silence at the other end.
"Roland?"
"He's asleep. Have you any idea what time it is?"
"I'm sorry. I'm ringing from abroad."
"That is Maud Bailey, isn't it?"
Maud was silent.
"Isn't it, isn't it, Maud Bailey? Why don't you leave us alone?"
Maud held the phone silently, listening to the angry voice. She looked up and saw Leonora in the doorway, gleaming black curls and red silk. "I came to say I'm sorry and have you got anything for a headache?"
Maud put the phone down."Don't let me interrupt you."There was nothing to interrupt.'
The next day, Maud telephoned Blackadder, which was a tactical error. "Professor Blackadder?" Yes. "This is Maud Bailey, from the Lincoln Resource Centre for Women's Studies." On yes. "I am trying to get in touch with Roland Michell, rather urgently."
"I don't know why you should apply to me, Dr Bailey. I never see him these days."
"I thought he-"
"He's been away recently. He's been in poor health since he came back. Or so I assume, since I don't see him."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't see why you should be. I take it you are not responsible for his-ailing state?"
"Perhaps, if you see him, you would tell him I called."
"If I do, I will. Is there any other message?"
"Could you ask him to call me."
"About what, Dr Bailey?"
"Tell him Professor Stern is here, from Tallahassee."
"If I remember, if I see him, Til tell him that."
"Thank you."
Maud and Leonora, coming out of a shop in Lincoln, were almost killed by a large car, reversing at great and silent speed. They were carrying hobby-horses, with velvet heads on solid broomsticks, beautifully made with flowing silken manes and wicked embroidered eyes. Leonora wanted them for various godchildren and said they looked English and magical. The driver of the reversing car, seeing the two women through smoke-blue glass, thought they looked bizarrely cultish, in flowing skirts and scarfed heads, brandishing their totemic beasts. He made an economical contemptuous gesture at the gutter. Leonora raised her hobby-horse and addressed him, jingling its bells, as slob, prick and maniac. Insulated from her imprecations, he completed his manoeuvre, distressinga push-chair, a grandmother, two cyclists, an errand-boy and a Cortina, which had to reverse behind him the length of the street. Leonora copied down his number plate which was ANK 666. Neither Maud nor Leonora had met Mortimer Cropper. Their power-circle was different-different conferences, different libraries. Maud therefore felt no shadow of threat or apprehension as the Mercedes slid away through the narrow old streets for which it had not been designed.
If Cropper had known one of his cult-figures was Maud Bailey, he would not have stopped; he had registered Leonora's American voice without much interest. He was on another quest. In a short time the Mercedes was having difficulty with a hay-wain in the twisting little wold roads near Bag-Enderby. He faced out the haywagon, making it pull precariously into a hedge. He kept his window closed and his aseptic leather interior air-conditioned.
The entrance to the drive to Seal Court was festooned with notices-old and greenish, new and red on white, PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSERS. DANGEROUS DOG. PROTECTED PROPERTY. ANY ACCIDENTS YOUR OWNRISK. Cropper drove in. In his experience signboard verbosity was a substitute for, not an indicator of, mantraps. He drove along the beech drive and into the courtyard, where he stopped, engine humming, and considered his next move.
Sir George, with his shotgun, was seen to peer from the kitchen window and then to emerge from the door. Cropper sat in his car.
"Lost your way?"
Cropper wound down his grey window, and saw crumbling stones instead of steely film set. He looked about with a practised eye. Battlements eroded. Doors hung askew. Weeds in the stable-yard.
"Sir George Bailey?"
"Uh-huh. Can I help you?"
Cropper emerged from his car and turned off the engine. "May I give you my card? Professor Mortimer Cropper, of the Stant Collection, in Robert Dale Owen University, in Harmony City, New Mexico."