The Magyar Venus
By Lyn Hamilton
PROLOGUE
March 3, 1900—
I am quite decided that I will travel. Indeed I feel quite giddy at the prospect. Given my change of circumstances, I can see no real impediment. Of those attributes which Mr. Galton considers prerequisites to travel—health, craving for adventure, a moderate fortune, and a definite objective which would not be thought impracticable by experienced travellers—I enjoy the first two in abundance. As to the last, I am convinced that while many of my acquaintance will think me mad, those who have already experienced travel would not find what I propose to be without merit. It is true that I lack even a moderate fortune, but I have a modest income, and, as Mr. Galton advises, some men are known to support themselves by travel. It may well be that, as is my goal, I will find objects of natural history that will be of sufficient interest on my return that I may recover some part of my expenses.
In preparation, I have read Mr. Galton's most excellent book, and indeed attended one of his lectures three years ago. His subject that evening unfortunately was not advice to travellers but rather his theories on what he calls eugenics, with which I simply cannot agree. One cannot doubt the passion he brings to his beliefs, but for my part, I find his ideas on the restriction of marriage to only the most physically and mentally fit a perversion of the scholarship of Mr. Darwin and Sir Charles, both of whom I have made the subjects of personal study. Indeed it is my careful perusal of Mr. Darwin's writings that encourages me in my objective, which is to find evidence that would support his theories. Mr. Galton's views on marriage do not seem to me to hold up to the rigour of even the most rudimentary observation. I myself have observed that some of the most unfortunate amongst us wher e the complexion is concerned have comely children, and madness does not always pass from generation to generation. But perhaps I am guilty in that latter statement of what I accuse Mr. Galton. I must believe that madness is not an inevitable result of procreation of those who are stricken by it.
Be that as it may, Mr. Galton's advice on travel seems to me to be worthy of some attention. He has, has he not, travelled extensively in some of the most inhospitable places. Having booked passage for a little less than a month hence, I have visited the shops of High Street and selected my travel attire with care, mindful of his instructions on the efficacy of flannel. As to what else I should take with me, I am quite unsure. Tea and biscuits, of course, and a pistol, a penknife, stationery, a few powders to treat mild affliction, sturdy boots and some instruments for my studies, a macintosh for inclement weather, and some sketching books. How I wish I knew more of the terrain I will visit.
As to what I will find I am even less certain. I will go down to London within the month, and thence to the continent. I take comfort in Mr. Galton's advice that savages rarely murder newcomers.
CHAPTER ONE
September 5
I'M NEVER QUITE CERTAIN WHAT PEOPLE MEAN WHEN THEY tell me to stay out of trouble. What I do know is that no matter what they intend by it, being caught with one of Europe's oldest men hidden under the bed would hardly be considered staying out of it, even if, given he'd been dead for about twenty-five thousand years, I could hardly be accused of the blow that killed him.
I was, however, immeshed in the demise of a more contemporary soul, and, not to put too fine a point on it, almost got myself killed. When, in the harsh light of hindsight, I subject my actions to rigorous self-examination, something I by and large try not to do too often or for too long, it is clear a rather unfortunate chain of events might have been avoided had I paid attention to signs, obvious to everyone but me, that disaster was nigh. Instead, I was swamped with a sort of psychic lassitude, my normal instinct for survival dulled by a fuzziness of thinking, a lack of will. In short, I was in something of a funk.
My friends certainly thought so, even if I wasn't prepared to acknowledge my state of mind, at least not while I was in it, and certainly not out loud.
"I expect you're feeling a little glum about your breakup with Rob," my best friend Moira Meller offered rather tentatively.
"I don't think so," I said. "It was for the best, you know, and really very amicable."
"That's good," she said. "He seems a little depressed. I was worried you might be, too."
"I don't know why," I said. "Neither of us was really getting what we wanted out of the relationship. It may be that I am one of those people who are happier on their own. You haven't been talking to him, have you?" I said suspiciously.
"He did call," she said. "And I did talk to him, but only for a minute, you understand. I think he wanted me to try to talk to you about getting back together. I told him I wouldn't presume to do anything like that."
"Thank you," I said. I looked at her warily. Was there more to this than she was saying? The expression on her face was studiously bland.
"Any time you want to talk about it," she said, "I'm here."
"Thanks, but I'm fine," I said.
"Okay," she said. "Whatever. By the way, if you have some time one evening this week, I could use your advice. I'm thinking of giving the salon a bit of a makeover. I have some color swatches and I'd be grateful if you'd have a look at them. Maybe you and I could go out for a drink and dinner after."
"Didn't you just completely redecorate the place six months ago? It's gorgeous!"
"Urn, yes. But there is one spot I've never been entirely happy about. You know me, obsessive personality that I am. It would be great if you'd come over."
"Okay," I said. Her motives were entirely transparent, and I suppose it was nice of her to try to cheer me up, but I wished she wouldn't bother.
"You'll miss Jennifer, I expect, won't you, Lara?" my neighbor Alex Stewart said.
"I'm sure I'll see her almost as much as I did when her father and I were together," I replied.
"Will you?" he said. "I'm glad to hear that. I was wondering, might there be any chance you could give me a hand with my garden on Sunday? I could use your help moving one of the rose bushes."
"Sure," I said. "I'd be glad to." Not another one! I thought.
When I wasn't doing favors for my friends, I tried to throw myself into my work. That usually does the trick when I'm feeling a little down. Even at the antique shop I co-own with my ex-husband Clive Swain, though, it was not business as usual. Diesel, the Official Shop Cat, who normally ignores me, had taken to leaping into my lap whenever and wherever I was sitting, and doing figure eights between my legs when I wasn't.
The one person I can always count on to show me no sympathy is Clive. "This business with Rob is making you a little crabby, Lara," he said.
"Thank you, Clive," I said, feeling much cheered by this lack of solicitude. "You, of course, are all sweetness and light."
"I rest my case," he said. "You need a holiday. Now that you're unattached, you could go out to one of those swinging singles places in the Caribbean. Sun, sand, sex with no commitment. Very therapeutic. I remember those times with fondness."
"And those intensive therapy sessions would have been while you were still married to me, would they?" I said.
"Worse than crabby. Downright testy," he said. "Isn't there somewhere else you need to be right now?"
"I suppose I should go to that auction preview at Molesworth Cox. I probably won't find anything interesting, though, and even if I do, it will be too pricey."