Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine Page A

Toby.”
    “Then you must call me just Robin. Now let’s put this smock on you and then you watch while I show you what to do.”
    Philo hoped he realised a four-year-old’s limitations. Surely he would not give Toby anything dangerous?
    As if he read her mind, his first words when he returned to her side were reassuring. “Bicarbonate of soda, acetic acid, and an indicator. That’s baking powder, vinegar, and red cabbage water to you, but don’t tell Toby. They fizz nicely and change colour, besides being cheap. May I see your papers?”
    She spread them on the desk, where, to her embarrassment, they refused to stay flat after being rolled in her pocket. Robin Mayhew collected some empty beakers to hold down the corners. Though his hands were stained, they were well scrubbed, she noted, and the nails were neatly trimmed. She liked his hands.
    “Explain.” He pulled up a stool.
    Somehow it was easy to talk about her work. She showed him the family trees she had drawn up in Vienna. “That is where I started to keep records,” she told him. “I had a parrot in Brazil, but Cousin Sarah made me leave it behind when Papa was posted to Lisbon.”
    “Your father was a diplomat?”
    “Yes. We stopped in the Canary Islands, and to make up for losing my parrot he bought me a wild canary in a cage. It was a little green finch, very different from the tame canaries they had in Portugal. Papa said the Spaniards had deliberately bred one from the other. That seemed to me very clever and exciting. I did not try breeding my own, though, until we went to Vienna in 1813. In ‘14, I raised two broods, eleven nestlings, then last year when the new clutches were hatching, Papa died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “There was a dreadful scandal.” Philo realised she was departing from the subject. Besides, Mr Mayhew would hardly be interested in Sir William Ware’s dramatic demise in the arms of his latest mistress. “Anyway, we had to leave Vienna just when the baby canaries were testing their wings. I had to give away all of that generation, but I managed to bring two older pairs with me.”
    “Right across Europe? In the middle of the Hundred Days?” He sounded incredulous.
    “Waterloo was already over when we reached Brussels. It was not easy, though, and Aquila—my sister—complained a good deal. The birds make her sneeze, so one cannot blame her. But I was determined, and it was worth the trouble because otherwise I’d have had to start all over again. The birds I brought have proved themselves as breeders, and the males are good singers. These are their charts.”
    He pored over the papers, leaning disturbingly close to her, his hair flopping over his forehead. “Very clear and neat,” he said with approval. “I fear, though, that you will not find it easy to continue with family trees like these as the generations grow larger. Have you considered just keeping a written record, say a page for each bird? You could list its parents and offspring and still have room for information about its characteristics.”
    “It would certainly be quicker,” she agreed, frowning in thought. “Yes, I see how it could be done. I shall try it. By the third generation, it was already difficult to fit all the offspring onto a family tree, even though my writing is small.”
    “As is mine. I daresay it is a necessity for us scientific experimenters.” His smile was full of complicity, counting her a part of the group of enquiring minds to which he belonged.
    A passionate desire to be worthy of Robin Mayhew’s regard swept over Philomena. Was it possible that with her dedication to science she might somehow make up for the shame of her birth?
    The door to the kitchen swung open and a short, wiry man appeared, bearing before him a tin tray with a teapot and three saucerless cups.
    “I made a spot o’ tea for the lady, sir,” he announced.
    “Thank you, Bodiham.” Mr Mayhew looked a trifle harassed.
    “Is there biscuits?” Toby