A Bloodsmoor Romance (5 page)

“Skeptical?” Samantha asked, startled. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Perhaps it was Professor Jameson,” Malvinia said carelessly. “I cannot keep the old gentlemen straight, there are so many; and they are always
staring
at one!” She adjusted the luxuriant tulle veil that dropped from the brim of her hat, and picked up her needlepoint; but showed very little inclination to apply herself to her work. “A pity, though, that, as the tea commenced, and the terrace grew o'ercrowded, Father grew so warm; and his birthmark so pronounced.”

“I did not think the birthmark so very pronounced,” Octavia said, taking up her sandalwood fan, and staring at Malvinia with an expression of startl'd perplexity. “Indeed, it seemed to me that Father was unusually handsome this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes—yes—yes, of course,” Malvinia said hurriedly. “I did not mean that he was
not
handsome; please do not misunderstand!”

Plump, frowning Octavia began to fan herself, as she had been taught, in slow decorous movements. It may well have been that, as a consequence of numerous tidbits, consumed at the tea, she was rather uncomfortably warm, in her sturdy whalebone corset, with its innumerable metal eyelets and crossed lacing. She sighed, and said: “Ah, but the hot shortcake was delicious! Did you think so, Samantha? Deirdre? How very quiet you two are! But you
did
enjoy the afternoon, I hope?”

Samantha murmured a near-inaudible assent, without glancing up from her work; but Deirdre, her pale face pinched and stubborn, made no reply at all.

“Your sister has asked you a question, Deirdre,” Malvinia said sharply. “Though neither Mother nor Father is here and, I suppose, you need
not
o'erexert yourself, so far as courtesy is concerned, you might at least have replied, and not sit there as if you were deaf!”

“The hot shortcake—the strawberry jam—the new China tea off Uncle Vaughan's ships—” Octavia chattered nervously. “And, yes, the exquisite fresh honey! You
did
have something to eat, Deirdre, I hope? Otherwise you will be feeling very faint.”

“Thank you,” Deirdre whispered. “It is kind of you to be solicitous of me; but, I assure you, I am altogether well.”

So saying, the youngest Miss Zinn lapsed into a stony silence and, staring fixedly at the crocheting in her lap, resumed her rapid mechanical work, as if she were indeed alone. I cannot think it a reasonable observation, that startling commentary of Grandmother Sarah Kidde­master, as to this young lady's possessing a sort of
secret beauty;
for, if you were to closely observe the narrowed and downturned eyes, in which naught but a froward spirit glowed, and if you were to gaze all unjudging upon the high pale forehead, marred by the untidy widow's peak, you would have very little hope that this child might one day blossom into a beauty, to be placed beside our legendary Bloodsmoor beauties. For, harking back to Dutch and Colonial times, this fertile Valley was famed for its lovely young women, of aristocratic family; and a fair number of them were Kidde­masters, as I hardly need add.

It may have been to forestall some reiterated criticism, by Malvinia, of their youngest sister's behavior, both at the present time and at the tea (when, it seems, she had spent an inordinate amount of time hiding in a corner, and was too tongue-tied even to converse with her cousins Basil and Steven), that Octavia said warmly: “Yes, it did seem to me, that Father was particularly handsome, and eloquent, this afternoon. I felt my heart begin to beat hard, when he spoke of the future—of the next century—and his eyes shone—and his beard looked so fine, and bold—and his voice did not quaver—” She paused, fanning herself, now more hurriedly. “The professors from Boston
will
elect him to their Society, will they not? For it would be so cruel now—after so much anticipation, and talk—”

“I cannot think that they would
not,
” Samantha said.

“No,” said Constance Philippa at once, “I cannot think that either; for Grandfather, you know, would be most grieved.”

“He would be most furious,” Malvinia said idly, again fussing with her dotted tulle veil, the which she was obliged to wear, even in the late afternoon, that her flawless complexion might not be rudely touched by the sun. “Indeed, since his retirement from the Court, he is likely to be thrown into a fury at any time. How unhappy Father will be, if—!”

Samantha sighed in exasperation, for her orange yarn had become badly snarled; and it was always a source of uneasiness to her, that Malvinia, or any of her sisters, should take it upon themselves to discuss Mr. Zinn. She said: “Mother is quite certain that the election will be successful, for, I believe, Mr. Bayard thus informed her, tho' the matter is of course confidential: and not to be chattered about, in every treetop and from out every window, as Pip would do.”

Whereupon, for no clear reason, unless, of course, to forestall some small contretemps, Constance Philippa gave her pink fancywork a vigorous shake, and said suddenly: “Miss Delphine Martineau behaved disgracefully this afternoon—she flirted with all the men—not excluding Octavia's widower, Mr. Rumford—or my fiancé—or Grandfather himself—or that insufferable Mr. Ormond, who reminds me so forcibly of a barnyard hog! I hope you all took notice?”

“You are most unfair to Delphine!” Malvinia cried. (For, indeed, she and the vivacious Miss Martineau were very close friends.) “She does not
flirt,
any more than I do: but simply converses with any of the gentlemen, no matter their age, who approach her. Yes, Constance Philippa, you
are
unfair, and I cannot think it very generous of you,” she continued, warmly. “As if Delphine should give a snap of her fingers for—well, for any of the men you mention!—any more than
I
should—”

“You are insulting Constance Philippa, and me,” Octavia said gently. “I beg you to reconsider your rash words.”

“I will not hear Delphine slandered,” Malvinia said archly, “nor do I wish to reconsider anything I have said. If Constance Philippa speaks out of rank jealousy, or vile wicked envy, she should be more direct, and not hide behind cruel scatter'd shots!”

In reply, the flush-faced elder sister flung her crocheting down upon the floorboards of the gazebo; and for a long terrible moment no one spoke. (Indeed, it was well for the sisters, that no servant hovered near; and that the great house was a sufficient distance away, that none of their elders might chance to spy upon them.) To her credit, Constance Philippa held her tongue, as she had been instructed to do, in such flurried circumstances, when the blood pulses too strenuously through the veins, and the sturdy bone undergarments give every impression of growing yet tighter. The eldest Miss Zinn was, as the reader might infer, a strangely troubled young lady, and not at all grateful, it seems, for her engagement to the Baron, nor made so ecstatically happy at the prospect of being a wife to him, as she should have been. She breathed with enforced calm, and paused yet further, and finally spoke: “Yet there was no cause, Malvinia, to insult Octavia and me—to boast that you would not give a snap of your fingers for my fiancé, and Octavia's suitor! Indeed, that is most cruel. For, after all, I have not yet heard that the banns have been announced for you and the dashing young Cheyney.”

Malvinia prepared a capricious retort; then, thinking better of it, began to hum rather loudly, a mannerism that could be counted on to annoy Constance Philippa; then, thinking better of
that
(for this lovely if impetuous child did have a warm heart), she turned suddenly to Octavia, and said: “But I did not mean to insult you! Of all things, dear Octavia, I did not mean
that.
Mr. Rumford is a fine, upstanding, and altogether considerable gentleman, of whom, I believe, Uncle Vaughan thinks highly; and Aunt Edwina has, I believe, never said a censorious word, in my hearing at least. And we know that Mother respects him.”

Octavia, smiling sadly, applied herself to the patchwork toy in her lap, and did not reply for some strained moments. She then said, without raising her tremulous brown gaze to Malvinia's: “I fear, Malvinia, that all this chatter of Mr. Rumford—and Rumford Hall—and this and that—is, at best, premature. And may even be,” she said in a quavering voice, “finally quite irrelevant.”

“Octavia!” Malvinia breathed. “What are you saying?”

“Octavia—is it so?” Constance Philippa asked.

Bravely the young woman said: “I fear—I fear he may be, after all, interested in someone else: and Mother's fancies, and, I am ashamed to say, my own, may be quite insubstantial.”

“Someone else!—ah, he does not dare!—not after things have so advanced, and he and Grandfather had, I thought, come to some sort of agreement with each other,” Malvinia said heatedly. “Of course, I do not
know
that any such conversation took place, but Mr. Rumford has
behaved
in so conspicuous a way. . . . Who might the other girl be?”

“Perhaps it is Delphine,” Constance Philippa said dryly. “No, more likely Felicity Broome, with her gossamer veil. Only fancy, she pretended to be chilled, and faint-headed, in
this
heat!”

“I do not know the identity of the other girl,” Octavia said. “It is naught but a rumor, out of Philadelphia. Indeed, it was Felicity who whispered it in my ear with, I thought, an expression of such gleeful cruelty, I felt my heart pierced; and wanted nothing more than to be carried back home, to my bedchamber, and my bed.”

“Octavia, I am certain you are mistaken,” Constance Philippa said, with some attempt at chastisement, “for, you must remember, Mr. Rumford is a deeply religious man, and the recent death of his wife—but some six or seven years ago, I believe?—must weigh very heavily upon him. It is common knowledge that he was ordained a Lutheran minister; his nature is hardly lightsome and fickle.”

“That is true, I suppose,” Octavia said slowly. “Mr. Rumford
is
uncommonly deep.”

“The fact that he remains in mourning for his wife,” Malvinia said, “can only be encouraging to you, for it suggests the gravity with which he contemplates the sacred bonds of matrimony! Indeed, Octavia, I should hardly be despondent, if I were you—and, in any case, it is quite impossible, to read a gentleman's heart.”

“Impossible, indeed!” Octavia observed, with a small stoic laugh.

In such wise the sisters idly spoke, the while they did their fancywork and the languid afternoon waned; and no disturbance announced itself more stridently than a nearby raven, or a cicada, or an o'erimpetuous bullfrog down at the river.

It was then, in a stealthy motion, that Deirdre drew forth the locket she wore on a gold chain around her neck, to open it, and to stare intently at the faded daguerreotypes inside: an action that could not fail to offend her sisters. (For the daguerreotypes were of her
natural parents,
who had died some six years previous, in the dread typhoid epidemic of 1873. It was believed that Deirdre's mother had given her the locket, shortly before her death, with instructions
never to remove it,
lest something unfortunate happen: so the stubborn child, in the very bosom of her new family, made a show of opening the locket upward of a dozen times daily, to gaze upon the old pictures with an expression of sickly yearning.)

In order to deflect attention from Deirdre's rude gesture, Samantha said nervously: “Do you think there might be some difficulty? I mean, with Mother, and her private interview with Grandfather, in the Hall? For if Grandfather is not sympathetic this time—”

“Samantha,” Octavia scolded, “you are speaking out of turn: for we are hardly meant to know our mother's private business.”

“We are not
meant
to know,” Samantha said, blushing, “but, in fact, we cannot escape having a very good idea of what it might be. And if Grandfather is adamant, and refuses to continue his support, what will poor Father do? You know, he is so
very
close to discovering the principle of the perpetual-motion machine!”

“Indeed, is he?” Malvinia asked, now peeking out from her veil at the sky, that she might judge whether the sun's rays were still injurious. “This is the device, I believe, which is to run forever?—and require no rewinding?”

“A device to run forever!” Constance Philippa murmured. “How very strange.”

“Strange,” said Samantha, “and miraculous. Indeed, there will be nothing like it under the sun: and
our father
will have invented it.”

“Invented it,” Octavia said firmly, “
and
patented it. For, this time, Mother will hear of nothing else.”

“A perpetual-motion machine is one that runs—
perpetually?
” Constance Philippa asked, knitting her brows. “I find that concept most remarkable. Indeed, I find it most distressing. Are you certain, Samantha, that you have understood Father correctly?”

“I work by his side in the laboratory, when he will allow me,” Samantha said boldly. “And, I assure you, it is precisely as I have said.”

Poor Constance Philippa held herself so stiffly, with so pained an expression, one might have wondered whether the strong admixture of chloride of lime and powdered salicylic acid, which, some hours ago, she had applied beneath her arms, for purposes of daintiness, had begun to sting; or whether, like the others, she felt the continued strain of
not
looking at her youngest sister. (Who, whilst the others conversed, held herself in distinct opposition, being seated somewhat to the side, and brooding, still, to no useful purpose, over the old locket.)

“Father is so very close to grasping it! So very close to consummation,” Samantha said warmly. “What a pity it would be, and what a tragedy, for our nation, if he should not be allowed to continue; and for mere financial reasons.”