“Very thorough. I enjoyed the outing.”
“Good. He loves every stick and stone about the place. He will be a fine keeper of Wyngate. Jarvis guards the past; Homer will look to the future.”
“It is a pity Norman had not left it in his keeping when his father died. I wonder that he didn’t.”
“Homer felt the slight, but there is no point pretending they were ever so close as real brothers would have been. Half-brothers—it is nearly worse than no kin at all, in a way. Norman always felt I favored my own son, and truth to tell, I did. I am but human, and loved Homer as my own flesh and blood, but I
tried
to love Norman.”
“Was he so hard to love?” I asked gently, a little hurt at her frank admission.
“Not at all. I
did
love him. He was only a child when I came to the place. I hoped I would be as his own mother to him, but I failed, Davinia. That is the plain and simple truth. I failed miserably. And I didn’t even know it till after he went away to school. When he was a mere child, he loved me. Then as he got older, he came to realize
he
was the important one to his papa, the one who was to be the new baronet, Sir Norman, and it went to his head a trifle. It began at Harrow, and worsened as he grew older, till in the end I was only tolerated. Your husband treated me with great condescension, my lady, so don’t bother hinting I was solely to blame.” She said it in a frank, jolly way, but she was serious, and I knew it.
“He lacked a sense of security, I think. He was given to boasting and bragging when I first met him too, but with marriage, he changed for the better. He didn’t even use his title. He was just plain Mr. Blythe.”
“That surprises me. I am happy to hear of the change. It is a pity his new sense of peace did not spill over to his relatives here at Wyngate.”
“It would have done, in time. Unfortunately, he was given very little time.”
“Pity,” she said softly, then sought to change the subject. I enquired for her comfort. She told me what new novel was entertaining her. And at the end of the visit, the subject of Bulow arose.
“Is that his first name, or his last?” I asked her.
“Neither. It is his middle name. Jason Bulow Blythe, but here we all call him Cousin Bulow. There was another Jason around when he was young, I believe, so his middle name was used. The name stuck, as youngsters’ names will often do. Eglantine, for instance, is still called Missie by her oldest friends.”
“The relationship is to the Blythes, then.”
“He was the nephew to Roger—my husband. That would make him first cousin, of course, to Homer and Norman. Actually he was always closer to Norman. They are the same age, and went to Harrow together. Later, Bulow went to London, and trained as a lawyer for a few years.”
“Does he run his estate himself?”
“Yes, he came home when his father died, and has remained there since. The Barrows is not so large a place as Wyngate, but larger than Farnley Mote. Eglantine has excellent prospects. Having no brothers, and being the older sister, she will inherit her papa’s place. I shouldn’t be surprised to see them spend half the year in London after their marriage.”
“Is the marriage settled?”
“Oh no.
If
they
marry, I should have said. Cousin Bulow is capricious. There is no saying she will get him to the altar. He has had a few flings with other ladies since first taking up with her, but he always goes back, so we are coming to think of the matter as half settled.”
We both glanced at her clock simultaneously. “Yes, it is about time you joined them downstairs,” she said.
I knew Homer spent some time with his mother before she retired for the night, so I said I would see her in the morning and left.
From the head of the stairs I saw a golden-haired young man below, with a glass of wine in his hand, from which he sipped indolently. He turned to give a close scrutiny to some painting in a large gilt frame, cocking his head to the right and left for better viewing of some detail. It struck me as exactly the right occupation for him: His citified barbering and tailoring lent him the air of a dandy, while his gracefully lithe body and movements suggested the dilettante. He would be at home in the great salons of London or Paris, discussing not politics or farming but the latest marvel in drama or literature, music or painting. In my fancy, his companion would inevitably be a young lady. Cousin Bulow’s fashionable appearance suggested he was a lady’s man. These thoughts flitted through my mind while I descended the staircase.
Before I had got quite halfway down he discerned the movement of my skirts and turned slowly to gaze at me. His honey-colored hair was worn slick. The black jacket and white shirtfront were unwrinkled, sitting like a second skin over his broad shoulders and tapering torso.
But the most noticeable thing about the man was his handsome face. His eyes were green, wide-set, observant. The nose was sculptured, the lips not parted but curved up in a secretive smile, like Leonardo’s famous Mona Lisa. His eyes did not waver, but gazed boldly at me as I descended towards him. He made no slight effort to conceal his open admiration, which was more disconcerting than flattering. I was conscious of the coquettish sway of my crinolines, and the fact that my ankles were highly visible from his vantage point, though, in fairness, his eyes never once strayed from my face.
When I reached the landing, he took a few fluid, languid steps towards me, still smiling. “Is it Cousin Davinia or Aphrodite I have the honor of meeting?” he asked in a mellifluous voice. His green eyes wandered all over my face in a highly embarrassing way, just before they went down below my neck.
“Cousin Bulow? I am happy to make your acquaintance,” I said, performing a curtsy. He bowed from the waist most gracefully.
“Everyone told me you were pretty,”
he continued blandly. “No one thought to mention you were breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said, but in the most repressive voice I could manage.
“I shall say once, in all sincerity, how extremely sorry I am about Norman’s death, and not mention it to you again this evening. I was devastated myself. Norman and I were like brothers. I can scarcely imagine how it must have affected
you,
his wife. We shall have a long talk about it all one day soon. For the remainder of the evening we shall do as he would wish and become friends. Norman, of all people in the world, would detest showy showers of grief. Come, I shall get you a glass of Homer’s excellent wine.”
He put his hand on my elbow and guided me to the saloon. As we passed that spot where he had been standing, I noticed that the gilt frame that formerly occupied his attention held a mirror.
“Davinia, I see you have met Cousin Bulow,” Jarvis said, rising to his feet when I entered. It occurred to me to ask him not to bother with this formality, but a second thought deterred me. He was not so old as to appreciate being excluded from the circle of gallants.
Homer also rose and bowed, with no ostentation. I saw Miss Dennison sitting in a corner, crocheting. She wore a hideous puce gown, and had daubed rouge on her withered cheeks in two large circles. This addition to her toilette, I soon surmised, was in Bulow’s honor.
He went forward and made a good-natured fuss over her, calling her his “girlfriend,” and admiring her gown, her high color, her crocheting work. This done, he came and sat in the semicircle around the grate with the rest of us. He had forgotten my wine, but meanwhile Jarvis procured me a glass. The talk soon revealed that Bulow had been to London recently. The visit made up our main conversation before dinner. My suspicions regarding his nature were confirmed. He spoke of trivial matters, mostly artistic and social.
“I tried the new Bridge House Hotel, just by London Bridge Station. Very fine, but the service doesn’t match the better places. I shan’t stay there again. Too much traffic. They pulled down half a dozen old buildings to make room for the hotel, but it will never be socially acceptable to the ton,” he decreed.
“I expect things were dull, with the Court in mourning,” Jarvis mentioned. “Parties would all be abandoned.”
“There were no large balls, certainly,” Bulow said. “Not that I would have attended in any case, so close to Norman’s death.”
Soon it came out that he had found quieter amusements. “I dropped around to the Crystal Palace. I hadn’t seen it since it was removed from Hyde Park to Sydenham. Penge has been ruined completely. It used to be a nice, quiet, rural sort of place. Now it’s little houses cheek-by-jowl, with traffic so heavy you can scarcely get across the street.”
“The Crystal Palace was too magnificent a thing to destroy,” Jarvis said.
“As to that, if you call ten thousand tons of iron and twenty-five acres of glass beautiful, then it is beautiful,” Bulow said. “I doubt the fellow who bought it will ever make a penny. It costs sixty thousand a year to keep up, and at that the glass is covered in dust half the time.”
“Wouldn’t
I
love to get hold of it,” Millie Dennison said, her eyes flashing. “What herbs I would have room to grow, under all those acres of glass. Do they have herbs in the plant collection, Bulow?”
“Very likely. I shall take you with me next time, Millie, and you can explain to me what we are looking at. You will enjoy to see the new fashions, too. I saw a female in bloomers, I swear. I thought we had heard the last of Mrs. Bloomer and her ridiculous outfits.”
“No, you won’t take me,” Millie said, undeceived. “You never take me. No one ever takes me anywhere. I should like to see these bloomers you speak of. They sound practical.”
“Practical, for a
woman?”
Bulow asked, staring.
“If God had wanted us to wear bloomers, he would have given us two legs, Miss Dennison,” I told her, with a jeering look at Bulow.
She found no amusement in this view. “I shall make myself up a pair. They sound practical—just the contraption for my gardening,” she declared.
“Did you get your business settled up satisfactorily?” Jarvis asked in a discreetly vague way, giving no idea what the business was.
“Yes, it was no problem,” Bulow told him with equal discretion.
The older gentleman tried to engage Bulow in some more serious discussion but had no success. He and Homer talked about the cotton famine, caused by the Civil War in America. Had Cousin Bulow noticed much distress due to the two million thrown out of work? “Yes, there were a deuced lot of beggars in the streets, and crime was up too, but old Gladstone and Cobden would get them back to work with the new free trade policy with France.”
We went in to dinner, where I found myself seated between Homer and Bulow, giving me an opportunity to compare them. They were two extremes of types. Homer was so firmly rooted to the earth, he spoke of little but crops and farm animals. Bulow soared high above the ground, hardly aware that such mundane things as corn and cows existed, though he was a farmer too. Chopin and Liszt were spoken of in terms of high praise. He ventured also into the realms of art and literature, soon discovering it was only in the latter that I had much knowledge, and even there my taste was for native novels—Dickens and Trollope and Austen, while he lauded the French writers.
Millie and I retired from the table after dinner to leave the men to their port. I expected she would dart off to her laboratory, but she sat with me, explaining that she didn’t want to hurt Bulow’s feelings by leaving early.
“Jarvis showed me your herb garden this morning,” I said, to pass the time.
“He
knows nothing about it.
I
shall show you, when the time is right. Things are hardly sprouting yet.”
“When am I to see your laboratory?” I asked, wondering if she even had one.
“There’s nothing stopping you,” she answered bluntly. “I have been ready and waiting ever since you got here. It’s always the same:
I
am the one left last to have a private visit with company. But Homer says you are not company, you’re family, so my turn is bound to come.”
“It will be difficult tonight.”
“I can’t invite you tonight. I want to listen to Bulow. He’s such a dashing scoundrel I want to sit and watch and listen to him. He don’t come near often enough to suit
me.
I think we’ll be seeing more of him now,” she added, with a shake of her head in my direction.
“He is lively,” I agreed, ignoring the hint that I was the temptress who would draw him hither.
“Lively? He’s a handsome lad, and don’t bother pretending you ain’t mad for him, for you are. I saw you looking at him out of the corner of your eyes, at the table. Ho! You’ll give Eglantine a dash for her money. He’s got an eye for you as well. I heard him. ‘Aphrodite!’ Ha! It’s a butterfly, you know—brown and black, and not at all pretty. It will be fun to see which of you gets him. My money is on Eglantine. She’s richer.”
“My husband has only been dead two months, Millie. Pray don’t be assigning beaux to me just yet.”
“Two months is long enough to mourn,” she advised me. “Norman is rotting in his grave. Do you think
he’s
thinking of
you!
Devil a bit of it. He’s either sizzling in hell or floating on a cloud, chasing after some beauty who made it to heaven, if any beautiful women did get there, which I doubt. You can come to my laboratory tomorrow, if you want.”
“I’d like that. Right after breakfast, if that’s all right.”
“I get up at six. You can’t sleep when you’re old. You’ll find me there all morning. Do you know what I am going to do, Davinia?”
“No, what?”
“I am going to make myself a pair of bloomers. I have taken my decision. I have a pattern somewhere in my room, amidst the junk. I remember I thought at the time it was in the magazine it was a clever device. I was sure they would catch on, but the crinolines are too attractive. They are engines to snare men, and you pretty things won’t give them up in a hurry. Do you lace?” she asked, glancing at my waist. Her conversation darted about like an ant at a picnic.
“Yes, but not tightly. Everyone does.”
“It destroys the intestines. It traps the food, and it also kills babies. Before they are born, I mean. It strangles them inside of women. If you are ever pregnant, don’t lace.”