“I remember her hair coming loose, that I had labored o’er with such love,” Malvinia said, visibly shivering, “and tumbling in a promiscuous tangle, down her back!—a most repulsive sight.”
“I remember her bonnet falling, and her skirts billowing about her,” Octavia said, dabbing at her reddened eyes, “but most of all I remember her piteous cries for help.”
“Her cries for help?” Constance Philippa inquired, with some honest bafflement, nervously turning her engagement ring about her thin finger, for, alas, the eldest Miss Zinn had lost some weight in recent weeks; and her nobly-sculpted countenance displayed a measure of strain. “But I remember no cries at all, Octavia: no cries, save, after some minutes, our own.”
Whereupon petite Samantha bestirred herself, and knitted her smooth freckled brow, and came so very close to grimacing, that Malvinia felt obliged to pinch her, in chastisement; and said, in a halting voice unlike her own: “I remember poor Deirdre calling to us—I remember the force of certain words—Oh, help! Help me! Father! Mother! My sisters! Please! Oh, do not let them take me! And yet,” the somewhat breathless girl continued, staring with affrighted green eyes at the others, “and yet, at the same time, I am quite certain that Deirdre uttered no words at all: and that the abduction transpired in absolute, hideous silence.”
“That is true,” Constance Philippa allowed, with some hesitation. “And, I think, very well put: absolute, hideous silence.”
Octavia drew in her breath so sharply, her stays gave her some pain; and protested that she was certain she had heard Deirdre crying for help. She then paused, and a very perplex’d expression o’ercame her pretty countenance. “Unless I am mistaken, and these piteous cries were somehow rendered in silence: or, it may be, in a dream of that night.”
“I remember no cries for help,” Malvinia said curtly, “neither in reality, dear Octavia; nor by magic. Constance Philippa does not remember; and I am very certain that, if she examines her memory closely, Samantha does not remember either. You are o’erwrought: you are most unpleasantly panting, at this very moment. What I recall most vividly is the shameful spectacle of our sister’s bonnet knocked awry, and her hair coming loose, in an untidy sort of darksome splendor, of a type not to be glimpsed outside the dressing room.” These words spoken with such especial crispness, and such haughty authority, no one wished to contest them; and the matter was closed.
SEVENTEEN
That this particularly unhappy period in the history of the Zinn and Kiddemaster families—rivaling the Civil War years, in fact, when Mr. Zinn was away for so long, and numerous young male relatives were wounded or killed outright—is to culminate in the loss of yet two more Zinn daughters, strikes me, upon retrospective study, as less astonishing than it had seemed originally: for there were signs all along, not only that two of the young ladies were infected with the restiveness of the era, and wildly susceptible to all that was corrupting in the guise of being “glamorous,” but that idyllic Bloodsmoor itself had been tainted, by the shadow of the balloon as it passed so swiftly o’er.
For instance, almost immediately after the alarm went out, and news of the kidnapping was bruited about the countryside, eyewitnesses stepped forward to report to the authorities (and in several impertinent instances to poor distraught John Quincy Zinn himself), a veritable gallimaufry of balloons!—not only U.S. weather balloons and Army dirigibles, which were altogether natural, but an ornate red-and-green balloon said to be of a “chintz” design; and a large “shimmering” golden balloon of the type designed, it was said, by the Frenchman Charles Guillé, but never constructed in the New World; and an egg-shaped green-and-yellow-striped rubber balloon rather like that built by George Hambleton Fussell, the celebrated Boston aeronaut, in the early Sixties—which balloon had suffered a tragic air accident, some years previous, when struck by lightning over the Charles River, killing both Fussell and his young assistant! There was also sighted something resembling the five-balloon aerostat flotilla employed to advertise the famous 1,227-Mile Walking Race of 1868; and a “coppery red sphere”—unless, perhaps, it was a dense cloud of smoke from one of the Whitton factories along the river; and a small, gravely silent balloon of an ivory hue, with an unusually large rectangular wicker basket—this last apparition claimed by Constance Philippa’s fiancé, the Baron Adolf von Mainz, by no means an excitable or unreliable temperament, who saw it drifting serenely over a meadow bordering the Philadelphia Pike at a time when, of course, he could have had no knowledge of the disaster unfolding back at Kiddemaster Hall. Various witnesses believed they had seen “dark-hued” balloons, up and down the Atlantic seaboard, but no descriptions answered precisely to the balloon in which, to the best of the sisters’ knowledge (and following closely Samantha’s meticulous sketch) young Deirdre had been spirited off.
Mr. Zinn, sometimes accompanied by his father-in-law, sometimes by one or another of Mrs. Zinn’s cousins, and sometimes alone, traveled hundreds of miles in the latter part of September, and through October, to investigate these eccentric claims. He tirelessly interviewed persons whose propensity toward hysteria, and whose visible want of intelligence and judgment, would have immediately discouraged a less determined man. For he continued to believe, even in the face of repeated failure, that the balloon phenomenon could be explained; and that perseverance could lead him to the explanation. At a time when other members of the family—most conspicuously, Mrs. Zinn—signaled by a depression of spirits that they had given up all hope, and when uncertain health of his own (a resurgence of insomnia, headaches, sharp pains in his old war wounds) plagued him, John Quincy Zinn exhausted himself by his insistence that each eyewitness, no matter how questionable, be examined thoroughly. (“For could not a black silk balloon, which Samantha has described as iridescent, somehow acquire another shade, or shades, as a consequence of reflections from the ground? or optical illusions similar to rainbows?” Mr. Zinn asked plaintively. “And could not even its shape appear to be distended by the vicissitudes of air currents, and the vagaries of individual witnesses?”)
Godfrey Kiddemaster, however, compulsively designating himself, both in private and in public, in muttered exclamations, as the “grandfather of the violated child,” believed that far more direct action was required to bring the scoundrel to justice. In short, and bluntly, the former Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania demanded that State and Federal law enforcement officers, working with the United States Army, arrest all known balloonists in the eastern part of the country, and interrogate them ruthlessly, until they confessed all knowledge of the outlaw balloon: for surely the balloonists constituted a compact little world, and knew one another intimately. The authorities should, Judge Kiddemaster insisted, feel empowered to use any method of interrogation that worked, including certain techniques of torture acquired from the Iroquois Indians. “We must fight evil, I fear, with its own cruel weapons,” the Judge solemnly averred.
As the weeks fruitlessly passed, and other domestic vexations declared themselves, exacerbating the good Judge’s mood (among them the news—minor but upsetting—that John Quincy Zinn had, after all, been passed over for election to the American Philosophical Society), the elderly gentleman became increasingly irrational. His high noble forehead, his thick white hair, the penetrating gaze of his stern gray eyes, the vigor of his step and the watchfulness of his posture, as well as the low, husky, but beautifully modulated timbre of his voice, which had handed down so many judgments, and sentences, and pithy observations, in his decades on the bench—all belied the tenebrous state of his soul, and his passion for revenge. “You are pusillanimous, sir,” Judge Kiddemaster accused the State Attorney General, a man twenty years his junior. “If I had my full strength—if this outrage had not debilitated me—if I were not, God have mercy! an old man—I would bring the scoundrel to justice with these very hands!”
MISS EDWINA KIDDEMASTER, too, behaved in a somewhat extravagant manner, as a consequence of
the abduction of the youngest Miss Zinn, toward whom she had behaved, over the passage of years, with distinct coolness, tho’ never with less than gracious civility. (Great-Aunt Edwina had, I believe, given Deirdre numerous small gifts, of a kind appropriate to their relationship, the most charming being an ermine muff, and an exquisite French music box with the jardinière motif on its cover, in mother-of-pearl—much to the envy, in fact, of Malvinia.)
After the catastrophe of late September, this sensitive lady, and esteemed authoress, retired to her spacious bedchamber: as much desiring a convalescence from the inordinate shock, suffered by her fragile nerves, as desiring some protection, from the e’er-present threat of journalists, busybodies, and gossipmongers, that so plagued our Bloodsmoor during this unhappy time.
There, the invalid found herself in so weakened a state, she could keep very little in her stomach, save her numerous elixirs (including a highly promising new laudanum, brewed, in part, at the Delaware Water Gap, and purified by mineral application, and tasting most agreeably of licorice, peppermint, and spirits), and a divers assortment of sweets—the faithful cook being concerned now to outdo herself, in the preparation of cakes, pies, trifles, fudges, and various meringues, that might tempt the enfeebled invalid. For some crucial days, amounting very nearly to a fortnight, Great-Aunt Edwina feared her weakened state would prevent her from completing, to her own satisfaction, a new book: 100 Hints for the Christian Young.
She feared, too, that she would prove unable to continue in the chaperonage of the young affianced couple, Constance Philippa and the Baron: and what a tragedy, if the responsibility should fall to someone less qualified! Poor Sarah was, of course, bedridden too, with complaints of an arguably more serious nature, than Edwina’s. (Dr. Moffet diagnosed Mrs. Kiddemaster’s ailments as hypertension, polyarthritis, discopathia, myositis, and neuotis, as well as the more common defatigation, hysteriopathia, and frayed nerves. These grievous maladies, oft visited by other complaints, had plagued the sensitive lady for some years now, since the storm-toss’d winter of 1824, following closely upon the birth of Prudence—an arduous labor that had lasted upward of twenty-four hours. Dr. Moffet, who had overseen the Kiddemasters’ vicissitudes of health for many decades, declared, in solemn tones, that one could not expect Sarah Kiddemaster’s condition to “improve overnight,” but he allowed that there was “some hope” that the invalid might venture downstairs “by next spring.”) And Edwina’s niece Prudence was, she believed, not altogether trustworthy, in the role of chaperon: for had not that young lady behaved with shocking wantonness, whilst John Quincy Zinn was courting her?
Nonetheless, Great-Aunt Edwina thought it advisable to take to her bed. When feeling strong enough she wrote letters, or worked on her manuscript (the which her publishers eagerly awaited), propped up comfortably against a half-dozen pillows, and employing a very clever portable writing desk, of Mr. Zinn’s invention and execution. Her lady’s maid was never farther off than the next room, for Edwina had many requests, and was always sending out missives, or summoning her brother (for, she believed, this “impressionable” gentleman had been far more greatly upset by the abduction of his granddaughter, than anyone realized), that she might inquire firsthand about the state of the police investigation; or whether or not the distressed John Quincy had yet come upon any genuine eyewitnesses.
For a while, during the first onset of winter, she became greatly agitated, and quarreled with kindly Dr. Moffet when he hesitated to prescribe for her an additional quantity of Professor Forrest’s Spring Tonic (the laudanum that appeared to be doing both Edwina and Sarah some minimal good); she quarreled with her brother who, perhaps wearied by the continual sense of disorder and shame, rejected, in unforgivably rude terms, Edwina’s suggestion that he hire a small private army—surely no more than thirty men, or forty?—and Steven Bayard, the grandson of Horace and Retta, newly graduated from West Point, could lead them. “It is quite out of the question, Edwina,” Godfrey said, standing in the doorway of her chamber (for she refused to allow him entrance). “Private armies are not allowed under our law.”
“Then what good, pray tell, you silly old judge,” Edwina cried, “is our precious law? Are we American citizens, or Polynesian Islanders?”
It became an obsession with her, though all the household assured her to the contrary, that her other great-nieces were in danger; or had been, unbeknownst to her, already snatched away and carried into oblivion. She grimly fantasized careers on the New York stage; a succumbing to the blandishments of scheming men, which would lead directly, and fairly quickly, to wretched marriages, slum households, or white slavery in such fetid ports of the world as London, Marseilles, and Calcutta. (Vaughan Kiddemaster had told her about Calcutta, and she had finally pressed her hands over her ears. Even the “Hooghly River”—its uncouth heathen sound!—gravely offended her.)
So the sisters were sent up to their great-aunt’s bedchamber one by one, at the most inopportune and whimsical hours (for Great-Aunt Edwina prided herself on waking early: oft as early as five o’clock in the morning), and all save the compliant Octavia greatly resented the ritual; for it necessitated, as one might imagine, not only their very best manners, but their cleanest and most scrupulously ironed dresses, and morning caps that betrayed not the slightest hair-oil stain. “Ah, I see that you are still with us,” Great-Aunt Edwina said, not without a tinge of irony, when Constance Philippa presented herself at her aunt’s bedside, with a prim little curtsy. “I see that you and your fiancé have not yet broken away—have not eloped.” Constance Philippa, instructed by her mother to hold her tongue, and under no circumstances to be led into “talking back” to Edwina, stood in sullen silence, her face burning with a pale sickish heat. She would have liked to reply that elopement was hardly on her mind, let alone on the Baron’s mind: since Deirdre’s abduction there had been a decided diminution of that gentleman’s interest in her; even his gallantry with Malvinia was less pronounced.
Dear Octavia entered the room shyly, and had to be urged forward by her aunt, who, after an initial five or ten minutes of criticism (for the older woman, though complaining of watery eyes and fatiguing headaches, possessed remarkably acute vision, and was rarely satisfied with Octavia’s dress, posture, or hair style), suddenly and warmly relented, and, if it were morning, offered her some hot chocolate and oranges, and insisted that she draw a chair up to the bedside and read to Edwina from the Bible (for Edwina, like most of the Kiddemaster women, always began the day with an hour’s perusal of the Bible, no matter that the authoress secretly considered herself something of a rebel); if it were afternoon, tea was offered, nay, insisted upon, and Edwina laughingly tho’ weakly insisted that her niece join her in a small repast (her first of the day, in fact), a small sampling of petits fours, it may have been, or gooseberry jam on crumpets, or thickly buttered cucumber sandwiches. If Edwina was feeling particularly strong, aunt and niece might play a few hands of whist together, and sample a half-dozen bonbons from Vantane’s of Germantown, brought out to the invalid by a recent visitor; they might occupy themselves with their sewing—each was, of course, working on something for Constance Philippa’s trousseau, since an adequate trousseau consisted of twelve dozen of everything—indeed, everything—and the Kiddemasters could hardly trust Prudence to make certain that all was provided for. Linens, teatowels, napkins, doilies . . .
Tho’ Octavia professed, to her sisters, to be as wearied of Great-Aunt Edwina as they were, she did indeed enjoy these visits, and hardly minded being summoned from the Octagonal House by one of the Kiddemaster servants, particularly if the servant bearing the message was the son of Patrick McInnes, who sometimes acted as a driver in his father’s place, and who would then drive Octavia through the woods to Kiddemaster Hall, and return her home afterward. (The young man’s name was Sean, and he had evidently inherited his father’s tall physique, and his Irish good looks, but very little of his melancholy: for tho’ it sadly compromises our high estim
ation of Octavia, perhaps it is necessary to remark at this point that Octavia had been well aware of the coachman’s son for many, many years—and that she had rarely seen him in a mood other than resolutely cheerful. She was not altogether certain that she quite approved of the brawny robustness of Sean’s manner, or his rather too springy red hair, or his habit of whistling as he drove the landau through the woods—a vulgarism the young man would not have dared, she knew, in the presence of one or another of the adults—but she did approve of his smiling high spirits, and his deference to her; and she warmly anticipated the day when he would inherit his father’s position full-time, and be responsible for driving the Zinns and the Kiddemasters everywhere.)
Nor did Octavia mind her great-aunt’s childish desire for a companion in whist, or Chinese checkers, or Pam-Loo, tho’ she always agreed with her sisters, particularly with the rather too brainy Samantha, that such expenditures of mental energy were an intolerable waste of time; and she could not help but concur with Malvinia’s judgment—that such games were marvelous if one could impulsively sweep all the cards or pieces onto the floor (as that spoiled young lady did when she played with her sisters), if things were going badly, or if, in an entirely different context, young men were present, and the atmosphere was lively and festive, and one needn’t try to win at all. “But with Aunt Edwina,” Malvinia said cruelly, “one is not only in danger of falling asleep from very boredom, but in danger of being cheated: for she does, you know, perform some quite remarkable sleight of hand, if she fancies she can get away with it.” Naturally Octavia protested: she had never in her life, she claimed, heard so outlandish a statement, and it made her almost ill—and, indeed, tears sprang instantly into her eyes—to hear their devoted aunt slandered in such a manner. “Malvinia, you forget yourself!” Octavia cried. (“Indeed, I forget myself only too frequently,” Malvinia murmured under her breath, her lower lip swollen with pouting, “and remember others instead!—a tedious state of affairs.”)