Yet, with a perverse instinct, she seemed to comprehend quite clearly, that her dressed self, which was Miss Constance Philippa Zinn, was not her; the figure molded by her corsets was not her own; and, might it not be the case (for thus her febrile brain ran on and on, in the folly of protracted solitude), that, if this was so, Miss Constance Philippa Zinn, as an entity, was not, despite all the laws of logic and custom, herself?
“I am, yet am not,” the ponderous young lady murmured, the while picking at the glued paper, until, all unwittingly, she had so loosed the strip, that the dummy’s smooth surface was seriously marred. “And yet, where am I to be located, in this puzzle? Nay, it is most worrisome—it has made my head spin—I am dizzied by the very deviousness of my own thoughts!”
BY LATE MAY, both households were greatly pleased that, by Dr. Moffet’s prescription, and her own tentative wish, Great-Aunt Edwina had sufficiently recovered from her illness, to come downstairs from her invalid’s chamber, upon occasion; and, if the weather did not disturb, by sudden vagaries of temperature, or wind, even to venture outdoors—for this excellent lady dearly loved Nature, and ofttimes went too boldly forth, to partake of it, forgetting the delicacy of her constitution.
She declared herself resolutely cheered, and enlivened, by a renewed gaiety about Kiddemaster Hall, difficult to explain. (Even poor Sarah Kiddemaster, despite her enfeeblement, was brought downstairs on her most healthsome days.) For one thing, it now seemed that the scandalous abduction might be interpreted as a willful absence, since no ransom had ever been demanded; and it might even be hypothesized (tho’ not before the elder Zinns, of course) that a collusion betwixt abductor and victim was likely—to which the name elopement might even, at some discreetly later date, be given. So, it would seem, protracted grief was somewhat misplaced, in such inappropriate circumstances.
(Thus did Edwina’s circle of lady friends comfort her, reporting to her, with diligence, all that was whisper’d, in Philadelphia: the very criminality of the situation, and its shameless aspect, granting a sort of respite, from mourning.)
It was the happy case, too, that Edwina was encouraged to leave her invalid’s bed, by the resounding success of her new book: the which had attracted a gratifying amount of attention in the papers, and had received a respectful notice in the Atlantic Monthly, a gentleman’s journal that did not, by custom, usually condescend to take note of female literary endeavors. Thus, tho’ she scorned material wealth, and cared not a whit for fame, or posterity, Miss Edwina Kiddemaster did admit to being pleased, for, like any author, of either sex, she hoped to reach the multitudes, that they might be instructed, and elevated, in accordance with their capacities. (At this time, too, she did not shrink from the numerous responsibilities, of a cultural nature, which her social station, and her celebrity, pressed upon her: but, despite her sensitive nerves, acted as a dominant presence in the Philadelphia chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, and of the Philadelphia Grand Opera Association, and the Ladies’ Society of Trinity Episcopal Church; and, as the history books have noted, the fledgling Daughters of the American Revolution might have foundered at its start, and sunk into a tragically premature oblivion, had it not been for Edwina Kiddemaster’s tireless devotion.)
Yet, her attention to her familial duties was such that the primary cause of Edwina’s convalescence, and to a certain grim gaiety in her manner, was her recognition of her responsibility, pertaining to Constance Philippa: for chaperonage, tho’ crudely despised in later decades, was an art like any other: and Edwina was most anxious that nothing go amiss, in the crucial months leading to the autumnal wedding.
“For what if,” Edwina said, in a voice whose sternness was somewhat tempered by a quavering apprehension, “what if, through an unlook’d-to accident, or her own headstrong behavior, or, God spare us, a renewed assault by the villainous abductor, the eldest Miss Zinn fails to become the Baroness von Mainz?”
And so, sometimes by herself, and sometimes in the pleasant company of Miss Narcissa Gilpin, or one or another of her lady friends, Great-Aunt Edwina industriously oversaw those hours when Miss Zinn and the Baron were in each other’s presence, whether strolling at a leisurely pace along the river’s path, or through the luxuriant Kiddemaster gardens, meadows, and woods; or sitting quietly in the pretty white gazebo, out of the sun’s direct rays, in order to observe the pacific flow of the river, and the picturesque changes wrought in the sky by the action of wind upon clouds of varying shapes, textures, and hues. At such times Miss Zinn wore one of her Sunday dresses, with an attractive train, and carried her prettiest silk parasol, and took pains that her near-opaque veil, liberally festooned about the rim of her hat, and draped across her face, should not be disturbed by the breeze; and her fiancé, attired in fashions rather more American now, and less flamboyantly “foreign,” was usually observed to be wearing a dark gray frock coat with a boiled shirt, a handsome hat whose pronounced height added agreeably to his own, and pearl-gray trousers with impeccably ironed creases. A most attractive affianced couple, in short—and possessed of perfect manners.
Yet chaperonage was desirable—nay, necessary—as Great-Aunt Edwina well knew, scrupling to keep her gaze always alert, and her attention, though frequently directed toward her companion, or toward the intricate demands of her sewing, never lapsing into indolence or indifference. It was not the case, I must hasten to explain, that Great-Aunt Edwina and the other chaperons distrusted Constance Philippa’s modesty, or the depth of her discretion; they knew, and were profoundly grateful for the fact, that they had no such headstrong flirt to oversee, as Miss Malvinia Zinn!—and they respected as well Baron von Mainz’s maturity. (For he was not precisely a young man, and he had been married before—one must assume that the smoldering passions of late adolescence were well behind him.) Yet the elder ladies were obliged to respect the gentleman’s expectation of being observed, and, as it were, restrained, by their quiet vigilance and indefatigable concern. More than one Philadelphia engagement had been terminated, within Edwina Kiddemaster’s memory, by a profoundly disillusioned man, when, given license by his fiancée’s innocence or indelicacy, or by the laxity of her chaperons, he was free to seize his young lady’s hand, or, more distasteful yet, to slip his arm about her waist, or brush his lips against her cheek. . . . No matter what turbulence might follow such a breach of custom, no matter the tears, hysteria, and repentance, the injury to the young lady’s reputation was such that only the most liberal (or infatuated) of gentlemen could see their way clear to forgive; only the most Olympian of temperaments would care to continue with the engagement, as if nothing had happened. So the chaperons comprehended well the gravity of their function, and never strolled farther than some twenty-five or thirty yards behind their young charges, or sat more than fifteen yards away, at an angle almost but not precisely perpendicular to the affianced couple. The elder ladies watched over Constance Philippa and the Baron without seeming to “see” them, and Constance Philippa and the Baron, tho’ aware of their chaperons’ presence, rarely gave evidence of “seeing” them in turn. In this way many an idyllic afternoon was passed in Bloodsmoor, before the pleasant interruption of tea, when one of the Kiddemaster servants approached Great-Aunt Edwina with deferential grace, to announce the imminent commencement of that event.
On those golden afternoons Edwina Kiddemaster and her companion were kept busy with their sewing, for this was the season of the much-publicized return of the Reverend Hopkins K. Bice from the South Seas, with his tales of heathen infamy, expurgated for ladies’ ears, but disconcerting nonetheless, and the Philadelphia circle was much absorbed in its challenging activity, to provide for Reverend Bice, before his return to that part of the world, in mid-September, enough shirts, trousers, vests, and Mother Hubbards, as might clothe the natives under his jurisdiction—for it was a great scandal, and, more than that, in the empathetic words of Edwina Kiddemaster herself, a pity, that the South Sea Islands, in addition to being a re
gion of shameless heathenism, was a region of rampant nudity as well.
The ladies’ lace-gloved fingers moved rapidly, then, with the industry of their virtuous needlework, and they conversed together in decorous tones, rarely disturbing the peace of the afternoon—and their young charges’ near-unbroken silence—with any sound so jarring as laughter. They talked of the family; of old friends and acquaintances; of Philadelphia society (which was becoming looser with every season—as a consequence, it hardly needs to be said, of the great wealth being accumulated by persons without breeding or education, in some cases of doubtful ancestry and still more doubtful religion); of weddings and funerals and births (necessarily lowering their voices on this particular topic); of European tours, and illnesses; of Dr. Pennington’s Osteopathic Method (for the cure of numerous ailments including nervous dyspepsia, locomotor ataxia, ovarian neuralgia, and general neurasthenia—each of which plagued the ladies from time to time); and Professor Lupa’s School of Cognition; and rumors of a new trance medium said to have made a brilliant début in Boston, known only as “Deirdre of the Shadows.” (The reader will be alerted by the name Deirdre, and should be informed at once that a group of Boston relatives attended a séance given by this young lady, soon after her début; and Mrs. Zinn herself, accompanied by Octavia, journeyed to Boston to attend a séance—with what disappointing results, the reader shall learn below.) They talked of the stolid granite-and-limestone town house on Rittenhouse Square which Judge Kiddemaster was quietly planning to give to Baron von Mainz and his bride, well within walking distance of Cobbett Square: for the old man, as Edwina Kiddemaster frequently said, with a dry, fond twist of her lips, could be generous when the spirit moved him. And, perhaps most enthusiastically of all, they talked of the bridal gown of exquisite China silk, and the green velvet suit, and the dresses and hats and shoes and other necessities of the trousseau, granting, of course, that Constance Philippa Zinn was a Zinn, and not an heiress like most of her cousins, and her honeymoon wardrobe could not be expected to be brilliant.
“Your niece has done passingly well, under the circumstances,” Great-Aunt Edwina was told, by one or another of her companions; and, not at all taking offense (for these elder ladies did speak one another’s language flawlessly), Edwina merely nodded, and pursed her lips, and said: “We shall see, my dear—the wedding is, unfortunately, still distant.”
By contrast, the affianced couple spent most of their romantic moments in silence, tho’ they were intensely aware of each other. From time to time, shyly peering through her thick gauze veil, Constance Philippa was startl’d to see the Baron watching her in an extraordinarily keen manner: which was disturbing, and yet gratifying as well, for Constance Philippa knew that gentlemen should stare at ladies in this way, with that mysterious dark urgency, tho’ she could not really comprehend why; nor did she feel the slightest inclination to reciprocate. To a limited extent, she could understand Malvinia’s mercurial interest in her suitors, who were usually handsome young men, if rather vapid; she supposed she might be capable of feeling an “attraction” for Mr. de Nemours, for instance, if the situation arose, for his conventional good looks, his loud boyish laughter, and his sandy mustache argued forcibly. And there was Sean McInnes, the Irish boy whom poor Octavia was said to be secretly sweet on. (Everyone spoke of Sean as Irish tho’ he had been born in Bloodsmoor, and was consequently as American as any of the Kiddemasters; and they commonly referred to him as a boy, despite the fact that he was now well into his twenties, and had made a possibly imprudent bid for independence, by leaving Judge Kiddemaster’s employ.) He was tall, broad-shouldered, robust of spirit, with striking red hair and blue eyes that shone with unfailing good humor. Constance Philippa supposed she might feel a girlish enthusiasm for this young man if he had been born to her own social rank; but, as he had not, the situation was hopeless, and she rather supposed silly Octavia deluded herself, in fancying an interest where, in fact, there was none. And yet, if one set Sean McInnes beside old dry-as-dust Lucius Rumford—!
Among her cousins, Basil Miller was surely worthy of a young lady’s fluttery interest, and Lieutenant Steven Bayard, particularly when he stood at attention in his dress greens, but they were merely cousins . . . and Constance Philippa could feel nothing for them save a somewhat frayed affection.
In truth, strange as I find it, the only person Constance Philippa had felt much emotion for, during her turbulent adolescence, was Miss Delphine Martineau, Malvinia’s friend—and as bubble-headed, fickle, and vain as Malvinia herself! Miss Martineau was Malvinia’s age exactly, and consequently two years younger than Constance Philippa. A terror at such silly games as Puss-in-the-Corner, very pretty, spoiled, giggly . . . without an ounce of intelligence, Constance Philippa thought contemptuously; and yet everyone adored her, especially the young men, and she very nearly vied with Malvinia as the belle of the Bloodsmoor Valley. Brown hair that appeared burnished, set in curls, braids, and ringlets; lovely cheeks upon which the faintest blush could be discerned; mischievous winking dark brown eyes . . . Alas, the girl had been married only a few weeks ago: and Constance Philippa, whom the very thought of weddings troubled, had absented herself from the ceremony and the surrounding festivities, giving so perfunctory an excuse that both Mr. and Mrs. Zinn commented on it. She did not mean, surely, to be rude to the Martineaus, or to slight a childhood friend on the day of her greatest happiness?
“She was not my friend but Malvinia’s,” Constance Philippa said coldly.
Long ago the girls had played together, making little dresses for their dolls, long ago the Valley girls had been such good friends, in and out of one another’s houses, and Mr. Zinn had made a jack-in-the-box and chickens-pecking (on a paddle) with his fretsaw, and Constance Philippa and Malvinia had painted them, and at casino Delphine had slapped down her cards, one! two! three! and the Zinn girls had exclaimed, laughing. Oh, long ago: and Christmas greetings elaborately scissored out of stiff colored paper and sprinkled with gold dust: and then there were Valentines on rose-scented paper, sometimes stiff with ornamentation—sequins, gilt, lace, strips of braid. Constance Philippa had scorned most of the girls’ activities but she had made a Valentine, yes, she had made a Valentine, and a lovely big Valentine it was, eighteen inches high, painted with infinite care in reds and pinks, and the verse had been her own—or nearly:
Four hearts in one I do behold
They in each other do infold,
I cut them out on such a night
And send them to my heart’s delight.
I choose you, D., for my Valentine,
I choose you out from all the rest,
The reason is, I LIKE YOU BEST.
But even at the age of fourteen Miss Delphine Martineau had received so many Valentines, from “young gentlemen” as well as from her girl friends, she took no special note of Constance Philippa’s card: and so, as Constance Philippa told herself, the ridiculous and degrading episode passed.
Now she was to be married shortly; and, indeed, Miss Delphine Martineau was already married. And so, and so. She adjusted her veil, as it had grown damp where it touched her mouth, and peered out cautiously at the sun—what o’clock was it? When would they be summoned back to the Hall for tea? Baron von Mainz had been talking quietly of the picturesque vista spread out before them—and the chance configuration of clouds, which struck a particularly aesthetic note—and the fragrance of certain blossoms carried on the breeze. And then he spoke, still in a casual voice, of his tragic history, his personal history and that of the von Mainz family, which involved knighthood, and the Crusades, and the Archbishop Wilhelm IV, and the One Hundred Years’ War, and the cathedral town of Mainz, and the great port of Hamburg, and fortunes in wheat won and lost, and the assassination in 1794 of the Baron Friedrich Ferdinand, his great-grandfather, by rebellious peasants—tho’ this was perhaps not the time, the Baron allowed, to speak of such uncouth matters. (For Constance Philippa, roused from her daydream, had been staring at him q
uite openly.)
Strolling back to Kiddemaster Hall, now preceded by their two amiable chaperons, the young affianced couple found themselves more than customarily silent; and at length the Baron said, in a voice perhaps edged with irony: “The Wheel of Fortune, which has dictated the lives of the von Mainz family, and the lives of most of the European nobility of our acquaintance, is perhaps not a familiar concept in your young country?—but it will be, my dear Constance Philippa; it will be.”
VERY LITTLE WAS known of the Baron’s personal history, apart from a brief summary of his business activities, which had been extensive, both before and after 1861, for Great-Uncle Vaughan Kiddemaster had cautioned the Zinns—Mrs. Zinn in particular, whose tongue was unpredictable—against making “indiscreet” inquiries. “It will be enough for you to know,” the elderly gentleman said kindly, “that I have satisfied myself as to the young man’s worth, in every sense of the word; and that I feel no hesitation whatsoever, at the prospect of bringing a foreigner into our family. And since it cannot be said,” Great-Uncle Vaughan continued, after a decorous pause, “that suitors are storming the Octagonal House—at least in pursuit of your Constance Philippa—I think we must rest with the sentiment that a foreigner might prove, under the circumstances, the very best investment of all.”
Enough to know, perhaps, and to rejoice in, that his was a nine-hundred-year-old name, honored and, for a time, feared, throughout Northern Europe. And that Miss Constance Philippa Zinn would become, by marriage, as if by magic, the Baroness von Mainz.
Gradually Constance Philippa came to learn, however, that her fiancé had studied with Jesuits in Rouen, and had even contemplated for a time entering that prestigious order. (Fortunately for the Zinns, and for Constance Philippa’s unborn babies, the Baron had drifted away from his early allegiance to Popery, and was perfectly content to be married in the Episcopal Church—wise, prudent man!) She learned that his father and brothers had been associated with the great English warehousing firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit & Sons, and that they had done a brisk trade in both England and the United States; and that the Baron himself, while still a young man, had acquired a part-interest in the American freighter Jezebel, which customarily docked in New Orleans, until its destruction by Union soldiers. (Not only was the Baron forced to suffer this loss—for insurance was inadequate, or the insurers unable to pay—but the vigorous trade with the Ivory Coast of Africa came to an abrupt halt: and the Baron’s American partners, it was said, badly defrauded him of his investment.) It was true that “tragedy” had pursued him—and Constance Philippa was both disturbed and fascinated to learn that he had married a fifteen-year-old convent girl, an Italian princess, rumored to be of an angelic beauty and possessing a childlike innocence; that the young lady had died in the seventh month of pregnancy, which had been the seventh month of marriage as well (an abnormally enlarged fetus had “turned to stone” in her womb, whilst the rest of her, poor doomed child, had withered, a sickly yellow). After a twelve-month of mourning, the bereft young husband married again, a fabled English beauty whose slender, sylphlike figure was renowned in London society, and whose father had entered into a business partnership with him; but this marriage, too, ended in tragedy—the young English lady also died within the first year, of mysterious causes, a posthumous examination revealing a most curious distention and atrophying of the internal organs, particularly those of the lower belly, and, in the womb, a very small fetus, hardly frog-sized, which had also turned to stone. (This young lady, in submission to the demands of fashion, had had, some years before, an operation to remove her lower ribs, in order to guarantee a satisfactorily slender waist, which operation, I am somewhat disappointed to report, our own Octavia begged for; but Mr. Zinn, in his wisdom, forbade. The operation, however, being of a simple and mechanical nature, and pronounced altogether harmless by the surgeon who performed it, was deemed to have nothing at all to do with the cause of the young Baroness’s death, which cause remained undetermined.)