A Bloodsmoor Romance (57 page)

At such times Deirdre affixed her eyes to Mr. Zinn's face, as he sat, on most evenings, in repose in his chair, reading, or scribbling notes to himself, or staring into the fire (for Mrs. Zinn so sternly insisted, that he remain with his family in the evening, and
not
repair to his workshop after dinner, as he sorely wished to do, that the good man acquiesced, and came to believe that his “parlor hours” were not only
sacrosanct
in terms of his paternal love, but positively
helpful
in terms of his preparation for the next morning's work). At such times the silent, brooding, pallid Deirdre stared as if mesmerized at her adoptive father's face, and would hardly have noticed, or been alarmed, if the rest of the parlor and its inhabitants had faded into mere vapor, and off the earth entirely. Mrs. Zinn's and Octavia's occasional reading of the Bible—the Psalms, and the stirring Gospels, and the three Epistles of John above all—had the power to engage her interest, but only sporadically; and the rest of the time her mind simply drifted, whilst her gray eyes remained fixed to Mr. Zinn's face, in an attitude of pettish reproach.

 

O Father I dreamt that my sisters stood over my bed as I slept and tho' I was asleep I saw them clearly and heard their cruel whisperings and gigglings oh and Father Malvinia drew out of her bodice a tiny silver scissors like the scissors in Mother's sewing basket but much, much brighter and sharper—O Father please hear me out oh please do not turn away do not merely smile do not lean to kiss my forehead as you kiss the others—I am not one of them—I am not one of you—O Father please hear me out—please hear how Malvinia your favorite leaned over my bed and snipped at my breast and I cried for her to stop and she paid no heed I was awake yet unable to move even my smallest fingers and toes even my eyelids Father Dearest do not deny me I begged for her to stop but she pierced my flesh she lifted the skin away she touched my heart O O O O Father—

FORTY

O
n that fateful day in September, of Deirdre's seventeenth year, the sisters betook themselves to the gazebo above the river, in order to await Mrs. Zinn's somewhat delayed departure for home: the numerous guests having at last driven off, with many a vociferous and prolonged farewell, and reiterated expostulations of gratitude, for the extreme hospitality and courtesy of Judge and Mrs. Kidde­master. The future—ah, how happily!—being
opaque,
to the normal of vision, no one could have foreseen the double—nay, triple—sorrow that would, most ironically, become attached, in the hearts and minds of the Zinns and Kidde­masters, to this particular autumn day. The abduction and disappearance of young Deirdre; the bitter aftermath of Constance Philippa's engagement to the Baron Adolf von Mainz; and, thirdly, a minor issue at best, yet no less abrasive to the honest pride of the Zinns and Kidde­masters, the inexplicable disinclination of the esteemed gentlemen of the American Philosophical Society, to affirm John Quincy Zinn's nomination to membership—and after “the tiresome old fools had ate and guzzled so much!”—in the words of the elderly Judge.

Such disappointments, however, lay in the future: and at the present time, the young ladies, having retired to the charming gazebo, took up with varying industry their sewing, and sighed with an admixture of pleasure, relief, and simple bodily weariness; for the lawn party
had
been a magnificent event, and it
had
been somewhat fatiguing, for young ladies of delicate constitution.

Deirdre, whose head fairly rang with voices, and whose heart was beating most dangerously, found that she had taken up—without knowing it—the crocheting she had elected to do, to replace a scandalously soiled antimacassar on the parlor settee. (“Scandalously soiled,” in Malvinia's irrepressible judgment: that sprightly young lady having declared it thus, after a Sabbath in which both Baron von Mainz and Mr. Lucius Rumford had come calling upon their respective sweethearts. Both sisters blushed crimson, upon hearing their suitors mocked by Malvinia, and tho' Mrs. Zinn insisted angrily that Malvinia proffer her apologies, at once, it
did
seem to be the case that the lace antimacassar was irrevocably soiled—with hair pomade of a greasy texture, and a saturnine complexion: and Deirdre, as much to subvert a quarrel, as to be of genuine aid, volunteered to crochet another at once.)

There had been, initially, much resistance in Deirdre's heart—as, it may be, there was in all our female hearts, at one time—to the creation of such commonplace household appurtenances; but as the years solemnly passed, the willful girl had come round to seeing that it might be salubrious indeed, for her to absorb herself in such mechanical manual activity, as a means of guiding, or even suppressing, unfruitful and wayward nervous energies. So too did the other Zinn girls occupy themselves: Constance Philippa laboring over a pink smock for an infant cousin; Octavia working at a patchwork panda; Malvinia addressing herself, tho' without an excessive quantity of concentration, to a needlepoint pillowcase exemplifying the Bloodsmoor River Valley, superimposed upon which was to be, in golden thread, an American bald eagle with spears in his talons; and Samantha decorating a white linen towel with orange cross-stitching, for her sister's wedding.

Deirdre was, as I have said, unusually agitated, as a consequence of the long afternoon (during which she was made to feel, or insisted upon feeling, an ugly duckling in the midst of her relatives' conspicuous splendor; and very much the
adopted orphan,
in the imagin'd thoughts of the guests), and as a consequence of small slights suffered by her, emanating from Malvinia primarily, but also from Samantha (who, since the tumult of the previous night, during which Deirdre had spoken perhaps too despairingly, and too frankly, of her
Raging Captain
nightmare, had shown a distinctly cool demeanor to Deirdre—as if altogether fatigued of her, and contemptuous as well). She had had, moreover, several cups of very black India tea, and no food at all save a single cucumber sandwich, and a mere taste of a quince-custard tart, and hardly more than a thimbleful of scalloped oyster: and was feeling dangerously
not herself.

(
Dangerously:
for, as I have explained, it was at such times that the very worst of the spirits sought to thrust themselves forward, through the slender fabric that divides their world from ours, and protects us from them.)

Her fingers worked rapidly, albeit mechanically; her thoughts were loath to still themselves; she heard, beyond the complacent prattle of her sisters, the tinkling laughter of a wicked spirit, possibly that of
Zachariah
himself.

Malvinia chattered; and Constance Philippa drawled; and Octavia made her usual sort of observations—pious, cheerful, and uplifting; and Samantha, stirred to a modicum of guilt, interrupted the drift of the conversation to inquire of her bedmate, her opinion on something or other: but Deirdre scarcely deigned to reply.

The spirit-laughter deepened, and a companion-laughter sounded out of the sere grasses that grew so handsomely about the gazebo: a queer trilling noise, which raised the hairs on Deirdre's delicate neck, and made her miss a stitch, out of very horror that her sisters would hear.

Blushing, she stared at the work in her lap; for she knew—ah, how painfully she knew!—that her rude sisters were exchanging a
meaningful
glance amongst themselves.

Thinking themselves protected, the little fools, by the gazebo that was like a small boy's notion of a fortress: complete with lightning rod on the roof!

Thinking themselves immune to the spirits—who threatened to crowd near.

Deirdre's crochet hooks darted and flashed. She knew that something would happen soon, perhaps within the hour; surely before the sun dipped beyond the western hills.

The unnamed spirits giggled, close beside her.

Bianca
tugged at the crochet hook in Deirdre's cold fingers.

But Deirdre held fast: for the hook was sharp, and would make a cruel weapon.

The sweet low brow and arched lips of the Grecian profile, the classic timeless beauty: ah, Malvinia! And yet a single thrust of this crochet hook, would destroy the melting limpid blue of that lovely eye forever!

Bianca
tugged, Deirdre held fast.
Zachariah
drew near.

Constance Philippa began to chatter nervously about Miss Delphine Martineau, whom the spirits, so a sly voice whispered in Deirdre's ear, had marked for much grief. Delphine was this, Delphine was that, dark and melting brown eyes, hair in irregular ringlets, corkscrew curls, too many Valentines for the boastful young lady to sort, but how passionately Constance Philippa wished to sail away with her!—in an enormous silk balloon, for instance.

You shall all sail away into the sky, Father Darien
promised, with an uncharacteristic melancholy,
in time. Ah, my dear children: in time.

Seize her scissors from out her hand,
a voice counseled. Nudging Deirdre to look toward Malvinia. (And, indeed, the very bright silvery scissors flashed. So brightly, it was no wonder Malvinia's veil was drawn past her nose; past her beautiful mouth; discreetly covering her chin.)

No,
Deirdre said to herself,
I shall not.

Mrs. Bonner
spoke softly, had perhaps been speaking all along, beneath the other spirits' babble. It was her mission to explain that Deirdre should cease her mourning . . .
for the soul is immortal .
.
. in God, Who is immortal .
.
. and thither the soul flies, upon the dissolution of its earthly carapace .
.
. from eternity to eternity. God is without beginning as He is without end. Grieve no more. Mourn no further. Possess your soul in patience, and in loving kindly deeds. All is finished! All is over. This life is but a dream. There is no death. All that has lived, lives. Do not devour your own bitter heart. The Guardian Spirits hover near at all times. The Angel of Death is not far distant. In a great dark cloud he will come to you, to rescue you, when your earthly suffering becomes too extreme. Trust in me. Trust in God. Do not surrender to the wicked spirits. Love thy enemies, Deirdre, love thy sisters, for they are your trial, as you are theirs. God bless you!

The sisters, hardly guessing at Deirdre's somnambulistic terror, continued to talk of their insipid cousins and friends: Delphine, Felicity, Odille, Rowena.

If not the crochet hook, then the little scissors, by all means,
a spirit-voice murmured shrewdly in Deirdre's ear. So close was he, the fine hairs on her neck quivered with his breath. Malvinia's bright bold gaze, her saucy smile. Finished forever. And no suitor to moon over her beauty: imagine, Miss Malvinia Zinn with a glass eye!

In the shape of an abnormally fat bumblebee the malicious
Zachariah
drifted about them, ready to alight on Constance Philippa's bonnet, to sting her on the scalp; the poison flowing at once to the brain.
She does not want to marry her fiancé, Zachariah
informed Deirdre calmly,
or any man. Shall I put her out of her misery? Extinguish her on the spot?

Neither the crochet hook, nor the scissors, Mrs. Bonner
begged.

Deirdre regarded her sisters through her dense dark lashes. They knew of her rage; yet did not know. Surely they felt the very air tremble with her desire to wound: yet they continued to prattle as if nothing were amiss.

One, two, three swift jabs with the scissors.

And then—flight.

The wishing well, into which one might fall, to sink, to drown, in utter blissful oblivion.
Zachariah
's arms held wide,
Bianca
whining, whimpering.
I am so lonely, Deirdre, please, Deirdre, please come.

The bumblebee disappeared. But a spirit hand materialized near the ceiling of the gazebo, a few feet above Samantha's pert little head. And what did the fingers hold? A spike of some kind? A large sturdy nail?

Samantha had tried to calm her, in their bed. “Deirdre please, please Deirdre, 'tis only a dream-vapor, 'tis only a fancy in your head.” And then she had shrunk away from Deirdre, repulsed.

The pitiful pitiful orphan.

The wishing well, and a painless death. Or the river. Ah, yes, the river! Swimming out, kicking and thrashing, until your skirts and petticoats pull you down. Sweet dark lightless oblivion. Where even the spirits will allow you to sleep in peace.

And yet: to leave Great-Aunt Edwina Kidde­master untouch'd!

To leave Kidde­master Hall unscath'd!

You dwell among murderesses and beasts,
sly
Zachariah
said,
how much better for you, to come dwell amongst us! For we cannot sin in the flesh: we are innocent now of flesh.

The spirit laughter was such—low and throaty and ribald—that all the sisters glanced up uneasily. Malvinia had lain her needlepoint aside.

Samantha wondered aloud: “Where is Mother? Why is she extending her visit so unconscionably?”

Mrs. Bonner
's faint voice grew stronger. Deirdre, now very frightened, unsnapped the clasp of her locket: and at once the spirit-voice of her belovèd mother, or the woman who had masqueraded as her mother, counseled her.

Do not listen to the wicked spirits. Do no harm to your sisters, as you would wish no harm done to yourself. Love God, and abide in God. Put down your instrument of temptation. You will not injure Malvinia, whom you adore. You will not drown yourself in the well—nor will you wade and swim out into the river, to a clownish muddy death. Rouse yourself from your dream; get to your feet; clear your head of evil thoughts.

Deirdre stared inside her gold locket at the daguerreotypes of her mother and father. Did she know them? Were they her parents? She was seized with a sudden conviction that they were
not
her parents. After all, they had died. They had been weak, and died. But John Quincy Zinn was strong. Even the
Raging Captain
was strong.