He had a slight return of it when he married Topaz, but it didn't last.
The awful thought came to me that he might be going to fall in love
with Mrs. Cotton. She was talking to him again within a couple of
minutes. Soon after that the females left the table.
As we went upstairs, Topaz slipped her arm through mine.
"Could you hear?" she whispered.
"Is he really enjoying himself?
Or was he just putting it on?"
I told her I thought it was genuine.
"It's wonderful to see him like that"--but her voice sounded wistful.
It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold a man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn't
enjoyed seeing someone else bring Father to life.
Mrs. Cotton's bedroom was lovely- there were lots of flowers, and new books lying around and a chaise-longue piled with fascinating little
cushions; and a wood fire--it must be heaven to have fire in one's
bedroom. The bathroom was unbelievable--the walls were looking-glass!
And there was a glass table with at least half a-dozen bottles of scent and toilet water on it. (americans say "perfume" instead of
"scent"--much more correct, really; I don't know why "perfume" should be considered affected in England.) "Simon says this bathroom's an outrage on the house," said Mrs.
Cotton, "but I've no use for antiquity in bathrooms."
"Isn't it lovely ?" I said to Rose.
"Glorious," she said, in an almost tragic voice. I could see she was liking it so much that it really hurt her.
When we had tidied up we went to the Long Gallery- it stretches the
full length of the house and as it is narrow it seems even longer than it is. It has three fireplaces and there were fires in all of them,
but it wasn't at all too hot. Rose and I strolled along looking at the pictures and statues and interesting things in glass cases, while
Mrs.
Cotton talked to Topaz. Mrs.
Fox-Cotton had disappeared after dinner;
I suppose she went off to her own bedroom.
We got to the fireplace at the far end of the gallery and stood looking back at the others; we could hear their voices but not a word of what they were saying, so we felt it was safe to talk.
"What sort of a time did you have at dinner?" I asked.
She said it had been boring--she didn't like Mr.
Fox-Cotton and, anyway, he had only been interested in Topaz:
"So I concentrated on the wonderful food. What did you and Neil talk about?"
"Amongst other things, he said you looked very pretty," I told "What else?"
"About America, mostly." I remembered as much as I could for her, particularly about the ranch in California; I had liked the sound of
it.
"What, cows and things ?" she said, disgustedly.
"Is he going back there ?"
"Oh, it was sold when the Father died. But he did say he'd like to have a ranch himself if ever he could afford it."
"But aren't they very rich ?"
"Oh, shut up," I whispered, and took a quick look at Mrs. Cotton; but we were really quite safe.
"I don't suppose Neil's rich and it probably takes all Simon's money to keep this place up. Come on, we'd better go back."
As we reached the fireplace in the middle of the gallery, Mrs. Fox
Cotton came in. It was the first time I'd had a really good look at
her.
She is small, not much bigger than I am, with straight black hair done in an enormous knob low on her neck, and a very dark skin.
Both skin and hair look greasy to me.
Topaz says the modelling of the face is beautiful and I do see that,
but I don't think the modelling would be damaged by a real good wash.
She was wearing a clinging dark green dress, so shiny that it looked
almost slimy- it made me think of sea-weed. Her Christian name,
believe it or not, is Leda.
Rose and I walked to meet her but she sat down on a sofa, put her feet up and opened an old calf-bound book she had brought in with her.
"Do you mind ?" she said.
"I want to finish this before we go back to London tomorrow."
"What is it ?" I asked, out of politeness.
"Oh, it's no book for little girls," she said.
She has the silliest voice, a little tinny bleat; she barely bothers to open her mouth and the words just slide through her teeth. In view of what happened later, I put it on record that it was then I first
decided that I didn't like her.
The men came in then- I noticed she was quick enough to stop reading
for them. Father and Simon seemed to be finishing a literary argument; I hoped they'd had a really good discussion downstairs. It was
interesting to notice where the men went: Father and the Vicar talked to Mrs. Cotton, Aubrey Fox-Cotton made a dive for Topaz, Simon and
Neil came towards Rose and me- but Mrs. Fox-Cotton got off her sofa
and intercepted Simon.
"Did you know there's a picture here with a look of you?" she told him, and put her arm through his and marched him along the gallery.
"Oh, I noticed that," I said. Rose and Neil and I walked after them, which I bet didn't please Mrs. FC.
at all.
It was one of the earliest pictures -Elizabethan, I think; there was a small white ruff at the top of the man's high collar. It was just a
head and shoulders against a dark background.
"It's probably only the beard that's like," said Simon.
"No, the eyes," said Mrs. Fox-Cotton.
"The eyebrows mostly," I said, "the little twist at the corners. And the hair the way it grows on the forehead, in a peak."
Rose was staring hard at the picture. Simon asked her what she
thought. She turned and looked at him intently; she seemed to be
taking in his features one by one. Yet when she finally answered she
only said: "Oh, a little like, perhaps," rather vaguely.
I had a feeling that she had been thinking about something quite
different from the picture, something to do with Simon himself; and had come back from a very long way, to find us all waiting for her
answer.
We strolled back to the others. Topaz and Aubrey Fox-Cotton were
looking at pictures too; they were with the eighteenth-century
Cottons.
"I've got it," he said suddenly to Topaz, "you're really a Blake. Isn't she, Leda ?"
Mrs. F-C. seemed to take a mild interest in this. She gave Topaz a
long, appraising stare and said: "Yes, if she had more flesh on her bones."
"Rose is a Romney," said Simon.
"She's quite a bit like Lady Hamilton." It was the first time I had heard him use her Christian name.
"And Cassandra's a Reynolds, of course the little girl with the
mousetrap."
"I'm not!" I said indignantly.
"I hate that picture. The mouse is terrified, the cat's hungry and the girl's a cruel little beast. I refuse to be her."
"Ah, but you'd let the mouse out of the trap and find a nice dead sardine for the cat," said Simon. I began to like him a little
better.
The others were busy thinking of a painter for Mrs. Fox-Cotton.
They finally decided on a Surrealist named Dali.
"With snakes coming out of her ears," said Mr. Fox-Cotton. I haven't the faintest idea what Surrealism is, but I can easily imagine snakes in Mrs. F-C's ears-and I certainly shouldn't blame them for coming
out.
After that, it was decided that we should dance.
"In the hall," said Neil, "because the Victrola's down there." Mrs.
Cotton and Father and the Vicar stayed behind talking.
"We shall be one man short," complained Mrs.
Fox-Cotton as we went downstairs.
I said I would watch as I don't know modern dances. (neither does
Rose, really, but she did try them once or twice at Aunt Millicent's
parties.) "What kind do you know ?" asked Simon, teasingly.
"Sarabandes, cour antes and pa vanes ?"
I told him just waltzes and polkas.
Mother showed us those when we were little.
"I'll teach you," said Neil. He put a record on the gramophone- I had expected a Victrola to be something much more exciting- and then came back to me, but I said I'd rather watch for the first few dances.
"Oh, come on, Cassandra," he said, but Mrs.
Fox-Cotton butted in.
"Let the child watch if she wants to. Dance this with me." I settled it by running up the stairs.
I sat on the top step looking down on them.
Rose danced with Simon, Topaz with Mr. Fox-Cotton. I must say Mrs.
Fox-Cotton danced beautifully, though she seemed almost to be lying on Neil's chest. Rose's dress looked lovely but she kept on missing
steps. Topaz was holding herself stiff as a poker--she thinks modern
dancing is vulgar--but Mr. Fox-Cotton danced so well that she
gradually relaxed. It was fascinating watching them all from up there.
The hall was very dimly lit, the oak floor looked dark as water by
night.
I noticed the mysterious old-house smell again but mixed with Mrs.
Fox-Cotton's scent--a rich, mysterious scent, not a bit like flowers.
I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and
felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before -softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them. I had the most curious feeling in my solar plexus--a vulnerable feeling is the nearest I can get to it; I
was investigating it in a pleasant, hazy sort of way, staring down at a big bowl of white tulips against the uncurtained great window, when all of a sudden I went quite cold with shock.