May 7
Today Mr. Wolfson paid me a great compliment. At least-no, I am sure he meant it as such and that is how I will take it.
He summoned me to the library this afternoon, the first time I have been invited into his sanctum since the evening of our arrival. He was working busily at some papers when I entered. Once again I was struck by how normal he looks seated behind his desk. Normal only in the physical sense; he is actually far more attractive and alert than the average gentleman.
He motioned me to take a chair and then came immediately to the point.
"Do you find life dull, Cousin Harriet?"
"Why . . . no . . ."
"Of course you do. A young woman of your intelligence-no, Cousin, don't bridle and look displeased. From some men that might be a left-handed compliment, but I see no reason why the ladies should not use the brains God gave them. Intelligence, properly applied, only adds to a woman's charm."
The brilliance of his smile, the look in his blue eyes were so compelling that I would have agreed that I had two heads, if he had made that assertion. Under the circumstances I admitted the truth. He nodded, as if satisfied.
"You as much as told me, the other evening, that you were not a horsewoman. I know you well enough, I believe, to sense that the silly nothings of a woman's day do not amuse you. You prefer activities that have some meaning, some use."
"I could embroider you a pair of slippers," I said daringly, "with pansies or a sprig of mignonette."
He threw back his head and laughed resoundingly. "That's precisely what I mean. Embroidery, sketching, music-activities for empty-minded dolls of young ladies." His eye became dull and abstracted; I could almost read his mind. He was thinking of his son, my cousin Julian. Of course I said nothing, and after a moment Mr. Wolf son shook himself, like a thoughtful lion, and resumed.
'There is something you could do for me, Harriet, if you will. I suggest it partly to give you some employment, partly because I need your help."
"Of course," I said eagerly. "You have been so kind to us-"
"No more than you deserve." He dropped his eyes, and his long fingers played absently with a pen holder. "In fact, less than you deserve. Harriet, I am an unfit guardian-a sinner, in sober fact. I lied to your grandmother's lawyers about one thing. There is no lady of the house here, no chaperone. I'm sure you noticed this at once. Why haven't you come to complain to me?"
At first I couldn't think what to say. Then he looked at me from under his lashes, and I saw that, although his mouth was curved downward in a parody of repentance, his eyes were alight with laughter.
"I did notice it," I said severely, "and I have already written to the Lord Chief Justice of England about the matter. Dear Cousin John, after all your kindness-"
"I detest the name 'John,' " he interrupted. "My friends-when I had friends-used to call me Wolf."
"Oh, dear! I don't like that at all."
"Well, call me whatever you like, so long as it is friendly and informal. You make me feel young again, Harriet. If my feelings for you were not those of a father, we would really have to do something about that chaperone."
"As for that," I said quickly, in an effort to hide my silly confusion, "I think such antique customs quite outmoded in this day and age. Really, I think of myself as Ada's chaperone,"
"You make the very point I was about to press," he said, looking pleased. "You see, after my dear wife died, I couldn't endure another woman about the house. William manages the place well enough, and we are overrun with housemaids and cooks and the like. Still, I sometimes feel that we lack the finer domestic touches. Would you care, my dear, to take on the duties that my daughter, if I were fortunate enough to have one, would assume? To carry the keys?"
"I would be honored," I stammered. "But I have had no experience-"
"I can't imagine that it requires much experience. Any well-brought-up young lady knows what is to be expected; she has only to demand it. William will be your intermediary; you need not even put that elegantly chiseled nose into the kitchens. But if he might report to you instead of to me for instructions, it would relieve me of a minor but tedious task."
There was no way of rejecting such a request without sounding churlish. Yet I had reservations. As I sat nervously twisting my handkerchief in my lap, Mr. Wolfson seemed to read my thoughts.
"You may wonder why I don't make this request of Ada. She is a dear child, and I am fond of her. But she is like a butterfly; she has not the maturity for such a task."
"You are right. But someday she must learn-"
"Not necessarily." His eyes met mine; they were grave and kind. "My dear girl, I know of your grandmother's will. It was typical of her-from what I have heard of her-and I found it disgraceful. But we must face facts. Ada will marry well-so well that she may never have to manage a household. She will, we hope, have you to do that for her, until you find someone who values beauty of mind and body above a dowry."
No man had ever spoken to me in that way. (Admittedly, my standards of comparison are narrow; Grandmother regarded eligible men as noxious weeds, to be frozen out if they dared to raise a head.) I know my cheeks were scarlet, for I could feel the heat of them. My eyes fell before his penetrating stare and I lost the use of my voice, did manage to shake my head, although I'm not sure precisely what I was trying to deny. Mr. Wolfson interred it as doubt.
"There are such men; the world is not made up altogether of fools. But since the connoisseurs are far rarer than the fools, you may be living with Ada for some time after she marries. Then you will want to manage her house well, to keep her from being cheated or bullied by her servants."
I laughed, forgetting my embarrassment. It was easy to visualize Ada being bullied by some burly cook or grim housekeeper.
"You're right, Cousin. I am happy to be able to learn my lessons now."
He called William in at once and explained his plan. The butler accepted it with his usual frozen calm, but I think he was pleased. A housekeeper might resent being supplanted, but William probably has more than enough to do being butler and valet. I will begin tomorrow by going over the domestic offices with William. Later I will introduce Ada to a few wifely duties, just for the fun of it; she can hardly go riding without me, in any case.
That was a strange word he used-connoisseur. Of what, pray tell? I am such a fool. I looked in the mirror-and saw the same swarthy, black-browed face. He was only trying to be kind.
May 9
I am weary tonight, but filled with a pleasant sense of duty done. I have been a model housekeeper today.
William and I went over the entire house. The walk alone would have been wearisome; it is an enormous establishment. And full of people-I felt like a child in a fairy tale, who wakes at midnight to find her room populated by busy elves. How selfish human beings are; we simply accept our comforts and pleasures without ever asking whose hands produced them.
There are a dozen housemaids, round, red-cheeked girls whose Yorkshire accent is so thick they might be speaking another language. There are a cook, laundry maids, a dairy maid, footmen, grooms, two coachmen, herdsmen, shepherds. . . .
Luckily I have nothing to do with the outdoor servants; the inside group is big enough to daunt me. I recognized three of the maids, having seen them in the corridors, and one of the footmen looked vaguely familiar. It will take me weeks just to learn their names!
The cook interests me, perhaps because I can understand about half of what she says, in contrast to the others, who are completely unintelligible. She looks like a cook; they ought to proclaim the worth of their wares in their persons. Mrs. Bennett is heavy rather than fat, and her brown eyes have a certain shrewd intelligence. She was quite affable, especially after I rejected her suggestion that I make out the bill of fare. Her selections please me well enough, and I told her so. If I have a special dish I wish served, I will notify her; otherwise she may manage her kitchens as she pleases. The duties certainly will not be onerous. William has the p
lace running like a well-oiled clock, and the equipment is superb-all the most modern conveniences.
Candidly, I think I shall find the whole business rather dull. But I am determined to do well at it; I would hate to have Mr. Wolf son look at me as he looks at Julian. . . .
May 10
The last entry was interrupted by an enormous yawn which threatened to spill the entire contents of my pen onto the page in one big black blot. I took the hint and went to bed, for the subject of Julian and his father is difficult enough to require my full waking concentration.
I saw them together for the first time at the dinner table. Julian had kept to his room for nearly a week, with a slight cold, according to the message he sent me through William. His father rarely dines with us, preferring a tray in the library. I suspect he dislikes having his infirmity emphasized, as it is at the conclusion of every meal. He cannot rise when Ada and I leave the room.
That evening we were greeted by sweet strains of music when we came down to the drawing room. Ada, who is fond of Chopin, darted ahead of me with an eager exclamation. We found Julian seated at the pianoforte. He smiled at us but continued playing until he had finished the ballade.
"Evening dress becomes him. Above the severe black and white, his fair skin and pale hair resemble a delicate watercolor. He is tall and rather slight; as he bowed over Ada's hand, I could not help noticing how well they looked together. But I suspect that his languid looks are a fair indication of his health, whereas Ada, who appears fragile as a flower, is only too healthy.
At Ada's request, Julian played several other pieces for us. His performance is excellent but a trifle pallid. Eventually I tired of the pensive airs he prefers and asked for Beethoven, which he played well but without fire. When William announced dinner, Julian showed his mettle; faced with two ladies, he offered an arm to each, and in we went.
Mr. Wolf son was already seated. He greeted Ada and me with his usual charm, Julian with more reserve, but with perfect courtesy. Yet the meal had hardly begun before he made his first attack.
"Your playing has improved," he said to his son. "But that last was beyond your powers. You should not attempt Beethoven."
That was all he said and he said it in the mildest of voices. Julian, however, flushed up to the lock of fair hair which had fallen over his forehead. He did not reply. Ada went on devouring soup, placidly unaware of undercurrents.
Mr. Wolfson continued in the same vein throughout the meal. He seldom addressed Julian, but when he did it was always in the same manner: calmly, gently, the words themselves unexceptional; but there was always a sting, a veiled contempt in the speech, which never failed to hit its mark. The climax came with the dessert. The conversation had turned to horses-it usually does when Ada is present- and Mr. Wolfson mentioned that he had a new acquisition.
"He is a beautiful creature; by some freak of nature the various intermediary strains have canceled out and he is a throwback to the pure Arab stock-but wild and fierce as the desert itself. You must promise, Ada, not to try to ride him until he has been completely broken to the saddle. Harriet and Julian, I know, need no such caution."
There it was again-the implication of cowardice and effeminacy. By this time Julian's fingers were shaking as he wielded knife and fork. It really was uncomfortable and I was trying desperately to think of some innocuous remark to break the silence which followed Mr. Wolfson's sneer, when Ada innocently saved the day.
"Oh, I have seen him," she exclaimed eagerly. "He is a love, black as coal, with such lines! But he is not dangerous, Cousin. Yesterday he took a lump of sugar from my hand, and-"
"And you still have all your fingers?" Mr. Wolfson shook his head. "Cousin Ada, Cousin Ada-I have done you a disservice by employing your guardian angel in household tasks. Surely Harriet told you you must not visit the stables alone?"
His voice was light, but even Ada sensed the steel beneath the silky tone. She hesitated, unwilling to incriminate me. Julian watched us with a faint smile. I thought, perhaps unjustly, that he rather enjoyed seeing someone else withered by his father's disapproval for a change.
"No," I said, to save Ada from the lie she was considering. "I didn't tell her, Cousin. I fear I simply didn't think."
"And why should she?" Ada cried. "She assumed I would know better!"
She looked quite lovely and unafraid, with her cheeks flaming and her usually mild eyes alight. Mr. Wolfson stared-I almost wrote "glared"-at her for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh.
"That is the most ingenuous excuse I've ever heard," be said between chuckles. "You did know better, Ada, didn't you? Precisely what is the attraction of those dirty outbuildings?"
"Why, the horses," Ada said at once, meeting his eyes without evasion. "And now the black. He is so-o-o-beautiful. . . . You will let me ride him, Cousin, when he is tamed?"
"Certainly, my dear." The crisis was past; Mr. Wolf-son regarded her with amused approval. "But in the meantime, Ada, you must promise not to ride without a companion-and I don't refer to the grooms. Wait until Harriet can accompany you. Or-now, here's an idea- Julian can ride. Not well, of course; he does few manly things well-"
I was hardly surprised when Julian thrust back his chair and leaped to his feet. The glare he bestowed upon his blandly smiling father was not especially filial.
"Sit down," said Mr. Wolfson coldly. "You have not been excused. You will ride with your cousin whenever she condescends to put up with your company, is that understood?"
Julian stood still, half-crouching, with his eyes fixed unblinkingly on his father's face. Then his tall body wilted. He slumped into his chair.
"Yes. Sir."
We should have lingered, I suppose, and tried to restore peace with our gentle female presence, but I suspect that not even a saint can restrain Mr. Wolfson when he is out to make mischief. I caught Ada's eye and we rose to retire. Julian was on his feet at once, opening the door to the drawing room. He would not look at me and I saw that he was still pale-with fear or fury, I wonder? We left them to their port, and Heaven knows what went on after we had gone. Julian was not being overly sensitive. His father does despise him and makes no effort to hide it.
"May 15
I have been so occupied these last few days with household matters that I have scarcely seen Ada alone. (The linen presses are in a shocking state; William makes a fine brave outward show, but, like all men, he does not worry about what goes on behind closed cupboard doors.) Today when I went to the drawing room for tea I found Ada by herself, so I told the parlormaid that I would pour. As soon as she left, I asked Ada what she had been doing. "Riding."
"And how do you like our cousin?" I asked, knowing that she must have been riding with Julian. "Not at all," said Ada promptly. It took me a moment to interpret that insult properly. "As a horseman, you mean."
"Yes. It is a pity. He is a well-set-up young man-I would have expected him to ride beautifully. But he is fidgety; he makes the horses nervous too, and then of course they misbehave."
She investigated the biscuit plate and took a particularly rich one, filled with jam.
"Well," I said, smiling, "if he does not ride well, nothing else matters. I suppose it would be useless to ask how you like him otherwise?"
Ada considered the question, her mouth open to receive the next bite from the sweet poised in her hand. With a sprinkle of crumbs on her upper lip, she looked like a contemplative cherub who has been raiding the biscuit box on the sly.
"He seems pleasant enough," she said, and bit into the sweet.
I abandoned the subject of Julian. I don't know what I had expected; he is the first "suitable" young man Ada has met here, and I suppose I thought ... but I ought to have known better. No man can charm Ada unless he is part equine.
What a spinsterish old matchmaker I am getting to be!
May 19
It is spring! I never noticed it until today.
This morning just after breakfast I was changing into my riding c
lothes. I have those linen presses in order now; besides, I remember Mr. Wolfson's concern about Ada's visits to the stable, a concern which I share. So I was preparing to go with her. But before I left my room a summons arrived from the master. I went at once to the library and found not Mr. Wolfson but William awaiting me.
"Mr. Wolfson, miss, asks you to go for a drive with him. He will meet you in front of the house."
Talking with William, I have discovered, is like conversing with an automaton. He says "yes" or "no" or "thank you, miss," and that is all. So I did not express surprise-which I certainly felt-or pleasure. I nodded and went on my way.
Uppermost in my mind was the question of how Mr. Wolfson proposed to go driving. In the few minutes' walk from the library to the front steps I considered several possibilities: that he could, after all, walk in a fashion, or that he might cause himself to be lifted into the carriage by the footmen. The true explanation never entered my mind- and no wonder!
Sons of the Wolf Page 4
