Read Online Love Bade Me Welcome by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Smith
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the most noticeable thing about the man was his handsome face. His eyes were green, wide-set, observant. The nose was sculptured, the lips not parted but curved up in a secretive smile, like Leonardo’s famous Mona Lisa. His eyes did not waver, but gazed boldly at me as I descended towards him. He made no slight effort to conceal his open admiration, which was more disconcerting than flattering. I was conscious of the coquettish sway of my crinolines, and the fact that my ankles were highly visible from his vantage point, though, in fairness, his eyes never once strayed from my face.
When I reached the landing, he took a few fluid, languid steps towards me, still smiling. “Is it Cousin Davinia or Aphrodite I have the honor of meeting?” he asked in a mellifluous voice. His green eyes wandered all over my face in a highly embarrassing way, just before they went down below my neck.
“Cousin Bulow? I am happy to make your acquaintance,” I said, performing a curtsy. He bowed from the waist most gracefully.
“Everyone told me you were pretty,”he continued blandly. “No one thought to mention you were breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said, but in the most repressive voice I could manage.
“I shall say once, in all sincerity, how extremely sorry I am about Norman’s death, and not mention it to you again this evening. I was devastated myself. Norman and I were like brothers. I can scarcely imagine how it must have affected you, his wife. We shall have a long talk about it all one day soon. For the remainder of the evening we shall do as he would wish and become friends. Norman, of all people in the world, would detest showy showers of grief. Come, I shall get you a glass of Homer’s excellent wine.”
He put his hand on my elbow and guided me to the saloon. As we passed that spot where he had been standing, I noticed that the gilt frame that formerly occupied his attention held a mirror.
“Davinia, I see you have met Cousin Bulow,” Jarvis said, rising to his feet when I entered. It occurred to me to ask him not to bother with this formality, but a second thought deterred me. He was not so old as to appreciate being excluded from the circle of gallants.
Homer also rose and bowed, with no ostentation. I saw Miss Dennison sitting in a corner, crocheting. She wore a hideous puce gown, and had daubed rouge on her withered cheeks in two large circles. This addition to her toilette, I soon surmised, was in Bulow’s honor.
He went forward and made a good-natured fuss over her, calling her his “girlfriend,” and admiring her gown, her high color, her crocheting work. This done, he came and sat in the semicircle around the grate with the rest of us. He had forgotten my wine, but meanwhile Jarvis procured me a glass. The talk soon revealed that Bulow had been to London recently. The visit made up our main conversation before dinner. My suspicions regarding his nature were confirmed. He spoke of trivial matters, mostly artistic and social.
“I tried the new Bridge House Hotel, just by London Bridge Station. Very fine, but the service doesn’t match the better places. I shan’t stay there again. Too much traffic. They pulled down half a dozen old buildings to make room for the hotel, but it will never be socially acceptable to the ton,” he decreed.
“I expect things were dull, with the Court in mourning,” Jarvis mentioned. “Parties would all be abandoned.”
“There were no large balls, certainly,” Bulow said. “Not that I would have attended in any case, so close to Norman’s death.”
Soon it came out that he had found quieter amusements. “I dropped around to the Crystal Palace. I hadn’t seen it since it was removed from Hyde Park to Sydenham. Penge has been ruined completely. It used to be a nice, quiet, rural sort of place. Now it’s little houses cheek-by-jowl, with traffic so heavy you can scarcely get across the street.”
“The Crystal Palace was too magnificent a
When I reached the landing, he took a few fluid, languid steps towards me, still smiling. “Is it Cousin Davinia or Aphrodite I have the honor of meeting?” he asked in a mellifluous voice. His green eyes wandered all over my face in a highly embarrassing way, just before they went down below my neck.
“Cousin Bulow? I am happy to make your acquaintance,” I said, performing a curtsy. He bowed from the waist most gracefully.
“Everyone told me you were pretty,”he continued blandly. “No one thought to mention you were breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said, but in the most repressive voice I could manage.
“I shall say once, in all sincerity, how extremely sorry I am about Norman’s death, and not mention it to you again this evening. I was devastated myself. Norman and I were like brothers. I can scarcely imagine how it must have affected you, his wife. We shall have a long talk about it all one day soon. For the remainder of the evening we shall do as he would wish and become friends. Norman, of all people in the world, would detest showy showers of grief. Come, I shall get you a glass of Homer’s excellent wine.”
He put his hand on my elbow and guided me to the saloon. As we passed that spot where he had been standing, I noticed that the gilt frame that formerly occupied his attention held a mirror.
“Davinia, I see you have met Cousin Bulow,” Jarvis said, rising to his feet when I entered. It occurred to me to ask him not to bother with this formality, but a second thought deterred me. He was not so old as to appreciate being excluded from the circle of gallants.
Homer also rose and bowed, with no ostentation. I saw Miss Dennison sitting in a corner, crocheting. She wore a hideous puce gown, and had daubed rouge on her withered cheeks in two large circles. This addition to her toilette, I soon surmised, was in Bulow’s honor.
He went forward and made a good-natured fuss over her, calling her his “girlfriend,” and admiring her gown, her high color, her crocheting work. This done, he came and sat in the semicircle around the grate with the rest of us. He had forgotten my wine, but meanwhile Jarvis procured me a glass. The talk soon revealed that Bulow had been to London recently. The visit made up our main conversation before dinner. My suspicions regarding his nature were confirmed. He spoke of trivial matters, mostly artistic and social.
“I tried the new Bridge House Hotel, just by London Bridge Station. Very fine, but the service doesn’t match the better places. I shan’t stay there again. Too much traffic. They pulled down half a dozen old buildings to make room for the hotel, but it will never be socially acceptable to the ton,” he decreed.
“I expect things were dull, with the Court in mourning,” Jarvis mentioned. “Parties would all be abandoned.”
“There were no large balls, certainly,” Bulow said. “Not that I would have attended in any case, so close to Norman’s death.”
Soon it came out that he had found quieter amusements. “I dropped around to the Crystal Palace. I hadn’t seen it since it was removed from Hyde Park to Sydenham. Penge has been ruined completely. It used to be a nice, quiet, rural sort of place. Now it’s little houses cheek-by-jowl, with traffic so heavy you can scarcely get across the street.”
“The Crystal Palace was too magnificent a
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