“Have we not seen enough of orchids?” Lizzie said politely. “I’m overwhelmed, truly” — which indeed she was, more by his shocking language than by the riotous display everywhere around her — “but I’m not sure I can bear much more,” and here she turned to face him squarely, her gray eyes meeting his, the set of her mouth clearly indicating (she hoped) that she did not appreciate such conversation and wished it would come to an immediate halt.
Apparently oblivious to her threatening glare or her compressed lips, blithely unaware of anything but the sound of his own voice and the certainty that he was disclosing something of enormous interest to her (or was he merely determined to shock, as had his sister been yesterday?), Geoffrey said, “The male and female sex organs, you see, are joined together in a single column. The stamens and the pistil, that is.”
He then went on, surprising her further, to deliver a learned and not at all objectionable lecture on the various parts of the flower, using such botanical terms as sepals and whorls and anthers and stigmas, and quite bewildering Lizzie until, once again, he shocked her by saying, “In some species, the petals so closely resemble female insects, that male insects are lured into mating with them — or at least trying to — what is called pseudo copulation. In yet other species...”
“Geoffrey,” she said, “I do believe...”
“... a significant number of them, in fact, the orchid is self-pollinating, which I suppose isn’t too surprising when one considers the proximity of the pollen tubes to the ovaries. I don’t suppose one could consider it homosexual, though, since both sexes are, after all, represented. Well then,” he said with a blithe smile, “we’ve had more than enough of orchids, I quite agree. Let me take you for tea at the Terrace, after which I shall deposit you at your hotel till eight this evening, at which time I shall stop by in a four-wheeler to collect you and your friends, assuming you will all do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”
Lizzie did not know quite what to say.
“Done then,” he said, echoing Alison.
He surprised her further at dinner that night — a sumptuous feast in the Grill Room at the Grand — first by his costume, and next by the gentlemanly attention and care he gave not only to the ladies’ appetites, advising them about this or that item on the menu, instantly signaling to a waiter when a wine glass needed replenishing (Rebecca and Felicity were drinking; Anna and Lizzie were not) but to their emotional needs as well, paying close mind to Rebecca’s tedious recitation of all the tourist wonders the women had seen that afternoon, lending a sympathetic ear to the interminable list of Anna’s fancied ailments, and responding with steadfast interest to Felicity’s constant flirting.
He was dressed more conservatively, but nonetheless resplendently, than he had been this afternoon, wearing a dress coat with rolled, silk-faced lapels, open over a white dress shirt and collar, the collar somewhat higher (was this what Alison had called the “masher” style?) than Lizzie was accustomed to seeing in America, and adorned with a simple, rather thin, black bow tie. When Felicity, batting her lashes, asked if all men in England dressed for dinner, Geoffrey replied, “Some, I’m sure, go about stark naked,” and glanced at Lizzie, causing her a moment of nervous apprehension until all the other women unexpectedly laughed, Felicity more heartily than any of the others, her face half-hidden behind her frantically fluttering fan.
“In all seriousness, though,” Geoffrey said, “my tailor tells me it’s not at all uncommon now for a fashionable man to array himself thrice daily. A tweed suit for his morning wear; a frock coat, smarter waistcoat and bigger tie for the afternoon; and, of course, evening dress for dinner.”
“If only American men were so fashion conscious,” Rebecca said, vying for his attention. “In Fall River, the men resemble undertakers more than anything else.”
“A fine occupation,” Geoffrey said, smiling, “in that they’re never wanting for trade.”
“What do you do, Mr. Hastings?” Anna asked, “if you do not consider the question impertinent.”
“Not at all,” Geoffrey said, “and please do call me Geoff, I implore you. The question is rather more pertinent than my vocation — or avocation, as I might more properly call it these days.”
“And what might that be?” Felicity asked.
“Architecture.”
“By avocation, do you mean — well, what do you mean?” Rebecca asked. “Do you study architecture? Or teach it? Or are you a designer of buildings?”
“Alas, I’m an architect,” Geoffrey said. “A designing one, I fear,” he added, and glanced at Felicity who peered at him over her fan, her blue eyes fascinated. “For which, I might say in explanation, there is scant use in London where domiciles and places of business are springing up like toadstools and with as much reckless disregard for beauty or form.”
“We find your city lovely,” Anna said apologetically.
“I thank you,” Geoffrey said, “but I can take no credit for it. The last building I had erected was in Birmingham, that foul mill town, and that more than a year ago. Were it not for a more than generous inheritance from my dear, departed father, I should be quite penniless, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said.
“I assure you, dear lady, we shall not have to scrub dishes tonight,” Geoffrey said, smiling.
“I meant... about your father.”
“Quite some time ago,” Geoffrey said, “and after a long illness.”
“The Lord was merciful then,” Anna said.
“Quite,” Geoffrey said, and glanced at Lizzie and smiled.
She sensed, all at once, that he seemed to believe they shared an awesome secret together, as though her inability to silence him effectively this afternoon had created between them an unspoken bond that was somehow illicit by its very tacitness. She kept waiting for him to say something openly provocative or outrageous, but aside from his coarse reference to male nudity and, just now, his sly affirmation (lost on the others) of his own Godlessness, he seemed content to reassure her silently and with sidelong glances and knowing smiles that the mortar binding them was stronger than the others could ever hope to guess, and this frankly confounded her.
Nor did he appear quite so daringly derisive here in the presence of the women and the other well-dressed, soft-spoken diners in this opulently carpeted, comfortably upholstered and resplendently tiled room, where the conversation was counter-pointed by the occasional silvery laughter of the ladies all about or the discreet tinkling click of a ring against a crystal goblet. The food was magnificent, despite his protestations of English culinary inadequacy, and Lizzie supposed it must be costing him a small fortune to feed them; she had no way of knowing since the menus presented to her and the other ladies had offered no hint of the tariff. Reflecting upon his generosity and his restraint, she began to think more kindly of him, certain now (as Alison had suggested) that outspokenness was simply a family trait that only occasionally erupted and was not to be taken seriously when it did.
When the ladies briefly excused themselves “to visit the facilities”, as Felicity brainlessly put it, Geoffrey asked if they were well supplied with coppers, and then fished into his pocket for a handful of change, explaining that the lavoratory here at the Grand would cost each of them thrippence rather than the tuppence expected of hotel guests. Rebecca protested mightily, already fumbling at the purse stylishly fastened to a belt at her waist, but he waved her efforts airily aside and pressed the coins into Felicity’s palm. Lizzie, thinking it impolite to leave him alone at the table, watched as the other women descended the opulent staircase leading below, its landing decorated with a marble fountain and Eastern rugs and fernery and Oriental lamps.