The flat, furnished with an army of upholstered pink chairs, upholstered pink settees and sofas, ornate gilded frames and vases from the Orient, is wallpapered, floor to ceiling, in decorous pink roses, and there is a painted secretary in one corner also covered in roses, and the drapes, too, are rose-pink, and her floors have been recently polished with rose-petal oil, and flowers of every rose breed hang their heads in her windows, and the dogs, just bathed and clipped, even smell rosy.
When Lady Ostlet asks Downing to make himself comfortable, to take a seat, the man, accustomed to the scent of earthy animal skins, of chloroforms, formaldehydes, oxides and an occasional tobacco product of some kind, glances around the place and is acutely perplexed: there are too many places to sit, for one; for two, every place is right next to some fecund belly of flowers; and for three, Downing also knows that once he sits, the Brontës will be instantly upon him.
He must linger too long in deciding because Rebecca grabs him by the arm and says, “Please, first let me show you your room,” and leads him to the room where he will be staying for two what appear to be absolutely interminable days, and he considers bowing out of the whole thing entirely until Rebecca opens the door and he finds the walls of the guest room at the Ostlet’s city flat to be dark green and sans fleurs.
There is a 17th-century wooden writing desk with the requisite paper and inkwell. A twin bed with brass knobs in the shape of pheasant heads. On top of the bed, a folded white coverlet, nothing more.
An ashtray is perched thoughtfully upon a small table by the window next to an assortment of books, titles from which Downing, whose thoughts remain with the aardvark, can deduce no hidden meaning: Man and Wife, by Wilkie Collins, Trollope’s latest, Phineas Redux, and a faded copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. He notices only the absence of any Dickens and Dickens is his favorite.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” says Downing.
“Oh good,” says Rebecca Ostlet, and claps her hands, escorting Downing back into the parlor where a tea setting of scones with fig and Devonshire have magically appeared.
After Downing eats and drinks he relaxes some, but he is always uncomfortable in the company of women. He wishes today were tomorrow. He has scheduled an appointment with Skinner tomorrow and knows that the aardvark, once completed, is going to be even more thrilling than the giraffe, so as Downing speaks perfunctorily with Lady Ostlet, he loses himself in a dream of crowds coming out in gaggles to View it:
Women, he has heard, upon seeing strange animals have been known to faint, and Downing allows himself to imagine that perhaps it will be the story of the fainting women that will make the aardvark extremely valuable, eventually purchased by the New Walk for a very high price, and this, combined with the success of the giraffe, will enable him to pay off the remaining balance on his shop, easing him into retirement or, if he allows himself to dream as deeply as he only rarely dares to dream, a bit of travel—and so it is that Downing only purports to appear interested in Rebecca Ostlet as she chats with him about his life in Leamington Spa, but he is obviously uninterested until, after some minutes pass, he notices that the woman, a brunette dressed in simple black crêpe, the collar and cuffs edged in black piping, well-aged at twenty-eight, pretty/plain in the manner of the era (though perhaps a bit too narrow chested), is nervous. Her hands quiver unsteadily when she drinks her tea. Her small eyes seem to dart around the room as though of their own will.