by Joan Smith
“Very nice. It could be charming, with little expense,” I said, thinking aloud.
“There are two servants’ bedrooms and storage space in the attics. Would you care to see them?” Sensing some little sarcasm in the offer, I politely declined, but if it turned out the house was mine, I would not be long in having a more complete tour.
I was displeased that this rift had formed between Homer and myself. I liked his mother, and had hoped to remain on good terms with all the family, but the owner was obviously the one who ruled the roost, and his opinion was important. It was pretty clear he saw me as a grasping woman, and equally clear to me that he had been very resentful of Norman. But that was over now. He was the lord and master of all, and I hoped he would soon settle down to behaving in a rational way, forgetting Norman.
“Are you quite bored to flinders with showing me around, or dare I impose on you to show me the windmill?” I asked, adopting a conciliating manner. I cocked my head and smiled at him. That particular smile had always brought Norman to heel in a hurry. “It grabbed my fancy the moment I saw it.”
Sir Homer refused to heel. “It is best admired from a distance. You would not be interested in its internal workings. Neither am I the best one to explain them to you. A windmill is a more complicated thing than you might think at a glance.”
“I see. Will it be permissible for me to have one of the servants show it to me at a later time?” I asked politely, but without my smile.
I was subjected to another suspicious look.
“I am not at all interested in stealing it from you, nor in renting it out. I only wanted to look,” I said.
“I will be charmed to show it to you,” he replied, in a tone of which neither charm nor pleasure composed any part. “The nag will never make it up the hill. It is accessible from a road on the other side, but to reach the road we must make a long circuit. Are you outfitted for a steep climb? It will be the fastest way up.”
“I am part sheep,” I answered.
“Which part?” he asked, his dark eyes flickering over me from head to foot. Then he relaxed into a little smile.
I was swift to encourage this humor. “Why, the legs of course. I have enjoyed scrambling over hills since I was a child. I hope you aren’t hinting I have a sheepish face.”
“Certainly not. The entire description seems particularly inept to me, which is why I enquired. Part cat, perhaps, but no part sheepish.”
“Cat?” I asked, offended. “I dislike cats very much. I am a dog lover, like Norman.” I had a sharp, vivid memory of Rogue, Norman’s pet dog, who used to trail everywhere at his heels. He was a mongrel from a neighbor’s litter, a tan hound of some kind, intelligent, as mongrels often are. I wished I had him with me, but he disappeared the night Norman died. We never could find him, which was very odd. None of the neighbors had seen him either.
“Oh, but felines are famous for their grace, you know, and you move with such lithe grace that the comparison, though odious to you, struck me as appropriate.”
He was offering an olive branch. With the disposition of the dower house to be settled, I reached out and accepted it.
“In that case, I forgive you, but pray do not look for any grace while we are scrambling up that mountain. I hadn’t realized from my bedroom window it was quite so steep.”
He next offered to make the long circuit around to the road, for the face of the hill was apparently less steep on the other side. My wish was to get up it at once, and that was what we did. Homer went ahead, and after the first few yards took my hand in his to assist the ascent. He had a firm grasp that felt intimate and unsettling after my having been a widow for several weeks, with no contact with young men. I was very aware of his touch, his looking out for me, his dark blue eyes looking down at me, his broad shoulders standing out against the hillside.
The closer we got to the top, the higher the stone walls of the windmill seemed to grow. When at last we crested the hill, my neck was strained back as far as it would go. The arms of the machine too were monstrously long. The grass around the base had grown in patches, now that there was no regular traffic to wear it away.
“What a lovely folly! I wonder people don’t build them for simple pleasure, as they do gazebos or belvederes,” I said.
“A romantical notion. Some few people do, but the Blythes were never ones to indulge in such pretty conceits. Practical farmers all, with perhaps the exception of Norman.”
To avoid slipping into more discussions of Norman, I asked whether it was possible to enter the building.
“It is possible. There isn’t much light, except for the windows.”
“But there are plenty of windows,” I pointed out.
“Yes, every one of them wearing a decade’s coat of dust. We ought to have brought a rush torch, as I see you mean to go in.”
“Are you afraid of the dark, Homer?” I asked, teasing him, and making it impossible for him to refuse to enter.
“Not when I have you to protect me.”
The door was ajar. We entered, leaving it wide open for light. A circular staircase spiraled around the wall, with platforms at intervals to allow access to the mill’s mechanism. It was a very complicated thing. Outside it was all grace and beauty; within, an ugly mechanical nightmare of shafts and gears, and not so well lit as those windows would indicate. But there were the platforms, partial floors built at various levels to blot out all but the lower windows.
“What a disappointment!” I exclaimed. My voice echoed hollowly in the round building, returning to me from odd directions. “I had thought it would be pretty.”
“It’s a place of work, not a pleasure dome.”
“It looks tediously complicated.”
“It is.”
“Is it broken, or why do not the arms rotate?”
“Not broken, but disconnected for safety’s sake. The gear that carries the sails—it is mounted on the wind shaft—is a brake wheel. That means it acts on the rim to stop the mill.”
I knew he had some little interest in scientific matters, from the session with the stereoscope, and as I had none, I did not encourage his lecture. “Can we go up to the top?” I asked.
“If you like,” he said, looking disconsolately towards the spiraling stairs. “But it is a long haul, and not much to see after you get there. Just more gears to turn the arms into the wind.”
“Perhaps it is best seen from outside after all.”
“The best view is from your bedroom window,” he agreed.
“It’s like a sailing ship—so lovely to view from afar, floating gracefully and silently, but less lovely to be aboard, with all the swaying and creaking and wind. Oh, what’s that?” I asked, as a sound was heard from the floor above.
“Rats probably,” he said, with some relish. “I fancy there is still enough grain about to tempt them.”
“Very large rats!” I exclaimed, as the sounds increased to something suggesting a two-footed animal.
As we both looked towards the sounds, Woodie came dawdling down the steps.
“What are you doing here, Woodie?” Homer demanded sharply. “You’ll take a tumble down those stairs and kill yourself. This place ought to be kept locked. I don’t want you coming here, Woodie. It’s dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous, Homer,” I objected. “There’s a handrail on the stairs.”
“Pretty lady,” Woodie said, smiling at me in his disconcertingly idiotic way.
“Hello, Woodie. How are you?” I asked politely.
“I’m going home now,” he said, and wandered out, to careen down the hill like the wind, or more precisely like a windmill, with his two arms tossed out, forming circles against the wind. He emitted some hardly human squeal as he went.
“Poor boy,” Homer said, shaking his head.
“I suppose he has a home—parents?” I asked.
“Yes, he is one of seven children. The oldest of seven, actually. One can hardly wonder that Mrs. Durwood is happy to have
him out of the house for the greater part of the day. He harms no one. His is a harmless sort of idiocy. It could be worse.”
“I have seen that sort of face on morons before, those upturned eyes. What can account for it, I wonder. He looks bright and alert.”
“It is only because he smiles so much. He’s been like that from birth. The other six are normal, thank God. It is a hard cross to bear, having insanity in the family.”
“Horrible,” I agreed, then we went out into the bright sunshine, leaving behind such wretched thoughts.
“This is a fine view of Wyngate,” I complimented, staring across the valley to the shining silver walls of his home. From this vantage point we saw the topiary garden and the rear of the house. We also saw my dower house, which was not visible from the road. Its location protected it from the rather cold winds that swept down the hills. I had a sudden vision of myself, comfortably ensconced in it, with a mature woman to bear me company and lend me respectability. I would be on terms with the other Blythes, have them calling on me and returning their calls. It seemed a pleasing future.
I did not notice it at the time, but it was the first time since Norman’s death that I envisioned the future with anything but dread.
“It is my favorite view,” he answered. When I looked at him I noticed again the upturned lips of satisfaction, the prideful content of being owner of all he surveyed. Then his head slowly turned to include me in his gaze. “It is a large house,” he added thoughtfully. “You could have your own apartment in it, if you desire privacy.”
I desired more privacy than that, but if it was a bribe to keep the dower house to rent, it was a tentative, premature one, and required no opinion on my part. I smiled and turned to look at the rest of the scene.
“What are those smaller buildings at the back, Homer?” I asked.
“The stone one is the dovecot. The other there in the shade is the icehouse. The larger wooden buildings are the stable and barns. Over the ridge is Cousin Bulow’s place,” he added.
“The house cannot be seen from here. We ought to be getting home. He was to arrive around four. Shall we go?”
Descending the hill at a sedate pace was even more difficult than climbing it, and required a tight grip on my arm by Homer. When we reached the level and walked to the whiskey, he still kept his hold on my elbow, but I was quickly becoming accustomed to it. It no longer felt strange, but comfortable. The unemotional chatter about the landscape might have had something to do with it. We returned home in good harmony.
Chapter 5
I stopped in to visit with Lady Blythe before going down to dinner. As I brushed my curls and attached my small strand of pearls, with a truant thought to the family jewelry mentioned by Homer, I was conscious anew of my appearance. Was it Thalassa’s mention of Bulow’s flirtatious nature that set me to examining my face so closely, or was it a memory of Homer? No matter, it was a good sign that I was taking an interest in the world again. I refused to feel guilty over it.
While a mere two months had passed since his death, it had been a period of unrelieved memory-raking. I had relived our courtship and marriage till it was all indelibly traced on my mind. I would never forget, but other happenings were bound to be superimposed over those memories, blurring them, softening the harsh outlines of the latter times, till they found their proper focus. Life goes on, and at last I was beginning to go on with it. So I dropped in on Thalassa to talk to her of the day’s doings.
“Was my son a good guide?” she asked.
“Very thorough. I enjoyed the outing.”
“Good. He loves every stick and stone about the place. He will be a fine keeper of Wyngate. Jarvis guards the past; Homer will look to the future.”
“It is a pity Norman had not left it in his keeping when his father died. I wonder that he didn’t.”
“Homer felt the slight, but there is no point pretending they were ever so close as real brothers would have been. Half-brothers—it is nearly worse than no kin at all, in a way. Norman always felt I favored my own son, and truth to tell, I did. I am but human, and loved Homer as my own flesh and blood, but I tried to love Norman.”
“Was he so hard to love?” I asked gently, a little hurt at her frank admission.
“Not at all. I did love him. He was only a child when I came to the place. I hoped I would be as his own mother to him, but I failed, Davinia. That is the plain and simple truth. I failed miserably. And I didn’t even know it till after he went away to school. When he was a mere child, he loved me. Then as he got older, he came to realize he was the important one to his papa, the one who was to be the new baronet, Sir Norman, and it went to his head a trifle. It began at Harrow, and worsened as he grew older, till in the end I was only tolerated. Your husband treated me with great condescension, my lady, so don’t bother hinting I was solely to blame.” She said it in a frank, jolly way, but she was serious, and I knew it.
“He lacked a sense of security, I think. He was given to boasting and bragging when I first met him too, but with marriage, he changed for the better. He didn’t even use his title. He was just plain Mr. Blythe.”
“That surprises me. I am happy to hear of the change. It is a pity his new sense of peace did not spill over to his relatives here at Wyngate.”
“It would have done, in time. Unfortunately, he was given very little time.”
“Pity,” she said softly, then sought to change the subject. I enquired for her comfort. She told me what new novel was entertaining her. And at the end of the visit, the subject of Bulow arose.
“Is that his first name, or his last?” I asked her.
“Neither. It is his middle name. Jason Bulow Blythe, but here we all call him Cousin Bulow. There was another Jason around when he was young, I believe, so his middle name was used. The name stuck, as youngsters’ names will often do. Eglantine, for instance, is still called Missie by her oldest friends.”
“The relationship is to the Blythes, then.”
“He was the nephew to Roger—my husband. That would make him first cousin, of course, to Homer and Norman. Actually he was always closer to Norman. They are the same age, and went to Harrow together. Later, Bulow went to London, and trained as a lawyer for a few years.”
“Does he run his estate himself?”
“Yes, he came home when his father died, and has remained there since. The Barrows is not so large a place as Wyngate, but larger than Farnley Mote. Eglantine has excellent prospects. Having no brothers, and being the older sister, she will inherit her papa’s place. I shouldn’t be surprised to see them spend half the year in London after their marriage.”
“Is the marriage settled?”
“Oh no. If they marry, I should have said. Cousin Bulow is capricious. There is no saying she will get him to the altar. He has had a few flings with other ladies since first taking up with her, but he always goes back, so we are coming to think of the matter as half settled.”
We both glanced at her clock simultaneously. “Yes, it is about time you joined them downstairs,” she said.
I knew Homer spent some time with his mother before she retired for the night, so I said I would see her in the morning and left.
From the head of the stairs I saw a golden-haired young man below, with a glass of wine in his hand, from which he sipped indolently. He turned to give a close scrutiny to some painting in a large gilt frame, cocking his head to the right and left for better viewing of some detail. It struck me as exactly the right occupation for him: His citified barbering and tailoring lent him the air of a dandy, while his gracefully lithe body and movements suggested the dilettante. He would be at home in the great salons of London or Paris, discussing not politics or farming but the latest marvel in drama or literature, music or painting. In my fancy, his companion would inevitably be a young lady. Cousin Bulow’s fashionable appearance suggested he was a lady’s man. These thoughts flitted through my mind while I descended the staircase.
Before I had got quite halfwa
y down he discerned the movement of my skirts and turned slowly to gaze at me. His honey-colored hair was worn slick. The black jacket and white shirtfront were unwrinkled, sitting like a second skin over his broad shoulders and tapering torso.
But 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.”