by Joan Smith
“The first item to be settled is that you are pregnant. I understand Aunt Millie is the one who convinced you of it.”
“I didn’t tell your mother that.”
“Millie has been broadcasting it belowstairs.”
“I have cause to believe she is right.”
“Wouldn’t it be wise to consult a doctor?”
“I have no objection to seeing a doctor. He isn’t likely to change matters. It is not unusual for a married woman to be with child, you know.”
“You must admit it is unusual for a widow of eight weeks not to have been aware of it sooner. I should think you would have known it long before now.” There was more than a hint of suspicion in those dark, accusing eyes.
I gasped at the imputation—for that was certainly his meaning—that some other gentleman than Norman was responsible for my state. “I have suspected it for some time,” I said, not truthfully, but to squash at the outset any notion of a lover. “Millie caught me out, and as she has told the world, my little secret is out.”
“Why didn’t you tell us at once?”
“I only arrived this week! I planned to tell everyone very soon—as soon as I was positive.”
“Then you did not see a doctor at Norfolk?”
“No, but as it preys on your mind, by all means have the local man sent around. I would like to speak to him. I want to do everything that is proper during my confinement. Will you look after it for me, Homer?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. I understand some parcels arrived for me from Norfolk. I am going down to retrieve them.” I made to pass by him. He moved a little, to block my passage.
“Perhaps the estate jewelry is included in the parcels,” he suggested in a sneering way.
“I doubt it. But when it shows up, we must discuss its disposition for the next seven months. At the end of that time, we shall know which of us is to have it. Good day.”
I gave him a bold, meaningful stare as I said this, did it on purpose to show him I was not a child but a woman with firm views, and the conviction to execute them. I was to be consulted, not ordered about like a child.
I had the pleasure of seeing him glare, his lips tense, nostrils flared, while he listened to me. “May God have pity on you,” he said, and turned to stride down the hall.
I continued downstairs. Millie and Jarvis sat below, her news marvelous enough to have dragged him away from his writing. Their eyes, brightly curious, turned towards me as I advanced, making me uncomfortable. Jarvis, I noticed, stared at my abdomen, gauging its size.
“Here they come, mother and child. Heh heh,” Millie trumpeted loudly, as though proclaiming the grand entrance of the resident freak at a circus. Jarvis looked extremely uncomfortable.
“We have heard the news,” he said in a commiserating way.
“Delightful, is it not?” I asked, my lips thinning.
“As to that, under the circumstances...”
“My child has lost a father, but still has a mother. I do not consider it a tragedy, but on the contrary am very happy,” I said, taking a seat and settling my skirts about me.
“You’ll have to stop lacing. I warned you about it already,” Millie said, bouncing over to sit beside me. “I’ll take good care of you, dear. They’re all worried to ribbons, but everything will be fine.”
“Hush, Millie,” Jarvis chided, for which. I was grateful. “Davinia must have a proper doctor.”
“Much good he will do her. Doctors know nothing about these unusual births.” Jarvis gave her a sharp, quelling look, which made her fall silent.
I knew it was not the birth but the conception whose “unusual’ nature they had been discussing. Homer had been spreading his poisonous notion about my child’s paternity. But I would not lower myself to admit comprehension. They’d see, when my time came, that the dates were in no way suspicious. It was best to ignore their taunts. Very likely poor Millie had some mad theory by which adulterine children were grotesques, or idiots. A picture of Woodie flitted through my mind, causing a shiver.
“You are chilly, Davinia. Come closer to the fire,” Jarvis urged, and arose to draw a chair forward for me.
Such was my mistrust of the whole family that this simple kindness was subjected to scrutiny. Was he only worming his way into my good graces, in case my child was a son? Surely not. He looked concerned, even—how strange—he looked with pity on me. The next months would be trying, though.
“What will you call him, Davinia?” Millie asked, moving up to the fire along with me.
“Him? You mean my child?” She nodded. “Who is to say it will be a boy?”
“If it’s a girl, you are to call her Millicent, remember. That was our bargain.”
“We struck no bargain,” I pointed out. “If I have a girl, I would like to call her Margaret, after my mother. Perhaps Margaret Millicent,” I amended, at the stricken expression that came over her.
“What we must do is get hold of an ass, and get ass’s milk for you,” was her next speech. “It will do young Millie a world of good.”
Jarvis looked at her and shook his head. She was arranging the future to her liking.
“I’ll tell you what,” she exclaimed, jumping up. “Come up to my laboratory and I’ll make you a nice restorative right now.”
“Why don’t you run along and do it, Millie?” Jarvis suggested. “Let Davinia rest. All those stairs aren’t good for her.” This proved acceptable to her. She hastened off, muttering to herself.
“You will have your work cut out, avoiding her,” he said. “This will be an affair much to her liking, having a patient in the house twenty-four hours a day.”
“If it amuses her, there is no harm done. I wouldn’t take any of her potions.”
“As to that, she does know herbs and things. She tends to all the servants’ ills, but of course you will be under the care of Dr. Nevans.”
We talked for ten minutes, during which time I saw clearly that Jarvis was troubled, but that he did not blame me for the state of affairs. It was natural, I supposed, that he favored his own nephew for the heir, over the child of a stranger, for with Norman dead, that is all I was to them. I was learning well enough that Homer had always been the favorite in this household. Sly mentions of Norman’s drinking, his wild ways, crept in oftener than I have stated. After our talk, I went to get the boxes that had come for me. They were Norman’s books and writings—no jewelry, of course. I handed them over to Jarvis, and went out for a walk before lunch.
I wandered through the topiary garden, trying to decide whether I liked it. Homer went out on some estate business. I ate with Millie and Jarvis, a quiet meal, with our former topic shoved under the table, which was a relief. I planned to walk in the afternoon, but the morning’s white clouds had turned to leaden gray, so I stayed indoors. The house was large, and still unfamiliar to me after only one brief tour, so that I decided to pass the afternoon becoming familiar with it. I was not hankering after the house, but if it were to be my son’s, then it was well for me to know more about it.
I wandered from empty room to empty room abovestairs, assessing furnishings and decor, with, I confess, some vague ideas floating around as to changes that would be made if I were to be mistress in seven months. Would any woman with blood in her veins have done less? There was much that was fine in the chambers, and many a dusty, faded curtain and carpet that wanted replacing.
At some point in my tour Millicent came creeping silently up behind me, nearly frightening me out of my wits when she appeared at my elbow. “I warrant Jarvis didn’t show you Emily’s suite,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“Norman’s mother? You are mistaken, Millie. I did see it the other day, and a very fine room it was too.”
“The front room is well enough. That’s not where they kept her, but only where her nurse stayed. They kept Emily under lock and key. Oh my, yes, with barred windows,” she added, her eyes widening. “Come along and I’ll show you,” sh
e urged. I had no wish to be overly friendly with her, and said I was very tired, to get away. After I heard the attic door close, and knew she had gone to her laboratory, I crept quietly back to Emily’s chamber for another look. Not that I believed her, but mixed in with her nonsense were a few nuggets of truth.
The room was as I remembered it, a pleasant chamber, the walls covered in flowers, the window hangings rose, and the bed coverlet green satin. It was overly feminine for my own taste, but a good room. It adjoined the master’s suite, with the door between on the latch. I did not want to invade Homer’s lair, but obviously the window had no bars. A quick peep told me that. I was about to leave when I noticed the other door. It was not obvious at a glance, as the door had been covered in the flowered paper, a strange conceit. The frame was painted, however. I don’t mean to say the door opening had been papered over.
I went to it and tried the knob. It was locked. I was curious enough that I went out to the garden to see if the window did have bars, but it had not. It was one of Millie’s imaginings. A dressing room very likely, though it was odd it was locked. It was also odd it did not open to the hallway, but was a private chamber after all. Likely Lady Blythe had not wanted to be disturbed at her toilette.
It was a long day to get in, with the heavy weather making a walk ineligible. Soon I would have gathered my creature comforts about me like the others. Embroidery, knitting, sewing, reading, and a little painting. Mr. Dickens’ book lent me by Thal was too sad for my present mood. I would go instead to the library and look for a lighter one. As I went along to it, I saw Homer had returned from his work and was being fed alone in the morning parlor, with one of the servants hopping attendance on him. It was one I had not seen before. The woman looked at me with interest, and Homer beckoned me in.
“I am having a late lunch. Will you share this fresh pot of tea with me, Davinia?” he invited.
It was an overture of friendliness, and in the interest of smooth relations I accepted it. “This is our cook, Mrs. Soper,” he added. She was a broad woman with a high complexion. She smiled and curtsied, and I expressed my appreciation for the fine meals she had been serving us.
A cup was put on the table for me, but her main interest and pleasure was to serve Sir Homer. She doted on him like a mother; you could see her love in the way she hovered about, proffering chutney and pickles to spice his cold meat, while her eyes scanned the table to see what else she might give him. When his plate was heaped, she left, but reluctantly.
“You have an admirer there,” I said in a light vein.
“Mrs. Soper lives under the illusion I saved her son’s life. He fell in front of a horse and I had the wits, as any adult man would, to shove him out of the animal’s way before he was trampled. Since that time several years ago she is mine to do with as I please,” he admitted with a dismissing smile. She was not the attractive sort of woman about whom this statement would have any overtones of misbehaving.
“A cook is a good woman to have under your thumb,” I said.
“She’ll kill me with kindness yet. And when she goes to the bother of baking up my special foods, I haven’t the heart to confess I am full, but must just try the gingerbread, or shortcakes, or whatever she has made.”
“She is a good cook. We will all have to watch our waistline here,” I said, never thinking how my own would grow willy-nilly.
“How do you pass the morning?” he asked.
“By talking, and snooping about the house, coming to know it a little. Millie told me one of her peculiar tales, all imagining I’m sure, about Norman’s mother having been locked away behind bars. I did notice though that the dressing room adjoining her chamber is locked. Is there any reason for it?”
Why this should send his brow lifting an inch intrigued me. His lips too took on their pinched, angry look. “Were you planning to move into it? As events have transpired, my moving into the master suite is premature, but I hope you will wait till I have my belongings removed before you take up occupancy of the adjoining chamber.”
“Homer, that’s not why I... It never so much as occurred to me. I am not in such an almighty rush as that to assume mistress-ship of the place. Naturally we must wait to see whether you are the heir or not. In the meanwhile, there is nothing wrong with your sleeping in the master suite.”
“Kind of you to say-so,” he said, shoving his meat aside.
Cook entered with a plate of plum cake, I knew it for a family treat. She even sent Norman a box of it occasionally. In fact, he had received some the day he died, but I had no desire to bring up that subject, so didn’t mention it. I was perturbed at Homer’s interpretation of my innocent question and wanted to straighten out my feelings, but he had soon switched to another matter.
“Dr. Nevans will be here to attend you this afternoon. I hope you have not made other plans. After he has left, the solicitor will want to talk with us both. He is to be here at four.” There was a dictatorial tone in all this that annoyed me.
“I have not made other plans, but in future I would like to be consulted on appointments being made for me. I don’t believe I’ll finish this tea after all. What time is the doctor coming?”
“At two-thirty. Plenty of time.”
“I will be in my room. I had planned to take a nap, but by all means have me notified.”
I bowed my head curtly and left, my bosom heaving with vexation. It was not the appointments that annoyed me, but that imputation of having gone to claim the mistress’s room for my own while Sir Homer’s belongings still occupied the master suite. Not that he had any more right to take those important chambers than I! And he hadn’t answered my question about Millie’s story either.
Chapter 8
Dr. Nevans was a harmless enough man. He was of middle years, with a mild manner. The delicate questions he had to ask me discomposed him. I held that to account for his diffident air, one almost of disapproval. In the end, it was his professional opinion that I was with child. He outlined a diet and regime for me; plenty of milk and beef, walking but no riding or overly strenuous lifting, plenty of rest and sleep.
“I’m sure everything will be all right. This is not the time for you to be too concerned. Worry won’t do you or the child any good.”
“I am not particularly worried,” I informed him. “Naturally I would much prefer that my husband were still alive, but widows have borne up under childbirth before.”
He frowned faintly. Ought I to have made more fuss, more protestations of feminine fright and sorrow?
“Yes, well I shall do everything in my power. I will stop in to see you from time to time. In the meanwhile, don’t fancy yourself an invalid. You can do the normal things except riding, but do them in moderation.”
As I was not an immoderate person, and did not ride at all, I foresaw no change in my activities till my increasing size incapacitated me somewhat. The doctor went on to Thal’s room, and I looked at my watch to see how much time remained till the solicitor’s arrival.
With an hour to be passed, I sat on the edge of the bed. Some lethargy invaded my very bones. I was suddenly exhausted. Perhaps the doctor was right, and an increasing woman needed more rest. Before I knew it I was lying down and fast asleep. I was still sleeping when a servant came to tell me Mr. Rupert awaited me in Sir Homer’s study. I felt tired still when I arose to prepare myself, tired and cranky.
Sir Homer sat behind the desk in a wood-paneled office, quite a handsome room, with the solicitor across from him. They both arose to greet me and show me to the other chair. Mr. Rupert was one of those skeletal men, the shape of his bones apparent through tightly drawn skin, with only enough flesh to cover them. The law had drawn off all his humor and joy. He was as dry and dull as a law book.
“An unusual case we are faced with, but by no means unique,” he informed us. “There is nothing new under the sun, or very little. I shall spend the next days looking into precedents, but my trained opinion is that the estate is in escrow till the birth of Lad
y Blythe’s child, at which time it will revert to yourself if the child is female, Sir Homer, and to the child if he is a male. As Sir Norman left no other guardian, then Lady Blythe—yourself, ma’am—will be the child’s guardian in either case, whether male or female issue.”
“We understand that, Mr. Rupert,” Homer said impatiently. “What we wish to learn is what is to be done in the meanwhile. Which of us is to manage affairs here?”
“What would a lady know about management? A guardian should be appointed. I would be happy to act in that capacity, with of course Lady Blythe’s and your own approval, but on a day-to-day basis you will continue to run things,” he decided. “I shouldn’t think Lady Blythe would have any objection to that.”
Both gentlemen regarded me. It was Mr. Rupert who spoke. “I can vouch absolutely for Sir Homer’s integrity and knowledge in these affairs. You would not want to be bringing in an outsider. He would have to be paid, and what is the point? You both want the same thing. Both are interested in maintaining the estate, and improving it if finances allow. There can be no conflict of interest between you.”
“I have no objection to Sir Homer’s continuing as manager, with the proviso that I be consulted on any major matters. Sales, purchases—those matters involving large sums of money should be discussed with me.”
“I’m not planning on any wholesale buying or selling,” Homer exclaimed, displeased with my stand, but Mr. Rupert upheld me, as my agreement was required to appoint him guardian.
When this was settled, Mr. Rupert broached another troublesome subject. “About the estate jewelry, Lady Blythe...”
“I have already told Sir Homer I know nothing about it. I have never seen it. I was not aware of its existence till he told me.”
Mr. Rupert was surprised into a normal utterance. “What the deuce could he have done with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d better institute some investigations in Norfolk,” Homer informed him.
“I will. I cannot go myself. I’ll send a clerk down to make enquiries of the local merchants and gentry. It’s possible he sold it, which is illegal of course, and well he knew it.”