by Joan Smith
I joined the family for lunch, not because I felt like eating, but because I wanted to avoid talk. I was relieved that Homer was not there. I didn’t worry much about Millie, and Jarvis already knew what troubled me. I don’t know at what hour Homer did return, but he was at the table for dinner.
While the men were taking port, Millie asked me upstairs to help her with her bloomers. She had got them cut out all wrong, poor thing, not allowing sufficient material to form the crotch. She had just cut out a skirt, and sliced it down the middle. I pieced an extra bit on for her, knowing the result would be unlovely, but a skirt came down below the knees, and the outfit was for home wear only.
She had the lace, given to her the night before, set out in front of her, along with my buttons. “I shall look very elegant,” she informed me, smiling at these trinkets. “If they are a great success, I’ll make them up in all shades of the rainbow. Do you think the lavender too dashing, as we are in mourning?”
“Not at all. It is the traditional color for half mourning.”
“Shall I tell you something naughty?” she asked, with one of her impish grins. “I am not in mourning for Norman at all. He is better off dead. We were all better off with him gone, till you... But who is to say it will be a boy?”
“You would have preferred for Homer to inherit?” I asked, angry, but not surprised that she should be the one to blurt out the unvarnished truth.
“At least he is perfectly normal. Norman’s mother was not, you must know. My own sister, I ought not to say it, but it’s true. That’s why they locked her up.”
“In what way was she not normal?” I asked, remembering those bars she had imagined to be on her sister’s windows.
“It was the melancholia that got her. After Norman came along she went into a sorry decline. She let herself go, Davinia. She ought not to have done it. Roger was always so proud of her looks. He liked good lookers. You have only to look at what remains of Thalassa to see he liked pretty women. I never was pretty. He never cared for me.”
“People don’t die of melancholia. What did she die of?”
“She had the milk leg, after the birth. Walking was difficult for her. She might have tripped. We called it an accident. It was for the best, in her condition.”
“Where did she trip? People don’t die of tripping either, unless they trip off a cliff.”
“Or a roof.”
“Are you telling me she fell off a roof, Millie?’“
“It could have been the roof. Who knows? Her window was closed, and her door was open. She might have got to the roof. They think I’m crazy, but I know if she jumped from the window, she didn’t close it behind her, and it was closed. Roger should have put on bars.”
“You told me he had put on bars,” I said, impatiently, realizing she was rambling.
“Did I? That’s odd. He didn’t get them on. They were ordered, but she jumped before he got them put on. They’re in the cellar. I can show them to you. I often go to look at them. They’re growing rusty—such a long time ago it was.”
“Why was he going to put bars on her window?” I asked, wondering if there was any truth at all in this tale.
“So she wouldn’t jump. She often threatened to do it.”
“Was she so depressed as that after Norman’s birth?”
“That made it worse. The doctor said so. But it was knowing Roger no longer loved her that did it, if you ask me.”
I was intrigued enough that I determined to speak to Jarvis about this next time we were alone. Millie looked up suddenly and said, “You can go now. Homer will be waiting for you. I never like to keep young lovebirds apart.”
She smiled mischievously, waiting for me to contradict her. I didn’t satisfy her to make a fuss. “Then I had better go, hadn’t I?”
“Heh heh. Do I hear wedding bells?” she asked.
“No, you hear your kettle singing. Will you be having your tea alone, or are you going down to talk to Thalassa?”
“I’ll drop in on her when I get the lace on. She is very interested in my bloomers. She says if she could walk, she’d have a pair herself. Wouldn’t they have been dandy for her riding, though? Just the thing.”
She turned her head from me and began humming softly. It was “Greensleeves” she hummed, the old ballad about an inconstant ladylove. I did not look for any irony in it. When I reached the first landing, I changed my mind about going to the study. I was in no mood to do further battle with Homer about Laversham’s farm, and that was bound to be his subject that evening. I preferred to talk to Jarvis instead. I went on down the main staircase, admiring, as I always did, the myriad lights from the chandelier, but too soon I was distracted from it. Homer was pacing the hall, waiting for me. He looked both worried and firm. I read it as a warning of his mood, and swept past him with only a nod. His arm went out, and he grabbed my elbow.
“I have been waiting for you. Will you come to the study for tea?”
“I was just going to see Jarvis.”
“He’s gone out. The Tories have a meeting in Bridgewater this evening. He always attends them.”
“Oh.”
Before I had time to invent another excuse, he was directing the butler to bring the tea tray to his study. He didn’t let go of my arm, but propelled me down the hall and into the room without another word.
“I hear you had a fainting spell this morning,” he mentioned, after we were seated. “Jarvis mentioned you were overcome in his study. Do you have these spells often?”
“No, just the one,” I said, looking to try to read by his face what else he knew. I concluded Jarvis had not revealed the reason for my collapse, as he spoke on about taking proper nourishment and getting my rest. “It was the trip to Taunton that did you in,” he finally concluded.
I was content to let him think this. The butler brought the tray in and put it on the desk. I was becoming accustomed to his unfortunate looks. He was a good enough butler after all, and couldn’t help looking like a goat.
“Please close the door when you leave,” Homer called to him. Any departure from the usual way excites interest. I wondered what secret matter Homer might wish to discuss. I feared Jarvis had told him about Norman, and was angry. To my surprise, he cropped out into an apology on another matter.
“I was overly enthusiastic in pushing my plan down your throat,” he began, in his customary blunt way. ‘‘We had waited so long, so many years, to annex Laversham’s that I took it for granted you too would wish it.”
“For most of those years it was assumed Norman would inherit Wyngate, Homer. Why did you wait so anxiously?”
“My father wanted it. Norman wanted it. It was a family project. I too was a son, you know, even if the younger one. When I believed the estate to be mine, my interest in the scheme increased. I still maintain it would be an excellent purchase, but that is not why I asked you here tonight. I apologize for the headstrong nature of my presentation. You are quite correct to put forth your own views with equal strength and passion. Those views are known now, and respected.”
“Then it is settled,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.
His tentative face told me it was not settled in his mind. I looked, wondering what his next idea would be. He cleared his throat nervously a few times, drew a deep breath, and plunged in. “This is hardly the time to discuss it, when you are carrying Norman’s child. In the usual way, nothing would force me to speak till a year was up, but this is an exceptional
case. You must know, Davinia, that I am fond of you. We all are. That is—Norman gave us a peculiar notion of your character. We expected a spoiled lady, impossible to please, and were delighted to receive—you.”
“I am happy if I have found some favor with the family,” I answered, wondering why this bit of praise should make him so nervous.
He got up from his chair, paced the floor a couple of times. Finally he stopped and leaned over me, grabbing my two hands in his, in quite as painful a grip as I had come to expect
from a Blythe.
“That is not what I am trying to say at all. I am not speaking of mere fondness.” His head hovered above mine, his eyes regarding me with a passionate intensity. “I am talking about love. From the first time we were alone, I have known I would love you violently, madly. We have had our little disagreements, nothing to signify, a docile woman would never suit me. Can you forget the briefness of our acquaintance, forget that you are carrying my brother’s child, and think only of us? This was bound to happen sooner or later. It is happening sooner, sooner than propriety decrees. That’s all. I am saying I love you. I want to marry you, when—after the child is born. We could hardly do it before.”
I’m sure I must have sat openmouthed at this unexpected speech. Words were beyond me to make a reply. For one foolish instant I was flattered. He loved me so unreasonably that no amount of impropriety could silence him. That is a flattering notion when the speaker is a handsome man. A flickering series of future scenes to be enacted darted through my head; none of them displeasing to me.
“Homer, you cannot mean...”
“But I do,” he declared ardently, and scooped me up into his arms. I was pulled from the chair, locked against him, and before I gained the use of my wits, he was kissing me. My last such experience with my husband was far behind me. I had nearly forgotten the excitement of a man’s intimate touch, the demand of his lips, causing that turmoil in the chest that flies to the bowels, inflaming desire, weakening the will and common sense. I should never have let him kiss me. With the last of my native intelligence, I pushed him away.
“Homer, don’t. This is not right,” I gasped.
“Right?” he asked in a husky voice, his eyes wild, distracted, staring at my lips as though he were hypnotized. “What is inevitable can’t be wrong,” he told me, and pulled me back against him.
I resisted, jabbering the whole time, to keep my lips from doing what they wanted. They wanted to fly back to his, to feel that hot pressure, kindling a flame that was eager to burn. He wanted it too. That, when I thought of it later, was my little consolation. For whatever reason he decided to make love to me, once started, the thing took hold, and went beyond his control.
“No, no,” he insisted, as I babbled confused protestations.
“It’s not wrong. I love you. I love you, I love you, my darling Davinia.” A shower of sweet kisses fell on my eyes, my cheeks, my lips and neck. They were passionate, not contrived, stage-play kisses. Whatever else I found to dislike in the affair, I could not deride his ardor.
His hands played over my back, then one slid up to hold my neck in a warm cup, as he braced my head to receive his kisses, long, lingering kisses that began with a touch and increased to a frenzy that left us both breathless. I lost the last shred of reason, submitted to him, as some inner instinct dictated. I wanted only for him to hold and protect and love me, and carry all the weight of responsibility from my shoulders. Yes, it was too soon. We would have to conceal our love for some months, but what was the point of denying the existence of a tide? The elemental force was there, ruling reason, and I was giddily happy to succumb to it. With his strong arms holding me, I felt wonderfully as though I had sailed into a safe harbor after a perilous journey.
“I—I had no idea you loved me,” I said, savoring the word.
“I am honored and delighted that it pleases you,” he said softly. A smile of male triumph was on his lips, and a glow was in his eyes. He lifted my hands to his lips, kissed my fingers, and we both resumed our seats.
With a nervous smile and a trembling hand, I poured tea. It had grown cold enough that no steam rose from the spout. For how long had we been lost to time, wrapped up in our love? I poured his cream and sugar, taking this wifely duty to myself for the first time, and handed him the cup. His significant smile told me he too felt the new status, and enjoyed it.
A short silence settled around us. It was not a comfortable one either. The air was charged with an electrical excitement.
“This makes what I have to say much easier,” Homer said, reverting to a more businesslike voice, though his eyes still wore the glow of a lover. “About Laversham’s place. As we are to marry as soon as decently possible, there is nothing to prevent putting a bid on it. I’ll sell my place and live here with you. We will want to be together. I expect I’ll oversee Wyngate if you have a son. And if not, then I will be the legal owner. Either way, it would be a shame to let Laversham’s go out of Wyngate hands. If your son inherits, you can repay me over the years. We will want to build up a nest egg for our own children, you know. In fact, when the boy is grown, we’ll move out and set up a spot of our own.”
This was not what I had expected to hear. Common sense came crashing down around me, and anger rose up from the dust. “You are despicable!” I said, my heart thudding. “You use love as an excuse to have your own way. You don’t love me. You just want my agreement to buy Laversham’s.”
“Davinia, how can you say such a thing?”
“How can I think anything else? I am sorry I listened to you. You deceived me.”
“I told you nothing but the truth.”
“Your version of the truth. The whole of it is you want Laversham’s so badly you’d marry me to get it, and maybe even convince yourself you care for me a little. If that is how you construe love, leave me out of it. For me, love never was and never will be a question of money or property.”
An angry flush crept into his cheeks. “You managed a financially rewarding match for yourself, despite your lofty claims,” he said stiffly. “What did you bring to the marriage, outside of a pretty face?”
“I brought myself. It is all Norman wanted.”
“Yes, I didn’t mean to imply the face came unattached to a body, but it is the custom for the bride of a baronet to bring with her a dowry.”
“Well, I didn’t bring one to Norman, and I will not be bringing the dowry of Laversham’s place to you either, Sir Homer. Your scheme has failed.”
“You have already agreed to marry me,” he shouted.
“I have had a change of mind in the matter, and a change of heart. I was the victim of a moment’s passion. The moment has passed.”
“Are you telling me you won’t marry me?”
“Just so, and what is more important in your view, I am reiterating that I do not agree to the purchase of Laversham’s. You’ll have to find some other trick to get it.”
His features drew into a sneer. “Don’t worry, I will.”
“Good night, sir.” I arose and flounced from the study, skirts billowing like a sea about me, and detracting from my dignity.
I wanted to be alone, so went upstairs to my room. I reviled myself for an idiot, to have been blind to his true purpose. What vanity on my part, to think Homer loved me. What lack of breeding to have permitted him to make love to me. And what insanity to regret the outcome. For in spite of all, I waited with some hope that refused to die, for a sound of a footstep outside my door. If it was truly myself Homer wanted, and not Laversham’s, he would come and tell me so. Forget Laversham’s, he would say, just marry me. That’s all I really want.
He didn’t come. I didn’t hear a sound from below, either. Perhaps he went to her, that other woman, his tenant’s wife, whom I had forgotten all about during the great proposal scene.
Chapter 12
The argument with Homer, though not revealed to the family, cast a pall over life at Wyngate. Our tea parties in his study were discontinued. It was discomforting to have to sit beside him at table. We were each at pains to avoid the other as much as possible, which was most of the time. He breakfasted early; I made sure to stay in my room till he left on his morning’s business. When he returned for lunch, and on many days he did not, he arrived at odd times. Being cook’s favorite, he was catered to at whatever inconvenient hour he popped in. It was only at dinner that we had to sit beside each other. My place had been arranged at his right, and to change it would require an explanation which we were loath to g
ive.
So we sat side by side, making stilted talk. How was I feeling today, was the usual opener. My unexciting day’s activities were mentioned. He said vaguely what he had been doing. The weather took up a few moments, impinging as it did on his own work about the place, affecting crops and so on. The family in general were kept informed on the progress of the drainage work going forth. Any small local doings were stretched out to their limit. Births—was it Mrs. Gilchrist’s fourth child, or her third? How many boys did that make, then? And the eldest, Billie—would he be ten now? Soon able to help his father with the farm work. Old Tom could use a hand around the place. Jarvis and Millie were helpful in this charade. They knew something was wrong between us, and it was inevitable that Millie would want to hear about it, Jarvis too was curious, but more discreet.
I felt alone, cut off from my old home and friends, with many troubles to beset me. Thal, who might have made a good confidante, was eliminated. I could hardly discuss her son in unflattering terms with her. But Homer was not the only weight on my mind. I thought of Norman’s inexplicable behavior, and of Millie’s tale about his mother. When the opportunity arose, I asked Jarvis about the latter. It was in the saloon one afternoon we happened to be there alone together.
“How did Norman’s mother die, Jarvis?” I asked.
“Has Millie been telling you tales?” he asked sapiently.
“Yes. She fell from a window or roof, I take it?”
“We don’t know what happened. No one saw it,” he told me, with a sorrowful shake of his head. “She was an unstable girl. After Norman was born she went into a strong state of depression. It happens sometimes with women. She was suicidal. She tried to cut her wrists. Roger had to have a nurse with her around the clock. The nurse said she tried to jump out the window one night, so they moved her to the virgin’s room, behind her own chamber. It has no window, and can only be reached through the larger bedchamber. The little virgins’ rooms were a feature of homes some years ago, to ensure the safety of a young visiting female, or the daughter of the house, if she were more wayward than she should be. Roger ordered bars for Emily’s own room, but they were not put on. She was found dead in the courtyard below. As her window was closed, we assumed she got up to the attic and jumped from there—from a window or the roof. It’s possible to climb out onto the roof. We often did it as children.”