Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  “So she does,” Millie confirmed. “I’ll interview him first time he comes, Davinia, and see if the man knows what he is about. I always like to meet doctors. I feel the need to share my knowledge with them. The lore of nature is too much ignored.”

  “I’ll speak to Nevans next time he is here,” I decided, answering my own question.

  Homer looked dissatisfied. I thought he was going to object, but he said only, “You ought to at least tell him in person of your decision.” Then he went on to speak of other things, something about some trees ready for cutting in the little forest at the foot of the hill on which the windmill stood.

  After dinner, Millie invited me up to view her bloomers, finished now, and not unattractive, though it was a daring style more suited to a younger woman than one of Millie’s years. Practical for young girls, who still clambered over hills and up trees, I thought to myself. If I had a girl, I would make her up some. Strange, how everything spoken of led me back to it, my unborn child.

  I did not want to be alone that evening. I knew I would brood on Cousin Bulow’s conversation with me that afternoon, and was reluctant to ponder that too closely. So I looked around the laboratory, where she had sewed the bloomers, for some fresh topic of conversation.

  “What new cures are you decocting, Millie?” I asked her in a conversational manner, choosing a subject to please her.

  “I am doing some research at the moment,” she said grandly, pointing to a few books open at a table.

  “Mushrooms, is it?” I asked, glancing at the illustrations.

  “Yes, an entirely new field for me. Science does not use the therapeutic powers of mushrooms at all. We eat them, of course, but there is more than that to mushrooms. There is bound to be. When you find a plant that is poisonous, there is a cure for something in it. Why, half our medications are poison if used to excess. Laudanum, belladonna, henbane—we use them for sleeping draughts and neuralgia but, my, what killers!” She tutted happily.

  “I had a pretty kitty before Don Miguel,” she went on. “She got into some belladonna berries I was stewing in milk—an experiment only—and what a gross sight she was next morning. All swollen and bloated, poor thing, with blood coming out at her mouth.” She looked quite happy at the memory. I felt overwhelmingly nauseous.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested.

  “Did I upset you? Sorry, dear. I could have cured kitty with vinegar if I had known what ailed her, but I didn’t happen to notice she’d lapped up that bowl of milk. I should have known, for she was reeling like a drunkard, but I paid no heed, for some reason. My paregoric draught was boiling over—that’s what it was.”

  “What is it you’re doing with the mushrooms?” I asked, to change her direction.

  “Research. Thus far, I am only reading. There is no point looking for them in this season. Autumn is mushroom season—the prime time for them. The best spot is in the duff beneath the pine trees. When you see little bumps in the carpet of dead vegetation, you carefully pull it aside, and there you will find them.”

  “I have often seen them growing on lawns, and in meadows.”

  “Pooh—meadow mushrooms! They are no good for anything but eating, I am after rarer stuff. My favorite is Dead Man’s Fingers,” she said with a brilliant sparkle in her monkey eyes. “You would take them for the decomposing fingers of a corpse’s hand, to see them reaching up out of the ground, all slimy, black.”

  I willed down a shudder, for I took the idea she was trying to frighten me. “Do they have therapeutic powers?” I asked.

  “I haven’t looked into it yet. I told you I am just starting my research. I think the Avenging Angel has distinct possibilities. It is the poison ones that are likely to be cures in disguise,” she reminded me.

  “I gather from its name the Avenging Angel is deadly.”

  “It’s lovely. The interesting thing is that you eat it, for it don’t look treacherous in the least, and for two days you feel nothing. Then all of a sudden—” She clapped her hands sharply. “Bang! You’re a goner! Oh, God is a caution.” She laughed. “I wish I had been there at the Creation, helping him to arrange these little jokes for man.”

  Her cat had gone to the door, and looked back over his shoulder at her. “Do you want out? Go ahead, then. I don’t want you wetting on my floor and stinking up the place. Vinegar will take out the smell,” she added to me, always willing to share her arcane knowledge. The cat slithered off, and she turned back to me. “Likely he is only wanting out to chase she-cats. Don Miguel is a wicked flirt. Wicked.”

  “Cats will be cats,” I said,

  “Yes, there is no fighting nature. I saw you and Cousin Bulow in the garden this afternoon, strolling along, arm in arm. Do you feel Mother Nature pulling you to him, Davinia?”

  “No, Millie, I don’t,” I said repressively.

  She set her head to one side, her little aged yellow fringe jiggling. “Somebody is not telling Millie the truth,” she said, wagging a finger under my nose. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in a woman wanting a man, especially a woman in your state. It’s nature’s wisdom at work, and there is no point fighting that. I’ve given it a deal of thought, and here is the way it works. The body’s humors are all in an uproar to prepare you for the baby’s coming. Bile, pancreas, blood—all are working in you to turn you into a mother. And what does the baby need besides a mother? A father, of course. So in her wisdom, nature tells you so, by means of the humors. I need a man to protect and cherish me and my child, she is yelling at the top of her lungs. You hear her, sly girl. I see you casting those furtive looks on Homer, sizing him up, wondering if he is the one, or if Bulow would fill the bill better.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, but in a weak voice. She was an outrageous woman, inventing these preposterous tales, but always with just enough of common sense to make ignoring them impossible. I think Millie trod right down the center of that thin line dividing genius and insanity, with an occasional start in either direction.

  To tell the truth, I had experienced those sensations she spoke of. Lonesomeness, I called it, missing Norman. But of late, it was not Norman’s arms I wanted around me. Since feeling Homer’s once, it was his I wanted. I wanted a strong shoulder to help me bear the load of this child and the possibility of its being abnormal. I wanted someone strong and kind to help me manage my life afterwards, too, whatever form it took. Bulow was kind and strong. Why did I not want Bulow? He was handsome, dashing, attractive. But he wasn’t Homer.

  “Bah, why is a new notion always called ridiculous?” she asked in a resigned way. “Darwin—I expect you think he is ridiculous as well, if you have ever heard of him.”

  “Of course I have heard of him.”

  “I have read his book. Inspired! Just exactly what I always thought myself. I confess I was working on a slightly different track. I had not thought we all descended from apes and monkeys. I would love to speak to him, and see if he don’t agree with me that different tribes descended from various animals. There is no denying Bulow has a little the air of a fox, while Eglantine shows her ancestral traces to the sheep.” Insanity had taken over for the moment. “Though when I examine myself in the mirror, I can believe it was the monkeys we came from,” she finished. Regarding her, so could I.

  “You, on the other hand,” she added, turning to gaze at me, “are neither sheep nor monkey, nor quite fox either.”

  “What am I, Millie?” I asked, just for fun.

  She put a finger in her mouth and gazed at me till I became uncomfortable at such a long scrutiny. “Well?” I asked.

  “A minx,” she decided, and found it hilarious. I had thought she might say black cat, or black swan. My vanity was getting the upper hand of me. But of course it was not in appearance that she found the resemblance. Oh no, she thought I was a flirt.

  Chapter 13

  I spoke to Nevans when he came the next day, and told him I had decided to have Mather for my lying-in. He looked surpr
ised, but not very offended.

  “It is entirely your own choice. I believe him to be an excellent man. In fact, I have referred several patients to him. I am not as young as I once was. I am gradually letting go of my practice, not taking on any new patients, but continuing to visit those families I have doctored for years.”

  I was impressed with Mather. He did a more thorough examination than the older doctor had done. I was put on a different regime, featuring less food and more exercise. He also gave me an iron tonic, guaranteed, he said, to bring the color back to my cheeks.

  I took the prescribed exercise in the afternoons, making large circuits about the estate. I became familiar with the park first, got to know its secret glories of stream and wild flowers, and those sanctuaries where birds did not wish me to intrude on their nesting activities. Beyond the nests, I was welcome to listen and admire. Almost it seemed they put on a special show for my benefit.

  The meadow pipit would rise in the air, then sing its song as it descended. The skylarks were the greatest performers, warbling as they rose and came down. One would finish his act and another would take over, as though they had timed it. Rabbits hopped about between the trees that stretched out before me, one behind the other. It was peaceful without being at all boring. I looked forward to the advancing spring, to April with her warmer days and more abundant flowers.

  Woodie was not long in discovering my pastime, but by varying the hour of my walks I often avoided him, and felt mean for doing it.

  “You ought to take a footman with you, if you are walking so far as you say,” Homer informed me one evening at dinner. But I preferred to walk alone. I looked forward to that hour’s solitary ramble, with the birds and wild animals for company. It gave me time to think about my life.

  “That’s not necessary. Tomorrow I mean to walk up Windmill Hill. It must be a marvelous view from the top of the windmill.”

  “It is. You can see all the way to France. I’ve often seen it,” Millie told me. As France lay to the east, not the west, I knew she was in one of her less clever modes. If she saw any land other than England, it could only be Wales, as Ireland was too far away. Jarvis shook his head at me, but no one bothered to correct her.

  Cousin Bulow dropped in that evening. To honor his visit, Millie darted upstairs and put on her new bloomer outfit, causing us all to pull in our lips to prevent raucous laughter. She did look ludicrous, an ancient and wizened little lady wearing short skirts and lace-edged bloomers. To display their convenience, she insisted on performing a dance for us, and no ladylike one either, while the gentlemen sang and I played the piano.

  “You are ready for the music hall,” Bulow told her.

  “Couldn’t I show them a thing or two!” she answered, kicking up her heels and pirouetting around till she grew dizzy. “Wine! I have earned a glass of wine.”

  “You have earned champagne,” Bulow told her, but what she got was a glass of sherry.

  We found a private moment, during which I told Bulow I had seen his Dr. Mather and was well pleased with him.

  “They didn’t give you any trouble here?”

  “Not at all. How could they? I’m not under anyone’s guardianship. I am free to do as I please.”

  “There are subtle pressures that can be exerted. Disapproval, for instance.”

  “Subtle pressures do not work with me. They tried that.”

  “It’s best not to be too flagrant in annoying them, in your delicate condition.”

  “If I did everything Homer thinks I should, I would stay in bed all day, like his mother.” I felt a little guilty at the mention of this lady. I had been neglecting her recently. I still went daily to visit, but there was no pleasure in the visits. They were shorter than before, shrunk to a duty call “Now he has taken the foolish idea I need an escort for my daily walks, but I won’t accept it.”

  “That might not be a bad idea, Davinia.”

  “Oh, you’re as bad as he is!”

  “Let us say, as concerned as he is. Probably more so,” he added, with an intimate smile.

  Homer chose that moment to come pacing towards us, using the excuse of offering more wine, when he more usually urged me to refrain from it.

  “I have just been encouraging Davinia to follow your good advice, Homer, and take an escort with her on these hikes,” Bulow said, with a mocking smile that I could not understand.

  “You have volunteered for the job?” Homer asked with a show of unconcern belied by the tense set of his jaw.

  “Davie knows I am always at her disposal. I don’t have to tell her that,” he answered.

  “I wouldn’t dream of drawing you from your duties, Bulow. I walk for at least an hour every day. That would not be convenient for you, or any other working man.”

  “Some little inconvenience is expected in the pursuit of—pleasure,” Bulow riposted, hesitating over the last word, and implying by his tone and smile it was not the first word that had occurred to him. Homer was like a fish rising to the bait.

  “You would be better occupied pursuing duty. You will need a good season to pay off the new mortgage raised on the Barrows, will you not?” Homer asked.

  “I have an excellent steward. You will be happy to hear I am in no financial bind, Homer. I am not the master of so grand a place as Wyngate, that requires all my time. But then of course neither are you, really, though you take its duties so seriously. So where shall we walk tomorrow, Davie?” he asked, turning to me, and using again the nickname he had not used before that evening. I knew in my bones he did it to annoy Homer. I was a little annoyed with him myself.

  “I walk to the windmill, and probably climb to the top, but I mean to go alone. Never let it be said I have distracted a man from his duty.”

  “Not even Homer?” Bulow asked with a mischievous look.

  “Especially not Homer,” I answered blandly.

  “And why especially not Homer?” he continued, enjoying himself.

  “Because he does the work of two—my own, and his. You know he is running Wyngate while it is in escrow, as well as running his own place.”

  “No takers for Farnley Mote yet, Cousin?” Bulow asked, feigning surprise. “I was sure it would be snapped up in a trice, so well as you have kept it up. Roger put a good bit of money into it before he died, I understand.”

  “My father gave me some financial assistance in building new barns last year, yes. It is not unusual for a father to help both his sons.”

  “I wouldn’t know. My own papa was so inconsiderate as to die at an early age. I was astonished to hear Farnley Mote is on the block when Wyngate is not yet firmly in your hands. What will you do if our charming relative has a son? Would it not be wise to wait and learn whether you won’t need Farnley for yourself?”

  “Not at all,” Homer answered, holding in his anger. “If Davinia has a son, I shall live at Laversham’s and run it. It is a comparable place to my own. There will be little inconvenience.”

  “How eminently practical a planner you are, Cousin. Prepared for every contingency,” he complimented, but with a mocking light in his green eyes. “I am less practical, but do happen to have a plan to replace my walk with Davie. I shall go to the selling races at Exeter tomorrow, and probably squander my money on horseflesh. We Blythes are not keeping up our reputation at the races as we used to. The green silk with yellow hoop hasn’t been seen for several seasons.”

  He gave me an explanation for this speech, which had brought a frown of incomprehension to my face. “Earlier in the century, the Blythes were active in horse racing. Roger’s father won the Oaks and the St. Leger one year. It is my intention to capture the Triple Crown before I die. You see, Homer, I too have a sense of what is owing to the family.”

  He left soon afterwards, which allowed me to turn to the matter of greater interest. “I didn’t realize you had Farnley Mote up for sale, Homer.”

  “I have taken an option on Laversham’s. If I can sell my place within thirty days, I shall buy i
t. You were aware of my wish to get the property.”

  “Yes, but not that you were in the process of doing so. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We have gotten out of the habit of discussing business, Davinia. I am in my study each evening waiting for you, but as you have ceased coming, I took the idea you had lost interest. I have all records of transactions ready for your perusal, whenever you wish to come.”

  “Nothing important has happened. No major change in the running has occurred, has it?”

  “No major change is possible without your agreement. I spoke to you about the cutting in the north woods. The money is being used to pay for the tiling work, and to set a little aside for running expenses till the crops are harvested. I will be happy to go over accounts with you, at your convenience.”

  “That’s not necessary. I trust you.”

  “And prefer not to be alone with me. I understand. If you will excuse me, I must go up and visit my mother now. She has so few visitors during the day,” he added, with an accusing, angry glare at my defection.

  “I feel like dancing. Why don’t we have a party, Jarvis?” Millie asked. “I want to show off my bloomers.”

  “You forget we are in mourning,” he reminded her.

  “We could have a mourning party,” she essayed, with more ingenuity than common sense.

  I went upstairs shortly after. As I got ready for bed, I thought I could see the first signs of my changing figure. I still had my small waist, but some slight thickening was beginning to occur, and my breasts were fuller. How very strange, incredible, to consider that a new life was growing within me. Did all women feel this was a miraculous thing, a very special time for them?

  Did they all feel so frightened to know their time was approaching as inevitably as the flowing of the tides? Did they have this aching, yearning loneliness too? No, of course they had not. They had a husband to comfort and reassure them at this trying time, to assuage their terrible fears, and I was frightened to death of the actual birth.