Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  But when I thought of Norman, I was almost relieved he was gone. His memory was tainted for me now by the knowledge of his deception. It was not Norman I longed for, but his brother. He was still interested too; his jealous looks at Bulow told me so. But how much did this jealousy concern myself, and how much Wyngate?

  As a sort of olive branch to the Blythes, I spent a longer time with Thalassa the next morning. For an hour I sat with her, discussing family doings, recounting to her Millie’s new outfit, which she had seen, and her dance, which she had not. We talked about Homer’s decision to sell Farnley Mote and buy Laversham’s. She put it forward as a straight business deal, but of course it was only done with the hope he would inherit Wyngate.

  “It is prime land, better than Farnley Mote. And it is closer, for Homer’s present place is joined on at the rear end of Wyngate, you see. He has to travel five miles to get to it. But I think it is the water frontage he covets as much as anything. It is beautiful, and Homer gets his major enjoyment from just looking about his lands. Of course, it would be fine to have it for boating and picnics and so on too. Roger was always wishing he could buy it.”

  We tactfully avoided any talk of doctors. It would take time to rework the rent in the fabric of our friendship, but it was worth doing. She was the only normal woman in the near vicinity, and one needs women friends. She needed my company too, perhaps more than I needed hers. Eglantine was still

  no more than an acquaintance; she mistrusted me because of Bulow, and perhaps I resented her for having been Norman’s first choice.

  When I set out for my afternoon walk, my heart was a little lighter. The day was fine, a dazzling sun set in azure skies, with little lace clouds so fragile and pretty, dancing across the blue. Wild flowers dotted the slopes, some golden as newly minted coins, others white as snowflakes. A wind riffled my shawl and lifted my full skirts, but it was not a cold wind. It spoke of warmer days to come, of lambs aborning, apple blossoms, and lilac. I ran towards the hill, reveling in the fine day, then looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. They would not like to see me so venturesome in my “delicate condition.” My glance also looked for Woodie, and was delighted not to see him.

  From the crest of the hill I looked down to Wyngate—solid, silver, with tufts of smoke curling up from not less than five chimneys. Closer to me, the dower house crouched, like an offspring of Wyngate, but that was my own preoccupation shaping my images. Either one will do for me, I thought. I can be happy as mistress of either establishment. I don’t need a mansion. A comfortable house will do well enough.

  I turned to the windmill and lifted my arm to reach the latch, noticing that Homer had not padlocked it, as he had mentioned doing. It was like stepping into a tomb, that first pace out of the sunlight’s glare. The eyes took a moment to adjust, but the smell struck me at once, that slightly moldy odor from split corn that had sat for years, forgotten. When I could see properly, I went to the staircase that curved around the inner wall of the cylindrical structure, grasped the bannister, and started my ascent. There were three floors: a long climb. In some spots it was dark, depending on the location of the windows. When one did not coincide closely with the floor above, a patch of heavy gloom resulted, but as my head reared through the cutout in the floor that permitted the stairs to rise, it was lighter. It was eerily silent within. A little scampering in corners spoke of mice, but I did not actually see any.

  As I reached the top floor, the wind was loud. It keened through the openings where the mechanism for changing the direction of the arms was located. Swallows had made a nest up here, out of the blast of the wind. Two small windows gave me the view, not of France, or even Wales, but of the sea, stretching cold and gray beyond, wimpled to white caps by the wind. On the other side I looked back at Wyngate, and to my consternation I saw Woodie hurrying up the slope. I would stay till he had passed by. I could not learn to welcome his friendship. One day perhaps, but not yet.

  He passed out of sight as he came closer to the windmill. I waited, hoping to spot him from the other window, but he did not appear, telling me he was waiting at the windmill. I didn’t hear him enter. Very likely he saw the open door and suspected I was here. I was annoyed, but in the end decided to go down. The view, though pretty, could not provide entertainment for long. I went, carefully clutching the railing.

  My time at the windows had made sight in this darker part less than perfect. I thought I might meet Woodie coming up, but heard no footfalls except my own. I passed below the top floor, into a shadowy section, and stopped. What was that soft sound? Not mice—not that soft. Was it Woodie, hiding to play a trick, one of his popping-out stunts?

  “Woodie?” I called, and turned my head back to see if his strange little face leered at me from the shadows of the floor above, there at the rough wooden edge that gave access to that floor. I saw only the dark shadows—moving. I stared transfixed as a darker shadow shot out and pushed me, a hard shove between the shoulder blades. In that startled instant I scarcely recognized what it was, but it looked like a hand in a black glove. I made a frantic grab to get a grip on the railing, and failed.

  I went tumbling down the narrow steps, terrified, as elbows, shoulder, hips, and tailbone hit the sharp edges. I reached futilely to stop my fall, but the railing was always just beyond my grasp, the fall too swift to be arrested till I reached the second landing, when I thumped to a heap, gasping, moaning, hearing pitiful whines, and realizing they came from myself.

  I stared up above, trying to see what body was attached to that anonymous gloved hand, but there was silence. I tried to arise, to run as fast as my legs would carry me down the other flight, to sunlight and safety, but when I moved, I felt an ominous turmoil within, followed by a sharp pain. I collapsed, feeling it was the end. The black hand would come down and finish the job, if nature did not. For a moment, I feared no further help would be needed to finish me. I was trembling, gagging, hurting, and terrified.

  “Miss? Pretty lady?” a soft voice called. I heard steps rising, coming closer to me.

  “Woodie! Woodie, help me! Help me!” I screamed.

  He came, his eyes big with shock and fear. He stood and stared down at me, saying nothing. And I too sat silent. I had to send him for help, and was frightened to be left alone. He reached out his two hands to me, trying to help me up.

  Upon consideration, it seemed the better idea, so I tried to get up. By clutching the railing, and with Woodie holding me, I dragged myself down those stairs, one painful step at a time, with frequent pauses to gather my breath, to fight down the nausea, the pain, the terror.

  And still there was no sound from above. I was gasping when we reached the bottom. And all the way down, Woodie was so gentle and helpful. My gown clung to my wet shoulders, its skirts dusty. I couldn’t go any farther. The last thing I saw in the windmill was Woodie’s frowning face, wondering why I behaved so strangely.

  “Miss?” he asked, then his face faded from view as I gave in to shock and fainted away.

  When next I opened my eyes, I was being trundled across the meadow towards Wyngate in a farm cart, drawn by old Dobbin. A smelly horse blanket was over me. I felt such a wrenching pain within that I was grateful when that black cloud descended on me, banishing sight, and thought, and feeling.

  Much later, I awoke again, safely in my bed now, with Dr. Mather leaning over me. He wore a worried frown. Behind him, Dr. Nevans hovered. Two doctors? I must be very ill, I thought. But I did not feel ill. I felt empty, drained, but not sick. I knew without anyone telling me that I was no longer in that “delicate condition” which so concerned everyone. My delicacy now was of a different sort. I had miscarried after my fall. Oh, but it was no accidental fall. After I was pushed, by that black-gloved hand.

  “I lost the child?” I asked Mather.

  After a longish pause, he nodded. His hand clenched mine in that strong grip that seemed to prevail in all of Somerset. “It was impossible to save the child, but you will pull thro
ugh. Not even a bone broken. Dr. Nevans agrees with me on that.”

  Dr. Nevans came forward to look at me. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Tired. My head aches.”

  “Any abdominal pains?”

  I rubbed the area lightly, with exploratory fingers. “No—it feels pulled somehow, as though the muscles were strained. The pain is gone.”

  “That feeling will recede quickly. Give it a day or two. You have very little fever. It was not a violent miscarriage. The pregnancy was not sufficiently advanced to pose any great complications. Ten days in bed, eat well, and try to keep your spirits up.”

  “Five days in bed,” Dr. Mather countered, stepping up beside Nevans.

  “Five days? Are you trying to maim the girl for life? An absolute minimum of seven days.”

  “I have had excellent results with a shorter period of bed rest,” Mather maintained.

  “She won’t be fit to use those legs for a week,” Nevans insisted.

  They debated this point loudly, while I closed my eyes and tried to ignore them. At that moment, I felt I never wanted to get out of bed again in my life.

  There was a tap at the door, and Homer poked his head in. His fingers curled around the edge of the door. I stared at them, imagining how they would look in black leather gloves. I knew they would look much as the fingers that had pushed me would look. It had been a man’s hands, large and strong.

  But if it had been Homer, it would not do to indicate I thought so. I must remain ostensibly ignorant of the black hands, or their owner might take into his head to finish the job. Homer was allowed to enter. His first words were to the doctors, but his first look was at me. I read concern, fear, dismay in that look, and had to wonder what caused it. Fear for my life, or for what I had seen and might say?

  Soon the doctors left, and he advanced towards the bed. I cowered against the pillows, trying to hide my feeling of fright, which was fast turning to revulsion.

  “Davinia, how do you feel?” he asked, in a gently concerned voice. It had to be Homer—nothing else made any sense. No one else stood to profit from this miscarriage. What a consummate actor he was. All that past show of concern for my condition, only to throw me off the scent of his real intention.

  “I feel weak,” I said, and closed my eyes, so he would not read in them my knowledge. When his fingers came out and touched mine, I could hardly keep from pulling away.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Not too much. Not now.”

  “The doctors say you will recover, be all right. I’m sorry about the child.”

  It was too much hypocrisy to endure. “I’m sure you’re brokenhearted, Homer,” I said, my voice weak but ironical. His hands clenched on mine, painful enough that I opened my eyes to look at him.

  Where had that gentle voice come from? He was furious, his nostrils pinched, his lips a grim line. I must be very wary of this man, this murderer, who would have killed me along with my child, without blinking.

  “I suppose it is inevitable you should think that. Nothing could be further from the truth. Did I not beg you to take a footman with you on these outings? If you had heeded me, this might have been avoided. It is unjust of you to even think what you are thinking, much less say it to me.”

  I willed my voice to a nearly normal tone, though it was still breathless. “What have I said? I’m sure you’re sorry.”

  “Heartbroken was the word you used, and the way you said it... Don’t think I am happy at your misfortune. I regret it deeply. I wish to God I had padlocked that windmill, as I should have done. The men are doing it this minute, in fact, not that it helps now. How did it come about? Did that Durwood boy have anything to do with it? Did he frighten you?”

  “No! No, it wasn’t his fault. He came to my help. He wasn’t there when I—when I slipped,” I said carefully. He didn’t appear to notice my faltering word. So it was to be accepted as an accident, then.

  “Thank God for it. They didn’t know what to make of it when he came to the barn, babbling that you were sick. Grover took the farm cart, in case it was true. It was not till they got you home that I was sent for. I wish I had been here sooner. No one thought to send for a doctor even, till you were home.”

  I wanted to ask where he had been, and more importantly, with whom, but even the question was dangerous, hinting at my suspicions.

  “Were you very far away?” I asked vaguely.

  “I was at home, at Farnley Mote. I came as fast as I could.”

  His answer told me nothing. He might have been yards away, or miles, or he might have been hiding on the second floor, waiting for me. He knew I planned to visit the windmill that day. His old retainers at Farnley would cover his lie. He had a way of winding servants around his fingers. At Wyngate they loved him already. I felt he had been there, waiting his chance to get rid of the competitor.

  “I want to see Woodie, to thank him,” I said, choosing an unemotional subject.

  “All in good time. He’s gone home. We didn’t know his involvement, so his mother is keeping him inside the house for the meanwhile.”

  “Send her a message, please. She will be worried.”

  “Of course, as soon as I leave. Can I get you anything? A glass of wine, tea, broth...”

  “A little later. What time is it? It looks like twilight.” What had happened to that bright, wonderful day?

  “Shortly after six.”

  “Isn’t it time for your dinner?”

  “No one is eating this evening. We are all too upset. But the doctors will have reassured Mama and Millie and Jarvis by now.” On that speech, he drew a chair up beside my bed and settled down. I was on pins to get him out of the room, but subtly, not giving rise to my suspicions.

  I pretended to have dozed off, but my mind was alive with thought. Did he stay here to prevent my telling anyone I was pushed? Was that it? And who could I tell? Who would believe me? Not his own family. They would think it a hallucination, or a lie. I had no proof, and Homer was now Sir Homer, squire of Blythe Wyngate, a man of influence and importance. No one would go out of his way to annoy him, to gain his ill will. Perhaps Cousin Bulow would come to me when he learned what had happened. I would give him a few tentative hints, and watch for his reaction. Without someone to help me, I had no hope of proving my case.

  And what was to be gained if I did manage to get an investigation under way? Nothing. I still had no proof. Since my miscarriage, I had no more influence in this place. I was just a widow, but at least I was no longer a threat to anyone. I would be left in peace now. Men would not court me for my prospects, or harm me to be rid of them. I could sleep easy.

  Homer stayed by my bedside till after seven, when Millie came and sent him down to eat. Some cold meal had been thrown together. She had eaten, and came to replace him. I was not to be left alone for a moment. What did they think I was going to do, leap to my death, like Emily? I was not depressed, only angry, and frightened.

  Chapter 14

  By morning, I was half relieved. It was not much pleasure, worrying that your unborn child might be a lunatic.

  “God knows what He’s doing,” Millie told me, when she came with my breakfast in the morning. “He weeds out the ones that weren’t fit to survive. You can be sure the child would have brought you grief. A blessing in disguise is what they are calling it downstairs.”

  “Especially Homer, and not much disguise either,” I said tartly. I didn’t feel the need to mince words with this harmless woman.

  “It is well to have it settled,” she told me. “They’re doing the washing downstairs today. Such a lot of blood. It’s a wonder you survived. I’m sure there should be some way to get it back into the system.”

  “Another project for you to work on, Millie.”

  “I’m making you up a posset. The way I have it figured, when you’ve lost red blood, what you need to replace it is red juice. It’s a pity the berries ain’t ripe yet, but I’m boiling berry preserves, which I shal
l beat up with milk and eggs. And you will have beets for dinner.”

  More impotables, and how would I get rid of them from my bed? “Did anyone tell Bulow about my accident?” I asked her.

  “Homer sent word over last night, but he’s gone away. He’s at the selling races at Exeter. He stays longer than a day. The races are three days.”

  “He mentioned it. I didn’t know he would stay so long.”

  So did Homer know he would be away, and knew it was a prime opportunity to push me, lest Bulow begin accompanying me on my walks, as he had offered to do.

  For two days my convalescence continued. The family all came to visit me, except for Thalassa, and even she sent me a letter, which seemed odd, with her just a few rooms away down the hall. On the second day Mrs. Durwood came, bringing Woodie with her, to receive my heartfelt thanks.

  “Some good came of his trailing you after all, Lady Blythe,” she pointed out. “If he hadn’t been close by, you’d be dead.”

  I smiled at the poor misbegotten creature, and he came up to take my hand. “Thank you, Woodie. You saved my life,” I told him. I received one of his simple-minded smiles, broader than usual. He didn’t quite understand what was going on, but he knew I was pleased with him, and he was happy. I don’t know whether it was simple gratitude or the end of having to worry about my own child’s sanity that finally reconciled me to the boy. Maybe it was nothing but familiarity. From that time on, he no longer bothered me. Later, I even looked around for him when I was out walking. But that was much later.

  On the evening of that day, Bulow returned from Exeter. He came over after dinner, as soon as it was socially acceptable—for he returned a little before dinner to his own home—but I thought the circumstances unusual enough that he might have bent the proprieties a little and come to me sooner.

  Homer accompanied him upstairs, and did not leave my room the whole time he was there, thus robbing me of an opportunity to tell him my suspicions. Bulow was shocked and grieved for me, but could not give full vent to his feelings with Homer present. He had to hear how it happened, the version that was being told to the family.