Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  “I would prefer to return to Norfolk. I must go back in any case, to have Norman’s death looked into.”

  “Don’t waste your time, Davinia. What can an autopsy at this late date prove? Nothing. You will only alert Homer that you suspect him, and put yourself in danger. Let it be, my dear. You can’t bring your husband or your child back to life, and you cannot secure Wyngate for yourself, so do what you can. Be discreet, and you’ll get the dower house at least. You are in no danger now. Actually we were precipitate to speak of moving. It was the shock of hearing what you had to say—such an extraordinary accusation,” he added slowly, in a considering way. He examined me, still frowning. I knew what he was thinking: Has the poor girl’s mind become unhinged? I knew it as well as though he had said it. After that visit I spoke no more to Bulow about my suspicions.

  He returned a couple of times a week, never with Eglantine, nor was there any more talk of his involvement with her. He was my flirt again, my cavalier, my beau, and I knew it was not a role that would ever escalate to anything more. Losing any hope of Wyngate had relegated me to the level of a flirt whose company could be enjoyed, but it was a dowered lady who would win his hand. He was a trifler with a lady’s affections. I wondered how many hearts he had broken. At least he had not broken mine.

  The family, and Homer in particular, continued solicitous of my well-being. My simple comment that fresh berries were preferable to preserves sent him scouring the countryside for hothouse berries for my delectation. They were brought not once, but at least every second day, till I was quite tired of them. He brought me books, cards, puzzles, flowers—everything he could lay his mind to. I accepted all these unwanted items with politeness, but could not show any great enthusiasm. They were poor substitutes for my stolen family. What I could not accept with any degree of equanimity was his long visits, which lasted at least an hour. Even if I found an excuse to be rid of him sooner, he would return. Worst of all, the visits had a courting flavor.

  “It pains me to see your recovery so slow,” he said, holding my reluctant hand, which I soon found an excuse to withdraw.

  “Ungrateful of me, is it not? And I as cosseted as a prize cat. You make my convalescence too luxurious, Homer.”

  “What should we do instead? Deprive you of callers, draw the window shades, reduce you to darkness, serve you a diet of bread and water? Would that increase your desire for health again?” he asked, trying to make light talk.

  “I have the desire,” I told him. It was a lie. I hadn’t the least desire to get well. When I was well, I had such unsavory chores ahead of me that at times I wanted never to have to leave my bed again. A lassitude, a weariness, a kind of despair consumed my will.

  One afternoon he returned early, to find me in discussion with Millie. She always had some nonsense to amuse me. Her newest craze was for a proper pair of gentleman’s trousers. The bloomers she found so comfortable and convenient that she wished to abandon her skirt altogether, and wear jackets and trousers.

  “Never mind laughing at me. George Sand did it in France.”

  “Are you going to set yourself up with a court of lovers as well, in imitation of George Sand?” I asked, smiling to envision Millie in trousers and a cutaway coat.

  “Why not? I’m as pretty as she ever was,” she told me, her wizened little face looking as ugly as a badger.

  “Prettier. Much prettier,” Homer said, stepping in. “I don’t suppose you would consider me eligible for membership in your court.”

  “You’re eligible, right enough. No blood kin to me, but to tell the truth, it is Bulow I have in my eye. He brings me presents. You don’t. You only shower all your goodies on Davinia, trying to con her into liking you.”

  He gave a conscious, embarrassed look at me, and delayed handing over his latest treat. He had a box of bonbons in his hands. I had little taste for sweets, and to prevent yet another present, said, “You wrong him, Millie. Homer has something for you today.” I looked directly at the box as I spoke.

  He took the hint and offered it to her. She snapped it from his fingers and tore off the lid. “Oh, good! My favorites—coconut balls, the good ones, with nuts and raisins. You don’t want one, do you, Davinia?” she asked, steeling herself to do the civil thing.

  “I couldn’t force myself,” I told her.

  She laughed and ran off into the hallway, holding the box to her chest, bloomers swaying in the breeze she created. Homer advanced to my bed.

  “It is a great pleasure to see you laughing and happy again.” Even as he spoke, I felt my smile fade. My fingers clutched nervously at the counterpane. I wished Millie had stayed in the room.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice taking on a harsher tone. “Why do you cringe and shrink from me? You would think I were a monster.”

  The only thing I could think of to say was you are, and as I could not say that, I said nothing.

  “Is it because of Wyngate? Is that it? Did it mean so much to you? You still resent my inheritance—I cannot think what else accounts for this very obvious aversion.”

  “There is no aversion. You imagine it,” I said, forcing a normal tone.

  “It is not imagination that you have changed. I first put it down to depression at losing your child. Nevans tells me it is not uncommon. That was two weeks ago, Davinia. You aren’t depressed when Bulow calls, or Millie, or Jarvis. Only me. Tell me truthfully if you dislike me and I will leave you alone.”

  “That’s nonsense. You are the one who is imagining. I don’t know how you can expect me to be happy at such a time.”

  ‘Then you have not developed some unreasonable dislike for me?”

  “Of course not,” I could say with honesty, as there was a very good reason for my dislike.

  “I am happy to hear it. To be perfectly frank, Davinia, I am extremely impatient to get things settled. I want you to be mistress of Wyngate,” he said, leaning over me, gripping my hands, looking into my eyes with a steady gaze. “You remember my first untimely proposal. It was not motivated by any selfish wish to manipulate you, as you thought. My feelings have not changed. I still want to marry you. I want it very badly.”

  “It is too soon to speak of this,” I said, turning my head aside and trying to free my hands.

  “It is not so premature as it was last time. You were less reluctant then.”

  “Thank you for your flattering offer, but being mistress of Wyngate does not mean so much to me as you think.”

  “I made a wretched botch of that first proposal, and am doing as badly again. I love you. That should have preceded my offer. But you know it already. You know in your heart I love you more than is good for either of us. I love you to the edge of—indiscretion,” he said, carefully avoiding the more natural “madness,” because of the circumstances.

  I kept my head averted, wishing I could block my ears, too, slide under the covers and disappear, but it was not to be. He put his fingers under my chin and gently turned my head to face him. His eyes were inches from mine. I could see gold flecks floating in the dark irises, wrinkles etched at the eyes’ corners, could feel his breath on my lips.

  “Please don’t. I don’t want to hear this. Have some respect for the dead.”

  “The dead? What of the living? How long am I to be kept in this limbo? He’s gone, Davinia. No amount of mourning will bring him back. He was mad, and the child you grieve was of his blood. Start anew. We...”

  “Please stop!” I shouted in a quavering voice.

  He stepped back, startled at my strong reaction. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. We’ll speak of this another time.”

  “No! No, we won’t, Homer. We won’t speak of this again. I have something else I would like to speak of. Let me remove to the dower house. It’s empty. Your mother doesn’t want it. Let me go there.”

  “Why do you want that?”

  I wanted only to be out of his way, not subject to these informal visits at all hours. “A woman likes to have a house of her
own. I need the—the privacy. It will be a diversion to fix it up, to run an establishment of my own.”

  “You can be better looked after here.”

  “I don’t want to be looked after. I’m not a child. It will give me something to look forward to.”

  I had unwittingly uttered the magic phrase. I could see his thoughts traced across his face: It will get her up out of this bed, where she has been malingering too long.

  ‘‘Very well. I’ll send the servants over to see what needs doing. You’ll want a man and woman to tend you. There is a garden too that will provide some sun and exercise.”

  I sat straight up, smiling. I wanted to hop out of bed that instant. “I’ll have a small housewarming—only the family. The saloon is quite spacious. Millie and Jarvis will pay me visits. And yourself, of course,” I added quickly, as I saw the waiting look on his face.

  He smiled softly, nodding his head. “Yes, I think this would be good for you. And it is not very far from Wyngate after all.”

  Not far enough to suit me, but at least it was a roof of my own. A first step away. From there I could more easily make arrangements for my next move, to Norfolk, with some privacy. Any letter coming or going, any visitor or trip I made was monitored here.

  He spoke on in an agreeable way of refurbishing the house. The visit that had begun so inauspiciously turned out to be one of the less unpleasant ones. Really, Homer could be so remarkably kind, thinking of half a dozen ways to make my remove easy, and the house inviting.

  After he left, promising to replace the bonbons Millie had snatched, I had to ask myself if it was possible he had not killed Norman, not pushed me down the stairs. Because if he had not, I was being very unjust. It was possible Norman had got the poison in some other way. The pair of black gloves were of a common sort. Homer didn’t even wear black gloves. He wore York tan ones. It might have been a prowler who did not want to be discovered—even an escaped criminal or lunatic. Even, I confessed warily, those black gloves might have been my imagination. I might have dreamed them after the fall, during that nightmare drive home, and awakened with the belief I had actually seen them. The stairs were dark, narrow, and steep. My descent would be hard without a push.

  Was it possible Homer was so dissolute he would make love to the wife of the man he had murdered? One thing at least I believed: He did care for me. Too many kindnesses had been bestowed, little thoughtful gestures and gifts. And if these had not convinced me, that kiss in his study had. The memory of it was not completely banished. Bulow said nothing would ever be proved, and he was probably correct.

  Maybe I should just go to the dower house and make a life for myself there. I could never marry Homer, with such doubts as I entertained, but I could find some measure of happiness. A longer reading of this hypothetical future told me this was unlikely. Homer was too persistent to let things go on in that lackadaisical way. So I was back at the beginning. It was a first step away from Wyngate.

  Chapter 16

  It was the move that finally cured me. I took long walks up and down the hallway till my legs were strong enough to take me down the stairs. Nevans said he had never seen such a change in a patient, and Mather told him that if I had been up and walking from the first week, I would have been better a week before. The first place I went was to Thalassa’s room, to renew our interrupted acquaintance.

  Her face glowed with joy when I appeared at her door. She held out her arms, and I went to her, to be clasped against her bosom. “My darling girl, how I’ve missed you. I never resented my useless condition so much as I have these past weeks. Only a few rooms away, and I couldn’t stir a finger to help you. And now Homer tells me you are leaving us, wretch!”

  “I’m not going far. Am I stealing your house? Homer didn’t tell me who has the right to it, which makes me think it’s yours by law.”

  “It is ours. Matters are arranged so that any of us old spare dowagers are destined to share it.”

  “Then I’ll pay you rent for half. I have some money from Norman.”

  “I intend to gouge you for every penny, and will take the whole in time, if you please. You must alot me a generous number of visits, as I cannot go to you.”

  “I will. You’ll be tired of seeing my face at your door.”

  “That will take a great many visits. I am fortunate to have such obliging children. Homer could not be more considerate. He thinks of everything to cater to my whims. He is a wonderful, thoughtful son. Folks do say, you know, that if a woman wants to know how her husband will treat her after the first fascination has worn off, she must look to see how he treats his mother. Homer’s wife will be a lucky girl. But of course I have no one special in mind when I tell you this,” she added, with a mock serious face.

  “He told you about our talk.”

  “He tells me nothing, but I worm everything out of him. I knew by his fit of nerves he was more than a little concerned for your health, and having eyes and ears in my head, could see and hear he was pouncing down the hall weighted with gifts ten times a day. He has not taken to whistling, so I know you have not said yes, but we are hopeful, Homer and I, of capturing you.”

  “We shall see,” I said, and was uncomfortable implying this lie, this possibility of my capture. She took my embarrassment for modesty and changed the subject.

  Other than that one subject, the visit was pleasant. We got all caught up on our gossip. Like her son, Lady Blythe was eager to shower me with things, in this case items for use in my new house. Linens and plate and dishes—anything I needed she was eager to supply.

  While I planned for the move, Homer was tied up in larger matters, which lessened his attentions. He had sold Farnley Mote and taken over Laversham’s place, which was now annexed to the Wyngate property. The house, however, was not being used, so that he saw an agent about renting it to some family who did not want to farm the land. I had thought he would have a hard time, but life provided another surprise. He got a tenant with very little trouble. A retired captain, wounded in the Crimea and unable to get about an estate, wanted a large country house. He had a wife, a sister, and a few other relatives who would require plenty of roof space, without the accompanying land. Homer gave them the home garden and sufficient space for chickens and a cow, to lessen their expenses. They all came to dinner and provided a pleasant evening’s diversion. The captain was of particular interest to me because of my father; the ladies were genteel and educated. I felt we would be seeing a good deal of them in future.

  The day before I moved I spent the entire afternoon out of my bedroom, very busily too, paying a visit to Thalassa, overseeing my packing, meeting with the footman and maid who were to do for me at the new home, and taking a farewell of Wyngate. After dinner I was tired enough that I planned to go up to my room and get a good night’s sleep, to be ready for the morrow. I would sit with Millie only till the men returned from the dining room, in order to thank Homer officially for all his help. That duty could not be neglected, for propriety’s sake, for he was very helpful and generous.

  We did not go to his study on that occasion, as there was no longer any need for him to consult me on anything.

  “I want to thank you for your help, Homer,” I started in, as soon as he joined us, “Letting me have the house...”

  “It is half yours in any case, till Mama dies, at which time it becomes solely yours till you die, or remarry. There is no reason to thank me.”

  “I’ll pay for the servants out of my allowance.”

  “You can continue to stable your horses here. Don’t worry about fresh produce, dairy stuffs, meat—all that will come from Wyngate.”

  “I want to pay something!” I exclaimed, disliking to be beholden to such an extent.

  “Like my mother, I intend to exact full payment in visiting privileges,” he said, with a gallant bow from the waist.

  “Me too. I will be dropping in as often as my work allows,” Millie informed me. I wondered if she would come. There was no telling with he
r. She might make a positive nuisance of herself, or she might never come at all. I knew suddenly that I would miss her if she followed the latter course.

  “Do come. Come to see me often,” I urged her.

  “You come to see me too. You’re young and supple.”

  “Davinia will be here often—every day, I hope,” Homer told her.

  I rather wondered he had not mentioned my requiring a chaperone or companion, but the subject did not come up, and I didn’t raise it, knowing my stay was to be short.

  “Very often,” I agreed, but did not commit myself to daily visits.

  I was deeply disturbed in my feelings for Homer. Alone at night in my bed, he was the man who had murdered Norman and killed my child. But when I was with him, seeing his kindness and his true regard for me, it was hard to see him in that guise. The first dreadful fear and disgust dissipated when I was able to get out of bed. Now that I was on the brink of leaving the house, I was half sorry to go. Getting away was wise, before my feelings progressed any further.

  “I’ll bring over my cutaway coat and let you help me set in the sleeves,” Millie told me, as though conferring a rare treat. “I never could get a sleeve to go in without wrinkling or pulling. Nasty things, sleeves. I can’t imagine who ever invented them. Probably that Catherine de’ Medici. She invented everything else, or brought it over from Italy with her. Let me have a look to see how the tailor got yours in, Homer.”

  She got up and began feeling the armhole of his jacket, muttering to herself. “I have got the hole of mine too small. I can see that much at least,” she decided.

  “Are you not following a pattern?” I asked her.

  “Of course I am. I drew up a pattern from one of Jarvis’s coats, but I made the armholes too small. I shall go and cut a whank out of it this minute.”

  She wandered off, but not in the direction of the stairs. She went down the hall towards the pantry staircase. “I hope it won’t be necessary to have her locked up,” Homer said, shaking his head.