Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  “They did not lock up George Sand,” I reminded him.

  “She is a baroness. Lunatic nobility are termed eccentric, not insane like us commoners. Shall we take tea in my study?” he asked, as the servant brought in the tea tray.

  “Perhaps Jarvis planned to join us,” I said, to put off returning to that private spot, the scene of so many memories.

  “He is taking brandy in his own study. There is something I have to say to you.”

  I cast a look of the utmost suspicion on him, “About the estate jewelry,” he added rather quickly, to tell me it was not lovemaking that was on his mind. “It is best discussed in private,” he added.

  I was highly curious to hear what he had to say, and went along with him. “Did you find it?” I asked eagerly, for it preyed on my mind.

  “Possibly. We have not had time to investigate, but Jarvis found a key and a note in the bottom of the carton of papers of Norman’s.”

  “Which carton?”

  “The small one containing papers from his desk—bills and receipts and domestic papers regarding the lease of the cottage. Perhaps you will want to go over them.”

  “Oh yes, the servants packed it. Maybe I should take a look, though I was in touch with all the tradesmen and made sure there were no bills outstanding when I left. What did the note say?”

  “It gives the name and address of a bank in Cambridge. He went to school there, you know.”

  “Yes, perhaps this bank and key date from his student days and have nothing to do with the recent past.”

  “It’s worth looking into. He may have put the jewelry there for safekeeping.”

  “And the money as well! The money your father was saving to buy Laversham’s.”

  “I hope so. It will be a windfall for you. It was Norman’s money. I think you should send Rupert to look into it. You’ll have to give him a power of attorney to act for you in the business. It will save you the trip.”

  “I will. But I still don’t understand why he would lock up the jewelry,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “You have said your life was simple. There would be no occasion for you to wear it, and theft is always a worry. My own father kept it in a vault in London after my mother became an invalid. Norman removed it, but it is possible he decided to bank it at Cambridge—closer to Norfolk.”

  “But still inconveniently far away.”

  “That’s true. We are not sure what the box might contain.”

  “What will you do if the jewelry is not there?”

  “Hire a detective, I think, and see if he can trace it. The only other thing we can think of is that Norman sold it.”

  It occurred to me that I had only Jarvis’s word that Norman had removed it from that bank vault in London. Perhaps I should hire a detective too, and make sure it was Norman who had removed it. But my hope was that it would turn up in Cambridge, so I said nothing.

  “Shall I pour?” Homer asked, with a quizzing smile, which was really just a reminder to myself that the pot was growing cold.

  I poured, and we spoke of other things than the estate jewelry. “You will be coming to our May Day celebration, I trust?” he mentioned.

  “I don’t believe I should participate in any celebrations at this time,” I said, wondering that he would be holding any.

  “We cannot deprive the servants and tenant farmers of their traditional holiday. It has always been the occasion of our public day here at Wyngate. It has not the festival flavor of a ball or party for friends and neighbors. It is the day we customarily treat the workers, give them their little reward—refreshments on the lawn, races and games for the children, visiting for the adults. A little dance at night,” he added calmly. I stared at this.

  “I don’t expect the Blythes to participate to the extent they usually do. It has been the custom for the master of the house to open the servants’ dancing party in the long barn, but this year I shan’t do it. Usually we have another party here at the house for the local gentry, but that too will be cut this year. I have talked it over with Mama and Jarvis, and they agree with me the tenants and servants shouldn’t be deprived of their party. I shall mingle on the lawn during the afternoon. It would not be inappropriate for you to do likewise. Your mourning has kept you from contact with the tenants. They are all eager to meet you. It is half the reason we want to have the do. They have seen you in church a few times, and in the village, but want to speak to you. It means a good deal to them, Davinia,” he added, giving it the air of a duty.

  “If the family think it proper, then I’ll do it, of course,” I agreed.

  “Yes, do. It is time to begin letting go of the past,” he said. His eyes, gazing at me in an admiring way, said more, but his lips refrained, for which I was grateful. We spoke of other matters till our tea was gone, then we said good night very properly, and I went up to my bed.

  Chapter 17

  Once away from Wyngate I felt my energy rise, and my spirits along with it. The season helped in this respect. To look out a window in the morning and see clear blue skies, with a sun promising fine weather, instead of the clouds and rain of early spring was a therapy in itself. On walks, I roamed over flower-strewn meadows, with the perfume from a thousand wild flowers filling the air. I began building up the derelict rose garden, enjoying these moments of peaceful solitude. I did not forget either that I had a more important plan. It was a note from Mrs. Winton that showed me my way home.

  She was returning to Norfolk in May, and would stop off to see me en route. I wrote back the same day asking if she would care for my company. She was bound to, as my company included my carriage and team. I felt she would offer me a lodging in Norfolk till I had time to make some permanent arrangement. She would be full of questions, but I didn’t mind that. I could stave her off, make her believe I was only homesick, away from my old home and friends.

  Meanwhile I worked to become strong in body and in mind.

  I battled that depression that was apt to descend on a mother suddenly deprived of the child she had expected. Preparing for the public day at Wyngate was a welcome diversion. I volunteered to make prizes for the children’s games and races. I stitched bright pinafores and dolls for the girls, knitted change purses and slippers for boys, two aprons for the more mature women, who did not consider themselves above an egg race or even a smock race. This sewing was done in the garden on fine days, and in the glassed porch when the weather was inclement. Wherever I worked, it was as likely as not Millie would be with me. She made the dower house quite her second home.

  I was far from bereft of company. Jarvis also called on me, and of course I went to Wyngate to visit Thalassa very often, though not quite every day. Homer came as often as threatened, and Bulow too dropped around a few times a week. He continued my pseudo suitor, but I knew him for a gazetted flirt. I let him play out his little charade, but counted on nothing coming of it.

  On the eve of May Day I received confirmation from Mrs. Winton that she would be delighted for my company, and the hoped-for offer of staying with her upon my arrival at Norfolk. I was in a jubilant mood. The sun set that evening in a red haze, promising fine weather for the festivities. I was only lonesome at mealtimes. It was dreary to eat alone. Had I planned to remain long, I would have hired a companion, but for the brief time I made do with my own indifferent company. I had a carte blanche invitation to dine at Wyngate, but on the one occasion I went Homer insisted on accompanying me home, so that I did not return.

  On that particular evening Homer used the excuse of May Day affairs to drop in shortly after dinner. I sat wrapping prizes when he was shown in. He wore a gentle, rather sad smile when he looked at me sitting all alone. At such moments it was hard to believe there was any violence in the man. He came in, said good evening, and took up a chair beside me, offering his services to hold knots while I tied, to subjugate recalcitrant ends of paper, and to keep track of the scissors.

  “I hadn’t realized wrapping a few small parcels was such a probl
em till you pointed it out,” I answered, smiling.

  He looked at the knitted slippers. “You set a fine stitch,” he complimented.

  “I knit a fine stitch, Homer. Setting a fine stitch is for sewing or embroidery.”

  “That too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When friends praise the quality of my apples or cider, I usually take it for a hint they would like some. Being an obliging fellow, I am not slow to take the hint.”

  “Does that, by any chance, mean you would like me to knit you a pair of slippers?”

  “If you find time dragging on your hands, I could use a pair.”

  “I don’t, but being an obliging lady, I shall make your slippers, if you will bring me an outline of your size next time you come. What color do you prefer?”

  “You choose for me. But pray do not choose that snuff color you are wrapping now. You must be lonesome here, Davinia. Why don’t you hire a woman? It is well enough for family to drop in of an evening, but when you wish to entertain more broadly later on, you ought really to have a chaperone.”

  “When ‘later on’ comes, I’ll take care of it,” I answered vaguely.

  “The grounds look gay, all set up for the party. They’ll be a fright tomorrow at this time, when the dancers have destroyed the lawns, and the children littered everything with papers. Still, it is a small price to pay.” As he spoke, he reached into his inside pocket, where I noticed a bulge in his jacket.

  He drew out a leather box about a foot long and half as wide. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A surprise. Mr. Rupert found the estate jewelry in that deposit box in the bank in Cambridge. I thought you might enjoy to see it.”

  He flipped open the lid and held the box out towards me. A sparkle of prisms flickered where the gems caught the light from the lamps and returned it in rainbow hues. A surprised gasp of pleasure came from me unbidden. “How lovely! May I see?” I reached out a hand for the box, but he extracted one necklace and held it up.

  “This is the star of the collection, the Blythe emeralds. The set includes diamonds as well, but the long pendant gem is of course an emerald.”

  I gazed at it. It was of a size and design to please a queen. The workmanship too was of the old style, cumbersome. When a woman looks at gems, she automatically envisages them on herself. I knew that great thing would look ludicrous on me. I did not regret Norman’s keeping it from me.

  “Would you like to try it on?” he offered.

  “No, thanks. It would do for Queen Victoria, not for me. It’s much too grand, and much too ugly.”

  He returned it with a little hunch of the shoulders and took out a smaller piece, a chain with diamonds set in, the front ones larger than the rest, with small rubies forming a circlet around the central three stones.

  “That one is pretty,” I exclaimed.

  “Try it on.”

  “My cotton gown would not do it justice. I don’t dress for dinner, since I eat alone.”

  “Your hair is dressed, at least. Let me put this tiara in your curls,”

  It was a dainty thing, with a half star of diamonds rising up in the front. He placed it gingerly on my head, and insisted I arise to admire myself in the mirror. “Very nice,” I said, and gave it back.

  “You’re not a jewel lover,” he told me.

  “I guess I’m not.”

  “We were mistaken to think you had sequestered...” He came to a conscious, guilty stop.

  “To think I had hidden the family jewels, with a view to absconding with them?” I finished for him, my gorge rising. “Yes, you were mistaken. I cannot imagine why Norman kept them at Cambridge, though.”

  “It is the place he used to go once a month. There were also business papers in the box, and a sort of—diary, I guess you’d call it. Jarvis has taken them. He’ll give them to you tomorrow.”

  “Has he looked at them? What sort of business papers are they? Did you find the money your father had saved?”

  “No, but I think we’ve found what he did with it,” he answered, with a shadow clouding his eyes.

  “What? Did he invest in something? I hope it was a wise investment.”

  “It might have been, had he lived. He was seeing a mind healer. Dr. Bessers the man called himself, an Austrian. He claims to have worked under von Brücke at the physiological lab at the University of Vienna. It seems Norman had bouts of irrationality once a month or so. He could feel them coming on, and went to Cambridge to put himself in the doctor’s hands. That would be why he didn’t want you along on those expeditions. He wished to keep his malady from you. He paid the doctor large sums of money to enable him to do research on this cyclical mental illness he suffered from. Others are beset with a similar problem. If any good comes from it, it will be money well spent.”

  “Did the doctor feel he was making any progress?”

  “He claims little was possible because Norman only came to him when he felt a bout coming on. He wanted to be near him all the time, to study the mood changes. You must have noticed Norman alternated from bouts of a sort of euphoria to black depression. When Jarvis told the doctor’s diagnosis to me, I could see it described Norman’s behavior. It was his hope to even out these moods, to stabilize his emotional swings. But it is a new field entirely. He tried medications, with indifferent success.”

  “You mentioned a diary. What was in it?”

  “Jarvis only glanced at it. It will be for you to read, if you want to. It is of a personal nature. I thought it better to wait till after our May Day celebration tomorrow. If you like, I’ll look it over myself first. There is no need for you to distress yourself.”

  “No, I want to see it. Norman can’t have many more surprises in store for me. I hope it will explain ... But there is no explaining insanity, is there?”

  “We must just accept it. The family had some idea of this before he left. If we were unduly chagrined when you told us of your child, I hope you will believe that is the reason, and not mere greed, or selfishness, I have wanted to speak to you of this before. It never seemed to be the right time. It will be hard for you to accept, but things are better as they are. I know my father suffered agonies, watching Norman grow up, wondering when he would go mad, like his mother before him. Her mother too—it sets in around the late twenties or thirties. It takes a few generations to realize it is hereditary, but once it is established, the best thing is for the unhealthy twig to perish. It doesn’t mean you won’t have other healthy children. It had nothing to do with you. You’re young. Time heals all wounds. There, I have scraped the barrel of homilies. Let us speak of happier things.”

  “Had Norman’s mother any brothers or sisters, or was she the only child? How stupid of me. Millie is her sister, of course.”

  “There are no others.”

  “Norman should have told me. It wasn’t right of him to deceive me.”

  “He would blame it on love, if he were alive, I think. He feared you would refuse him, and so you would have done, I expect.”

  “I suppose I would. One has to think of the consequences—children, I mean. My feelings for him have changed since I have learned his story. It’s hard to believe he went through so much and never told me. He blamed those moods on his work—said it was going well or badly, you know, and I believed him. I had no reason to question it.”

  “He didn’t tell us he was planning to marry, or my father might have cautioned you, as he did the Croffts. It was hard for him, but he was a just man. I well remember the soul-searching that went on before he spoke to Mr. Crofft. Then to have to explain it to Norman the next day.”

  “I thought you told Norman.”

  “I?” he asked, startled. “No, it would have come worse from me than anyone else. Father always feared Norman would break down, as he did, and prepared me a little to take over Wyngate. Norman didn’t mind, or even notice at first, as he was away at university, but later it galled him. He resented me. And he resented hearing it from his father, too. H
e took it as a personal affront and left home.”

  “He lied to you, too, as he did to me, pretending I was some high-born heiress. It sounds like pride gone out of control, in a way.”

  “He didn’t get that from his mother, at least. A Blythe failing. We all have a tinge of it. Jarvis, myself, Bulow.”

  “I don’t think Bulow is proud—a little vain of his looks, but that’s all.”

  “He struts about as though he were a rich man, but in fact he has borrowed heavily on the Barrows. I expect Miss Crofft will redeem him. She is a good heiress. I hope he doesn’t squander her fortune as he did his own. On horses mostly. He plans to win the Triple Crown with that flashy piece he picked up at Exeter. But Eglantine is a strong-minded lady, and her father won’t arrange the dowry in any way that Bulow can run through it at will. It has not come to an actual engagement, so far as I know.”

  “It might do him good to settle down.”

  “He’s no longer a boy, certainly. The Barrows could use a younger mistress too. His mother isn’t too well, though she baked up her usual contribution to our May Day party. The servants are all in hands with tarts and pies and plum cakes and tansy cakes and seed cakes. I have been quite neglected by cook this week.”

  We talked for an hour, with tea served to reward us for getting the prizes tied up. It was a peculiar visit, with much in it to distress me, but when he left I felt better. At least they knew I had not stolen the jewelry. I understood Bulow’s reluctance to be serious about me, which assuaged my vanity without grieving me one whit. I could even pity Eglantine Crofft. Bulow didn’t love her either, but only needed her money. He had lied to me about Homer telling Norman of his condition—done it to make me not like Homer. He was so vain and foolish he wanted all the women to chase after him. I also believed he had lied about Homer seeing one of his tenant’s wives, and for the same reason.

  If only I could lay to rest those nagging doubts about Norman’s death and the black-gloved hand, I could be very happy here. But in bed, the old worries came to visit me. A man and his dog don’t die on the same day in the same way by chance. Only poison could account for it. And I hadn’t imagined the hand. I hadn’t. And it was still only Homer who profited from those two murders.