by Joan Smith
He took up a chair beside me. I complimented him on his mother, and he smiled his contentment. “She’s a wonderful old girl. Patient with her troubles. She used to be a horsewoman, so full of life.”
“How long has she been bedridden?”
“Five years. It took her two to come to terms with her condition. Now she is becoming more like her old self. I shall drop in on her later.”
“If you are planning to discuss The Old Curiosity Shop, be sure you don’t tell her whether Nell dies.”
“She spoke of it, did she? Reading has been a boon to her. She never did much reading before, but now... It is a wonderful consolation to her.” He stopped and gave me a close, conscious look. “And how are you bearing up, Davinia? It must have been a crushing blow for you. We were all appalled to hear of Norman’s sudden death.”
I knew what he wished to hear, and informed him briefly of the circumstances. He listened, frowning, and like his mother, found it odd. So it was, too. Before he passed on, Norman appeared to be inebriated, but I knew he had taken only two glasses of sherry all evening. He had finished work and was sitting with me, having a bite to eat before we retired. I remember Norman had plum cake, and I had one of the raisin buns our cook made that morning. I told Homer what I had told his mother, wanting to get this subject over with once for all.
I believe he understood my feelings, for as soon as I finished he brought out the stereoscope and showed me some scenes from rural English life. I had not seen one before. It was like magic, to look at views in three dimensions, so lifelike you would think you could walk into them. He explained in some detail how this miracle was accomplished, but I am not at all scientific and paid little heed to his lecture. I found him to be very much interested in photography. Norman cared nothing for it.
In perhaps half an hour Jarvis joined us, smelling lightly of tobacco, a comforting aroma, it reminded me of my father’s visits. When he apologized, I mentioned it to him.
“Ah, the colonel smoked a pipe, did he?”
“Colonel? My father was only a captain, Mr. Blythe, but he did smoke a pipe.”
There was a questioning look exchanged by the men. “Where is your father now?” Jarvis asked.
“In India.”
“He is a brave man. I am happy to meet the daughter of a winner of Victoria’s Cross. All soldiers love our Queen for recognizing their heroism by instituting the medal for bravery.”
“My father didn’t win a Victoria Cross. You must be mistaking him with someone else.” Another of the surprised glances flew between them.
“Did he not?” Jarvis asked. “I become forgetful in my old age. Yes, I believe it was Bulow’s uncle who won the Victoria Cross. Well, and do you think you can be comfortable with us here? We will do everything in our power to make you happy. It would be nice to have a young lady around the house, eh, Homer?”
I had received the impression earlier that Jarvis was interested in family history. I did not think he would mistake Bulow’s uncle for my father. Soon Homer was replying, “I’m sure the place could use a lady’s hand. Since mother’s accident we haven’t done much in the way of refurbishing.”
“Now is hardly the time for any major overhaul either,” Jarvis said.
“Such minor details as curtains or gewgaws could always be managed,” Homer answered, “but it is early days for it yet. Let Davinia settle in before she undertakes to make us fashionable.”
Truth to tell, I found the house magnificent as it was. I could hardly imagine any improvement, and gewgaws would have been out of place amidst their real finery.
“We know you are used to the best,” Jarvis said, sending my mind to wonder just what Norman had told them about me. Had he told them Papa was a colonel, to aggrandize my background? It was not beyond him, for though I found very few faults in Norman, there was no denying he liked the world to appreciate me, and had occasionally stretched the truth a little to make me grander than I was.
“Blythe Wyngate is beautiful just as it is. I never saw such a handsome home. Norman gave me no idea it was so fine an estate.”
“Tomorrow you must have a drive around it with me,” Homer offered.
“I should like to visit the windmill that is seen from the rear windows. Does it drive anything—grind wheat, dress lumber—or is it purely ornamental? I noticed it was not working.”
“It is only ornamental now, though it was a gristmill in the old days,” Homer answered.
“It was working when I was a lad—well, when you were yourself, Homer. It is only—what, fifteen years, since it was let go idle?” Jarvis asked.
“Thereabouts, yes. When Crofft put up his new mill we began taking our grain to it, like everyone else. Ours still works, or could, with some small fixing up.”
“It is very pretty, an attractive addition to the landscape in any case,” I mentioned.
“It will never purposely be demolished,” Jarvis told me. “The estate takes its name from the windmill. Our ancestors erected it there, at the windgate where the north wind finds a passage through the hills. The valley over the hill, which is meadow now, used to grow grain. Many changes have occurred. Even Homer doesn’t know them all. Folks filled most of their own needs a hundred years ago. The paneling in this house is all from our forest, but the granite was hauled in from outside. I believe Lady Monrest’s house is also of granite. Monrest Castle—a grander place entirely than Wyngate, of course.”
“Yes, it is of granite. How on earth did you know that, Mr. Blythe? Norfolk is far from here.” The Monrests are the feudal lords of the village where I lived. “But of course you would know Lord Monrest from your own political work in London,” I added, answering my own question.
“I have a nodding acquaintance with him, but actually, it was Norman who mentioned the castle to me, in his letters.”
“That would be after our visit there,” I said, a vivid picture of that halcyon afternoon rearing up in my mind to disturb me deeply. Norman was fascinated by old architecture. We drove ten miles to tour the castle, and in the middle of winter, too.
“He was mighty impressed with it.”
“It was lovely.”
“Was? Why, has something happened to it?” Jarvis asked, blinking.
“Oh no, I meant the visit was lovely. The castle is still there, and still very grand. Norman and I went for the tour one day. It is open to the public once a week.” I remembered Norman sitting in the great throne chair, which had been used for some important historical signing or other. It was to be viewed only, not touched. And the footman took offense at the move till Norman doubled over, feigning a great pain and winking behind the fellow’s back. He was always full of high spirits, my Norman.
When I came out of my little reverie, I noticed Homer’s eyes were upon me, examining me closely, while a frown played on his forehead. “I believe Davinia is exhausted from her hard trip. If you feel any wish to retire early, ma’am, do not stand on ceremony with us. You must know we consider you very much of the family, or we would not have allowed Aunt Millicent to come to the table for dinner. She has been so excited to meet you, it seemed too cruel to deprive her. She has become fey in her dotage, but she is harmless. In any case, she too is family, and there is no point in concealing our woes from you.”
“I wanted to meet all Norman’s folks, not just the respectable ones,” I answered, making a jest of it. I arose, as I meant to heed his suggestion of retiring. Every bone in my body cried for rest.
Sir Homer arose to accompany me to the staircase. “If you will forgive us Aunt Millie, then we’ll forgive you your traveling companion,” he said, in the same joshing spirit. “I feared when first you entered she was your maid. I trembled to think she would be forever more underfoot. Is your maid joining you later? You must feel free to use one of the house servants till she arrives.”
“I don’t have a personal maid, Homer! Good gracious, you have magnificent notions of how Norman and I went on.”
“But I thought.
..” He looked quite simply astonished.
“Oh no, I manage to make my own hair look as ill-kempt as you see it. All the wrinkles in my gowns are my own doing as well, but I blame the travel for most of them.”
“That was by no means a slur on your appearance. Compliments seem inappropriate at such a time, but you are every bit as beautiful as Norman told us. It seemed impossible a woman could be half angel and half charming gypsy—Norman’s description—but you manage to live up to it. It is the combination of the black hair and creamy skin, I think...” He stopped suddenly, aware that he was speaking out of line, his eyes traveling too minutely over the items mentioned.
I heard a little gasp of surprise come from my lips, felt the hot flush that rose up from my neck, and searched about for a way out of the embarrassing moment. “If Norman described me so, then I cannot take offense, can I?” I asked, in a breathless tone.
“I hope not. We are coming to learn the high esteem in which you hold Norman. Good evening, ma’am. I hope you sleep very well.”
There was a tinge of irony in his first words that I was hard put to account for. Why should I not hold him in high esteem? He had been an unexceptionable husband. As I mounted the stairs, conscious that Homer stood below, watching my ascent, I thought about this. I soon concluded there had been some jealousy between the two brothers. It was only natural, with Norman the elder, the heir to Wyngate and the family fortune, that Homer should resent him. The fact of a stepmother being foisted on Norman could not have helped either, though he did not speak ill of either of them. But then he scarcely spoke of them at all. It was as though he wished to forget all about his past, which was strange, now that I had come and met his family, and seen his lovely home.
I reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hall, my hand riding along the bannister of the upper landing, which looked down to the entrance hall below. Homer was looking up at me with a very pensive look on his face. I smiled, and he lifted his hand and waved, as though we were parting. But my last image was not of Homer. It was of that gracious foyer, with molded ceilings and a great chandelier whose pendants reflected dancing prisms on the walls.
So handsome a house, it was a pity I had never come here with my husband. Norman should not have deprived me of that pleasure. I could not imagine why he had, nor why he disliked his home so very much. But I was here now. I would learn these little secrets, become intimate with that part of Norman’s life that was unknown to me. In that way he would seem nearer to me. I would not have to give him up just yet.
Chapter 3
I had a few private words with Mrs. Winton in her chamber before she left the next morning. I thanked her very civilly, and heard her satisfaction with my new home. When she twice repeated how close her sister’s home was to Wyngate, and asked me to call, I took the hint and asked her to come over whenever she felt the inclination for a short trip.
“I’ll be sure to drop in on you. By the by, did you realize Lady Blythe is slightly dotty?”
“You must be mistaken. She is charming. I liked her very much.”
“Yes, my dear, so did I. She is very well bred. But her condition has affected her brain, which is only to be expected.”
“Why do you say so?”
“The silly creature has taken the notion that you are niece to Lady Monrest, and says Norman told them so. I told her it was nonsense, of course, but I don’t think she grasped what I was saying. She has decided you are a fine lady, who does Wyngate a great honor to come to them. She certainly mistakes you for an heiress. She has elevated your papa to a colonel, and even bestowed a Victoria Cross on him. She is not completely mad. She wondered why she had not seen his name more often in the papers, and came to the conclusion it was due to his having been in India. It was the Crimean War heroes who got all the publicity. Poor thing! But she is good company for all that. Quite lucid spells she has, though she was in tears when I dropped in, and said it was because of some girl in a book. Very emotional. You must handle her carefully.”
After Mrs. Winton left, I puzzled over what she had told me. It was not only Lady Blythe who thought my father was a colonel and a great hero. Jarvis too appeared to think I had more than a passing connection with Monrest Castle. Was it possible Norman had written a bunch of lies to his family? A worse thought soon followed. Was that why they were so kind, because they mistook me for a grand lady, and probably an heiress into the bargain? It was particularly strange that, if Norman exaggerated my worth, he had belittled his own. I had taken him for a fairly well-to-do gentleman, but certainly not the owner of such an estate as Blythe Wyngate.
A man prone to exaggeration does not normally limit his vice to only one area. In particular it was strange that a scholar, a bookish man like Norman should care what people thought of his wife’s background. His main concern was archaeology.
I determined to learn the truth of this mystery. Unlike Mrs. Winton, I did not consider Lady Blythe a lunatic. She was a likely starting point for my questions, and I had carte blanche to go to her whenever I wished, so I went.
She looked a trifle peaky in the morning, before making use of her rouge pot, but the eyes were still flashing, the hair neatly combed, the same mohair shawl over her shoulders. Her welcome too was still in place.
“Come in, come in, I need all the cheering I can get today. Dickens killed Nell, the bounder. I was so distraught I had wet eyes when your companion came to see me. She thought me a peagoose for being so sentimental, and did not hesitate to tell me so. She threatens to come and visit me. I shall be sure to be too ill to see her.”
“Lucky you. What can I use for an excuse?”
“Let us hope that sister of hers lives in a neighborhood of great vice, so that she will be fully occupied learning the dissipations of all her friends. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough. Thal, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course you may, my dear. This sounds monstrously interesting. No one ever asks me personal questions but my doctor. What is troubling you?”
“Did you have many letters from Norman?”
“No, not many. His chief correspondent here was Jarvis. He and Homer did not rub along so well as they used to after—after a little row Norman had with his papa. I was included in Norman’s list of enemies, I believe, though I tried to stay out of the squabble. Is it about this foolish business of Lady Monrest?” she asked, with a sapient eye.
“It is. I am troubled that the family here take me for some fine lady. My father is a captain in the Army. We are genteel, but certainly not noble, nor rich. I cannot believe Norman said anything to imply I was anything other than what I am.”
“I don’t understand it myself, Davinia, but I saw his letters to Jarvis. He never wrote without talking about you at great length. I was so vastly relieved to see you, I cannot begin to describe it. We all made sure you were an impossibly spoiled beauty who would land in with a retinue of servants and look down your nose at our simple country ways. Whenever Norman was urged to come home, you know, he would say Davinia would be bored with the country. When Jarvis wanted some of the income to do things about the estate, he told him that his wife was accustomed to a high style of living. Always a new carriage was required, or some improvement to the household or your toilette.”
“We lived in a hired cottage. We didn’t spend much.”
‘The trips were expensive, I daresay.”
“What trips? We were seldom away overnight. Oh, Norman used to go once a month on his Roman expeditions and stay a few days, but in simple inns. We spent a week in London when we married, but that was before his father died.”
Her astonished face told me these were not the trips referred to. “I understood there were longer trips. Of course Norman had debts when he married you. He had been raising money on post-obits, you see, and they had to be paid off.”
“Why would he have borrowed? Did the elder son not have an allowance?”
“A small one. It was enough when he l
ived at home, but once he moved away and set up his own household—well, his requirements increased, and Roger—his father—was too angry to increase the allowance. So Norman took a fit of pique and refused any allowance. He did not work, so he borrowed money, foolish boy.”
I listened, totally confused and worried. “That doesn’t explain why he wanted the family to think he had married an heiress.”
“I think I understand that, Davinia,” she said, looking out the window with a faraway look on her face. “It was because of Eglantine Crofft.”
“I have never heard of her. Who is she?” I felt a stirring of excitement, even jealousy, though Norman was dead. I still disliked to hear another woman’s name mentioned in connection with his.
“He didn’t tell you about Eglantine? Ah well, it’s understandable. She was his girlfriend here before he left. That is what the fight with his father was about. He wanted to marry her, but both her family and his own were against the match.”
“Her family too? Then it wasn’t because she was—inferior, somehow?” I asked, puzzling over it.
“Not at all. She comes from a good local family. In fact, Cousin Bulow sees a good deal of Eglantine now. Something might develop there. No, her family objected to Norman, you see.”
I had an awful feeling of foreboding, a fear that I was about to hear something I did not want to hear about Norman. “Why did they object to him?” I asked, in a rigidly controlled voice.
“They felt he was unstable. He was a bit of a wild lad in those days. A little too much drink, gambling—the usual vices of youth. I know your next question will be why his father objected. It is only natural you should ask. We wanted Norman to wait a little, to see him straighten out, before he married. We agreed with Eglantine’s father on that point. Indeed, the girl herself was soon convinced she could do better. Very likely that is why Norman was at such pains to paint you as a beautiful heiress, the positive belle of Norfolk. He wanted Eglantine to hear he had married someone better than she. That is the only reason I can think of.”
