Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  “Then he would not have sold it. My husband was not a thief. Make enquiries at the local banks. He might have had it put in a safety box.”

  “I will do that. It is not possible he had secured it—hidden it, that is to say—in the cottage you hired?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “His personal effects—what became of them?”

  “His clothing was given to charity. His books and papers were sent here, and his other personal items I have with me—a little jewelry, some silver plate, and so on. I drove his carriage and horses. There was nothing else. We lived in a hired, furnished house. Norman hadn’t much with him when we married.”

  “Extraordinary!” Mr. Rupert exclaimed.

  “What is extraordinary about it? His home was here. He left his things behind when he traveled. I have looked through his room here quite thoroughly. There is no jewelry.”

  “That is strange, very strange,” he said with a look to Homer, who clearly shared his view. I believe Homer also suspected that I was concealing the jewelry. It was settled in his mind now that I was a conniving woman. If my innocent query for the dower house and the mistress’s chamber hadn’t done it, my pregnancy had.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “You will let us know what you learn in Norfolk?”

  “I’ll keep in touch with you both. There will be papers to sign regarding my trusteeship, and a fee to settle,” he added.

  This was agreed between the three of us with no argument. I had no idea what the normal rate was, but when Homer nodded at the man’s suggestion, I too gave a considered approval. Rupert began shuffling his feet, preparatory to leaving.

  “There was the matter of the dower house, Homer,” I reminded him.

  “All that will be held in abeyance till the child is born,” he said. “It will be difficult to rent it out, when you may want it yourself in seven months’ time. And if you do not, no doubt my mother will,” he added, in tones that said clearly she would not wish to share a roof with me. And neither would he, apparently, as it was now implied I would remove from Blythe Wyngate if my child was a girl. No mention now of my own apartment, nor of any surfeit of rooms.

  “You’re right, of course,” I said, through stiff lips.

  “If there is nothing else, then I’ll get to work on this,” Mr. Rupert said, arising with his first smile of the visit. I think his fee was what caused that unnatural expression to afflict him. A smile was a sorry sight on that skull. He left, to be shown out by the goat-faced butler, and Sir Homer turned to me.

  “You have not visited with my mother today,” he said. “She wishes to apologize for her outburst this morning. It was the shock of your announcement that caught her off guard.”

  “The sight of me won’t do her any good,” I answered, remembering her ashen face when I told her my news.

  “Don’t be hard on her. She is fond of you, Davinia. She was so very happy when you came to us.”

  Very true, she liked me well enough as a pensioner, but as mistress—oh no! She had made her displeasure very clear. “In that case, I’ll look in on her now, before dinner. I know you sit with her after.”

  He nodded, and I arose to leave. He came to the door and stopped me by placing his hand on my arm. “There is no reason for us to be at loggerheads either,” he said gently. “Whatever way events turn out here, we will still be neighbors and connections. If you inherit Wyngate, I hope you will feel free to bring your problems to me. And if I inherit, you will always be welcome to make your home here.”

  Being a civilized animal, I was required to express a polite acknowledgment of this scheme, but being also a rational one, I could not but wonder at this new conciliating tack. I looked into his eyes for a brief moment only. To gaze too long was dangerous. There was some hypnotic force in them, something that led me to foolish fancies. I had to shake myself to attention as I mounted the stairs to Thalassa’s room.

  The concern was not for me and my plight, I told myself. It was said only to keep his hand in at the running of Wyngate. He was hinting he would not refuse the job of managing the estate for us, if my child was a son. For close to twenty years, till the boy was through with school and college, he would go on lording it around the countryside, master of Wyngate in appearance and deed, if not in fact. Norman had not trusted him in that role—there must have been some good reason.

  His mother sat up in her bed, writing a letter. She smiled to see me, holding out her two hands. “You are kind to return, after my ridiculous mood this morning. It was only the shock, you know. We none of us had any idea how matters stood.”

  I lowered my head, as she was pulling at my hands, but I did not kiss her cheek. Instead, she kissed mine. Taking it for an act of hypocrisy, I resented it. Her wiles and persuasions were being added to Homer’s, to gain their end. When I am in battle, I prefer an open, pitched battle to this subtle connivance. I had not learned much from my military father, but I knew at least that enemies had to be identified, and mistrusted.

  “Did I think to congratulate you at all?” she asked, when I withdrew from her arms.

  “No, you didn’t, Thal.”

  “Remiss of me. And you were so happy when you came waltzing in at my door too, with your eyes aglow. I regret that I behaved like a peagoose. Can you forgive me?”

  She had a charm about her, an insidious smile, a seeming openness that appealed to me strongly. “Of course,” I said, and feared I meant it. She was but human after all. How could she help resenting my intrusion into their life, snatching at her son’s new glories.

  “Whether it is a boy or a girl, Davinia, I know it is going to be a beautiful, healthy, lovely child, and we are all going to love it. How nice it will be to have an infant in the house again. Homer was the last, so long ago one can scarcely remember it. Big houses like this ought to be full of children, laughing, playing, crying, breaking things. I hope we have half a dozen more before you are through. Providing, of course,” she added with a light laugh, “that you first find yourself another husband. It won’t be difficult, though it is not the time to speak of it yet. A mother-to-be in the house is a kind of magical thing. She makes mourning irrelevant. Instead of mourning the deceased, nature cries out to prepare for the new.”

  “I feel it too,” I admitted, impressed at the similarity of grooves in our minds.

  For half an hour we sat in harmony, making plans for the future. She was to begin knitting baby clothing for me. We were on cordial enough terms that she even joked about the sex of the unborn child. “I shan’t make anything in blue or pink, for it is bound to be the wrong choice. I’ll make the booties and bonnets white, and can embroider on flowers in the appropriate color after the birth,” she said.

  After I left her, it was time to make a toilette for dinner. Over this meal, Homer outlined to Jarvis the talk with Mr. Rupert. He mentioned in passing that, if my child was a boy, he would help me to run Wyngate. Jarvis accepted it without comment; neither did I contradict him, though I had not actually agreed verbally when he first came up with the idea. He took my silence for acceptance, or hoped to convince me by repetition that this was the logical course.

  If not Homer, who would do the job for me? Jarvis had been a poor manager for Norman. I had learned that before there was any question of Homer losing the estate, so took it for an unbiased opinion, at least. He was old, and not interested in the job. Bulow? He was as close to Wyngate as Homer’s Farnley Mote—either of them would have a deal of riding to do. Bring in a stranger, then, a professional steward? But there was no hurry to settle it. Perhaps it would never have to be settled at all.

  Some corner of my heart still wanted a girl. Strange that no one asked me what I wanted. They assumed I wanted a son, and that I wanted to rule Wyngate, but really it would be an onerous task for an inexperienced woman. I must do it, if I had a son, but how much simpler everything would be if God gave me a girl.

  After dinner I went with Millie to the saloon. She sat, shaking her head and sm
iling at me in a teasing way. When I asked what was on her mind, she said, “Ho ho, the fat is in the fire now! What a courting you shall have, milady Blythe! Not only from Homer, either. Bulow will be around to ingratiate himself. I wrote and told him about your state. A pretty, pathetic widow and the possibility of the estate and fortune tossed in. Too much for men to resist. Which do you favor, Homer or Bulow?”

  “It is not the custom for increasing ladies to play the flirt,” I told her.

  “But increasing widows—that is a different matter. They will both be busy laying the groundwork for later on, after your son is born.”

  “I haven’t quite decided to have a son.”

  “The Blythes always have sons. Roger had Norman and Homer; Bulow’s father too had a son. It runs in the family, the way baldness does. With us Dennisons, it was girls. Emily and me—no boys at all.”

  “My family breeds girls.”

  She ignored it. “They won’t go quite so far as a proposal yet, I fancy, but only prepare you for it, in case it should be wise. You will enjoy both their advances for the next several months, in any case. My money is on Bulow. I’d like to see Eglantine’s face when she hears about you. Her place is not so grand as Wyngate. Given a choice, there is no question Bulow would prefer this one. He loves Wyngate as much as Homer does, you know. He spent many a holiday here with Norman, when they were schoolboys. Oh my, yes, he used to call it home.”

  “He doesn’t call it home now.”

  “Not yet!” She laughed merrily, then belched.

  Disgusted with both her conversation and manner, I went up to my room. I was tired enough to lie down, but not tired enough to sleep, so I thought about things.

  Millie had a strange way of being correct. She was the first to know I was pregnant, and she was possibly right about my “courting” to come. Even, it occurred to me, Thal had been hinting in that direction when she spoke of filling the house with children, which of course required a husband. How far-seeing and scheming some people were! I rolled along, planning nothing, but letting things happen. But that must change now; I must form my own plans for either of the two futures that awaited me.

  Before I slipped off to sleep I thought of the estate jewelry and wondered what had become of it. I even wondered if Norman had ever had it at all, or if one of the others had got hold of it, sold it, or concealed it from Norman. Jarvis, or Homer or Bulow. Or even Thalassa. She must be the one who had it, as Roger’s wife till very recently. Homer said it had been in a bank vault in London. Did he know this? Assume it? Invent it?

  Surely if Norman had had the jewelry he would have wanted me to wear it. He wanted me to be grand and glorious. Jewels would have suited his picture of me. But he had never once so much as mentioned them. He had also neglected to tell me Wyngate was a country mansion. I felt a twinge of anger with him, till I remembered he was gone beyond my anger. Beyond my love, too, and beyond helping me.

  Chapter 9

  Cousin Bulow called Millie a witch, and I came to understand his thinking. She had some supernatural ability to read the future. Her laboratory, her potions and cures and restoratives were instrumental in the name as well. She did not quite stand stirring a bubbling cauldron, but she had her little pots simmering, emitting strange odors. She even had a black cat, who liked to sun himself on her laboratory windowsill, amongst the pots of growing herbs. She called him Don Miguel, and insisted his ancestors were from Spain.

  She prophesied aright that Cousin Bulow would come to call on me, hardly surprising when he had promised to do so before learning about my child. She did not achieve her wish of seeing Eglantine Crofft’s face when she heard. By the time Miss Crofft came, along with Bulow, she had digested the information and its likely consequences, and regarded me with an air of mistrust. Other than her expression, she was a pretty girl, of the blond, blue-eyed, vaporish, flirtatious sort.

  “Bulow has told me so much about you,” she said, when we were presented in the saloon of Wyngate.

  “I am happy to meet you, Miss Crofft,” I answered, returning her curtsy and sitting across from her, where she took a seat beside Bulow on a settee. She promptly attached her hand to his arm in a proprietary way.

  “We have heard your startling news and are come to offer congratulations,” Cousin Bulow added with a warm smile. “It must have thrown the household here into consternation,” he added with a mischievous smile. This leading comment was possible, as only Millie of the family were with us. Her sixth sense, or possibly her view from her laboratory window, told her he had arrived and sent her scrambling down the stairs to see her favorite.

  “You should have seen the fireworks!” Millie said, shaking her head in pleasure.

  “It came as a shock, of course,” I added less emotionally.

  “I have no doubt the family elders will contrive some ingenious arrangement to take this new fact into account,” he said with a pointed, meaningful little smile at me, held for an intimate length of time. I knew what he meant. Homer would be urged to court me.

  “We have seen the solicitor and worked out an interim arrangement,” I answered blandly. “Homer will continue overseeing matters, with Mr. Rupert as trustee.”

  “And yourself? Who is to represent your potential interest?” he asked.

  “I am representing that interest,” I told him. I disliked that he spoke of family affairs in front of Miss Crofft, who was listening closely, her eyes narrowed with interest.

  “They’ve already had Nevans to see you?” he asked.

  “Yes, he came yesterday.”

  “You might be interested to know there is a better—that is, a younger doctor in the neighborhood. Forward-looking folks are patronizing Dr. Mather nowadays. He is more modem.”

  “We have had Nevans for years,” Millie reminded him.

  “Precisely. For too many years,” Cousin Bulow said. “He is unaware of the new techniques in medicine. I personally never go to anyone but Mather. Eglantine and her family also,” he added, with a look to her.

  “Mather performed wonders for my aunt,” she confirmed, and went on with boring details of the aunt’s malady and treatment.

  “He hasn’t the reputation for losing quite so many babies—and mothers—in childbirth,” Bulow said, sending me into a fright. Had I had some poor practitioner palmed off on me? I could not believe there was any malice in it. Nevans tended Thalassa. No, Bulow was only being mischievous, but all the same I would make further enquiries, as soon as I had made a few friends beyond the family.

  Miss Crofft, a chattering sort of girl, undertook to give me some notion of the shops I ought to frequent for my purchases, the best modistes, coiffeurs, and such tradesmen as might be of interest to me. “You will be needing maternity gowns made up soon,” she added.

  “Not for a while yet. I lost weight when my husband died.”

  We discussed local matters while wine and biscuits were served, then Bulow said, “We must all get together for an outing one of these days, Davinia. Driving is not prohibited, I trust?”

  ‘“Not at all. I should like to see something of the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll make it next Friday, shall we?” he suggested.

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “You forget, Bulow, I am promised to my Aunt Flora’s house party next weekend. I must leave Friday noon to be there for dinner Friday evening,” Miss Crofft reminded him. “Let us make it Thursday instead.”

  “I am busy on Thursday,” he said. “An appointment with my man of business.”

  “Wednesday, then. Why wait so long? Friday is a long way off.”

  “From Monday to Wednesday evening I will be at the Winchester races, Eglantine. I couldn’t miss them.”

  “Oh fie, you have been to a dozen already,” she chided.

  In the end, it was Friday and no other day Bulow could come, and I had to wonder whether it was not because it was the one day Eglantine could not come.

  “Why, you aren’t afraid to drive out wi
th me alone, I hope, Davinia?” he exclaimed, laughing when I regretted Eglantine would not be along.

  “Of course not, but I had hoped for another chance to meet Miss Crofft.”

  “There is nothing to prevent the two of you meeting anytime you wish,” he pointed out.

  “We’ll get together again very soon,” Miss Crofft promised, with a sullen glare at her bothersome suitor.

  Life ran along smoothly enough at Wyngate in the interval between the visit and the Friday of the drive with Cousin Bulow. I continued my visits with Thalassa. She was pleasant, still my favorite new relation, but I could not fail to notice the forced heartiness when she discussed my pregnancy. Strangely, she and all the family continued to speak of the child as “he.” I even began doing it myself, though more and more I was coming to want a “she.” I put it down to the drained feeling my condition induced. A “he” would cause so much disruption in the flow of life, whereas a girl would be a little companion who would one day grow into a good friend. I would become the mother that I had been denied myself.

  Homer was punctilious to consult me on matters about the estate, even after he learned my inexperience. It became our custom to hold meetings in his study after dinner, and before he went above to talk to his mother. It was a cosy, pleasant room in which to take tea. Business was the excuse, indeed the original reason for the meetings, but over the days we discussed other things besides.

  “It is my intention to tile the west pasture,” he mentioned one evening. “It will cost upwards of sixty pounds, not over eighty. The land is so marshy it cannot be used for anything but pasture, and that only in a dry season. It would give a better yield if tiled and planted.

  “How much better?” I asked in a businesslike voice. “How long would it take to recover the investment?” That last phrase I had picked up from himself. I detected a secret smile when he heard me use it.