by Joan Smith
Chapter 18
It was hard to stay inside the house on May Day morning when I saw the cheerful crowd gathering on the lawn at Wyngate. It had been decided within the family that I would join them after lunch, to be presented to the tenant farmers. I was to wear black and take no real part in the goings-on except to sit on the terrace chatting to wives, pouring tea, and behaving in a way that best became a mourning widow.
It seemed a farce to deck myself in black on such a beautiful spring day, when every flower mocked death, but, it was the custom, and custom was to be obeyed. So I put on my black gown, a black bonnet, black slippers, carrying a black beaded reticule, and went to sit beside Millie and Jarvis on the verandah. Homer was circulating amidst the throng, welcoming his guests.
Millie ignored custom. She had never bothered with black for Norman, but I did think one of the family would have talked her out of her bloomers! While she remained seated her unconventional dress was unnoticed, which is very likely why she decided to go and watch the races. Eyes blinked, tongues wagged behind raised fingers, and the children quite openly snickered at the sight. She delighted in the commotion she caused. She pranced about, kicking up her heels with unnecessary and unnatural vigor for a dame of her advanced years. But after the first astonishment she was accepted for what she was, an eccentric old lady. I had a view of the west lawn from the verandah. I longed to be out in the sun.
I met more families than I could possibly put a name to. The wives were friendly, but mostly curious. Their bright, questioning eyes ran over my bonnet, my face, my gown, wanting to take in every detail to discuss together after the party was over. They offered their perfunctory condolences on Norman’s death, in a way that showed clearly they had no real love for him. How should they? He had never bothered with them. Respect and love are not given freely; they have to be earned.
Homer had earned both. The men talked to him, when he joined us for lemonade at the height of the afternoon, of their little problems. Comments wafted back to me, denoting approval. A Mrs. Smiley, well named, came to occupy the vacant chair beside me. This particular wife had a broad, pink face and merry brown eyes. She had a smile as broad as the Danube, which she tried to tame while she condoled with me about Norman, but soon it was peeping out.
“It is mighty fine for us to have the running of Wyngate regularized,” she confided. “Old Mr. Blythe is a fine gentleman. I don’t mean to say a word against him, but he is old, and his interests still with the Parliament in London. Little he cared if a roof wanted new thatch or a barn shoring up, or any little thing done about the farms. Sir Homer, now, he takes care of us. Wasn’t he at Mrs. Pelter’s house twice a week all the time her man was away helping his pa rebuild his farm in Kent? Burned to the ground, it did.”
“Which is Mrs. Pelter?” I asked, wondering if this could have given rise to Bulow’s wicked rumor.
“There she is, waiting her turn to meet you, milady.”
I turned to regard a hatched-faced woman of perhaps thirty-odd years, not at all attractive, But actually there was not a handsome woman in the lot. They were good, plain farmers’ wives, with no pretention to beauty or graces.
If she wondered why the disinterested Jarvis had been assigned the running of Wyngate, neither Mrs. Smiley, nor anyone else for that matter, mentioned it. She could not know that Jarvis had his orders to restrict expenditures.
“Mind you,” she continued, “I do doubt Mr. Bulow would have done any better than the old gentleman,” she said afterwards, when we had reverted to the subject. She cast an eye to the hedge below, where Bulow was carrying on with the prettier daughters, as becomes a flirt. “We used to wonder when he would take over. Mr. Jarvis told us he was only acting the steward for a few years. I’m surprised Sir Homer didn’t lend him a hand, but there—he had his own place to tend to, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, of course. But why do you think Bulow Blythe would have taken over when Mr. Jarvis was too old to do it?”
“Why, it was in the agreement your husband signed, Lady Blythe. Mr. Jarvis, he was to run the place while he was able, then Mr. Bulow was to take over. It would have suited him, but I doubt it would have suited us,” she added, with a lift of her head towards the hedge, then she arose and went after her daughter, one of the pretty ones, who was being friendlier to Bulow than she liked. I sat thinking of what she had said. Norman must have resented Homer very much, to have given the running to Bulow when Jarvis grew too old. He was bound and determined Homer was never to get it. That was the gist of it.
But why Bulow? He hardly bothered with his own Barrows. I supposed he was somewhere in the long line of heirs to Wyngate. Homer first, then Jarvis, the father’s younger brother. Then Bulow, the youngest brother’s son. Bulow would have hired a steward, and that would have been that.
Millie suddenly pounced back on to the terrace, her face pink with exertion, her fringe blown across her steaming forehead. “I’m puffed. Pour me a lemonade, Davinia. And pass the plum cake, if you please.” I poured, and looked about for the sweet plate. Thick slices of plum cake were laid out along with shortbreads and small fruit tarts.
“No, not that great lumpy stuff our own cook makes. I want some of the sweets Bulow’s mother sent. Hers are much daintier. She uses rum, too. Haven’t they opened the hamper she sent?”
“I didn’t see it, Millie.”
“Bother, I’ll have to go in and get it myself. She makes a lovely jumbled-up Chinese square with coconut and brown sugar and nuts. I’ll bring us out some. It’s too good for company.”
She went into the house, and I looked at the spurned plate. Plum cake—it would always bring a memory of Norman’s death. But as I looked at the cake on the plate, it did not look familiar. I had been seeing it pass under my nose all afternoon without even realizing it was plum cake. A really fine plum cake will have raisins and peel as well. The one they sent to Norman also had pieces of nut. But all that extra might have been thrown in to hide the poison berries. It had been darker than this too, sweetened with some molasses likely.
When I looked up, Millie was gone through the door. I saw Homer approaching, coming across the lawn, getting close to the terrace. He looked at me, smiling. I looked from him to the plate of plum cake, then I arose and ran. He must have thought me a fool. But when he arrived and looked at that telling plate, he would know. He was clever enough to put two and two together, and he would know that I knew. I concealed myself in the small study whose windows showed me a view of the terrace. I saw him frowning at the plate of cake, then at the door through which I had flown.
I rapidly considered what my best course was, and decided that to allay his suspicions I should go out and face him. I would admit the cake reminded me of Norman’s death, as he surely knew it already. To ensure my own safety, I would declare a false belief that the cake had nothing to do with it. Taking deep breaths to quiet my nerves, I lifted my chin up and returned to the terrace.
“Are you all right, Davinia?” he asked, coming forward to grasp my hands.
“A foolish fit of nerves,” I admitted.
“What caused it? Is it the heat? A pity you must wear that black gown. You must be roasted.”
“No, actually it was that innocent little plate of cake that brought if on. Norman and I shared one very like it the night of his death, you see. Cook remembered his birthday, and sent him some, but it was such a favorite of his, he could not put it aside, and we made a feast of it. I never can look a plum cake in the face again. Foolish, I know.”
“You never told me this before,” he said.
“It was hardly an earth-shattering event, Homer.”
“I didn’t know cook sent Norman a birthday cake, though it is very like her,” he said, considering.
He was being doubly sure. My assurance that I too had partaken of the cake, and survived, was not enough. He disclaimed any knowledge of it at all. But at least I had diverted his thoughts from the dangerous direction.
“It is drawing close
to dinner time. The farmers are to eat on tables in the garden, then dance in the barn. I shan’t dance this year, but must go down for a few minutes. We have some neighbors coming in for dinner with the family. We’ve always entertained them on this special day, usually with a ball. That will wait till next year. A simple dinner party will do no dishonor to the memory of the dead. I hope you will come?”
“I look forward to it. Millie told me of the arrangement. Do you think you can talk her out of wearing her bloomers?”
“My mother will handle it. The best way to deal with Millie is by bribery. Mama sewed her a new gauze overskirt to her usual evening outfit, and with that to be shown off, she will not wear the bloomers.”
I wished I could cast off my weeds, but of course it was too early. I would wear my best silken gown, cut a little lower at the neck than a day gown, though not so low as the stylish ladies would wear. My arms too would be covered, to show respect.
The incident of the plum cake clung to my memory as I went home to change. It took a good deal of pleasure from the day. So long as I was here, there would be danger of some chance disclosure of my knowledge, and once Homer knew... It was fine to say he was kind and considerate, but never to be forgotten he was also a murderer. A man who had murdered twice for material gain would not stick at a third time to save his neck.
Leaving was still my best alternative. In just two weeks I would pile into the carriage with Mrs. Winton and never see Wyngate or the Blythes again. It was kind of painful relief to consider it. Meanwhile, I would take some small pleasure from the dinner party.
I wondered, as I went to Wyngate, who would act as hostess for Homer. It was a job beyond Millie’s erratic powers. His mother would have arranged the seating and menu, but could not sit at the end of his table. Bulow’s mother I knew was not coming. She was close to a recluse, never going out and seldom having company in. Bulow spoke of taking me to see her, but had never done it. Homer must have chosen some local lady. There was no shortage of them. I did not know them by name, but in church and in the village I had seen them. Now that Homer was the proud owner of the estate, he would soon be snapped up by one of them.
As the evening party was small and informal, there was no need of a hostess, but when we went in to dinner, the space at the foot of the table was allocated to me. This raised no speculation in the neighbors, though Bulow opened up his eyes rather wide. He sat on my left, with the worthy and more elderly neighbors sitting at the head of the table near Homer, with Jarvis and Millie ranged midway down the board.
“Well, well,” Bulow said in a low tone when we had been seated. “You little thought you would end up in the mistress’s seat after all, eh Davinia?”
“It is a very temporary arrangement.”
“I am surprised you agreed to it, considering the circumstances.”
“I was not consulted. I expect Thalassa made the decision.”
“Oh no, Homer made it, and I doubt he considers it so temporary an arrangement as you do. See how he is looking at us, wondering what we are finding to say to each other?” With a mischievous twinkle, he lifted his glass and saluted me, then laughed, as though we were having a marvelous time.
I noticed Homer was watching us. Throughout the meal his eyes often slid down the board to regard our behavior. Bulow was quick to point out that any undue merriment on our part put him into a pucker too.
“I am not expected to make merry, Bulow,” I explained. “I am here because it is a small party, but an excess of frivolity would be out of place, so pray don’t take into your head to entertain me too strenuously.”
“I promise I won’t put the soup tureen on my head, but frowns and long faces are not the style at a party,” he told me. “If it is suitable for you to be here, then you are permitted to enjoy yourself.”
I didn’t actually have much pleasure from the meal. My partner on the other side was the local minister, who spoke of ecclesiastical matters. There was no danger of falling into unconfined mirth over a litany of his woes. Moral turpitude and lack of funds were his twin subjects. I felt somewhat guilty at the lavish meal we were eating. Asparagus soup was followed by poached salmon. There was leg of lamb and a raised pie, and more side dishes and vegetables than one person could sample. Millie, or someone, had arranged a centerpiece of flowers in white and pink to grace the table. I admired the sparkle of crystal and silver on the white cloth. As the evening shadows lengthened to darkness beyond the windows, the gaslight was turned higher, to dance and flicker over the table.
Being dead across from Homer, it was inevitable my eyes would settle on him from time to time. He looked at home to a peg at the head of his table. I could not picture Norman there half so well. The neighbors listened to their host not only with respect, but with genuine interest and enthusiasm. Our servants had not liked Norman. Those changes of mood made them uncertain. They never knew whether they would be joked or scolded, which made them timid.
Homer had used a despicable means to achieve his end, but having achieved it, he carried it off in good style. Perhaps he had convinced himself he did the right thing to bring the tainted branch of his family to a demise. And if he truly believed that, he was as mad as Norman, and a criminal to boot.
As these thoughts and feelings occupied me, he looked down the table. Seeing my thoughtful expression, he frowned, cocking his head, as though to say, “What is the matter, my dear?” I had come to know him well enough to read his mind. So I smiled softly, then he was at ease, and turned to speak to his partner.
After dinner some of the younger guests wished to go to the barn to watch the servants dancing, and doubtlessly to join in, once away from their parents. Homer too went, as he had told me he planned to. The older neighbors had card tables set up, and suddenly I found myself alone with Bulow.
“We could hear the music from the west verandah, if we went there and opened the windows,” he suggested.
“Let’s,” I said eagerly.
I felt sad, to have to miss out on the music and dancing at the barn. Having mixed with society after my long months of solitude, I wanted to cast off all traces of mourning and return to life. It was hard to go on mourning a madman. I was lonesome, and tired of being alone.
The colored lanterns around the rose garden were lit. After the card game, I knew Homer planned to serve punch and some light refreshment there. Bulow threw open some of the windows, and the raucous strains of the musicians’ tunes wafted towards us. Country dances were the order of the day.
“What a splendid moon!” he exclaimed, sticking his head out the window. A great globe shone down on us. “A full moon,” he added. “What lunacy will it cause the young romantics before the night is over, I wonder. Come and look at it, Davinia,”
I went to another window, to avoid a too close contact with him, but he outwitted me, coming to stand behind me, with his hands on my arms. “Is it me you’re afraid of, or the moon?” he asked, bending his head down close to mine, speaking directly into my ear, in a way that caused a pleasant shiver.
“Neither one,” I said briskly, moving my head away. An amused, tolerant little chuckle escaped his lips.
“That’s not very flattering!”
“I never heard of a moon attacking anyone. As to yourself, why should I be afraid of you, Bulow?”
“You’re quite right. You shouldn’t be,” he answered, sliding his arms around my waist and tightening them in a way that frightened me quite dreadfully. My heart hammered, for I knew what would come next. What was most frightening of all, I wanted it to happen. His arms holding me against him, his soft caress on my hair, sliding down to my ears, filled me with old sensations, stirred dormant memories best left sleeping. “You’re not a young girl, after all. You are an experienced woman. Don’t you miss Norman, miss his lovemaking? Widows do, they say.”
The music stopped. Suddenly his caressing, insinuating voice was the only sound, save for a few echoes floating up from the barn. He began kissing my neck, sending shivers
along my spine.
“Stop it, Bulow,” I said, my voice lacking any conviction.
“Say please,” he teased, his lips descending to the hollows of my neck. I felt his head against my neck, while his fingers massaged my back with easy familiarity. I closed my eyes, and for about ten seconds of wonderful misery enjoyed the sensations he aroused. Suddenly the music resumed. It was no noisy country dance this time, but a plaintive waltz.
“Let’s dance, Bulow,” I said, to break away the frightening intimacy that was fast developing. “No one will see us here.”
“A good idea.”
He turned me around into his arms. The haunting strains of a Strauss melody, more beautiful for coming from afar, almost like fairy music, surrounded us. Bulow was a graceful dancer; his body might have been created for the waltz. His arm held me lightly as we spun and whirled around the verandah. The dancing lanterns traced patterns on the wall, the floor, even our faces. It was an enchanted, magical moment, when anything seemed possible. We swirled and whirled, faster, faster, till our heads were spinning, without once missing a step. We were like two parts of one body, acting in unison, made not of mortal flesh and bones, but of moonbeams and magic vapors. I let my head fall back.
“Your face is red. Now blue!” I exclaimed, laughing for sheer animal joy.
He stopped dancing, jerking me closely against him. “Have you any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Don’t spoil it,” I pleaded, pushing him off, but it was already spoiled, the enchanted moment past. Moonbeams and magic vapors had turned to flesh and hot blood. I knew that look of passion that had taken possession of his features. I tried to think of some mundane subject, to bring him to earth. “Norman used to love Strauss,” I said. “We...”
