Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  “A glass of wine while we wait?” I asked.

  We could not think or speak of anything but the business of Norman’s murder and my miscarriage. We no longer looked beyond Bulow for a suspect either. Once he came up as a possibility, anyone else was forgotten. I knew his character to be flawed. A man who is unfaithful in love might be unfaithful in other matters. Other details too dovetailed neatly. I remembered Millie telling me that Bulow got her the lock for her poison chest. He might easily have kept a key for himself. He was in the laboratory every second time he came to call. He could know all her poisons. He showed poor judgment in managing his money too, spending more than he could afford for showy horses when he was in debt.

  “He’s your own age, Homer. Older actually. All this crime he has indulged in—it only benefits him after your death.”

  “I realize that. My death, and before I produce an heir. I’ll be watching over my shoulder every step I take, till we have him locked up.”

  “Maybe Jarvis is in danger too.”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t take Bulow for that big a fool. A quick succession of violent deaths that ultimately leave him the heir to Wyngate is bound to raise questions. He’ll take his time. I doubt he intends to do me in for a year or so. He might intend to let Jarvis live out his short term as heir. That would give him an aura of innocence, you know, to inherit after a normal, peaceful death.”

  “It’s long-term planning on his part, if that is what he has in mind. He’s more volatile than that. You must take the greatest caution.”

  “I mean to, but Bulow is not all flash. I begin to wonder whether he didn’t have this in mind when he talked Norman into leaving Wyngate. He is the one convinced him it would be good for him to escape the scene of—whatever you want to call it. The memories of his mother’s madness. As though the seeds of it were in the house, and not in his own head.”

  “He convinced Norman he was the only friend he had, and tried the same trick on me.”

  “He did you a graver injustice in making it possible for you to marry Norman than in depriving you of the child.”

  “It’s hard to believe a man could be so evil, and seem so...”

  “Handsome? Handsome is as handsome does.”

  “Handsome isn’t what I was going to say.”

  “Attractive? You obviously were attracted to him, to judge by tonight’s performance.”

  “It must have looked very bad to you. It wasn’t the way it seemed. We were dancing. It’s been a long time since I was—dancing with a man. Bulow kissed me without much warning. I should have tried to stop him. He—I—I don’t know how to say it. I got carried away.”

  “You miss having a husband,” he suggested.

  “Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. It was stupid of me. I hope it doesn’t give him ideas.”

  “It will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it gave me ideas, just watching you.”

  I arose to get a wine decanter, though my glass was still half full, and so was Homer’s. He set his glass down and got up to come after me. I was at the wine table, decanter in hand, before he caught me. That too was returned to the table. “I said, it gave me ideas, too,” he repeated.

  “I heard you.”

  His arms encircled my waist, pulled me against him, and held me fast. I averted my head to duck his lips, which searched for mine. He persisted in this game for longer than a gentleman should, till it was perfectly clear I did not welcome his advances. I was extremely aware of the empty house, of my jangled nerves, and close to overwrought with the doings of that tumultuous day and evening. He hardly seemed like Homer. He was more determined, ruthless even, in his advances. In this mood, he seemed entirely capable of murder.

  What if Bulow had been at the selling race in Exeter the day I was pushed? Then what? All I had were suspicions, and they were mostly based on Homer’s unproven statement that he had had Norman’s body disinterred, which might have been said to allay my suspicions of him. And if he had had Mrs. Soper bake that plum cake, naturally she would deny it to me, of all people.

  I was a fool, and Homer was fast becoming unmanageable. He held me in a painfully tight grip, forced my head upwards to his, with a very strong hand holding my neck. Then he kissed me, with a fury that was composed largely of frustration, or anger. I had no choice but to let him. I struggled till I was tired, then I stopped struggling and let him vent his anger on my lips. Oddly, when I stopped struggling, he stopped kissing me, and lowered his arms. I turned away, unable to keep back the tears, though I did not sob or make any sound.

  The house was suddenly as silent as death. Not even a clock ticked. I was turned from him; the floor behind me emitted a squawk, alerting me he was moving. I almost expected to feel his hands around my neck. “Davinia?” he asked, his voice low. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. It won’t happen again. I’m no better than Bulow. Worse; you didn’t try to stop him.”

  His tone was so penitential I risked looking back at him, over my shoulder. He looked so worried, so sad, like a boy who has just seen his bicycle smashed, or his favorite pony crippled.

  “That’s all right, Homer. I’m not the only one who got carried away tonight. It must be the full moon that’s to blame.”

  “No, I am to blame. I had no right to force you. It was seeing you with Bulow—but I haven’t the right to jealousy either. I just wanted...”

  There was a sound of footsteps on the walk, and the cosy voices of my servants, returned from the dance. I felt as though I had been dragged from the ocean on the verge of drowning.

  “I love you very much. Whatever else you doubt, please believe that,” he said quickly, before they reached the door. In spite of all, I did believe it. He could have overpowered me easily enough.

  “It’s all right, Homer. I understand.”

  The servants came in, expressed their delight with the public day, and disappeared belowstairs. But at least they were in the house. I was no longer alone, and afraid. Homer went to the door, picked up his hat, and stood fingering it.

  “If Bulow should happen to come around tomorrow, I wish you would not let him in. I mean to ride over to Exeter in the morning and discover whether he was there the day you were shoved down the windmill stairs. That will be a start.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Make sure the doors are locked up tightly tonight. I’ll come to you as soon as I’m back from Exeter.” He lingered there at the door, as though expecting me to say something more.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said mechanically.

  “You’re welcome. And I’ll be careful too,” he added. That’s what he was waiting for, for me to show some concern for his safety. But the doubts were sprouting; I couldn’t prevent them. I tried to smile to hide my uncertainty, and failed miserably.

  “Don’t worry. Things will work out,” he said in a bracing spirit. “It’s been the devil of a trial for you, but it’s nearly over now. At the very least, if I can’t prove anything, I mean to raise such a dust Bulow won’t dare to do so much as frown on us, for fear of being clamped into irons.”

  My tongue was tied. I was too troubled to speak, and could think of no suitable words in any case. I only knew that the man gazing at me had love in his eyes, and that I wanted to return that love. I knew too that till the matter was resolved beyond a doubt, I couldn’t do it.

  “Good night, Homer,” I said at last.

  He looked disappointed, but bowed and left.

  Chapter 20

  Sleep would be slow in coming that night. To pass the time I took Norman’s journal to bed with me and began to peruse it. It was a revelation of a most unpleasant sort, confirming beyond a doubt that he was utterly mad. All the fear and hate he concealed from me was given vent in it.

  But I do think there was more fear in it than hate. As bad as the rest was the ridiculously high-flown praise for me, his “guardian angel,” who would save him from madness. Where had he got such an absu
rd notion? What awful desperation led him to believe I could redeem him? But then madness has its own warped reason, as I learned. It was a heartrending, pathetic document, which left my eyes wet.

  “My father hates me, and I hate him,” were the first words in it. He went on with a tirade telling how his father had driven his mother mad, and killed her, in order to marry Thalassa. Homer, he said, was the preferred one, and the plot was to kill himself and put Homer to rule in his stead. “Bulow is quite right about that,” I read. “My only hope is to leave this curst place and never return. Let madness, or death, come find me if she can.”

  “I am saved,” he wrote just after meeting me. “God has heard my prayers, and sent me a guardian angel named Davinia Renwald. She will soon be called Davinia Blythe. I cannot exist without her. She is the sweetest, dearest girl in the world, and she loves me. She has the looks, on first glance, of a gypsy, with her jet black hair. She is a little shy and retiring, a pleasant change from the fortune-hunting hussies who plague me. Bulow says I should not marry her, that Eglantine speaks often of me, and will talk her father around to a match. I shall marry my angel, but I will never take her home, to hear vicious lies from my family, lies to turn her against me.”

  After our marriage he wrote, “My angel has enquired what I do for a living, so I have stolen Jarvis’s vocation, and become an expert on Roman antiquities, a subject on which she is not informed. What blissful evenings we have, I writing, and she making a copy for me. I delight in stealing a glance at her, seeing her sweet smile of wonder at my clever words. I could write as well if I wished, so it is no deceit.

  “One day I shall spirit her off to Greece and Rome, where the curse of Wyngate will never find me. It has discovered my hiding place here. The most curst headaches have come upon me. I must flee to Dr. Bressers at Cambridge. He is an excellent, clever man, who will cure me of this malady, as he has done others. My angel must never know. To know is to inherit the affliction. They should never have told me.”

  “My father is dead, thank God. My angel turned gypsy tonight, and raised her voice to me, telling me I must go home, but I talked her away from that course. Bulow will run Wyngate for me. He is dearer to me than my own family. I won’t have Homer do it.” Later he quoted a suggestion from Bulow that it might look better for Jarvis to run the place for a year. “For of course Homer hates Bulow too, and will make legal difficulties for him.”

  Towards the end of the diary he wrote, “Bulow says it is time for him to take over the running of Wyngate for me now. I do not think I will satisfy him to do it. He speaks much of Eglantine in his letters. She would not marry me, and she will not rule as mistress in my house, but I shall send Cousin Bulow a thousand pounds for all his help, and because he is in financial troubles.”

  “Bulow is angry with me,” I read a few pages later. “He insists Jarvis is robbing me, but I have come to mistrust my cousin. Jarvis sends me large sums of money, which will help Dr. Bessers cure me, and others like me. I am contributing to Dr. Bessers’ institution to fight this devil’s plague that roams the world. My angel and I do not need much to live happily. Bessers is trying a new remedy. Laudanum is no help.”

  It went on, becoming less coherent as time drew short. There were passages best left forgotten in which he reviled his family for having driven him insane. In his tortured mind he could at once admit he was mad and pretend he was sane. He said his mother had been murdered, but at other times wrote of her having jumped from the roof. It preyed on his poor mind.

  The wilder passages, I think, were either written at Dr. Bessers’ sanatorium or just before he went for his monthly cure sessions. They were painful to read, especially his implicit trust in my magical ability to save him. Or was it all written at Cambridge, where it was found?

  “My angel” he called me throughout. “Her father a hero, and her mother doubtlessly a grand lady, though she is so very modest. She never asks me for anything. She does not love me for my gold, as Bulow would have me believe. She has no notion I am a rich man. She does not even know of the existence of my jewelry. I would not let it touch a hair of her head, in case it is tainted. It rested on my mother’s body. It should be destroyed. I must consider this further.”

  At the very end he said, “Bulow becomes very persistent. The harder he presses, the more determined I am not to turn Wyngate over to him. I come to think he has fallen in with Homer, and means to do me out of my estate. He has always wanted it. I remember his saying at Harrow that he was Bulow Blythe, from Wyngate. I would be happy to be rid of Wyngate, but how should I support my angel? The copying becomes tedious. She speaks much of the publishing. To satisfy her, I shall have some private copies of something printed up. No one need know their source. I have no wish for fame. The only things in this world that matter to me are my angel, and my Rogue, which she gave to me.

  “The headaches recede today. Next week I shall be thirty years of age. It is time to take my beloved to Greece. It will put off this publishing business, which disturbs me somewhat. Together we will see the Parthenon by moonlight, sail on calm Grecian seas, and eat nectarines. Rogue will accompany us, and we will be happy forever.”

  He had never once mentioned this plan to me. Some corner of his mind knew it would never be. “We will be happy forever”—that was the last entry. I dabbed my eyes and put the book aside. I did not want to read it again, ever. It was best destroyed. I considered the significance of Bulow’s pressing demand to take over Wyngate, followed so closely by Norman’s murder. I should keep the book as evidence, though the ravings of a lunatic would hardly hold much weight in court. I wondered if Bulow had urged Norman to leave Wyngate with a view of murdering him, doing it away from home, where he would be less likely to be considered as the perpetrator. Or had the decision only been taken when Norman refused to turn Wyngate over to him for running?

  After reading till three, I slept in late in the morning. I wanted to show Homer the journal and ask his decision about burning it. But as he had gone to Exeter, there was no hurry to get up.

  At ten my housekeeper came to my door with a tea tray. “I thought you might like a cup of tea in bed this morning, Lady Blythe, after our late night. A grand party, wasn’t it?”

  “It was very enjoyable. Thank you, Mrs. Burns. Just put the tray down there.”

  “You had a caller just before I came up. I sent him on his way,” she told me.

  “Jarvis, or Bulow?” I asked, with a tightening in my chest.

  “Mr. Bulow Blythe, ma’am. He was very eager to see you.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Not directly. He mentioned it being a fine day, and something about going for a spin. Such fine horses as he always drives. A bit lively for my taste.”

  “For mine too,” I agreed, making it an excuse to decline. “If he returns, you can tell him I have gone to Wyngate.”

  “Oh, he’ll return. He waited half an hour for you, and said he’d be back. I served him some tea and cakes while he waited. Will you be home for lunch?”

  “I mean to spend the day at Wyngate. Or perhaps—I shall lunch at home, but if Mr. Bulow comes, tell him I am not feeling very well. It won’t be a lie, Mrs. Burns.”

  “Much it would bother me if it was! A bit of a rackety lad. I don’t know what Miss Crofft sees in the likes of him,” she ventured, upon seeing my aversion to him.

  I sensed she was not loath to continue this discussion, but I did not encourage her. I had my tea in bed, then arose and dressed myself for the day. To pass the time till lunch I went into the rose garden and puttered around with the roses, an occupation that kept the fingers busy while allowing the mind to wander.

  My decision to leave Wyngate was hovering in the balance. If the business of Bulow could be settled, I felt a desire to stay. I had friends at Norfolk, but no family. Here I had Jarvis and Millie, Homer and Thalassa. They were already something to me, and would become a good deal more when I had no reason to fear or mistrust any of them.

/>   Homer especially I wished to know better. Being still in mourning, I would have a leisurely time in which to become thoroughly acquainted with him. How hard I had learned the lesson of marrying in haste! If, on the other hand, there was nothing we could prove against Bulow, life here would continue on tenterhooks, wondering where he would strike next. And could I really leave, knowing that Homer was the last object between a murderer and his goal? I could not, and I knew it. I wrote Mrs. Winton telling her I had changed my decision to return to Norfolk. She would be disappointed for an hour or two. She would make a stop on her way home, and perhaps that would suit her as well.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, it became too hot for comfort. I went and washed my hands for lunch. It was always lonesome, sitting with no company at the table, but only Mrs. Burns coming and going in the room. It had been so much cosier at Wyngate. I could not damp down the image of a future in which I was there, at the mistress’s place, with Homer a table length away from me.

  I nibbled with a poor appetite at asparagus and an omelette. To tempt me, Mrs. Burns set on a plate of sweets for dessert. I recognized the Chinese squares from the public day at Wyngate. Then I found myself staring at something much more significant. It was the replica of the cake that had killed Norman. It was not at all like the plum cake from Wyngate, but a much richer concoction, with nuts and currants and cherries and peel all mixed into a rich batter.

  “This is from the box you brought home last night,” she said, when she saw me staring at it. “I don’t think it’s too stale to eat yet, but if you’d prefer, I have...”

  “No. No, it’s fine, thank you,” I told her, in a stricken voice.

  “I just threw a handful of Mrs. Pepperidge’s fudge on top of Nora’s box,” Millie had said. If I required any more proof that Bulow had murdered Norman, I had it. I couldn’t take my eyes off the cake. Memories came flooding back—of Norman with a piece of it on his plate, then breaking off some for Rogue. It had been a very small cake, really—only enough for two, but as Norman was fond of it, he had eaten most of it. Certainly Bulow had hoped to finish me off with the same weapon. Who else but a man’s wife would share his birthday cake?