Love Bade Me Welcome (21 page)

“Was he away from home for meals forty-eight hours before his death?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. I—I don’t think so.” It was impossible to hide my distraught condition. I saw him regard me closely, suspiciously. I had to convince him I suspected nothing. “He was a great one for eating berries and things in the woods. Likely he picked something poisonous, and fed a few to Rogue.”

“There wouldn’t have been wild berries on the bushes in January,” he pointed out.

“No, that’s true. His dog going the same way suggests they were together, and as no one else at home got the poison, it cannot have come from there. That is why I thought it happened during one of their rambles.”

“But he died late at night, around midnight, did he not?”

“Yes, he did.”

“He wouldn’t have been rambling outdoors at such an hour.”

“Some poisons act slowly,” I reminded him.

“Have you considered having the body exhumed. It is unpleasant to be sure...”

“No, please. It is done. Let’s forget it.”

I could feel those dark eyes boring holes into me. He was trying to discover if I knew, or suspected anything. And if I did, I knew I wouldn’t last out the week.

“If you say so,” he answered.

“I do say so. I want to hear no more about it. It makes me quite ill.”

“I’m sorry. We shan’t speak of it again. As the posset was not to your liking, could I get something else for you? Cook has made some plum cake.”

My eyes flew to his face. I could not control them. Was he
testing
me, to learn whether I knew his stunt? Or was it another set of his special cakes, made up for troublesome relatives he would prefer to see dead? Surely he would not stare so hard if the offer were an innocent coincidence. His face was full of suspicion.

“Nothing, thank you. Mrs. Winton’s visit was tiring. I shall rest for a while.”

He directed a pointed, angry look at me. “You must let me know what delicacies you prefer, and I’ll arrange it with cook. As you are already aware, I have special influence with her.”

“Yes, I know. I’d rather rest than eat now.”

“Is that a hint for me to leave?”

“I’m not good company today. Forgive me. I have a headache,” I said, lifting a hand to give weight to this claim.

“I’m sorry. That was damned thoughtless of me. I’ll get you a powder from Mama. She has some in her room.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Homer. I can sleep without one. I don’t like to take medications unless they are really necessary.”

He bent over the bed and took my hand in his. I shivered in revulsion. “Please, take one for me. I can’t bear to see you suffer. Your forehead is hot too,” he added, placing a cool hand on it, then along my cheek. My nerves were curled up like a spring. If he had been a wild tiger, I could not have been more tense. “You’re running a fever. I’ll send for Nev—Mather,” he said, changing to my preferred doctor.

The tension was too much. I closed my eyes tight to avoid screaming. Tears oozed out, tears of sheer hysteria, which scalded my cheeks.

“Davinia,” he said softly, his fingers stroking my hair now. “My dear, what is the matter? Are you in great pain? Don’t be a hero. If you are suffering some ill effects of your accident, you must tell us. Hiding it won’t make it go away. Don’t let modesty stand in the way. Be perfectly frank with Mather. It is the only way. He is a doctor, accustomed to these intimate problems.”

“I’m fine. I have no pain in my body, no bad effects from the accident.”

“But you’re crying,” he said, patting my tears with his handkerchief. “Please tell me the trouble. Whatever is the matter, I’ll look after you. We don’t want you to go into a depression like
...
as some women do after a miscarriage,” he said, but I knew what he meant. Like Emily, who ended up in the courtyard, a huddled heap of bones.

I made a strong effort to control myself. “I will take that powder after all,” I said to be rid of him if only for a moment.

He brought it back, stood by me with water while I took it. But the packet was sealed, and a headache powder, even if unnecessary, could do no real harm. It at least served the purpose of getting him out of my room. He went reluctantly, but he went, and I heaved a great sigh of relief. I was drenched in perspiration from the ordeal.

Eventually, and by slow degrees, I recovered. In retrospect, I believe having two physicians was not only foolish but harmful. Mather would urge me out of bed for a walk down the hall. I would feel fine, invigorated and encouraged by it, till Nevans came and proclaimed me white as a sheet, my energy drained, and very likely some irreparable damage done to my insides.

The greatest setback, however, was Bulow’s response when I told him my suspicions. He came back soon, timing his visit just after luncheon, when Homer was sure to be around the estate. He brought me flowers, a pretty bouquet of white roses that reminded me of death. There were white roses on Norman’s coffin, though of course Bulow could not know that.

He listened with a worried frown while I outlined my shreds of suspicion, the plum cake from home, the condition of Norman’s body, the death of Rogue, and, most telling of all, that black-gloved hand, pushing me down the windmill staircase.

“You haven’t told Homer any of this?” he asked, alarmed.

“Of course not! My life wouldn’t be worth a brass farthing if he knew I suspected.”

“We’ve got to get you out of this house. Come to me and Mama.”

“I’m not fit to travel, Bulow.”

“That’s true, but as soon as you are, you will come to us.”

“It will look so very odd, leaving my late husband’s home. A kind of oblique accusation, in a way, or so it will appear to Homer. Unless there were something to account for it,” I added. My hope, and indeed my expectation, was that he would suggest a betrothal. In my vulnerable position, I would have accepted.

It was then I learned that the relationship between himself and Eglantine was different from what he had told me. He was quick enough to grasp my hint, and answered, “That’s true. I had not thought how it would look. An engagement would make a good and proper excuse, but unfortunately, it is impossible. Eglantine—I could not like to embarrass the girl. Not that we are serious about one another, but she has been treated so badly by this family that I cannot in conscience add to her torment. First Norman—I only ever had a thing to do with her out of pity. She was distressed when she learned the truth about him, and I tried to comfort her. She is attracted to me, poor girl, I must not hurt her more than she is already hurt. But that is not to say you will remain here, in this house. You must remove to the dower house, hire your own servants. You will be perfectly safe there.”

He was a little ill at ease, wiggling out of my snare. Had I loved him, I would no doubt have been cast into gloom, but I listened intently. I noticed when he let out the damning words, “the truth about him,” meaning Norman. So he
did
believe Norman was insane. Why had he said otherwise? To comfort me, and alleviate my fears about the child?

When I spoke, I did not speak of that matter. “I’m not sure the dower house is mine. His mother is also a dowager Lady Blythe. If she has a prior claim to it, Homer won’t give it to me. And really I would rather be farther away from Wyngate.”

“He’ll give it to you right enough. His mother won’t want to live there, when she can have all the servants of the big house at her beck and call.”

“I would prefer to return to Norfolk. I must go back in any case, to have Norman’s death looked into.”

“Don’t waste your time, Davinia. What can an autopsy at this late date prove? Nothing. You will only alert Homer that you suspect him, and put yourself in danger. Let it be, my dear. You can’t bring your husband or your child back to life, and you cannot secure Wyngate for yourself, so do what you can. Be discreet, and you’ll get the dower house at least. You are in no danger now. Actually we were precipitate to speak of moving. It was the shock of hearing what you had to say—such an extraordinary accusation,” he added slowly, in a considering way. He examined me, still frowning. I knew what he was thinking: Has the poor girl’s mind become unhinged? I knew it as well as though he had said it. After that visit I spoke no more to Bulow about my suspicions.

He returned a couple of times a week, never with Eglantine, nor was there any more talk of his involvement with her. He was my flirt again, my cavalier, my beau, and I knew it was not a role that would ever escalate to anything more. Losing any hope of Wyngate had relegated me to the level of a flirt whose company could be enjoyed, but it was a dowered lady who would win his hand. He was a trifler with a lady’s affections. I wondered how many hearts he had broken. At least he had not broken mine.

The family, and Homer in particular, continued solicitous of my well-being. My simple comment that fresh berries were preferable to preserves sent him scouring the countryside for hothouse berries for my delectation. They were brought not once, but at least every second day, till I was quite tired of them. He brought me books, cards, puzzles, flowers—everything he could lay his mind to. I accepted all these unwanted items with politeness, but could not show any great enthusiasm. They were poor substitutes for my stolen family. What I could not accept with any degree of equanimity was his long visits, which lasted at least an hour. Even if I found an excuse to be rid of him sooner, he would return. Worst of all, the visits had a courting flavor.

“It pains me to see your recovery so slow,” he said, holding my reluctant hand, which I soon found an excuse to withdraw.

“Ungrateful of me, is it not? And I as cosseted as a prize cat. You make my convalescence too luxurious, Homer.”

“What should we do instead? Deprive you of callers, draw the window shades, reduce you to darkness, serve you a diet of bread and water? Would that increase your desire for health again?” he asked, trying to make light talk.

“I have the desire,” I told him. It was a lie. I hadn’t the least desire to get well. When I was well, I had such unsavory chores ahead of me that at times I wanted never to have to leave my bed again. A lassitude, a weariness, a kind of despair consumed my will.

One afternoon he returned early, to find me in discussion with Millie. She always had some nonsense to amuse me. Her newest craze was for a proper pair of gentleman’s trousers. The bloomers she found so comfortable and convenient that she wished to abandon her skirt altogether, and wear jackets and trousers.

“Never mind laughing at me. George Sand did it in France.”

“Are you going to set yourself up with a court of lovers as well, in imitation of George Sand?” I asked, smiling to envision Millie in trousers and a cutaway coat.

“Why not? I’m as pretty as she ever was,” she told me, her wizened little face looking as ugly as a badger.

“Prettier. Much prettier,” Homer said, stepping in. “I don’t suppose you would consider me eligible for membership in your court.”

“You’re eligible, right enough. No blood kin to me, but to tell the truth, it is Bulow I have in my eye.
He
brings me presents. You don’t. You only shower all your goodies on Davinia, trying to con her into liking you.”

He gave a conscious, embarrassed look at me, and delayed handing over his latest treat. He had a box of bonbons in his hands. I had little taste for sweets, and to prevent yet another present, said, “You wrong him, Millie. Homer has something for you today.” I looked directly at the box as I spoke.

He took the hint and offered it to her. She snapped it from his fingers and tore off the lid. “Oh, good! My favorites—coconut balls, the good ones, with nuts and raisins. You don’t want one, do you, Davinia?” she asked, steeling herself to do the civil thing.

“I couldn’t force myself,” I told her.

She laughed and ran off into the hallway, holding the box to her chest, bloomers swaying in the breeze she created. Homer advanced to my bed.

“It is a great pleasure to see you laughing and happy again.” Even as he spoke, I felt my smile fade. My fingers clutched nervously at the counterpane. I wished Millie had stayed in the room.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice taking on a harsher tone. “Why do you cringe and shrink from me? You would think I were a monster.”

The only thing I could think of to say was
you are,
and as I could not say that, I said nothing.

“Is it because of Wyngate? Is that it? Did it mean so much to you? You still resent my inheritance—I cannot think what else accounts for this very obvious aversion.”

“There is no aversion. You imagine it,” I said, forcing a normal tone.

“It is not imagination that you have changed. I first put it down to depression at losing your child. Nevans tells me it is not uncommon. That was two weeks ago, Davinia. You aren’t depressed when Bulow calls, or Millie, or Jarvis. Only me. Tell me truthfully if you dislike me and I will leave you alone.”

“That’s nonsense.
You
are the one who is imagining. I don’t know how you can expect me to be happy at such a time.”

‘Then you have
not
developed some unreasonable dislike for me?”

“Of course not,” I could say with honesty, as there was a very good reason for my dislike.

“I am happy to hear it. To be perfectly frank, Davinia, I am extremely impatient to get things settled. I want you to be mistress of Wyngate,” he said, leaning over me, gripping my hands, looking into my eyes with a steady gaze. “You remember my first untimely proposal. It was not motivated by any selfish wish to manipulate you, as you thought. My feelings have not changed. I still want to marry you. I want it very badly.”

“It is too soon to speak of this,” I said, turning my head aside and trying to free my hands.

“It is not so premature as it was last time. You were less reluctant then.”

“Thank you for your flattering offer, but being mistress of Wyngate does not mean so much to me as you think.”

“I made a wretched botch of that first proposal, and am doing as badly again. I love you. That should have preceded my offer. But you know it already. You know in your heart I love you more than is good for either of us. I love you to the edge of—indiscretion,” he said, carefully avoiding the more natural “madness,” because of the circumstances.