“Excellent taste. We have placed you here on my left, Aunt Millie,” Homer said, helping her to her chair. She dragged her feet along the carpet at a laggardly gait. “And you, Davinia, on my right,” he added, drawing my chair out.
“We’ll share him,” Millie said, laughing.
Before she could say more, Jarvis spoke up. “We are uneven. We ought to have had Cousin Bulow to dinner.” He held Mrs. Winton’s chair while he spoke.
“He has promised to come tomorrow to meet Davinia,” Homer said, taking his own place at the head of the table.
“I get to say grace. You promised, Homer,” Miss Dennison said, like a child. “You said if I’d take a bath I could eat with Norman’s wife, and if I put my teeth in, I could say grace.”
“Please go ahead,” Homer said, exchanging a mortified look with his Uncle Jarvis, while I swallowed a smile at his predicament. Senile relatives can be such a nuisance in a polite household, but I was happy to see she was tolerated with kindness. It spoke well of the family’s generosity. Homer threw one brief glance at me, to see how I was reacting. I smiled my compassion at him, my understanding and approval. Meanwhile, Millie began her grace.
“Thank you, God, for this lovely looking meal,” she said, eyeing the table greedily. “May the roast be moist and the taties dry. May the sweets be choice, and the spirits high. There, I composed that specially for you, Davinia.”
“That was lovely. I am honored,” I told her.
“Why, you’re quite a poet, Miss Dennison,” Mrs. Winton remarked, with great condescension.
“I am a genius,” Miss Dennison replied, in the same spirit. “Get cutting that roast up, Homer, and don’t give me the burnt end either. I can’t chew it with these demmed new teeth. I like mine pink and tender. Jarvis, pass along the horseradish and mustard or everything will be stone cold. Davinia, the first glass is for you,” she said, lifting her wineglass and gulping thirstily, after which she smacked her lips.
“We are beginning with fish this evening,” Homer told her, in a repressive manner.
“Damme. You can leave
me
out. I don’t want my throat full of bones that keep me coughing all night. I’ll have some of that bread and butter while the rest of you have fish. Pass the bread, Jarvis.”
That was the end of Miss Dennison’s conversation for several minutes. While the rest of us ate fish and made small talk, she gorged on three slices of bread and butter, but still had her plate under Homer’s nose the instant he hit pink meat in his carving.
“More, I can handle three slices since you’re shaving them so thin,” she told him. “No, better make it two. I want to leave room for the sweet. We are having a berry trifle, Davinia. I helped cook to make it. I whipped the cream all by myself.”
“That’s nice. I like trifles,” I told her, pretending to find nothing amiss in her outspokenness.
“You must watch your figure, Miss Dennison, or you will become stout,” Mrs. Winton chided.
“Watch your own. You’d make two of me, with fat left over,” Miss Dennison told her bluntly, and truthfully too.
“Aunt Millicent, that will be enough,” Homer said sharply. “You had better apologize to Mrs. Winton.”
“Sorry dear. Only fooling,” Miss Dennison said, and laughed slyly.
“That is quite all right, Sir Homer,” my companion said. “I take no account of such things. We met a little idiot boy in the roadway just as we came in. Woodie, he said his name was,” she added, to show the family in what light she considered Miss Dennison.
Jarvis leapt at the excuse to change the subject. “Durwood is the lad’s name,” he told her. “He has been as you saw him since birth, poor fellow. They never could teach him to read or write, but he is perfectly harmless, you know.”
“
I
can read and write, if
that
is what she’s getting at!” Millicent said loudly.
“Your meat is growing cold,” Homer told her.
“How old is the boy?” I asked, to forestall Millicent’s next remark.
“Thirty-six or seven. Thereabouts,” Jarvis said.
“We took him for a very child,” Mrs. Winton exclaimed. “He is small.”
“Body and mind, both were held back,” Jarvis told us, with a sad shake of the head. “He has spent his life in idleness. It’s all he is good for.”
One had to wonder why he had been created. Another mystery, to add to Thalassa’s accident, and Norman’s death.
“What was your own line of work, Mr. Blythe?” she enquired, as inquisitive about a house of strangers as though they were to be her intimates for the next few decades.
These people meant more to me, however, and I listened with interest to hear his answer. “I am a retired politician, ma’am. I spent the active part of my life at Westminster.”
“Then you would know our Queen! Davinia has a great fondness for her. What is she like?”
“She was a gay, charming lady in her youth. She settled down very fast after she married Prince Albert and began her nursery. But she never let her growing family or anything else interfere with duty. They do say she feels her loss very much. I haven’t seen her for over a year now. I wrote her my sympathy, and have a note back from her. She says she never will recover, and I believe her.”
“Foolishness,” Miss Dennison told us, her eyes flashing. “The dead are dead, and no amount of moping and whining will bring them back. What she needs is a new husband, and I hope she makes it an Englishman this time.”
It was unlikely that a lady of Queen Victoria’s years would be looking about for another husband, but Miss Dennison’s eyes had soon turned to me, to include me in her advice. “You will enjoy to meet Cousin Bulow tomorrow, Davinia,” she added, in what seemed to me a most pointed way.
Dinner passed with no more outrages from the dame. Sir Homer was polite but rather quiet. His eyes were busier than his tongue. He listened and looked—mostly he looked at me. I began to wonder what was amiss with me, that he so often stole glances at me. Was my face dirty, my hair mussed? I thought not; there was no air of disapproval about him. His first curiosity and surprise were softening to approval, or so I thought.
When we left the table, we women retired to the gold saloon, where Mrs. Winton busied herself quizzing Miss Dennison, and receiving very little information for her trouble, save what she could pick up from oblique comments. But then she is good at that.
“Maybe Homer will loosen the purse strings, now that you are here,” she said, after a perfectly audible belch had escaped her.
“The house is run in a high style,” Mrs. Winton told her. “Everything is shipshape. The table well set, many servants, from what I can see. That topiary must require a deal of work.”
“He threatens to let it go back to nature, but his own mother put her foot down there. It was used to be his father’s pride and joy, you know. Unnatural,
I
call it. If you are interested in a real garden, Davinia, I shall show you my herb garden. Soon it will be in bloom. Then I shall be busy. Meanwhile, I must get to work in my laboratory. I’ll show it to you another time. I’m too busy tonight. Homer says I mustn’t take my teeth out in front of you either, and they ache. The tooth drawer made them too tight.
You
have a good sound set of teeth. My, so pretty. It’s going to be fun watching them.”
“My teeth?” I asked in confusion.
“Eh? No, no, Homer and Bulow. They will be at daggers drawn over you, so pretty.
I
used to be pretty once. Good night. Sleep tight.”
“Good night, Miss Dennison,” I said.
“Good night to you too, Mrs.—what was the name again, dear?”
“Winton. Mrs. Winton.”
“Never heard of them, but good night anyway. Homer said to be polite.”
Mrs. Winton rolled up her eyes at the departing form, which moved at a livelier gait than before. “I cannot imagine why they let that one roam free to insult their guests. She belongs in a padded room.”
“She’s harmless.”
“She is offensive to anyone of any sensibility. You must use your influence to have her kept out of company’s way after you are settled in, Davinia. The house needs a woman’s hand. I shall go up and say how do you do to Lady Blythe. I want to make her acquaintance before I leave, and she might be abed tomorrow morning. Reverend Clark will want to hear about her.”
I was sitting alone when the gentlemen returned from the dining room. Jarvis soon excused himself. “I usually puff a cloud after dinner. You will excuse me, Davinia. We old gentlemen become set in our ways. It takes very little to put us out of humor. Homer will entertain you.”
“Don’t interrupt your usual schedule for me. I don’t have to be entertained, but I would be happy to become better acquainted, Homer,” I said, turning to include him.
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.”