Love Bade Me Welcome (2 page)

“Lady Blythe is an invalid,” he replied. “She is unable to leave her room. She is resting at the moment, but is eager to meet Norman’s wife. Perhaps you could slip up for a moment before dinner,” he said, looking at me.

“I look forward to meeting her,” I said, as we were led to seats. The saloon was a pretty place, with gold brocade draperies at the tall windows, gold and green upholstered pieces, and mahogany tables. A pair of fireplaces on the outer wall were white marble, done in the Adam style. I made some vague comment in praise.

Again Sir Homer looked surprised. “We are not very grand here, I’m afraid, but we try to be comfortable,” he said quickly. Given a choice of tea or wine, Mrs. Winton decreed we would have wine, thank you. She would sooner lose all her hair than admit it, but she is fond of the wine bottle, though I do not mean to say she is a drunkard.

After a brief discussion regarding the difficulties of our trip, “a discussion” being French for monologue, Mrs. Winton thanked Sir Homer very kindly for offering to have us shown to our rooms to freshen up for dinner, which was to be served at seven.

“If that is not too early to suit you?” Sir Homer asked, still regarding me with more curiosity than I could well account for. Too late
to suit me I find seven, but too early it was not. Norman and I had kept country hours, dining between five and six, unfashionably early, like all our neighbors.

“Seven is fine.”

Mrs. Winton informed me, when we were alone, that my late husband’s relatives were “very gentlemanly,” and that I would be happy with them. From a window in her room, she discovered the dower house, or what she assumed to be the dower house, and called me to view it.

“No smoke coming out of the chimney, you see,” she pointed out with satisfaction. “It will be yours if you want it. Fortunate for you the mama is bedridden. I daresay she could not be removed to it if she wanted. It has its own little house garden, and even a few shrubberies at the back. The front will be prettier. I believe there are not less than seven bedchambers. You might be more than comfortable there, Davinia. How happy Reverend Clark will be to hear it. He took a great interest in your plight when Norman died. I hope you remember to write and thank him.”

I was happy to see such a handsome dower house, presumably for me if I wished, but it was impossible to devote much attention to it. At the rear of the house the topiary garden demanded the attention. It was a terraced affair, enclosed by yews clipped into perfectly square shapes.

Within this wall was a rigid pattern of geometrical forms that must have been laid out with help from compass and rulers. There were perfect circles and pyramids, squares and rectangles, others layered like a wedding cake, with the circles diminishing in size as the tree reached up. In the center of it all, a tree had been fashioned into the shape of a windmill building, with arms made of wood sprouting from the top. They were actually in motion, whirling slowly but steadily. It was a strange conceit, not particularly beautiful either, but curious. On a level closer to the house was a more natural sort of garden with bushes and flowers whose species could not be determined in March, though some of them were roses.

“That monstrosity must cost a fortune to keep pruned,” Mrs. Winton remarked. “It would take a full-time gardener to keep it so neat. We shall change into evening wear, Davinia, and meet at six-thirty to go downstairs.”

“Dinner is at seven,” I reminded her.

“In such a house as this, there will be a drink before dinner. You may be with old Lady Blythe, but I shall go below at six-thirty.”

I did not make any of the ironic comments that occurred to me. God was being kind, and I would behave myself. Our trunks had arrived in our rooms and were in the process of being unpacked. I had little choice of an outfit. All the lovely gowns Norman had bought me must wait till the period of mourning was up. I felt no inclination to deck myself out in my finery in any case. It rested always like a heavy weight on my heart, the grief for Norman. How different, how infinitely happy this arrival might have been, with him by my side, the master of the house, and myself its mistress.

I shook out my good black evening dress, and the crinoline to go beneath it, and after washing away the dust of travel, put them on. The gown I had had copied from a picture of our heartbroken Queen’s mourning outfit for her husband. Indeed I associated myself closely with Queen Victoria, as Norman’s death had occurred a month to the day after Prince Albert’s. It was on December 15, 1861, that the shocking news of the Prince’s death from typhoid reached us. We were just preparing to retire when a neighbor—Mrs. Winton, in fact—came bustling in with the sad tale.

I little thought at the time how soon I too would be donning crape. The Queen’s hairdo did not suit me. I did tame down my more stylish dos. Norman was a great one for wanting me to appear fashionable. I now arranged my black curls discreetly in a chignon at the back of my head. It made me look older, yet I was not so old that I failed to notice the style suited me. It lent me an air of sophistication my insular life did not entitle me to. I had lost ten pounds since the tragedy. For a week afterwards it had been impossible to eat a bite, and ever since I could only peck at my food.

Every dish set before me brought up some happy memory of a meal shared with Norman. A great ball of misery stuck in my throat, like a physical thing, impeding the passage of food. Now when I looked into the mirror I saw a pale woman with hollows at the back of her cheeks. Her dark eyes looked sad. When she tried to smile it was a travesty. The only emotion other than grief that came easily, it seemed, was anger. Why had He done it? It
wasn’t
better to have loved and lost. It was ever so much worse. I was never mean and miserable before I met Norman.

But I must overcome this angry grief. The Blythes had kindly invited me to Blythe Wyngate to meet them, to stay with them, and I would be a civil guest and relation, and perhaps a resident. I wouldn’t try to forget Norman. Why should I? He was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Instead I would discover things about his youth, for really he had told me remarkably little about it. I would make a friend of his half-brother, Homer, who resembled Norman enough to be entirely pleasing to me without in any way exciting those stronger feelings I had formerly enjoyed. He would be like a brother. While I stared unseeing at the reflection in the mirror, a discreet tap was heard at my door.

“Come in,” I called.

It was a female servant asking me if I could spare a moment to go to see Lady Blythe. I did not, at that time, think of myself as Lady Blythe. I knew she referred to Homer’s mother, and went with curiosity to meet her.

Lady Blythe the elder endeared herself to me at once by exclaiming, “Oh my,
aren’t you pretty!” as soon as I stepped to her bedside. I have a little weakness for vanity, engendered and increased by my late husband’s high praise. Before Norman, I never considered myself beautiful.

The dame had some fading traces of beauty herself. Her hair was gray, but the black hairs mixed with white showed it had once been ebony. The bones were superb—high brow, sculptured nose, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. The flesh was somewhat wilted, but the dark eyes were still lively, and the rouge pot had bestowed some temporary color to her face. She had performed a careful toilette: her hair was nicely groomed, and she had an elegant mauve mohair shawl around her shoulders. I was happy she was not a whining sort of invalid, as I had been imagining.

“Do come in and sit beside me, my dear,” she urged, pointing to a chair. “These old eyes don’t see so far as they used to. I have a pair of spectacles, but am much too vain to wear them in front of a new acquaintance. Later on, you will see me in them.” They rested on her bedside table.

“I am happy to meet you,” I said. She lifted her cheek to me for a little kiss. I was strangely moved by the gesture, I had never kissed a woman’s cheek before—had never had a good enough friend to do this. The cheek was smooth and soft, and a pleasant floral smell emanated from her.

“And I am delighted to meet you, Davinia. May I call you Davinia? I have got our relationship all figured out. I am your stepmother-in-law. Isn’t that
dreadful?
Either title by itself is enough to sink me, but we shall forget all about relationships and be plain friends, if you please. Female company is sadly lacking in this house. My name is Thalassa. My mama ought to be horsewhipped for it, but I had an aunt by the name with piles of money, you see, who had to be catered to. She married a broken-down horse trader when she was forty years old, and left every penny of it to him, so I have had a life of suffering for naught. I call myself Thal, and hope you will do likewise. I was called Lassie when I was a girl, but never could abide the name. What do folks call
you?”

“Norman called me Davie.”

“I shan’t trespass on
that
name,” she said, with great understanding. “We were all
shattered to
hear of Norman’s death. So sudden, and unexpected. What caused it, or is it too painful to talk about?”

“Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. Of course you are curious, and I don’t mind talking about it; Norman died in his sleep. The doctor thought it was heart failure.”

“That’s all?” she asked, her mobile brows rising high.

“What do you mean?”

“He was young to die of heart failure! Had he had attacks before? Had he been exercising violently, under any great strain?”

“No. He rode pretty hard that afternoon, but seemed only pleasantly tired at dinner. In the evening he worked on his book—on Roman antiquities in Britain, you know. He was quite an expert.”

“He used to go on a dig once in a while with Jarvis. I remember once he brought me some bit of flint or an old coin to admire. He was not—now, pray do not take a pet, my dear, but he was not drinking heavily, by any chance?”

“Oh no! A few glasses of sherry, drunk slowly during the course of the evening. Two, I think. Norman never drank more than was good for him.”

“I am happy to hear it. Naturally we all wondered what could have caused it. We thought, having nothing else to think, that he must have fallen while drunk, or some such thing. Your letter, you know, only said that he had died suddenly. Homer wrote asking if it was an accident, you perhaps recall, and you assured him it was not, but didn’t explain what
had
happened.”

“I’m sorry I left you in confusion. I was very busy at the time, with arrangements to be made, and also very disturbed in my own mind. That was poorly done of me.”

“You must have been totally distracted, poor child. You should have let Homer go to you, as he wanted to.”

“It is a long, wearying trip, and to what purpose, Thal? He was already dead and buried. The business affairs to be attended to were to be done here.”

“Homer will go into all that with you soon, when you are recovered from that grueling trip. There is no real consolation one can offer at such a time as this. I often wonder, while I lie here through the long days, why God decided to throw me from a horse and destroy my spine. Well, He did it, and no doubt He had his reasons, but at times we mere mortals would be happy for some elucidation. You may be sure it is all for the best. That’s what I tell myself. I don’t always believe me, but I try to. It is the only way. Otherwise we would grow into angry beasts, hating God and the world and everyone in it. Don’t let that happen, child. You are much too young, and pretty.” She looked at me closely, with that same curiosity and surprise I had seen in her son’s eyes. Had my angry grief left its traces on me?

Soon she spoke on. “You have your youth, your health, a home where you will always be welcome. Let it be enough,” she said softly, patting my hand.

Her words, revealing how well she understood my mind, were some consolation. I vowed I would try to match her bravery, and her optimism. I blinked away a tear. I was suddenly aware that she was squeezing my hand very hard. She was still strong, though an invalid.

“Time is the best healer,” she added gently. “Mind you, a little glass of wine helps in the off moments. Shall we? No, you are wanted below for dinner. I shall have a glass by myself, and dip into this charming novel Homer has found for me. Charles Dickens. He’s a wonder, that man. A gift from God to us poor invalids. So prolific one can hardly keep pace with him. I am reading about Little Nell, and feel myself fortunate compared to her. If she dies, I shall write Mr. Dickens a stiff rebuke. Surely he could not be so cruel. And if you know, pray don’t tell me. Homer always does.”

“I haven’t read it. I must go now. May I come back tomorrow?” There was no charity in the request. I liked the woman very much. I had a feeling I had found a new friend.

“You never have to ask, Davinia.
Mi chambra, tu chambra.
I don’t know if that is proper Spanish, or even if it is Spanish at all, but you know what I mean. The door is always open.”

“Happy reading.”

I left, my heart a little lighter. What a difference one single friend who understands can make. I even imagined I had found a mother at last. She would not have offered her cheek to just anyone.

* * * *

They set an elegant table at Wyngate. Silver and crystal sparkled on the linen cloth. A floral centerpiece of flowers not in season told me there was a conservatory somewhere on the grounds. The china was patterned with dainty roses, gold rimmed, delicate and fine. The cups were fluted. My eyes were nearly as busy as Mrs. Winton’s in assessing the table. Besides the two gentlemen met when we entered, there was an unknown female there. She was introduced as Miss Dennison, which alerted me to her identity. Norman’s mother’s maiden name was Dennison. This then was his Aunt Millicent, who made her home at Wyngate.

“So you’re Norman’s lady,” she said, smiling brightly. She looked positively ancient. A thin fringe of aging yellow hair hung over her brow; the rest of her hair was knotted into a tight ball on the top of her head. She had a wizened, wrinkled little monkey face and bright brown eyes. Her shoulders were frightfully hunched, throwing her head forward at a perilous angle, as though she might tumble to the floor at any moment. “He had good taste, hadn’t he, Homer, eh?” she asked, smiling wickedly.