Love Bade Me Welcome (20 page)

Homer stayed by my bedside till after seven, when Millie came and sent him down to eat. Some cold meal had been thrown together. She had eaten, and came to replace him. I was not to be left alone for a moment. What did they think I was going to do, leap to my death, like Emily? I was not depressed, only angry, and frightened.

By morning, I was half relieved. It was not much pleasure, worrying that your unborn child might be a lunatic.

“God knows what He’s doing,” Millie told me, when she came with my breakfast in the morning. “He weeds out the ones that weren’t fit to survive. You can be sure the child would have brought you grief. A blessing in disguise is what they are calling it downstairs.”

“Especially Homer, and not much disguise either,” I said tartly. I didn’t feel the need to mince words with this harmless woman.

“It is well to have it settled,” she told me. “They’re doing the washing downstairs today. Such a lot of blood. It’s a wonder you survived. I’m sure there should be some way to get it back into the system.”

“Another project for you to work on, Millie.”

“I’m making you up a posset. The way I have it figured, when you’ve lost red blood, what you need to replace it is red juice. It’s a pity the berries ain’t ripe yet, but I’m boiling berry preserves, which I shall beat up with milk and eggs. And you will have beets for dinner.”

More impotables, and how would I get rid of them from my bed? “Did anyone tell Bulow about my accident?” I asked her.

“Homer sent word over last night, but he’s gone away. He’s at the selling races at Exeter. He stays longer than a day. The races are three days.”

“He mentioned it. I didn’t know he would stay so long.”

So did Homer know he would be away, and knew it was a prime opportunity to push me, lest Bulow begin accompanying me on my walks, as he had offered to do.

For two days my convalescence continued. The family all came to visit me, except for Thalassa, and even she sent me a letter, which seemed odd, with her just a few rooms away down the hall. On the second day Mrs. Durwood came, bringing Woodie with her, to receive my heartfelt thanks.

“Some good came of his trailing you after all, Lady Blythe,” she pointed out. “If he hadn’t been close by, you’d be dead.”

I smiled at the poor misbegotten creature, and he came up to take my hand. “Thank you, Woodie. You saved my life,” I told him. I received one of his simple-minded smiles, broader than usual. He didn’t quite understand what was going on, but he knew I was pleased with him, and he was happy. I don’t know whether it was simple gratitude or the end of having to worry about my own child’s sanity that finally reconciled me to the boy. Maybe it was nothing but familiarity. From that time on, he no longer bothered me. Later, I even looked around for him when I was out walking. But that was much later.

On the evening of that day, Bulow returned from Exeter. He came over after dinner, as soon as it was socially
acceptable—for he returned a little before dinner to his own home—but I thought the circumstances unusual enough that he might have bent the proprieties a little and come to me sooner.

Homer accompanied him upstairs, and did not leave my room the whole time he was there, thus robbing me of an opportunity to tell him my suspicions. Bulow was shocked and grieved for me, but could not give full vent to his feelings with Homer present. He had to hear how it happened, the version that was being told to the family.

“It is my fault. I should have been with you,” he exclaimed, gripping my fingers. “Instead of that, I was off enjoying myself, buying a filly. I’ll never enjoy racing again.”

“Don’t be absurd. I could have fallen even if you had been with me,” I pointed out. Homer looked at our intertwined fingers with a question in his eyes. I hoped he might take the idea we wanted to be alone, but he stood firm.

After discussing the accident, Bulow described the races to us and told us about the filly he had purchased. He spoke of a powerful chest, nice straight legs, the eyes of an eagle, and such points as he considered excellent harbingers of a winner. When his eyes strayed to me, I tried to give some indication that I had private information to impart. It was difficult with Homer there watching, but I thought he understood me at last. Just before he left, he leaned over to place a cousinly peck on my cheek.

“I’ll time my next visit better, when he’s not home,” he said softly in my ear. I smiled and nodded my satisfaction.

“You
will
come
very soon,
Bulow?” I asked, to give him an idea the matter was urgent.

Homer’s eyes narrowed, and his glance went from one of us to the other.

“Very soon, my dear,” Bulow said, his smile triumphant. He waved and left the room. Homer stayed behind.

“Is this not the time you usually spend with your mother, Homer?” I reminded him.

“I’ll visit her later. She is accustomed to being bedridden and has learned to entertain herself.”

“Please don’t feel I require entertainment around the clock.”

“I’m away all day. This is the only time I can be with you. Are you suggesting I leave?” he asked bluntly.

“I am a little tired.”

“Your bout of fatigue is very sudden—cropped up the instant Bulow left, in fact. But then he is a tiring fellow. I’ll
leave you, as that is obviously what you wish. Good night, Davinia. Pleasant dreams.”

This speech was delivered in a grim, unpleasant manner.

He gave a curt bow and left. I
was
fatigued, from the strain of being half polite to him, of hiding my strong aversion, and from the frustration of not having privacy to speak to Bulow.

I had a visit from Mrs. Winton the next morning. She came bustling in, already aware of my condition from having spoken to Jarvis belowstairs. She first expressed every sympathy and curiosity, in about equal measure.

“I wish I could stay with you a few days, but I haven’t brought my things with me. We are making an excursion to the seaside with neighbors. They are all below this minute. Mr. Blythe feared the whole group would be too much excitement for you. A pity, as they are all on thorns to meet you. Shall I return later on, my dear Davinia? Give me a few days to prepare, and I can come for as long a visit as you wish. It would be comforting to have an old familiar face around at this sorry time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your holiday with your sister. I am taken good care of here.”

“I would not begrudge the time, child. I could run back to my sister after. If your own neighbors aren’t ready to lend a hand, who will do it?”

“You are very kind, but Norman’s family is doing all that can be done.”

We talked for half an hour. She had to hear about my doctor, the way life went on here, all about the accident—that part of it I was telling to anyone. She even remembered to ask me about the dower house, and whether I would get it. I, in turn, heard a good deal about her sister’s household, friends, and community. Just before she left, she reverted again to my miscarriage.

“It almost seems that marriage of yours was doomed,” she said dolefully. “So much violence and tragedy. Even Rogue. Ah, you have not heard it. Reverend Clark told me the details in his letter, but I shan’t distress you with them at this time, they are so unpleasant.”

“Where is Rogue?” I asked. “If our dog has been found, I would like to have him sent to me.”

“No, you would not, my dear. Rogue is dead, like Norman. The Bixby boy found him down by the stream, near Church House Road, you know. Found him the very day after Norman’s death, but didn’t say anything at the time, to prevent you from more bad news.”

“Was he accidentally shot, as we feared?”

“Not in the least. He had got into some poison. His body was all bloated and ugly, like Norman’s....” She came to a guilty stop. “There, I have let it out of the bag. There was no need to distress you, child. You were shaken enough at the time.”

“What do you mean? What are you saying? Norman died of heart failure! He wasn’t bloated. I saw his body.” Some unnamed fear took hold of me. I didn’t really want to hear what she had to say, but a force stronger than conscious volition made me ask.

“It didn’t happen at once, the swelling. The doctor thought at the time, and put on the death certificate that it was the heart. It’s a distressing business, but as I have let it blurt out, I might as well make it clear. After the doctor left, Norman’s corpse—well, it swelled up into an ugly thing, spotted. The undertaker wrapped him up in a shroud and didn’t open the coffin, as you know. We spoke to Dr. Anton about it later, and he said it was obviously some sort of poisoning. Cook went through the kitchen throwing out everything Norman had eaten, to make sure no one else got a taste of it. But it seems Rogue must have found her dump bin and helped himself. A pity, but it’s done now. There is no point thinking about it, is there? Think happy thoughts, Davinia.
You
were spared. You must go on and make a new life for yourself. Dear me, I hope I haven’t troubled you unduly with this business. I fear I have. You look so white. I’ll call Jarvis.” Her voice seemed far away, almost an echo, though she still sat beside me.

“No. No, I’m all right,” I said, though I did feel far from well. “Please just go over it again, so that I have it clear.”

She repeated the grisly tale, tried again to cheer me up, then finally left. The image her story conjured up remained with me long after her departure.

I went over that last day, trying to think what Norman had eaten that I had not. We took our three meals together. Was it the wine? He had more of that than I. He drank his two glasses that last evening, while I had only one. Strange, I remembered, those two glasses had made him tipsy. We were in the saloon, I writing letters while he read a book, with Rogue at his feet. He had got a parcel from home that day. Cook had made him some of her overly rich plum cake that he loved and I disliked. He ate a few pieces, fed some to Rogue
...
The plum cake—was that it? He and Rogue had both taken some, and I had not.

I lay down very carefully and closed my eyes. An idea so awful I did not even want to think it was scratching at the back of my mind. Norman had not died of natural causes. He had been poisoned purposefully. There was really no reason to wonder who had done it, or why. Who else but Homer wanted him dead? Norman was all that stood between him and Wyngate, he thought. So he had cook, who adored him, make up that poison cake and mailed it, a Judas gift, to his half-brother on his birthday.

If I had eaten it too, or a whole party of friends, he would not have cared. No, actually it was a small cake. Enough for two, but not for a party. He must have been surprised to learn that I was still alive. But he had handled that. He got rid of Norman’s heir in short order. There was no longer a shred of doubt in my mind. As soon as I was able, I meant to return to Norfolk, to have Norman’s body exhumed and a proper verdict brought down.

While I stayed here, I must be careful to let no hint of my fatal knowledge leak out to betray me. A man who had killed twice would not hesitate a third time. I jumped a foot when Millie came in without knocking.

“Here we are,” she said merrily. “A nice raspberry posset to bring the roses to your cheeks.”

Raspberry, or belladonna berry? I wondered. Perhaps Millie was his accomplice. She certainly had easy access to the poisons, in that chest in her room. It wouldn’t pose much of a problem for Homer to get them, or cook. But I was precipitous to include cook. The poison might have been slipped in while her back was turned. A trip through the kitchen—Homer often came in that way from the stable—a request for an ale, and while she drew it, he tossed a handful of the poison berries into her batter. A few more berries would never be noticed in that rich concoction cook prepared.

“Why, thank you, Millie. Just leave it here beside me, will you? I’m not thirsty at the moment.”

“Just a sip to see if you like it,” she insisted.

I put it to my lips, pretended to sip, and proclaimed it delicious.

“Good. I made up a quart and had it put on ice. I made them bring fresh juice from the icehouse to do it. I’ll bring you more after lunch. They’re gone—that roomful of visitors. I see the chatterbox Winton has tired you out. She’s a talker, that one. I’ll go and leave your ears in peace.”

She went, but there was no peace left behind her. How was I to dispose of her posset, confined as I was to my bed. Ironically, it was the murderer who got rid of it for me. Homer came in at noon and saw it sitting there, untouched.

“What are you doing home at this hour, Homer?” I enquired politely, burying my anger and fear beneath a smile.

“Why, I have made a special trip home from the forest to see how you go on. I see Millie is quacking you. She is well intentioned, but let us take no chances,” he said, and lifting the glass, he raised the window and poured the posset out.

“Thank you. I dislike to hurt her feelings, but it does seem a shame to destroy raspberry preserves by mixing them with milk and eggs.”

“I’ll see that some are sent up for lunch, without milk and eggs.”

“Don’t bother,” I said hastily. The less he had to do with the ordering of my meals, the better. Dear God, must I go in fear of every bite I ate in the future? No, of course not. I was no longer a menace to him, so far as
he
knew. “Fresh ones are so much nicer,” I said, to close the subject.

“I met Mrs. Winton’s party on my way home. She recognized me and had the carriage halted. She fears she has disturbed you—the business of Norman’s having got some poison. It cannot be pleasant for you to discuss, but have you any idea what might have held the poison?”

“No, none,” I said firmly. “He cannot have got it at home, for we ate the same things, and I was fine.” I heard the high, breathless quality in my voice, and tried to change it. “It might have been mushrooms, perhaps. Millie was telling me the other day of some mushrooms that are fatal, but the effects don’t show up for forty-eight hours. It’s all I can think of.”