Love Bade Me Welcome (6 page)

“You are perfectly welcome to them if you can find them,” I retaliated sharply. It was not the moment to put in my bid for the dower house as my own domicile, but at least I wanted to see it.

“Very likely they’ll turn up in a vault somewhere,” I said. “In the meanwhile, shall we stop and have a look at the dower house, while we are so close?”

“Certainly, if you wish. I must caution you, it has not been inhabited for a decade. The girls go over once a month or so to give it a lick and a promise. If you wish to rent it to someone, providing of course it is yours, it will require a good cleaning.”

He had misunderstood my interest in the house. I did not think he would believe the truth, and didn’t bother mentioning it.

“Why has it stood idle all these years?” I asked instead.

“When Father was alive, money was not scarce. It never occurred to anyone to rent it. There are a pair of maiden aunts from the Jersey Isles who spoke of removing to it. They never did so, but I believe it was kept free for them.”

There was an iron fence shoulder-high around the front of the place. The house did not have its own stables, as the estate stable was close by. The horse which drew our whiskey was tethered to the gate, and we went in. The exterior of the house was very plain, done in granite like the big house, but with much less embellishment. There were pretty leaded windows on either side of the door, and the size of it was larger than I required. One could live in more than comfort here. Even the word elegant was not too much.

“High time the place was properly cleaned,” he scolded as we walked into the airless hallway, where a thin patina of dust robbed the scene of any charm it might possess. I stepped into the saloon on the left. It was a gracious chamber, roughly twenty by thirty feet, well lit by the tall windows that marched across the front and down the side. The upholstered pieces were covered in dust covers, but when I lifted two, I saw no sign of great wear below. The rose velvet had faded to salmon at the high spots, as had the window draperies. The walls too wanted brightening, but the basic structure and furnishings were good.

“What’s on the other side of the entrance hall?” I asked. In lieu of answering, he stepped out the door, with myself following. There was a smaller room, a study with French doors leading into the library. We took a quick tour of the dining room and kitchen, then up to the bedrooms. Mrs. Winton, who is quick at estimating a house’s grandeur, had numbered the rooms accurately: There were seven of them. The place was adequately got up. It was a gentleman’s house, not a mansion, but it could be made elegant.

“Very nice. It could be charming, with little expense,” I said, thinking aloud.

“There are two servants’ bedrooms and storage space in the attics. Would you care to see them?” Sensing some little sarcasm in the offer, I politely declined, but if it turned out the house was mine, I would not be long in having a more complete tour.

I was displeased that this rift had formed between Homer and myself. I liked his mother, and had hoped to remain on good terms with all the family, but the owner was obviously the one who ruled the roost, and his opinion was important. It was pretty clear he saw me as a grasping woman, and equally clear to
me
that he had been very resentful of Norman. But that was over now. He was the lord and master of all, and I hoped he would soon settle down to behaving in a rational way, forgetting Norman.

“Are you quite bored to flinders with showing me around, or dare I impose on you to show me the windmill?” I asked, adopting a conciliating manner. I cocked my head and smiled at him. That particular smile had always brought Norman to heel in a hurry. “It grabbed my fancy the moment I saw it.”

Sir Homer refused to heel. “It is best admired from a distance. You would not be interested in its internal workings. Neither am I the best one to explain them to you. A windmill is a more complicated thing than you might think at a glance.”

“I see. Will it be permissible for me to have one of the servants show it to me at a later time?” I asked politely, but without my smile.

I was subjected to another suspicious look.

“I am not at all interested in stealing it from you, nor in renting it out. I only wanted to look,” I said.

“I will be charmed to show it to you,” he replied, in a tone of which neither charm nor pleasure composed any part. “The nag will never make it up the hill. It is accessible from a road on the other side, but to reach the road we must make a long circuit. Are you outfitted for a steep climb? It will be the fastest way up.”

“I am part sheep,” I answered.

“Which part?” he asked, his dark eyes flickering over me from head to foot. Then he relaxed into a little smile.

I was swift to encourage this humor. “Why, the legs of course. I have enjoyed scrambling over hills since I was a child. I hope you aren’t hinting I have a sheepish
face.”

“Certainly not. The entire description seems particularly inept to me, which is why I enquired. Part cat, perhaps, but no part sheepish.”

“Cat?” I asked, offended. “I dislike cats very much. I am a dog lover, like Norman.” I had a sharp, vivid memory of Rogue, Norman’s pet dog, who used to trail everywhere at his heels. He was a mongrel from a neighbor’s litter, a tan hound of some kind, intelligent, as mongrels often are. I wished I had him with me, but he disappeared the night Norman died. We never could find him, which was very odd. None of the neighbors had seen him either.

“Oh, but felines are famous for their grace, you know, and you move with such lithe grace that the comparison, though odious to you, struck me as appropriate.”

He was offering an olive branch. With the disposition of the dower house to be settled, I reached out and accepted it.

“In that case, I forgive you, but pray do not look for any grace while we are scrambling up that mountain. I hadn’t realized from my bedroom window it was quite so steep.”

He next offered to make the long circuit around to the road, for the face of the hill was apparently less steep on the other side. My wish was to get up it at once, and that was what we did. Homer went ahead, and after the first few yards took my hand in his to assist the ascent. He had a firm grasp that felt intimate and unsettling after my having been a widow for several weeks, with no contact with young men. I was very aware of his touch, his looking out for me, his dark blue eyes looking down at me, his broad shoulders standing out against the hillside.

The closer we got to the top, the higher the stone walls of the windmill seemed to grow. When at last we crested the hill, my neck was strained back as far as it would go. The arms of the machine too were monstrously long. The grass around the base had grown in patches, now that there was no regular traffic to wear it away.

“What a lovely folly! I wonder people don’t build them for simple pleasure, as they do gazebos or belvederes,” I said.

“A romantical notion. Some few people do, but the Blythes were never ones to indulge in such pretty conceits. Practical farmers all, with perhaps the exception of Norman.”

To avoid slipping into more discussions of Norman, I asked whether it was possible to enter the building.

“It is possible. There isn’t much light, except for the windows.”

“But there are plenty of windows,” I pointed out.

“Yes, every one of them wearing a decade’s coat of dust. We ought to have brought a rush torch, as I see you mean to go in.”

“Are you afraid of the dark, Homer?” I asked, teasing him, and making it impossible for him to refuse to enter.

“Not when I have you to protect me.”

The door was ajar. We entered, leaving it wide open for light. A circular staircase spiraled around the wall, with platforms at intervals to allow access to the mill’s mechanism. It was a very complicated thing. Outside it was all grace and beauty; within, an ugly mechanical nightmare of shafts and gears, and not so well lit as those windows would indicate. But there were the platforms, partial floors built at various levels to blot out all but the lower windows.

“What a disappointment!” I exclaimed. My voice echoed hollowly in the round building, returning to me from odd directions. “I had thought it would be pretty.”

“It’s a place of work, not a pleasure dome.”

“It looks tediously complicated.”

“It is.”

“Is it broken, or why do not the arms rotate?”

“Not broken, but disconnected for safety’s sake. The gear that carries the sails—it is mounted on the wind shaft—is a brake wheel. That means it acts on the rim to stop the mill.”

I knew he had some little interest in scientific matters, from the session with the stereoscope, and as I had none, I did not encourage his lecture. “Can we go up to the top?” I asked.

“If you like,” he said, looking disconsolately towards the spiraling stairs. “But it is a long haul, and not much to see after you get there. Just more gears to turn the arms into the wind.”

“Perhaps it is best seen from outside after all.”

“The best view is from your bedroom window,” he agreed.

“It’s like a sailing ship—so lovely to view from afar, floating gracefully and silently, but less lovely to be aboard, with all the swaying and creaking and wind. Oh, what’s that?” I asked, as a sound was heard from the floor above.

“Rats probably,” he said, with some relish. “I fancy there is still enough grain about to tempt them.”

“Very large rats!” I exclaimed, as the sounds increased to something suggesting a two-footed animal.

As we both looked towards the sounds, Woodie came dawdling down the steps.

“What are you doing here, Woodie?” Homer demanded sharply. “You’ll take a tumble down those stairs and kill yourself. This place ought to be kept locked. I don’t want you coming here, Woodie. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous, Homer,” I objected. “There’s a handrail on the stairs.”

“Pretty lady,” Woodie said, smiling at me in his disconcertingly idiotic way.

“Hello, Woodie. How are you?” I asked politely.

“I’m going home now,” he said, and wandered out, to careen down the hill like the wind, or more precisely like a windmill, with his two arms tossed out, forming circles against the wind. He emitted some hardly human squeal as he went.

“Poor boy,” Homer said, shaking his head.

“I suppose he has a home—parents?” I asked.

“Yes, he is one of seven children. The oldest of seven, actually. One can hardly wonder that Mrs. Durwood is happy to have him out of the house for the greater part of the day. He harms no one. His is a harmless sort of idiocy. It could be worse.”

“I have seen that sort of face on morons before, those upturned eyes. What can account for it, I wonder. He
looks
bright and alert.”

“It is only because he smiles so much. He’s been like that from birth. The other six are normal, thank God. It is a hard cross to bear, having insanity in the family.”

“Horrible,” I agreed, then we went out into the bright sunshine, leaving behind such wretched thoughts.

“This is a fine view of Wyngate,” I complimented, staring across the valley to the shining silver walls of his home. From this vantage point we saw the topiary garden and the rear of the house. We also saw my dower house, which was not visible from the road. Its location protected it from the rather cold winds that swept down the hills. I had a sudden vision of myself, comfortably ensconced in it, with a mature woman to bear me company and lend me respectability. I would be on terms with the other Blythes, have them calling on me and returning their calls. It seemed a pleasing future.

I did not notice it at the time, but it was the first time since Norman’s death that I envisioned the future with anything but dread.

“It is my favorite view,”
he answered. When I looked at him I noticed again the upturned lips of satisfaction, the prideful content of being owner of all he surveyed. Then his head slowly turned to include me in his gaze. “It is a large house,” he added thoughtfully. “You could have your own apartment in it, if you desire privacy.”

I desired more privacy than that, but if it was a bribe to keep the dower house to rent, it was a tentative, premature one, and required no opinion on my part. I smiled and turned to look at the rest of the scene.

“What are those smaller buildings at the back, Homer?” I asked.

“The stone one is the dovecot. The other there in the shade is the icehouse. The larger wooden buildings are the stable and barns. Over the ridge is Cousin Bulow’s place,” he added.

“The house cannot be seen from here. We ought to be getting home. He was to arrive around four. Shall we go?”

Descending the hill at a sedate pace was even more difficult than climbing it, and required a tight grip on my arm by Homer. When we reached the level and walked to the whiskey, he still kept his hold on my elbow, but I was quickly becoming accustomed to it. It no longer felt strange, but comfortable. The unemotional chatter about the landscape might have had something to do with it. We returned home in good harmony.

I stopped in to visit with Lady Blythe before going down to dinner. As I brushed my curls and attached my small strand of pearls, with a truant thought to the family jewelry mentioned by Homer, I was conscious anew of my appearance. Was it Thalassa’s mention of Bulow’s flirtatious nature that set me to examining my face so closely, or was it a memory of Homer? No matter, it was a good sign that I was taking an interest in the world again. I refused to feel guilty over it.

While a mere two months had passed since his death, it had been a period of unrelieved memory-raking. I had relived our courtship and marriage till it was all indelibly traced on my mind. I would never forget, but other happenings were bound to be superimposed over those memories, blurring them, softening the harsh outlines of the latter times, till they found their proper focus. Life goes on, and at last I was beginning to go on with it. So I dropped in on Thalassa to talk to her of the day’s doings.

“Was my son a good guide?” she asked.