“Hush up, you foolish woman,” Homer said.
“Foolish, is it? You said yourself her boy was apt to prove a moonling.”
“Wishful thinking,” I retaliated, stung at her unthinking cruelty, but more deeply at the realization of the gossip going on in the family when I was not present.
“I’ll speak to his parents,” Homer said, and turned on his heel to leave. He had his carriage called, and set out that minute to speak to the parents.
For a few days Woodie was not seen, but he soon came creeping back. His mother spoke to me at church, apologized for the bother. I felt so sorry for her, I wanted to weep.
“He’s a harmless boy, really, Lady Blythe,” she assured me. Concern for the boy had etched deep grooves in her face. “It’s only that he dotes on you so. He is never silent about the pretty lady at Wyngate. And you so kind to him.”
I looked a question, wondering what he had told her, for I had been hard on the poor lad. “Going for little walks with him and all. Some folks do be so cruel, they cuff little Woodie aside. He has his feelings, same as normal folks do.”
“Of course he has,” I told her. “Pray don’t give it another thought.”
I would develop more fortitude in this affair. I was as foolish as Millie, to let the boy’s condition influence my actions. He was harmless and friendly. I did not complain of him again, and he
did
come back, but the revulsion I could not control. It was in my blood, a wish to run when I saw him approaching with his simple smile.
I took the idea he felt akin to
me
because of my child, that he knew in some instinctive way there was another like himself being created inside me. I would tolerate his company for as long as I could, never more than a few moments, then I would return to the house. I checked to see if he was about before I went out, but never saw him. He would suddenly appear from nowhere. He came from the direction of the stable, I thought. He was fond of horses and other animals.
Homer did not speak again of returning to Farnley Mote. There was still a strain in our relations, but less than before I blurted out my ill-advised request for him not to leave. There was no resumption of the tea parties, and certainly no spoken words of love or anything like it. I can best describe the atmosphere by saying we were overly conscious of each other, and whether it was hostility or its reverse that prompted that acute perception, I did not know. I only know that when I looked up from a book or sewing, it was four pence to a groat he would be looking at me, and I was more than once caught out in the same act myself.
Cousin Bulow continued to call. We went out together, but not on any more all-day excursions. One day we went into Bridgewater, and another we visited Miss Crofft and her family, who expressed polite interest in meeting me. More often we walked around the park of Wyngate. He commented on my emotional state.
“What is going on here to have upset you so, Davinia? You used to have pale roses in those cheeks. Now I see pale anemones, and some dark circles under those eyes that I dislike to see.”
“I have learned the truth about Norman’s mother, and his own—instability.” I answered, choosing my words carefully.
“Who told you?” he asked, his voice loud with indignation. “What monumental stupidity, to trouble you with their imaginings at such a time. Peace and calmness are vital to a mother-to-be. What did they tell you, to have wrought this awful change in you?”
“The truth. I had already come to suspect Norman was odd, but that it was an hereditary thing... You can imagine how I fear for my child’s sanity.”
“Davinia, this is the most arrant of nonsense. You should know better than to listen to Millie. Emily was not insane. She suffered a quite normal bout of depression after Norman’s birth. Many women do. Modern doctors know it, if such antiques as they have saddled you with do not.”
“There is no denying she jumped to her death, Bulow. That is not normal, no matter what you say.”
“Nobody saw her jump. I don’t mean to imply she was pushed, but my family have always maintained she fell. It is perfectly natural she should escape that room they had her locked up in when she had her chance. I imagine the poor woman only wanted to get some fresh air, to feel the sun on her head and shoulders, maybe go for a little walk. They kept her drugged half to death. She probably stumbled when she heard the nurse pelting along after her, shouting and raising a clamor. That was the decision at the inquest—accidental death—
and why Millie should disturb you with any other interpretation is not far from criminal, in my view.”
“You’re probably right. I’m overly nervous,” I said, but I remembered it wasn’t the senile Millie who told me that tale; it was Jarvis.
“As to Norman, what did she tell you about
him?”
“His moods, his drinking, his despondency when the Croffts told him about his mother, and when Eglantine refused his offer.”
“He didn’t drink any more than the next fellow. As to the Croffts’ telling him about his mother, it was not the case. They gave him no reason for rejecting his offer. That pleasant duty fell to his half-brother, I believe.”
“Homer told him?”
“Yes, in the most brutal way imaginable. Norman came to me in a state of distraction, to ask if it was true that his mother was a lunatic, and himself likely to have inherited the strain. I tried to calm him, to reason with him. But there was no denying the Croffts
had
rejected him because of a concern about his mother’s sanity. Rumor, gossip—they are wretched wrongdoers. Norman became obsessed with the idea he was tainted. Any overindulging in drink occurred then, as a direct result of external causes. He was drinking to forget. He came to hate Wyngate, his half-brother, his father—the lot of them. I am the one who suggested he get away for a bit. I never meant for him to forsake Wyngate entirely, but I thought a change of scene would do him a world of good. Then he met you, and the rest you know. You made him so happy he vowed he would never return. One can hardly blame him. He used to write me such eulogies; he was living in a dream, from which he never wished to awaken. He was doing some interesting work on Roman remains. Ah, it is such a pity. I think he would have lived to a ripe and happy old age, and I also think, Davinia, that your child is going to be perfectly normal. Don’t let them frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened. I’m worried. It is natural.”
“Indeed it is. I would be less worried if you were in the hands of a proper doctor. Mather is an excellent man for these nervous cases. He’d give you some tonic to help you over this spell. Will you let me send him around?”
“The family recommended Nevans. I don’t like to hurt their feelings,”
“Have they shown such concern for yours?” he asked gently.
“No, they have not. Ask him to come to me tomorrow afternoon. Or is it a nuisance to you to get in touch with him?”
“It is always a pleasure to serve you, in any way I can. And my dear, if they dislike it, you don’t have to stay with them, you know. I would always be happy to have you at the Barrows. It is not so grand a place as Wyngate, but happier. And I too am family.”
“You’re very kind,” I said, grateful for his friendship.
“I am also selfish. I am jealous of Homer, having you beneath his roof.”
“It’s not settled yet it is
his
roof,” I reminded him.
He tossed his shoulders. “One way or the other, he’ll get Wyngate,” he said wearily. “Between his own wits and his mother’s help, he’ll end up cock of the walk. Ever since Roger married Thal, there has been that sort of—
feeling,
if you understand me—that Homer would be the eventual heir. Norman was sent off to university, and Homer was introduced into the running pf the estate. Maybe that’s why they were at such pains to make Norman out to be insane, or to
drive
him mad. What a spoke you stuck in their wheel! They didn’t expect
that.
You could almost hear the gears going round when they learned it. How are we to get Wyngate away from her? I don’t doubt it will be best all around if you have a girl, Davinia. Then you’ll be no danger to them, and their ambitions. It’s not worth it—a house and a bit of land.”
“The Blythes specialize in boys, I understand. You almost make me wonder which of the brothers was more mad—Homer, or Norman.”
“Let us say both are, or were, in Norman’s case, a little unusual. A madness for ambition is the more dangerous of the two sorts. You know where to come, if you feel... threatened in any way.”
“I’m not ready to cry craven, but I’ll remember your offer. I thank you, Cousin Bulow.”
“Think about it,” he urged. We returned to the house, our arms linked.
I made no fuss about changing doctors, but mentioned it casually at dinner that evening. “I have decided to have Dr. Mather for my lying in. Should I write to Nevans, Homer, or tell him next time he is here to see Thal?”
“When did you decide that?” he asked, blinking. “We know nothing of the man. He is new here. Nevans we have known forever.”
“I prefer a younger man, one more in touch with modern methods,” I answered, and served myself some green peas, with no display of emotion.
“This is Bulow’s doings,” Jarvis said, not bothering to hide his displeasure.
“Yes, he speaks highly of the new man. His mother uses him, I believe.”
“So she does,” Millie confirmed. “I’ll interview him first time he comes, Davinia, and see if the man knows what he is about. I always like to meet doctors. I feel the need to share my knowledge with them. The lore of nature is too much ignored.”
“I’ll speak to Nevans next time he is here,” I decided, answering my own question.
Homer looked dissatisfied. I thought he was going to object, but he said only, “You ought to at least tell him in person of your decision.” Then he went on to speak of other things, something about some trees ready for cutting in the little forest at the foot of the hill on which the windmill stood.
After dinner, Millie invited me up to view her bloomers, finished now, and not unattractive, though it was a daring style more suited to a younger woman than one of Millie’s years. Practical for young girls, who still clambered over hills and up trees, I thought to myself. If I had a girl, I would make her up some. Strange, how everything spoken of led me back to it, my unborn child.
I did not want to be alone that evening. I knew I would brood on Cousin Bulow’s conversation with me that afternoon, and was reluctant to ponder that too closely. So I looked around the laboratory, where she had sewed the bloomers, for some fresh topic of conversation.
“What new cures are you decocting, Millie?” I asked her in a conversational manner, choosing a subject to please her.
“I am doing some research at the moment,” she said grandly, pointing to a few books open at a table.
“Mushrooms, is it?” I asked, glancing at the illustrations.
“Yes, an entirely new field for me. Science does not use the therapeutic powers of mushrooms at all. We eat them, of course, but there is more than that to mushrooms. There is bound to be. When you find a plant that is poisonous, there is a cure for something in it. Why, half our medications are poison if used to excess. Laudanum, belladonna, henbane—we use them for sleeping draughts and neuralgia but, my, what killers!” She tutted happily.
“I had a pretty kitty before Don Miguel,” she went on. “She got into some belladonna berries I was stewing in milk—an experiment only—and what a gross sight she was next morning. All swollen and bloated, poor thing, with blood coming out at her mouth.” She looked quite happy at the memory. I felt overwhelmingly nauseous.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested.
“Did I upset you? Sorry, dear. I could have cured kitty with vinegar if I had known what ailed her, but I didn’t happen to notice she’d lapped up that bowl of milk. I should have known, for she was reeling like a drunkard, but I paid no heed, for some reason. My paregoric draught was boiling over—that’s what it was.”
“What is it you’re doing with the mushrooms?” I asked, to change her direction.
“Research. Thus far, I am only reading. There is no point looking for them in this season. Autumn is mushroom season—the prime time for them. The best spot is in the duff beneath the pine trees. When you see little bumps in the carpet of dead vegetation, you carefully pull it aside, and there you will find them.”
“I have often seen them growing on lawns, and in meadows.”
“Pooh—meadow mushrooms! They are no good for anything but eating, I am after rarer stuff. My favorite is Dead Man’s Fingers,” she said with a brilliant sparkle in her monkey eyes. “You would take them for the decomposing fingers of a corpse’s hand, to see them reaching up out of the ground, all slimy, black.”
I willed down a shudder, for I took the idea she was trying to frighten me. “Do they have therapeutic powers?” I asked.
“I haven’t looked into it yet. I told you I am just starting my research. I think the Avenging Angel has distinct possibilities. It is the poison ones that are likely to be cures in disguise,” she reminded me.
“I gather from its name the Avenging Angel is deadly.”
“It’s lovely. The interesting thing is that you eat it, for it don’t look treacherous in the least, and for two days you feel nothing. Then all of a sudden—” She clapped her hands sharply. “Bang! You’re a goner! Oh, God is a caution.” She laughed. “I wish I had been there at the Creation, helping him to arrange these little jokes for man.”
Her cat had gone to the door, and looked back over his shoulder at her. “Do you want out? Go ahead, then. I don’t want you wetting on my floor and stinking up the place. Vinegar will take out the smell,” she added to me, always willing to share her arcane knowledge. The cat slithered off, and she turned back to me. “Likely he is only wanting out to chase she-cats. Don Miguel is a wicked flirt. Wicked.”
“Cats will be cats,” I said,
“Yes, there is no fighting nature. I saw you and Cousin Bulow in the garden this afternoon, strolling along, arm in arm. Do you feel Mother Nature pulling you to him, Davinia?”