“No, Millie, I don’t,” I said repressively.
She set her head to one side, her little aged yellow fringe jiggling. “Somebody is not telling Millie the truth,” she said, wagging a finger under my nose. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in a woman wanting a man, especially a woman in your state. It’s nature’s wisdom at work, and there is no point fighting that. I’ve given it a deal of thought, and here is the way it works. The body’s humors are all in an uproar to prepare you for the baby’s coming. Bile, pancreas, blood—all are working in you to turn you into a mother. And what does the baby need besides a mother? A father, of course. So in her wisdom, nature tells you so, by means of the humors. I need a man to protect and cherish me and my child, she is yelling at the top of her lungs.
You
hear her, sly girl. I see you casting those furtive looks on Homer, sizing him up, wondering if
he
is the one, or if Bulow would fill the bill better.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, but in a weak voice. She was an outrageous woman, inventing these preposterous tales, but always with just enough of common sense to make ignoring them impossible. I think Millie trod right down the center of that thin line dividing genius and insanity, with an occasional start in either direction.
To tell the truth, I
had
experienced those sensations she spoke of. Lonesomeness, I called it, missing Norman. But of late, it was not Norman’s arms I wanted around me. Since feeling Homer’s once, it was his I wanted. I wanted a strong shoulder to help me bear the load of this child and the possibility of its being abnormal. I wanted someone strong and kind to help me manage my life afterwards, too, whatever form it took. Bulow was kind and strong. Why did I not want Bulow? He was handsome, dashing, attractive. But he wasn’t Homer.
“Bah, why is a new notion always called ridiculous?” she asked in a resigned way. “Darwin—I expect you think he is ridiculous as well, if you have ever heard of him.”
“Of course I have heard of him.”
“I have read his book. Inspired! Just exactly what I always thought myself. I confess I was working on a slightly different track. I had not thought we
all
descended from apes and monkeys. I would love to speak to him, and see if he don’t agree with me that different tribes descended from various animals. There is no denying Bulow has a little the air of a fox, while Eglantine shows her ancestral traces to the sheep.” Insanity had taken over for the moment. “Though when I examine myself in the mirror, I can believe it was the monkeys we came from,” she finished. Regarding her, so could I.
“You, on the other hand,” she added, turning to gaze at me, “are neither sheep nor monkey, nor quite fox either.”
“What am I, Millie?” I asked, just for fun.
She put a finger in her mouth and gazed at me till I became uncomfortable at such a long scrutiny. “Well?” I asked.
“A minx,” she decided, and found it hilarious. I had thought she might say black cat, or black swan. My vanity was getting the upper hand of me. But of course it was not in appearance that she found the resemblance. Oh no, she thought I was a flirt.
I spoke to Nevans when he came the next day, and told him I had decided to have Mather for my lying-in. He looked surprised, but not very offended.
“It is entirely your own choice. I believe him to be an excellent man. In fact, I have referred several patients to him. I am not as young as I once was. I am gradually letting go of my practice, not taking on any new patients, but continuing to visit those families I have doctored for years.”
I was impressed with Mather. He did a more thorough examination than the older doctor had done. I was put on a different regime, featuring less food and more exercise. He also gave me an iron tonic, guaranteed, he said, to bring the color back to my cheeks.
I took the prescribed exercise in the afternoons, making large circuits about the estate. I became familiar with the park first, got to know its secret glories of stream and wild flowers, and those sanctuaries where birds did not wish me to intrude on their nesting activities. Beyond the nests, I was welcome to listen and admire. Almost it seemed they put on a special show for my benefit.
The meadow pipit would rise in the air, then sing its song as it descended. The skylarks were the greatest performers, warbling as they rose and came down. One would finish his act and another would take over, as though they had timed it. Rabbits hopped about between the trees that stretched out before me, one behind the other. It was peaceful without being at all boring. I looked forward to the advancing spring, to April with her warmer days and more abundant flowers.
Woodie was not long in discovering my pastime, but by varying the hour of my walks I often avoided him, and felt mean for doing it.
“You ought to take a footman with you, if you are walking so far as you say,” Homer informed me one evening at dinner. But I preferred to walk alone. I looked forward to that hour’s solitary ramble, with the birds and wild animals for company. It gave me time to think about my life.
“That’s not necessary. Tomorrow I mean to walk up Windmill Hill. It must be a marvelous view from the top of the windmill.”
“It is. You can see all the way to France. I’ve often seen it,” Millie told me. As France lay to the east, not the west, I knew she was in one of her less clever modes. If she saw any land other than England, it could only be Wales, as Ireland was too far away. Jarvis shook his head at me, but no one bothered to correct her.
Cousin Bulow dropped in that evening. To honor his visit, Millie darted upstairs and put on her new bloomer outfit, causing us all to pull in our lips to prevent raucous laughter. She did look ludicrous, an ancient and wizened little lady wearing short skirts and lace-edged bloomers. To display their convenience, she insisted on performing a dance for us, and no ladylike one either, while the gentlemen sang and I played the piano.
“You are ready for the music hall,” Bulow told her.
“Couldn’t I show them a thing or two!” she answered, kicking up her heels and pirouetting around till she grew dizzy. “Wine! I have earned a glass of wine.”
“You have earned champagne,” Bulow told her, but what she got was a glass of sherry.
We found a private moment, during which I told Bulow I had seen his Dr. Mather and was well pleased with him.
“They didn’t give you any trouble here?”
“Not at all. How could they? I’m not under anyone’s guardianship. I am free to do as I please.”
“There are subtle pressures that can be exerted. Disapproval, for instance.”
“Subtle pressures do not work with me. They tried that.”
“It’s best not to be too flagrant in annoying them, in your delicate condition.”
“If I did everything Homer thinks I should, I would stay in bed all day, like his mother.” I felt a little guilty at the mention of this lady. I had been neglecting her recently. I still went daily to visit, but there was no pleasure in the visits. They were shorter than before, shrunk to a duty call “Now he has taken the foolish idea I need an escort for my daily walks, but I won’t accept it.”
“That might not be a bad idea, Davinia.”
“Oh, you’re as bad as he is!”
“Let us say, as concerned as he is. Probably more so,” he added, with an intimate smile.
Homer chose that moment to come pacing towards us, using the excuse of offering more wine, when he more usually urged me to refrain from it.
“I have just been encouraging Davinia to follow your good advice, Homer, and take an escort with her on these hikes,” Bulow said, with a mocking smile that I could not understand.
“You have volunteered for the job?” Homer asked with a show of unconcern belied by the tense set of his jaw.
“Davie knows I am always at her disposal. I don’t have to tell her that,” he answered.
“I wouldn’t dream of drawing you from your duties, Bulow. I walk for at least an hour every day. That would not be convenient for you, or any other working man.”
“Some little inconvenience is expected in the pursuit of—pleasure,” Bulow riposted, hesitating over the last word, and implying by his tone and smile it was not the first word that had occurred to him. Homer was like a fish rising to the bait.
“You would be better occupied pursuing duty. You will need a good season to pay off the new mortgage raised on the Barrows, will you not?” Homer asked.
“I have an excellent steward. You will be happy to hear I am in no financial bind, Homer. I am not the master of so grand a place as Wyngate, that requires
all
my time. But then of course neither are
you,
really, though you take its duties so seriously. So where shall we walk tomorrow, Davie?” he asked, turning to me, and using again the nickname he had not used before that evening. I knew in my bones he did it to annoy Homer. I was a little annoyed with him myself.
“I walk to the windmill, and probably climb to the top, but I mean to go alone. Never let it be said I have distracted a man from his duty.”
“Not even Homer?” Bulow asked with a mischievous look.
“Especially not Homer,” I answered blandly.
“And why
especially
not Homer?” he continued, enjoying himself.
“Because he does the work of two—my own, and his. You know he is running Wyngate while it is in escrow, as well as running his own place.”
“No takers for Farnley Mote yet, Cousin?” Bulow asked, feigning surprise. “I was sure it would be snapped up in a trice, so well as you have kept it up. Roger put a good bit of money into it before he died, I understand.”
“My father gave me some financial assistance in building new barns last year, yes. It is not unusual for a father to help
both
his sons.”
“I wouldn’t know. My own papa was so inconsiderate as to die at an early age. I was astonished to hear Farnley Mote is on the block when Wyngate is not yet firmly in your hands. What will you do if our charming relative has a son? Would it not be wise to wait and learn whether you won’t need Farnley for yourself?”
“Not at all,” Homer answered, holding in his anger. “If Davinia has a son, I shall live at Laversham’s and run it. It is a comparable place to my own. There will be little inconvenience.”
“How eminently practical a planner you are, Cousin. Prepared for every contingency,” he complimented, but with a mocking light in his green eyes. “I am less practical, but
do
happen to have a plan to replace my walk with Davie. I shall go to the selling races at Exeter tomorrow, and probably squander my money on horseflesh. We Blythes are not keeping up our reputation at the races as we used to. The green silk with yellow hoop hasn’t been seen for several seasons.”
He gave me an explanation for this speech, which had brought a frown of incomprehension to my face. “Earlier in the century, the Blythes were active in horse racing. Roger’s father won the Oaks and the St. Leger one year. It is my intention to capture the Triple Crown before I die. You see, Homer, I too have a sense of what is owing to the family.”
He left soon afterwards, which allowed me to turn to the matter of greater interest. “I didn’t realize you had Farnley Mote up for sale, Homer.”
“I have taken an option on Laversham’s. If I can sell my place within thirty days, I shall buy it. You were aware of my wish to get the property.”
“Yes, but not that you were in the process of doing so. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We have gotten out of the habit of discussing business, Davinia. I am in my study each evening waiting for you, but as you have ceased coming, I took the idea you had lost interest. I have all records of transactions ready for your perusal, whenever you wish to come.”
“Nothing important has happened. No major change in the running has occurred, has it?”
“No
major
change is possible without your agreement. I spoke to you about the cutting in the north woods. The money is being used to pay for the tiling work, and to set a little aside for running expenses till the crops are harvested. I will be happy to go over accounts with you, at your convenience.”
“That’s not necessary. I trust you.”
“And prefer
not
to be alone with me. I understand. If you will excuse me, I must go up and visit my mother now. She has so few visitors during the day,” he added, with an accusing, angry glare at my defection.
“I feel like dancing. Why don’t we have a party, Jarvis?” Millie asked. “I want to show off my bloomers.”
“You forget we are in mourning,” he reminded her.
“We could have a mourning party,” she essayed, with more ingenuity than common sense.
I went upstairs shortly after. As I got ready for bed, I thought I could see the first signs of my changing figure. I still had my small waist, but some slight thickening was beginning to occur, and my breasts were fuller. How very strange, incredible, to consider that a new life was growing within me. Did all women feel this was a miraculous thing, a very special time for them?
Did they all feel so frightened to know their time was approaching as inevitably as the flowing of the tides? Did they have this aching, yearning loneliness too? No, of course they had not. They had a husband to comfort and reassure them at this trying time, to assuage their terrible fears, and I was frightened to death of the actual birth.
But when I thought of Norman, I was almost relieved he was gone. His memory was tainted for me now by the knowledge of his deception. It was not Norman I longed for, but his brother. He was still interested too; his jealous looks at Bulow told me so. But how much did this jealousy concern myself, and how much Wyngate?
As a sort of olive branch to the Blythes, I spent a longer time with Thalassa the next morning. For an hour I sat with her, discussing family doings, recounting to her Millie’s new outfit, which she had seen, and her dance, which she had not. We
talked about Homer’s decision to sell Farnley Mote and buy Laversham’s. She put it forward as a straight business deal, but of course it was only done with the hope he would inherit Wyngate.