Free Love Bade Me Welcome by Joan Smith

the corner of your eyes, at the table. Ho! You’ll give Eglantine a dash for her money. He’s got an eye for you as well. I heard him. ‘Aphrodite!’ Ha! It’s a butterfly, you know—brown and black, and not at all pretty. It will be fun to see which of you gets him. My money is on Eglantine. She’s richer.”
    “My husband has only been dead two months, Millie. Pray don’t be assigning beaux to me just yet.”
    “Two months is long enough to mourn,” she advised me. “Norman is rotting in his grave. Do you think he’s thinking of you! Devil a bit of it. He’s either sizzling in hell or floating on a cloud, chasing after some beauty who made it to heaven, if any beautiful women did get there, which I doubt. You can come to my laboratory tomorrow, if you want.”
    “I’d like that. Right after breakfast, if that’s all right.”
    “I get up at six. You can’t sleep when you’re old. You’ll find me there all morning. Do you know what I am going to do, Davinia?”
    “No, what?”
    “I am going to make myself a pair of bloomers. I have taken my decision. I have a pattern somewhere in my room, amidst the junk. I remember I thought at the time it was in the magazine it was a clever device. I was sure they would catch on, but the crinolines are too attractive. They are engines to snare men, and you pretty things won’t give them up in a hurry. Do you lace?” she asked, glancing at my waist. Her conversation darted about like an ant at a picnic.
    “Yes, but not tightly. Everyone does.”
    “It destroys the intestines. It traps the food, and it also kills babies. Before they are born, I mean. It strangles them inside of women. If you are ever pregnant, don’t lace.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind.”
    “Yes, but you won’t do it. You’ll see all the other women with tiny waists, and you’ll lace yourself into an hourglass to compete with them. They all do it. It ought to be abolished, outlawed. When I was young, the empress gown was the vogue. It was excellent for pregnant women. They should bring it back into fashion. Actually, I wasn’t all that young, but I wore them,” she clarified, after a frowning pause.
    “They are comfortable. I have a nightdress in that style.”
    “Did you know Jarvis has a woman?” was her next speech.
    “No, I didn’t know it.”
    “He’s sixty-seven years old, and he has a mistress thirty-nine. He’ll never marry her. She wouldn’t suit us here at Wyngate. She is nothing more than a convenience. I expect Homer has got one too, if the truth were known.”
    “Possibly,” I said, looking away, but listening for all that.
    “He trots over to his old place twice a week, to Farnley Mote. That seems excessive to me. And he comes home very late, if he doesn’t stay the whole night. I mean to ask him, next time I see him alone.”
    “I don’t suppose he’ll tell you.”
    “I always know when Homer is lying. He is a perfectly wretched liar. He daren’t look me in the eye when he lies. Bulow, now, he is a trained liar. He can fool me. Ah, here he is now, the rascal. Bulow, Bulow I say! Come here and sit beside me. We were just talking about you.”
    “I felt my ears burning, and wondered why,” he said, coming forward with long, smooth strides. He spoke to Millie, but he looked at me, wearing an expression of tolerant amusement. I knew without quite knowing how I knew that he thought I had been quizzing her about him, and I also knew that this pleased him. He sat beside Millie on a loveseat, and threw her into maidenish giggles by putting an arm around her shoulders.
    “How is my girl?” he teased.
    “I’m old enough to be treated with respect, Master Jackdaw,” she scolded, but had difficulty restraining her pleasure.
    “And pretty enough to be teased. You don’t fool me with tales of having been Noah’s flirt. The men still have an eye for you, you hoyden.”
    “You’re wicked! Didn’t I tell you he was a wicked flirt, Davinia?” she asked, turning