Authors: Roberta Gellis
“However, I do not think,” she went on, “that there are any
suitable horses in the stable.”
The remark was a deliberate invitation. Francis, by whom Abigail
judged all English gentlemen, would drop everything—if he were not in one of
his drinking or gambling fits—to look at horses. He would have leapt into an
opening such as Abigail had provided and offered to choose the horses himself,
or help choose the horses, or just go along to accompany the person who was to
choose the horses. And for just a moment, she thought it was going to work.
Eustace’s eyes gleamed and he seemed about to make an eager reply, but then his
lips tightened again.
“No,” he said stiffly, “I am afraid that is true. My father
did not ride toward the end of his life, and my mother and Griselda have never
done so.” He hesitated, and then shook his head slowly. “I do not think any of
my horses would be suitable,” he added.
His voice seemed to hold what Abigail felt was a touch of
reluctance, and she was startled briefly—until she guessed that Eustace was
afraid she might expect him to offer to mount her children and was so ignorant
that she would think it selfish of him not to make the offer.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, smiling, “of course they would not
be suitable. I do realize your mounts would be too much for the children to
handle—although I am not so sure that is true for Victor. He seems able to ride
anything at all. But they must have their own horses, and I will need a riding
mare, too.”
This second subtle invitation received an almost identical
response to the first. Eustace seemed about to offer to choose for her the
horses she and her children would need, but then his expression hardened, as if
he had reminded himself of his resentment against them. However, he did
recommend a reliable dealer in Ramsgate, which was not many miles distant.
Abigail was a trifle disappointed, but she thought it unwise to press the issue
with an overt request. Possibly, if she allowed a few days more to pass,
Eustace’s attitude toward Victor might be further improved. Besides, she
thought, Eustace might not know a horse from a camel. She had better make the
time to get over to the stable and look over his animals and talk to the
grooms.
Actually, Abigail herself was a moderately good judge of
horses, owing to the fact that Francis could not resist expatiating at length
on the quality of any animal upon which his eyes fell. Nonetheless, she was
aware that ladies were not expected to visit horse-coper’s establishments. Of
course, it was permissible to write to the dealer, who would then bring the
horses he believed would best suit the requirements to Rutupiae for approval.
But Abigail thought it better that someone look over the whole stock and, in
addition, really preferred that someone with more practical knowledge than
herself examine the animals.
If Eustace would not, there was always the head groom, but…
No, there was Sir Arthur. Involuntarily Abigail smiled as she remembered Mr.
Deedes telling her that Sir Arthur would be delighted to be helpful for any
purpose. Abigail was not at all sure that choosing horses was part of an
executor’s responsibility, but it would be a most excellent excuse to call at Stonar
Magna again. Oddly, Abigail did not doubt Sir Arthur’s ability to judge the
quality of a horse as she had doubted Eustace’s. There was something about Sir
Arthur that proclaimed he would be competent at whatever he did. And for some
reason, that thought made her smile again. Unfortunately, the second smile came
at the wrong moment, just as Hilda was sure she had made her daughter
understand that she must unpick most of the work she was doing because the
colors were not feminine enough.
“And what are you two chattering about?” she asked.
The arch tone of the question not only indicated to Abigail
that Hilda had been aware of the fact that she and Eustace had been talking,
but startled her considerably by its implication that the conversation had had
romantic overtones. Such a thought had never entered Abigail’s mind. Eustace
was at least five years younger than she and had, in many ways, led a far more
sheltered life. She considered him hardly more than a boy.
To make any comment on so ridiculous an implication,
however, could only add emphasis to it, so Abigail answered blandly, “We were
talking about horses. Victor, Daphne, and I all need mounts.”
“Well, you will have to do without them.” Hilda uttered a
triumphant chuckle. “Sir Arthur does not believe horses to be a legitimate
charge on the estate. That was what he said when he sent back the bill for the
hunter Eustace wished to purchase.”
“No, Mama, he did not believe
my
horse to be a
legitimate charge. He will approve payment for
Victor’s
horse. Victor is
the
earl
.”
Eustace’s voice was so odd that Abigail’s head snapped
around to him, but he was smiling, and she released the breath that had caught
in her throat. He was baiting his mother, she thought, although Hilda seemed
unaware of the fact and shrugged, saying peevishly that if it were so, Sir
Arthur was monstrously unfair because she knew her late husband would not have
wished
her
to have to bear the financial burden of
his
children.
Abigail’s mouth opened to point out that the late earl knew
perfectly well that Hilda’s income was more than adequate, but she closed it
firmly. Such a discussion could only lead to unpleasant exchanges that would
have no effect on Hilda’s opinion. Overtly she simply ignored everything that
had been said, stated firmly that she had not seen enough of her children and
left.
Having made the statement, Abigail realized that it was
true. She had not seen Victor and Daphne since she handed them over to Mrs.
Franklin before she went to tell Sir Arthur about the shooting. A pang of guilt
made her rush up the stairs and almost run to the rooms set aside for the
children, but both her guilt and her anxiety were a waste of time. Although she
was greeted with shouts of enthusiasm, these were only engendered by the hope
of snaring another player into the card game Mrs. Franklin had taught them.
After an initial hesitation, for the letters Abigail had intended to write were
still undone, she laughed and sat down at the table.
One more quiver of anxiety passed through her as she
realized the children were gambling with counters, but she suppressed it. She
knew that often efforts were made to keep the children of gamblers in ignorance
of the vice, but she had long ago made up her mind that was not the path she
wished to take for Victor and Daphne. She had made no protest when they learned
to play cards from their friends. Instead she played against them, and if they
proposed to play for money, she won every penny and refused to lend against any
future money they could earn by running errands for the shop or doing other
chores. They learned the bitterness of gambling with real coin, for when they
played for straws or some other harmless symbol, Abigail played less
fiercely—and admitted this to them, pointing out that play for money was always
vicious and often dishonest—so the winning and losing became more even.
The method had seemed to work. Abigail heard no reports from
Victor’s school or from Daphne’s friends’ parents that her children were any
more inclined toward playing at cards, especially for money, than other
children. Still, many said such things as gambling were “in the blood”. That
was what woke the little quiver of fear each time she saw her children playing
cards. But if they were right, Abigail reasoned, ignorance could not prevent
the desire from arising, and there was no way to shield Victor, anyway from
knowledge of gambling once he went out into the world. All ignorance could do
was make the vice more appealing, by making it “secret” and “forbidden”.
Thus, Abigail picked up her share of cards and counters with
a smile, while Victor and Daphne giggled and muttered warnings to Mrs. Franklin
that “Mother is a regular sharp and will beat us all to flinders if we don’t
pay strict attention.”
In fact, Abigail did not play very well that night. Her mind
kept wandering to Sir Arthur and whether to ask him openly about the horses and
risk a confrontation—although she believed the actual risk was slight—or simply
buy the animals and send the bill direct to Baring, who would see that it was
paid. However, her original purpose in coming up was fulfilled. After the
children had been sent off to bed, Mrs. Franklin reported that they seemed
unscathed by their morning’s experience. At different times, both had remarked
casually on it and mentioned the hope that they would not be prevented from
playing in the woods because of it.
From the point of view of her children’s nerves, that was
good news. Abigail was not sure it was equally good news for her. Although she
smiled and thanked Mrs. Franklin, she shuddered internally at the idea of
permitting Victor and Daphne to wander alone in the woods. The elderly woman,
however, showed sharper perceptions than Abigail had expected.
“I did not say it would be permitted, my lady,” Mrs.
Franklin said, “but I do not think it would be of the least use to forbid
them—or, perhaps I should say that I do not believe myself capable of
preventing them from disobeying such an order.”
Abigail laughed more naturally. “I doubt the angel Gabriel
with his flaming sword could keep Victor out of the woods now—and where Victor
goes, Daphne trails along behind, unless he can manage to escape her. And,
truly, I
don’t
think there is any further danger. I just—” Abigail left
the statement hanging.
Mrs. Franklin nodded understandingly. “Can’t help worrying.
Yes, I don’t blame you. But it
must
have been an accident.” A frown
crossed her face as she spoke, and she hesitated.
Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat, but if her expression
changed, Mrs. Franklin could not have noticed, for her eyes had fixed on the
pack of cards on the table. Then she shook her head and placed her hand on the
table to help herself to rise.
How ridiculous
, Abigail thought.
I
am confusing twinges of rheumatics with
deadly threats
. And Mrs.
Franklin’s next words seemed to confirm that, because she smiled as she said
she had better check that the children had actually gotten to bed after being
sent there.
“No, I’ll go,” Abigail said. “I must say good night to them
anyway.”
Although both Victor and Daphne were in bed—a miracle that
bespoke how tired they were—the good-nights were still protracted. Abigail had
to hear from each about the doings of the day, including an enthusiastic rehash
of the shooting, which was beginning to take on daring romantic overtones. She
made little comment on that, beyond reminding Victor of his promise with regard
to the toad, adding to the list of forbidden joys snakes, newts and anything
else of a creepy-crawly nature. And when the children were settled at last, she
realized she was exhausted too, rang for her maid and went to bed herself.
Chapter Seven
Because she had gone to sleep so early, Abigail woke at
cockcrow, feeling no inclination to linger drowsily abed. She had been
accustomed to early rising, since it took a long day to manage her household,
her business and her family, but she had got out of the habit during the
month-long voyage and the subsequent weeks in England. This waking was
different. There was no need to put on her clothes hastily and to start at once
on the tasks that, however dull, ensured her livelihood and the smooth
functioning of her home.
Idly, Abigail went to the window and drew the curtain.
I
must rise early oftener
, she thought, looking with delight on the dewy
freshness of the park. The early morning at Rutupiae Hall was filled with peace
and beauty. She could see the gentle undulations of the velvety green lawn
folding away into the shadow of the woods, and a corner of the garden presented
brilliant splashes of color, further decorated by bright sparkles as the low
light of the newly risen sun caught a drop of dew here and there.
It was a refreshment to the spirit, and Abigail enjoyed it
wholeheartedly, finding herself stimulated and ready to
do
something.
However, she knew that there was nothing to do, unless she wished to join the
maids in setting the house to rights. She laughed aloud at the effect that
would have on Hilda, but she was not prepared to shock and alarm the servants
just to annoy her mother-in-law. It would also have been a perfect morning for
a ride, which immediately reminded her of the problem of obtaining suitable
mounts.
To ask Sir Arthur or not to ask Sir Arthur? Abigail was no
nearer an answer to the question than she had been the previous night, and
until she decided, it was impossible to do anything about the horses. She put
the matter in the back of her mind to stew, drew on a peignoir and went to the
desk in her sitting room to write to the London booksellers. From experience
Abigail knew that some mechanism inside her would probably come to a decision
by the time she had finished her letters,
The business took longer than Abigail had expected. She had
forgotten for the moment that she would have to make her own copies into her
letter book. In the shop, one of the clerks had done that. By the time she
finished the letters, her maid was waiting to help her dress, and she was
somewhat later than usual for breakfast. Abigail hurried down to the breakfast
parlor, partly because she was hungry but also because she was afraid she might
meet Hilda, who had her breakfast in bed but came down at about this time to
sit in the morning room—and that would ruin what had been an unusually pleasant
and fruitful morning.
This seemed to be her lucky day, Abigail thought, as she
entered to find the breakfast parlor empty. She served herself from the dishes
on the sideboard and then rang the bell for Betty to bring her coffee—a drink
she had introduced to the household over Hilda’s protests. Coffee was drunk in
coffee
houses
, Hilda had exclaimed, looking down her nose. It was a drink for
men
.
It was
crude
and
unfeminine
to drink coffee. Abigail grinned as
she sipped the strong, black brew. It might be crude and unfeminine, but to her
taste, it was certainly more stimulating and satisfying than tea.
As she ate, she revolved in her mind what she should say in
her note to Sir Arthur. Abigail only realized that she had decided to tell him
she intended to purchase horses when she was wondering whether to state her
purpose in the note or simply say she had a matter of business to discuss with
him and would like to see him when convenient. The realization diverted her
thoughts from the note itself to the reasons for the decision. She knew she
could have got around him, even if he were angry about the purchase, simply by
opening her eyes wide and claiming ignorance. It would be a perfectly adequate
excuse for this first expenditure, but Abigail found that she did not wish to
use “woman’s wiles” on Sir Arthur. She had enjoyed their equal, if acrimonious,
discussion about the American war and did not want to sink into being a “silly,
ignorant woman”. And then Abigail grinned again and cast down her eyes,
although no one was there to see the expression in them. The truth was, she
admitted to herself, that her primary reason was a desire to see Sir Arthur
again.
That did not eliminate the problem of what to say in the
note, which Abigail was finding surprisingly hard to write. She had lingered in
the breakfast parlor until after she heard Hilda come down and go into the
morning room. The one advantage of Hilda’s voice and her inveterate habit of
complaining, even to the servants, was that one could hear her right through
closed doors. When Hilda was safely ensconced, Abigail had moved to the library
and settled down to dash off her note—only it would not dash off. Abigail knew
the difficulty was being caused by her recognition of how attractive she found
Sir Arthur, but the knowledge was not solving the difficulty.
However, the good fairy who was presiding over this morning
had not yet abandoned her post. Just as Abigail made an irritated exclamation
and crumpled another sheet of paper into a ball, a footman entered to announce
that Sir Arthur had arrived and would like to have a word with Lady Lydden, if
convenient.
Surprised and delighted, Abigail very nearly jumped to her
feet and cried, “Of course it’s convenient,” but she remembered in time the
dignity one was supposed to maintain and also that it would be very unwise to
allow any hint of interest to cause gossip among the servants. Thus, she pushed
away her writing materials and replied in a calm voice, “Certainly. Show him in
here, please.”
When Sir Arthur’s tall, broad-shouldered form appeared in
the doorway wearing an unmistakable expression of pleasure on his face, Abigail
forgot formality, in spite of her intentions. She rose and hurried around the
table toward him, saying, “
Just
the person I wanted to see.”
He stopped and raised a quizzical brow. “I’m not sure
whether that is a compliment or whether I should turn and run.”
Abigail laughed. “You have a fine nose for danger, Sir
Arthur. I did have a use for you in mind.”
“Did you?” he remarked, his smile growing more pronounced
and his voice making the innocent words into a not at all innocent suggestion.
Abigail was a trifle taken aback, although not unpleasantly.
Sir Arthur had seemed totally impervious to her charms the previous day, which
told Abigail—who did not suffer from false modesty and was aware of the effect
her appearance had on most men—that he was either indifferent to women or very,
very experienced with them. Plainly he was not indifferent and had reconsidered
and found her worthy of notice. He was not nearly as handsome as Francis, but
Abigail knew without needing evidence that he was much more successful with
women. However, womanizing had not been one of Francis’ faults and he had not
been a practiced flirt—which apparently Sir Arthur was. Abigail felt even more
interested but quite determined to make him fight hard before he won her.
“I did,” Abigail answered sweetly, “but having seen you
again I realize you would not suit—you have only two legs.”
“Two legs!” he echoed, surprise and a horrified indignation,
held in check by doubt, having wiped all flirtatiousness from his manner.
“Yes,” she said, opening her eyes into a look of great
innocence, “the beasts I need must have four. I do not understand why you look
so surprised, Sir Arthur. Surely you did not expect that I would bring horses
from America. Victor, Daphne and I need mounts, and I was wondering whether you
would be kind enough to choose the animals for me.”
He blinked, choked and then replied as blandly as she had
spoken, “Of course I will—and you may be sure—”
“Don’t say it,” Abigail interrupted. “Any comment about the
gait of my mount would be in very bad taste.”
Sir Arthur looked down his nose with spurious hauteur. “In
bad taste? Me? Heaven forfend. I am known for my delicacy of touch.” And when
Abigail choked in turn, he looked even more remotely aristocratic and
continued, “I was about to say that you may be sure there will be no need to
accept the first animals that turn up, because I could lend you horses. We have
every type, from ponies through docile, gentle old reliables to quite spirited
but very steady geldings. The family is so large, you see, and while my mother
was at home, all manner of children were dumped in Stonar Magna whenever their
parents were busy elsewhere. But my mother has decided to live in Bath, and the
animals are all here eating their heads off and with nothing to do.”
The expression of comprehending amusement Abigail had been
wearing disappeared. Her face and voice filled with gratitude, and she put out
her hand and touched him.
“That is a very generous offer, Sir Arthur, and I hope you
will forgive me for omitting the polite doubts and hesitations I probably
should express. To tell the truth, though I am quite certain that yesterday’s
shooting was an accident and will not occur again, the incident has left me a
little nervous. On the other hand, naturally, it has awakened in Victor a
passion
for the woods, but he loves riding. A new horse would distract him easily, and
I would feel a great relief if he were out on a horse with a groom in
attendance.”
“I am sure you would,” Sir Arthur answered soberly, “and I
do not feel your fears to be at all foolish. In fact, I find the incident more
and more of a mystery. We cannot discover any cause on St. Eyre lands for even
the mildest animosity against any of your servants. Even more puzzling, Price,
my head gamekeeper, put out some feelers to the local people, and he is almost
certain no poacher was in this area. But there really
is
nothing to
worry about with regard to your children. Word of their presence has been
spread to all my people and the village too, and Price and some of his best men
are patrolling the entire area. No one will be doing any more shooting for any
reason anywhere your children could possibly reach afoot.”
“You are very kind,” Abigail said sincerely.
“Not at all,” he replied, smiling. “It will be an advantage
to me, too. And if you are speaking of the horses, that is also to my
advantage. You will be supplying fodder and grooms to care for the animals
instead of me—and they will be properly exercised for a while, poor things.
Don’t mention it. All you need do is come to Stonar with the children so that
we can decide which of the horses would be most suitable. When would you like
to come? This afternoon?”
“That would—” Abigail stopped abruptly. “Oh, dear, we
cannot.”
“Tomorrow morning then?” Sir Arthur asked accommodatingly,
although he wondered what she had to do that was so pressing as to interfere
with obtaining a mount for her son. The notion that she might be expecting a
visitor—a male visitor—leapt into his mind. Someone from London, surely, since
she had not had time to make local acquaintances—or had she?
“No, unless… You see, we have no riding dress,” Abigail
said. “Vic seems to grow a foot a month, and I knew his breeches and boots
would never fit by the time we arrived in England, so I just left them. And
Daphne’s habit was dreadfully worn, and mine…” Abigail hesitated, blushed
faintly and chuckled. “Will you think
very
ill of me if I confess that I
was afraid it would be unfashionable?”
“On the contrary,” Sir Arthur said, smiling broadly, “I think
you a woman of excellent sense. To follow the extremes of fashion moment by
moment might be foolish, but to present oneself to society in clothing two
years out of date—which is what Americans seem to wear—would be suicidal.”
The prick of resentment Abigail felt at the slur on American
fashion—although she knew it to be just from the British point of view—made her
voice sharper than she meant it to be when she replied, “I ordered the clothes
from a modiste and tailor recommended by the Barings to be sent here as soon as
possible, but I assure you that my clothes and Daphne’s were not a charge on
Victor’s estate.”
“That is ridiculous,” he snapped, his smile disappearing.
“In the first place, Daphne is provided for, as you should have realized. Lord
Lydden set aside a very reasonable sum as a dowry, since he knew what Francis
was.” He stopped and bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, Lady Lydden.
Nil nisi
bonum
and all that, but—”
“You need not beg my pardon,” Abigail said steadily, “but it
would be best to avoid that topic. I prefer, since it is possible without doing
them harm, that the children remember their father’s charm and kindness and
forget…whatever they knew of his faults.”
“Yes, of course,” Sir Arthur replied. “You are right. I will
be careful. But you mustn’t think I would say anything to Victor and Daphne
that they should not hear. I was very fond of Francis. One couldn’t help it.”
Abigail’s lips twisted between a smile and a grimace. “No,
one couldn’t,” she said with a sigh.
Regret and exasperation mingled in her face and voice—but
there was no grief. Sir Arthur experienced a faint pang of guilt. He knew it
was wrong to feel satisfaction because his late friend’s wife was not mourning
for him. Nonetheless, Arthur dismissed even that faint feeling of discomfort.
Had Francis lived, he would have brought disaster to a fine woman, two decent
children and an old estate, would have been unable to stop himself, and would
have suffered the torments of the damned in his lucid intervals—or should have.
In any case, what had happened was for the best for everyone.
“Now, about this nonsense of charges on the estate,” he said
briskly, to change the subject. “Naturally, your full support is the
responsibility of the estate as long as Victor is a minor. I’m afraid no jointure
was arranged for you because it was understood that there had been a settlement
made in America. If it is not possible to transfer the principal and income, I
suppose—”