Authors: Roberta Gellis
“He is a
very
nice boy,” Bertram said, “and this time
quite innocent of intending to make trouble.”
“He is always innocent of
intending
to make trouble,”
Abigail said, and then smiled wryly, thinking of the toad, and added, “Well,
not
always
,” which made both men laugh. “What happened this time?” she
asked.
Bertram explained about the falling branch and Victor’s
subsequent immersion, mentioning, but barely, that the boy had had a fright by
being caught against one of the submerged roots for a moment. Abigail shook her
head and sighed, but it was clear she was not really distressed by the
incident. She was accustomed to Victor getting into and out of trouble with
natural obstacles like rivers and hills. Arthur stood staring at his secretary
for a while and then lowered his eyes to his boots, which he seemed to be
examining with great distaste.
“I’m glad you aren’t too angry or worried,” Bertram said as
he finished the tale. “I suppose he has had similar experiences in America, but
I must confess that I am just a little troubled. It seems to me that Victor
must have gone with a group when he had adventures in New York, whereas here he
was quite alone.”
“Oh, dear, you mean he didn’t take Daphne? That was foolish.
I must speak to him about that. If he were to twist an ankle or fall out of a
tree, we might not be able to find him. You are right, Bertram, of course. He
must not go about all alone.”
“But I don’t think Daphne is enough,” Bertram said. “If he
had been really tangled under those roots, I’m not sure she could have got him
loose in time, and she isn’t any more familiar with this area than he is. If
she had to leave him to fetch help, she might get lost herself or become
confused about where she had left her brother.”
“But I
can’t
forbid him to leave the house.” Abigail
uttered an exasperated sigh.
“I didn’t mean Victor should be forbidden to explore,”
Bertram explained. “He really must get to know the countryside. I was just
about to suggest that he be accompanied by someone knowledgeable enough and
strong enough to keep him out of trouble.”
Abigail frowned with indecision. “That sounds good, but if
the person is uncongenial or too cautious, I’m afraid Victor might—”
Bertram laughed. “I thought of that. No, I think Victor will
like this lad, and he has sisters, one just about Daphne’s age, so he knows
what girls like. Arthur, I thought Dick Price might be just the person to keep
an eye on Victor and Daphne.”
Arthur had ended his inspection of his boots and looked up
at Bertram when he suggested a guide and companion for Victor. Now his eyes
were very thoughtful as he said, “I agree. I should have thought of that
myself. Dick is only about fifteen years old himself and won’t keep telling
Victor that this or that is dangerous. On the other hand, he’s a solid,
reliable boy, my head gamekeeper’s son, and knows the woods better than he
knows his own face. He’s a good-natured boy, too. I don’t think he’d set Victor
against letting Daphne tag along with them.”
“Your head gamekeeper’s son,” Abigail repeated, frowning
thoughtfully. “Dick Price…”
“Is there something you don’t like about the idea?” Bertram
asked. “I doubt the boy will presume on his relationship with Victor later—”
“What?” Abigail asked, and then shook her head and laughed.
“You mean being American-raised, Victor might not know the difference between
gentleman and servant? Don’t underestimate Victor. I hope he will not become a
snob, but he appreciates the fact that he is an earl. No, I was thinking about
this Dick Price. The name was familiar. Isn’t Price the man who married Mrs.
Franklin’s daughter? That would make Dick her grandson.”
“Yes,” Arthur replied, and smiled. “You won’t have to worry
about Dick’s behavior. He adores his grandma, and is terrified of her, too.
I’ll explain to Dick. Would you want him to walk over every morning, or—?”
“I’d prefer, if his parents didn’t mind, that he live at
Rutupiae,” Abigail replied. “Do you think he would be uncomfortable if I asked
him to stay with the menservants at the Hall? If so, I suppose I could ask one
of the gardeners to take him in.”
“Let his grandmother decide,” Bertram suggested. “And I
think you had better come and speak to your children before they imagine that
you plan to murder them.”
They walked back to the house together but separated at the
door. Arthur went into the library and rang for Waggoner. He directed the
butler to send one man to summon Dick Price and another to obtain clean, dry
clothing for Victor from Mrs. Franklin. Bertram led Abigail to his apartment,
found another coat to wear, and then went off. She was surprised when the
children did not recount what had happened over and over at great and boring
length, but realized that they must have worked off their first excitement and
enthusiasm on poor Bertram. She had liked him from the first, despite his silly
mannerisms, and she liked him even better now.
In fact, Daphne and Victor seemed more interested in their
prospective companion and spent most of the time until Victor’s clean clothes
arrived in planning what they would do and where they would go, only
occasionally turning to their mother for approval. This she gave without really
having listened, relying on Arthur’s confidence that Dick would put a halt on
any adventure that might be too dangerous.
What Abigail was really thinking about, with some chagrin,
was that Bertram had interrupted Arthur and her before they had really decided
what to do. Actually, now that she thought back on it, she realized that Arthur
must have deliberately avoided any further discussion of their relationship
after they left Bertram’s office. Abigail nodded absently to a question from
Daphne, as she wondered why Arthur had cleverly led her into a discussion of
estate management rather than continuing his wooing.
There were as many answers to that question as she had
moods, of course. Back at Rutupiae that evening, Abigail was feeling bored by
Hilda’s uninterrupted monologue of complaints. Eustace had unexpectedly gone
off to visit friends, and his mother seemed to take his decision as a personal
insult. Abigail did not blame Eustace for not telling Hilda his plans in
advance, since she would certainly have nagged at him incessantly about them, but
she wished he had given
her
a hint so that she could have made some
excuse to skip dinner herself. In her depression, Abigail almost came to the
conclusion that Arthur had made up his mind she was too much trouble and had
been trying politely to back out.
By morning, however, Abigail’s spirits had risen, and she
was convinced that Arthur was simply trying to find a “romantic” answer to
their problem. She now wished sincerely she had not raised any stupid
objections, and she waited eagerly for a note or visit so that she could tell
Arthur she would rather have him than romance. The note when it did come was a
dreadful disappointment. Arthur wrote that he had sent a letter to his and
Francis’ old housemaster at Westminster and was reasonably sure a place would
be found for Victor at the end of the long vacation. Meanwhile, Bertram was
making arrangements for the vicar to judge the boy’s competence and tutor him
if any weak spots were found in his background. Daphne would be welcome to
attend with her brother if Abigail wished. He apologized for writing rather
than coming to speak to her, but he had business to see to that day.
Abigail buried herself in estate and household accounts that
morning and then was tempted out to accompany her children to gather wild
strawberries in a hidden valley Dick knew of. Actually, she enjoyed herself so
much and was so tired by the exercise—for it was a long walk there and back,
and gathering berries is not easy work—that she had her dinner on a tray, went
to bed and slept. In the morning she told herself firmly that there were other
men in the world. The fact that she was beginning to make sense of how the
estate ran gave her much satisfaction, and the next day the riding clothes
Abigail had ordered arrived.
A note to Stonar brought an immediate invitation to come and
examine the available mounts, and to Victor’s and Daphne’s tumultuous joy, they
were allowed to choose horses from the St. Eyre stables so they could go riding
at once. After seeing him atop several different animals, Arthur lent Victor
not only a strong and lively gelding hack but a somewhat elderly hunter on whom
he was to learn jumping under Arthur’s supervision. Daphne had a small mare,
quieter than Victor’s mounts but by no means a sluggard. And Abigail was given
a sleek, gray creature called GoGo, who lived up to her name but had a mouth so
soft that she was instantly obedient to the lightest touch on the reins.
Abigail knew enough about horses to utter a surprised
protest when she saw the animal, for a horse of that quality was worth several
hundred pounds and could never have been kept for the convenience of visitors.
For Arthur to lend her so valuable an animal would be most indiscreet, but his
smile silenced her, and later, after she had tried GoGo’s paces and confessed
herself enchanted, she learned that the mare had been purchased especially for
her and that it was assumed the price would come out of the Lydden estate.
Abigail knew better and was a trifle uneasy about accepting so expensive a
gift. Did it put her in the situation of selling herself?
She put the question to Arthur quite frankly when they were
walking together later, and he laughed so hard he had to sit down on a stump,
which wreaked havoc on his pale buckskin breeches. After that he reproved her
severely for being crude and improper and for putting him in bad graces with
his valet. Then he pulled her down on his lap to kiss and call his soul’s
delight. But he had not answered her question—unless his frank amusement was
his answer—and he had not proposed any place of meeting where more than a few
kisses would be possible.
Nonetheless, Abigail believed that Arthur thought her worth
his trouble, and she did not worry much about being bought for the price of a
horse, but still she felt she spent far too much time concentrating on the man.
Even if his professions of love were sincere, Abigail knew that the
relationship could not be permanent. She would never marry again. Never, never
would she permit herself to be legally less than human just because she loved a
man. Marriage would mean that she had no rights at all over the children to
whom she had given birth in such pain. A man who was not even their father
could send them away or imprison them at home, forbid her to see them…
anything. Abigail shuddered. She did not believe Arthur would act like that,
she was sure he would not. He was stable, honest and intelligent. But she still
would not give him or any other man that right, thus reducing herself to a
state in which she had no more rights than a dog or a horse.
To protect her children was most important, but even after
Victor was legally independent, Abigail knew she would never consider
remarriage. Why should she endure the small indignities of being a wife—the
knowledge that even the clothes she wore did not belong to her, that her
husband had the right to strip her naked and sell even her breast bands and
pantalettes? Why should she need to go with outstretched hand and lowered eyes
to beg for a few pounds of her
own
money, money that was no longer hers
only because she was a wife?
On the other hand, if she desired independence, Abigail
realized that she must accept its drawbacks. With no legal bond to hold him, it
was likely that eventually Arthur would slip away. She was not certain that
even marriage would keep Arthur completely faithful, but she did not doubt that
as his wife, she would not only always be first in public attentions but also
last—the woman to whom he came in sorrow or trouble—with only a little slip in
the middle, perhaps, for spice. Without marriage, she must remember, she was
nothing but the spice herself. Thus, it was wrong to think so much about him.
It was not that Arthur was so fascinating, Abigail assured
herself, but that there was not much else to think about. Careful examination
of the estate accounts and visiting and questioning tenants and observing their
land both with and without the estate agent, Mr. Jameson, had convinced Abigail
that Jameson was an honest man who knew his business. A few decisions that had
seemed harsh to her had, it turned out, been forced on him by Eustace. However,
he explained that it was not fair to blame Eustace too much, because he had
been acting in his father’s name just before Lord Lydden’s death and did not
wish to be accused of making a judgment that damaged the estate. Abigail
understood but nonetheless ordered that the more lenient path be taken where
possible. After that, it was quite clear that any further intrusion into the
management of Rutupiae would be unnecessary.
The children also were off her hands and safely occupied.
What with Mrs. Franklin to oversee their meals and wardrobes, riding with
steady well-trained grooms, exploring the estate under the safe guidance of
Dick Price and being tutored by the vicar, Abigail rarely saw Victor and
Daphne. She had not had so little to do for many, many years, and she
understood why Arthur filled so many of her waking thoughts. He was the one
challenge that faced her. Nonetheless, it was not the best thing in the world
for her. The more she thought about Arthur, the stronger her appetite for him
grew.
Chapter Twelve
Had Abigail known what was occupying Arthur’s time so fully,
she would have been highly flattered. The “business” he mentioned in his note
all concerned her. After he had purchased GoGo, he turned his attention to a
place he could “show” her that would be private, empty and yet fitted out so
that they could make love. That took considerable thought, but Arthur at last
recalled there was a secluded cottage that had been built for an “eccentric”
cousin.
Arthur smiled involuntarily when he remembered the cottage
because as a child he had greatly feared the place, believing his cousin was
insane and tucked away in the woods for safekeeping. He had later discovered,
because his curiosity became stronger than his fear, that it was not true.
Cousin Algernon
was
very peculiar—he insisted on dressing as a woman,
which was why privacy was required—but on all other subjects he was perfectly
rational. Before the old man died—in a dimity nightgown and mobcap—he and
Arthur had become good friends.
Because it was so secluded, the cottage was unoccupied, yet
it was fully furnished. Arthur rode over, found it dusty and musty after two
years of disuse, but it had been soundly built and was in need of no more than
a good cleaning. After ordering the cleaning, the house was restocked with
staples—tea, wine, cheese, biscuits—and the bed was made up. Now all Arthur
needed to do was find an excuse to bring Abigail there and an explanation for
why an unused cottage was ready to receive two lovers. There were plenty of
excuses and reasons, but none that would not make Abigail immediately suspect
that the cottage was his regular love nest. Arthur shuddered at the thought.
Normally the exercise of preparing a reasonable explanation
would have been an amusing pleasure to be solved in an hour or so after more
serious political problems had been examined. Arthur found, however, that he
could not concentrate long either on politics or on Abigail because another problem,
far more painful and unpleasant, came to his mind. Bertram, closer to him than
his brother for many years, was in serious trouble and would not even discuss
the matter with him. That was bad enough. Worse was Arthur’s sick fear that
Victor Lydden was the source of Bertram’s agony of spirit.
Even Abigail had been startled to see Bertram running out of
the house without a coat after Victor’s accident. Until that moment, Arthur
would not have believed that Bertram could be driven out in his shirtsleeves if
the house were afire. Yet something had so disordered his mind and spirit that
he had not remembered to put on a coat—something buried under that
cock-and-bull story of a branch hitting Victor hard enough to push him into the
river. It was not possible. Any branch large enough to do that had fallen from
that tree long, long ago.
At the time he had said nothing for Abigail’s sake. She had
been frightened enough by that accidental shooting… Accidental? Accidental
shooting, a near-accidental drowning, what would be the next “accident”? But
later, when he and Bertram were alone, Bertram had refused to consider whether
the two incidents were connected, had refused to admit there was anything odd
about the boy falling into the river. Bertram insisted that it need not have
been a large branch. If Victor were at the edge of the roots and leaning well
forward to look into the water, a mere tap could have sent him in. Arthur had
then asked outright what was wrong, and whether there was anything he could do
to help. Bertram had laughed at him, insisting that he was imagining things—but
there had been tears in his eyes, which his flicking handkerchief had not been
able to conceal completely.
The ugly thought that Bertram would be heir to the Lydden
estate if Victor should die and Eustace be convicted of causing his death crept
back into Arthur’s mind. Bertram had left him with Abigail, Arthur remembered,
and by his own admission had met the children near the pool not long after the
accident had taken place.
No! It was ridiculous, Arthur told himself, utterly and
completely ridiculous. Bertram could not and would not. The trouble was Arthur
knew Bertram loathed Hilda and Eustace. They had made his life miserable when
he and his mother had been given shelter at Rutupiae after his father’s death
had disclosed his utter ruin. It was by no means impossible that Bertram would
enjoy destroying Eustace. But to murder a boy who had done him no harm, who
clearly liked him…Bertram
could
not!
Having forcibly rejected his suspicion of his friend, Arthur
remembered two encouraging facts. The shooting could have been manipulated so
that it seemed Eustace had done it, but if Victor had drowned, it would have
been virtually impossible to prove that Eustace was involved. Bertram was far too
clever to use so uncertain a device. More important, it had been Bertram who
suggested Dick Price as a guard and guide for Victor—and who had left Dick’s
instructions to Arthur. That was certainly evidence that Bertram did no
t
want any accident to befall Victor.
Arthur was comforted by this path of reasoning, but he could
not forget the matter. He wondered briefly whether Eustace could be at the root
of the trouble, but then dismissed the notion. Eustace was no fool, whatever
else he was, and would realize he would be the first suspect if any harm befell
Victor.
Then Arthur realized that what was bothering Bertram might
not be related to Victor directly. Could Bertram desire Abigail? Was that why
anything to do with her children became so important as to wipe all his usual
priorities from his mind? Arthur had only considered the situation from
Abigail’s point of view because he had been afraid that Abigail favored
Bertram. But twice Bertram had left them alone abruptly when he could have
stayed. Arthur frowned unhappily. That was exactly how Bertram would act if he
had fallen in love with Abigail, because he would feel he had nothing material
to offer her—which was true. And it would be a sensible response to expose
himself as little as possible.
“Damn!” Arthur said aloud.
He had remembered Bertram’s inadvertent disclosure the day
Roger had come down from Stour that he was not content with his situation and
that he wished to marry. Arthur sighed. He would have to be particularly
careful in his behavior to Abigail in public. It would be cruel to expose
Bertram to the knowledge that he was her lover. He sat for a while thinking
about what to do, but oddly the possibility of backing out of the affair—which
would have been his first idea had Bertram desired any of his earlier
mistresses, because Arthur valued Bertram far more than any of those women—did
not occur to him. Finally he wondered whether to warn Abigail. If he told her,
she would be careful not to seek out any more private conferences with Bertram,
but could she completely conceal her knowledge? It was bad enough to fall
hopelessly in love, no need to add the bitter gall of pity to Bertram’s
troubles.
He had just about decided to ride over to Rutupiae Hall and
see if he could discover, without actually telling Abigail about Bertram, how
she might react, when a clamor in the corridor leading to the front door made
him step out. He could not imagine what could have created such a disturbance
and stood, stunned, as footmen carried in trunk after trunk.
“Love, I am so glad to see you!” a soft, slightly breathless
voice exclaimed.
“Mama.” Arthur blinked and swallowed.
He adored his mother, but she could not have chosen a more
inconvenient moment to arrive. Although she made no overt comment, Arthur knew
she did not approve of his love affairs. Her objections were only partly on
moral grounds, Arthur guessed. He was pretty sure that she felt he would have
married if he had not found so many willing partners. In general, Arthur did
not really mind his mother’s disapproval. She was not so uncivilized as to
display any open signs of hostility to his mistresses, but he was appalled by
the idea that she might feel any animosity to Abigail. Different as they were
in appearance and manner, Arthur knew they had much in common, and he wanted
very much for them to be friends.
He also knew it was useless for him to hope his mother would
not notice if he and Abigail became lovers. What it was about him that changed,
he could never discover, but his mother invariably knew within a day or two
when he had won his prize and consummated his affair. Internally Arthur
groaned. He could not expose Abigail to his dear mama’s cool disdain. He would
have to give up any idea of actually making love to her. The renunciation
aroused a shadow of sensation in his loins, and he decided he would have to
think of something else.
Lady St. Eyre’s tinkling laugh fell into the little pause
before it became awkward. “Don’t look so overjoyed, Arthur! This welcome is
overwhelming me.”
“Damn it, Mama,” Arthur protested, “I’m not unwelcoming, I’m
stunned. The last letter I received from you was a panegyric on the perfections
of Bath and your utter and complete delight with living there. Then here you
are without a word of warning.”
“Oh, are you short of space?” Violet asked, her eyes bright
with amusement. “Arthur, what are you up to?”
This time he groaned out loud. “What the devil could I be up
to here in the country? Perhaps I should ask what
you
are up to. Bath is
surely more fertile ground for mischief than Stonar Magna.”
“Oh, it is,” she agreed, laughing so infectiously that
Arthur grinned in sympathy. “You have discovered
one
of the reasons I
have fled to your protection.”
“Are you being pursued?”
“Alas, yes!”
“I will tell Waggoner to mobilize the footmen and ready
himself to resist all invaders.”
“Lunatic!” his mother said fondly, turning toward the
drawing room and pausing for him to open the door.
She pulled off her fetching hat and tossed it onto a table,
exposing beautifully coiffed hair that retained just a touch of its original
gold. Her light summer gown was a shade darker than her hair, not the pale
yellow suitable to a girl but still a cheerful color. It was high waisted as
fashion decreed but rose to the neck, where a brown ribbon gathered it into a
soft frill, far more flattering than a low décolletage, which would have
exposed the crêpey skin of neck and bosom. For a moment Arthur stood silent,
admiring her. Unlike many women who had been great beauties, his mother made no
pretense of being younger than she was, and thus was more attractive.
Ill-chosen as her moment for arrival was, Arthur found he was delighted to see
her settle into her favorite chair.
“I told you you would get into trouble going off on your own
like that,” Arthur said. “You are entirely too softhearted and do not know how
to say no. Who is besieging you?”
“The maddest pair you ever saw, Arthur,” Violet St. Eyre admitted,
giggling like a girl. “One is an octogenarian general who keeps offering to
show me his scars, and the other—I blush to say it—is younger than you, much
younger, I fear. And they glare at each other!”
Arthur howled with laughter.
“And they dog my footsteps and push each other to hand me up
into my carriage or both summon a chair for me so there are two and the
chairmen quarrel.”
“Stop!” Arthur gasped. “My ribs hurt.”
“In any case,” Violet continued, “it was very hot in Bath. I
have discovered that summer in a town is not pleasant. The heat seems to get
caught in the paving stones and the brick of the buildings. And another thing,
I thought I had better come home and make Francis’ widow welcome.”
Arthur blinked. “Francis’ widow?” He had almost forgotten
that Abigail had been Francis’ wife. Hastily he added, “How did you know she
had arrived?”
“Arthur, you
are
a lunatic. Everyone in the
neighborhood has written,” her voice hesitated fractionally as she took in her
son’s expression and then went on smoothly, “that Francis’
American
wife
has settled at Rutupiae Hall. Do you mean to tell me you have not gone over there
to pay your respects?”
“No, no. I mean, yes, I have been to Rutupiae, but…well,
actually, Abigail came here first. We have had some odd goings-on. Now, Mama,
she walked over and I cannot believe anyone… Will you stop looking at me like
that? Someone shot at her son. He wasn’t hurt, but his jacket was all to
ribbons. Would she be expected to wait for me to make a formal call under the
circumstances?”
“Poor girl,” Violet said. “That was a shocking welcome. I
hope you caught the man. But never mind about that. Arthur, sometimes you keep
your brains in your back pocket. Didn’t you realize that everyone was waiting
for you to give some sign that Abigail—is that her name?—is socially
acceptable.”
“What the devil do you mean?” Arthur erupted crossly. “Why
should anyone think she
isn’t
acceptable? In the first place, she isn’t
American, she’s one of the Somerset Milfords, niece to the present Sir
Thomas—at least I think the old man is still alive—and she was Francis’ wife;
she’s the dowager Lady Lydden. You can’t tell me that anyone in this
neighborhood would listen to Hilda’s claptrap.”
“Now, Arthur, there’s no need to shout at me,” Violet said
calmly. “You know you only do so when you realize you are in the wrong.
Ordinarily no one would pay too much attention to Hilda Lydden’s nasty remarks,
but people simply cannot resist a scandal. It is ridiculous to say no one would
know Abigail came here alone and on foot. Servants gossip to each other, and
every house in the area doubtless knew by the next day. Nor is it sensible to
say she is one of the Milfords from Somerset as if it were common knowledge.
How would anyone know that? You did not, I am sure, until Mr. Deedes wrote to
you of it. And knowing what Francis was, I am sure everyone suspects she is an
innkeeper’s daughter or worse.”