Authors: Roberta Gellis
Roger laughed again. “I’m not likely to take offense,
Bertram. Arthur’s been shouting at me since he was three and discovered
injustice.” He rose, walked over to his nephew, who had also risen and gripped
his arm affectionately. “You have the information you wanted, and I really must
get home in time for dinner. Ask your Question in Commons about getting the
government to push for deposing Bonaparte. You will only get a lecture on the
politics of the possible. On the other hand, if you can inject some of your
common sense into the argument about the American war, you won’t get any
violent opposition from Liverpool or Castlereagh.”
“Now that is interesting, more interesting in its way than
news of the armistice,” Arthur began, tightening the equally affectionate grip
he had taken in response to his uncle’s gesture and detaining him.
But Roger interrupted him. “Oh, no,” he said, laughing.
“That is all you will get from me on that subject. I meant just what I said, no
more—Liverpool and Castlereagh will not oppose a peace with America if it can
be accomplished without political damage. And speaking of damage—have you heard
from Francis Lydden?”
“Not a word,” Arthur replied, his face suddenly taking on a
worried expression quite foreign to it.
“You should not have allowed Lord Lydden to name you as one
of his executors,” Bertram put in, his voice sharper than usual. Bertram was
Francis’ cousin, the son of Lord Lydden’s younger brother.
“Probably not,” Arthur admitted, “but he was so very weak.
He couldn’t, catch his breath, and he begged me with tears running down his
face to do what was in my power to keep Francis from ruining himself and
everyone else.”
“You could not have refused him,” Roger agreed
sympathetically. “I could not have done so myself, but it is a thankless task
you have taken on—and, I am afraid, a hopeless one. You must not blame
yourself, Arthur, if you cannot control Francis’ self-destructive
propensities.”
“I think I
would
have refused, though,” Arthur said,
sounding exasperated, “except that I had been told he was on the mend, and I
hoped he would recover. Unfortunately, a second seizure carried him off before
I could see him again and convince him that I was the last person to whom
Francis would attend. That was an odd thing, that second seizure. I spoke to
his physician because I was annoyed at not having been warned, and he said it
took him equally by surprise. The day before, when he saw Lydden, he was ready
to declare him out of danger.”
“One can never predict that kind of seizure,” Bertram said,
shrugging.
“That’s true enough,” Roger agreed. “But why would you say
you are the
last
person to whom Francis would attend? I know you two had
drifted apart, but I didn’t think it was anything more than a divergence of
interests when you went into politics. Had you quarreled with Francis?”
Arthur laughed wryly. “Again and again, but that meant
nothing. You know Francis never held a grudge. He was sweet tempered, even if
he was bone selfish. No, unfortunately Francis knew I disapproved of his
father’s refusal to pay his debts—”
“What else could Lydden do?” Roger interrupted. “I know he
had paid in the past. It had been going on for years. Francis would have ruined
him.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Arthur complained. “I wanted
Lydden to pay the tradesmen, not the gambling debts. I thought, you see, that
the clubs would expel Francis if he was known not to pay his debts of honor,
and that would put a stop to his gambling.” He shrugged. “You needn’t tell me
it was foolish. It was a long time ago. I was young. And I never could resist
Francis when he came out of one of those fits. He was so pitiful, so
remorseful, so damned earnest when he swore he would never do it again.”
“
You
saved him from debtors’ prison!” Bertram gasped.
“I should have known. Did you think sending him off to America would mend his
ways? Nothing will,” he added bitterly.
Bertram turned away and walked toward the door, where he
paused to pull the bell cord. While his back was to them, Arthur and Roger
exchanged a swift glance. They had forgotten momentarily that Bertram’s father
had been another Francis. But Bertram senior had not been checked because he
had already been in possession of his estate when his proclivity for drink and
gambling had become evident. He had ruined himself, reducing his wife and son
to penury before he managed to drink himself to death. That was why Bertram was
Arthur’s secretary rather than living on his own property on a comfortable
income.
Both Roger and Arthur were sorry the subject of Francis had
come up. Arthur was particularly disturbed. He had believed Bertram was
perfectly happy with his work, income, and the comfortable rooms that were
exclusively his in every house Arthur owned. Bertram was free to use any house
at any time, whether Arthur was in residence or not, free to invite guests, to
entertain, in fact, to act in every way as if Arthur’s property were his own.
And every servant on all of Arthur’s estates obeyed Bertram as implicitly as
Arthur—perhaps more implicitly, Arthur thought, since he knew himself to be by
far the more lenient. Yet twice this very afternoon he had been shocked by his
secretary’s bitterness.
When the footman who came in answer to the bell had been
instructed to have Roger’s horse brought around from the stable, Bertram
rejoined Arthur and Roger, who were talking politics again. A few minutes
later, Arthur walked Roger out the large double doors of the library, through
the beautifully furnished entry hall, and finally all the way down the broad
steps to the driveway, where his hack was being held by a groom.
“Bertram wasn’t joking when he said he wanted to marry, was
he?” Arthur said suddenly.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Roger replied.
“Well, why the devil shouldn’t he?” Arthur asked irritably.
“His wife would be perfectly welcome to live with us.” He gestured at the huge
country mansion behind them. “Surely he cannot think we would lack living
space.”
Roger laughed, but then shook his head, his expression
becoming sober. “It could not be easy to ask a woman to share his kind of life.
You know he would not be considered eligible by many fathers, his ability to
support a wife resting, as it does, on your goodwill. You know and I know that
Bertram is as much your friend as your secretary, but there is no way he can
prove that to a girl’s family. It is not as simple as you would like to make it
seem, Arthur.”
“What the devil can I do?” Arthur asked. “I would hate to
lose Bertram, but I would gladly—”
“I don’t think you should do anything at all just now,”
Roger said decisively. “Just keep your ears and eyes open. If you find that
someone in particular has caught his fancy, I imagine it will become obvious
what is best to do.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, drawing out the word, and then his heavy
lids dropped, obscuring the mischief in his eyes as he added, “I have always
found Bertram to have a most discriminating taste. Perhaps I will have a
ready-made hostess without my having to marry, after all.”
Chapter Two
“Lady Lydden?” Mr. John Deedes said to his clerk, looking
and sounding as surprised as he felt. “Is not Lord Lydden with his wife?”
“No, sir,” the clerk replied. “No one is with her. She is
quite alone, sir.”
The solicitor’s face darkened. He could only assume that
Francis Lydden and his family had arrived all but penniless, that Francis was
drunk and incapable, and that his wife had been forced to come to apply for
sufficient funds to make the journey to Rutupiae Hall. It was a dismal
prospect. He hated to contemplate the ruin of a fine, old family, but there was
little he could do, so he told his clerk to show in Lady Lydden and rose to greet
her, bracing himself to meet a woman he was sure would be bitter and in great
distress.
Mr. Deedes knew something about Lady Lydden. Although
Francis and his father had not parted on good terms, Francis had retained a
sufficient sense of responsibility to inform his father when he had married in
America and when each of his children had been born. At least, John Deedes
thought, Francis had married a suitable girl. Abigail Evangeline Lydden was the
daughter of Victor Milford, youngest son of Sir Thomas Milford. The Milfords
were a good Dorset family. Why Victor had emigrated to America, Mr. Deedes did
not know, but he remembered Lord Lydden’s relief and satisfaction after he made
inquiries of the Milfords at the time Francis had written to announce his marriage.
The door opened, and Mr. Deedes came around his desk and
hurried forward. He had intended to meet the lady near the door and support her
trembling steps to a chair, but the brilliance of the smile she gave his clerk
as she thanked him, the erect carriage and graceful motion as she turned toward
Deedes and held out her hand, were sufficient evidence that Lady Lydden was in
no need of physical support. In fact, it was Mr. Deedes who could have used a
prop, and he had some difficulty in commanding himself enough to bow and kiss
the proffered hand.
By the time he had seated her, he was enough restored from
the shock her beauty had dealt him to tell himself he was a fool. He had
assumed from the speed with which Francis married after he arrived in America that
he had married for money, to keep body and soul together without being reduced
to doing a day’s work. Why that had led him to believe that Francis’ wife would
be plain and dull, he could not now understand. He knew that Francis was not
the type to discommode himself with a dull, plain wife. Francis
was
sufficiently insinuating and ingenious to survive—at least for a while—without
such a sacrifice.
Plain and dull, Lady Lydden was not. Her rich auburn hair
curled fetchingly from under her delightful hat, her lips were full and soft,
her nose short and just slightly tip-tilted, her brow broad and beautifully
white and the large, long-lashed, violet-blue eyes turned up to him glowed with
warm friendliness. Mr. Deedes, who had his own fixed opinions of what gently
nurtured females were like, noted Lady Lydden’s sweetly rounded chin but did
not take cognizance of how very firm it was. Nor did he think—as someone who
knew Abigail better than he did had remarked—that the strong, white teeth
exposed by her enchanting smile looked as if they could take a bite out of the
world and grind it down to her purpose.
The smile, however, indicated to Mr. Deedes that his worst
fears—that Francis was lying drunk and helpless somewhere and that Lady Lydden
could not pay the bills—would not be realized. Deedes could think of only one
other reason for her coming alone, Francis was too lazy to do whatever business
he wanted done himself and had sent her. As a boy, Francis had never done
anything that did not give him pleasure, and apparently he had not changed.
Abigail had not been unaware of Mr. Deedes’ scrutiny. She did not mind. She was
accustomed to goggle-eyed stares from men who were meeting her for the first
time. She was somewhat puzzled, however, at the expressions that had crossed
his face, albeit fleetingly. Abigail was also accustomed to reading
expressions. The success of a bookshop depends partly upon the ability of its
owner or clerk to recommend the type of book a particular customer would enjoy.
When Abigail had been about fifteen, her mother grew too ill to serve in their
shop, and Abigail had taken over the task of dealing with the ladies who wanted
to read novels. After her father’s death, Abigail also assisted those customers
with very scholarly tastes. Over the years, she had become very adept at
interpreting those small facial movements and body gestures that betrayed what
a person was thinking.
“How pleased I am to meet you, Lady Lydden,” Mr. Deedes
said, “but I am sorry you had to come here. Had you sent a message, I would
have come to you. Lord Lydden should have told you—” His voice checked suddenly
as the smile disappeared from her face and her eyes dropped.
Now Abigail understood why the solicitor had looked at her
so oddly. He had expected Francis. “Francis—my husband—is dead,” she said.
Her voice, completely expressionless, was much deeper in
tone than Deedes had expected, and her eyes were dry when she lifted them. Had
he had time to think about the latter fact, he would have been startled, but
his shock at hearing that Francis Lydden was dead blocked out all other
emotions.
“Oh, heavens!” he exclaimed. “How sorry I am, my lady. Dear,
dear, how dreadful!”
“You did not receive my letter, then,” she added quickly,
trying to stem the tide of Deedes’ sympathy. Abigail found talking about her
husband’s death very painful, not because she missed him or because her love
had survived the terrible battering Francis’ habits had inflicted on it, but
because she felt that she had somehow failed him, that she should have been
able to stop his dreadful, recurrent fits of drinking and gambling. “I wrote to
you,” she went on, “as soon as…as soon as I was able to do so, but the war had
started by then, and I suppose some accident—”
“My dear Lady Lydden,” Deedes exclaimed, “I am so sorry. I
had no idea. Had I known, I would have arranged somehow for an escort to
arrange your ladyship’s passage and accompany you. Your ladyship’s journey must
have been harrowing in the extreme. I am sure Sir Arthur would have had
influence enough in the government to obtain special passports—”
“You are very kind,” Abigail interrupted, rather irritated
by Mr. Deedes’ fussy manner and his habit of calling her your ladyship, which
jarred on her nerves, “but I had no difficulty in arranging passage. The states
of the Northeast have little sympathy with the war, and there is still a
considerable commerce between New York and Britain, mostly in supplies for the
armies in Spain, I believe. I wrote to Admiral Warren and explained the
situation, and he was kind enough immediately to furnish passports for myself
and my children.”
Mr. Deedes regarded her with a faint astonishment, as if
unable to understand why she had not remained in a state of collapse for nearly
a full year. Then Abigail reminded herself that the solicitor had no idea yet
when Francis had died. Nonetheless, she restrained a sigh at his lugubrious
expression.
“But you should not have been troubled,” he said. “I am sure
Sir Arthur would not have wished that in the midst of your grief you—”
“Who is Sir Arthur?” Abigail asked, trying to divert the
solicitor from continuing his expressions of sympathy. It made her feel more
guilty, because she had felt no sorrow over losing Francis—she had felt relief
at his death, and that had shocked her dreadfully and made her miserable.
“Sir Arthur is the second executor of the late Lord
Lydden’s—I mean—”
“Yes, I understand,” Abigail hastened to put in. “You mean
Francis’ father.”
She could see that Mr. Deedes might flounder for some time
in explanations. Francis’ father had also been named Francis, and since both
were “late” Lord Lyddens, it would be difficult to disentangle them from one
another without using such crude devices as saying “your husband’s father”.
Abigail was already amusedly certain that Mr. Deedes was much too nice in his
manners not to call his clients by their full panoply of names and titles
despite what he knew or thought about them.
Mr. Deedes nodded with relief. “The will,” he continued,
cleverly avoiding the problem of names by infusing the document with a life of
its own, “named myself and Sir Arthur as executors, to manage the estate until
Lord…er…until the heir could return to England and take control himself.”
“I see,” Abigail said slowly. “But the heir is now a child
of twelve. I am legally Victor’s guardian—”
“Do not distress yourself, Lady Lydden,” the solicitor
soothed, leaning forward to pat her hand—but most respectfully. “I assure you
that
no
eventuality, no matter how unlikely, has been overlooked in the
document.”
Abigail hastily lowered her eyes to hide her violent impulse
to laugh. She could just see the words
the
document
all in
capital letters, so portentously had Mr. Deedes uttered them. In the next
moment, however, she realized that what Mr. Deedes had said was not funny at
all. If no eventuality had been overlooked in “the document”, that meant legal
controls had been established in the will to manage her life and her children’s
lives without consulting her or communicating those arrangements to her.
“And what disposition has been made for
this
eventuality?” Abigail snapped.
A faint flush had risen to her cheeks, and the eyes she
lifted to the solicitor had lost their soft violet glow and flashed bright and
hard as sapphires. Mr. Deedes, who had just begun another soothing clucking,
involuntarily jerked back in surprise. But before he could speak, she reminded
herself that her letter announcing Francis’ death had never reached the
solicitor, thus, it was unfair to blame him for not informing her of the
provisions in the will relating to the condition in which the heir was a minor.
Moreover, Mr. Deedes had only her word for it that she
was
Francis’
widow.
“I am sorry,” she said more gently. “Naturally you will want
to see proof of what I have told you before you discuss particulars with me.”
As she spoke, Abigail removed a packet of papers from a
small leather case. Mr. Deedes blinked again with surprise. He had been so
startled by her appearance that he had not noticed she was carrying anything.
In fact, between the surprises her beauty had given him and the shock of
hearing that Francis Lydden was dead, he had actually forgotten the need for
identification. Recognition of his dereliction from duty was a shock of another
kind, and Mr. Deedes hurriedly pulled himself together and accepted the
proffered documents.
Although he looked with care at the papers and noted down
the authorities who had issued the marriage lines of Abigail and Francis, the
baptismal certificates of Victor Francis Milford Lydden, born 17 May 1801, and
Daphne Martha Milford Lydden, born 9 August 1803, and the death record of
Francis Gerald Bertram Lydden, who had been killed by being struck and run over
by a heavy cart, Mr. Deedes had no doubts at all that Abigail and her children
were Francis’ wife and offspring. Having made his examination and notes, he
handed back the papers.
“It was most sensible of you to bring these records, Lady
Lydden,” he said. “I am sure there would have been no problem in any case, but
the dowager Lady Lydden… Oh, dear, I mean Lady
Hilda
Lydden, is
sometimes a little…ah…er…”
“The dowager Lady Lydden,” Abigail repeated. “But I am sure
Francis told me his mother was dead. Had Lord Lydden married recently? That is,
after Francis left for America?”
“No, no, indeed,” Deedes replied, shocked. “Did you not know
that Lord Lydden had a stepmother and a half brother and sister?”
“No, I did not,” Abigail said slowly. “Francis never
mentioned any family other than his father.”
“Yes, well,” Mr. Deedes’ voice was uneasy, “I fear there was
not quite the harmony there should have been in the household. And since I was
not absolutely certain that Lord Lydden intended to return to England
or…er…what he would wish to do if he did return, I…ah…did not insist that Lady
Hilda Lydden, Mr. Eustace and Miss Griselda remove from Rutupiae Hall. And now
that the present Lord Lydden is a minor, I—”
Abigail was again amused, although she knew she should not
be. It was clear that poor Mr. Deedes was in terror of Hilda Lydden and had not
been able to muster the courage to tell her to move out after Lord Lydden’s
death. Or was it that he pitied her? Had Hilda Lydden been left virtually
penniless? Abigail had heard of the hardships caused by the law that left
everything to the eldest son except what had specifically been provided as a
widow’s jointure. She had had legal problems enough because she was a woman to
feel a surge of sympathy.
“I can see no reason why my mother-in-law or my sister- and
brother-in-law should be forced to leave their home,” she said. “From what
Francis told me, Rutupiae Hall is a commodious house. I should be glad of
company.”
“Commodious— Oh, yes, yes indeed,” Mr. Deedes agreed. “It is
not a
very
large house, no more than thirty or so rooms, excluding the
servants’ quarters, but you would not be cramped. I do not believe you would
find yourself cramped.”
“No,” Abigail responded dryly, thinking of the house on
Williams Street in New York, where she had found ten rooms above the bookshop,
three of them tiny attic bedrooms for the servants, large enough. “I doubt I
would find myself cramped.”
“In any case,” Mr. Deedes continued brightly, “if there is
any difficulty, I am sure Sir Arthur will be able to solve it for you.”
There was that name again. Abigail felt a mingled curiosity
and antipathy as she wondered how much power the executor would have over her.
She knew, too, it would be useless to say that she was accustomed to solving
difficulties for herself and preferred it that way. Even if Mr. Deedes had
known Francis and understood that far from being a help he was a major
difficulty himself, the solicitor would assume the trustee of her estate had
managed it.