Authors: Roberta Gellis
It was
these
subjects, Abigail saw, that were of
primary significance to everyone except herself. Perce and Sabrina had been
curious about the war with America because
of
Russia’s interest in it,
not because the war itself was important. From the rapidity with which the
subject was dropped when she did not keep the discussion going, it was clear
that the American war was considered by the English little more than a nuisance.
What was more, that was almost certainly the government attitude, because
Perce, Roger and Arthur were not common country squires. Arthur was an active
Member of Parliament, Perce was in the diplomatic service, and Roger, who held
no official position, was clearly—from the way he spoke about Lord Liverpool—a
close and influential friend of the prime minister.
Abigail felt oddly resentful at the indifference exhibited
toward the United States. Would it help Albert, she wondered, to know how
unimportant American affairs were to the British government? He was so clever.
Could he possibly manipulate some advantage to America out of the British
neglect? Then she was shocked at her thoughts. She was British herself. How
could she consider passing information to the enemy? The enemy? Dear Albert and
Hannah and all her other friends were now enemies? Nonsense. Besides, anything
that would help to bring peace would be of as great advantage to England as to
the United States.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Abigail set out for London, the idea that had
come to her the evening of the dinner party had become a firm conviction. The
more she learned about the war against Bonaparte, the clearer it became that
food and other commodities from America were necessary and the depredations
made by American privateers on British shipping were damaging, although by no
means crippling. Thus, if she could supply information that would sooner bring
peace, she would not be a traitor but a patriot.
Not that Abigail was thinking about war and peace—except in
personal terms—when the Rutupiae carriage took her into Sandwich, where a post
chaise was waiting to carry her to London. Although she looked calm, she was
shaking inside with a mixture of nervousness and relief. The relief stemmed
from escaping Hilda, the nervousness came from doubts about what she was doing.
It had seemed very simple, almost innocent, when she suggested to Arthur that
they meet in London. Now it did not seem simple at all. It seemed quite
dreadful to set out deliberately to live with a man she had known for only a
few weeks, a man she had no intentions of marrying.
To add to her fear and uncertainty, Arthur had, to her mind,
behaved very strangely. Instead of telling her what he had arranged, he had
insisted on her setting an exact date for her departure and choosing a hotel at
which she would arrive. He had made the whole thing sound so exciting and
inviting that she had not uttered a single protest—and then he had disappeared.
When she had ridden over later in the afternoon to obtain more information,
Violet told her that Arthur had been called away suddenly over some political
matter. Abigail could see, however, that Violet was angry and embarrassed, and
she realized Arthur’s mother believed he had set off in pursuit of a woman.
This, of course, made Abigail even more uncomfortable since
she was aware of the reasons for Violet’s anger and knew, though Violet did
not, that
she
was the cause. She might not have gone at all, except for
three reasons. The most important was that she had delayed the discussion of
the leases with Mr. Deedes too long to leave the matter to a letter. Quarter
Day was 24 June. The method of payment must be settled well before then.
Secondly, she knew that if she did not obtain some relief from Hilda’s berating
her for inspiring rebellion in Griselda and nagging at Griselda for
disobedience and unfilial behavior, she would doubtless do something quite
unforgivable—like murder. Not that she knew which one she would murder. Hilda
was unbearable, but Griselda asked to be stepped on by never fighting back.
Least important in rational terms, but a strong driving
force to Abigail, was that there was no way to tell Arthur she was not coming.
She had no address for him, and she was afraid and ashamed to ask Violet.
Perhaps he did not deserve the courtesy—he had, after all, been dreadfully
high-handed with her—but she simply could not bear to disappoint him. It seemed
cowardly and unfair. She did not need to go through with the assignation, she
told herself. She could stay in a hotel, one or another would have rooms for
her in this slack season. And she
did
have business to transact with Mr.
Deedes and with a number of booksellers, particularly Lackington, and also with
Alexander Baring, who, Anne Louisa had written, would be in Town for a few
days.
But what she would say to Arthur, she had no idea. It would
be impossible to invite him to her room in the hotel, of course, and she was
much afraid he would not accept her refusal passively. She shuddered at the
idea of a loud quarrel in the lobby. Nonetheless, she must refuse. It was too
crude, too forward… Abigail had a sudden memory of lifting herself along
Arthur’s body that day when a playful gesture had gone too far, and she
shuddered again, but for a different reason. Must she refuse? No, she would not
decide—not yet.
Realizing she had again been around the track of a treadmill
in which she seemed to be imprisoned, Abigail resolved she would not think
about it anymore and opened
Sense and Sensibility
, a novel she had been
intending to read for some time. However, because she had been in this state
for several days, now certain she would not fall in with Arthur’s arrangements,
whatever they were, now wavering indecisively toward the opposite point of view,
she had slept poorly. The post chaise was a luxurious one, but the road from
Sandwich to Canterbury was not in prime condition, so that the carriage swayed
about. Thus, despite her feeling that Miss Jane Austen had written something
superior to any similar work she had read, Abigail was soon asleep.
She woke when the horses and postilions were changed at
Faversham, but did not elect to leave the chaise. Her nap had refreshed her,
and she intended to have luncheon at the next stop, which would be at Gad’s Hill.
Mr. Deedes had recommended the Sir John Falstaff as quieter and more convenient
than the posting inns in Rochester, and Abigail had liked it very much when she
stopped there on the way from London to Rutupiae. The road from Canterbury to
London was one of the best in England. Abigail again opened
Sense and
Sensibility
and was soon utterly absorbed in the problems of the Dashwoods.
She was actually startled when the carriage rattled to a halt and looked up
from her book with bemused eyes to see the door open and
Arthur
waiting
to help her down.
Fortunately she reacted automatically to the hand held out
to assist her, making it seem as if she had expected to be met. Arthur smiled
at her brilliantly, and the innkeeper, who had come out, bowed and assured her
that Mrs. Luvve’s private parlor was ready for her. The name struck her dumb
momentarily but just as she was about to ask a stupid question, Arthur said, “I
hope you were not too nervous doing the first two stages alone, my love, but it
would have meant another two days if I had come all the way home, and you know
we could not afford the time.” His remark filled up the few last seconds until
he could lead her to the private parlor and close the door. There, Abigail
still had no opportunity to speak, because he caught her in his arms and kissed
her.
“My darling, were you frightened?” he asked as he lifted his
lips from hers. “I would have met you at Sandwich, but I was afraid your
coachman or groom might catch sight of me, and so many of the postilions from
Sandwich know me that I did not want to wait for you at Faversham. Will you
forgive me for making you travel alone?”
“I’m not frightened,” she replied, feeling dazed, “only
surprised.” And then she remembered what the landlord had called her and began
to laugh. “Oh, Arthur, what a name! How could you?”
He laughed too, but he continued to hold her against him.
“It was your fault, really,” he said. “You gave me so little time. I left for
Town right after I spoke to you and drove all night. Then I had to find an
agent who did not know me—which was not so very simple because, in the first
place, I had never rented a house in my life and hadn’t the faintest idea of
how to go about it, and then I discovered there are not very many men who deal
with houses in suitable parts of London, and many of them are agents for people
I know. By the time I obtained the name of a man I did not know without giving
away why I wanted it, I was so addled that when he asked
my
name all I
could think was that I was doing this for love—and obviously I couldn’t
hesitate when asked for my
name
—so I said love. At least I made him
spell it L-u-v-v-e.”
“Poor Arthur,” Abigail murmured.
His arms tightened around her, and then relaxed. “I must let
you go. The innkeeper will be in here in a moment with our food, and I am
afraid he would think it odd for a husband to be so passionate. But I was
afraid you would not come, Abigail. I knew you must have a thousand doubts and
second thoughts. I love you.”
Abigail felt like singing with joy and bursting into tears
at the same moment. He had countered every objection she could have made before
she mentioned it, and her body had turned traitor the moment he touched her. If
she believed him, there was nothing high-handed about what he had done. It was
she who had convinced herself that he had already made arrangements, yet how
could he have done so before she had told him when she would go to London? What
could be more thoughtful than to come to meet her because he feared she might
be afraid to travel alone and to judge so carefully the first spot he could
join her without any chance of damaging her reputation? And how could she worry
about his thinking her crude and forward when he held her so tenderly and said
he was afraid she would not come?
Nonetheless Abigail could not help suspecting he had made
arrangements earlier and disappeared deliberately after she set a date so that
she would not have a chance to protest or back out of her bargain. And could he
possibly believe she would be afraid to travel a major post road during the
day, or was his arrival at this midway point another device to prevent her from
changing her mind? Yet if he were so eager for her company as to invent the
devices she was imagining, could he think ill of her? Or were all the devices,
even the tender uncertainty in his face at this moment, well-practiced
procedures? Other women must have had doubts also.
He had her face cupped in his hand, and he leaned forward
and barely touched her lips. “Abigail?”
What did it matter? Abigail asked herself as the warm
fullness of his mouth brought a response from hers that instantly flooded
through her body. The trouble he had taken proved his kindness. Whatever he
thought of her he would keep to himself—and it was
she
who had rejected
marriage. She was a hopeless fool to allow herself to become so serious and
dramatic.
“I did have second thoughts,” she admitted, and then smiled
mischievously at him, “but you have a very strong advocate.”
“Strong advocate? Abigail, you haven’t—”
“Hilda,” she interrupted. “Whenever my purpose wavered, she
was right there telling me I had turned her daughter into a monster and that my
own would turn on me and, if she did not cast me out in the snow to starve,
would banish me to the cold corner of the room. And—”
The door opened, and the landlord brought in a tray of cold,
sliced meats, cheeses and other tempting morsels, thin-cut bread and butter, a
pitcher of lemonade and a large pitcher of ale. A maid followed with a tea
service and glasses. Arthur seated Abigail and himself and permitted the maid
to serve them. He had been laughing at her description of Hilda’s behavior, but
his eyes were wary, and when the maid left the room, he shook his head at
Abigail.
“That was very clever, darling, but you should not have done
it.”
“What in the world do you mean?” Abigail asked, so surprised
that her glass of lemonade remained suspended halfway to her mouth.
“Did you not get that dress for Griselda just to make Hilda
so angry she would not pry to discover where you would be staying in London?”
“No!” Abigail exclaimed indignantly. “What a disgusting,
devious mind you think I have. And how could you believe me so cruel as to use
Griselda for
my
purposes. She is a person, not a thing.”
“But it was not cruel,” Arthur protested, and put down his
ale to touch her hand. “It was a kindness that would serve a double purpose.
Griselda looked lovely—probably for the first time in her life—and she knew
it.”
“I am not as clever as you think,” Abigail said. “I simply
could not bear to look at the girl in one of those yellow or blue abominations
her mother makes her wear.” Then she looked down at her plate. “I-I did not
think of needing an address. I did not expect to be away long enough for anyone
to wish to write.”
“That is no problem,” Arthur assured her. “You can send a
note to the hotel saying you will be staying there one night, and they will
hold any letters that come for you. And you can change the date if you like.
They are accustomed to that.” He was silent for a moment and then leaned forward
to touch her cheek. “Come, my love, I have not changed into a monster. Eat your
lunch. You may say no to me at any time. I
love
you, Abigail.”
“I do not wish to say no,” she replied in a small voice.
“But for all my bold words, I think I am ashamed.”
He held out his hand and she put hers into it. “I will make
an honest woman of you at any moment you desire,” he told her, smiling.
Abigail shook her head, but she was comforted and turned to
her meal with better appetite. They talked of general matters,
politics—avoiding the war with America—and the estate, and when they left the
inn, Arthur did not come into the chaise with her, choosing to ride alongside
until it was necessary to change horses again. By then, Abigail had been
traveling for eight hours, less the hour and a half spent in the inn, and she
was tired. It was remarkably comforting to have Arthur’s strong arm around her
to steady her against the occasional jolting of the carriage and to rest her
head on his shoulder, particularly when it got quite dark and began to rain
hard. She did not realize that she had fallen asleep again or how deeply she
had slept—right through the noise of London streets and the clatter of the
wheels on cobblestones—until she was wakened by Arthur’s kiss and his voice telling
her they had arrived.
She was again too dazed to do more than accept passively
when he helped her from the carriage and into the shelter of an umbrella held
solicitously over her by a tall footman. The door was wide open and a golden
glow of light stretched a welcoming carpet toward her. Arthur laughed at her
gently because she stared around with so much surprise as he led her quickly
into a small but well-appointed parlor, where he tenderly undid her bonnet and
removed it.