Authors: Roberta Gellis
Arthur was relieved that his voice had emerged flat and dry,
with no hint of the pain he felt. In a violent reaction from his relief he was
suddenly sure that Abigail was lying, that her guilty expression when she
mentioned the bookshop had covered some other activity. He was so furious that
he never wondered what she could have to hide. All he knew was that she could
not have spent more than five minutes in the bookshop if she did not have time
to notice the books she bought were in foreign languages. Where had she been
all day?
“Of course they are in the original languages,” Abigail said
defiantly, aware that he was annoyed but thinking it was because she was too
learned. She was not willing to conceal what her father had taught her as if
she were ashamed of it. “One loses so much in translation. I have read some of
Goethe’s earlier works,
Werther
and
Iphigenie auf Tauris
, and I
enjoyed them very much. He is a powerful writer.
Bacchae
is the only
play by Euripides that I have not read. Papa did not like it. And, of course,
he would not have Petronius in the house lest I sneak a look at it, so I
decided, now that I am all grown up and have plenty of time, to discover what
Papa was concealing from me.”
“Are you trying to tell me you can read German, Greek, and
Latin?” Arthur asked furiously. “I do not believe you.”
“You do not believe me!” Abigail exclaimed, equally furious.
“What kind of a fool would I be to lie about a thing like that?” She took a few
steps and snatched one of the books he was still holding out of his hands.
Opening the book at random, she began to read in quite faultless Latin and then
translated. “‘Every kiss wounded me, every trick the depraved woman could
invent, and still I did not know whether I was more angry with the boy for
taking my mistress from me or my mistress for corrupting my boy.’“
On the last few words her voice faltered, not because she
was uncertain of the translation but because she had realized what the words
meant.
Satyrica
was not the kind of book to read aloud. She stared
angrily at Arthur, blaming him for her embarrassment as well as for his
masculine arrogance, then slammed the book down on the table and reached for
another.
Arthur was equally enraged and embarrassed, not by the
sentence Abigail had read or even by her ability to read it—which implied her
ability to read the Greek and German also—but by the stupidity of what he had
said. It was obvious that she would not claim to understand a language if she
could not, particularly when a book in that language was in his hand. His fury
at himself reflected back at her, and he did not stop to think that her ability
to read the books she had purchased removed his original cause for anger.
Instinctively he yanked away the books.
“Why the devil does any woman need to know all those
languages?” he snarled, and threw those he was holding down on the table.
Although the question obviously acknowledged that Abigail
could read the languages, it was scarcely one that was likely to soothe her.
“Why the devil does any
man
need to know them?” she shrieked. “Women
have brains the same as men and could use them just as well if they were not
suffocated at birth. I
enjoy
reading and thinking, and if you do not
like it—so much the worse for you. You need not remain in my company.”
“Since you are so hot to claim the privileges of an
enlightened mind, why don’t you stop behaving as if you deserved your name,” he
snapped.
Abigail knew quite well that Arthur was referring to the
fact that the generic name for maidservants was “Abigails” and that he was
accusing her of lacking the proper delicacy and dignity of an upper-class lady.
Widening her eyes into a stare of innocence, she said dulcetly, “I cannot
imagine what you mean. If you were not so ignorant, you would know that Abigail
is a Hebrew word that translates as ‘my father is joy’. I can see
nothing
derogatory in being named Abigail.”
Arthur stared down his high-bridged nose at her for a long
moment and then, helplessly, began to laugh. “But I am not so ignorant that I
do not know the meaning of your second name,” he gasped. “Evangeline from the
Greek means ‘bringing good news’. Whoever named you seems to have been very
glad to have you—and so am I.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “Abigail,
you are the best news I have ever had in my whole life. Forgive me, and try to
believe that I am not disapproving of your scholarship.”
She shrugged. “Fortunately for me, it does not matter what
you think. I can afford to be indifferent to your disapproval and even to
pander to your self-conceit by tucking my books away where you will not see
them.”
“But I don’t want you to tuck them away,” he said softly. “I
would like to know what you think about Goethe and Euripides. We do not have to
go to the theater or some other place of amusement every evening. We could talk
of books—”
The eyes Abigail turned on him made Arthur drop his hand and
step back. “So you can gently guide the strivings of my feeble female
intellect?” Her voice was deadly soft, rich with contempt. “I do not need you
to patronize me, Arthur. It was—and still is—my
business
to know a great
author from a merely good one. I made—and make—my living by knowing one Greek
and Latin and Hebrew text from another. I kept a
shop
in America—a
bookshop—and my main business was with
male
scholars, who depended on
my
opinion and
my
recommendations for what they should buy and read. I and
my children would have
starved
, Arthur, and that drunken, useless sot
Francis, who was too noble, too high-bred, to serve in a shop, would have
starved also, if all those brilliant, scholarly
men
had not agreed with
the recommendations of this ignorant, silly woman and continued to buy from my
shop rather than from other booksellers.”
She shrugged again and began to move around the table toward
the door, but Arthur caught at her arm and held her. “For God’s sake, Abigail,
I didn’t know. I couldn’t know—and anyway I
wasn’t
patronizing you, damn
you. I really would like to know what a sensible woman thinks of Goethe and
Euripides. Sometimes women have a completely different outlook on a subject,
which sheds new light on it. My mother has pointed out more oversights and
stupid errors in government bills than most of my fellow M.P.’s, but Mama
doesn’t read—except novels and poetry.”
Abigail was looking at him with a very puzzled expression.
“Are you trying to avoid acknowledging what I said about keeping a shop?” she
asked. “I understand that shopkeeping is not at all a well-bred activity.”
“No, it’s not,” Arthur replied dryly, “but it’s a more
sensible one than starving. I certainly don’t care. In practical terms, I
wouldn’t tell Lady Vernon or Mrs. Basingstoke, but Roger and Leonie would enjoy
hearing about it. They kept a shop, too—in Paris during the revolution. Roger
pretended to be a gunsmith. It wasn’t elegant, but it was better than being
guillotined as a traitor or an English spy.” He drew her closer, unhappily
aware that although she did not try to fight free of him, there was an inner
resistance in her. “Abigail, I love you. I’m sorry I snapped at you when you
came in.”
“Men always get annoyed if they have to wait,” she said
rather indifferently.
The remark was a reply to Arthur’s apology, but it had
little connection with what Abigail was thinking. She could see that Arthur’s
statement that he did not care about the shop was only half true. Almost
certainly he did not care about her activities while she was in the United
States, however, the swift change of subject after comparing her business with
Roger and Leonie’s—which doubtless had been gratefully abandoned after they
were safe—was significant to Abigail. Plainly he cared too much for her to
abandon her because she was in trade, but the fact still made him
uncomfortable.
Unaware of Abigail’s thoughts, Arthur answered what she had
said. “No, it wasn’t the waiting,” he explained. “It was—I just felt you were
eager to get rid of me this morning, and it set me on edge.”
Abigail was surprised that he had been able to pick up her
mood and glanced at him, only to be surprised again at the pain she could
detect in him despite the controlled neutrality of his expression. She realized
for the first time that she must have hurt him, and that made her understand
how unfair she was being. Arthur had not meant to hurt her any more than she
had meant to hurt him. He could not help the prejudices he had been raised
with—either those against women or those against trade. It seemed odd, though,
that he should be so vulnerable, considering that she was scarcely the first
woman in his life. Then she thought that might
be
the reason. He might
have been hurt in the past by women who had lied to him and used him for
purposes that had nothing to do with affection. Sorry for the pain she had
unwittingly caused him, Abigail relaxed into the curve of his arm.
“I
was
glad to have a day to myself,” she admitted
gently, “but not because I was eager to be rid of you, Arthur, only because I
felt I had better not make my business dealings too obvious. Perhaps I should
have told you.”
Arthur was so relieved to feel the resistance fade from her
body that he managed to swallow the impulse to ask angrily whether she had come
to London to be with him or to order books. He had always been aware when other
women used him, and most of the time he was merely amused, sometimes slightly
annoyed if he disapproved of the usage. It was different with Abigail. He had
been so sure she had devised this plan only to be with him. Worse yet, he was
shaken by the knowledge of how close he had come to losing her altogether, and
had no wish to test the strength of the bond between them again.
“I’m glad you weren’t so bored with my company that you
needed a breath of fresh air,” he said.
Abigail smiled and extricated herself gently from his arms,
but she held his hand and squeezed it. “You are never boring, Arthur. I must
pay you that compliment and add to it that you are the only young man about
whom I have ever been able to say that. Papa was never boring, and a number of
the men who used to come to the shop were willing to talk about interesting
things—but they were all graybeards with canes.”
“I am too frightened just now to dare again say I do not
believe you,” Arthur said lightly, hoping Abigail would think he was joking and
not realize that he was speaking the exact truth, “but were there no gentlemen
under ninety who spoke to you?”
“Oh, hundreds,” Abigail replied, going to the bell pull and
ringing for a servant. “And many of them would insist that I serve them, even
if my clerk was idle. They were amusing for twenty minutes—after all, I am not
so unfeminine as to have shed my vanity and it is pleasant to hear oneself
praised—but after twenty minutes, few were able to avoid repeating themselves,
and then they bored me half to death. Do you want tea or wine, Arthur?”
“Were you often subject to insult?” he asked in a strangled
voice.
“Insult?” Abigail repeated, turning to face him. “Oh, no. My
dear, you are thinking of the condition of shopgirls in England. In America, I
was a person to be respected. A bookseller with a good business—and mine is
good, I assure you—is not considered common.” She smiled at him cynically.
“Rich businessmen are the nobility of America. I am not really as out of place
as a countess as you might think.”
“Don’t put words into my mouth, Abigail,” Arthur snapped,
anger at being baited taking the place of hurt.
She laughed aloud as she seated herself. “There!” she said.
“You sound much more like yourself. And you still have not told me whether you
want wine or tea.”
“Wine,” he growled, just as the footman opened the door, his
irritation at her bold admission that she was managing him mingled with
amusement. Abigail was never boring, either. By turns she could drive him mad
with fear, rage, or love, but never for a moment was she dull. “Yes, wine,” he
repeated, and sighed. “I need it.”
Abigail gave the order and then frowned. “I hope that only
refers to our personal difference and not to the news you obtained about
Metternich and Bonaparte.”
Arthur looked at her blankly for a moment, and then realized
that he had come home bursting with excitement to tell her something wonderful.
It was his frustration at having no one with whom to share his news that had
reminded him of Abigail’s eagerness to go out alone. Remembering what he had
heard at the Foreign Office lifted the small cloud that had remained on his
spirits, and he smiled.
“No, nothing to do with that,” he said eagerly. “In fact, I
will have to ask for another glass so that you can share my wine in
celebration. Wellington has won a great victory in Spain. I told you, I think,
that he had got his army through the mountains and outflanked the French. They
met at a place called Vitoria, and Wellington beat them, took all their guns,
and sent them running for France with Bonaparte’s brother Joseph, the puppet
king Boney forced on the Spanish, leading the way.”
“Hurrah!” Abigail cried, infected with Arthur’s enthusiasm
and forgetting for the moment the effect the victory might have on the American
war.
Arthur leaned down and kissed her. “Well, it’s not quite
time for hurrahs yet. Bonaparte’s Marshal Suchet is still holding Catalonia,
and there are a number of fortress cities still garrisoned by the French. It
may be a few weeks more before Wellington can drive for the Pyrenees, but
Bonaparte is finished in Spain.”
By the time Arthur was finished talking, the footman had
returned with a tea tray and Arthur’s wine. Abigail, who drank very little,
said she hoped Arthur would not think her unpatriotic if she drank to
Wellington’s success in tea, and Arthur, who correctly associated her distaste
for wine with Francis, laughed and replied that it would be most appropriate
because the general liked women to be feminine. However, after she took her
patriotic sip standing and reseated herself, Abigail had remembered what the
end of the war would mean to the United States and remembered that Arthur had
originally set out to discover whether or not Bonaparte had accepted
Metternich’s offer for Austria to mediate peace.