Authors: Roberta Gellis
“Are the children all right?” he asked.
Whatever shreds of resistance Abigail had left were melted
away by that question. Had he asked if she were all right, she would have been
able to pull away and answer him calmly, even make false, civil
conversation—like asking when he had returned to Stonar. Instead, she clutched
at him and began to tremble, although she managed to say, “Yes, I left them
arguing about whether to play tennis or go riding after luncheon. Oh, Arthur,
do you think it is safe for them to go out? I didn’t want to frighten them by
telling them they must stay in the house—”
“You did just right,” he assured her, kissing her hair.
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something to occupy them if you want them to stay
in. How is Dick?”
“Mrs. Franklin stepped up to say he seemed to be quite
well,” Abigail said with a sigh of relief, “except for a bad headache, of
course. The apothecary sewed up the wound and told her that the skull did not
seem to be injured. Dick is quite sensible and remembers everything that
happened, but his grandmother will keep him abed until we are sure there is not
more wrong than appears. Oh, I forgot to send anyone to tell his mother and
father. I must—”
“My mother has taken care of that. In fact, I met Price
coming over here. He is wild. He seems to think the two shooting incidents are
connected and that the intended victim is Dick.”
Abigail lifted her head to stare at Arthur. “It
is
possible. Dick isn’t much taller than Victor, and their hair is about the same
color. If the man only saw the back of Victor’s head… Of course, Dick is a good
deal broader, but Victor’s coat was spread over a bush…”
“Let us go where we can sit down, Abigail,” Arthur
suggested.
His face was so hard and his voice so grim that Abigail
murmured, “The library,” and was grateful that Arthur retained his comforting
grip on her while they went down the stairs and closed themselves in the room.
“The answer might be as simple as Price believes,” Arthur
said, “because there are some local people who have a grudge against the
man—but Abigail, I am having trouble believing that anyone sane would attempt
to shoot Dick in the middle of the day when he was accompanied by three others.
Think how many opportunities there have been to shoot Dick when he was alone.”
“Sane?” Abigail echoed, and then her breath caught. “There
were
two
shots,” she whispered, starting to shake again, “and I think
the second was fired
after
Dick fell.”
“Steady, love,” Arthur pleaded. “I know you have had about
all you can take today, but can you tell me what happened?”
“Yes, of course I can,” she said, drawing a deep breath to
steady herself. Actually it took only a few minutes to describe the events from
when they had reached the mill to the moment when Daphne had seen Griselda. At
that point, Abigail’s voice faltered, and then she cried, “Griselda! Oh,
Arthur, she saw him! She said she did not recognize him, but will
he
know that? I was just going to warn her when you came in.”
“You were going to warn Griselda? May I ask about what?”
Hilda’s strident voice startled Abigail so much that she cried out, and even
Arthur jumped. Both turned furious faces on her, but she stared back
disdainfully, secure in the knowledge that she had done no wrong. If people
were stupid enough to embrace in public rooms where anyone might enter, even
servants, whether the door was closed or not, then they deserved to be
embarrassed.
“And
what
is going on in this house?” she went on.
“The servants seem to have gone insane. It is quite time for luncheon, but none
is served. No one answers my bell. I am forced to come looking for you
myself
,
and I must say, Abigail, that I am shocked at—”
“Someone shot at us from the old mill and wounded Dick
Price,” Abigail interrupted, holding on to her temper with an effort. “The
servants have been busy—”
“All of them?” Hilda made an ugly grimace. “Oh well,
naturally they would take any excuse to shirk their duties,” she remarked
sourly, and then asked, “What has any of this to do with Griselda?”
Abigail was furious with Hilda for her complete indifference
to everything beyond her own comfort and for the way she was now staring at
Arthur’s arm, which he had defiantly left around Abigail’s shoulders.
Nonetheless, she hesitated before she answered, remembering how Griselda had
said she would try to “slip out and join them” at the old mill. Although she
was reluctant to betray the fact that Griselda had intended to meet them, she
realized there was no way to conceal what had happened. What could Griselda say
to explain the bruises she bore? And all the servants had seen her come back
with them.
“Griselda saw the man who shot at us,” Abigail said. “He
knocked her down when he made his escape.”
“Do you mean to say that wicked girl went to the mill with
you?” Hilda screeched. “I forbade her to go
anywhere
with you. I told
her if she ever again connived privately with you, as she did over that
disgusting
dress, she was no daughter of mine and could
leave
this house and make
her own way in the world.”
“Are you mad?” Abigail gasped. “You threatened to put
Griselda out of my son’s home? Do you think I would permit Victor’s aunt to beg
for charity from other friends or relations?”
As the enormity of what Hilda said made its full impact,
Abigail’s voice had grown louder and louder, and she had risen to her feet. Now
she understood why Griselda had been avoiding her since Violet’s dinner party,
and she was not certain which infuriated her more—Hilda’s nearly insane desire
to dominate Griselda or Griselda’s stupidity in believing her mother’s threats.
“She is
my
daughter!” Hilda shrieked hysterically.
“Mine! I can do whatever I like with her. I will not have a disobedient
daughter in the house with me.”
“Fine!” Abigail bellowed. “Then
you
can go. Go live
anywhere you like, but leave Griselda here. I need
Griselda
. She manages
the house and garden for me. You—”
Arthur was standing by Abigail’s side and now he took a
painful grip on her arm, interrupting her. “Lady Lydden,” he said, his deeper,
stronger voice overriding even the strident tones in which Hilda was attempting
to answer Abigail, “you are overwrought and saying what you do not mean. No
affectionate mother could wish to punish a daughter as obedient as Griselda so
severely for such a small fault. And this is no time for a discussion so
important to your comfort. Abigail has had a dreadful experience and is
naturally upset. Let me call your maid to you. When you have recovered
yourself, we can talk more calmly.”
Fury still distorted Hilda’s face, but the habit of bowing
to male authority had made her listen to what Arthur was saying. Moreover,
Hilda realized that Arthur’s remark about Griselda might seem true to anyone
who did not understand the circumstances. She had never thought it would be
necessary to carry out her threat. In the past she had boasted to all her
friends about how her careful training had made Griselda the perfect daughter.
Hilda did not want to be laughed at for deceiving herself. She would need time
to make clear to everyone how Abigail had poisoned her daughter’s mind and how
unnatural and cruel Griselda had become.
Worse, it had penetrated Hilda’s mind that her generosity in
having Griselda continue to run the household had made the girl more important
to Abigail than she was. And there was nothing she could do about it!
Impotently Hilda glared at Abigail, but she dared say no more, so she turned on
her heel and left the room.
The moment she was gone, Abigail wrenched her arm out of
Arthur’s grasp. “I can fight my own battles,” she snapped.
“Don’t be an idiot!” Arthur snapped back. “You were in such
a temper, the next thing you would have done was
order
her to go. Then
where would you have been?”
“Shot of Hilda,” Abigail yelled. “Do you have any idea what
it is like to eat dinner every evening with that—that—”
Arthur laughed. “I’m sorry, love. If I thought it would have
worked, I would have let you say it. But you know she will never go willingly,
and if I had let you order her to leave, you would have been faced with the
choice of backing down or calling in the bailiffs to put her out physically.”
“Oh,” Abigail cried, stamping her foot in frustration, “I
don’t know who enrages me more—Hilda, with her monumental selfishness,
Griselda, with her unbelievable stupidity, or you, with your damned male superiority.”
Upon which, she burst into laughter, and he seized her and
kissed her. But when their lips parted, she pushed him away gently, and her
expression was worried. “I don’t know why we are quarreling about who will live
here,” she said with a sigh as she sat down. “I am growing afraid to be here
myself.”
Arthur nodded as he seated himself beside her, his
expression also serious. “Yes. There is something very unhealthy going on.” He
hesitated for a moment and then continued quickly, “Abigail, I hope you do not
think I am trying to take advantage of the situation, but I would like you, the
children, and Dick and Griselda too, to come to Scotland with me.”
“Scotland!” Abigail repeated. “I was going to visit Lydden
and—”
“Too close, too populous,” Arthur objected. “In each case
there are large towns where a stranger could stay without drawing notice. My
dear, I cannot believe this violence is truly directed at you or your children
for any real reason, and yet…”
Abigail stared at him without replying, and he took her
hands comfortingly in his. “I will not stay if you feel you cannot trust me—or
I will stay on any terms you like. I have not given up, Abigail. I still want
you as my wife, but we can quarrel about that when we have solved this
mystery.” He smiled wryly. “I would rather have you to quarrel with than not
have you at all.”
“Oh, you vain creature,” Abigail said with a smile,
“thinking I was hesitating because I feared you. It is perfectly true, of
course. I ran away in London because I knew if I remained, I would yield—and
that would have been a tragedy for both of us in the end.” He started to speak,
but Abigail shook her head at him and went on firmly. “I said I could not
explain. If we are to…to be able at least to quarrel, you must accept that. In any
case, I was not thinking about us, which was why I called you a vain creature.
I was wondering whether it would help to run away to Scotland. Sooner or later
we must return.”
“Yes, but there would be two months in which to try to
discover who is doing this. And even if no answer is found, in September the
children will be off to school, where you may be sure they will be well
protected. Once they are safe, we will be less vulnerable.” He stopped and
looked away, then went on, “Abigail, I do not want to increase your worries,
but I feel I must warn you—do you realize that the person was deliberately
lying in wait at the mill and must have
known
you would be going there?
That means—”
“Oh yes, I realized,” she interrupted. “But it does not
narrow the field much. I suppose all the servants knew. Victor and Daphne run
about in servants’ hall pretty freely and talk about everything. The grooms
knew because we were discussing it in the stable. And any one of them might
have mentioned it to others.”
“So we come back to the fact that either Dick or you or one
of your children was the target.”
“It was Dick who was shot,” Abigail said, her voice shaking
only a little.
“Yes, but if your memory is correct and Griselda screamed
before
the first shot was fired, her cry may have spoiled the man’s aim.”
“I thought of that too,” Abigail whispered, “and if he
missed his real target, that target
must
be Victor, and that first
shooting was not an accident. But no one could want to shoot Victor—unless for
the inheritance? Eustace?”
Arthur took her back into his arms, and one part of him
responded with joy because her arms slid so naturally around him, but actually
he had embraced her as much to hide his face from her as to comfort her. He was
afraid she would see the sick fear in his eyes. Bertram had left the house
early that morning. He had told Arthur that he wanted to visit a property some
distance away that was being managed by a new bailiff whose accounts did not
satisfy him. Abigail’s question had reminded Arthur of that, reminded him that
if Eustace were accused and convicted of killing his nephew, Bertram would
inherit. Arthur could not tell Abigail—not until he had questioned the bailiff
and others and discovered when Bertram had arrived.
Once again Arthur fought the monstrous suspicion. He told
himself it was ridiculous. It was more likely that Price was right and Dick was
the target. And there were other possibilities that were certainly no more
farfetched than that a man who had always been honest and honorable should plan
to murder a child. Whoever the real culprit was, Arthur decided, it would be
dangerous for Abigail to fix her suspicions on Eustace and think Victor was
safe when his uncle was not around.
“It was the first idea into my head when I heard,” Arthur
said, muffling his voice by pressing his lips to her hair, “but—no. Whatever
Eustace’s faults, stupidity is not one of them. He would be the first person to
be suspected. If Victor had been having accidents, I might suspect Eustace was
behind them, but he would not
shoot
Victor. All I can suggest is that
whoever attacked you is not sane.”
“But why attack Victor?”
Arthur was silent a moment. It was better for Abigail to be
wary of everyone than to fix her suspicions on the wrong person. “It is
possible someone has a grudge against the earl of Lydden or against the whole
family. The old man was not bad or cruel, but he would suddenly come to a
sticking place—as he did with Francis. After paying his debts time and again,
he suddenly refused and would actually have let Francis be sent to debtors’
prison. It might have been something very minor—a tenant whose lease was not
renewed or the terms not eased, a poacher sent to prison or a petty thief
transported. In some men, a seed of hatred can last and grow.”