Authors: Roberta Gellis
Gallatin’s name had aroused a familiar pang of jealousy, but
it was stilled suddenly when Abigail said she intended to invite the man to
live with them. One does not invite a past lover to one’s husband’s home,
particularly if one has unassuaged longings. Arthur was about to second the
invitation enthusiastically, but was prevented by Abigail’s further explanation
of her need for Gallatin’s address, Baring’s visit and her reluctant agreement
not to see Gallatin while he was in London.
“But I had to write to him to explain,” she said, “and that
took a while, and then—well, perhaps I was just silly and carried things too
far, but I thought I would prefer not to send one of our footmen, so I walked
to Bond Street and sent a jarvey with the message. And I had to go to the breakfast
because of our dinner tonight. I could not send a message that I was unwell
because Lady Sarah might have heard about it and been offended. But if I told
the truth about why I was late, I might just as well have gone to see Albert,
so I slipped in by the gate and—and just pretended I had been there all along.”
About the middle of this disquisition, Arthur’s valet
tapped. Abigail hurried the last few sentences to finish, and Arthur shook his
head when she was done, but he could not help smiling at her. Nonetheless, he
did not take her in his arms and call out to his valet to go away, as he
sometimes did, to that sober gentleman’s disgust. He turned toward the door,
glad that there was no need for words at that moment. He wanted time to think.
He had been the battleground of too many fierce emotions in too short a time.
Being rid of his clothes would give him a breathing space in which to decide
whether he had heard enough and wished to drop the subject or had more
questions to ask.
But as he was eased out of his tight-fitting coat and his
boots were drawn off, Arthur wondered why he felt there might be questions.
Everything that Abigail had said and done after he entered the bedroom was as
“right” as her behavior when Hilda and Eustace left was “wrong”. To fly into a
rage and then apologize and explain was typical of Abigail, and the explanation
was equally typical. Still, there was something…something… Pantaloons, shirt,
underlinen, and stockings were so expertly removed that Arthur was hardly aware
of being stripped. Automatically he rejected the nightshirt and nightcap his
valet proffered, ignored the man’s reproving expression, and slid his arms into
a heavy silk dressing gown.
All the time Arthur had picked at what Abigail had said,
especially every word that referred to Gallatin, but there was nothing to
disturb him. In fact, the open desire to have Gallatin as a guest, the openly
expressed pleasure of knowing he was in London, and then the disappointment at
being deprived of his company were honest. Arthur felt he was being
unreasonable and pushed his doubts back into the dark corner where they had
lived so long already as he went into the bedroom again, shed the dressing
gown, and got into bed. Abigail sat up and kissed him on the nose.
“Are you still cross?” she asked childishly, and then when
he shook his head, “do you think Alex was wrong? Could we invite Albert to stay
with us?”
Arthur almost said yes to the last question out of eagerness
to meet Gallatin, but he was too honest and also too convinced that peace with
the United States would be economically and politically valuable to deny that
Baring’s arguments were valid. Arthur was also aware of a problem that Baring
had not mentioned. The government was unhappy over the idea of releasing tens of
thousands of soldiers, made useless by the end of the European war, into a
depressed economy in which there would be no employment for them. Thus, some
ministers argued that sending the troops to Canada and pursuing the war would
have double benefits that would offset the expense.
This only made it more likely that excuses would be sought
to delay the peace negotiations, and Arthur was forced to put aside his
personal preference. “No,” he said. “I am afraid Baring is right. I do not
know
how the government will react, but it is better as things are to offer them no
provocation.”
Abigail slid an arm around his neck and pulled him down with
her. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “You and Albert would enjoy each other.”
The words were a balm. Abigail might have her faults, but
Arthur could not believe she was so depraved as to tell her husband that he
would enjoy the company of her lover. Happily he drew her closer and met the
lips lifted toward his. Her arms tightened so convulsively around him that he
was startled, but she relaxed before he could free his mouth to ask a question.
And then her hands were moving over him, hands that had learned his body far
better than any other ever had, that could find just those places that were
unendurably exciting to him. In return, he stroked Abigail’s responsive body,
feeling the nipples rise and harden on her breasts and the tiny shudderings in
her thighs as his fingers sought out her most sensitive places. He forgot all
doubt, lost in a purely physical dimension in which sensation ruled alone.
It was not until he was dressing the next morning that
slight oddities struck Arthur. The way Abigail had responded to his first kiss
was more like a drowning person being rescued than a wife who had good reason
to expect to be kissed. What was more, although Abigail always enjoyed making
love, usually she was as mischievous about that as about everything else. By
now she could play him as Paganini played the violin, and since their wedding,
she had done just that. Abigail clearly favored a long and interesting foreplay
and usually interspersed her most sensual manipulations with others more
playful and teasing, which kept his ardor in check. That had not been true last
night.
Arthur’s hands froze on the intricate folds he was making in
his elaborately tied neckcloth. Acting? As the word formed in his mind, he knew
it was wrong. Arthur was experienced with all kinds of women telling all kinds
of lies, and he was aware that acting skill, no matter how great, could not
counterfeit certain responses. Jealousy flicked him again, but before he could
torment himself with the notion that another man’s image filled his wife’s mind
as her body responded to his caresses, the jealousy was quenched by his memory
of the way she said she would not cheat him. Not another man, then. Still, the
feeling that Abigail was hiding something was very strong.
His fingers resumed their delicate work, tied the final bow,
and inserted the jeweled pin exactly right for the hour of the morning and the
meeting he was scheduled to attend. His eyes, however, were absent as his valet
eased him into his coat, straightened his waistcoat, and gave a last careful
brushing to coat and pantaloons. He was gratified by his master’s patience;
often Arthur would spurn the last tiny details, pointing out that two minutes
after he stepped out of the house his boots would be dusty and his coat and
pantaloons speckled with airborne fuzz and soot.
There were only two subjects on which Abigail was peculiar,
Arthur was thinking as his valet’s brush passed over his shoulders. Her
independence and America’s.
Damn her
, he thought,
I’ll give her
independence. I will beat her with a stick no thicker than my thumb
—which,
Arthur had learned to his horror during his search of the laws regarding
marriage, was legal in certain American states—
if she’s brewing mischief
.
The notion was not, of course, serious, only an irritable response to a sense
of unease. But that too passed when a light comment of Abigail’s over breakfast
reminded Arthur that they had quarreled—not about some abstract topic, but
about a personal matter—just before making love. He nearly laughed at himself.
How could he have been so silly as to seek abstruse reasons for the way Abigail
had acted when so obvious and natural a one had been overlooked.
Nonetheless, the abstruse reasons worked under the skin.
Arthur found himself more and more fascinated by the politics and economy of
the United States, and that interest gave him a good reason to ask Baring to
arrange a private meeting with Gallatin. He was subtly unsettled by that.
Although Gallatin was over fifty and mostly bald, he had an extraordinarily
brilliant mind, a charm of manner, and a dry wit that Arthur knew Abigail would
find irresistible. And it was no help to discover that though Gallatin loved
Abigail, he plainly loved her as a daughter.
It was impossible to blame Gallatin, but the meeting
produced another uncomfortable effect. Arthur found himself infuriated because
he could not help liking and admiring the person who might be his wife’s ideal.
That exposed a fact he had tried to hide from himself. It was ridiculous at his
age to be so much in love as to want Abigail to think he was the best and most
wonderful person in the world. For the first time Arthur realized that he had
put off love too long. In youth the pangs might be equally violent, but they
are mingled with many other violent hopes and fears. By his time of life,
everything had found a balance—everything except love.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Although Abigail had no idea that her husband had a specific
person in mind, she did now realize that he was jealous. Francis had never been
jealous, and she was both flattered and amused by Arthur’s possessiveness.
Abigail understood very well, however, that jealousy is not amusing to the
person suffering from it, and she wished to protect Arthur as much as possible.
That meant that she must be either at home or in irreproachable company at all
times. This would have been no trouble to Abigail had she felt free to explain
that whenever she was late or missed an engagement completely, she had been
buying books. But she had also realized that Arthur preferred not to be
reminded that she was still a shopkeeper.
Unfortunately, Abigail could not put off her book buying
until Arthur came to trust her better, because at this moment the end of the
war in Europe provided a way to circumvent the trade embargo between England
and America. The books could now be sent to France, which was not at war with
the United States, and shipped from there. But Abigail feared this would not be
possible for long. She had already heard complaints about France’s willingness
to trade with America and felt that a cessation of this trade might be made
part of the peace agreement.
Since Abigail had no desire to torment Arthur or to remind
him of her “common” employment as a shopkeeper, she began to take great care
not to miss or be late to appointments, confining her business to the mornings.
Fortunately, Arthur usually left the house about nine, and the managers of Hatchard’s
and Lackington’s shops were both understanding and obliging. Abigail was
permitted to come before the stores opened to the public and also to examine
stock in the storerooms. Still she could seldom remain more than an hour or two
before rushing home to dress for a social engagement, and more visits to the
bookshops were necessary than could be explained by the most avid reading
habits.
This made Abigail uncomfortable because she had promised
Arthur to be discreet, and she developed the habit of scanning the street
around each shop for anyone she knew who might see her as she came out. Soon
she was presented with a puzzle. There was a street idler who always seemed
somewhere in the area, no matter which shop she was in. By the third time she
saw him, Abigail, became “aware” of his presence, but she did not associate it
with herself because such men often ran errands for shopkeepers or carried
parcels for customers. However, when she caught a glimpse of the same man
walking on her own street, she felt that to be very odd. He was on the other
side and going in the opposite direction rather quickly. Nonetheless, he did
not belong in the elegant residential neighborhood in which she lived. Her
neighbors had their own servants to run errands and carry parcels.
It was no more than an odd coincidence, Abigail told
herself, but she could not help watching for the man—and finding him and
realizing that he was following
her
. First she was simply amazed, unable
to understand what it could mean. All too soon, however, it occurred to her
that the watcher must be a result of her husband’s jealousy. Fury swept her.
Had Arthur been at home when the idea came to her, she would have attacked him
for his lack of trust. But as she reviewed in her mind the contemptuous things she
would say to him, pity replaced rage. Then she thought of explaining gently and
again assuring him that she would never betray him, but she knew that would not
help. If Arthur were so far gone as to set a spy on her, he would be beyond
reason.
She was so sorry for him, realizing that he must be in agony
to do such a thing, that she thought of giving up her attempt to stock her shop
before France was forced to stop trading with America. Then she decided that
changing her behavior abruptly might make him feel worse. Let the man watch,
she thought. After all, she was doing nothing of which she was ashamed. Once
Arthur had heard enough of his spy’s reports, perhaps he would come to
understand that it was useless to have her followed.
Still, knowing that someone was watching her made Abigail
feel very peculiar. She could not resist looking for the man, and one morning
when she stepped out of Hatchard’s, he was missing. Surprised, she paused at
the curb wondering what that could mean, then shrugged and started to cross the
road. She had taken no more than three or four steps when a carriage that had
been passing on a cross street swerved, picked up speed, and came directly at
her. For a minute, Abigail was frozen by surprise, unable to believe what she
saw—that the horse was deliberately being driven diagonally across the road to
run her down.
A shout from somewhere behind her broke Abigail’s paralysis,
and she screamed and jumped back, then turned to run, but the sound of hooves
and the rattle of wheels was upon her. With a strength born of terror she leapt
forward, felt a heavy blow on her left arm that threw her toward the walk, felt
herself falling—and then nothing.
Abigail woke to a severe headache, intensified by the sound
of several voices. Her immediate reaction was that her children had come into
her bedroom and were chattering in the background, and she said crossly, “Oh,
do be quiet. I have a dreadful headache.”
The voices stopped at once, but as Abigail spoke, she became
aware of other aches and pains and that she could not be in her bed. The
surface on which she was lying was hard and lumpy. Unwillingly she forced her
eyes open and saw the face of the clerk with whom she dealt at Hatchard’s. He
was pale, and his voice trembled when he spoke.
“We have sent for an apothecary. He will be here in a
moment. Do, please, lie still, Lady St. Eyre.”
For a moment, Abigail closed her eyes again, lost in
confusion—and then she remembered. The pain of her headache diminished as rage
and amazement filled her mind. Her eyes opened, and she asked, “Did you see
that carriage being driven at me?”
“I did,” another voice replied, and Abigail saw that it was
Mr. Hatchard himself. “I had just come to open the door. Whoever was driving
meant
to run you down.”
Abigail closed her eyes once more. A wave of agony far more
terrible than the pain in her head was tearing at her. No one in the world
could wish her dead—except her jealous husband. Was it the man who had been
following her, so surprisingly absent, who had been driving the carriage? The
question restored her sanity, which for a moment, had seemed to be slipping
away. Even supposing Arthur’s sufferings had reached a point at which he wished
her dead, he was not such a fool as to order her killed by someone else. That
would place him in the power of her murderer—unless he intended to kill his
agent also after she was dead.
“I must go home,” Abigail said.
Both the clerk and Mr. Hatchard began to protest and
expostulate, but Abigail ignored them, concentrating for the moment on trying
to discover whether she had been hurt worse than she thought. The damage,
except to her clothing, which was torn and filthy, seemed rather less than she
had expected, however. Her headache was already fading to a dull throbbing, and
though she was bruised, her knees and palms scraped, it seemed that she had
managed instinctively to protect herself from more than the initial blow dealt
by some part of the carriage and a bump when her head came into contact with
the walk. The apothecary, who came just as she was attempting to sit up, agreed
that she had sustained no serious injury and would recover best in her own bed.
Mr. Hatchard sent at once for his own carriage and
accompanied her home. The furor when she arrived was trying, but she would not
answer questions and was soon in her own room, where her maid sponged off the
dirt, applied arnica to her bruises and scrapes and put her to bed. To her
surprise, Abigail fell asleep at once. When she woke, the first thing she saw
was Arthur, sitting by the bed and wearing an expression of great anxiety.
“Whatever is wrong?” Abigail asked, then tried to sit up and
gasped as every muscle in her body seemed to shriek in protest.
The pain brought instant recollection of what had happened.
She stared for a moment at her husband, who cried, “Lie still,” as she moved,
and jumped to his feet. Looking at him, she wondered how she could have been so
silly as to suspect him, and she smiled. Now that her head was clear, it seemed
so obvious that it must have been one of those young lunatics trying to prove
how well he could drive by missing her by an inch.
Arthur had gone down on his knees by the side of the bed and
dropped his head onto her hand. “You could have been killed,” he said, his
voice shaking.
“Yes,” Abigail agreed, “and I wish I had seen the young fool
who thinks he drives better than he does. If I had been able to recognize him,
I swear I would have had his breeches down and paddled his behind myself. But I
am not really hurt, darling, so let us not—”
“Abigail,” Arthur interrupted, raising his head and looking
desperately worried, “it was not a sporting vehicle. Hatchard saw it. It was a
post chaise. My dearest heart, I beg you to tell me what you are hiding from
me. I do not care what it is, but I cannot protect you if—”
“But Arthur,” Abigail exclaimed, round eyed with surprise,
“you
must
know I am not hiding anything at all. The man you have had
following me must have told you that the only place I go—aside from my
breakfasts and teas and routs and such—is to several bookstores.”
There was no immediate reply. Arthur stared at her, totally
dumbfounded. Finally he said, “Why the devil should I have anyone follow you?”
By then Abigail had remembered that she was, indeed,
concealing something from her husband. However, it was simply not possible that
her revelation of the plan to attack Washington could have anything to do with
either the man who had followed her or the attempt to run her down. She stared
back at Arthur for a moment, then said, “Help me to sit up. It’s hard to think
flat on your back.”
There was a brief exchange about whether she was well
enough, which Abigail won by pointing out that she was starving and would have
to sit up anyway to eat. A hearty appetite being an excellent sign, Arthur
propped her up on pillows and rang for a servant. However, when the flurry of
activity was over and Abigail was quickly devouring a hearty tea, she came back
to Arthur’s question and explained her reasoning. Although it was clear to
Abigail that he was slightly embarrassed, which confirmed to her that he was
jealous, she was also sure from his manner that he had nothing to do with the
man who had been following her.
They discussed the matter for some time, but neither could
think of a rational—or, for that matter, irrational—reason either for the
watcher set on Abigail or for the attack on her. Arthur exclaimed in
exasperation that he could not understand why intended mayhem seemed to follow
Abigail and her family. Then he paused and frowned, but when Abigail asked what
had occurred to him, he shook his head and replied that there was something in
the back of his mind, but he could not put a finger on it. At last they
abandoned the subject, after Abigail had promised to go nowhere without a stout
footman in attendance if Arthur could not accompany her himself.
Abigail was able to describe the watcher, but it was over
two weeks before she was ready to pick up her ordinary life, and he never
appeared again. After a while, although she kept her promise to have someone
accompany her whenever she left the house, Abigail began to wonder whether she
had only imagined being followed. The incident with the post chaise was
certainly not her imagination, since Mr. Hatchard had seen what happened, but
she could not believe it was a personal attack on her. It seemed far more
likely to her that the driver was one of those wild, sadistic young men who
liked to frighten and injure people, but one who was too clever to chance
recognition and thus had rented an anonymous vehicle.
Content with her rationalizations, Abigail put the whole
unpleasant incident out of her mind. She had more than enough to think about.
Although she was too battered to be seen at balls or other social events,
Arthur’s family rallied around so that she was not bored or isolated. Most days
cousins or aunts appeared to relay gossip, and most evenings a pleasant, small,
family party would gather. One evening when only Roger and Leonie were there,
Abigail asked directly about the status of the negotiations with the United States.
Roger frowned. “The Americans have presented their papers,
the commission has been recognized, and it is decided to have the meeting in
Ghent.”
“Ghent?” Abigail echoed. “I thought it was to be somewhere
in Sweden. No, never mind that. It is far more important who is appointed to
meet with them.”
“Admiral Lord Gambier, Mr. William Adams and Mr. Henry
Goulburn. I—”
Abigail had been staring at him incredulously as he recited
the names, and then cut him off. “Who?” she asked. “Who are these men? I
thought myself acquainted with the political scene, but I do not recognize a
single name.” By the time she had got that far, her face was flushed, and her
eyes hard and bright. “Is this
meant
as an insult?” she exclaimed, her
voice rising.
“No, not that,” Roger assured her hastily.
Both Leonie and Arthur, who had been chatting on a sofa near
the pianoforte, rose and came toward them, Arthur saying sharply, “Abigail! You
cannot mean what you have said,” and Leonie simultaneously asking, “
Qu’est-ce
que c’est
?”
Despite her anger, Abigail could not help laughing. “I am
not insulted, Arthur,” she explained, and then added furiously, “It is the
American peace commission that has been insulted. The government has appointed
a set of
nobodies
to deal with them.”