Authors: Roberta Gellis
By then, of course, Abigail had remembered Arthur’s violent
reaction to her suggestion they meet privately with the Americans, which had
set off her private enterprise. She remembered his threat too, and her mind
raced, seeking an answer to her husband’s question that he could accept.
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” she said, trying to make her
voice sharp rather than shaky. “And I still think you are wrong not to try to
explain the tone of that note to the American commissioners. I was furious when
you slammed out without giving me a chance to explain myself—”
“So? What have you done?” Arthur’s voice was still harsh,
but his grip on her arm was less painful.
“I went shopping.”
Arthur stared at her. “What?”
“I have a bad temper,” Abigail said, her lips quirking
slightly as Arthur raised his eyes to heaven. “I don’t mind letting it loose at
you or at other people who care for me, but you should realize that I could
never have run my shop if I let it loose at everyone. I have learned not to act
when I am very angry.” She shrugged. “So I got a guide, toured the city, and
went shopping while I thought over what you said. I still think you are wrong,
but I do see that you have a problem.”
“Do you?” Arthur asked bleakly, letting go of her and
starting to turn away.
The last thing he wanted was for Abigail to have perceived
his jealousy—partly because he was ashamed of it, but even more because of a
sick desire to prove to himself that he was right, that she thought him nothing
compared to the idol of her youth, that she had set another man before him in
her mind and heart. He believed she had gone shopping and sightseeing, but he
did not believe she had given up her plan to see Gallatin. And she was clever,
so clever. If she guessed he suspected her, she would be sly enough to hide her
meetings with the man completely.
As the idea of spying on Abigail flashed through his mind,
Arthur was sickened by it. But he had been in agony all afternoon, alternating
between hating himself for attacking Abigail without reason and hating her
because he was sure she had run off to Gallatin. And then she had come back,
all easy smiles. Did that not show how little she cared for him? Their quarrel
had caused
her
no agony. But if he could prove her false, he was sure he
would be able to close off all his pain, to push her out of his heart and into
the ranks of other women who had betrayed him without hurting him—because they
were nothing.
Arthur’s voice was so cold, his expression so bleak when he
uttered that “Do you?” in response to her statement that she saw he had a
problem, that Abigail blinked, then caught at him. “Arthur, I love you,” she
said. “I swear that I will love you just as much, whether or not peace is
made.”
The political reference startled him, and a wash of shame
made him turn back, pull her against him and kiss her hair. Her scent, the
familiar shape in his arms, woke a stab of need for her that betrayed his
vulnerability and reminded him that the reassurance she offered was valueless.
All it meant was that he would remain second best to her.
“Most likely you will, my dear,” Arthur managed to get out.
Abigail told herself that it was only because his mouth was
muffled that his voice sounded so strange. She tried to look up at him, but her
head was caught under his chin, and then he asked, “What problem did you
perceive?”
“
You
perceived it,” Abigail replied. “I was only
forced to concede that it existed—I mean the question of loyalty. I am now willing
to admit that it might be awkward for you to explain what Goulburn has done.
And it also might create a distrust of the British delegation, which would do
harm.”
As she spoke, Abigail could feel Arthur relax. She was glad
for his sake that his tension was eased, but she was as puzzled by his relief
as she had been by his earlier cold anxiety. It made Abigail nervous not to be
able to understand what was causing her husband’s reactions, and she stepped
back and looked up at him, but his face was in its “haughty” mode—eyes
half-lidded and seeming to look contemptuously down his long, elegant nose, and
a very slight half smile on his lips.
“Exactly so,” Arthur said. “And it is not at all likely that
the tone of the note will cause a rupture in the negotiations. After all, the
other proposals have all been rewritten by Goulburn and must have been even
more offensive.”
“I never thought of that,” Abigail admitted with a smile,
and then added indignantly, “Why didn’t you say that, instead of shouting that
I was disloyal?”
“Perhaps because I am British,” Arthur remarked dryly, “and
it irritates me that my ‘British’ wife is only concerned with American
feelings.”
If he had not said that, Abigail might have changed her
plans, but the statement reminded her that Arthur was not really sympathetic to
the American cause. He wanted peace, but on the best terms for Britain.
Abigail, on the other hand, felt that Britain, a rich, strong nation, could
yield a little to a nation that was poor and weak and now nearly bankrupt
because of the war. If the information she could pass to Albert made it
possible for the American commissioners to resist some British demands and
negotiate a better treaty, Abigail thought resentfully, then she would pass
that information gladly.
Buoyed up by her naughty decision, Abigail made a light
reply and then exclaimed over her thirst and the lack of a tea tray. Having
rung for the tea, she described the shops she had been in, the purchases she
had made, and her plans for seeing the city.
“Alone?” Arthur asked.
“No,” Abigail responded promptly. “I promise I will not go
alone. Today I asked the landlord to provide a guide. I have not forgotten that
a lunatic can be very clever, and, though I know it is not likely, it is
possible that we were followed.”
The reminder made Arthur go cold. He wondered if he were a
lunatic himself to let jealousy torment him when Abigail’s life might be in
danger. He sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “Shall I come
with you, love?”
“Not tomorrow,” Abigail said decidedly, and since offense
was the best defense she could think of, smiled archly and added, “You’ve been
sour as a pickle all day today, and I know that trailing around to one shop
after another will make you bad tempered all over again. I will take my maid
tomorrow, but after that I will be delighted to have your company. The guide
told me that there are many beautiful paintings in the churches. I would like
very much to see those with you. What I am going to do tomorrow is choose some
French silk to have made into nightdresses to be trimmed with the lace I bought
today. You are very hard on nightdresses, Arthur.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arthur had laughed at Abigail’s remark about the
nightdresses. It was true that he had torn several, and he and Abigail had a
running argument about the fact that she wore one at all. He said it was
unreasonable to put on a nightdress when she would have to remove it only a few
minutes later. She said it was indecent not to do so. Her real reasons, as both
well knew, had nothing to do with decency or reason. Abigail was aware that the
glimpses of her body in the flimsy garment and the erotic touches of bare flesh
through it were initially far more provocative than total nudity, and both
found an occasional, seemingly violent destruction of the illusory barrier
highly erotic. Actually, little damage was done; Abigail had quickly learned to
use fragile thread and loose stitching in putting her nightdresses together so
that Arthur tore the seams, not the fabric, and seams could quickly and easily
be resewn.
Unfortunately, Arthur’s laughter had been so mixed with pain
that it did more harm than good. The sexual implication brought too vividly to
mind the fact that a full nine months after marriage he was more, rather than less,
in love with his wife. It was not only sex, of course, that was just a symbol
of the whole relationship. As he found Abigail more sensually satisfying than
any of his previous sexual partners, so too did he find her more stimulating
company than any other person, including men. He could only bear to be away
from her during those periods in which separation was necessary, because he
knew they were not really separated, that he would come home to find her
presiding over the tea table or making ready to go out for the evening, or
flying into the house just after he arrived, breathless from some activity she
never explained.
He spent a sleepless night made all the more miserable
because he could not toss and turn or even leave the bed. He did not want Abigail
to know he could not sleep. She would ask him why, and he could scarcely tell
her that what kept him wakeful was his inability to decide whether or not to
spy on her. Arthur was sick with shame, but he could not fight the compulsion,
the need to know whether her refusal of his company was because she had
arranged to meet Gallatin.
Shame, however, could not break the compulsion Arthur felt
to discover whether he was as important to Abigail as she was to him. He left
early “on business”, but his business was to rent a closed gig he himself could
drive, in which to follow his wife. The shame grew deeper with each stop
Abigail made, with each parcel carried by her maid into or out of the shops she
visited. Arthur very nearly gave up, but he was urged on by a desire for full
proof. If she finished her shopping and returned to their hotel, he would
know
once and for all that she was not deceiving him. And when at last it was clear
that her carriage was on its return journey, Arthur did not know whether to
weep over the disgusting thing he had done or laugh with joy.
His relief had come too soon, however. Abigail’s carriage
passed by the cathedral of St. Bavon, then slowed and turned back, stopping at
last in an open area not far from the front of the church. As he went by,
Arthur caught a glimpse of Abigail standing by the open door of the carriage,
apparently talking to her maid inside. Because he had believed his trial was
over, Arthur’s fury at this “betrayal” was so enormous that he dared not stop
at once. He felt that if he confronted her and found her with Gallatin, he
would try to kill them both. Half blind with rage and pain, he drove around the
side of the church, telling himself he already knew the worst, that he needed
no confirmation of her treachery. But amidst the fury and despair there
remained a persistent little hope. The carriage had gone by, then turned back.
Could that not mean that Abigail had stopped on impulse?
Arthur told himself he was being a fool, that he was only
going to expose himself to greater disillusionment and greater pain, but the
compulsion to cling to that small hope was stronger even than that which had
driven him to follow his wife in the first place. He saw another door into the
church and did not fight his need any further, stopping his horse and rented
gig nearby. He knew he had no right to be there at all, that he had no right to
deny his wife a friendship that must be innocent, but he could not bear the
idea that she had so great a need for Gallatin that she would lie to him to
meet the man. Only, perhaps she had not lied.
It was the horrid little hope that dragged him into the
church and forced him to stand in the shadow of the entryway, staring around.
He could see nothing at first, but he heard footsteps and then saw a shaft of
light appear and disappear as a door at the other side of the building opened
and closed. Was it one pair of footsteps or two? Had there been the murmur of
voices or not? But the hope had grown stronger. Abigail could not have been in
the church longer than ten or fifteen minutes, and that was not long enough to
spend with someone you adored when there was excuse enough in the paintings on
the walls to remain for much longer. He reached to open the door, convinced he
would see Abigail going down the steps or entering her carriage alone, but the
door had not been latched, and the touch of his hand moved it just a little.
The sound of voices froze him, but before rage could grip
him again, words came clear in a young, very young, male voice. “But are you
sure you do not wish to look over the paintings more carefully? I would be glad
to stay as long as you like.”
There was a smile in the tone in which Abigail spoke as she
replied, “No, I will come back with my husband to examine the art more
carefully. He knows so much more about it than I do. It would be a waste of
time for me just to gape at the pictures, but I was delighted to find that my
guide had not exaggerated when he spoke of them yesterday. Now I must not keep
you longer. It was a delightful surprise to see you, but you must get back as
soon as possible.”
Arthur did not hear the protest he was certain the young man
would make. He had moved silently away from the door and hurried back across
the cathedral and out to his carriage. And, although he knew what he had done
was utterly despicable, he was far too relieved and happy to allow his
conscience to trouble him. His hope had been fulfilled. He was sure now that
Abigail had stopped at St. Bavon’s on impulse and that she had met the young
man with whom she was speaking—probably some secretary to the American
delegation—by accident. He chuckled as his gig came around to the front and he
saw Abigail withdrawing her hand from her persistent swain’s grip. Poor girl,
she was having the devil of a time getting rid of the starry-eyed youngling.
That was not quite what was taking place in the cathedral
porch. James Gallatin had not protested against leaving. In fact, he had
already turned away when Abigail called him back to ask him once more not to
forget that no one was to know where the information had come from.
“My husband would not approve at all,” she warned. “If he
hears of it, he will leave and take me with him and make sure I cannot help
again.”
James assured her that he understood, then thanked her again
for news that would provide hope to sustain his father. “It is so hard for
Father,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it gratefully. “Mr. Adams is so
irritable and unreasonable, and everyone is so angry and dispirited that all
but Mr. Clay seem to believe it hardly worth the effort to answer these notes.
Father was afraid to leave them, even for the short time it would take to meet
you, but he will come after they have written their reply.”
They talked for a few minutes more, deciding that Abigail
would begin to come to the assigned meeting places at the beginning of the next
week. Then she gave James’ hand one last squeeze and drew her own away. A gig
rattled by, and Abigail said, “I must go now. Give your father my love and tell
him not to lose hope. I am sure that all will turn out for the best.”
She went down the steps, James waving goodbye as she looked
over her shoulder and then turning back into the cathedral. Abigail did not see
him wave. Actually she had looked over her shoulder only to make sure that they
could not have been seen by her maid, who was waiting in the carriage.
Satisfied that James had never been visible from where the maid was sitting,
Abigail told the driver to return to the hotel. Arthur was waiting for her
again, and she felt a little apprehensive as he jumped to his feet when she
entered the room, but this time it was only to wrap her in a hard embrace and
kiss her with a passion quite unsuitable to the place and hour.
“You are quite mad,” she exclaimed, laughing, when she freed
her lips. “Yesterday you bit my head off—”
“And today it is only your tongue I want,” Arthur
interrupted, laughing also. “No, I wanted to prove that I am not always sour as
a pickle. Was that not a sweet kiss?”
“Sweet?” Abigail echoed. “Not at all. It nearly scorched my
bonnet. If you will let me take off that impediment, though, we can try again.”
“Come into the other room, and I will do even better,”
Arthur offered.
“But—”
“It will give me a chance at some other garments,” Arthur
teased, “since you feel that I have wrought too much havoc among your
nightdresses.”
His tone was light, but the tight-knit pantaloons he wore
showed clearly that he was not joking. It was a crazy thing to do only a few
minutes before she usually rang for luncheon to be brought, but her husband’s
obvious desire and the very oddity of the time he chose excited her. She did
not reply overtly, only put her hand into his and allowed him to lead her into
their bedchamber. There, Arthur removed the offending bonnet, bent to kiss her
again, and tickled the back of her neck. Abigail was so surprised that she
laughed into his mouth, but he only tickled her tongue with his. The
combination of sensations was strangely erotic, so that she put her arms around
his back to give herself leverage and pressed against him.
Arthur, however, was bent on mischief. He pushed her hands
lower, to his buttocks, so that their pelvises remained in tight contact, and
then leaned back and tickled her around the ribs and across the breasts.
Abigail convulsed, twisting and squirming and growing more and more excited.
She could have defended herself with her hands, but she was unwilling to relax
the pressure that forced Arthur’s hips against hers. Meanwhile, Arthur’s other
hand was busy at her back, undoing her dress.
Fortunately the garment had buttons and when loosened could
be pulled down or it would have gone the way of the nightdresses—not that
Abigail would have cared. Arthur had to pull away for an instant to yank the
dress past their hips, but since he chose that moment to run his tongue down
into her cleavage, Abigail jerked tight against him again the moment the
garment fell. Arthur gasped as his swollen shaft was titillated by the easing
off and then the increase in pressure against it. He pulled the straps of
Abigail’s shift off her shoulders, snapped the ribbon tie, and dragged it down
to follow her gown—and all the while he tickled and teased so that Abigail
writhed and struggled, laughing and pleading but clinging to him, her fingers
working at his buttocks and lower thighs, seeking the opening between his legs.
Abigail’s arms were not long enough to reach his genitals,
but the attempt was making Arthur squirm and catch his breath. He fumbled at
the button on her pantalettes, but by then anything he did tickled Abigail, and
she wriggled her hips uncontrollably, setting off in him such waves of pleasure
and urgent need that he tore off the button and pushed her back toward the bed,
tugging the pantalettes down at the same time. Naturally, as soon as these
reached her knees, Abigail was hobbled and this set her off laughing yet again,
but the bed was just behind her, and she fell backward onto it with Arthur atop
her.
Abigail was ready, very ready. She did not want to wait
until Arthur struggled out of his clothing, for the tight-fitting boots and
jacket of a gentleman were not easy to remove. She clung to him as she kicked
the pantalettes off completely, not realizing that the movements of her legs
were creating an unbearably erotic sensation for her husband. He groaned aloud,
pushed her higher onto the bed, and lifted himself just enough to unbutton the
flap on his pantaloons and open the slit in his underclothes.
Abigail’s laughter checked, and a thrill of violent
excitement shook her. The fact that Arthur was dressed, coat, boots, and all,
while he sought blindly and urgently to impale her brought back an illustration
in an erotic book a customer had ordered and she had peeked into. She had not
looked further because her relationship with Francis had already deteriorated
and she did not wish to be incited to seek his sexual attentions, but the
memory of that one picture had remained with her, implying all kinds of exotic
delights. Gasping with need, she pushed Arthur’s straining shaft just a little
downward to the ready sheath, threw her legs around him, and heaved, sobbing
with relief and an already bursting joy.
Abigail never did understand what had set Arthur off that
morning. She put it down to some accidental word or gesture too minor for her
to remember since it was never hard to arouse her husband sexually. What was
important to her mind was that he had not asked her where she had been or what
she had been doing. Nor, in the weeks that followed, did he display any undue
interest in her comings and goings, which was just as well because it was
necessary for her to meet Gallatin several times.
The first week in October, the British delegation was
informed in a triumphant note that Washington had been captured and burnt.
Clearly Liverpool and Bathurst thought this military reverse would bring the
Americans to heel. Arthur’s first reaction was horror, not at the fate of
Washington but because he would have to tell Abigail. But to his intense
surprise, she did not burst into angry recriminations against the British but
against the Americans.