Authors: Roberta Gellis
“Not really,” Daphne replied. “I have heard shooting
before.”
Daphne spoke in an old-young way that always caused
Abigail’s heart to ache because it told her she had not been successful in
shielding the child from her father’s weaknesses or her own frustration, pity
and disgust. But the next moment the too adult voice and manner disappeared as Daphne’s
eyes widened in remembered excitement.
“But when Vic’s coat flew up in the air,” she went on, “and
he fell down on the ground, I did get scared. I screamed and screamed.” She
giggled and shrugged. “And then Vic got up and yelled at me for being such an
idiot, because screaming was useless and what I should have done was—” Daphne’s
voice stopped abruptly as she remembered she was supposed to be diverting her
mother’s attention from the toad, and she knew her brother’s fury because she
had not marked where the creature had gone was not likely to win much sympathy
from either adult. “Anyhow, we were both pretty angry at that hunter, shooting
so close to a house, and when Vic picked up his coat and saw the shot holes,
then we ran home as quickly as we could.”
There was a murmur from the doorway, and Abigail realized
for the first time that they had an audience. Her attention had been so
concentrated on her children and her own battle to keep from terrifying them
that she had not noticed that Howing, Empson, a maid and two footmen were
crowded around the entrance to the breakfast parlor.
“Would someone please arrange for the outside men, the
gamekeepers and anyone else who has a right to carry a gun on Lydden land, to
be gathered together so that I can speak to them?” Abigail said in an icy
voice. “I think it needs to be made clear that at least for the next few years
there will be no preserving on Lydden land, and no shooting of poachers for
any
reason.’“
“Yes, my lady,” Empson answered, “I will send word out at
once. But, my lady, I’m sure as I can be that it was no Lydden gamekeeper that
shot at his lordship. You see, he probably wasn’t on Lydden land—or even if he
was, the wooded areas north and south of the house are tended by St. Eyre
people. Our men are all west, out past the mill and toward the river. It’s only
a few hundred feet past the lawns on either side of the house or behind it
that’s Lydden land, and it isn’t worth the keepers’ time to come all the way
around the park.”
“What you are saying, then, is that it was one of St. Eyre’s
men who fired at Victor?” Abigail asked.
“Not at his lordship,” Empson said. “I mean, if he’d known
it was his lordship he would
never
—”
Abigail stood up, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I think,”
she said quietly and yet so ominously that the lower servants melted away from
the doorway and even Empson and Howing retreated, “that the time has come for
me to meet Sir Arthur.”
Chapter Five
The time it had taken for Abigail to send a note to Stonar
Magna and receive one in reply assuring her that Sir Arthur was at home and
would receive her at any time did nothing to diminish her fury. Not that she
thought the shot had been fired at Victor as Victor. Her rage was not on her
son’s account as an individual but for the sake of humanity as a whole.
Although Abigail had been born and lived all her life in a
town, she knew all about English game and forest laws. Since her husband had
emigrated unwillingly, to escape debtors’ prison, he regretted what he had left
behind. Moreover, he knew that his father could not disinherit him, and he
expected to return to England with his wife and children. Besides that, he was
not at all interested in Abigail’s business, so most of his conversation was
about England, about his amusements there—at least, those of which he was not
ashamed. The principal of these was hunting, and connected with that was the
preservation of game.
Francis’ sweetness of temper had not extended to poachers,
and he had spoken with relish of the methods used to discourage them and the
punishment meted out to those who were caught. At the time, Abigail had
listened with indulgence. Poaching was stealing, and as a merchant she had a
dim view of stealing. But now she was far less sympathetic. Breaking a man’s
leg in a mantrap was bad; shooting a twelve-year-old child was murder.
Abigail thought of having the carriage brought around so
that she could arrive at Stonar Magna with dignity, but driving through
Rutupiae’s park, out along the road, and then up Stonar’s long drive would take
almost half an hour. She was far too impatient to wait that long to tell Sir
Arthur what she thought of him, and she realized, as her teeth gritted together
in anticipation, that every minute she delayed was making her angrier instead
of calmer. But Abigail knew it would be stupid to lose her advantage by
scolding like a hysterical fishwife. She would be sensible to forgo dignity and
take the ten-minute walk through the woods to Sir Arthur’s house. Possibly the
exercise would calm her.
Perhaps it would have had that effect if Abigail had not
been carrying Victor’s coat as evidence. Her fingers kept slipping into the
tears and holes made by the shot, and cold terror alternated with hot rage all
the time she trod the well-marked path between the houses. However, the
butler’s astonishment when he found her on the doorstep clutching a ragged coat
as if it were her dearest possession was so apparent that a ray of humor
pierced the darker emotions that had filled her.
“I am Abigail Lydden,” she said. “Sir Arthur is expecting
me.”
“Oh yes, my lady,” the man said, hastily moving out of the
doorway and inviting her to enter. “If you will come this way.”
He showed her to a door about a third of the way down what
was obviously the great hall of a late medieval castle, all hung with ancient
weapons, shields and banners, and furnished appropriately with heavy, carved
chairs and settees upholstered in dark leather. The sight annoyed Abigail, the
baronial splendor seeming to cry aloud of arrogance and the right of might, so
that she hardly took in the smaller room to which she was led.
“If you will make yourself comfortable, my lady,” the butler
said, “I will inform Sir Arthur you are here.”
“Thank you,” Abigail replied.
She was tempted to add that she would appreciate not being
kept waiting long but did not, and in fact, the remark would have been wasted.
Sir Arthur entered the room only a moment or two after the butler left it,
coming forward with a hand outstretched to greet her. Abigail drew in her
breath. The face certainly went with the hall, she thought furiously, noticing
only the high-bridged nose and the heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to stare down
it superciliously.
“I am very happy to meet you, Lady Lydden,” he said.
“I am afraid I cannot return the compliment,” Abigail
snapped.
Sir Arthur stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening, his
mouth open to pronounce another platitude of greeting, which now stuck in his
throat. He looked slightly ridiculous, but Abigail had no impulse to laugh.
There was something intimidating about the purposeful, authoritative way Sir
Arthur moved, and he had come close enough for her to realize that he would
tower over her. But Abigail had learned to deal with feeling intimidated,
whether the feeling was imposed deliberately or unintentionally, and she cast
an insolent glance over her opponent from head to foot. He was taller than
Francis had been and more heavily built. Broad shoulders filled his coat
smoothly without need for padding, and the surprise and tension her words had
produced showed in the knotting of the hard muscles of his powerful thighs when
he stopped short.
Her examination had discovered no weakness in him to bring
her comfort, but Abigail’s righteous anger upheld her. She did not wait for him
to absorb fully the shock of her response but continued, “It cannot give me
much pleasure to meet a man who would order his gamekeeper to kill a
twelve-year-old child for the high crime of disturbing his foxes or his
pheasants.”
“What?” Arthur gasped, blinking as if she had hit him, and
then stiffening with outrage, he said icily, “I am not certain what you are
talking about, madam, but you must be in the wrong place and addressing the
wrong person.”
For answer, Abigail walked forward and handed him Victor’s
coat.
“My God,” he cried on perceiving the condition of the
garment, and then an instant later, furiously, “what is the meaning of this
outrage? These may be shot holes, but the coat is dry, not a spot of blood on
it.”
“Are you regretting that?” Abigail asked angrily and
continued without giving him a chance to reply, “My son was not hurt. Thank
God, I do not have to accuse you of murder, but it was only by God’s
intervention that I do not. Less than an hour ago my son was in your wood. He
put his coat over a bush while he pursued a toad—” Her voice began to tremble
and she stopped.
As she explained, Sir Arthur had looked down again at
Victor’s coat. Abigail was surprised to see him slowly turn paper white. “You
say the boy had hung this garment on a bush?”
There was so strong an expression of anxiety on his face
that Abigail’s rage began to abate. She took a deep breath and spoke less
antagonistically. “Yes, and he was trying to catch the toad, no doubt making
the bush move—”
“I am so sorry, so terribly sorry,” Arthur interrupted. “Please
believe that I am not trying to deny my responsibility for this dreadful
occurrence or to shift the blame, but I swear it was
not
by my
instructions that this shot was fired.”
That annoyed Abigail all over again because accepting and
denying responsibility in the same breath seemed disingenuous—to say the least.
“You mean to tell me that you make no effort to discourage poachers?” she asked
sardonically.
“No, I do, of course,” he replied, but it was plain from the
abstraction in his voice that his mind was still on some problem Victor’s torn
coat had presented, so that although he heard Abigail’s question, the tone in
which it was asked had made no impression. “I don’t like poaching, largely
because of the snares they use—the animals suffer. Lady Lydden, where did this
happen?”
The mention of the effect of snares on animals considerably
softened Abigail’s attitude toward Sir Arthur, particularly as it was said so
absentmindedly as to preclude any desire on his part to influence her. She saw
now that the gray eyes under their heavy lids were kind and concerned, and she
began to regret her hasty attack.
“I am not perfectly certain,” Abigail replied. “The best
estimate I can give is the wooded area north of Rutupiae Hall but farther west
than the path. If it is important, Victor could probably point out the place,
although perhaps not the exact spot.”
“Good Lord, no!” Arthur exclaimed. “I wouldn’t want to
remind the boy of the fright he had.”
Abigail had to laugh. “You are far more likely to remind him
of his rage at the escape of the toad. My son is, indeed, very angry about
being shot at, but not for the reason you might suppose. He had a nefarious
purpose for that toad, I fear, and the ruin of his coat exposed his intended
crime before he could commit it.”
For one long moment Sir Arthur’s eyes locked with Abigail’s.
Understanding of Victor’s purpose was mirrored on his face. “I am so sorry,” he
said with a depth of sincerity that startled her into recognizing that Sir
Arthur was regretting the failure of Victor’s plan. Before she could respond to
this rather shocking revelation, he dropped his eyes and went on, very
wistfully, “Forgive me. I should not have said that, but when Francis and I
were children, I never really had the opportunity and he was too kind, despite
his detestation. He was concerned for the toad.”
The wistfulness at the lost opportunity for boyhood mischief
utterly undid Abigail, who laughed until her eyes were full of tears, hearing
with pleasure the deeper male laughter that echoed hers. When she at last
caught her breath, she held out her hand.
“Do please forgive me for being so rude, and let me say I am
glad to meet you.”
“No, no,” Arthur said. “Considering the provocation, I’m
glad that you were
only
rude. I’m surprised that you didn’t shoot
me
.
But, Lady Lydden, there is something very peculiar about this incident. There
is little reason for a gamekeeper to be in that area at all, much less fire a
gun there. That bit of wood is no more than a screen between the two houses and
a pleasant shady walk on hot days. There is also a good deal of traffic through
that piece of woods—the servants coming and going, even quite late sometimes.
No poacher in his right mind would set a snare there.”
Abigail stared up at him, all laughter quenched. “Are you
trying to tell me that someone deliberately aimed at my son, intending to kill
him?”
“No! Good God, no!” he exclaimed. “That is not what I meant
at all. That the shot was fired at Victor must have been a mistake. All I meant
was that either there was a special reason for a gamekeeper to be hidden, ready
to shoot with intent to do real harm, which I find hard to believe, or someone
was out to solve a personal problem permanently—which means either one of your
servants or one of mine has a violent enemy and is in considerable danger.”
“But Victor could not have been mistaken for a man,” Abigail
protested. “He’s only twelve.”
“You told me the coat was thrown over a bush,” Arthur
pointed out. “It is possible that the way it was spread gave an impression of
greater girth, and the attacker may have thought his intended victim was bent
over. But this is idle speculation. Let me call my secretary. He will be able
to tell us whether there was any special reason for someone to be lying in
ambush in the woods.”
He pulled the bell cord, then went to the door to speak to
the footman, who appeared almost at once. He had placed the coat on a table
when he moved to ring the bell, and Abigail now picked it up, wondering why he
had been so strongly affected from the moment he realized Victor had
not
been wearing it. But her attention was distracted by Arthur’s return and his
formal statement of regret over Francis’ death. She made an equally formal
reply, but this time when their eyes met, each looked away quickly. There had
again been too much understanding in the mutual glance, and both were ashamed
of the fact that they were relieved rather than grieved by Francis’ death.
A slightly awkward silence followed, broken, before either
could think of a tactful change of subject that would not be too obvious, by
the entrance of Bertram Lydden, who stopped short in the doorway and stood
staring at Abigail for just a moment. A strong expression of surprise was also
mirrored on Abigail’s face, but it disappeared as Arthur made the introductions.
This time it was Abigail who went forward with her hand
outstretched. “How glad I am to meet you, Mr. Lydden, and to learn that you
were Francis’ cousin. For a moment I thought my eyes were deceiving me. Did you
know you bear a strong resemblance to Francis?”
“Oh, don’t tell him that, Lady Lydden,” Arthur protested,
laughing. “You will break his heart. I’m afraid Bertram did not admire your
husband, particularly in his manners or his careless mode of dress.”
“There were times when I did not admire them myself,”
Abigail said dryly, and then smiled at Bertram. “I am sorry if I offended you.
My mother never could teach me to think before I spoke, but I felt Francis was
rather handsome, you know, and meant what I said as a compliment.”
Bertram also smiled and gently waved his scented
handkerchief. “My dear Lady Lydden, even if you said I resembled Arthur and
smelled like a goat, you could not offend me. Any remark at all made by an
angel must be considered a rare gift.”
There was no sarcasm in the voice, except when Bertram
mentioned resembling Arthur, and the admiration in his expression made a pretty
compliment out of words that might have been a gibe. Still, Abigail raised her
brows as he took her hand with infinite grace and kissed it.
“I am not quite sure that you have forgiven my blunder,” she
said. “All biblical angels seem to say highly disagreeable things. They
invariably make horrid threats or predict unpleasant dooms.”
Bertram’s eyes lit with amusement. “Touché,” he remarked,
laughing. “That was clumsy. I apologize. What I really meant was that your
beauty would compensate me for almost anything you said—and despite Arthur’s
naughty attempt to make mischief—”
“I intended no such thing,” Arthur interrupted, and he had
not, but he stopped speaking without explaining himself further.
He had realized that he might be presuming too much in his
own interpretation of a single glance. Like Abigail, he had spoken without
thinking, because he knew that Bertram was another of the small group of people
who had not found Francis completely delightful. However, as soon as he made
the remark, it came to him that he might have been wrong about Abigail’s
disenchantment with her husband. And even if he had not been wrong, she still
might not like to have him imply that she had so quickly confessed to an utter
stranger her reservations about the perfection of the dear departed.