Authors: Roberta Gellis
Abigail smiled at him. There was something very pleasant in
the teasing between the two men. It had been clear to her from the beginning
that Sir Arthur’s comment had not been made with the intention of denigrating
or hurting his secretary, and Bertram’s riposte—calling Sir Arthur by his name
without his title and lightly accusing him of intending to make mischief—fully
confirmed that the two men were as much friends as employer and employee. Her
opinion of Sir Arthur had already improved, and this easy relationship with his
secretary raised it higher.
“I am sure you did not, Sir Arthur,” she said. Then, shaking
her head and clicking her tongue in pretended disapproval, Abigail looked back
at Bertram, extracted her fingers from his lingering grip, and said, “Worse and
worse, Mr. Lydden. Now you have left me without a word to say, unless I pretend
to a simpering modesty, which would ill befit my years—and do not go from
worser to worstest, as Victor used to say, and tell me you mistook me for a
blushing maiden.”
“Not blushing—no,” Bertram said with great gravity so that
Abigail burst out laughing.
“That’s quite enough of this nonsense,” Arthur put in, but
there was a sharpness in his voice that surprised him.
He had not been aware until he spoke that he resented the
rapport being established between Lady Lydden and Bertram. And when the idea
came into his mind, it shocked him. Not once in any of his love affairs had he
felt the smallest desire that his inamorata be denied ordinary social contacts.
Once or twice he had felt a prick of pique when a lady preferred another
gentleman during an active courtship, but that had nothing to do with this situation.
He was certainly not courting Lady Lydden—but neither was Bertram.
While Arthur pointed out that he had asked Bertram to join
them for a more serious purpose than to introduce him to Lady Lydden, showed
him Victor’s coat, and described the circumstances under which it had been
riddled with bullets, he told himself not to be ridiculous. To feel
disappointment because the spark of understanding and friendship that had leapt
between himself and Lady Lydden was not exclusive was not only foolish but dangerous.
It implied that he felt a deeper interest in her than he had felt for any other
woman.
That idea disturbed Arthur all over again. To have admired
Lady Lydden’s beauty would have been safe and normal, but he had hardly noticed
how lovely she was until Bertram remarked on it. He had, of course, expected to
see a beautiful woman—Francis would not have married
any
girl, even for
money—so he had not been surprised. Then, between the shock of her greeting and
the news of her son’s near escape from death, he had not had time to absorb
fully her appearance. But that he could care, on such short acquaintance, that
she responded to Bertram’s flattery was unreasonable.
Bertram was staring at Victor’s coat and turning it in his
hands with a deep frown marring his ordinarily smooth brow as Abigail expanded
what Arthur had told him in reply to his questions. She had noticed that, like
Sir Arthur, Bertram seemed more alarmed when he learned that the coat had been
loosely draped over a bush and, finally, she asked why.
“The shot went through, you see,” he replied.
“Well, of course it went through.” Abigail’s voice showed
her irritation. “But it would have gone through Victor too, if he had been
wearing it. I should think you would prefer the situation as it is rather than
complaining because my son was not riddled with shot.”
“It isn’t that,” Arthur explained, smiling faintly. “Of
course we are greatly relieved that the boy was not hurt, but the fact that the
shot went through a strong cloth when it was loosely draped and there was no
resistance to hold it taut shows that the gun was fully charged. When my
gamekeepers take out a gun to teach a poacher a lesson, the gun is
never
loaded with more than a half charge of powder and usually with smaller shot
than this appears to have been. That way, so long as the gun isn’t right
against the man, the worst that is likely to happen is that he will be peppered
with pellets and have the unpleasant experience of having them dug out.”
“I see,” Abigail said. “And now I understand why you said it
was a deliberate attempt to kill someone.”
“There is also the distribution of the shot,” Arthur pointed
out. “You see the way the holes are spread out on the back of the coat—only a
few above the waist, more on the shoulders, and the top of the collar is almost
torn to shreds. Whoever aimed that gun aimed it from no great distance—shot
tends to spread—and aimed it so that the central blast was directed at the
head—to kill. No gamekeeper would do that, certainly not one in my employ who
intended to stay in my employ.”
“I cannot believe any of our men did this,” Bertram said.
“I find it difficult to believe myself,” Arthur agreed, “but
Simmons was up at the house this morning before I came down. Did he say
anything to you about any trouble on the estate?”
“I didn’t see him,” Bertram replied. “I-I was out this
morning.”
“Out?” Arthur echoed. “So early?”
A slight color rose in Bertram’s face, and he lifted his
handkerchief to his lips, then shrugged gracefully. “I felt in the need of some
air after all the rain we have had—but Simmons cannot have come for any serious
purpose, or he would have waited or left a message for me.”
“I suppose so,” Arthur said slowly. “Although, of course,
Simmons might not consider the pr—…er…interesting condition of one of the
tenant’s daughters as sufficiently urgent—”
“Oh dear,” Abigail interrupted, seeing the trend of Arthur’s
remarks. “You mean one of the men working at Rutupiae seduced one of your
farmer’s girls. And that makes a kind of sense, for if it were one of the
younger men, he might not be so far from Victor’s size. But-but no matter how
angry the father was, would he want to kill the seducer? Would he not prefer to
insist on a marriage?”
“Usually, yes,” Arthur replied, “but I can think of certain
circumstances offhand, for instance, if he had a good marriage lined up for the
girl or if he were a religious fanatic. I admit I can’t think of any of the
latter, although—”
“There are a few strong low-church adherents,” Bertram
remarked, “but still, I would not have believed—”
“Still, I think you had better send for Simmons and tell him
about this,” Arthur suggested.
“I agree.” Bertram raised his brows. “And I think I will
also ask Price to have that area patrolled until we can find out who has a
grudge against whom.”
He went out on the words, leaving Arthur utterly amazed and
Abigail mildly surprised by his abruptness. In Abigail the feeling quickly
became compounded with guilt. If Mr. Lydden thought dealing with the matter so
urgent, surely she should return to Rutupiae Hall and do what she could from
that end. She half turned toward the door, but Arthur touched her arm.
“Don’t go yet, Lady Lydden, please,” he said, gesturing
toward a sofa. “I have been a shockingly bad host. I hope you will give me an
opportunity to redeem myself. May I offer you some refreshment?”
The words were perfectly proper, but there was again an
absent note in Sir Arthur’s voice, as if only half his mind was devoted to what
he had said. Abigail felt a flicker of indignation. She was not accustomed to
men who did not accord her their full attention. Then, internally, she laughed
at herself for being a conceited fool. Still, Sir Arthur was a challenge.
“I don’t think I
should
stay,” she said. “Should I
not try to determine who, among the staff at Rutupiae, might be guilty? Mr.
Lydden seemed to feel that the matter was of some urgency—”
“Yes…” Arthur drew out the word, then added more briskly,
“but it is useless to start an inquisition until you know what questions to
ask. Our assumptions may be totally false and the cause wildly different from
any notion we have discussed. Will you have some ratafia?”
Abigail’s brows flew up again. “Brandy, even sweetened, does
not appeal to me at this hour of the morning. Coming from America, I am more
accustomed to coffee, but I want nothing, really. I had just finished breakfast
before I walked here.”
Sir Arthur moved toward the bell cord again, having hardly
heard what Abigail said. Bertram’s sudden departure had had a stronger effect
on him than on Abigail. He had been much struck by his secretary’s
embarrassment when mentioning being out. Only Arthur recognized how unnatural
even that faint hint of color in Bertram’s face was, because normally Bertram
buried his feelings under his affectations. Coming so hard on the heels of
their discussion of the shooting and coupled with Arthur’s memory—sparked by
Bertram’s near-flirtatious manner with Lady Lydden—that Bertram had strongly
implied a desire to marry and a dissatisfaction with his present situation in
life, that hurried exit had awakened in Arthur a dreadful suspicion.
After Eustace, Bertram was heir to the Lydden wealth and
property if Lady Lydden’s son should die, and Bertram was not only extremely
clever, Arthur knew, but he had an extraordinarily devious mind. If Eustace
could somehow be accused and adjudged guilty of Victor’s death, Bertram would
inherit. As the thought clarified out of a vague, general uneasiness, Arthur
saw that Lady Lydden was looking at him with growing puzzlement and realized
that he had neither rung the bell nor replied to her remark. Not surprisingly,
the only part of it that stuck in his mind was the comment about coffee.
“If it isn’t just like an American,” he said lightly, “to
want something that will throw an English household into confusion and create a
dreadful difficulty.”
“I do not happen to be an American,” Abigail replied, much
surprised. “My parents were British, and my birth was duly registered with the
proper authorities here by my uncle.” Then she recalled being told by Baring of
Sir Arthur’s absorption in politics, and because she could think of no reason
for his abstraction, she assumed that his attention had, after all, not been
centered on her, but on her background rather than her person. “Besides,” she
added aggressively, “I cannot see why you should connect Americans with making
difficulties.”
“I was only joking,” Arthur said apologetically. “I knew you
were British, of course, but I see that my remark was in bad taste. Do forgive
me.”
“Oh, I knew you were joking,” Abigail answered. “I was not
offended, but I
am
curious. A joke like that carries a hard core of the
truth. I have always found most Americans to be sober, practical and clear
thinking, most unlikely to create difficulties deliberately.”
For a moment longer Arthur stood with his hand on the bell
cord, fighting what he knew was an unreasonable irritation. He realized that,
despite her claim to British nationality, Lady Lydden must have strong
sympathies for the American point of view, owing to living all her life in the
United States. Normally, that knowledge would have induced in him a desire to
exhort and explain—and perhaps use those explanations and exhortations to
generate an intimacy, for she was very beautiful. But if she preferred Bertram…
Arthur pulled the bell cord with unnecessary force and turned to face Abigail
fully.
“You do not consider giving aid to Bonaparte when we are
locked in a life-and-death struggle with him a creation of difficulties?” he
asked sharply.
“What aid?” Abigail snapped back. “Who
do
you think
has been feeding the British armies in Spain and Portugal if it was not the
Americans? Does that sound like giving aid to Bonaparte?”
“No, it sounds like a fine nose for profit,” Arthur riposted
superciliously.
“And what is wrong with that?” Abigail’s voice bristled with
resentment. She was about to defend the profit motive even more vociferously
when she remembered her mother’s bitter remarks about how any personal
connection with a commercial enterprise could make one déclassé. “You seem to
forget the profit might have been even better if the trade had been with the
French,” she said instead.
Arthur uttered a single mirthless bark of laughter. “On the
contrary, there would have been no profit, since all American ships would have
been stopped or sunk.”
There was more truth in that statement than Abigail wanted
to admit, so she shrugged indifferently and said, “You would have to catch them
first. H.M.S.
Africa
and five other ships couldn’t outsail the poor
little
Constitution,
and she outfought the
Guerrière
and the
Java
—”
“They were half her size,” Arthur sputtered. Then he drew a
breath, looked down his nose disdainfully, and added, “The
British
do
not descend to disguising our ships. There is no particular merit—”
“Disguising?” Abigail echoed furiously. “Disguising what?”
“A seventy-four-gun ship as a forty-four,” Arthur sneered.
“The victories of the
Constitution
are scarcely a wonder, since the
Java
and the
Guerrière
—”
Abigail laughed, this time with genuine amusement and so
heartily that Arthur stopped speaking. “Oh,” she gasped, “oh, you poor, poor
creatures, needing to comfort yourselves with a silly lie like that. America
doesn’t
have
a seventy-four. They hardly have a navy, and I
know
because Mr. Gallatin, the Secretary of the Treasury, was deeply involved in the
plans to outfit what ships were available for this stupid war. I—”
“So you admit it is a stupid war,” Arthur said triumphantly.
Abigail’s violet eyes opened wide. “But of course it is a
stupid war,” she said sweetly. “Do you not think it the stupidest thing in the
world for a great, rich, powerful nation like England to insult, assault and
bully a poor, small, nearly powerless nation like America? There have been
times this past year when I was ashamed of being British.”