A Woman's Estate (19 page)

“You still feel bound to Francis? Did you love him so much?”
he asked harshly.

She kissed him gently. “No, Arthur. Do not waste time and
thought on Francis. I certainly do not feel bound to him. If I did, I would
never have let you touch me, and I would have made my inaccessibility plain at
once. As to love—I suppose I did love him as a man at one time, although I
cannot remember it. All I remember is caring for him as one cares for a child
with a deformed mind. It is a very strange, bitter kind of love, mixed with
shame and hatred. One cannot break loose from it—but one does not desire to
renew it, either.”

“In God’s name, Abigail,” Arthur exclaimed, “you cannot
think me another Francis.”

She pulled his head down and kissed his lips, then pulled
back a trifle. “No, that is not what I meant. I was only explaining that I do
not miss Francis and never have missed him. And I think you are as near his
opposite as it is possible to be without losing his good qualities—for he had
some. That is not why I do not wish to be your wife legally. I… You heard what
I said when I was angry. Angry or not, that was true. I simply wish to be free.
I do not wish to be protected.”

Arthur looked down into the beautiful face raised to his
with mingled regret and relief. He loved Abigail in a way he had not cared for
any other woman, and he had offered marriage because he had needed desperately
to demonstrate that difference to her—and to himself. But he was not really
sorry she had refused him, especially since she had also said she loved him and
given her word to be faithful. Naturally Arthur had heard such promises many
times, but he did not judge Abigail by the women who had broken their words
with such frequency. She would be faithful, he was sure—unless he gave her
reason to withdraw her commitment.

Although Arthur had not been constant in the past, he was
certain he would give Abigail no cause for doubting his faithfulness to her. He
was very tired of ephemeral affairs, and yet he shrank from being held on a
tether, needing always to consider another person’s feelings and convenience.
Even small, everyday matters were changed by marriage. He would have to
remember, for instance, to warn his wife if he would not be home for dinner or
if he met someone and wished the friend to dine with him.

Worse yet was the necessity of attending a wife’s
entertainments. Arthur restrained a shudder. He had been dragged by his
mistresses to enough brainless tea parties and musicales and operas, when no
one listened to the music or the singers and would not let him listen. With the
mistresses the situation was endurable because he knew he could end it whenever
he grew sufficiently tired of it, but with a wife there was no end. Slowly
Arthur smiled. He had the best of both possible worlds—a beautiful and
intelligent woman who was all his, and no chains.

Chapter Thirteen

Violet St. Eyre called on Abigail the next day.
Unfortunately, Arthur and Abigail had not had time to thrash out the subject of
his mother’s attitude toward their relationship, because they had been
interrupted by Victor and Daphne, sent home by the vicar, who was not feeling
well. The children were so happy to have some extra time to spend with their
mother that Abigail did not wish to send them away, particularly since they
might associate her dismissal with Arthur’s presence. It was not surprising,
therefore, that Abigail received Arthur’s mother with considerable
reservations.

These did not last beyond the first few minutes of the visit,
during which Violet, looking over her shoulder like a hunted thing, said
breathlessly, “You will think me quite mad, but I must tell you what I have to
say very quickly. I think Hilda saw me coming in, and she will no doubt be upon
us as soon as she realizes I am not waiting to be shown into the drawing room.
How clever of you, my dear, to use the library as your sitting room. I could
not imagine how I was going to get you away from her. What I want to know is
whether my featherbrained son actually told you that I would be giving a dinner
party on this Thursday coming to introduce you to our neighbors. I hope you do
not think it interfering of me, but they think, because of the way Francis
drank, you know, that you might be an innkeeper’s daughter and also that you
are an
American
.“

“Which is worse?” Abigail asked, unable to prevent herself
from laughing.

Violet sank into a chair. “I am not at all sure. Perhaps
being American. I wish for your sake that this wretched war had never
started—and the American naval victories will make things particularly hard.”

“I wish the war had never started too,” Abigail said, her
voice sharp, “but I do not begrudge the Americans their little victories.
British behavior in this war has been appalling! For the first time in my life,
I have been ashamed to admit my nationality.”

“Two of them!” Violet announced in a tragic voice, raising
her eyes to heaven. “Arthur has never had sense enough not to espouse the most
unpopular cause available at the top of his lungs in public, but you are a
woman. Surely you know there are better ways to make a point.” She paused and
frowned, then said, “Mind you, from time to time I have had my doubts,
particularly about encouraging the Indians to join the fighting, but… No! I
will
not
allow myself to be distracted to inessentials!”

“You consider a war an inessential?” Abigail asked.

“No, of course not, not in a general way,” Violet replied
with an impatient gesture, “but when one’s purpose is discussing a dinner
party, it certainly is. My dear Abigail—oh, may I call you Abigail? When I say
Lady Lydden, I think of Hilda, and that is awful. Heaven, now I sound as
waspish as she. You will think me not a bit better.”

Abigail laughed again. “I prefer Abigail, thank you. What
would you prefer me to call you?”

“Didn’t Empson say? I
do
beg your pardon, I am
Arthur’s mother, Violet St. Eyre. No, I understand now. Please call me Violet.
I know I am much older than you are, my dear, but everyone calls me Violet,
except toadeaters and tradesmen. I suspect I haven’t enough dignity to be ‘Lady
St. Eyre’. But what I was about to say to you before I ran off the track was
that, although there certainly are more important things than dinner parties,
that is not true
while
you are planning and making the dinner party.”

“Well, I must admit,” Abigail agreed gravely, although her
eyes twinkled with amusement, “I have always concentrated on
my
dinner
parties while I was giving them.”

“Very good,” Violet said, “but to come back to a more
important point,
must
you espouse the American cause so passionately
with
everyone
?”

“I do not intend to,” Abigail sighed. The question had been
put with such earnest anxiety that she could not be offended, nor could she
help liking Violet very much. “But I am so irritated by the injustice of the
British position, like a big bully picking on a poor, helpless mite that has
nothing but its pride.”

“Now there,” Violet pointed out with satisfaction, “you have
a point you can make in perfect safety. Perhaps if you were to substitute ‘a
big strong person’ for ‘bully’, you might even wake a little sympathy for the
American cause—that is, if you cannot manage to refrain from speaking of the
subject at all.”

“Perhaps no one will bring it up.” Abigail shrugged. “If I
have time to think, I won’t speak, but very often, unfortunately, my tongue
works before my brain.”

As she spoke, Abigail realized how she had arrived so
quickly at such terms with Violet St. Eyre that she was not only listening to
her advice without resentment but truly wishing she were capable of taking that
advice. Nor had the wish anything whatever to do with fear. Abigail had put
together Violet’s genuine desire to speak to her alone and the fact that she
really did not have anything to say that required privacy and had come to the
logical conclusion that Violet simply wanted to meet her under informal and
unstrained conditions.

It was very clear that Violet had come to Rutupiae not only
determined to like Abigail but aware that Arthur was interested in her. Abigail
was sure the tone Violet took in speaking of him was one she used only when
convinced the other person was as fond of him as she was herself. Moreover,
Violet knew a great deal about her. Yet what Arthur said to her before the
children interrupted them proved that
he
had not written to his mother
about her. Could Hilda have written to warn Arthur’s mother that a widowed
harpy was about to hook claws into him? If so, the information had apparently
had an effect opposite to what was intended.

The old adage that thinking of the devil was tantamount to
calling him seemed to be true. No sooner had Hilda come into Abigail’s mind
than the door opened and she entered the room.

“Oh, here you are, Violet,” she said. “I was wondering what
happened to you.”

“I am so scatterbrained, Hilda,” Violet lied without a
blink. “I told Empson that I would find my own way and then mistook the door
and came into the library instead of the drawing room, but I found Abigail, so
all was well.”

Hilda sniffed disdainfully, making it clear that she thought
so little of Violet’s mental abilities, she was not surprised that after years
of visiting she should not know one room from another. Sometimes it was
fortunate, Abigail thought, as she asked Hilda to sit down and join them, that
the woman was so able to believe only what she liked. But Hilda would have none
of sitting in the library and insisted they all remove to the drawing room.
Abigail and Violet yielded without argument, and Hilda seemed to regard that as
a triumph. She was quite benign when she had waved them to seats.

“So you are back again,” she said to Violet. “I thought you
would find it unwise to leave Stonar Magna to live on your own.”

Abigail saw Violet’s lips tighten, but all she said was, “I
found Bath to be too hot at this season. And imagine my delight when I
discovered that Francis’ widow had managed to come to England despite the war.
I am looking forward to seeing the children, and I am giving a dinner to
welcome Abigail to the neighborhood and to introduce her to our friends.”

“I cannot see why you think that necessary,” Hilda remarked
ungraciously. “Abigail is the dowager countess of
Lydden
, and people
should call on her. I do not understand why they have not.”

“Perhaps because they do not know who she is—aside from
Francis’ widow, I mean,” Violet suggested.

“Should that not be enough for them?” Hilda puffed up like
an affronted pigeon. “What
can
you be thinking of, Violet? Francis was a
Lydden
. How could anyone think he would marry unsuitably? Abigail’s
family may not be quite the equal of ours, but who could doubt that she is a
gentlewoman?”

While Violet explained that not everyone had her perfect
faith in Francis, sparking an argument that Abigail had no desire to join,
Abigail thought that Violet had not mentioned her being American to Hilda. She
wondered whether that was because she felt Hilda was too unaware of public
affairs to know about the war or because the possibility of being an
innkeeper’s daughter—or a shopkeeper’s, for that matter—was really a greater
disgrace. Of course, Violet might only be amusing herself by making Hilda, who
had never liked Francis but had enormous family pride, defend the black sheep.
Still, Abigail thought, she had been right in keeping the bookshop to herself,
and she would continue to keep any business she did for it secret.

Oddly enough, by the next day it almost seemed that Hilda
had been right in saying that Violet need not have arranged to give a formal
dinner for Abigail. Carriages began to roll up the drive to Rutupiae Hall, and
ladies handed out visiting cards of varying degrees of elegance and asked
whether Lady Abigail Lydden was at home for visits. Fortunately Abigail had
been out riding with Victor and Daphne when the first visitors came. She looked
with dismay at the cards they had left and, without bothering to change from
her riding dress, rushed to Stonar and asked for Violet.

Waggoner looked at her with a kind of mingled amusement and
despair and led her toward the small back parlor that Violet preferred to the
grander reception rooms. It was pure coincidence that Arthur came out into the
corridor and saw her.

“Abigail,” he said with pleased surprise, “did you ride
over?”

“I cannot speak to you now,” she said hurriedly. “I must see
Violet.”

“What the devil—” he began, but she passed him and entered
Violet’s parlor.

Arthur stood staring at the closed door for a blank moment
and then burst out laughing and followed Abigail in time to hear her wail, “But
how will I
know
? Of course I have more sense than to receive unsuitable
people, but how can I know from a card who is who?”

“You can peek through the curtains,” Arthur said
mischievously. “Oh no, that won’t work. The library does not look out on the
drive.” Both women turned toward him, and he caught at his chest dramatically
as if something had struck him in the heart. “Ah!” he cried. “If looks could
kill, I would be stretched cold on the floor.”

“And so you deserve to be,” Violet remarked severely,
although both she and Abigail were laughing. “But in a way Arthur is right, my
dear,” she said turning to Abigail. “I do not think anyone unsuitable would
call, which is what he means. After all, I am sure everyone knows that Hilda is
still living at Rutupiae, and she would warn you if… But when I think about it
that will not serve. Hilda is entirely too particular. She would not receive a
number of local families I think you should know and would enjoy knowing. I
will make a list for you. Arthur, be useful. Amuse Abigail until I have noted
down the names.”

“Delighted,” Arthur responded promptly. “I only wish all
your schemes for making me useful were as agreeable. Come, let us sit here—”

“Not here,” Violet protested. “You know I will be drawn into
your conversation if you stay here. Go away. Go walk in the woods for half an
hour.”

Smiling, Arthur obediently opened the door and led Abigail
out. “What is your wish, my lady?” he asked, with a provocative smile. “Shall
we walk in the woods?”

“No, this riding skirt is not at all comfortable for
walking,” Abigail replied absently, still thinking of the subject of visitors
and realizing that her free time would be much restricted once she became part
of the social life of the area. “Let’s sit in the library,” she said.

“Is that because you think we are less likely to be
disturbed there or because you are strongly drawn to books?” Arthur teased.

Abigail flashed a glance at him. Did he know what her
relationship with books really was? If so, it had not prevented him from asking
her to marry him. However, it might easily have been a chance remark. “If you
want the truth,” she said pertly, “I find library furniture more comfortable
than the stiff, spindly pieces in drawing rooms.” But the emphasis on books had
reminded her of letters she had received from several booksellers in London
about the volumes she had ordered, and suddenly she saw a solution to the
problem she and Arthur had not yet had a chance to discuss.

“You have made a total conquest of my mother,” Arthur
remarked, as they settled onto a sofa.

“She has made a conquest of me,” Abigail replied, smiling.
“And you deserve a scolding for giving me so false an impression of her. You
left me believing she was a sour-mouthed Tartar.”

“Only because you jumped down my throat so fast I never had
a chance to explain,” Arthur pointed out with a spurious air of indignation.
But then he frowned and said seriously, “She isn’t sour-mouthed, Abigail, and
she isn’t a Tartar, but what I said is true nonetheless. It…my love, you have
no idea how happy it made me to see that there was real liking between you. It
would break my heart to destroy it, and yet I…I am not willing to forgo loving
you.” He took her hand. “Beloved, will you not reconsider and marry me?”

Abigail shook her head nervously. “Don’t be angry with me,
Arthur. I will not marry again.” She smiled pleadingly. “Not even to please
Violet. But something did occur to me. Jameson asked me to arrange with Mr.
Deedes for certain changes in the terms of payment for the leases of two
tenants. I was going to write, but…but I could go and speak with Deedes
instead.”

“Why the devil doesn’t Jameson write to Deedes himself?”
Arthur asked, saying the first thing that came into his head while he wondered
what was wrong with him. Only yesterday he had decided the situation was just
as he wished, and now, before he thought, he had again urged Abigail to marry
him.