A Woman's Estate (26 page)

“What are you getting at, Abigail?” Baring asked, frowning.

Abigail watched him doubtfully, wondering whether the frown
betokened puzzlement, distaste for a woman mixing herself into politics, or,
worse, a feeling that she was being disloyal to England. Nonetheless, she spoke
firmly. “Mr. St. Eyre and Lord Kevern said that they believed Lord Castlereagh
and Lord Liverpool might be willing to have direct talks with the commission
about making peace, but someone must make sure that Albert and Mr. Adams
know
this possibility exists. If Rumiantsev will not tell them and Lord Cathcart
believes they are set on Russian mediation, how are they to find out and
request permission from the President to negotiate directly with England?”

“
Hmmm
.” Baring’s wordless remark was thoughtful, not
accusatory.

Relieved, Abigail continued eagerly. “I would gladly write
to Albert about it, but what in the world could he in turn write to Mr.
Madison—that some woman in England had told him Rumiantsev was lying to them
and that the British government would consider direct negotiations? Can you
imagine the President’s reaction?”

Baring burst out laughing. “Madison might be one of the few
men who would listen. He knows the value of his Dolley. But I see your point,
Abigail. Yes indeed, I see your point. I have never known St. Eyre to be wrong
when he offers an opinion, but it will be better if I write to Castlereagh and
get a statement directly from him. When I have an answer, you may be sure I
will write to Gallatin. I must write to him in any case.” He paused and stared
thoughtfully past Abigail, then looked rather purposefully at her as he
continued slowly, “If for some reason Lord Castlereagh does not wish me to make
this communication, I will let you know and…er…I will leave it to your
discretion—which I value very highly, my dear—to do as
you
think best.”

Abigail digested that last remark and the expression that
accompanied it with a decided feeling of relief. Nonetheless, after a moment
she asked, “You do believe it would be of benefit to England as well as to
America to have peace? I know that—that some of my friends think I am
prejudiced because of my long residence in America, but it seems to me from
what I read in the papers that England also suffers from the limitation of
trade.”

“It does indeed,” Baring replied emphatically and without
any hesitation. “The loss of the American market for our manufactured products
has hurt business, and the depredations of the American privateers is
disrupting trade with the West Indies and even South America. Peace would be of
considerable benefit to this country.”

Her conscience salved and her determination set to do
whatever she could to forward the peace effort, Abigail was now as ready to
drop the subject as Baring was. She asked about Baring’s children and told him
that her son would also be attending Westminster College when the term began.
They chatted for only a few minutes, Abigail being conscious that her friend
was a very busy man who would somehow have to make up the time he had spent
with her. His parting from her was as friendly as ever, and he pressed her with
such cordiality to let him know if she heard any further news that might relate
to America that Abigail felt sure Alexander Baring did not regard her visit as
a nuisance or a waste.

She drove off in the highest of spirits to Lackington’s
bookstore. Having instructed the coachman that she would be some time in the
shop, Abigail entered and then stood staring like a bumpkin. It was the sheer
size that astounded her. Her shop could have fit into one corner of this huge
emporium. The high room was filled from floor to ceiling with shelves of books,
and above the large circular counter in the center of the room, the ceiling was
open, showing balconies, also filled with books, rising to the roof of the
building. However, when she gathered her wits and approached the counter to ask
for Mr. Lackington, it soon became apparent that her direct management of her
father’s business after his death had aroused a curiosity about her equal to
her astonishment.

At first there was a little confusion because she gave her
name as Lady Lydden rather than Abigail Lydden. She was told that Mr.
Lackington had retired. But when she mentioned her letters and her order of
books for America, she was recognized. Mr. Allen, the active partner, came to
take her into his office, where she could wait while a messenger went off to
tell Mr. Lackington she had arrived.

“But I do not wish to trouble him,” she protested. “I could
go to him, if he is elderly or not well. He has been so very kind to me all
these years—”

Mr. Allen smiled. “He is not a young man, but, praise God,
his health is good. He comes to the shop now and again, particularly when a
library has come into our hands, to value the books. I assure you he will enjoy
this outing, and I know he wishes to meet you. He has become fond of you over
the years, Missus—I mean, Lady Lydden.”

Obviously Mr. Lackington did not live far from his shop,
because he came in just at that moment and trotted over quite briskly to kiss
her hand and welcome her. He had also heard the tail end of Mr. Allen’s speech,
because he smiled at him and said, “It is no doubt only in the United States
that one can find a countess who not only manages a bookshop but can read
Hebrew and Greek.” Then turning back to Abigail. “I am very pleased to meet
you, Lady Lydden.”

“And I to meet you, Mr. Lackington. But why did you not tell
me you were retired? There was no need for you to trouble yourself to transmit
my orders. I could have written to Mr. Allen—or even to a good clerk.”

“It was no trouble,” he replied, patting her hand. “You had
shocks and trouble enough and did not need the added worry that your orders
would not be properly filled. It was a pleasure to correspond with so
courageous and well educated a lady. And now, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I must arrange for shipping the books I ordered,”
Abigail said, “but I would like to impose upon you personally just a little
more, Mr. Lackington. I am very much afraid that this terrible, stupid war will
grow worse and that trade will be cut off between England and America. You have
always advised me most kindly about what to stock. I would like to buy and ship
a stock in preparation for such an occurrence. I hope it will not happen, but
if it does, my shop will have books to sell—and if it does not,” she finished
smiling, “books do not spoil or grow stale, so I will have lost nothing.”

“Some go stale,” Allen remarked wryly.

“Not the ones
I
recommend,” Lackington said
jocularly. Then he said to Abigail, “Let me first show you around the shop.
Tastes must be different in America, and also there may be items that you know
particular customers would like. Then let me give the matter of stock a little
thought. Tomorrow or the next day you can come again, and we will discuss a
list.”

There were, Abigail discovered, four more rooms in addition
to the large central chamber and balconies that had amazed her. She was
completely entranced and had quite a pile of books, as many for herself as for
her customers in New York, when Mr. Lackington returned and asked if she would
do him the honor of sharing a luncheon with him. She agreed with alacrity,
knowing he would enjoy discussing the books she had selected. Actually, they
became so lost in their literary conversation that Abigail realized she would
not have time to go on to Hatchard’s bookstore, but it did not matter, for she
could do that the next day.

Pleasantly tired, Abigail was happy to settle on the sofa
with
Sense and Sensibility
when she arrived at the house on Mount
Street. She had hardly begun to read when Arthur arrived and asked guiltily if
she had been very bored.

“Not at all,” she responded cheerfully. “I was out all
morning also, and have hardly had a chance to open my book.”

Arthur smiled, feeling relieved. He had never understood why
women enjoyed ordering and being fitted for clothes. He found going to his
tailor an unutterable bore, but he was grateful for the difference between the
sexes, and he was grateful that Abigail was not like some women, who demanded
male company even to go to a modiste. They said they needed a man’s opinion,
but Arthur had always felt it was simply another device to exercise control
over the men who believed they ruled the roost. Not that Abigail seemed to want
to tie him to her apron strings, he thought. In fact, she seemed quite
determined not to place any restrictions on him at all—and oddly, that did not
please him as much as it should.

“I am glad you managed to amuse yourself so well,” Arthur
said, “but where did you tell the shops to send their bills? I will pay them,
of course—”

“Oh, no, you will not,” Abigail exclaimed forcefully. “I do
not buy what I cannot afford to pay for myself. You had me at a disadvantage
when you offered GoGo. I could not argue with you in front of the grooms and
stableboys, and if you will not charge the Lydden estate with her price, I
cannot force you. Unfortunately, I am already too fond of her to send her back
to you, but you will not catch me unaware again.”

Arthur was somewhat taken aback by her vehemence, into which
he could read only one meaning. “I did not mean to offend you, Abigail,” he
said apologetically. “You cannot think I am trying to…to buy you. I only want
to make you happy and to express my admiration and affection.”

A good part of Abigail’s violent refusal was owing to her
fear that Arthur would discover that she had
not
been shopping and then
would want to know what she had been doing, so she was happy to abandon the
topic. She smiled at him and held out her hand. When he took it, she pulled him
down toward her so she could kiss him.

“I know that you are not trying to buy me,” she murmured
when their lips parted. “I was not offended, but—but it is better for me to pay
my own way. Now, sit down and tell me what you have been doing. I am sure that
will be much more interesting to me than my activities could be to you.”

Arthur laughed. “You are remarkably fair-minded, my love,
but I must say that there is not much of interest to hear. There is, however, a
good deal of tense expectation. Metternich is now known to be about to propose
that Austria mediate a peace. I believe Perce mentioned that at the dinner.”

“Yes, he did,” Abigail agreed. She was delighted that she
had diverted Arthur from her activities and was very willing to discuss
Bonaparte or anything else that would interest him. “But I remember too that
Perce seemed convinced that Bonaparte would not accept.”

“Oh, he may accept a meeting to discuss a peace,” Arthur
said, “because his army is composed of raw recruits and a longer truce may suit
his purposes. I think that in the end he will refuse the terms offered—unless
those terms are his own. We know what terms the Austrians have agreed to offer,
but whether they stick to them or not depends on what happens in Spain. If
Wellington wins a major victory there, the agreed terms will be offered, and
Austria will almost certainly join Russia and Prussia if Bonaparte does not
accept them. Unfortunately, if Wellington should lose or be unable to draw the
French into a conclusive battle, Russia and Prussia might agree to even more
lenient terms, and Austria’s declaration of war would become much more
doubtful.”

“How likely is a victory in Spain?” Abigail asked.

“Quite likely,” Arthur replied. “That is what has everyone
chewing his fingernails. Wellington is a brilliant general. He has outflanked
the French by getting the army over what were considered impassable roads in
the Trás os Montes Mountains, and he has crossed the Ebro with only a few
skirmishes that have cost virtually no casualties. But whether he will be able
to bring the French to battle in time cannot be known.”

“If Wellington drives the French out of Spain and Austria
joins the war,” Abigail remarked thoughtfully, “you will have Bonaparte between
the jaws of a pincer. Surely then he will make peace.”

She was thinking that if the war in Europe ended, there
would be less need for American grain and cattle to feed the troops in Spain,
so England would be less indulgent about allowing trade to continue despite the
war. Worse yet, Britain’s navy would no longer be occupied in fighting French
ships and keeping European ports blockaded. The full force of the navy could be
exerted against American shipping, and the transports, now so busy bringing men
to Spain and other places in Europe, could be employed to carry war-hardened
veterans to Canada to fight the ill-trained American militiamen.

“I hope not,” Arthur said, surprising her. “Perce is right
about Bonaparte only abiding by a treaty as long as it suits his purposes. If
we don’t put him down now, when his army is the worst it’s ever been, we’ll
have the whole thing to do over again from the beginning. I’ve seen it once
already when Mr. Fox signed the Peace of Amiens.” He laughed. “I almost got
myself thrown out of the party over that because I talked myself hoarse against
making peace. But damn it, I knew Pitt had been right about opposing that
peace. Boney only kept it until his army was up to strength and resupplied—and
that’s just what he’ll do again if he signs a treaty this time.”

Abigail shook her head. “Is he mad?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied seriously. “In the beginning,
he wasn’t. Now…I don’t know.” Then he hugged Abigail quickly and stood up.
“Enough. Here I am nattering away about war and peace—about which we can do
nothing—when what I really came home early for was to tell you I have a box for
the theater tonight, if you wish to go.”

Abigail was delighted to agree, but she was less pleased
when she learned that she had underestimated Arthur’s guilt for having left her
alone. Not only did he have theater tickets for every evening, but he had given
a great deal of thought to amusing her during the day. On the excuse that she
must not seem as green as grass when the Season began the following year, he
took her to the Tower of London to see the animals and the crown jewels, to the
exhibition room at Somerset House to see the paintings, to Bullock’s Museum and
the British Museum, and for a sail on the Thames.