A Woman's Estate (29 page)

“Am I right in assuming that Bonaparte knew he had lost
Spain and that the article in the paper this morning hinting he agreed to the
peace conference was true?” she asked.

“Yes, it was true,” Arthur replied, sitting down beside her
and putting his glass on the table, “but I don’t think Bonaparte can have had
the news from Spain yet—or at least, he hadn’t had it when he accepted
Metternich’s offer. That, I understand, was made on the seventeenth and Vitoria
was fought on the twenty-first. Information is slower coming from Paris than
from Spain because Wellington sends a courier direct, whereas anything from
Paris must go by way of Austria or Prussia.”

“But Bonaparte will have heard of the defeat of his army in
Spain, perhaps that the whole country is lost to him, long before the peace
conference,” Abigail said. “Do you think that might make him accept the terms
offered? I remember that Perce said they were generous.”

Arthur shrugged. “I am not a fortune-teller, but I agree
with Perce. If Bonaparte has a grain of sense, of course he will accept.”

Abigail’s heart sank. If Bonaparte made peace now, there
would be plenty of time to send the hardened troops that had been fighting in
Spain to Canada before the winter storms and before the cold made fighting on
the northern front very difficult. It would be safe enough for Lord Liverpool,
the prime minister, to send the troops, Abigail thought sadly, because
Bonaparte would not make peace if he could restore the strength of his army in
less than a year. But even a year of the full power of Britain turned against
poor little America might be too long. Not that America would yield and accept
colonial status again, but the country might be forced to accept harsh and
humiliating peace terms. In turn, these might cause such dissension among the
states that the union might be shattered.

Abigail’s worried frown made Arthur ask, “What is it, my
dear?”

“But did you not say,” she reminded him anxiously, “that
that would be the worst thing for us and for everyone because Bonaparte would
only use the peace to rebuild his armies and then find some excuse to break the
treaty?”

“Yes, I did,” Arthur replied, “and I am not the only one who
feels that way. I have heard that Castlereagh intends to do his best to induce
Prussia and Russia to make the terms harsher, but I do not think he can
succeed. The trouble is that the Russo-Prussian alliance is very shaky, and
they have always complained that the British do not do their part, which makes
them resentful of any suggestions. Their response is always that we do the
urging and they do the fighting and bleeding.”

“But how can they say that?” Abigail’s voice was now full of
indignation. “This is only a small country. We cannot have a large army. We do
not have enough men who can be spared from the fields and other business. Our
strength is in our navy. And we saved Spain and Portugal single-handedly.”

Arthur smiled at her fervor. He knew now that although
Abigail
was
prejudiced in favor of the United States and had strong
republican sentiments, that did not in the least imply any affection or even
softness toward Bonaparte. He had learned in other discussions with her that
this attitude was owing little to her parents’ influence but much more to the
treachery with which Bonaparte had treated American merchants and ship owners,
some of whom were her personal friends. Still, he was beginning to think that
her attitude was more typical of many Americans and of the government of the
United States too, than many men in Parliament could be brought to believe.

“I’m afraid they have never agreed that Portugal and Spain
were of great importance,” he pointed out. “And I admit that Portugal is mostly
our trading partner. But there is no use in worrying now. The truce between the
French and the Russians and Prussians is to be extended until the seventeenth
of August. If Castlereagh and Liverpool were not already of my opinion, I might
have urged Roger to try to point out to them the dangers of a peace with
France, but they will do all they can to prevent it without any prodding. So—”

“Why can you not speak to Castlereagh or Liverpool
yourself?” Abigail asked, before he could finish. “Are they so high and mighty
that they speak only to other ‘lords’? Are baronets not sufficiently
important?”

Arthur laughed aloud, not only because of Abigail’s low
opinion of the British social system but also because he suddenly felt very
warm and happy. It was clear she was indignant on his behalf because she felt
he was wise and important and
should
be consulted.

“No, no,” he said. “They are not that foolish. You did not
attend when I said they would listen to Roger, who, after all, does not even
have the rank of baronet. I’m afraid it is a matter of party, my love, and has
little to do with their opinion of me as an individual. Roger is a Tory, but I
am a rebel against family tradition and have embraced the Whigs—most unwisely
as it turns out, for most of the time I have as little sympathy with Whig
foreign policy as I have with the domestic policy of the Tories. Alas,” he
admitted comically, “neither party loves me much.”

“Oh, party!” Abigail exclaimed angrily. “That is an even
more foolish reason than rank for dismissing good advice. My friend Albert
Gallatin has often been the main target of the most vicious attacks by the
Federalists just because he is so brilliant. I thought this government would be
above such petty notions, but I see it is just the same. Just because you are
cleverer than your fellows, I will lay odds your so-called friends look aside
while your enemies fall on you to tear you to pieces.”

The cold stab of jealousy Arthur felt when Abigail spoke of
her “friend Albert Gallatin” melted under the warmth of her ire for his sake.
He could not help laughing again at her antiparty ferocity, however, even while
he assured her he was well able to take care of himself and found his
mid-parties position very useful.

“They do not love me, but they accredit me as a man of
honesty and principle—which I hope I am—and when I speak, they
do
listen. I have pushed more than one close vote in the direction I wanted it to
go. I have a kind of power, and though I do not approach the government
directly, I have methods of communicating with them.”

“Through Roger.” Abigail nodded and then shrugged. “Every
government seems to be the same, more ruled by petty spites than by large issues,
but I suppose if it gets the work done, one should not complain.”

“No doubt women would run it better,” Arthur said slyly,
enough recovered now to tease.

“Alas, no,” Abigail confessed, her eyes wide with pretended
innocence. “You see, women are human, so when they are not forced into
unnatural behavior, they are very much like men. I do not think you would see a
hairsbreadth of difference in the government if women ran it.”

Arthur caught her into his arms, almost overturning the
table, and squeezed her until she squeaked with pain amid her laughter. Then he
relaxed his arms and kissed her both tenderly and passionately. “Beloved,
beloved,” he murmured when their lips parted, “you are the delight of my life.
I cannot imagine being without you.”

Abigail dropped her head to his shoulder and slid closer.
“It will be very hard to part,” she agreed with a sigh. “I suppose we will be
able to meet in that cottage of yours, but it will not be the same. And I must
go soon. There is something in the letter I received from Griselda today—not a
direct statement like ‘I wish you would come home’—just a hint, a feeling that
she is not easy.”

He had known it had to end, of course, but he had not
permitted himself to think about it, expecting each day that he would grow a
little impatient of always needing to consider Abigail’s comfort and pleasure
or even just a trifle bored and tired of her. Instead he had grown more
comfortable during the day, more eager to touch her and love her every night,
more thrilled to see her face when he woke every morning. Now that she spoke of
parting, a sense of panic gripped him. It did not matter that they were not
really parting, that she had told him as plainly as she could that she still
wished to be his mistress. That was not important. As much as he loved her body
and despite the fact that he had found with Abigail a height and range of
passion no other woman had induced in him, it was not their sexual relationship
he needed. He needed
Abigail
, to talk with, to laugh with, to quarrel
with each day and every day at whatever hour the impulse struck him. But he
knew that she was right, that she must leave. In fact, he was bitterly ashamed
that he had sacrificed her to his need and let her stay so long.

Arthur’s face was impassive, the heavy-lidded eyes and
high-bridged nose as usual drawing notice from the sensitive mouth. That had
thinned a little with pain, and the corners of the lips were tucked back
defensively. This time Abigail recognized the small signs that betrayed his
unhappiness, and she stroked his arm.

“You are very good not to tease me to stay or to tell me
that I am imagining things,” she said.

“Unfortunately, I do not think you are imagining things.”
Arthur’s voice was as expressionless as he could make it. “I have been selfish
and thoughtless because you give me such joy, body and soul, that I could not
make myself be sensible—but Griselda has probably been hearing wonderings about
what you could be doing so long alone in London, and I am sure Hilda is doing
more than wondering.”

Abigail pressed her lips briefly to Arthur’s neck, taking in
the mingled odors of clean linen, a bare touch of some scented material, powder
or lotion, he used after shaving, a tang of sweat. She wished it was not only
midafternoon, that they had instead had their dinner and come home from their
evening’s entertainment so she could suggest they go to bed, but even if Arthur
did not think it indecent to make love before dinner, the servants would feel
it was very odd behavior indeed for a married couple.

“If I thought it was only that,” she told him, “I would not
leave. Don’t laugh at me, but the letter is…strange, almost as if Griselda
is…is afraid.”

Arthur’s mind immediately leapt to that still-unexplained
gunshot that had nearly killed Victor and Bertram’s inexplicably odd behavior.
And then he thought of Griselda, of the way her hands trembled and how nervous
and breathless she became every time he spoke to her, although she had known
him all her life and could not possibly believe he would hurt her or be unkind.
Griselda was afraid of her own shadow. Not, he reminded himself, that that made
any difference—
his
fears were not baseless and Abigail
must
go
home. The panic had subsided as the idea grew familiar, but it had been
replaced by a dull, hollow misery.

“Abigail, will you not marry me?” he asked softly. “It must
be as clear to you as to me that we live well together. Will you not do me the
honor of marrying me?”

“Oh, thank you, Arthur,” she said, sitting up and smiling.
“You are very sweet to worry so about me, but I do not think a few vague rumors
can harm my reputation—and anyway,” she added, with a laugh, “you have already
given me the perfect excuses for lingering. I can describe all my
sightseeing—the picture galleries, the museums, the Tower. Everyone may think I
am mad, but they will not think me abandoned.”

“No,” he said urgently, “you do not understand. I assure you
it is not your reputation or your social status I was thinking about. Abigail,
I cannot bear the thought of living without you. I want you at my breakfast
table every day—”

“Good God!” she exclaimed, trying to stem the tide. “Never
has a woman received such a compliment.”

“Not from me, anyway,” Arthur remarked forcefully. “I have
told you a thousand times that I love you, but when I think of living
separately, I know that is not the way love should be expressed. I love to join
our bodies, Abigail, but that is not all I want from you. I want—I
need
to join our lives.”

She realized that this time she could not divert him and
recognized the depth of his feeling. Her body and her soul wished to fling
themselves into his arms and cry, “Yes, yes, I love you, too. Let us be one.”
Only her mind stood coolly aloof and reminded her that for a woman being one
with a man meant just that—he was one, and she was nothing. She had no rights,
not over her property, not over her children, not even over her own body. Not
that Abigail feared Arthur would do anything dreadful to her children or her
property or commit a crime so that she would be in danger of imprisonment—but
what if he did not like what she was reading? He had the right to take the book
from her forcibly; he had a right to forbid her ever to read a book again. She
did not think he would, but…

“I cannot,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I
cannot marry, ever again.”

“Why not?” Arthur cried.

Abigail’s lips parted, but no sound came out. How could she
explain to Arthur? He
was
honest and honorable. He would manage Victor’s
estate with perfect integrity—he was doing so already. There could be no doubt
he would never do anything deliberately to hurt her or her children—and out of
his kindness, his consideration and his care for her, he would destroy her. By
all logic, his first act after they were married would almost certainly be to
sell her bookshop. It would make no difference if she begged him not to. He
would explain patiently, as if she were an idiot and did not know it herself,
that it was not a good thing socially to cling to the bookshop and that it
could not be managed efficiently at long range. He would point out that the
money could be invested, and she could have the whole income for her own use,
which might be more than she could realize from the store because of the
expenses of running a business.