A Woman's Estate (32 page)

They left at about ten o’clock, a good time because the dew
was dried from the grass, but the sun was not yet hot enough to make the walk
unpleasant. All of them were burdened. Young Dick Price carried the heavy
picnic basket and would also have taken the rug on which they were to sit,
except that Abigail insisted on carrying that. Victor had an assortment of nets
and jars for catching and confining the denizens of pond and meadow, and Daphne
had a rush basket containing oddments of rag, which she intended to wet to keep
fresh the flowers she wished to pick, and several small bowls and a trowel for
taking up plants by the root. Under Griselda’s guidance, Daphne was growing
into a passionate gardener.

Abigail was surprised by feeling rather cheerful as they
made their way toward the mill. It was the first true break in her despondency,
and she welcomed it with gratitude, even though she knew it was temporary and
could be destroyed by any little upset. She felt she was safe, however, for the
next few hours. The children were in high spirits, very glad to be together,
for these days there were seldom just the two of them. What was more, Dick was
keeping them both interested, now pointing out to Victor a bird’s nest or a
tiny path made by some small beast and next showing Daphne a shy flower or a
plant that the kittens in the barn would adore. Thus there seemed little chance
of a quarrel between the children that would spoil Abigail’s peace. Even the
path was lovely, well marked by its smooth and close-clipped growth of grass,
speckled with sunlight and shadow, and musical with birdcalls.

After about twenty minutes’ walk, they turned off into a
much rougher trail, too narrow for all to walk abreast. Victor and Daphne, who
had started a discussion about whether Victor should keep his catch for a few
days or let them go before returning to the house, went first. Abigail and Dick
followed, and she asked a question about the life and duties of a gamekeeper,
to which he replied eagerly enough to convince her that succeeding to his
father’s position was truly what he desired out of life. Actually, Abigail
could understand his enthusiasm. It was a varied and interesting kind of life,
if hard, and she was just about to ask another question when Victor called,
“There it is.”

Abigail looked ahead and saw a modest stretch of ground that
now had the appearance of a roughly mown hayfield but which she knew must have
been a small cleared area surrounding the house and mill. To her right was the
ruins of a house, to her left was the millpond, and just ahead was the mill
itself—more sturdily built and thus in a less ruined condition than the
house—with the water-wheel on the far side and a half-overgrown road running
beside the stream that ran the mill. The wheel was still turning slowly, though
Abigail could see that several of the buckets on the edge were broken.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed, and Victor and Daphne, who had
waited on the edge of the path for her verdict, both laughed and began to run
toward the mill.

“Wait,” Dick called, starting after them, “don’t—”

Whatever else he was about to say was drowned in a woman’s
shrill scream and the almost simultaneous crack of a gun. Abigail shrieked,
“Down! Get down!” and leapt toward her children just as Dick collapsed and a
second blast went off. Victor and Daphne were standing still, openmouthed with
shock, and Abigail wailed with terror as she ran, knowing she could never reach
them in time—but no third shot was fired, and she dragged her children to the
ground, trying to get them both beneath her body. Beyond the thundering of her
heart, she could hear the screams of the woman—and then those stopped.

Chapter Nineteen

Hours and hours passed—perhaps as much as ten minutes in
real time—while Abigail first held her breath and then tried to breathe
silently as she listened for the faint crackle of the attacker’s footsteps
approaching in the dry stubble. None came. There were no sounds except those of
her children breathing and of the wind moving through foliage. Finally Abigail
heard a moan, which she knew was Dick, and she lifted her head to peer around
fearfully. Nothing. Did that mean the attacker was gone? Or was
he?—she?—waiting until someone stood up to make a suitable target?

Carefully Abigail slid herself off her children and
whispered to them to crawl as flat as they could back to the path. She turned
toward Dick and then gasped in horror, for he was just climbing dazedly to his
feet.

“No, don’t!” she cried. “Lie down.”

But he did not drop down to safety, only turned his head
toward her, and she gasped in horror again because the eye she could see was
glazed and senseless, and the other side of his face was a sheet of blood. For
a terror-filled moment self-preservation struggled with her need to save
another human being, and then she realized that the gun would have already been
fired, had anyone been waiting in hiding to shoot. Dick was wavering
dangerously, about to fall, so Abigail climbed hastily to her feet. She held
her breath for the few seconds it took her to reach him, because it had
occurred to her that he might not be the target for whom the gunman was
waiting—but still no shot was fired, and she caught Dick and eased him to the
ground, almost convinced that the attacker was gone.

Nonetheless, she was not ready to test the truth of her
conviction, and she held Dick still with one arm while she scrabbled in the
picnic basket near them for a napkin with which to stop the bleeding. She had
just managed to extract a handful of linen when Daphne cried out, and Abigail
dropped the napkins and jumped to her feet to protect her children. But she saw
them at once, quite safe, standing together at the opening of the path.

“Aunt Griselda,” Victor called, pointing.

Abigail whirled to look. Griselda was coming across from the
mill, staggering and weaving, holding a hand to her head. Her gown was torn and
filthy, and a long bleeding scrape marred one arm. Abigail’s eyes flashed from
Griselda to Dick and back again, trying to decide who needed her help most, and
in that moment of hesitation both children ran by her toward their aunt. Abigail’s
shock of fear dissipated as quickly as it rose. Griselda must have sneaked out
of the house early, before her mother rose, to meet them at the mill, and
somehow she must have come across the gunman, who no doubt fled when he
realized someone had seen him.

Later
, she told herself,
later you can work it all
out
.
Now don’t let Dick bleed to death
. He was, in fact, stirring
again, mumbling about poachers, and Abigail got down beside him and told him to
lie still. She could hear Griselda trying to control her sobs as the children
helped her closer, but she was fully occupied with washing Dick’s face with
lemonade—since she had no intention of allowing anyone to approach the stream
for water. At last she found the wound, a long tear in the scalp, deep enough to
show a white glint of bone beneath. Abigail swallowed sickly. The blood had not
bothered her much, except for its quantity, because Victor had often returned
home with a bloody nose or cuts and scrapes from his rough play. That gleam of
white and the way the loose scalp lifted, however, were sickening. Hastily she
padded one napkin over the area and tied it firmly in place with another.

Then she turned to Griselda, who was no longer sobbing,
although her breath was still uneven. “Will you be able to walk as far as the
house?” she asked anxiously as Griselda sank to the ground near her. “I think
we must leave here as soon as possible.”

“He’s gone,” Griselda gasped. “He hit me, knocked me down,
and ran.”

The whole side of her face was swollen. Abigail thought it
must have been a violent blow and that she must also be bruised from her fall.
Would it be better to go for help and leave Dick and Griselda here? No, she did
not dare do that. If Griselda had recognized the man… They must leave at once.
Perhaps shock had sent the gunman running, but if he thought Griselda had
recognized him or could identify him, he would certainly come back and try to
kill her.

“Yes, but he might come back,” Abigail pointed out shakily.
“We must go at once.”

Griselda closed her eyes for a moment, but then she
stiffened her body. “Yes, I can walk,” she said.

“Daphne, you help Aunt Griselda,” Abigail ordered, “and you
come and help me with Dick, Victor.”

“The baskets—” Daphne began, practical despite being shaken.

“Someone from the house will come for them,” Abigail assured
her, and Daphne went obediently to help steady Griselda, who was getting to her
feet.

Although he was clearly sick and dizzy, it was not difficult
to get Dick on his feet. There was sense—and fear—in his eyes now, and he
obviously knew that they had been attacked. Abigail, Dick, and Victor went
first down the rough trail, and Griselda followed with Daphne. During that
walk, Abigail was terrified because it seemed to her that this short stretch
was the place where the gunman could lie in wait. She said nothing because
someone had to go down the path, and it was better that they all go together.
But her fears were not realized, and when they came out into the well-used path
she took a deep breath of relief.

Abigail’s first consideration had been safety. Now that that
had been achieved, she wanted to know who had fired those shots and why. Dick
seemed steady enough to manage with just Victor’s help, so Abigail stopped and
waited for Griselda to catch up.

“Who was it?” Abigail asked, putting her thought into words.

“I don’t know.” Tears ran down Griselda’s face, and she
shook despite her effort to control herself before Daphne. “I was sitting on
the bench against the wall of the mill that faces the millpond, and I thought I
heard someone moving in the mill. At first I paid no attention. The wheel
creaks, and it makes the building creak and groan, but I kept hearing noises
that didn’t match the movement of the wheel. Well, the village children
sometimes come to play in the mill. They are not supposed to because the
building is not safe, so I decided to go in and send them home.”

“Mrs. Franklin told us we must not go into the mill,” Daphne
confirmed, her voice slightly shaky, “and I don’t think I
want
to go
there anymore.”

Griselda’s arm tightened around the little girl. “Oh,” she
said, much more firmly, “you mustn’t feel that way. I think what might be best
is for your mama to order that the building be repaired and changed a little so
that a nice family could live there. Then you could often come to have picnics
and play near the millpond.”

“That is a
most
excellent idea, Griselda,” Abigail
said heartily and gratefully. She had been wondering how to prevent the mill
from becoming a nightmare that would haunt her children. “I will send for Mr.
Jameson when we get home and have the repairs and renovations put in hand at
once, so that when we come back people will be living in the mill. Then no one
could ever hide in it again.”

Not long after Abigail and her children had left the house,
Violet set out to call on her. Just after breakfast was not a usual time for a
formal visit, but Violet had decided to try shock tactics, and the early hour
would prevent interruption by Hilda, who usually did not come down for
breakfast, or by other visitors. When she heard that Abigail had set out for a
day-long picnic with her children, Violet hesitated a few minutes, wondering if
she should follow.

Violet had intended to tell Abigail that her reason for
arriving at such an unusual hour was that Arthur had come back “from wherever
he had gone” in a terrible state, and she wanted Abigail to come to dinner that
evening to cheer him. If Abigail refused, Violet reasoned, the refusal would
give her an excellent chance to pry. If she accepted, observing her with Arthur
might give a hint as to what Abigail feared. Following Abigail to her picnic
would certainly show her that Violet felt the situation was urgent, but it
might also make her suspicious, Violet feared.

The few minutes of indecision, however, were a few minutes
too long. By the time Violet had decided that following Abigail would do more
harm than good, Hilda had learned of her arrival and had hurried down from her
room to receive her, all agog for bad news. Unable to think of a rational
excuse either for coming or for leaving, Violet allowed herself to be
shepherded into the morning room to find time to think. Half an hour of Hilda’s
company, she told herself, was a deserved punishment for being slow of wit. She
should have gone out to her carriage to decide what to do as soon as she
learned Abigail was not in the house, instead of dithering about in the hall.

The best Violet could do to explain her early call was to
give Hilda, with breathless excitement, a harmless piece of gossip. She was
certain that Hilda had already heard it, since it was more than a week old, but
that had the advantage of permitting Hilda to feel superior to her. At least
that plan worked well, and Violet had little to do besides nod her head at
intervals while Hilda told her when and where she had heard the item first and
recounted several less savory rumors about their neighbors. During this
monologue, Violet’s eyes frequently strayed toward the window, so it was she
who first saw the battered procession approaching the house. With a desperate
effort, Violet repressed her impulse to cry out with shock. She had no idea
what had happened, but she was determined that Hilda should not know of it
through her unless Abigail wished to tell her, so she dragged her eyes back to
Hilda’s face.

“Why, whatever is wrong with you, Violet?” Hilda asked. “You
have turned white as a sheet.”

“A faintness,” Violet whispered, instantly seizing on her
chance of escape. “I am so sorry to cut short our visit, but I must go home.”

“Perhaps you had better lie down for a while,” Hilda
sneered. “You always were a weakling, Violet. I do not suffer from these
turns.”

“My medicine is at home,” Violet improvised, rising from her
chair. “It will do me no good to lie down unless I take it.”

“Let me summon Empson to escort you,” Hilda said, annoyed
and indifferent.

But Violet was at the door and out before Hilda had finished
speaking. She ran down the corridor toward the back of the house and out the
French doors of the library, intercepting Abigail’s party on their way to the
servants’ entrance at the rear just in time to hear Griselda insist that she
did not need a physician.

“If Mama hears—” Griselda began, and then bit her lips as
she saw Violet.

“She will make a terrible fuss,” Violet finished for her,
knowing quite well that was not what Griselda had been about to say. “And you
would never hear the end of it, either. Abigail, let me take Griselda to her
room and help her change her clothes. If I think she needs to see a physician
or the apothecary, I will come and tell you.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said, still too shocked and worried to
be bothered by the fact that it was Arthur’s mother who had come to her
assistance.

By that time the party had been noticed by one of the maids,
who must have exclaimed, for the cook and several others came running out.
After a short period of confusion, very trying to Abigail’s tense nerves,
Empson and Howing arrived and quelled the storm. A groom was sent for the
apothecary, Mrs. Franklin was summoned to attend to Dick, who was settled in
the housekeeper’s room, and Abigail was free to take her children upstairs to
calm them and change their clothes and hers.

Fortunately, Victor and Daphne had cheerful and resilient
temperaments. A discussion of what renovations of the mill would be necessary
so that a reliable family could live in it and then of the proposed visit to
other Lydden properties seemed to remove the shock and horror of the attack
from their minds. At least they showed no desire to cling to their mother and
began a very typical argument, shouting back and forth between half-open doors
as they dressed about whether it was too hot to play in the tennis court and,
if it was, whether to take the racquets out on the lawn or go for a ride.

Abigail had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from
forbidding them to leave the house, but she knew that would negate all her
efforts to divert their minds. Thus, she left them to their discussion, only
telling them that she would be in the library later if they wanted her and that
they were not to go out before luncheon, which would be served very soon. They
would be safe that long, she told herself, and then she would think of
something else. But as she started for the library she remembered Griselda.

Violet had decided there was no need for Griselda to see the
apothecary and had stopped to tell that to Abigail before she went home, but
there was something to do with Griselda that nagged at the back of Abigail’s
mind. Then she recalled her fear that the attacker would think Griselda could
identify him. That might not occur to Griselda, Abigail realized. Because the
girl knew she had not recognized the man, she might feel as if he knew it,
too—and that was not at all true. Griselda must be warned.

Thus, instead of going down the stairs, Abigail began to
cross the balcony that connected the two wings of the staircase to reach
Griselda’s room in the other part of the house. She was about halfway across
when the front door burst open, without a knock to herald the invasion, and
Arthur strode in. Surprise robbed Abigail of defenses so that she cried out
with relief and longing. The sound betrayed her, although it was not loud.
Arthur looked up, crossed the hall, and ran up the stairs. Before Abigail could
gather her wits enough to decide what to do, she was caught tight in his arms.