A Woman's Estate (48 page)

It was while he was writing this letter that it occurred to
Arthur that Abigail’s reaction to his mention of a raid on New Orleans was most
peculiar. New Orleans was part of the Louisiana Territory far to the south and
west of New York. It was nearly impossible for Abigail to have any friends
there. He thought of the way she had blocked her ears and begged him not to
tell her about plans for military action, and a faint sense of disquiet ran
through him. Then he shrugged it away. Like the rest of Europe, Abigail plainly
felt the United States to be an underdog and did not want to hear of the
possibility that it would be whipped.

Arthur’s suggestion was accepted by Liverpool, and the
British note suggesting that the Americans submit a “project” was delivered on
31 October. Feeling this was a hopeful sign, the American commissioners
received the note with unusual cordiality, and Goulburn thought that perhaps
some notions of compromise could be suggested to them in a social situation.
Coincidentally, Mrs. Goulburn had a remission of her ailments, and her child
was behaving—or the nursemaid was more efficient than usual—so a tea party was
arranged.

Abigail received the invitation with something less than
enthusiasm. In fact, she cried, “Oh, no!” when she read it at the breakfast
table, causing Arthur to look up from his own letters in some alarm.

“Must I go?” she asked, when she had explained.

“Yes, of course you must,” Arthur said, laughing but rather
puzzled. “I know you are not enamored of Mrs. Goulburn’s company, but you will
not need to endure much of it. I am sure the American commissioners will all be
invited and even some of the secretaries. You will have plenty of protection
from Mrs. Goulburn’s vapidities.”

“But it’s the Americans I want to avoid,” Abigail cried.

“Why?” Arthur looked at her blankly. At first the statement
made no sense to him at all. Then the jealousy that lay scarcely buried in him
stirred to life. Was she so fond of “her dear Albert” that she feared to expose
herself if they met in public?

“Because Mr. Adams and Mr. Russell know me,” Abigail
replied. “Both have been to my shop in New York on their way home from
Philadelphia or Washington, and I am not at all sure either one would
understand that it would do me harm to mention my business.”

The answer was perfectly logical. Arthur was both relieved
and annoyed with himself. “Not to worry,” he said. “We are very unlikely to be
mixing much with the members of the British commission once we return to
England. It won’t matter a bit if your friends
do
talk about the shop.”

Abigail smiled at him as if he had solved her problem, but
actually the answer she had given him was less than half the truth. She did not
relish the idea of exposing her connection with trade, but she had a more
compelling reason not to meet her American friends. Ever since Arthur had told
her of the planned attack on New Orleans, she had been torn by indecision as to
what to do with the information. She could not feel that a raid on New Orleans
could be important enough for her to commit another act of treason, but a
face-to-face meeting with Albert and the others would make her feel guilty and
miserable about withholding a warning. Still, believing that peace was near,
Abigail resolved to say nothing, until she learned on the very morning of the
tea party that Bathurst had asked Lord Wellington to take over command of the
British forces opposed to the United States.

To Abigail it seemed that such a request must preclude any
real intention of making peace. Panic-stricken, she did not think of asking
even such simple questions as where Wellington was and when he would take up
his command, or whether he would be willing to fight in America. All she could
think was that Wellington with inferior forces had beaten the best of
Napoleon’s generals. It seemed certain to her that with an army of well-trained
veterans, superior in numbers and quality of arms, Wellington would sweep away
any army the United States could muster.

Panic left little room for logic. Abigail’s fears were only
confirmed when she asked Arthur whether the news were true and he admitted it,
but told her that he felt Wellington would not agree to go. He explained the
reasons at some length and added that if Wellington were to go to Canada, he
would have full powers to make peace. Actually, Arthur assured her, Wellington
would be more an emissary than a general, but Abigail was not really listening.
She believed Arthur was only telling her what he thought would give her
comfort. She was very much afraid that the news about the attack on New Orleans
would be of no help—it would come too late or be ignored—but she could not now
withhold even the smallest assistance she could give.

It was apparent as soon as the Americans entered the rooms
set aside for the party in the Lion d’Or that Abigail’s personal fears had been
unfounded. Albert’s awareness that no special link between them should be
evident prompted him not to linger over his greeting. And, although Mr. Russell
and Mr. Adams did recognize her, they had clearly been warned not to betray the
fact that they had known her in America. Neither said anything about the
bookshop, and Abigail could only hope that nothing else of importance was said
either, for very little of her attention was given to the various conversations
in which she was involved. She was waiting impatiently for the moment when the
rooms would be crowded and noisy enough that she and Albert could escape for a
few minutes without their absence being noticed.

To facilitate her plan, she kept a surreptitious eye on her friend
and tried to keep herself physically in his vicinity. Abigail was no novice at
social maneuvers and was careful to avoid the notice of Mrs. Goulburn and the
British commissioners. The only one she did not watch was Arthur. She no longer
cared whether he noticed that she sought Albert out. The worst he would do was
to take her back to England, and because she had given up any hope for peace,
that would be a relief.

And, of course, Arthur did notice. He saw the sidelong
glances cast at Gallatin, saw that wherever the man moved, Abigail soon
followed. Yet there was more fuel for pity than for jealousy in what he saw. He
was sure Abigail was aware her attraction to Gallatin was unhealthy and
unrequited. She had not tried to keep him with her when they greeted each
other. Yet to his eyes it was as if she were drawn by a magnet, unable to keep
away, although she resisted desperately.

Arthur was sick at heart. He tried not to watch, but found
his eyes on Abigail as often as hers were on Gallatin, and he saw her yield, at
last, to what seemed to him an irresistible temptation. She and the young man
to whom she was speaking moved to join Gallatin’s group, and after a few
minutes Gallatin and Abigail drifted away from the others and went out the door
into the corridor. Arthur replied automatically to the remark that had been
addressed to him while he told himself it would be better to let Abigail have
her pathetic few minutes alone, but he could not bear it. She had looked
entirely too relieved and happy when she laid her hand on Gallatin’s arm.

Abigail had indeed been delighted at the combination of
circumstances that permitted so quick and easy an escape. She had been talking
to James Gallatin, from whom she did not need to conceal her purpose, just when
casual circulation brought Albert to a spot near the door of the room. She only
had to say, “I want to have a word with your papa in private,” instead of
manufacturing excuses to terminate a conversation, and when they reached
Albert, the natural pause in the talk of the group as she and James were
welcomed permitted her to ask about Albert’s wife, Hannah, and the younger
children. Since the subject was not of general interest, it was only natural
that they should step aside from the others. A moment later Abigail was able to
say she had private information for him, and they slipped out of the room.

The corridor was empty, and Abigail moved quickly toward a
curtained window at the end, saying, “There is to be an attack on New Orleans.
I do not know when. Perhaps my news is already too late.”

“I hope not, and I hope they make better use of it than the
warning you gave about Washington,” Gallatin said, then shrugged. “My house was
burnt, but at least the furnishings were saved, and Hannah and the children are
safe, so it does not matter.”

Abigail bit her lip. “I’m sorry about the house, Albert, and
I have even more bad news for you. Bathurst has asked Wellington to take charge
of the armies in Canada.”

Gallatin looked startled and stopped short in the middle of
the corridor. “That can have nothing to do with New Orleans. Wellington is in
Paris. It would be some time before he could reach Canada, but it is still bad
news. It sounds very much as if the British government intends to continue the
war.”

“Well, you can hardly blame them,” Abigail said crossly.
“They have moderated all their demands, and all you say is no, no, no. Even I
feel that you are being unreasonable. Really, Albert, I am sure this project
you are preparing is a last chance. I know Goulburn advised ending the
negotiations after your last note. You
must
yield something. You must
present
some
token compromise—”

“You do not understand,” Gallatin interrupted. “In a
federation of many geographically different states, like the United States,
very diverse interests must be considered. The northwestern states wish to
forbid the Indian fur trade with Britain. The states bordering on the
Mississippi wish to forbid the use of that river to Britain. The northeastern
states insist on retaining their right to fish in the waters near Canada and
dry their fish in Newfoundland. Not only must we try to obtain a reasonable
peace from Britain, but we must consider the special interests within our
nation.”

“That is utterly ridiculous!” Abigail exclaimed, stamping
her foot. “Did you not hear what I said? Your jumped-up backwoodsman generals
and volunteer colonels will be pitted against Wellington. He will wipe up your
armies as a scullery maid wipes up ants. If you do not yield a little now, you
will lose everything.”

Gallatin shook his head. “Abigail—”

She made a
grrr
sound of frustrated rage and burst
out, “You and the others are a bunch of pigheaded mules—” A choked laugh
brought an abrupt end to Abigail’s impassioned speech, and she turned angrily
toward the sound, but when she saw that it was Arthur, she beckoned impatiently
to him to join them. “Tell him,” she said to her husband, “tell him that if
they do not offer some sensible compromise, Britain will have no choice but to
exert every bit of her power to bring the war to a quick end.”

Arthur approached smiling and extending a hand to shake
Gallatin’s—a remarkable feat of self-control for a man who was divided in his
feelings between wanting to hide in a hole and roar with laughter and embrace
them both. It was very fortunate that Arthur had an active sense of humor and
knew he could be an unmitigated ass when his emotions were involved. He had
come out of the room boiling, intending to confront his wife with her sick
attachment to a man who cared for her only as a daughter and tell her that he
would not accept the remainders of her love for another man.

Abigail’s furious exclamation and the ill-tempered stamp of
her foot had stopped him in his tracks both mentally and physically. He
realized that this was the second time a kind fate had saved him from making a
damned fool of himself and possibly from ruining his marriage. There would be
no third time, he resolved, as he listened to Abigail at her best and her
worst—as opinionated and acerbic as ever she was with him. Apparently “dear
Albert” was no idol, and what he had taken for a lovesick urge had been a
sound, practical desire to deliver a political warning to a man who knew and
trusted her. Arthur did not think her method was exactly suited to diplomacy or
conducive to inspiring a desire to compromise, but he was not worried about
that.

The final deathblow to any lingering doubt was the eagerness
with which Abigail urged him to join them. Very clearly the only passion she
felt was a passionate desire to make a political point. Arthur shook Gallatin’s
hand with pleasure and with his other arm embraced his wife. He knew that he
should pick up her lead and try to convince the American that concessions must
be made, but he was far too happy to care about political expediency.

“A reasonable project would be most helpful,” he said, “but
Abigail is too fearful for her friends in the United States. I have my doubts
that Lord Wellington will be sent. With Russia growling about war to keep
Poland and Austria and Prussia snarling at each other over Saxony, I fear Lord
Wellington will be too valuable here.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Arthur’s honesty had little effect on the terms of the
treaty proposed by the American commissioners, for, as Albert had told Abigail,
their own regional needs, pride and jealousy were preeminent. Fortunately these
were so conflicting that compromises within the delegation made a certain
vagueness in the proposals necessary. And perhaps the threat of a more vigorous
prosecution of the war contributed to the covering letter that went with the
project, stating that the Americans were “ready to sign a Treaty placing the
two Countries in respect to all the subjects of difference between them, in the
same state that they were at the commencement of the present War, reserving to
each party all its rights, and leaving whatever may remain of controversy
between them for future negotiation.”

Nonetheless, the project would have been rejected out of
hand except for largely extraneous circumstances. In Vienna, the allies who had
so recently defeated Napoleon were threatening to attack each other. In
England, there was growing resistance to the taxes necessary to continue the
war in America, and the manufacturers most involved in trade with the United
States were impatient and angry at the administration. Last but not least, Lord
Wellington was very unenthusiastic about the prospects of any military
operation in Canada.

Thus, instead of a rejection, Bathurst wrote to Goulburn
that the government would negotiate on the basis of the proposals the Americans
had submitted and made it clear in a private note that Liverpool was eager to
bring the treaty to a conclusion. But the continual backing down from haughty
demands rankled bitterly in the colonial secretary. Lord Bathurst had a less philosophical
temper than Lord Liverpool and, because he had been most deeply and directly
involved in the negotiations once Castlereagh left for Vienna, knew he would
bear most of the criticism raised against the treaty.

Lord Bathurst was in the mood to blame someone for
something
during the final stages of the negotiation, but no real opportunity arose until
early in December, when he received a letter from Bertram Lydden, Arthur St.
Eyre’s secretary. This, after a paragraph explaining that a terrible struggle
between loyalty to his employer and to his country had delayed his revelation,
accused Abigail St. Eyre of being an agent for the American government.
Enclosed were copies of Abigail’s letters to Gallatin and a record of all the
mornings she had spent in bookshops where, the letter stated, she had met
American spies and passed information.

Had Bathurst’s level of frustration been lower, he would
have sent the letter on to Arthur with a covering note warning him to control
his wife better. At this stage of the game, prosecuting Lady St. Eyre would be
useless even if they could prove a case against her, which, on the basis of the
evidence provided, was unlikely. In addition, it was most doubtful that
Liverpool would even allow an investigation, since Sir Arthur was the nephew of
an old and valued friend.

Still, Bathurst needed to tear into someone, and he
associated Arthur closely with the unsatisfactory peace that was being
concluded. What was more, Arthur was a member of the opposition party who did
not need to be considered for political reasons. It would give Bathurst great
satisfaction to accuse Arthur of duplicity in not warning him of his wife’s
American sympathies. He could even say Arthur had taken a viper to his bosom
and carried that viper into the peace negotiations, where doubtless she had
spread her poison.

Since a warning would give Arthur time both to find excuses
and to cover his discomfiture, Bathurst simply wrote asking him to leave Ghent
at once and bring Lady St. Eyre with him when he reported to the colonial
office in London.

“Well, the peace is made,” Arthur remarked when he had read
the letter at breakfast.

Abigail dropped her own letters and stared. It had not
seemed to her that there had been any forward motion since the agreement to use
the American “project” as a basis of negotiation. In fact, she would have said
that the bickering over details was more acrimonious than ever.

“Made?” she echoed. “You mean a treaty has been signed?”

“Not quite,” Arthur admitted, “but it must be all over
except the shouting of hurrahs. I have here an order from Bathurst to return to
England at once.”

“But could that not mean that the government intends to
break off the talks completely?”

“No,” Arthur replied, smiling. “You know that Wellington has
said even he could make no real progress against the Americans unless the Great
Lakes were under British control, and the government cannot afford to try again
and fail again on the lakes. Wellington was their last hope. They must make
peace, and they must make it quickly because the Russians are using the war to
cast an ugly light on every suggestion Castlereagh makes for a territorial
settlement in Europe. And finally, Bathurst asked me to bring
you
to the
colonial office with me. There can be no reason for that except his desire to
thank us and dismiss us.”

An uneasy quiver ran through Abigail. Could her meetings
with Gallatin have been noticed and reported? And what if they had been, she
thought defiantly. Albert was an old and dear friend. She was certain that no
one had heard what they discussed. All she had to do was say they had talked
only of personal matters, his family and their common friends.

Still, she did not want Arthur to know she had deceived him,
and she asked nervously, “But if the treaty is all but decided on, why does
Bathurst order us home? Not that I will be sorry to go. I have been worried
about how near it is to Christmas. We must be there when the children come
home. But I still think it would be more natural for us to remain to the end so
that you can discourage Goulburn from oversetting everything at the last
minute.”

“Ah, my sweet innocent,” Arthur said, laughing. “It is plain
that you are a novice at politics. Bathurst is recalling me so that the
opposition—of which I am a member—will get no credit for ending the war. Nor
does Bathurst wish it noised about that his own people were so ignorant and
incompetent that he needed me to help them. And I promise, you need not worry
about Goulburn. He is as eager to get home as you are. He understands that
peace must be made and will put no impediments in the way now.”

Abigail could not quell the feeling that the sudden summons
was somehow wrong and that it was odd that Bathurst should want her to come to
his office with her husband. If he even remembered that Arthur was married and
that she had accompanied her husband, she would have expected a polite
thank-you note—but perhaps he did not want to put even so much into writing.
She shook off the thread of worry and smiled at Arthur.

“I am glad to hear that Goulburn understands, but I think it
unfair that you should get no credit for all your hard work.”

After laughing even harder at that naive remark, Arthur
explained that he was grateful for Bathurst’s secrecy. “It may save me having
brickbats thrown at me by my own party.”

“But they
want
peace,” Abigail protested. “I have
seen reports of several speeches attacking the war and—”

“I fear, my love,” Arthur pointed out wryly, “that my fellow
Whigs are far more interested in making trouble for Liverpool’s administration
than in making peace. If the war continued and grew sufficiently unpopular, it
might force a new election, topple the Tories, and bring the Whigs into power
again. They will love me no better for depriving them of a useful cause.”

“Disgusting,” Abigail pronounced, but Arthur only laughed at
her again.

“All politics are, and yet they are the only way to achieve
any good, for absolute rule by one man is an invitation to disaster, and
anarchy is worse, being a disaster in action.” He pushed aside the remains of
what he had been eating and stood up. “I will go and let Goulburn and the
others know I have been recalled and then make arrangements for traveling home.
When do you think you can be ready, Abigail?”

“Tomorrow,” she said promptly. “There are only the clothes
to pack. I have been sending all the presents I have bought home as I filled a
packing case. There is one only half full, but—”

“We can stay a day or two while you fill it,” Arthur said so
gravely that Abigail replied, “Oh no, I can put other—” before she realized he
was teasing her and thumbed her nose at him.

After that, she was too busy writing farewell notes and
overseeing the servants’ hurried packing to worry about Bathurst’s letter
again. Abigail was mildly sorry not to have time to say goodbye to Albert in
person, but she knew he would understand—and she was very glad indeed to be
done with meddling in diplomacy. Now that peace was only days, or at worst
weeks, away, the anxiety diminished, as did the sense of responsibility she had
felt for the welfare of the country in which she had been born. It was as if
she had owed a debt to the United States for sheltering her and her parents,
and she had now paid that debt and was free.

The problem that occupied her and Arthur on their way back
to England was the one they had left there. Who could have tried to kill
her—and why? No answer had been discovered, although Bertram had written that
he had done everything possible by way of investigation and had sent regular
reports on his attempts to solve the mystery. It did not occur to either of
them that the recall to England was part of that pattern even when Lord
Bathurst, having greeted them so frigidly that Arthur’s back stiffened with
offense, uttered his accusation of Abigail.

“Are you accusing my wife of being a spy?” Arthur roared.
“On what do you base this idiocy—aside from the fact that she was born in the
United States?”

“On a letter from your own secretary,” Bathurst replied with
grim satisfaction. “Mr. Lydden suspected her activities and determined where
and when she met the agents to whom she passed information.”

Both Arthur and Abigail were so shocked that they stood
staring. In the dead silence, Bathurst passed the letter he had received to
Arthur. He looked at it, but his eyes were filled with tears, which he would
not permit to fall, and the words were nothing but a blur. Meanwhile, Abigail,
who was not nearly as upset as Arthur although she was bitterly hurt by the
treachery of a man she had thought was her friend, had recovered enough for her
sense of self-preservation to begin to operate. The pain of Bertram’s betrayal
was dulled by the need to defend herself, yet she dared not say anything lest
she tell Bathurst more than he already knew.

Abigail was badly frightened because she did not realize
that Bathurst intended to do nothing more than embarrass Arthur. Driven by her
need to discover of what she was accused, she pulled the letter from Arthur’s
hand. Before she could read it, though, Bathurst began to detail its contents,
finding his own sharp dissatisfactions somewhat eased by the despairing
expression of his victim. He did not realize that Arthur was not hearing a word
he said.

Because Abigail was insignificant to him, only the device
used to punish Arthur and ease his own anger and frustration, Bathurst did not
look at her. Had he done so, he would have been warned by the growing
expression of hope she wore. Abigail knew her letters to Albert were totally
innocuous, and she had witnesses who could testify that she had met no one in
the bookshops and that her activities there were innocent. Her one guilty
exploit in England, when she told Gallatin of the proposed attack on
Washington, and the meetings in Ghent were not mentioned.

“I am sorry you have been so sadly misled,” Abigail said
calmly when he had finished.

Bathurst’s eyes shifted to her. “Misled?” he repeated
angrily.

“I cannot imagine why Bertram Lydden should put so ugly an
interpretation on my letters and behavior,” she said. “If you have read the
copies of my letters, you must know there is nothing in them of a traitorous
nature. Mr. Gallatin is a very old friend. I have known him since I was a
child, when he married Hannah Nicholson, a dear friend of my mother’s, and he
was my trustee after my father’s death. Surely it could not be wrong for me to
write a personal letter to him relating common news just because he was an
American?”

“The letters are irrelevant,” Bathurst snapped impatiently,
trying to dismiss her defense. “It is these meetings with agents of the United
States—”

“I met no one in any bookshop that I visited,” Abigail
interrupted, her voice sharp. “So, unless the clerks there or Mr. Hatchard or
Mr. Lackington are agents of the United States—”

“Madam,” Bathurst interrupted, sneering, “even if you were a
bluestocking of the most passionate nature, there would be no sense to so many
visits to these shops at such early hours of the morning.”

Abigail hesitated as if she were unsure of herself, but
there was triumph hidden by her downcast eyes. At last, when she felt Bathurst
was savoring her confusion and defeat, she said, “I do have a secret, Lord
Bathurst, but it is not of a political nature. I hope you will be gentleman
enough, in recompense for your unkind accusation, to keep it in confidence. It
is unfair of you to cause my husband so much pain when you could have
discovered the truth by asking Mr. Hatchard and Mr. Lackington. I own a
bookshop in the United States. Because I feared the war would stop all
commerce, I was purchasing a large number of books to ship to America, and Mr.
Lackington was kind enough to allow me to come before the store was crowded
with customers.”

“You own a bookshop?” Bathurst’s voice rose with
incredulity. “Why?”

Abigail knew that question had to come, and she had been
seeking for an answer that would satisfy Bathurst without hurting Arthur. She
could not bear to say aloud in Bathurst’s presence that her shop was a defense
against her husband, a safe haven if he should prove unsatisfactory as had
Francis—and as she thought it, she knew it was no longer true. Her trust in
Arthur was as complete as her love for him. Then why
did
she cling to
her shop, for she still did not want to sell it.