A Woman's Estate (51 page)

“My dear,” Abigail began, “you must try—”

At that moment the mantel clock chimed six, and Griselda
jumped to her feet. “I must go!” she cried. “I must go at once! Oh, I am
already late. Bertram will think I am in danger. He may try to come here, and
he is still too weak.”

Despite her anxiety, Griselda could hardly control her
exhausted body and had taken only a few steps when the door opened and Arthur
appeared. Abigail had already laid her hand on Griselda’s arm, and now she
said, “Arthur will go. Come, my love, sit down again. You are too upset and too
tired. She is afraid,” she said, turning to Arthur, “that Bertram will be
worried about her and try to come here. She thinks him still too ill—”

“Yes, I’ll go, of course, and I’ll take him back to Stonar,
where he can be more comfortable. If Keriell comes before I get back, Abigail—”

But Abigail had been watching Griselda’s face as she led her
back to her chair, and the expressions that played across it plus the statement
of Bertram’s deep concern for her explained several puzzling things.

“No, Arthur,” Abigail exclaimed. “Bring Bertram here. It is
closer. He will be just as comfortable. And you will not be tempted to plague
him with business every ten minutes.”

Arthur’s lips parted to protest Abigail’s unfair accusation,
but the wink she gave him and the fact that speed was essential kept him quiet.
Griselda cried out faintly about Arthur being gentle and tried to follow, but
it was obvious that she would be outdistanced in minutes, and she uttered a sob
and sank down onto a sofa.

“Now I know you are terribly tired,” Abigail said, “but you
can’t
be such a goose as to think Arthur would say anything to distress Bertram. He
loves
Bertram. Do stop crying. You and Bertram are both safe now.” She hesitated and
then took Griselda’s hand. “My dear, how long have you and Bertram been in
love? And
why
did you not tell me or Bertram tell Arthur?”

“I have always loved Bertram,” Griselda sighed. “He is so
gentle and so handsome, and I think he began to care for me when Mama tried
to…to make a marriage between me and Sir Arthur. As to why he did not speak of
it, at first he thought I might wish to be Lady St. Eyre. And we had nothing. I
knew Mama would not settle anything on me.”

“What difference did that make?” Abigail asked. “You could
have lived at Stonar with Bertram. Surely you could not believe Arthur would
not have welcomed you.”

Griselda dropped her head. “Partly it was because Bertram is
so aware of how good Sir Arthur is to him. He feels he does not merit the
generosity with which he is treated. To ask for still more…”

“Nonsense!” Abigail exclaimed. “Bertram is like Arthur’s other
self. I do not know what we would do without him. He is invaluable.”

Griselda looked up and smiled gratefully. “I knew that, but…
Mostly it was my fault, really. I was afraid of Sir Arthur and of the life led
at Stonar, too—all the political dinners. Here, Mama was quite happy if I sat
in a corner, but at Stonar, even before Violet left, I would have been expected
to take part and after…” Griselda shivered. “Bertram told me then that Sir
Arthur would be glad to have me act as his hostess. I-I could not.”

“But Griselda,” Abigail protested, “you grew to like Arthur
in Scotland. I am sure you did. And once we were married you must have known
that—”

“It was too late then,” Griselda interrupted. “Bertram knew
about Eustace then, although I did not. In fact, I was—I was upset when Bertram
did nothing after I told him I had changed my mind and was
willing
to
live at Stonar. And then…then we quarreled.”

“In London. It
was
a quarrel with Bertram that sent
you home.”

“Yes.” Griselda smiled again and uttered a very faint
giggle. “He was jealous. Bertram was jealous of
me
. I could not believe
it. I thought it was just an excuse, that he had changed his mind and no longer
wanted to marry me.”

“Why should he not be jealous?” Abigail asked gently. “Your
dance cards were always filled, and there were several gentlemen who were
interested seriously.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Griselda replied, looking troubled. “I
would hate to give anyone pain. I have never cared for anyone but Bertram, and
he was sorry he had accused me of flirting, which I did not, truly. As soon as
you all came back to Stonar, he apologized and said he would speak to Sir
Arthur, but he had not found an opportunity before… Do you remember when you
asked for your letter book?”

“Yes, of course. You should not have been so silly as to get
so upset—” Abigail paused at the violent shake of Griselda’s head.

“That was when I discovered it was Eustace who had shot at
you at the old mill,” Griselda said, shuddering. “He said the letter book had
fallen behind the drawer, but I knew that was impossible. At first I was just
angry and disgusted because I knew he had taken it—Eustace was always a snoop.
But then he turned and raised his arms to put the book on the mantelpiece, and
I-I suddenly recognized the set of his shoulders when he lifted the gun, and
his boots… I wanted to tell you. I was frightened to death, but Bertram would
not let me tell. He did not want me to be branded as the sister of a murderer.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks again, and Abigail soothed her,
assuring her that it did not matter. Then Abigail tried to convince her to go
to bed, but Griselda insisted she was not at all tired and that she must see
Bertram to be sure that moving from Mrs. Franklin’s cottage had done him no
harm.

“He nearly died,” Griselda whispered. “I thought he
was
dead, I only pulled all the rubble off him to see him once more, to kiss him
once more.”

“Pulled the rubble off him?” Abigail echoed.

“Eustace buried him in a pit in the Roman ruins. He thought
he had killed him—or that he would die of his head wound because he would be
too weak to dig his way out. I told Bertram not to meet Eustace, not to trust
him, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t let me come. He wouldn’t even tell me
where they were meeting. But I knew Eustace better than he. I followed…” Her
voice broke, and her eyes were staring wide with remembered horror. “It was
dark, and I was too far behind to help, but I saw Eustace burying him.”

Griselda began to shake, and Abigail knew she was on the
thin edge of real hysteria. Although Abigail had a million questions to ask and
was curious to hear the rest of the story, it seemed better to wait until
Griselda was calmer or, if Bertram were well enough, let him explain. Since
Abigail also knew it would be impossible to discuss anything else, she supplied
Griselda with a diversion by reminding her that a room had to be readied to
receive Bertram. The lure was strong enough. Griselda took a deep breath and
levered herself to her feet, saying she had to speak to Mrs. Howing and get the
maids busy at once.

When Griselda was gone, Abigail realized that she felt
rather shaky herself. The long journey in the jolting post chaise, followed by
grief, anxiety, terror and now relief had exhausted her, but she had barely let
her head fall back on the cushions of the sofa, it seemed, when Empson was
standing before her, saying her name.

“Sir John Keriell is here, my lady, and desires to know
the…the circumstances of the accident.”

Abigail looked at the butler but his face was a blank mask.
“Has Sir John seen the—seen Eustace?”

“Yes, my lady,” Empson replied. “I answered the door myself
and took him directly to the gun room. Sir Arthur had entrusted me with the key
when he told me to have a cot prepared to be used as a stretcher and send it
with four men to Mrs. Franklin’s cottage. As soon as I opened the door for Sir
John, I told him you were here and said I would ask if you could receive him.”

“Thank you, Empson,” Abigail said.

The words were what she would have said in any case, but her
voice and expression showed how deeply she meant them, that she understood a
faithful servant was a treasure above jewels. The way the butler had phrased
his answer told Abigail that no one except he had spoken to the justice of the
peace and that he had told Sir John nothing at all.

She went on thoughtfully, “I will see Sir John at once, of
course, but there is very little I can tell him. I do not at all understand
what happened. Sir Arthur and I came here to ask Miss Lydden if she knew where
Mr. Lydden had disappeared to—and after that I became very frightened and
confused. Sir Arthur will have to explain the rest.”

“Yes, my lady, that is very clear,” Empson said. “I will
bring Sir John. Shall I also bring some wine and cakes?”

Abigail relaxed and nodded. She was sure Empson would relate
to Arthur what she intended to tell Sir John as soon as he was in the door, and
Arthur would take over from there. But in the end, she did not see Sir John at
all. Arthur had returned while Empson was speaking to her. Since Griselda, who
had been hovering watchfully, ran out to meet them as soon as they approached
and neither she nor Bertram were any longer trying to conceal their
relationship, Arthur left her to settle Bertram and went to talk to the justice
of the peace.

By then, the doctor had also arrived. His testimony would be
necessary at the coroner’s inquest, but even before he made his statement, Sir
John had no doubt that Eustace had met his death by misadventure. He accepted
Arthur’s explanation for why Eustace should have loaded and fired a gun when he
was dressed for dinner. He was sure that there was a good deal more to the
story than what he heard, but he asked no questions because he had seen the
horsewhip Arthur had dropped just inside the door, with the other pistol still
tangled in its lash. No crime had been committed. It was perfectly clear that
Eustace had overloaded a pistol, and it had exploded and killed him while he
was trying to shoot someone else.

The doctor then went up to see if Hilda needed him, and when
he had left her an opiate to help her sleep, he went on to see Bertram.
Meanwhile, Arthur had seen Sir John out and come back to tell Abigail what he
had said to the J.P. and that Bertram seemed to be recovering. In turn she
explained what she had learned from Griselda. Before she was quite finished the
doctor was shown in and reported that although it was a miracle that Bertram
was alive at all, he was now in surprisingly good condition.

“A few days more of rest and very gentle exercise—sitting up
in a chair and then walking about the room—” The doctor stopped and harrumphed,
aware that Sir Arthur and his lady did not need these details. “But there, Miss
Griselda will take care of everything. There’s no need for me to repeat what I
said to her. At Mr. Lydden’s request, I wish to assure you, Sir Arthur, that
Mr. Lydden is quite well enough to talk to you. And privately, I would advise
you and Lady St. Eyre to go up and let him say what he must as soon as
possible. Whatever it is, it is preying on his mind, and he will not be able to
rest properly until it is off his conscience. And I hope you will assure him—”

Abigail was already on her feet. “It is only a sick fancy,
Doctor. Mr. Lydden has done
nothing
wrong. He is worried because he
could not accomplish what no one
could
have accomplished. It was not his
fault he was struck down.”

“That is perfectly true, Doctor,” Arthur added. “You know
Bertram has been my friend for many years. He has an overscrupulous conscience,
that is all. I suppose I was wrong not to let him explain at once, but I
already knew the truth, and I feared the effort would be too much for him.”

The doctor nodded, and his bright eyes glanced quickly in
the direction of the gun room, but he said no more. Abigail and Arthur saw him
out on their way up to Bertram’s room. When she saw him, Abigail cried out with
horror, for the whole side of his face was blue and maroon and green and yellow
with bruises. She rushed forward and bent over the bed.

“Oh, my darling, darling Bertram, I am afraid to touch you,
but I wish I could kiss you and hug you. I
am
so glad you’re alive.”

He looked at her with sorrowful eyes, and there was no shade
of affectation in his voice when he said, “Even though you were nearly killed
because of my pride and my stupidity? I—”

“Don’t enact me any Cheltenham tragedies,” Abigail
interrupted, laughing. “I know you think you are cleverer than anyone else, but
if you tell the truth, you will have to admit that you never guessed it was
Eustace who tried to run me down in London. It was only after he brought GoGo
down with that rope that you put the two things together and figured out that
once I was dead, Victor would have to go back to Rutupiae so Eustace could have
another try at him. And when you did work it out, Arthur had decided to take me
to Ghent. You knew I would be safe there.”

Abigail had taken his hand while she spoke and squeezed it
comfortingly. “Yes,” he said, returning the pressure, but looking at Arthur,
“that’s true, but—”

“But nothing. Abigail is perfectly right,” Arthur broke in.
“I never suspected you of such a passion for dramatics. Once I had taken
Abigail to Ghent, she was safe, and Victor was safe in school. It was perfectly
reasonable for you to try to get proof of what Eustace had done and get him out
of the country. Besides, if there is any blame to be laid, it must surely be
laid at
my
door, not yours. If I hadn’t been such an idiot as to suspect
you
—”

“Me?” Bertram gasped, pushing himself more upright. “Of
trying to kill Abigail?”

“No.” Arthur grinned. “Of trying to kill Victor and putting
the blame on Eustace.”

An expression of total outrage appeared on Bertram’s
battered countenance. “So I could inherit? What a disgusting idea! What had I
ever done—?”

“Your bruises are turning purple,” Arthur said. “Cool down.
Actually, I thought of Eustace first, but it seemed incredible that he would do
such a thing, knowing he would be the first to be suspected. And it was your
own fault that I was afraid you had something to do with it. When Abigail
brought Victor’s coat to show us and I asked what Simmons had to tell you that
morning, you told me you had been out, and you looked damned queer when you
said it.”