A Woman's Estate (6 page)

Needless to say, this did not improve Abigail’s opinion of
Hilda, but she had asked Mrs. Franklin to come to Rutupiae, had been favorably
impressed, and had arranged for her to supervise Victor and Daphne until she
either sent them to school or hired a governess and tutor. Mrs. Franklin had not
been very enthusiastic about living at Rutupiae Hall, but Abigail assured her
that it would not be for long, at the most a month or two. The deciding factors
were that Francis had been her favorite nursling and that his children had a
special attraction for her.

In fact, Abigail’s discussion with Mrs. Franklin provided
another reason for helping Griselda if she could. To her relief, Abigail found
that it was not necessary to tell Mrs. Franklin of Francis’ death because
Griselda had taken the trouble to walk down to her cottage as soon as they
heard of it from Mr. Deedes. And it was partly her grief over Francis’ death
that prompted Mrs. Franklin to break her rule of caring for children only in
her own home.

The first fruits of the arrangement had appeared this very
morning. Victor and Daphne had breakfasted in the nursery quarters under Mrs.
Franklin’s severe but sympathetic eye, then had gone outside. Some of the
benefit was owing to the fact that the sun was shining and the children could
explore the grounds, but Abigail was in an especially good humor because she
had not personally had to attend to their washing and dressing.

Then, to her pleasure, she discovered that only Griselda was
at the table. Hilda never came down, preferring breakfast in bed, but Eustace
was usually there. Not that Abigail objected to Eustace’s company. Whatever had
oppressed him at dinner that first day seemed to have disappeared, and she
generally found him most useful in dealing with his mother. Today, however, she
wanted to talk to Griselda alone because it seemed to her that the girl was
almost as frightened of her brother as of her mother.

Of course, Griselda seemed equally frightened of
her
.
As it was, the moment she came in, Griselda jumped to her feet, clumsily
overturning her cup of tea. “I am sorry I startled you,” Abigail said with a
smile, although Griselda’s ineffectual fluttering dabs at the wet spot on the
cloth with a napkin made her want to grit her teeth.

“A dreadful mess,” Griselda gasped. “I am so clumsy. So
sorry. I will fetch a maid to—”

“The bell is on the table,” Abigail remarked. “If you ring,
the servant will come. Do sit down, Griselda. No, not there,” she added,
ignoring the hunted looks her sister-in-law was casting around the room. “That
seat may be wet. Come to this side of the table and sit near me.”

With a last terrified glance at the door, which, no doubt,
meant safety to her, Griselda did as she was told. Abigail was pleased to avoid
further argument because she was eager to explain to Griselda how she wished to
divide the duties of the household, but she would gladly have traded both delay
and expostulation for an absence of or even a reduction in Griselda’s
nervousness. Abigail studied the girl for a moment, surprised at how pretty she
was. She had the straight nose and well-formed lips of the Lyddens in a
delicate, feminine mold, but her eyes were a soft gray rather than the sharp,
bright blue that Victor had inherited from Francis. Her skin was clear, if
slightly sallow—no, perhaps that was owing to the unsuitable color of her
gown—her hair a light golden brown. Abigail wondered why she had not noticed
before—and then Griselda made a nervous gesture and hunched her rather broad
shoulders in a self-effacing way, which Abigail suddenly realized distracted
her attention from Griselda’s more attractive features.

“I thought—” Abigail began, only to have Griselda spring to
her feet again.

“The tea is cold,” she cried. “I will order fresh tea for
you.”

“You have already rung for—ah, here she is now,” Abigail said
with relief. “Betty, please put a cloth under where the tea was spilled, so the
wet does not mar the table until it is free to be cleared. I caused a slight
accident. And bring my coffee and some fresh tea for Miss Lydden.” As soon as
the maid went out, she hurried on before Griselda could find another reason to
flee. “There is no reason why you should carry the entire burden of the
housekeeping. At the same time, I realize you would be bored to death with
nothing to do—as would I.”

At this point, Abigail took the chance of pausing to allow
Griselda to speak if she wished, since it would now be openly rude if she tried
to run away. But Griselda had slid farther back in her chair, no longer
perching on the extreme edge, and she was staring at Abigail in wide-eyed
amazement.

“You said
you
spilled the tea,” she whispered.

“No,” Abigail contradicted smilingly. “I seldom lie—only
when it is absolutely necessary. I said I
caused
the accident—and that
was true. I startled you.”

Griselda dropped her eyes. “You are very kind,” she said in
a stifled voice. “I know Mama has not made you very welcome, and—”

“That is not your fault,” Abigail interrupted briskly, not
wishing to be drawn into a discussion in which she, or even Griselda, might say
too much.

“No,” Griselda replied, “but not everyone would see it that
way.”

Abigail shrugged, thinking that there must be those who took
out their irritation at Hilda on the nearly defenseless Griselda. “The more
fools they,” she said almost angrily, and as Griselda winced, Abigail shook her
head and softened her tone. “Now, as I was saying, I do not like to be idle. I
am not accustomed to it.”

She thought of telling Griselda that she had managed a
business as well as running her own house, but shied away from that confidence.
Abigail’s mother had made it very clear that in England, conducting a business
was an activity that might cause her to be excluded from the upper levels of
society. It was because Martha Milford had been a bookseller’s daughter that
her husband’s family would not accept her.

“In America,” she went on, “I ran my own house. Of course,
my household was much smaller and less complicated than that of Rutupiae Hall.
I do not wish to make a fool of myself or upset the staff.”

“They like you,” Griselda offered.

“I am glad to hear it,” Abigail said, “and I would like to
keep it that way. So, for the present, I think you had better continue with the
day-to-day chores, such as doing the flowers and approving the menus—” she
paused and smiled. “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how many courses or
what dishes would be suitable for any particular occasion. Someday, when I am a
little more settled, you must teach me. I would be in an appalling state if you
should leave to marry—”

Abigail’s voice checked as Griselda’s breath drew in sharply
and she turned her head away. Unwitting, she had apparently turned a knife in
an already painful wound. Had the girl been rejected so openly as to make any
reminder unbearable? Or—Abigail’s lips thinned with anger—more likely, had her mother
made her feel she was so undesirable as to be incapable of attracting any man?
Distressed all the more because she knew any apology would only add to
Griselda’s pain, Abigail could do no more than touch her arm gently and talk
for a few minutes about how she feared to offend the upper servants by her
ignorance. Then, as she saw the flaming red fade from Griselda’s cheek and
ear—all Abigail could see of her face—she came back to the more serious part of
her subject.

“My part will be approving the work assignments of the
staff, hiring and dismissing—whenever either is necessary—settling quarrels and
such matters.” Abigail smiled again as Griselda finally brought herself to look
at her. “I cannot get into any trouble over those tasks, since Empson and Mowing
will really arrange the work assignments and since hiring and dismissal do not,
I believe, occur very frequently.”

“My mother’s personal maids come and go,” Griselda said
colorlessly.

“But that is none of my affair,” Abigail replied gently. “I
will not pay Hilda’s dresser or Eustace’s valet, so I will have no right to any
decisions over their employment. However, since you are taking part of the
burden of the housekeeping, I will very gladly pay your maid—or add to your pin
money if you would prefer that.”

Griselda’s eyes opened wide, but her shock had nothing to do
with Abigail’s offer to pay her. “But Howing and Empson pay the lower servants,
including Mother’s maid and Eustace’s valet,” she whispered, horrified. “If
they refuse—”

“I have spoken to them about that, Griselda,” Abigail
interrupted. “It seems the first Lady Lydden did distribute all the wages
herself and had a word with each servant. Your mama did not choose to do so,
but I think I will renew the old custom. I feel that a word of praise—or blame—from
the mistress four times a year has a stronger effect than the same word from
the butler or housekeeper who has been approving or scolding every day.
Besides, I need to get to know the staff, even those like the boot boy and
scullery maids whom I am not likely to see, and paying them will give me that
opportunity in a manner that will not intrude.”

“Oh, dear,” Griselda sighed. “Mama will not be pleased.”

“Perhaps not,” Abigail remarked dryly, “but by your father’s
will she has a very handsome income—very nearly as large as Victor’s—and she is
not supporting a household and paying for the upkeep of several country houses
and a town house in London. I cannot feel that forty pounds a year or even one
hundred forty pounds—if Eustace’s valet is paid what seems to be the usual
rate—will constitute a dangerous drain on her jointure.”

Griselda’s mouth opened but nothing came out, and she closed
it and swallowed hard. However, whatever she had been about to say was lost
forever as the hard thud of running feet sounded in the corridor, and Victor,
covered with earth and dead leaves and twigs, burst into the room.

“Mother!” he shouted. “Oh, Mother, someone
shot
at
me!”

“Shot at you?” Abigail repeated unbelievingly. “Don’t be
silly, Vic. Who would shoot at
you
? It must have been someone after a
hawk or—”

Silently Victor handed over his coat. The blood drained out
of Abigail’s face as her eyes fell on it. The collar and upper back of the
garment were pocked and torn, and she cried out and turned Victor so that she
could see the back of his head and shoulders.

“I’m not hurt, Mother,” Victor said, twisting around again.
“I—”

“Where is Daphne?” Abigail cried.

Victor started to answer but stopped when his sister entered
the room at a pace only a little slower than his. “Did you see Victor’s coat?”
she got out between gasps for air. “Mother! Someone shot at Victor.”

“Yes, I see,” Abigail said, her voice flat with the effort
not to burst into tears or hold both children to her in a spate of protective
ferocity. She dared not, Victor and Daphne were shocked and surprised but not
afraid. She knew she must not infect them with the terror she felt. “I am
sure,” she added, “that it must have been a mistake.” With trembling fingers
she examined the holes made by the pellets in the fabric of her son’s coat,
turning and turning it in her hands. “Where were you when this happened?”

“In the woods,” Victor replied. “We were playing with the
tennis balls and racquets, and it was so nice we went out on the lawn over
there,” he gestured to the north, “but it got hot out in the sun, so we walked
into the woods. I was carrying my coat—“

“He was going to leave it on the lawn,” Daphne put in
righteously, “but I said he had better take it. His shirt is thin, and he might
get chilled in the shade.”

“Oh, she makes more fuss than you do, Mother. I wasn’t
chilled, and there was a toad, a beautiful toad, so I threw my coat over a big
bush and stooped down—”

Abigail closed her eyes for a moment to hold back tears of
thankfulness, and Daphne asked anxiously, “Are you all right, Mother?”

“Yes, of course,” Abigail said mendaciously. “I was just
worrying about what Victor intended to do with that toad.”

“I was telling you how someone shot at me,” Victor exclaimed
indignantly. “Never mind about the toad.”

“Very well,” Abigail agreed, “since you didn’t catch it—”

“No, I didn’t, because just then there was this roar, and my
coat flew up in the air and fell down right on top of me, and I was so
surprised that I fell down too, and the toad got away.”

“Thank God,” Abigail breathed. “Oh, thank God.”

“Oh, all right,” Victor said, making a face. “She might have
squashed the poor thing anyway.”

Then he looked anxious. Victor was aware that his mother
knew he had planned to hide the toad in Hilda’s bed or, failing that, in her
favorite chair, but he felt perhaps it would have been more diplomatic not to
admit it.

A gasp of sound, half sob, half laugh, drew Abigail’s eyes
from Victor’s revealing expression to Griselda, who, she saw, was as
white-faced as she herself must be, but who had just realized why Victor wanted
the toad. Knowing her son, Abigail had been in no doubt about his purpose from
the beginning, although her simple prayer of thanksgiving had not, of course,
referred to the escape of the toad or to being spared Hilda’s fury.

“I almost fell down too, I was so surprised,” Daphne said
quickly, loyally trying to distract her mother from her brother’s unwise
honesty. “I had just stopped to pick some flowers—” She hesitated, fearing she
might have offended Griselda, who, she knew, was in charge of the gardens. “Not
that I don’t like your flowers,” she said to Griselda. “They are very
beautiful, but in the woods—”

“One must pick flowers. I understand,” Griselda assured her
with the first smile Abigail had seen. The smile surprised Abigail, as did the
calm tone of voice. Now that Abigail’s shock had diminished enough for her to
think about anything other than Victor’s narrow escape, she realized she would
have expected gasps and shrieks from Griselda. There might be more to Griselda
than Abigail had believed. Her good opinion was reinforced when Griselda went
on, very casually, “I hope the noise did not frighten you very much.”