Chapter Three
Two weeks after her informal dinner with the Barings, Abigail and her children bowled in high style up the long drive through the park that surrounded Rutupiae Hall. A note dispatched to Mr. Deedes on the morning after the visit had requested that he arrange transport for them in a fortnight, and he had done so according to the demands of his own high standards of what was owing to his noble clients. Abigail had done nothing to discourage his efforts. A careful scrutiny of Lord Lydden’s will and a long afternoon in Alexander Baring’s office going over accounts had clarified to her what she could afford to spend and what her powers were as Victor’s guardian.
Thus, the post chaise that bore them was the most elegant that could be obtained, and two outriders accompanied them. A few hours behind them a coach followed, carrying a mountain of boxes containing morning dresses, evening dresses, pelisses, hats, cloaks, gloves, delicate undergarments, in fact, a complete wardrobe. Every box bore an irreproachable name, every box was brand new, and each time Abigail thought of them, her eyes sparkled with mischief. About one garment in ten had actually come from the maker named; the remainder, from sources such as the Pantheon Bazaar and others even less respectable, looked no different, cost about one-fifth the price, and were Abigail’s private joke on the snobbish.
However, as they came up the drive, Abigail was in no mood for mischief. Being closed up in a post chaise all of one day and more than half of another with two lively children had brought silent prayers of thanksgiving from her when they had, at last, turned in through the wrought iron gates that closed off the private drive from the public road. Still, caution mingled with her relief when she saw the nervous eagerness with which the gatekeeper and his wife examined her, bowing and wishing her and the new lord and young lady welcome. She had forgotten until that moment what Anne had told her about the number of servants and the custom of turning out the entire staff to greet a new master.
The length of the drive gave her an opportunity to explain to Victor and Daphne what would be required of them, but the incredulous expressions on their faces and the giggles that they uttered led her to expect the worst. Fortunately the solemn attitude of the long line of men and women awaiting them awed her generally irrepressible offspring, and they went down the line, Victor before her and Daphne following, with creditable decorum. Abigail knew that this could not last, however, and she took the bull by the horns and explained to Empson, the butler, and Howing, the housekeeper, that they had better expect the young lord and Miss Daphne to show up in unexpected places.
“It is a larger house than they are accustomed to,” she said, smiling apologetically, “and of course, they are very curious.”
To her relief, her smile was returned by Howing, a gaunt, middle-aged woman whose severe features suddenly lightened. “Don’t you fret, my lady,” the housekeeper responded warmly. “I’ll warn Cook and the maids, and Empson will explain to the footmen. Really, my lady, it will be a pleasure to have young ones about again. They won’t be any trouble.”
“If you think so,” Abigail said, laughing and shaking her head, “it’s because you don’t know Victor and Daphne. But please do tell me if they get in the way. I have not yet had time to decide whether they are to go to school or have a tutor and governess, so they will be quite free and may be too much underfoot.”
“They will be mostly out-of-doors in this weather, my lady,” Empson put in, not unbending so far as to smile but indicating his approval of her confidence by an indulgent note in his voice. “But there are the attics and box rooms to entertain them in wet weather. They won’t get underfoot. Master Francis…” He hesitated and then said softly, “I hope you will pardon my boldness, my lady, and allow me to express for all the staff the sorrow we felt upon hearing of the tragic accident.”
“Thank you, Empson,” Abigail replied.
“It was a pleasure to serve him, my lady. Always thoughtful, he was, with a kind word for all.”
Tears misted Abigail’s eyes for a moment. At least part of what Empson said was true. Drunk or sober, Francis had the sweetest disposition in the world. Even when he was most stubborn in refusing to shoulder his share of any burden, he did it so seductively that most of the time his victims thanked him. If only… She shut off the thought. It was too late for regrets.
“I am glad to know that Francis was a considerate master,” she said, her voice only very slightly unsteady. “You will have to be patient with me, Empson, for the way of life in America is very different, but I assure you that I will learn as fast as I can and that I will do my best to make Victor as well loved by the household as his father was.”
“Thank you, my lady” was all that Empson said, nor did his dignified expression change, but Abigail knew that he was extending a deep sympathy for the dreadful life she led in the appalling wilderness overseas.
Abigail had not the slightest doubt that Empson believed she had been required to cook over open fires and barricade her house against whooping, war-dancing, naked savages. She swallowed desperately, fighting her desire to laugh, and was saved by hearing her son and daughter cry out with glee as a procession of a peacock and his attendant harem stalked slowly around the end of the raised terrace bordering the house.
“Mother, look! Oh look, Mother!” they cried in chorus.
Truthfully, Abigail herself was impressed, and the peacock did his best to deserve the awe with which he was being regarded. Either startled by the children’s voices or reacting to the mass of people, he raised and displayed his magnificent tail, screaming harshly. The house had been no surprise to Abigail or to the children, for Francis had spoken of it often and had described it, in the throes of homesickness, in a grand way he would not normally have done. In fact, he had even mentioned the peacocks—with considerable scorn, for he clearly thought them an ostentatious nuisance—but somehow seeing the exotic creatures tamely walking about brought home in a forceful way to Abigail how different her life would be.
She did not, however, give any outward sign of what she felt. The first and most important rule, Anne had told her, whether in dealing with the ton or her servants, was never to seem surprised, flustered, or nervous. So Abigail smiled and told the children that she was sure Empson would know whose duty it was to feed the birds and that Victor and Daphne might help in the task if they asked politely—but later. Now, she said firmly, it was time to go inside and meet their grandmama-by-marriage and Aunt Griselda and Uncle Eustace.
As she spoke the words, Abigail’s eye caught the faintest flicker of expression on Empson’s face, a twitch of an eyelid, a quiver at the corner of his mouth. Had she known the man better, she would have been sure he was hiding a rather malicious amusement or satisfaction, but it was a most peculiar reaction. Surely, Abigail thought, there could be no cause for amusement, malicious or not, in what she had said. She put the puzzle out of her mind as she nodded assent to the butler’s request to dismiss the waiting servants, telling herself that she had probably misunderstood the tiny signals she had seen.
Not long after Abigail had met Lady Hilda Lydden, however, she realized that she should have trusted her well-developed instinct. Just a few minutes after the initial greetings were over, it became apparent to Abigail that no woman would be less likely to enjoy being called “grandmama”—which was, no doubt, the cause of Empson’s amusement. And the ungracious manner with which Hilda scolded Empson because he had not asked Abigail and the children to wait while he announced them formally was a good reason for the hint of malicious satisfaction over Hilda’s discomfiture that she had detected in the butler.
Instinctively, because she liked Empson for the way he had accepted her, Abigail had tried to explain away his omission by pointing out, smilingly, that the butler’s position was awkward. One could not, after all, expect him to tell a family who had arrived in their own home to wait while they were announced. In the next moment she wished she had held her tongue. From the icy silence that greeted her
remark, it was very clear that Hilda did not welcome the reminder that Victor was the new master of Rutupiae and Abigail its new mistress.
Beady black eyes bored into her, and Hilda rose slowly to her feet, fully displaying a clinging gown, which Abigail had already recognized as being of a color and style more appropriate for a woman thirty years younger and thirty pounds lighter, and a throat and arms almost covered with expensive jewelry that urgently needed cleaning. Hilda had tried somewhat unsuccessfully to conceal the gray in her hair, and that too, was dressed in a too youthful, too dainty style for her features, which had once been handsome, if heavy. Worse yet, her face had coarsened with age and weight, which made the fairy curls more ridiculous than they must have been in her youth.
“I had hoped to welcome you to Rutupiae,” Hilda said, “but now I fear you might consider it presumptuous of me, a mere guest, to welcome you to your own home.”
The voice jarred on Abigail almost more than the words—high, harsh and whining all at the same time. Abigail could feel herself stiffen, but fortunately, before she could burst out with an answer of equal rudeness, a man’s voice interposed.
“Mama, Abigail was joking! Oh, I may call you Abigail, may I not? I am so sorry. Mama has not the slightest sense of humor.”
On the words the speaker came forward holding out his hand and smiling. Automatically, Abigail put her hand in his, and he bent gracefully and kissed it. He was obviously Hilda’s son, he bore a striking resemblance to her. However, the fact that he was male and in the prime of life made the sharp black eyes, the slightly hooked nose and the thin although well-shaped lips combine into remarkable handsomeness.
“I am Eustace,” he went on, “and this is my sister, Griselda. You must forgive Mama. When she is nervous, her bark becomes quite excruciating.”
Abigail turned her head in Griselda’s direction, but she had opportunity for no more than a single glance at the tall, awkward-looking girl before Hilda’s voice again assaulted her ears.
“And you have given us reason enough to be nervous,” Hilda complained. “How could you be so cruel as not to notify us of Francis’ death? I understand it was a full year ago. Surely no matter how distraught you were, you could have managed to scrawl a few words or have a friend write for you. And how could you be so mad as to come from America in the middle of a war? Don’t you realize that until your son has issue, he is especially precious? He is the heir.”
Since this was the third time of hearing, Hilda’s strident, peevish tones were less of a shock, and Abigail was better able to absorb the sense of what had been said. She began to wonder if the voice and appearance had given her a wrong impression. Hilda seemed concerned both about Francis and Victor, which was generous, considering that Eustace would have been the heir if neither Francis nor Victor had survived. There were some people who meant well but had a most unfortunate pattern of expression.
Under the circumstances, Abigail decided it would be cruel to tell Hilda that Francis had never mentioned the existence of his father’s second wife or her children, and she replied, “I am very sorry that you should have suffered, but I did write. The ship carrying my letters to you and Mr. Deedes and Mr. Baring must have been taken by the French or gone down. And there was very little danger in bringing Victor to England. Admiral Warren provided passports for us, and we transferred to a British ship well within safe waters.”
“I told you, Mama,” Eustace said, smiling. “When we received Mr. Deedes’ note, I said that Abigail must have written and some accident occurred to prevent our receiving her letter.”
Deprived of one cause for complaint, Hilda found another. “I suppose we must wait dinner for you—or did you have sense enough to eat on the road?”
It was then that Abigail realized that everyone was attired in evening dress. That made the jewelry Hilda was wearing more reasonable if not more appealing. “I did not realize that you dined so early,” Abigail said with poisonous sweetness, “or I would have sent one of the outriders ahead with a note. But we had no more than a bite of luncheon on the road, so dinner will most certainly have to wait for us. If you will ring the bell for me, please, Eustace, I will ask Empson to send my apologies to Cook and tell her to hold back dinner for half an hour.”
“Oh, you don’t have to bother with that,” Hilda said, plumping herself ill naturedly down on the chair again. “Griselda will take care of it. She’s not good for anything besides running errands.”
As ungracious as the tone and remark were, they at least seemed to prove that Hilda was no pleasanter to her own daughter than she was to anyone else. The only one who seemed to be spared her tongue was Eustace. Still, Abigail had a feeling that the remark was intended to embarrass her so that she would say a tray in her room would be sufficient. Another time, Abigail might have agreed, to save the servants trouble, but she did not plan to set any precedent of meek acquiescence. Nor did she wish to permit any member of the family to intrude between her and the servants until she had established firmly in their minds to whom power now belonged.
Thus, Abigail insisted she preferred to deal with Empson personally, and before any further argument could be raised, she rang the bell herself. In the few minutes it took for the butler to come from the servants’ quarters, she introduced her children, who had been listening in wide-eyed astonishment tinged, Abigail was afraid, with alarm. They had no experience at all of being unwelcome and were uncertain of how to react to a grandmother who did not greet them with open arms and cries of joy.
When Empson answered the bell, Abigail simply nodded to Hilda, smiled generally at Eustace and Griselda, and said she would like to be shown to Lord Lydden’s suite. She braced herself for another round of complaints and protests, fearing that Hilda had retained possession of the master suite and would fight to keep it, but this time Abigail had guessed wrong. She did not mind being wrong in the least. It was a relief to know that Hilda had probably realized that Francis would not stand for it and had not dared go that far. In fact, from the placidity with which Hilda listened to the order, Abigail reassessed the situation and decided that Hilda probably approved of the heir taking his rightful place.
As Empson led them up the right-hand wing of the lovely curving staircase that rose from the hall, Abigail gave the instructions about dinner, including the fact that at least for this evening Victor and Daphne would be eating with them. She also asked that a maid be sent up immediately so that she and the children could do as much as possible to tidy themselves.
When she examined the rooms of the master wing, Abigail was even more delighted with the first spark of common sense she had seen in Hilda. On opposite sides of the corridor, there were two bedchambers, handsomely furnished for male and female, and two dressing rooms, with a servant’s room off each. According to custom, poor Victor should have been isolated in the male bedchamber with his valet, Daphne should have been lodged on another floor in the nursery wing with her governess, and Abigail should have chosen a bedchamber on the ground floor for herself.
Actually, there was considerable sense in such an arrangement for those accustomed to it, but not for two children who had been uprooted from their home and transported to a new country and into a house where they had been made to feel like interlopers. Eventually Abigail would move, well before the time when Victor could be expected to bring home a bride to occupy the mistress’s bedchamber, but until her children had found their balance and were secure in their new lives, she herself would occupy the lady’s bedchamber and have a bed set up for Daphne in her dressing room.
While they had looked at the rooms, the maid had come up with water for washing. Since the coach carrying their baggage had not yet arrived, there could be no question of changing for dinner. Abigail simply sent the children off with the maid, telling them to wash their hands and faces in Victor’s dressing room and uttering her usual dire warnings of what she would do if all the dirt was found on the towels instead of in the basins. When they were f
inished, the maid was to come back with more water for her. Then she removed her hat and sat down in one of the luxurious chairs to catch her breath and think over the scene in the drawing room below.
At least Abigail now felt she understood why Francis might have tried to forget the existence of his stepmother. And, of course, if he would not speak of Hilda, he could not mention Eustace and Griselda. There did not seem to be anything sinister in the omission. Abigail could easily imagine how much Francis, the most graceful and charming of men, had been offended by Hilda’s manner.
From Alexander Baring’s exposition on Hilda’s financial position as a widow, Abigail guessed that Francis’ father had married her for her money. About half of Hilda’s property, which of course became her husband’s to use as he pleased when they married, had been swallowed up by the Lydden estates. Nonetheless, Hilda had what Abigail considered a more than adequate income from her jointure, which was to be divided between Eustace and Griselda on her death.
Understanding was not much help, though. It was going to be hell to live with Hilda, and there was nothing Abigail could do about it. Abigail could only be grateful that she was much less nice than Francis had been. Serving in a shop accustoms one to dealing with all kinds of people. Some customers had been abrasive, a few actively unpleasant. Abigail feared she would need all the self-control she had learned, for she could not withdraw her invitation for Hilda and her children to continue living at Rutupiae, despite the fact that she now knew there had been no need for any charitable gesture. Nonetheless, to push Hilda out immediately, which Abigail would have loved to do, would be seen by everyone in the neighborhood as crude and inconsiderate, even cruel.
A Woman's Estate Page 4
