A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  He went out on the words, leaving Arthur utterly amazed and Abigail mildly surprised by his abruptness. In Abigail the feeling quickly became compounded with guilt. If Mr. Lydden thought dealing with the matter so urgent, surely she should return to Rutupiae Hall and do what she could from that end. She half turned toward the door, but Arthur touched her arm.

  “Don’t go yet, Lady Lydden, please,” he said, gesturing toward a sofa. “I have been a shockingly bad host. I hope you will give me an opportunity to redeem myself. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  The words were perfectly proper, but there was again an absent note in Sir Arthur’s voice, as if only half his mind was devoted to what he had said. Abigail felt a flicker of indignation. She was not accustomed to men who did not accord her their full attention. Then, internally, she laughed at herself for being a conceited fool. Still, Sir Arthur was a challenge.

  “I don’t think I should stay,” she said. “Should I not try to determine who, among the staff at Rutupiae, might be guilty? Mr. Lydden seemed to feel that the matter was of some urgency—”

  “Yes…” Arthur drew out the word, then added more briskly, “but it is useless to start an inquisition until you know what questions to ask. Our assumptions may be totally false and the cause wildly different from any notion we have discussed. Will you have some ratafia?”

  Abigail’s brows flew up again. “Brandy, even sweetened, does not appeal to me at this hour of the morning. Coming from America, I am more accustomed to coffee, but I want nothing, really. I had just finished breakfast before I walked here.”

  Sir Arthur moved toward the bell cord again, having hardly heard what Abigail said. Bertram’s sudden departure had had a stronger effect on him than on Abigail. He had been much struck by his secretary’s embarrassment when mentioning being out. Only Arthur recognized how unnatural even that faint hint of color in Bertram’s face was, because normally Bertram buried his feelings under his affectations. Coming so hard on the heels of their discussion of the shooting and coupled with Arthur’s memory—sparked by Bertram’s near-flirtatious manner with Lady Lydden—that Bertram had strongly implied a desire to marry and a dissatisfaction with his present situation in life, that hurried exit had awakened in Arthur a dreadful suspicion.

  After Eustace, Bertram was heir to the Lydden wealth and property if Lady Lydden’s son should die, and Bertram was not only extremely clever, Arthur knew, but he had an extraordinarily devious mind. If Eustace could somehow be accused and adjudged guilty of Victor’s death, Bertram would inherit. As the thought clarified out of a vague, general uneasiness, Arthur saw that Lady Lydden was looking at him with growing puzzlement and realized that he had neither rung the bell nor replied to her remark. Not surprisingly, the only part of it that stuck in his mind was the comment about coffee.

  “If it isn’t just like an American,” he said lightly, “to want something that will throw an English household into confusion and create a dreadful difficulty.”

  “I do not happen to be an American,” Abigail replied, much surprised. “My parents were British, and my birth was duly registered with the proper authorities here by my uncle.” Then she recalled being told by Baring of Sir Arthur’s absorption in politics, and because she could think of no reason for his abstraction, she assumed that his attention had, after all, not been centered on her, but on her background rather than her person. “Besides,” she added aggressively, “I cannot see why you should connect Americans with making difficulties.”

  “I was only joking,” Arthur said apologetically. “I knew you were British, of course, but I see that my remark was in bad taste. Do forgive me.”

  “Oh, I knew you were joking,” Abigail answered. “I was not offended, but I am curious. A joke like that carries a hard core of the truth. I have always found most Americans to be sober, practical and clear thinking, most unlikely to create difficulties deliberately.”

  For a moment longer Arthur stood with his hand on the bell cord, fighting what he knew was an unreasonable irritation. He realized that, despite her claim to British nationality, Lady Lydden must have strong sympathies for the American point of view, owing to living all her life in the United States. Normally, that knowledge would have induced in him a desire to exhort and explain—and perhaps use those explanations and exhortations to generate an intimacy, for she was very beautiful. But if she preferred Bertram… Arthur pulled the bell cord with unnecessary force and turned to face Abigail fully.

  “You do not consider giving aid to Bonaparte when we are locked in a life-and-death struggle with him a creation of difficulties?” he asked sharply.

  “What aid?” Abigail snapped back. “Who do you think has been feeding the British armies in Spain and Portugal if it was not the Americans? Does that sound like giving aid to Bonaparte?”

  “No, it sounds like a fine nose for profit,” Arthur riposted superciliously.

  “And what is wrong with that?” Abigail’s voice bristled with resentment. She was about to defend the profit motive even more vociferously when she remembered her mother’s bitter remarks about how any personal connection with a commercial enterprise could make one déclassé. “You seem to forget the profit might have been even better if the trade had been with the French,” she said instead.

  Arthur uttered a single mirthless bark of laughter. “On the contrary, there would have been no profit, since all American ships would have been stopped or sunk.”

  There was more truth in that statement than Abigail wanted to admit, so she shrugged indifferently and said, “You would have to catch them first. H.M.S. Africa and five other ships couldn’t outsail the poor little Constitution, and she outfought the Guerrière and the Java—”

  “They were half her size,” Arthur sputtered. Then he drew a breath, looked down his nose disdainfully, and added, “The British do not descend to disguising our ships. There is no particular merit—”

  “Disguising?” Abigail echoed furiously. “Disguising what?”

  “A seventy-four-gun ship as a forty-four,” Arthur sneered. “The victories of the Constitution are scarcely a wonder, since the Java and the Guerrière—”

  Abigail laughed, this time with genuine amusement and so heartily that Arthur stopped speaking. “Oh,” she gasped, “oh, you poor, poor creatures, needing to comfort yourselves with a silly lie like that. America doesn’t have a seventy-four. They hardly have a navy, and I know because Mr. Gallatin, the Secretary of the Treasury, was deeply involved in the plans to outfit what ships were available for this stupid war. I—”

  “So you admit it is a stupid war,” Arthur said triumphantly.

  Abigail’s violet eyes opened wide. “But of course it is a stupid war,” she said sweetly. “Do you not think it the stupidest thing in the world for a great, rich, powerful nation like England to insult, assault and bully a poor, small, nearly powerless nation like America? There have been times this past year when I was ashamed of being British.”

  “Well,” Arthur growled, “you don’t sound British. You sound like a damned rebel—or a traitor.”

  “Do you mean that to be a loyal Briton, I must also become an idiot or a liar, to be blind to the truth, and believe only what the government chooses to tell me?” Abigail asked nastily. “I tell you I know the Constitution is a forty-four-gun ship. I have been aboard her. And I know the British navy is filled with bullies who oppress the weak, because the ship I sailed on was an unarmed merchantman that even had a passport from Admiral Warren. Still, it was stopped, and two seamen were dragged off—”

  “Because they were traitors who had abandoned their country in her time of need,” Arthur exclaimed passionately, his voice nearing a shout.

  “Nonsense!” Abigail exclaimed, equally passionately. “I sailed with Captain Brown, whom I have known for years, and one of the impressed seamen had been with him for five years or more—”

  “And we have been at war for more than ten years,” Arthur interrupted
.

  Abigail sniffed disdainfully. “That cannot be of significance in this case, for Billy was in his teens and had sailed with Captain Brown starting as a cabin boy—unless the British usually impress five-year-olds?”

  “He was still British,” Arthur roared furiously, “and he should be proud to serve his country against that damned tyrant Bonaparte.”

  “Ridiculous!” Abigail exclaimed, her voice rising to match his. “He was a naturalized American citizen. According to your reasoning, the only Americans that exist are the red Indians—”

  A loud sound of throat clearing caused her to stop abruptly. Both Abigail and Arthur turned sharply toward the door, where their eyes encountered the astonished and rather frightened gaze of a young footman. There was a brief silence. Then Arthur drew a deep breath and said in a deceptively calm voice, “Lady Lydden would like coffee. I suppose Cook will know what is suitable to be served with it.”

  “Coffee, my lord?” the footman repeated, one surprise atop another making him forget his training. “But—”

  “Sir Arthur,” Abigail protested, refraining with difficulty from laughing at the footman’s horror. She was not certain whether he was more frightened at the idea of putting Sir Arthur’s request to the cook or returning to Sir Arthur with the cook’s reply. “I should not think there is any coffee in the house, nor that your cook is accustomed to preparing the drink. You did not hear me, I fear. I said I had just finished breakfast and desired no refreshment. But I have changed my mind, if you will accord me that female privilege. I would like some tea.”

  She spoke the final two sentences quickly, fearing that Sir Arthur would believe she was angry or offended by his fierce opposition to her support of the American point of view about the war. On the contrary, in a way she was delighted. Not that she liked his opinions, but that was not important—one could always hope to change opinions. What was significant was what he had not said. Sir Arthur had not told her to mind her needle and leave men’s business to men. He had sneered at what he believed a dishonorable naval tactic, but not at the fact that a woman claimed she knew the difference between a forty-four-gun and a seventy-four-gun ship. And he had not been condescendingly indulgent because of her beauty, either. Abigail was pleased with Sir Arthur and found him a very interesting man.

  “Tea, then,” Arthur said curtly, and the now red-faced footman disappeared hastily, shutting the door behind him.

  “I am very sorry.” Abigail’s voice was choked as she addressed her apology to her host’s back, for he had not immediately turned to face her when the footman left. “I am afraid we…frightened your servant.”

  Her voice began to quiver and she had to stop, but relief for her pent-up emotion was immediately forthcoming. A roar of laughter split the air as Sir Arthur, who had also been struggling to subdue his mirth, gave up and faced around. Then she was free to laugh, too.

  “Poor Martin,” Arthur gasped. “He’s only just come to us from a very quiet place. He told Waggoner—my butler—that he wanted a larger, livelier household. But I don’t suppose,” he went on between chuckles, “that he expected it to be quite as lively as to find host and guest shrieking at each other. I seem to do nothing but apologize to you, but I am sorry for my discourtesy. I do know how to behave to a guest, I swear it.”

  “I could scarcely complain of your behavior, considering my own,” Abigail admitted, smiling. “I have hardly stopped assaulting you with words since I arrived.”

  Arthur shook his head. “It was natural for you to be distressed when your son had so narrow an escape,” he said, sober again. “And, if you will forgive me for alluding to a topic that you might feel would be better allowed to rest, it is natural for you to regard the American cause in this war with sympathy. I fear, however, that in the United States the wider implications of Bonaparte’s conquests are not fully understood.”

  “You may be correct about the ignorance with regard to Bonaparte,” Abigail replied, “although I think there has been a better understanding of the tyrannical aspects of his character since 1810, when he confiscated so many American ships in European ports—which he had invited to come and trade. That was bad enough, but he sold the ships and cargoes without any trial or even any investigation, which, I must admit, the British have never done.”

  Sir Arthur grinned and bowed. “You do us the honor of fairness.”

  But Abigail did not return the smile. “You are very wrong, however, in believing that I have any sympathy with this war, for I have not, nor have many Americans, especially in New York and the New England states. What is more, I think that even in the western states, like Ohio, the original enthusiasm is much dampened. It was stupid for the British to provoke the Americans too far, and it was idiotic for the Americans to declare war.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Some of the provocation was not the fault of the government—it was owing to the hot-headedness or greed of individual naval commanders—but with that lazy lech—ah—with the Earl of Mornington at the Foreign Office, any rational action was not to be expected. Mornington had been viceroy of India, and he seems to have regarded the Americans as equally supine and willing to bow to authority. Thus, he took the most high-handed and inflexible tone—at those few times when he could be drawn from his harem to do any bus— Oh, I beg your pardon.”

  This time it was Abigail who grinned. “You need not. I have read a great deal of Eastern literature. You do not need to fear shocking me—but your foreign secretary seems appallingly ill informed. He could not have made a less accurate assumption about the American character. A high tone applied to Americans will drive them into a passion more quickly than anything else. In fact, I begin to feel more sympathy for President Madison’s declaration of war.”

  “Be that as it may,” Arthur said dryly, “it was not during Mornington’s tenure that war was declared. Viscount Castlereagh has the Foreign Office now, and he is both clever and painstaking. Indeed, it was under his influence that the Orders in Council, to which Americans objected so strongly, were repealed.”

  “Not soon enough,” Abigail countered coolly, “and the question of impressment of American seamen was rudely dismissed. Moreover, from what Mr. Gallatin said to me, the tone of the communications was not much improved.” She saw the slight stiffening in Arthur’s stance and, not wanting to begin another shouting match, shook her head. “I think there is something the British government does not understand about Americans. Because they are a new nation and still raw, because they are aware of their inferiority in power they are all the more sensitive and take offense at that which an equal might understand or be willing to overlook.”

  “Now that,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “is a most interesting observation. I must remember it. It might be useful in debate.”

  “Well, I hope you will find a better purpose for it than debate. I hope you will pass it along to those who will be involved in the peace negotiations.”

  Arthur had turned, his attention being attracted by the opening of the door, which revealed the footman carrying a laden tray. But his head jerked back toward Abigail in response to her final words, and he said sharply, “What peace negotiations?”

  “The Russians offered to mediate a peace between Britain and the United States—did you not know?”

  “Oh, that,” Arthur replied dismissively. “I would not count on any offer of mediation being accepted by the British government.”

  Heturned away as he spoke and nodded to the footman. “Thank you, Martin. That will be all.” Returning his attention to Abigail, he smiled. “If you will do me the honor of pouring, I will join you in a cup. I find myself almost as thirsty as after a hot debate in the House.”

  Abigail stared at him blankly, shocked at the disappointment she felt over his casual dismissal of any chance of the hoped for peace.

  “Come,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the table where the tea service stood, “do pour. And don’t look so downcast. I feel as you do, that a p
eace between the United States and Britain is of the utmost importance. The government won’t accept mediation, especially by Russia, but there are other ways.”

  Chapter Six

  Abigail returned to Rutupiae in Sir Arthur’s carriage and in rather high spirits. She had enjoyed her discussions with him enormously, for she was accustomed to talking about serious subjects and had been deprived of that pleasure since leaving New York. In addition, the conversation indicated clearly that Alexander Baring had been correct in his judgment. Sir Arthur was far more interested in politics than in children or estate management. At that point in her thoughts Abigail chuckled, realizing that she had herself completely forgotten to raise some essential personal questions in favor of political ones, such as how fully Sir Arthur wished to exert his executor’s power. However, she was no longer really worried about that.

  Her pleasant mood was somewhat disturbed when she summoned Empson after lunch and suggested to him—as delicately as possible so as not to shock his propriety, which Abigail was sure was far more sensitive than hers—Sir Arthur’s ideas on what might have caused the shooting. The butler protested vehemently that none of the men under his authority was involved in any illicit affair or had given any other cause for such an attack. The results with Mr. McPherson, the head groundskeeper, whom Abigail summoned next, were identical. She did not know the man as well as she knew Empson, but circumstances supported his claim because the under gardeners did not live on the grounds and would be unlikely to be found in the wooded area between the houses.

  Abigail would not have been troubled if she had thought that each man was simply defending his subordinates, but both gave her reason to believe that what they said was the truth. That left the unlikely probability that a poacher had been so startled by Victor’s sudden appearance that he had fired both barrels of his gun or the frightening possibility that a madman was loose with a grudge so violent as to be indifferent to who was shot.