“For what little it is worth, since I am surely more ignorant than you about those three, I agree with you,” Abigail stated, then she shrugged and smiled impishly. “And I promise I will not redo and refurnish the whole house because the drawing room curtains are too thin.”
“That rankles, does it?” Arthur said a trifle grimly. “Too bad. I did not feel the changes to be necessary, particularly since I did not feel that Hilda would be living in Rutupiae Hall for long. Whyever did you allow—?” He cleared his throat.
“Sheer ignorance.” Abigail sighed. There were other reasons, of course, like the sympathy she felt for any woman whose husband had a right to use up her money and leave her penniless, but she was not about to discuss that subject with a man—not even one she liked as well as Sir Arthur. “Francis never once mentioned them. I had no idea they existed, until Mr. Deedes told me. And I couldn’t push them out the very moment I arrived.”
“No, of course you could not. Besides, they have a right to live in the Dower House, and you would have had to put out the tenant. No, you did what was necessary. But speaking of changes to the house, if you feel there is some alteration, even a structural change that would make your situation more comfortable, do not hesitate—”
Abigail laughed. “Oh, no. Matters are not so bad as that. Fortunately, our tastes are very different. I like to be busy and am beginning to learn about the estate, in which Hilda does not appear to be interested, and I have my children. With one thing and another, our paths do not cross much, except at dinner. In any case, I would not want to make any changes. Victor is twelve and will soon be old enough to make his own decisions. He might develop an interest in the house or he might marry young. It would be ridiculous for me to refurnish to my taste and then have his wife loathe everything I had done.”
“Some men do not marry young,” Arthur said.
Abigail was surprised and a trifle offended. Was he implying that she was the kind of mother who would be jealous of every girl her son liked? “Well, then he may furnish anew or not furnish at all just as he likes,” she answered tartly, “for I do not intend to cling to him. I will be glad and grateful to be free to live my own life as soon as he is able to manage for himself.” Then she cocked her head, looking puzzled. “However did we get onto this silly topic?”
“Hilda seems to bring out the worst in everyone,” Arthur answered, smiling despite the fact that Abigail’s remarks had pricked him. He wondered if for years his mother had longed to be free and whether, perhaps, his demands upon her had kept her from remarrying, though Lady Lydden had said nothing about remarriage, of course. Still, what else could she need to be “free” to do? The whole subject was unpleasant.
Abigail shook her head in mock disapproval of his remark about Hilda, then remembered his regret because Victor had not succeeded in inserting a toad into Hilda’s chair or bed. “I mustn’t think in those terms,” she said, barely restraining giggles. “Heaven knows it doesn’t take much to bring out the worst in me. But, Sir Arthur, you cannot have known I wished to consult you about the horses. I have been so intent on my own concerns that I never asked whether you had some business you wished to discuss or whether you discharged your errand in telling me about the arrangements you have made to ensure my children’s safety.”
“That was one purpose, of course,” he answered, not very truthfully.
Actually, it was his strong impulse to look at her and speak to her again—only to convince himself that the image he retained of her beauty and the pleasure he had in talking to her was grossly exaggerated—that had teased him into finding a reason to come to Rutupiae. He did not let himself think about that, for Abigail’s loveliness and his delight in her had not been exaggerated, and he was not at all sure what he wanted to do about the situation.
“I could have sent a note about that,” he went on quickly, “but I had an idea that needed some discussion.”
“Then had we not better sit down?” she suggested, suddenly realizing that they had been standing—rather close to each other—the whole time they had been talking.
She gestured toward a pair of armchairs flanking the fireplace, now empty and concealed behind a very handsome, fan-shaped decorative screen. Sir Arthur moved toward one of the chairs, standing politely until Abigail seated herself in the other.
“You told me yesterday that your son was twelve,” he said as he sat down. “It occurred to me after you left that he must go to school. Francis went to Westminster—well, so did I—and I thought I would put his name in there, unless you would like him to go to your father’s school. There is also the question of whether Victor will need special tutoring—” The expression on Abigail’s face made him stop and add hurriedly, “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that Victor is slow or that his education was inadequate. Remember, I have never met the boy and am totally ignorant of both his background and the system of study in American schools.”
The phrase “he must go to school” was a shock to Abigail. Was this the first step in wresting the control of her son from her? “You are totally ignorant about a Iot of things,” she snapped, “such as the fact that I am Victor’s legal guardian. Whether or not he goes to school is my decision to make.”
“I am not at all ignorant that your son is your ward,” he said, much surprised. “But what in the world do you plan to do with the boy if you do not wish to send him to school? How will he make friends? All the boys of his age—at least those I know of in the area—go to school.”
The open acknowledgment that she was Victor’s guardian as well as his mother, and the tone of surprise, which indicated clearly that he had no intention of contesting her right, calmed Abigail’s fear and made her rather ashamed of the violence of her reaction.
“I’m sorry. I should not have snapped at you,” she apologized. “I have already admitted that it takes very little to bring out the worst in me.”
“Apparently so,” Arthur agreed, somewhat ungallantly, “but what did I say to annoy you? I have been outstandingly civil—for me, anyway. I know Bertram says that some of my endeavors to be polite could give a fish a fever, but—”
“Now you are trying to make me feel more ashamed of myself than I do already,” Abigail protested, laughing.
She did not wish to discuss her instinctive fear that control of her children would be taken from her—not because she could be proven unfit to raise them but simply because she was female. That fear was tied up with the fact that her father had been unable to will anything directly to her. If he had done so, the money, property and business would have legally belonged to Francis, since all a wife’s property passed immediately into the possession of her husband. Aside from the fact that Sir Arthur might well think such an arrangement right and proper, the whole thing was so complicated to explain. In addition, Abigail did not want to admit to the elegant Sir Arthur that she was a common shopkeeper. It would be far better, she thought, to avoid explanations.
“You have been so very kind in your efforts to protect my children and your offer of mounts,” she said. “And I realize that your advice to put Victor into Westminster was kindly meant.” He made an impatient gesture, and she added, “I know it was not your intention to place me under an obligation, but it was kind, and I should not permit myself to catch fire so easily.”
“Yes, yes, I agree that you have a flammable disposition,” he said impatiently. “I don’t mind that. I just want to know what I said to ignite you.”
Abigail laughed lightly. “Now, now, it is not very civil to agree with me quite so emphatically, you know. You could have murmured something about—”
“Damn it!” Arthur roared. “What did I say?”
For a moment Abigail was so startled that she made no reply. Then she got to her feet, looking anxious. “It was nothing important. Truly, I know it was unintentional, and you did not really hurt me.”
“Perhaps not,” Arthur said ominously, also rising, “but I will soon do so
deliberately by wringing your neck if you do not answer my question. My dear Lady Lydden, when I asked the question, I was merely mildly curious. Now I intend to have an answer because I do not choose that you go on believing you can lead me around by the nose quite so easily as you seem to think you can.”
Abigail’s soft violet eyes turned bright and hard as anger brought higher color to her cheeks. “Just how do you think you can obtain an answer from me if I do not choose to give one?” she asked gently.
“By waiting five minutes—if it takes that long—for you to recognize that no man likes to be thought a fool and that since I caught you trying to lead me up the garden path, I deserve an answer.”
For a few seconds longer, Abigail stared at him. Arthur looked back steadily and seriously. Then she sighed, stepped forward and held out her hand, not in a gesture of feminine appeal but to be shaken as on concluding some business arrangement.
“You are quite right,” she said. “I was avoiding an answer because I do not like to look foolish either. I knew—”
“You need say no more,” Arthur interrupted. “I only wanted you to understand that I was aware of what you were doing.” Then he sighed too, and his lips twisted wryly. “I suppose I should beg your pardon again. You are an exceptional woman, Lady Lydden. Almost any other would have wept and told me I was rude and unreasonable.”
“So you are,” Abigail replied pertly, “but you were also quite right, unfortunately.”
Arthur made no verbal response to her remark, but the clasp of his hand on hers changed subtly and the slow smile he gave her sent a warning quiver along Abigail’s nerves. Still, she did not attempt to extricate her hand, and before either of them could speak, the door burst open and Victor and Daphne erupted into the room.
“Mother, Mother, there’s an old mill,” Victor cried.
“And the wheel still goes round,” Daphne put in.
“And the pond is full of fish and frogs and—” Victor’s voice checked. “Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice you at first.”
Daphne had already dropped a curtsy, and Abigail was able to speak calmly, having had time during the first passionate exclamations to realize that her children were only excited by a discovery and not reporting a further attack. She wondered whether they had overtly disobeyed or deceived Mrs. Franklin, but she did not intend to ask, at least not in front of Sir Arthur. Despite his seeming acceptance of her status as guardian, she did not wish to give him any reason to think she could not control Victor.
“This is Sir Arthur St. Eyre,” she said.
Both children came forward and shook Arthur’s hand, but their faces showed little joy. They had made a thrilling discovery and feared they would not be able to tell their mother about it while it was still fresh. Somehow any adventure turned flat if it could not be recounted to a sympathetic ear at once. However, Abigail did not, as they half expected, send them away. Instead, she asked, “How did you find the mill?” She did not want Mrs. Franklin bursting in on them next to report the children’s sins—if they had sinned. But they had not.
“Mrs. Franklin asked if we would like to walk down to her cottage with her,” Victor said, his expression lightening.
“She wanted to water her plants,” Daphne explained. “It is the prettiest place, Mother—”
“Never mind that now,” Victor interrupted. “She asked about the mill. Mrs. Franklin showed it to us on the way back. Did you know about the mill, sir?” he asked, politely including Sir Arthur in the conversation in the hope that involving his mother’s guest would permit a protracted discussion of the subject.
“Yes, I did,” Arthur replied, looking interested. “It was in use when your father and I were about Daphne’s age, and the miller let us watch and even help carry the flour bags sometimes—but only if we stayed away from the gears and millstones.”
“There aren’t any gears now,” Victor reported, “but I think the millstones are there—big round things with a hole in the middle.”
“Yes. Your grandfather had the metal stripped out and sold, but the millstones weren’t worth moving.”
“But why?” Daphne asked. “What happened?”
“The miller died,” Arthur replied. “He was a very old man, and the mill was too small to make much profit, so no one else wanted to be miller here.”
“Too bad.” Daphne sighed. “It would have been fun to get flour from our own mill. Anyway, Victor can fish in the pond—”
“And swim—” Victor put in.
“No,” Arthur said, and then, smiling into their faces, which displayed a mixture of shock and indignation, “I’m sorry. I hate to put a damper on such delightful plans, but that pond isn’t fit for swimming. The bottom is all silted up with muddy slime, and it’s full of eel grass. As for fishing, there’s nothing worthwhile there. But swimming and fishing are no problem. There’s a spot on the Stour that’s perfect, and only a quarter mile away.”
“But that would be on your land, sir,” Victor said.
Arthur nodded approvingly. “So it is, and I’m glad to see that you understand trespass, but you—and your mother and sister, of course—are very welcome on St. Eyre land at any time. In fact, if your mother approves, I will walk over with you and show you the spot right now.”
“Mother?” the children’s voices blended, and Abigail saw Victor’s head turning to say that Daphne had not been invited.
It was true, but probably only because Sir Arthur did not realize that she would want and expect to go. Since they as yet had no other friends, Daphne was Victor’s shadow, even when he intended to do things that she knew would not interest her, like fishing. She would go anyway, and pick flowers and read. Usually Victor liked her company—she was so obviously admiring—but Abigail could see he was afraid Sir Arthur would not want a little girl tagging along. Abigail had no strong feelings about the subject and ordinarily allowed Victor and Daphne to settle the matter on their own, but she was not in the mood for a squabble or for soothing Daphne’s tears and hurt feelings. Sir Arthur’s warm and easy manner with her children had made her inexplicably happy.
“May I walk with you?” she asked.
“We would be honored, Lady Lydden,” Arthur replied gravely.
Until they reached the pool, Abigail had no chance for a private word with Sir Arthur, since Victor walked with him, talking of fishing and paying strict attention to the path. There were several trails, which led either upstream or downstream to shallower, faster moving portions of the river, but the place to which Arthur led them had been artificially enlarged from a side arm of the river. It was wide and deep, with only enough movement in the water to keep it from becoming stagnant, and it was an exquisite spot. The path opened into a tiny meadow, shaded by large trees, and the bank of the river was starred with kingcups and yellow iris.
Daphne and Abigail stopped to admire the scene, while Arthur led Victor down to the river itself and pointed right and left along the bank to where one could see the side arm dividing from and rejoining the main stream. The best fishing was at those points, Arthur said, and it was not difficult to find a spot to sit, even though it looked as if the brush came right down to the water. Many of the trees had roots that protruded out into the river, and there were niches one could not see from this angle, where trees had fallen or been cut and removed. Victor promptly proposed finding a good spot then and there, and Arthur said Victor might do so but declined to accompany him on the grounds that he was not dressed for plunging about through heavy brush. Having glanced at Sir Arthur’s elegant coat and neckcloth and his pale pantaloons and thin shoes, Victor kindly agreed to make his examination alone.
When Arthur rejoined Abigail, Daphne asked shyly if she might pick some of the flowers, and Sir Arthur said it would make him happy if she did. “It is a shame to waste them,” he remarked, “but there are no ladies in my household, and so the poor flowers simply languish without any attention.”
“Thank you,” Abiga
il said, as Daphne ran off to gather her posy. “You have managed to make them both very happy.”
“And made you very worried?” he suggested. “Don’t be concerned. This really is a safe spot because it is known all over the area and in both households that I spend a good deal of time here myself—and not at any particular time of day, or even night. The river is incredibly beautiful by moonlight. Will you allow me to show it to you?”
“I should like that very much,” Abigail replied softly.
Chapter Eight
Abigail had hoped that no one except herself had been aware of Sir Arthur’s visit, but Hilda pounced on her as soon as she entered the salon. “One would have expected,” she complained, “that he would have had the courtesy to call on me. It was I to whom he behaved in so rude and unfeeling a manner. In fact, one would have thought he would be ashamed to show his face in this house at all after the expectations he raised—”
“Mama—”
It was a whimper of protest, and Abigail kept her eyes firmly fixed on Hilda so that they would not glance involuntarily at Griselda. Arthur and Griselda? It was unthinkable! Still, there was that incident at breakfast the previous day, when Abigail had mentioned the possibility of Griselda’s marrying and leaving Rutupiae Hall. Griselda had certainly had some bitter disappointment. But it was inconceivable that Arthur— Suddenly Abigail realized that he was no longer Sir Arthur in her mind. She dismissed that diverting thought to concentrate on a far more serious matter. Abigail simply could not believe that a man like Arthur would seriously contemplate Griselda for a wife. But could he have courted her for a joke, just to tease her? That would have been horrible, despicable.
Abigail could not believe Arthur would be so cruel. She remembered the kind eyes, the many thoughtful gestures he had made, the woods to be patrolled, the offer of horses, the warmth to her children. Of course, she told herself, all of that might just be the lures he was displaying for her, but even if it were so, there was no harm in it. Arthur was obviously experienced in affairs of light dalliance and must be aware that Abigail was not only a beautiful woman but one well able to protect herself and thus a worthy partner. Griselda was another matter.
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