The next morning, having eluded her son and blessing the spell of unusually dry weather, Abigail walked across the little wood to Stonar Magna. She was briefly startled by the sudden appearance of a man not far from the path, but he pulled his forelock to her and identified himself as one of Sir Arthur’s men. Abigail smiled and said she was sorry to have made extra work for him and the other gamekeepers and was pleased by his ready reply that it was little trouble and that they had all been shocked by the accident and would be glad to lay hands on any man crazy enough to carry a fully loaded gun in the home woods.
The butler admitted her without hesitation or need for identification this time, although Abigail thought with amusement that behind his wooden expression there was both disapproval of her informal habit of walking to the house and considerable surprise at her request to speak to Mr. Lydden. Nonetheless, he did not, as she had almost expected, say he would inform Sir Arthur but showed her to the same room in which she had waited the preceding day, and not more than two minutes later Bertram rushed in wearing an expression of considerable alarm.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” Abigail exclaimed before he could ask what was wrong. “I only came to ask your advice.”
Although he was obviously greatly relieved, Bertram raised his brows and flitted the handkerchief he had withdrawn from his sleeve and pressed briefly to his face while she spoke. “My dear, dearest Lady Lydden, how could you think you had alarmed me? How can you so greatly underestimate your attractions? Do not all men respond to a summons from you in haste?”
Abigail smiled at him warmly. Although she had only spoken to him once before, and briefly, it was clear to her that Bertram prided himself on his sangfroid and was embarrassed by exposing his feelings. She was grateful to him for his real concern for Victor, even if he felt obliged to hide it behind silly extravagances. Besides, despite all the extravagant words and gestures, Abigail knew quite well that Bertram was not pursuing her, and oddly, not because he did not like women or think she was beautiful. His flirting was, of course, an innocent amusement. Abigail had recognized immediately his true reaction to her—the impersonal appreciation of a man committed body and soul to another woman—because she had seen it in many faithful husbands, like Albert Gallatin.
“You are a very poor conversationalist, Mr. Lydden,” she complained. “You always ask questions that are unanswerable. Do you propose that I say ‘Yes, men do always rush to answer my summons,’ and sound like a fool or say ‘No,’ and sound like a worse fool?”
Bertram chuckled. “I beg your pardon. I did the same thing yesterday, did I not? I had better descend from the higher plane to which you exalt me and become practical. How may I serve you, Lady Lydden?”
“Could we discuss it in a room less likely to be invaded by others?”
Bertram was clearly startled by the request, but he only nodded and led the way to a large, sunny room at the rear of the house, which testified by its shelves and cabinets holding boxes of papers and by a littered table and desk that it was the chamber in which he worked.
“It is not likely we will be disturbed here,” he said with a touch of reserve.
Abigail could not help laughing. “I did not mean that the way it sounded,” she said. “It was only that the subject on which I need advice was one that Sir Arthur proposed to me—no, no,” she exclaimed, laughing again at Bertram’s expression—or lack of expression, for his face had frozen, “the proposal was about Victor, not myself.”
“But I do not know your son,” Bertram protested.
“I realize that, but Victor seems to be a very ordinary boy. In any case, I just wish to ask in a general way whether you think it best for a boy to go to school or to be tutored at home.”
“As you can imagine, Lady Lydden—”
“Do call me Abigail,” she interrupted. “After all, you are a cousin by marriage, and I find I really do not like being Lady Lydden instead of Mistress Lydden.”
Bertram grinned. “Ah, the influence of our strayed Republican colonies. There were…ah…awed whispers around servants’ hall about a slight difference of opinion you had with Arthur.”
“Well, he has this stupid British attitude that if you shout loudly enough at people, you will convince them that you are right.”
“Dreadful habit,” Bertram agreed with downcast eyes and such alacrity that Abigail, who remembered her own voice had scarcely been kept to a whisper, burst out laughing. He looked up at her again, his eyes bright with appreciation. “You are not only a delightful woman, Cousin Abigail, but a most unusual one. I am proud to call you cousin and honored to be asked for advice, for I think you well able to make up your own mind.”
“Yes, usually I am. I had no doubt that Victor belonged in school in the United States, and he was very happy there. In fact, I foolishly mentioned that Sir Arthur had offered to try to obtain a place in Westminster for him, and now Victor is very eager to go.”
“Then I do not see that there can be any need for advice. I was about to say that, as you might guess, I was not happy at school. Nonetheless, I do not think the kind of cloistered life that results from private tutoring is good for a man. I learned a great deal more in school than Latin and Greek.”
“Yes,” Abigail said slowly, “that is what makes me a little doubtful.” And she told him about the discussion the preceding evening.
Bertram shook his head. “I cannot believe it. I was junior to Francis, of course, but he was still at Westminster during my first two or three years there. Francis was one of the stars of the school—good at every sport, a superior scholar, adored by his form and the idol of all the lower forms.” He paused, looking down at his hands, at the handkerchief he was weaving in and out of his long, graceful fingers. “Perhaps that is why I never liked Francis. Envy, just envy. It was most unfair. He was really very good to me—when he remembered, or I should say, when Arthur reminded him, that I was alive… But that is not to the point at all,” he added briskly. “To the best of my knowledge, Francis did not drink or gamble while he was at Westminster. Perhaps the propensity was there, but he would have been expelled had he been caught drunk. In any case, his habit did not develop because he was unhappy at school, I can assure you of that.”
“Did he tell Eustace those stories to tease him, then?” Abigail asked. “It seems most unlike Francis, but if he hated the boy—”
“I don’t think Francis ever bothered to hate. I would say his stepmother and her children hardly existed for him. They were just shadowy nuisances, like a bad servant.” Bertram sighed. “I have just admitted that I didn’t like Francis, but I must also admit that it is far more likely he told Eustace horror stories after his mother convinced Lord Lydden that the boy was too frail to undergo the rigors of a public education.”
“Oh, of course!” Abigail cried, greatly relieved. “He would have done so to permit Eustace to be glad of what he had earlier considered a deprivation.” She laid her hand on top of Bertram’s to still their uneasy motion. “I loved Francis when I married him. In a way, I suppose I still love him, but I haven’t liked him for many years.” She sighed also and then smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Lydden—”
“Mr. Lydden?” he interrupted. “Am I not to be Cousin Bertram?”
“I had to be asked,” Abigail said, laughing. “I would not wish you to think of me as a bold and forward—” She stopped speaking as the door opened and Arthur strode in scowling ferociously. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed, “I had better take myself off at once. I hope the catastrophe that engendered that expression has nothing to do with mine or me, but I don’t wish to find out.”
Chapter Nine
Abigail need not have taken so much care to elude her son. She had underestimated Victor. He had quickly come to the conclusion that it would not be possible for him to begin school before the beginning of the next term, and dismissed the subject to be taken up at a more suitable time. Victor’s mind was not on school but on his new fishing rod. Eus
tace had explained how to use the complicated mechanism and had demonstrated a few times, and Victor’s natural self-confidence had made him certain he could duplicate his half uncle’s expertise in no time. However, his attempts after he had left his mother the previous night had not been a great success. Victor felt he needed time and privacy to work on mastery of that fishing rod.
Since Mrs. Franklin had been made aware of Sir Arthur’s invitation to fish, and her son-in-law, the gamekeeper Price, had assured her that no one carrying a gun would be allowed anywhere near either great house, she made no objection when, over breakfast, Victor said he would like to try his luck, and when he was finished went off to fetch his rod. Daphne followed her brother, and Victor was normally so accepting of her company that Mrs. Franklin gratefully turned her attention to practical matters, such as deciding which of the children’s clothes must go to the laundry maid.
But this time Victor did not want his sister’s company. Daphne could be adoringly admiring, but she could also laugh at him most heartily when he came a cropper. He had no desire for her to see him tangle his line and catch his hook on branches and reeds ten times in a row, so he grabbed his rod and ran down the stairs as quickly as he could. Daphne went to her room to fetch a shawl and bonnet. She was quick about it because she knew her brother would be impatient with any delay, but still she was barely in time to see him disappearing down the stairs. She ran after him, calling his name aloud until he stopped, reluctantly, between the doors to the morning room and the drawing room.
“You can’t come fishing with me,” he said. “Fishing is a man’s sport. You would only be in the way.”
“No, I won’t,” Daphne protested, but weakly. It was true that her father had never taken her with them when he and Victor went fishing or hunting, although he had been willing to have her along at other times.
“Yes you will, Daph,” Victor insisted. “You’ll want to talk all the time and you mustn’t. The fish can hear through the water, and talking frightens them. Father told me so.”
Daphne, who had been almost ready to give in, was filled with righteous indignation. “That’s not fair,” she complained. “You know I don’t talk when you tell me not.”
“It’s different for hide and seek,” Victor snapped irritably. “Then it’s only for five minutes. This time it might be hours.”
“Well, I still don’t have to talk,” Daphne said reasonably. “I could pick flowers and—”
“No! I said no, and that’s all!” Victor yelled. “Pick flowers! You silly thing, you don’t know anything about fishing. You’ll make a shadow on the water and frighten all the fish away. I’m going alone, I tell you.”
The door to the morning room opened. “Victor! Daphne!” Hilda scolded. “You are acting like little animals. Ladies and gentlemen do not quarrel in public and do not raise their voices in so crude and coarse a manner, even in private.”
“Sorry,” Victor mumbled, and made good his escape out the door before Daphne had a chance to speak.
Although Daphne realized from various exchanges she had overheard between her mother and Hilda that the two were not often in agreement, she knew quite well that Abigail did not approve of loud arguments, either. She, too, spoke an apology, but she was not quick enough in getting away. Hilda began a long lecture on proper behavior, modesty, and the unsuitability of Daphne spending so much time with her brother. The subject had little in it to hold Daphne’s attention, particularly since she did not like or respect Hilda.
She did not fear her step-grandmother either, knowing her mother would not relish Hilda’s interference. Besides, Daphne thought resentfully, Victor was the one who had yelled. The injustice of being scolded for her brother’s sin fixed Daphne’s mind on the other injustice Victor had done her. He had no right, she felt, to say she would be a bother, without really finding out whether she would be or not. She could be quiet, and she did not need to pick flowers where her shadow would fall on the water. As Daphne came to this conclusion, Hilda shook a finger in her face, which startled her and fixed her attention.
“You are a naughty girl, and your mother spoils you dreadfully and will ruin your life,” Hilda pronounced awfully. “A girl must be obedient to her brother. Remember, when he comes of age, he will be your guardian until you are married, and—”
“No he will not,” Daphne retorted. “Mother is my guardian. Mother says men have peculiar ideas about what will make women happy, so Victor will have no control over me, and if I choose to marry, arrangements will be made, Mother says, so that I will not be a victim of—of any bad habits my husband might develop.”
Daphne was not certain what she had said to make Hilda’s mouth drop open in shock. Perhaps she should not have admitted that she knew husbands could be less than perfect. Nonetheless, she was not so concerned that she failed to take advantage of having reduced Hilda, at least temporarily, to speechlessness. Hurriedly Daphne dropped a perfunctory curtsy and fled out the door by which Victor had escaped, since that was nearest. She ran as fast as she could toward the shelter of the wood, expecting every moment to hear Hilda’s strident voice calling her back—and, indeed, she did hear a faint voice crying her name just as she reached the trees, but she ran on until she could truly say she heard nothing.
It was not until she stopped to catch her breath that Daphne realized she had better stay out of the house at least until lunch. She was not at all sure Mrs. Franklin could protect her from more of Hilda’s lectures, and if she sought out her mother and Hilda recounted to her what Daphne had said about husbands, her mother would get that funny look that somehow hurt Daphne to see. Daphne was annoyed with herself. She should have said “man” instead of “husband” the way mother always did—she would not be a victim of any man’s bad habits. Oh well, it was useless to cry over spilled milk. Very likely Hilda would not say anything because she knew Mother would be annoyed, not sympathetic, if she and Victor were called spoiled. But she had better stay out of sight. Daphne looked around the wood and realized she had run right onto the path Sir Arthur had taken yesterday. That was not surprising. Victor had gone out the door that would take him most directly to that part of the wood, and naturally she had not tried to push through the brush but had taken the open path when she came to it. Daphne stood and looked down the inviting trail of grass. If she followed Victor, he would be very angry. Well, he would be angry if he knew, but what if she came so quietly and remained so quiet all the time that he did not know she was there. Then, when he had caught his fish, she could come out and prove that he had been unfair to her and that he should take her the next time he went fishing. Delighted with her plan, Daphne started down along the path, quite certain she knew the turns that would take her to the pool and the meadow where the kingcups and yellow iris grew.
Victor’s successful escape from Hilda and Daphne put him into a good humor, and he trotted along the path until, not far along it, he reached the first branch. He turned, and after a somewhat longer walk than he remembered—which worried him a little—he found the fork where the right-hand path led to the pool and the one on the left, Sir Arthur had said, led to another place farther upstream. Sometime in the future he might try the upstream spot, but for now Victor wanted a fairly open area in which to learn to cast.
At first Victor was rather tempted to cast from the clearest area. Then it occurred to him that when Daphne escaped from Hilda she might follow him. Victor wrinkled his nose in irritation. Daphne was a nuisance sometimes, but he had found a place yesterday where she would not see him even if she did follow.
There was an old, half-dead fir whose dense net of intertwined roots and heavy layer of needles had so choked the ground that nothing more than a little sparse grass grew near it. The hollow formed in the brush that lined the river was hidden by a slight curve of the bank, and so many of the lower branches had fallen from the tree that there was room enough to cast. Moreover, over the years, the bank of the river had been washed away so that seve
ral of the heavy roots protruded out over the water, making a platform on which one could balance quite easily to land a struggling fish.
Victor remembered that Sir Arthur had told him there were paths direct to those places, but he did not want to spend the time looking and he was roughly dressed so he just wormed his way along the bank to this haven. When he arrived, he paused and listened suspiciously, but there was no sound of Daphne calling him, nothing beyond the ordinary sounds of any wooded area. He hesitated once again in his preparations when a brief crackle in the brush behind him made him look around and sigh, expecting to see a tearstained and disheveled sister, but she did not appear and the sound was not repeated. With a sense of relief, Victor loosened what he thought was a suitable length of line and made his first cast.
No one would have called what he achieved the work of a master fisherman, but at least the hook reached the water without catching on anything behind him or over his head, which was more than Victor had expected from his experiences in his room the previous evening. He reeled in, feeling hopeful, and tried again. The second cast, unfortunately, was less successful, dropping into the water just beyond the roots of the tree and catching on something underneath so that Victor had to lie down and feel around in the water to free his hook.
Not wishing to go through that struggle again, Victor made his third cast standing on the roots as near as he could get to the water. This was the most successful thus far, and he felt it was not an accident. There was a “right” feeling about the way the line had snapped forward over his head. Reeling in and loosening more line, Victor tried several times more and succeeded more often than he failed—and the last time he reeled in he noticed a pucker in the water not far from where his line had gone in.
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