A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  A quiver of excitement, a slightly quickened beating of the heart—marks of the true game fisherman—passed through Victor. He knew the weather was not the best for fishing, but perhaps his repeated casting had made the fish think there were many insects on the water. With a somewhat trembling hand, Victor threaded his hook with bait, which he had not bothered with before, took his stance on the very edge of the roots, and concentrated his whole being on the feeling of casting “right” while his eyes fixed on the spot where he wanted the hook to go.

  As he began his cast, he again heard the crackle in the brush and perhaps the sound of a stick snapping under a foot, but he did not turn his head or relax his concentration. He no longer minded if Daphne arrived, in fact, it would add to his pleasure if she were there when he hooked a fish. The line flew out, straight and true. The hook hit the water just where Victor had wanted it to go, and under the water Victor thought he saw a swirl of movement. He took a deep breath with excitement, just as a tremendous push catapulted him into the water.

  Naturally enough, Victor’s first sensation was such rage that he nearly opened his mouth to scream. He felt a hand groping for his shoulder and tried to twist around onto his back and grab it, fully intending to pull Daphne in with him, for he assumed that it was she who had pushed him into the water out of spite. However, he discovered he could not twist around. There was a hand on his other shoulder too, and both hands—large hands that could not possibly be Daphne’s because she could not reach so far—were pressing him down into the water.

  Daphne walked along the path, taking more care to be quiet than to arrive quickly. After all, there was no reason to arrive sooner than later. It would be rather dull, she knew, waiting for Victor to finish his silly fishing, and even when he did and she came out of hiding, she did not expect much welcome. Victor did not like to be proved wrong, which he would be if Daphne were so quiet she did not interfere with his fishing, and he would be annoyed. At that thought, Daphne nearly turned back. She hated it when her adored brother was angry with her. However, just then she came to the side path toward the pool and realized that Victor would never take her with him when he went fishing if she did not now show him she could be quiet.

  Determined not to be left behind again, Daphne turned into the path, but she was filled with doubts and she had gone a way along before she realized that this path seemed different from the path she had taken yesterday. It was narrower and the angle at which it met the main path was sharper. Daphne hesitated, and then went forward again. The path was perfectly clear. She could not get lost. If she did not find the fork that led to the pool, she could just go back the way she came. She walked on, her eyes scanning ahead for the familiar fork so that she did not notice two other paths joining, the one she trod, one right, one left, some ten feet apart. There! The sense of triumph Daphne felt nearly made her say the word aloud when she saw the fork, and she automatically took the left-hand path and went along it. Then a branch caught at her gown, and when she edged away toward the other side, a thorny bush scratched her cheek. Daphne stopped. This was wrong, she was certain now. She had walked side by side with her mother along the path to the pool, and no branches had touched her. This path was much too narrow.

  Annoyed with herself for mistaking the way, Daphne stood still, frowning. It did not seem possible to have made a wrong turn. Then Daphne remembered that she had been running hard when she entered the main path. With a small tremor of fear she realized that she must have run past the right path. She turned hastily, her nervousness increasing as she was scratched again, feeling as if the bushes were closing in on her. She reminded herself that she could not get lost, but through the mist of tears that was forming in her eyes, the path did not look as clear as it had before.

  Biting back a whimper, Daphne began to retrace her steps, walking quickly at first, and then, as she was whipped by a low branch that protruded into the path here and there, she became even more frightened and began to trot. She was moving so fast by the time she reached the fork that she almost ran into the brush on the other side of the path, which added to her shock, and she was really running when she caught her balance and started off again.

  This path was wider, and the feeling that it must be well traveled calmed Daphne a little so that she slowed to catch her breath—just in time to see a fork. There shouldn’t be a fork. She hadn’t seen any fork on the way down the path. Which way should she go? Had she taken a wrong path at the fork where she had turned back? She chose the wider of the two trails and ran forward again, only to find still another fork. Wrong! It must be the wrong way, the wrong path. Sobbing, Daphne turned around and ran back to the fork, but there was no other path.

  Utterly terrified now, she screamed for Victor, drew breath to scream again, and heard a loud splash. She shouted several times more before the meaning of the noise she had heard penetrated her fear. A splash meant water. Water meant the river. The river meant the meadow. Still sobbing and calling for Victor, Daphne reentered the narrow left-hand fork she had abandoned earlier and began to run, holding up her hands to protect her face and crashing into and through the brush that occasionally blocked her way. She was making a great deal of noise, but she did not care about that. She did not care about anything except finding Victor so that she would no longer be lost.

  It seemed very far to her, but eventually she burst out into a small open area beside the water. For a moment her terror increased again because this was not the place she had expected and for all she knew she might not even be near the same river, but then she heard someone coughing and wheezing not too far off to her left. Daphne stopped and drew a long breath of relief. Whoever it was would either take her home or tell her the way. Daphne tried to straighten her dress and bonnet, which were a little the worse for her experience, and began to edge her way past the brush toward the sounds.

  The first thing she saw upriver was the pool. She had come out about a hundred feet downriver of the widened area she had been seeking. The next thing she saw was Victor, flailing about with his arms to push himself closer to the shore. He disappeared on the other side of some protruding brush, but Daphne was no longer afraid. She knew where she was now and even knew what she had done wrong. In addition, she felt very pleased with herself for finding her own way to the river and confident because even the strange paths she had wandered had led to a safe, familiar place.

  She felt like laughing aloud when she remembered Victor sloshing around in the water, but did not dare. If he heard her, he would never forgive her. Daphne knew the latitude allowed sisters, and laughing at a time like this was well beyond the line. Still, she hurried as fast as she could toward the place she had seen Victor disappear, ignoring the new tears the bushes were making in her delicate dress and the fact that her bonnet was again all awry. She rounded the sheltering brush to see her brother still in the river, clinging to the protruding roots of the old fir and breathing in gasps, his face paper white and his eyes huge as he stared apprehensively in her direction.

  “Victor,” she cried, “can’t you get out?”

  “Daph!”

  Her name was hardly more than a whisper, and his eyes half closed in the faintness of relief. Daphne cried out and struggled frantically through the bushes, fearing he would slip into the water again.

  “Hold on,” she called. “Hold on. I’m coming. I’ll help you. Oh, Vic, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  He looked as if he would be, but as she reached the open area and threw herself down on the roots to grasp at him, he shook his head. “Get out of the way, Daph. I can climb up myself.” He managed that, but it was just as well that Daphne was close by, for he teetered on the edge and might have slipped had she not grabbed his arm and steadied him.

  “Did you push me in, Daph?” he asked, sitting down suddenly when she had pulled him to the safety of solid ground.

  “No!” she cried, uttering a frightened sob and sinking down beside her brother. “No, I wouldn’t. Nev
er. And you saw me coming. I was lost. I took the wrong path and came out all the way down there.”

  She pointed, but her brother did not turn to look. He shook his head and hugged himself, trying to stop his body from shaking. “Someone pushed me in,” he said, his eyes too large, “and held me down. Daph, someone tried to drown me.”

  “Who?” Daphne whispered, clutching at her brother’s arm and looking apprehensively around the tiny open area. “Who would try to drown you, Vic? That’s…that’s crazy.”

  “I know,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “Of course it’s crazy, and I have no idea who it was. I thought I saw a fish rising, and I made a cast and—and someone gave me an almighty push on the back. I thought it was you, Daph. I thought you were angry because I wouldn’t take you, and so you pushed me for spite—”

  “No!” Daphne cried again. “No, Vic—”

  “I know it wasn’t you,” Victor said, shivering hard in spite of his arms wrapped tightly around himself. “I know it wasn’t you, because the person held me down. No matter how mad you were, Daph, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh Vic, I’m afraid,” Daphne whimpered. “I want to go home. I don’t want to stay here.”

  “Nor me,” Victor agreed, but he was shivering so hard he had some difficulty getting to his feet and staggered against his sister, who cried out as the wet from his clothing seeped into hers.

  “You’re so wet, Vic. That’s why you’re shivering,” she assured him, trying to convince herself that her fearless and nearly all-powerful brother was not shaking with fear. “Take off that soaked coat and put my shawl around you. You’ll feel warmer, and you can take it off before we get to the house.”

  Oddly, Daphne’s assurance that he was not afraid did much to steady Victor’s nerves. The horror of the few minutes when he tried to kick and struggle against the pressure holding him underwater, only to feel his feet catch so that he could not raise them either, was fading. He remembered too, that when he had pushed hard against what had caught his feet, the grip on him had loosened so that he had moved forward into deeper water, and his head had come up into the air. He laughed shakily.

  “A fine cake I’d look wearing your shawl. But I will take off my coat. You’re right. It’s cold. My shirt will dry as soon as we get out into the sun.” His voice had sounded steadier, and that made him feel better, as did the realization that his knees no longer felt like jelly. He let go of Daphne and pulled off the sodden coat. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” Arthur growled ferociously.

  Abigail stiffened slightly at the tone, but she spoke in a dulcetly reasonable voice. “When a gentleman enters his secretary’s office wearing an expression that would give second thoughts to Caligula, one must assume that the gentleman is displeased about something. I only—”

  “Second thoughts to Caligula!” Arthur roared. “Are you trying to insult me, or are you merely ignorant?”

  “Arthur—” Bertram began, but Abigail waved a hand at him imperiously, and her voice cut across his.

  “Actually, I thought I was flattering you. A scowl that could make Caligula think twice must be a powerful weapon.”

  Both men now stared at her, Bertram pressing his handkerchief to his lips and Arthur with astonishment replacing the rage on his face.

  “Good heavens,” Abigail continued, her voice now softer but coolly contemptuous. “I have been worried about whether Victor’s preparation was adequate for a good English school, but now I am beginning to wonder whether I should send him back to America for a decent education. If my allusion was above your heads—”

  “You are a bluestocking!” Arthur exclaimed in an accusatory tone.

  Ostentatiously Abigail lifted her skirt three or four inches, showing very pretty ankles clothed in thin white silk, and looked down at them. “I did not think I had picked a color so unsuitable to my gown.”

  Bertram gasped, struggling against laughter, cleared his throat and said, “No, I am afraid you are not acquainted with our…er…patois. ‘Bluestocking’ is the name given to a…ah…scholarly female.”

  “From your tone, I suppose you mean a learned goose,” Abigail remarked sharply. “Perhaps I do qualify. My father was a don until he married, and he enjoyed teaching. I enjoyed learning. I am sorry you feel that to be a male prerogative.”

  “You had better get a pitcher of cold water, Bertram,” Arthur said. His face was perfectly sober, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were a telltale sign of internal laughter. “She has burst into flame again and may need quenching.”

  “Arthur! You are being deliberately offensive,” Bertram protested. “I swear you have the manners of a stoat.”

  “But she told me herself she had a flammable disposition,” Arthur pointed out with injured innocence. “You would not wish our guest to be utterly consumed by the flames of her temper. I was not suggesting you douse her at once, you know, only that we be prepared.”

  But Abigail had not risen to this bait. She stood smiling gently, her eyes fixed on Arthur but clearly not seeing him as her mind was filled by some enchanting inner vision. “Stoat,” she murmured, “how marvelously apt. A most beautiful animal, as vicious as it is lovely, and given to screaming at the top of its lungs for no reason at all. There are other characteristics, too—”

  “Abigail!” Arthur thundered.

  She looked at him, innocently inquiring. “Oh, are you just complying with the metaphor, or is there a reason for your shrieking?”

  There was a brief silence. Then, as if none of the foregoing conversation had taken place, Arthur said, “I hope Bertram was able to satisfy whatever need made you call on him.”

  Abigail did not reply at once because a most delightful idea had crept into her mind. Had that scowl with which Arthur had entered the room been there because she had asked to see Bertram rather than himself? And if so, could it be because Arthur was jealous? An extra touch of color rose into Abigail’s face, accompanying a pleasant but dangerous warmth she recognized in her body. She had not felt it since Francis’ death, and rarely even with Francis since he had destroyed her trust in him. She saw Arthur’s lips tighten and spoke hurriedly.

  “Yes, thank you. Our business was finished, and I really must not intrude any longer. I am sorry to have annoyed you by trying to insert a note of levity when I saw you come in so angry. It was just that my conscience is rather sore because with one thing and another, like that accident in the woods, my children and I seem to be taking up a great deal of your time and causing you a good deal of trouble—”

  “Why are you babbling?” Arthur asked quietly. “I may have the manners of a stoat, but I can assure you that I will not try to intrude on any private business you have with Bertram.”

  Abigail sighed. “My business with Bertram was not at all private. He can tell you…” She paused to look around for confirmation, and both she and Arthur were surprised to find that Bertram had slipped silently out of the room while they were quarreling.

  “I’m afraid Bertram is not a very gallant defender,” Arthur said. “He seems to have absconded, leaving you to hold the bag.”

  “Hold the bag?” Abigail echoed.

  “Sorry, that must be another British idiom with which you are not familiar. The bag, in our terms, would be the one into which the conies and pheasants ‘just jumped’—in other words, a poacher’s illegal take.”

  “Oh, you must mean that he left me to face whatever punishment would be meted out alone.” Abigail smiled. “I suspect during our conversation I gave Bertram plenty of reason to believe I could defend myself without help from him, but actually I’m glad he is gone. It makes it easier to explain why I wanted his advice. You will be annoyed with me again, and with a certain amount of justice, for I have been allowing Hilda and Eustace to throw me off balance. I should have known better, but they couldn’t have had any ulterior motive, so
when they both spoke so strongly against sending Victor to school and even tied public education to Francis’—”

  “I believe I knew Francis better than any of them,” Arthur remarked coldly. “Why didn’t you come to me for advice? Why Bertram?”

  “Well, that should be obvious,” Abigail replied tartly. “You only have to look at Bertram to know that he would be the butt of every bully and nasty mouth in any school. If he had gone to school and survived, I didn’t have to worry about Victor.”

  Arthur took a step closer and smiled down at her with shining eyes. Although there had been no contempt in Abigail’s voice when she spoke of Bertram—indeed, there had been a friendly warmth—no woman spoke in those terms of a man to whom she was physically attracted. He had been a fool. Bertram was no rival. He had been stupid to be so furious when he heard she had come and asked for Bertram, but helplessness did breed fury in Arthur, and he had known that he could not and would not try to take Abigail away from Bertram, no matter how much he wanted her for himself.

  The general warmth that had touched Abigail earlier flooded her again as Arthur moved close, and his expression generated even more dangerous signals in her—an increasing sensitivity in her breasts and a sense of moisture between her thighs. She knew she should move back away from him before he touched her, but she did not want to. Desperately she found her voice.

  “And I want you to know, because a woman does not like to look a fool any more than a man does, that I was not taken in a bit by that ‘noble’ statement about not intruding into my private business with Bertram. Honestly, if I ever heard a more sinuous, sneaky—”