A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “Just like a stoat,” he murmured, and bent and kissed her.

  He had not embraced her, only put his mouth to hers in such a way that he offered a sensual invitation Abigail knew she could accept or reject. She almost pulled away as the thought flashed through her mind that he had no right to put on her the onus of agreeing to an intimate relationship on so short an acquaintance. Almost simultaneously, however, she found another interpretation of the gesture, that she was too strong and intelligent a woman to need or desire any implication of being forced. And by the time it was possible to compare the two ideas, it was far too late to do so. Having given her a moment to recoil and found that instead she allowed their lips to cling together, Arthur’s arms had come up to hold her, and the tentative kiss had become far more demanding.

  For a little while longer Abigail permitted the caress to continue, enjoying the sensations of her own body and those she guessed Arthur was feeling. She remembered vaguely that she had not intended to yield to him so easily, but she could not remember being so strongly drawn to any man—not even to Francis, she admitted to herself. Still, she was not out of control and knew this was not the time or the place for what they were doing. Somewhat reluctantly she placed one hand against his chest and withdrew her head. At the same time, she raised the other hand and ran the forefinger around the edge of Arthur’s ear and down his neck. He sighed and allowed her to break the kiss, but he did not let her go.

  “I suppose I should say I am sorry for taking advantage of you in my home—”

  Abigail giggled. “Are you implying that I yielded to you in abject terror because I knew that no matter how I fought and screamed, you would have your dastardly way with me? No doubt your servants are all so corrupt that they would ignore my pleas for succor.”

  “Idiot!” Arthur exclaimed tenderly, chuckling. “I doubt you would wait for succor if you wanted it. Most likely you would have stamped on my toes and crippled me for life. No, but I should have waited and approached the subject more diplomatically.”

  “Is there a diplomatic way to seduce a woman?” Abigail asked with interest.

  Arthur promptly tightened his grip so quickly and so forcefully that Abigail let out a startled squeak as the air was ejected from her lungs. “I will get to the subject of seduction in my own good time,” he told her severely, while she gasped for breath, “but I will give you a piece of tactical advice right now. It is unwise to give free rein to your clever tongue during captivity.”

  Abigail laughed, stretched her neck and kissed him on the nose. “There, I have paid my ransom.”

  “Must I let you go?” he asked. “Without even a demand for a higher ransom?”

  “That is blackmail, not diplomacy,” Abigail complained, but she paid another ransom—a somewhat larger fee—without struggling. In fact, she did not move away at once but, when their lips parted, dropped her head to rest against his shoulder.

  “Dearest,” he murmured anxiously, touching her hair with his lips, “have I hurt you somehow?”

  “No.” She sighed, pulling away but smiling up at him as she freed herself. “Only that it felt so strange and so pleasant to be in a man’s arms again.”

  “Come back, then,” he begged, reaching for her.

  Abigail shook her head. “A very tempting idea but neither a safe nor a sensible one. We have been very fortunate that Bertram has not returned, nor anyone come looking for him, but I do not think we should press our luck further. I think, perhaps, I should go home.”

  “And send me a note saying you are very sorry for the misunderstanding, but—”

  She started to laugh, and then realized that he had not said it to be amusing. There was a note of mixed anger and anxiety in his voice, and she took his hand. “Why should you say that, Arthur? You must know that I am not a silly chit out of the schoolroom nor a fashionable flirt. I am a full-grown woman and I know my own mind.”

  He could not tell her that a “note of withdrawal” seemed to be the standard second move—almost like a chess gambit—for ladies about to embark on a little affair. For one thing, a gentleman did not speak of his conquests, particularly to another woman. For another, Arthur could not understand why a reaction that ordinarily amused him had angered and distressed him when he thought he perceived it in Abigail. Unable to reply, he only lifted the hand she was holding and turned it so that he could kiss hers. She cocked her head at him and then shook it, suddenly understanding that his reaction must have come out of his wide experience with other women.

  “No,” she said, “I am not turning coy for fear you will think ill of me. If you are fool enough to believe me a promiscuous woman—”

  “For God’s sake, Abigail,” he protested, “don’t begin that.”

  She laughed. “No, I promise I will not. I only just realized that you thought I was about to play coy because I yielded too easily to begin with. What I wanted to say was that no amount of protest could change your mind if you thought—”

  “No!” he exploded. “I don’t! In fact, no one except a veritable innocent babe could act as silly as you or tread with such heavy-footed inelegance on every single attempt I have made to inject a little romance into—”

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail said, feeling stricken. She knew she was businesslike and practical to a fault. Francis had blamed her for it often, but she had no idea she had been sounding that way to Arthur.

  “Oh God, now I’ve hurt you,” Arthur murmured, pulling her back into his arms roughly. “I was joking, darling. You are a total refreshment to my spirit. I adore you. I have adored you since the moment you said you were not pleased to meet me.”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t. You were quite furious.”

  “Not nearly as furious as I was when I thought you preferred Bertram to me,” he admitted, laughing.

  “Then you are as silly as you say I am,” Abigail said. “Who could prefer Bertram to you? No, seriously, Arthur, I even realize that I am probably making a grave mistake in beginning this kind of relationship with a man who clearly has had as much experience as you do, but I find you quite irresistible.”

  She had rendered him speechless for a moment once more, and before he could find words, she shook her head again. “I know that sounded as if I were trying to drag you into a profession of eternal love or even a proposal of marriage, but neither is true. I want you to know that I truly understand this is not—”

  He shut her mouth with a kiss, hard and passionate but quite brief, then lifted his head. “Abigail, be quiet! It is quite clear that no one has ever made love to you. What the devil did Francis talk about when you were courting? No, don’t tell me, you idiot. Has no one ever told you how exquisitely beautiful you are? That your lips are sweet as—” He hesitated, trying to find a simile that was not trite.

  “Ambrosia?” she offered in a tiny voice, rather choked with suppressed laughter.

  Arthur raised his hands, which had been embracing her waist and hips, and put them around her throat, by which he dragged her a few steps to a sofa, littered, like the rest of the room, with papers. Releasing his grip on Abigail’s neck with one hand, he swept the papers to the floor and plumped himself and his prisoner, who was laughing so hard she could barely stand anyway, down on the sofa together. A cloud of dust rose, making both of them sneeze so hard that he lost his grip on her completely. Abigail flung her arms around Arthur’s neck and clung to him, whooping with laughter.

  Both quieted after a while, and Arthur kissed her hair and her face gently. “I have never met a woman like you,” he murmured. “Never.”

  Words that had not once entered his mind in any of his amorous adventures—love, forever, until death do us part—rose to his lips. He managed to suppress them, but just barely. He had lied to other women, it was part of the game, but even so, he had never done it willingly, only when they forced him by ridiculous demands they knew quite well he could not and would not fulfill. But he would not lie to Abigail, not even if t
he truth cost him her…he sought for a word, and it was love. That was very strange. He could not remember associating love with any of the other women—desire, excitement, triumph as at the capture of a prize, satisfaction, sometimes even comfort—but not love. Ridiculous, he thought , I am not even sure what the word means.

  Abigail had spoken the exact truth when she said she knew it was not wise to enter a relationship with a man of such wide experience with women. The chances were strong that at Arthur’s age he had formed the habit of inconstancy and that no woman could hold his attention for long. She must not allow herself to become too attached to him, Abigail told herself. She must remember that she could not either require or expect faithfulness from such a man. Although he would not hurt her if he could avoid doing so, neither would he change the habits of a lifetime over one more affair.

  On the other hand, she had also spoken the truth when she said she found him irresistible. Why that was true, she was not sure. Heaven knew, she had not lacked for male attention at any time of her life. She had been assiduously courted before marriage, constantly invited to extramarital adventures while Francis was alive, and almost besieged with offers after his death. Arthur’s comment that no one had ever made love to her had been as far from the truth as one could get. Too many men had extolled the beauty of her eyes, her hair, her face, her hands—in fact of every aspect of her person decency allowed them to mention. Suddenly it occurred to her that it might have been Francis’ selfishness that made her fall in love with him. He had showed by his attention and desire that he thought her beautiful, but he had never talked about her at all. He had talked about himself.

  Abigail smiled and responded with small crooning sounds of pleasure as Arthur’s lips moved from her cheek briefly to her lips and then down to her throat. It was certainly no similarity to Francis that had attracted her to Arthur. He was not at all handsome, and the aura he exuded—if one took away the elegance—was of authority, integrity and rock-solid reliability. Not very romantic characteristics, Abigail thought, but lovable ones. Actually, Arthur was almost exactly the opposite of Francis in every way, except, perhaps, in not trying to tell her she was beautiful as soon as he got her alone. But even that was different, really, for Arthur did not talk about himself. He was far more interested in others. Even in this gentle, skilled preparation for love… Abigail shuddered. Somehow Arthur had loosened the tie of her gown and was exploring the top of her breasts with his warm mouth.

  “Don’t, Arthur,” she said softly, bending her head to kiss his ear and take the sting from her denial. “You are making me very—willing, but there is no place to go. I could not—not here, with the expectation of being intruded upon every moment.”

  He paused, letting his mouth rest where it was for a moment longer, and then lifted his head. “Sorry,” he muttered, and then cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Abigail was almost as stirred sexually by his glazed look of desire as by what he had been doing, but still she was grateful that his self-control was strong enough to preclude his urging her to couple with him then and there. Had he pressed her, she feared she would have yielded. It would have been wrong, perhaps fatal to any further relationship, an ugly experience, groping and grasping in a half-clothed huddle with most of their attention really on listening for an intruder rather than on each other.

  “You are quite right, my darling,” Arthur said, lifting her face so he could look at her. “But I hope you are not going to say there can never be a time or place for us.”

  Abigail sighed. “I do not wish to say it, but, Arthur, to make an assignation for that sole purpose…” Her voice faltered, and she steadied it, but it was very low when she continued. “Somehow, that is ugly to me. It is not that I am unwilling…”

  She had lowered her eyes so that she would not have to look at him, even though he held her chin, but now she raised them. To her surprise, she saw he was smiling slightly, his expression very tender.

  “You are more romantic than you believe, my love,” he said softly. “Did you think I would say ‘I will come tomorrow at three of the clock’ as if your body was for sale? I am not a boy to snatch at green apples. I know they are sweeter when they are ripe and fall into my hand by happy happenstance.”

  “Yes, let’s get out of here—into the sun to dry you off,” Daphne said, echoing her brother’s words and starting toward the edge of the river to work her way through the brush back to the meadow.

  Victor hesitated, looking at the water, but there was nothing in the calm, peaceful ripples sparkling in the sunlight to recall the terror he had felt. He picked up his sodden jacket and followed a few steps, then stopped and called “Wait,” just as Daphne was about to disappear behind a bush. “I have to find my rod,” he explained.

  It took an effort of will to step out on the roots, but with Daphne watching, Victor was ashamed to seem afraid. And no one could sneak up on him again, he told himself; his sister was facing out into the little clearing and would see if anyone came. He went down on his knees and looked into the water. He saw the rod almost immediately, but it was not easy to reach. After a moment’s struggle Victor realized that he was already soaked to the skin. He could not get any wetter by getting into the water to retrieve the rod. Without even thinking about it, he slipped off the roots. Daphne cried out and he called back, “It’s all right, Daph, I didn’t fall in. I can’t reach the rod from the roots.”

  But Victor still could not reach the rod from where he stood. Muttering curses that neither his sister nor mother realized he knew, he ducked under the water. To his relief, his hand fell on the reel at once, and he started to rise, only to feel again a pressure on his back—but this time a single terrified jerk freed him, although his shirt was torn and his cheek harshly grazed by an underwater root as his head came up.

  Somewhat shaken, Victor swore silently that in the future he would fish from parts of the bank where no roots protruded. As he came out of the water and sloshed up on the bank near his sister, he demanded her shawl to dry his fishing rod. This sparked an argument, which Victor finally won by pointing out that the shawl was already stained and torn in several places and that using it to dry the rod could do it little harm—and, he said temptingly, she could then blame the total condition of the shawl on him.

  By then they had reached the meadow. Daphne surrendered her shawl, and Victor sat down in the grass to attend to his dripping fishing rod, but he did not remain there long. The weather was changing, the sun had disappeared behind heavy clouds, and a sharp breeze had sprung up. Victor shivered, and Daphne did too, rubbing her arms and complaining that she was cold. Victor got to his feet and handed back the shawl. It was one thing to be scolded mildly for adding to the dirt and possibly the rents in the shawl, it would be another thing entirely if Daphne were to fall ill. That would make his mother really angry. “It isn’t any warmer here,” he said. “We had better—”

  “Victor! Daphne! Whatever has happened to you?” Both children started and stared down the meadow at a man dressed in a manner they had never seen before in their lives, and both gasped with terror.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Fa-father?” Victor croaked.

  “No! Don’t be frightened. I am not a ghost,” the man exclaimed, hurrying toward them. “I am Bertram Lydden, your papa’s cousin. Dear me, I had no idea I had grown to look so very much like Francis.”

  As he came nearer and out of the shadow of the trees, the resemblance faded, leaving just enough familiarity of feature and voice to give the children a feeling of comfort and confidence. They ran forward, both speaking at once of their adventures, so that Bertram could make little sense of what they said, but one thing was clear—Victor was soaking wet and shaking with cold. Bertram pulled off his coat and told Victor to put it on.

  “It will get all wet, sir,” Victor pointed out. “I’ve been in the river. Some lunatic pushed me in!”

  He might not have protested, for he was very cold, but the coat wa
s of a delicate pale blue with large pearl buttons, far more elegant than any garment Victor had seen his father or grandfather wear.

  “Pushed you in!” Bertram exclaimed. “No, never mind about that for a minute. Put the coat on. I know it will get wet. It is more important that you don’t take a chill. Now, come with me, quickly.”

  He hurried them along the path, and they went willingly, for it was apparent that the clouds were thickening and that it might begin to rain at any moment. Both exclaimed, however, when he turned left rather than right as they reached the main path.

  “We are going to Stonar,” Bertram said. “It’s much closer. Hurry now, before it starts to rain. As soon as I have you warm and dry, I will send you home by carriage.”

  “But Mother will be worried if we don’t get in in time for luncheon,” Daphne protested.

  “I think your mother is at Stonar, talking to Sir Arthur,” Bertram said, “but if she has gone home, we will send a footman over with a note saying you are safe.”

  No one spoke again until they were approaching one of the back entrances to the manor house and Bertram said, “I think it might be best to take you both to my room and set you to rights before I inform your mother. She might be a little upset if she saw you both looking like something left out overnight.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” Daphne said, “but I don’t think I can mend my gown or shawl—”

  “No.” Bertram laughed. “But we can brush the burrs and twigs out of your clothes and hair—and set your bonnet to rights. And I am sure Victor should get warm before he begins any explanations. It is very hard to be convincing when one’s teeth are chattering. And while you are cleaning up and getting dry, you can tell me all about what happened to you. I haven’t really understood.”

  Neither Victor nor Daphne voiced any objection to this plan. Both had wanted to recount their thrilling experiences to their mother, but on second thought decided that Mr. Lydden, who was so kind and sympathetic, might be a safer audience. Daphne realized that her mother might not be entirely pleased that she had gone off by herself to follow Victor when he had said he did not want her. It was more likely that when she described her fear of being lost she would be told she got what she deserved, and that she would be set to mending her gown as punishment instead of being praised for finding her way. Victor also had his doubts. True, he had done nothing wrong. He had been given permission to fish, but still, a second coat had been ruined, and if the wetting had hurt his fishing rod…