A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  A note to Stonar brought an immediate invitation to come and examine the available mounts, and to Victor’s and Daphne’s tumultuous joy, they were allowed to choose horses from the St. Eyre stables so they could go riding at once. After seeing him atop several different animals, Arthur lent Victor not only a strong and lively gelding hack but a somewhat elderly hunter on whom he was to learn jumping under Arthur’s supervision. Daphne had a small mare, quieter than Victor’s mounts but by no means a sluggard. And Abigail was given a sleek, gray creature called GoGo, who lived up to her name but had a mouth so soft that she was instantly obedient to the lightest touch on the reins.

  Abigail knew enough about horses to utter a surprised protest when she saw the animal, for a horse of that quality was worth several hundred pounds and could never have been kept for the convenience of visitors. For Arthur to lend her so valuable an animal would be most indiscreet, but his smile silenced her, and later, after she had tried GoGo’s paces and confessed herself enchanted, she learned that the mare had been purchased especially for her and that it was assumed the price would come out of the Lydden estate. Abigail knew better and was a trifle uneasy about accepting so expensive a gift. Did it put her in the situation of selling herself?

  She put the question to Arthur quite frankly when they were walking together later, and he laughed so hard he had to sit down on a stump, which wreaked havoc on his pale buckskin breeches. After that he reproved her severely for being crude and improper and for putting him in bad graces with his valet. Then he pulled her down on his lap to kiss and call his soul’s delight. But he had not answered her question—unless his frank amusement was his answer—and he had not proposed any place of meeting where more than a few kisses would be possible.

  Nonetheless, Abigail believed that Arthur thought her worth his trouble, and she did not worry much about being bought for the price of a horse, but still she felt she spent far too much time concentrating on the man. Even if his professions of love were sincere, Abigail knew that the relationship could not be permanent. She would never marry again. Never, never would she permit herself to be legally less than human just because she loved a man. Marriage would mean that she had no rights at all over the children to whom she had given birth in such pain. A man who was not even their father could send them away or imprison them at home, forbid her to see them… anything. Abigail shuddered. She did not believe Arthur would act like that, she was sure he would not. He was stable, honest and intelligent. But she still would not give him or any other man that right, thus reducing herself to a state in which she had no more rights than a dog or a horse.

  To protect her children was most important, but even after Victor was legally independent, Abigail knew she would never consider remarriage. Why should she endure the small indignities of being a wife—the knowledge that even the clothes she wore did not belong to her, that her husband had the right to strip her naked and sell even her breast bands and pantalettes? Why should she need to go with outstretched hand and lowered eyes to beg for a few pounds of her own money, money that was no longer hers only because she was a wife?

  On the other hand, if she desired independence, Abigail realized that she must accept its drawbacks. With no legal bond to hold him, it was likely that eventually Arthur would slip away. She was not certain that even marriage would keep Arthur completely faithful, but she did not doubt that as his wife, she would not only always be first in public attentions but also last—the woman to whom he came in sorrow or trouble—with only a little slip in the middle, perhaps, for spice. Without marriage, she must remember, she was nothing but the spice herself. Thus, it was wrong to think so much about him.

  It was not that Arthur was so fascinating, Abigail assured herself, but that there was not much else to think about. Careful examination of the estate accounts and visiting and questioning tenants and observing their land both with and without the estate agent, Mr. Jameson, had convinced Abigail that Jameson was an honest man who knew his business. A few decisions that had seemed harsh to her had, it turned out, been forced on him by Eustace. However, he explained that it was not fair to blame Eustace too much, because he had been acting in his father’s name just before Lord Lydden’s death and did not wish to be accused of making a judgment that damaged the estate. Abigail understood but nonetheless ordered that the more lenient path be taken where possible. After that, it was quite clear that any further intrusion into the management of Rutupiae would be unnecessary.

  The children also were off her hands and safely occupied. What with Mrs. Franklin to oversee their meals and wardrobes, riding with steady well-trained grooms, exploring the estate under the safe guidance of Dick Price and being tutored by the vicar, Abigail rarely saw Victor and Daphne. She had not had so little to do for many, many years, and she understood why Arthur filled so many of her waking thoughts. He was the one challenge that faced her. Nonetheless, it was not the best thing in the world for her. The more she thought about Arthur, the stronger her appetite for him grew.

  Chapter Twelve

  Had Abigail known what was occupying Arthur’s time so fully, she would have been highly flattered. The “business” he mentioned in his note all concerned her. After he had purchased GoGo, he turned his attention to a place he could “show” her that would be private, empty and yet fitted out so that they could make love. That took considerable thought, but Arthur at last recalled there was a secluded cottage that had been built for an “eccentric” cousin.

  Arthur smiled involuntarily when he remembered the cottage because as a child he had greatly feared the place, believing his cousin was insane and tucked away in the woods for safekeeping. He had later discovered, because his curiosity became stronger than his fear, that it was not true. Cousin Algernon was very peculiar—he insisted on dressing as a woman, which was why privacy was required—but on all other subjects he was perfectly rational. Before the old man died—in a dimity nightgown and mobcap—he and Arthur had become good friends.

  Because it was so secluded, the cottage was unoccupied, yet it was fully furnished. Arthur rode over, found it dusty and musty after two years of disuse, but it had been soundly built and was in need of no more than a good cleaning. After ordering the cleaning, the house was restocked with staples—tea, wine, cheese, biscuits—and the bed was made up. Now all Arthur needed to do was find an excuse to bring Abigail there and an explanation for why an unused cottage was ready to receive two lovers. There were plenty of excuses and reasons, but none that would not make Abigail immediately suspect that the cottage was his regular love nest. Arthur shuddered at the thought.

  Normally the exercise of preparing a reasonable explanation would have been an amusing pleasure to be solved in an hour or so after more serious political problems had been examined. Arthur found, however, that he could not concentrate long either on politics or on Abigail because another problem, far more painful and unpleasant, came to his mind. Bertram, closer to him than his brother for many years, was in serious trouble and would not even discuss the matter with him. That was bad enough. Worse was Arthur’s sick fear that Victor Lydden was the source of Bertram’s agony of spirit.

  Even Abigail had been startled to see Bertram running out of the house without a coat after Victor’s accident. Until that moment, Arthur would not have believed that Bertram could be driven out in his shirtsleeves if the house were afire. Yet something had so disordered his mind and spirit that he had not remembered to put on a coat—something buried under that cock-and-bull story of a branch hitting Victor hard enough to push him into the river. It was not possible. Any branch large enough to do that had fallen from that tree long, long ago.

  At the time he had said nothing for Abigail’s sake. She had been frightened enough by that accidental shooting… Accidental? Accidental shooting, a near-accidental drowning, what would be the next “accident”? But later, when he and Bertram were alone, Bertram had refused to consider whether the two incidents were connected, had refused to a
dmit there was anything odd about the boy falling into the river. Bertram insisted that it need not have been a large branch. If Victor were at the edge of the roots and leaning well forward to look into the water, a mere tap could have sent him in. Arthur had then asked outright what was wrong, and whether there was anything he could do to help. Bertram had laughed at him, insisting that he was imagining things—but there had been tears in his eyes, which his flicking handkerchief had not been able to conceal completely.

  The ugly thought that Bertram would be heir to the Lydden estate if Victor should die and Eustace be convicted of causing his death crept back into Arthur’s mind. Bertram had left him with Abigail, Arthur remembered, and by his own admission had met the children near the pool not long after the accident had taken place.

  No! It was ridiculous, Arthur told himself, utterly and completely ridiculous. Bertram could not and would not. The trouble was Arthur knew Bertram loathed Hilda and Eustace. They had made his life miserable when he and his mother had been given shelter at Rutupiae after his father’s death had disclosed his utter ruin. It was by no means impossible that Bertram would enjoy destroying Eustace. But to murder a boy who had done him no harm, who clearly liked him…Bertram could not!

  Having forcibly rejected his suspicion of his friend, Arthur remembered two encouraging facts. The shooting could have been manipulated so that it seemed Eustace had done it, but if Victor had drowned, it would have been virtually impossible to prove that Eustace was involved. Bertram was far too clever to use so uncertain a device. More important, it had been Bertram who suggested Dick Price as a guard and guide for Victor—and who had left Dick’s instructions to Arthur. That was certainly evidence that Bertram did not want any accident to befall Victor.

  Arthur was comforted by this path of reasoning, but he could not forget the matter. He wondered briefly whether Eustace could be at the root of the trouble, but then dismissed the notion. Eustace was no fool, whatever else he was, and would realize he would be the first suspect if any harm befell Victor.

  Then Arthur realized that what was bothering Bertram might not be related to Victor directly. Could Bertram desire Abigail? Was that why anything to do with her children became so important as to wipe all his usual priorities from his mind? Arthur had only considered the situation from Abigail’s point of view because he had been afraid that Abigail favored Bertram. But twice Bertram had left them alone abruptly when he could have stayed. Arthur frowned unhappily. That was exactly how Bertram would act if he had fallen in love with Abigail, because he would feel he had nothing material to offer her—which was true. And it would be a sensible response to expose himself as little as possible.

  “Damn!” Arthur said aloud.

  He had remembered Bertram’s inadvertent disclosure the day Roger had come down from Stour that he was not content with his situation and that he wished to marry. Arthur sighed. He would have to be particularly careful in his behavior to Abigail in public. It would be cruel to expose Bertram to the knowledge that he was her lover. He sat for a while thinking about what to do, but oddly the possibility of backing out of the affair—which would have been his first idea had Bertram desired any of his earlier mistresses, because Arthur valued Bertram far more than any of those women—did not occur to him. Finally he wondered whether to warn Abigail. If he told her, she would be careful not to seek out any more private conferences with Bertram, but could she completely conceal her knowledge? It was bad enough to fall hopelessly in love, no need to add the bitter gall of pity to Bertram’s troubles.

  He had just about decided to ride over to Rutupiae Hall and see if he could discover, without actually telling Abigail about Bertram, how she might react, when a clamor in the corridor leading to the front door made him step out. He could not imagine what could have created such a disturbance and stood, stunned, as footmen carried in trunk after trunk.

  “Love, I am so glad to see you!” a soft, slightly breathless voice exclaimed.

  “Mama.” Arthur blinked and swallowed.

  He adored his mother, but she could not have chosen a more inconvenient moment to arrive. Although she made no overt comment, Arthur knew she did not approve of his love affairs. Her objections were only partly on moral grounds, Arthur guessed. He was pretty sure that she felt he would have married if he had not found so many willing partners. In general, Arthur did not really mind his mother’s disapproval. She was not so uncivilized as to display any open signs of hostility to his mistresses, but he was appalled by the idea that she might feel any animosity to Abigail. Different as they were in appearance and manner, Arthur knew they had much in common, and he wanted very much for them to be friends.

  He also knew it was useless for him to hope his mother would not notice if he and Abigail became lovers. What it was about him that changed, he could never discover, but his mother invariably knew within a day or two when he had won his prize and consummated his affair. Internally Arthur groaned. He could not expose Abigail to his dear mama’s cool disdain. He would have to give up any idea of actually making love to her. The renunciation aroused a shadow of sensation in his loins, and he decided he would have to think of something else.

  Lady St. Eyre’s tinkling laugh fell into the little pause before it became awkward. “Don’t look so overjoyed, Arthur! This welcome is overwhelming me.”

  “Damn it, Mama,” Arthur protested, “I’m not unwelcoming, I’m stunned. The last letter I received from you was a panegyric on the perfections of Bath and your utter and complete delight with living there. Then here you are without a word of warning.”

  “Oh, are you short of space?” Violet asked, her eyes bright with amusement. “Arthur, what are you up to?”

  This time he groaned out loud. “What the devil could I be up to here in the country? Perhaps I should ask what you are up to. Bath is surely more fertile ground for mischief than Stonar Magna.”

  “Oh, it is,” she agreed, laughing so infectiously that Arthur grinned in sympathy. “You have discovered one of the reasons I have fled to your protection.”

  “Are you being pursued?”

  “Alas, yes!”

  “I will tell Waggoner to mobilize the footmen and ready himself to resist all invaders.”

  “Lunatic!” his mother said fondly, turning toward the drawing room and pausing for him to open the door.

  She pulled off her fetching hat and tossed it onto a table, exposing beautifully coiffed hair that retained just a touch of its original gold. Her light summer gown was a shade darker than her hair, not the pale yellow suitable to a girl but still a cheerful color. It was high waisted as fashion decreed but rose to the neck, where a brown ribbon gathered it into a soft frill, far more flattering than a low décolletage, which would have exposed the crêpey skin of neck and bosom. For a moment Arthur stood silent, admiring her. Unlike many women who had been great beauties, his mother made no pretense of being younger than she was, and thus was more attractive. Ill-chosen as her moment for arrival was, Arthur found he was delighted to see her settle into her favorite chair.

  “I told you you would get into trouble going off on your own like that,” Arthur said. “You are entirely too softhearted and do not know how to say no. Who is besieging you?”

  “The maddest pair you ever saw, Arthur,” Violet St. Eyre admitted, giggling like a girl. “One is an octogenarian general who keeps offering to show me his scars, and the other—I blush to say it—is younger than you, much younger, I fear. And they glare at each other!”

  Arthur howled with laughter.

  “And they dog my footsteps and push each other to hand me up into my carriage or both summon a chair for me so there are two and the chairmen quarrel.”

  “Stop!” Arthur gasped. “My ribs hurt.”

  “In any case,” Violet continued, “it was very hot in Bath. I have discovered that summer in a town is not pleasant. The heat seems to get caught in the paving stones and the brick of the buildings. And another thing, I
thought I had better come home and make Francis’ widow welcome.”

  Arthur blinked. “Francis’ widow?” He had almost forgotten that Abigail had been Francis’ wife. Hastily he added, “How did you know she had arrived?”

  “Arthur, you are a lunatic. Everyone in the neighborhood has written,” her voice hesitated fractionally as she took in her son’s expression and then went on smoothly, “that Francis’ American wife has settled at Rutupiae Hall. Do you mean to tell me you have not gone over there to pay your respects?”

  “No, no. I mean, yes, I have been to Rutupiae, but…well, actually, Abigail came here first. We have had some odd goings-on. Now, Mama, she walked over and I cannot believe anyone… Will you stop looking at me like that? Someone shot at her son. He wasn’t hurt, but his jacket was all to ribbons. Would she be expected to wait for me to make a formal call under the circumstances?”

  “Poor girl,” Violet said. “That was a shocking welcome. I hope you caught the man. But never mind about that. Arthur, sometimes you keep your brains in your back pocket. Didn’t you realize that everyone was waiting for you to give some sign that Abigail—is that her name?—is socially acceptable.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” Arthur erupted crossly. “Why should anyone think she isn’t acceptable? In the first place, she isn’t American, she’s one of the Somerset Milfords, niece to the present Sir Thomas—at least I think the old man is still alive—and she was Francis’ wife; she’s the dowager Lady Lydden. You can’t tell me that anyone in this neighborhood would listen to Hilda’s claptrap.”