She did not see Arthur again until the night of Violet’s party. Returning the visits had taken all her free time. She could have spread out the chore, but she wanted to complete these obligatory calls as soon as possible, partly because she was aware that she would be leaving for London soon after the dinner and partly because she had been successful in discovering who among those who had come to make her acquaintance had children of ages suitable to be playmates for Daphne and Victor. It was these families with whom Abigail was eager to become friendly, although she knew she must return visits in strict order of precedence. Violet’s advice was again invaluable, and she managed to accomplish both purposes so that, to their intense joy, Daphne and Victor now had acquaintances of their own ages.
On Thursday evening as she was dressing to go to Stonar, Abigail had another qualm of uncertainty about refusing Arthur’s proposals and becoming his mistress. She realized it was only owing to Violet’s kindness that she was able to look forward not only to this enjoyable evening but to many others, for notes of invitation to similar dinners and entertainments were now delivered each day. Violet’s kindness also extended through every aspect of Abigail’s life. It did not seem fair to repay that kindness by frustrating Violet’s dearest desire, which was not to keep her son for herself, as Abigail had once suspected, but to see him married and with an heir. Abigail had discovered that it was not moral indignation that fueled Violet’s disapproval of her son’s love affairs but the fact that they diverted him from the need for a wife.
The discovery came quite naturally during a discussion Abigail had initiated by commenting about how easily Victor seemed to have absorbed not only the idea of being an earl but a semblance of the correct behavior, adding that he might be imitating Arthur.
“I wish Arthur did have a son to imitate him,” Violet said, her face suddenly looking older and very worried. “Oh, it isn’t because I have any silly fancies like Hilda about inheritance in the direct line. It’s just that my poor darling Joseph will hate being the head of the family so much. The St. Eyres have always been political, and Joseph isn’t. He is quite a brilliant farmer. He is actually growing very rich out of farming and pig breeding. Arthur laughs, but it is quite as important as politics.”
Although Abigail did not agree and did not really think Violet believed her own words, she realized they had been spoken out of Violet’s love for her younger son. She had murmured something soothing about it not mattering if Joseph did not take the usual seat in the House of Commons and play his part in the political scene.
“No,” Violet had replied, “he will do it, because he has such a very strong sense of duty, but he will be miserable. And the worst of it is that the misery is likely to spread down to another generation because little Joseph is not being brought up right—at least not right insofar as being Sir Joseph of Stonar Magna. Oh, my dear, I am so worried about that boy. Naturally, Joseph encourages his son to be interested in his own estate; he must do so, but if Arthur lives to a good age, it is little Joseph who may inherit, and his son may prefer farming and breeding pigs to politics by that time.”
Abigail had laughed aloud, and after a moment’s surprise, Violet had joined her. It was a funny perspective, generations of pig breeders struggling with their own disinclination to be members of Parliament. But as she sat before her dressing table while her maid twitched a curl here and there to touch her forehead and cheek and set a sparkling comb into the high knot of hair from which three long curls fell over her right shoulder, Abigail did not feel at all like laughing. Although she had told herself there could be no permanence in her love affair with Arthur, Abigail had certainly envisioned the period as being one of years rather than months—and the proposals of marriage she had received indicated that Arthur did not take the affair lightly either. But the longer Arthur was content with her, the more fixed would become his disinclination for marriage.
Almost certainly he would find a moment tonight to tell her what he had arranged. Should she refuse to go? How could she explain her refusal? It was impossible to tell Arthur the true reason. He would be furious with Violet because no matter what she said, Abigail was sure he would believe Violet had told the story deliberately to interfere with their affair. And if she said she was afraid of being compromised, he would just ask her to marry him again and be furious with her if she refused.
“You are lovely, madam.”
The soft voice of the country-bred maid was full of admiration, but Abigail smiled at her largely out of relief for having her train of thought broken. She had felt her eyes prickling with tears at the notion that Arthur would be hurt and angry. She would think of a way, she promised herself, to allow them to part as friends, but that would be impossible if she denied him completely. In any case, she thought, smiling involuntarily as her eyes caught her image in the cheval glass, he would kill her if she said no to him while wearing this dress.
There was something to be said for London modistes over American ones, Abigail decided as she examined herself more carefully. The blue-violet of her underslip not only matched her eyes and brought out the color of her dark red hair, but was of a soft and clinging silk, cut barely to cover the nipples of her breasts and mold itself to every lush curve of her body. There were no sleeves or straps; the slip was prevented from leaving her naked to the high waist, where it was tightened with gathers and ribbons just under her breasts, by being attached to a silver gauze overdress so thin as to be nearly transparent. It was that “nearly” that made the gown enchanting rather than vulgar, for the sparkling overdress swirled about her like smoke, blurring the outlines of her bare shoulders, arms and breasts, masking what the underslip revealed.
Berating herself for being so disgustingly vain, but nonetheless feeling more cheerful, Abigail went down to the drawing room where Hilda was waiting, and Griselda, who had probably been waiting until Abigail came down, entered the room nearly on Abigail’s heels. At the sight of Griselda, Abigail’s spirit took another upward leap. Probably for the first time in her life, Griselda was becomingly dressed. Abigail had never ceased to be irritated by the inappropriateness of Griselda’s clothes. What was more, she guessed that Griselda was aware that the gowns she wore made the worst rather than the best of her, and consequently was even shyer and more awkward.
There had previously been no opportunity to interfere, but the dinner party provided one and, having lain in wait for Griselda and forced her to acknowledge that her mother ordered all her dresses for her, Abigail had ruthlessly dragged her faintly protesting sister-in-law into Sandwich and ordered an evening dress made for her. Most of the trouble seemed to be caused by Hilda’s delusion that she was—or at least could appear to be—a young matron. This she carried over onto Griselda, dressing her daughter in the pallid pastel shades, ruffles and flounces suitable to a very young girl.
At any age such styles must have looked silly on so tall and gawky a girl as Griselda. Now, in her mid-twenties, they made her pathetic and ridiculous. That she knew it was proved by the gown she chose for herself—after considerable urging from Abigail. The color was a soft, dusty rose, the fabric a dull, flowing silk crepe, and the style plain, the low bodice tucked into narrow pleats over the breast, which continued over the shoulder to the back, the pleats being held in place by a thin band of gold ribbon. The skirt, like the bodice, was edged in gold and had some simple but attractive gold embroidery around the hem. It was almost straight, with just enough fullness so it would not impede walking, and fell into a demi-train. The color of the gown warmed Griselda’s pale complexion, the pleats filled in her rather flat bosom, and the straight fall of the skirt made her statuesque rather than too tall and awkward. Moreover, as she walked, the trained pulled the dress back just a little, outlining provocatively the long line of her thighs.
“How lovely you look, Griselda!” Abigail exclaimed as she came in.
“Lovely!” Hilda screeched. “She looks like an old woman. She—”
“No,
” Abigail interrupted firmly, “she looks like a very handsome young woman—not a girl, but a young woman. That dress is my gift to Griselda. I like it. And in any case, it is too late for her to change. The carriage is already waiting, and I do not choose to be late to a dinner at which I am the principal guest.”
“I am Griselda’s mother,” Hilda screamed. “I know what is right for her.”
Abigail raised her brows. “And I am the mistress of Rutupiae Hall until Victor brings home a bride. I am now going out to the carriage. You may come with me, you may walk to Stonar Magna, or you may miss the dinner. The carriage will not wait for Griselda to change, nor will I permit it to come back for you. And I will not take you without her. A mother who knows what is best for her daughter would not think of leaving her if she ‘felt too ill’ to attend a party in honor of her sister-in-law.”
Chapter Fourteen
Having said she was leaving for the party, Abigail turned and suited the action to the words, abandoning Griselda to whatever fate she chose for herself. Before she had reached the front door, Griselda was beside her. The girl’s face was pallid, and her eyes wide and blind with terror. She marched forward as if she were going to her execution—but she went. However, in her agitation she had left the door to the drawing room open, and a screech like that of an outraged harpy followed her out. Griselda jerked as if she had been hit. Empson flung open the front door, and Abigail propelled Griselda through it and into the carriage, but she did not give the order to start the horses. As a businesswoman, Abigail had a fair acquaintance with bullies, and she knew that it was characteristic of them not only to torment those weaker than themselves but to knuckle under to those stronger.
True to her expectations, the door had hardly closed when Empson opened it again to tell the coachman to wait, and only a few minutes later Hilda herself came out and was helped into the carriage. Of course, Abigail had not looked far enough ahead. She had not had to live with the bullies she had successfully confronted over business matters. One advantage had been gained. Hilda’s wrath was so completely directed at Abigail that Griselda escaped entirely. Fortunately, arrival at Stonar Magna stopped Hilda’s tirade, but her furious glare was fixed on Abigail as they entered to face their host and hostess, who both exclaimed in surprised pleasure over Griselda’s appearance.
As they offered their formal welcome, Arthur glanced once more at Griselda, who was edging away from them, then looked at Abigail, and seemed to choke on his next remark. Although Violet had been equally surprised by Griselda’s appearance, she was no more than well pleased by Abigail’s, since it did not arouse in her the sexual response it woke in her frustrated son. Acutely, she guessed at the cause of Hilda’s thundercloud appearance, and throwing herself bravely into the breach, she managed to engage Hilda in conversation for several minutes, even involving her in greeting the next group of guests to arrive.
By then, Griselda had disappeared into the drawing room, but from the corner of her eye Violet saw Leonie and Roger St. Eyre together with Lord and Lady Kevern, who had arrived only a moment earlier, advancing with obvious purpose on Abigail. Violet cast her eyes up to heaven in silent prayer but without much hope. Damn Hilda, she thought. If it had not been for her, she could have warned them to stay off American politics. Now the fat was going to be dumped into the fire.
“So you are the American,” Leonie cried, immediately proving Violet’s worst fears to be true. “Alors, but I am glad to meet you! You will tell my Roger the États-Unis is not a greedy beast seeking to swallow Canada. C’est vrai, n‘est pas?”
“That is not a civil greeting, Leonie,” Roger remarked, laughing. “One does not say one is glad to meet a person because of that person’s nationality. It implies one would not care for the person if her background was different, and I will tell you that I would be glad to meet Lady Lydden no matter from what country she came.”
“Lecher,” Leonie whispered, quite audibly. “Keep your hands off or I will scratch out your pretty blue eyes.”
“Leonie, you will drive me mad!” Roger exclaimed. “Is this a time and place for such foolery? Poor Lady Lydden—”
Abigail’s attention was drawn away from whatever else Roger was about to say by a gentle hand laid on her arm.
“Do please forgive my foster parents.” The voice was as soft as the touch, and Abigail turned toward a beautiful silver-blond woman. “I am Sabrina Moreton, and this is my husband, Perce. I suppose I should have said Lord and Lady Kevern, but I would be glad if you would call us Sabrina and Perce. I want to assure you that despite all appearances to the contrary, my cousin Leonie and her husband, Roger, are not quarreling.”
“Oh, I knew that,” Abigail said, smiling at Sabrina. “If I looked a trifle dazed, it was because your cousin seemed so approving of my being born in America. Everyone else regards it as if it were a rather unmentionable disease.” She turned the smile on Leonie. “Is…how do I address—?”
“You call me Leonie, or Lady Leonie, and Roger just Roger or Mr. St. Eyre if you wish to keep him at arm’s length—but I see already there is no need. Dear Arthur will protect you. As to why I am Lady and he not Lord, it is a long story, not now worth telling. And you understand, I am sure, that it is not only for being American that I am glad to meet you. You are very beautiful and,” Leonie winked broadly at her, “you are cleverer than most pretty women. Nor, I must tell you at once, am I a republican. Not at all! I say pouf to a silly government where each two years they change the head of state.”
“Every four years,” Abigail put in quickly as Leonie paused to take breath. “It is the representatives, those who sit in what is like the House of Commons, who are elected every two years!”
“You see,” Leonie said triumphantly, looking from Roger to Perce, “I said she was not a fool, this one, that she would know more than the inside of her kitchen and drawing room.”
“Yes, well, I agree,” Perce put in blandly, “but I think we should stop blocking the passage and go into the drawing room. And if you would stop talking for five minutes, Leonie, you might even get the answers you want.”
“The perfect diplomat,” Sabrina murmured, touching her husband’s hand affectionately as they moved into the drawing room.
Momentarily recalled to a concern for Griselda, Abigail looked around for her and discovered that she had taken refuge beside Bertram, who seemed to have kindly drawn her into conversation. Relieved of responsibility, at least temporarily, Abigail returned her attention to Sabrina’s remark.
“I understand,” she said, “that it is a necessary skill for a diplomat to know when to use a feather and when a hammer.”
The blank stare, which had made Abigail wonder how so exquisite a woman as Sabrina had come not only to marry but clearly to love a man who looked to be not much better than an idiot, focused on her for a brief flash. In that instant, Abigail recognized the keen intelligence behind what she now realized was a carefully cultivated vacuity of expression.
“That’s very true, Lady Lydden,” Perce drawled. “Odd thing for a woman to say, though.”
“That is an even odder thing for you to say,” Abigail riposted. “You cannot tell me your wife or Lady Leonie do not know as much or more.”
“Certainly,” Perce agreed promptly. Then he added with extreme gravity, “Have to say it, even if it weren’t true, you know. In their presence, you know. Get my ears pinned back for implyin’ they were ignorant.”
Abigail sputtered into laughter while both Leonie and Sabrina accused Perce of having a depraved and evil sense of humor. He had spoken so seriously that all of them had given him their full attention, not realizing he was teasing until the whole statement had been made.
But before the rest of them had quite finished laughing, Leonie cocked her head at an inquiring angle and asked, “Mon vieux, appeler un chat un chat. Why do you try to draw us from the topic of America?”
“Belle mère,” Perce replied with good-humored exasp
eration, “it is impossible to do anything but call a spade a spade in your presence. The answer is, I do not know, but when you spoke, I saw an expression on Violet’s face that said this was a subject that should be avoided.”
“That’s because of me,” Abigail offered.
Apologies immediately flowed from all her companions, who assured her that they knew she was not really American but a British subject from a respectable, landed family.
Abigail laughed. “I am not sensitive about being called an American. That is not why Violet did not wish the subject raised.” Having stopped, she realized she had said both too much and too little and could not let the matter rest there. “I-I lose my temper,” she added, and then shrugged helplessly. Seeing she had only made matters worse, she finished defiantly, “I may be British, but I do not approve of the British position or of many of their actions in this war.”
“You do not think we should fight Bonaparte?” Roger asked neutrally.
“Bonaparte? What has Bonaparte to do with the war?” Abigail caught their amazement and shook her head. “I meant the American war.”
“It was not of our making,” Roger said quietly.
Abigail opened her mouth, and then closed it and smiled with great deliberation. “It is a silly subject. Instead, let me say how very pleased I am to have this opportunity to meet you. Arthur has mentioned all of you, and do forgive me for not asking sooner, you must see that I tend to get carried away, I wish you would call me Abigail instead of Lady Lydden. Having been called Mistress Lydden for so many years, I feel rather a usurper—and besides, every time you say Lady Lydden, Hilda looks at us.”
“My,” Sabrina commented with admiration, “that was almost as masterly as one of Perce’s divagations. Did you promise Violet not to discuss the American war?”
A Woman's Estate Page 20
