A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “I hope not,” Arthur said, surprising her. “Perce is right about Bonaparte only abiding by a treaty as long as it suits his purposes. If we don’t put him down now, when his army is the worst it’s ever been, we’ll have the whole thing to do over again from the beginning. I’ve seen it once already when Mr. Fox signed the Peace of Amiens.” He laughed. “I almost got myself thrown out of the party over that because I talked myself hoarse against making peace. But damn it, I knew Pitt had been right about opposing that peace. Boney only kept it until his army was up to strength and resupplied—and that’s just what he’ll do again if he signs a treaty this time.”

  Abigail shook her head. “Is he mad?”

  “I don’t know,” Arthur replied seriously. “In the beginning, he wasn’t. Now…I don’t know.” Then he hugged Abigail quickly and stood up. “Enough. Here I am nattering away about war and peace—about which we can do nothing—when what I really came home early for was to tell you I have a box for the theater tonight, if you wish to go.”

  Abigail was delighted to agree, but she was less pleased when she learned that she had underestimated Arthur’s guilt for having left her alone. Not only did he have theater tickets for every evening, but he had given a great deal of thought to amusing her during the day. On the excuse that she must not seem as green as grass when the Season began the following year, he took her to the Tower of London to see the animals and the crown jewels, to the exhibition room at Somerset House to see the paintings, to Bullock’s Museum and the British Museum, and for a sail on the Thames.

  In fact, Arthur had so many new plans for each day that Abigail was soon at her wits’ end to escape him. It was not that she had grown tired of his company or was not enjoying herself, she could not remember being so happy at any time in her life, except perhaps for the months when Francis had been courting her. And even then, it had been different. Francis would never have taken her to museums or picture galleries. She and Arthur had much more in common, similar curiosities about the treasures of history and the new science, similar tastes in art and music. It would have been much easier to escape him if she had not been so enthralled with what he had to show her. He felt her real enthusiasm and was stimulated to share with her still other interests.

  On the third day in London, Abigail finally made time just before she went to bed to write to her children and to Griselda to say that she found she had to remain in Town some days longer and that they could reach her at Mr. Claridge’s hotel. Then she wrote to Mr. Claridge to hold a room for her for one night on the following Friday, knowing, although her heart sank at the thought, that she really could not remain away from home for more than ten days. She hated to think of parting from Arthur. Their easy companionship was as wonderful and fulfilling as their passionate lovemaking. To be Arthur’s wife would be very different from being Francis’, Abigail thought, and then checked herself sharply—it would be no different in terms of helplessness and frustration. But if the children did not seem to mind her absence too much, perhaps she could stay longer.

  She had just finished her note to Mr. Claridge when Arthur, wearing a very grand dressing gown—and not a thing under it, as usual—came through the bedroom and into the dressing room and asked idly, “To whom are you writing, my love?”

  From Arthur’s tone, it was clear that the question was meaningless, just the first words that had come into his head as he entered the room. Nonetheless, in the light of her earlier thoughts, it stung her. Now she could answer or refuse to answer, show him the letters or refuse to show them, just as she pleased. Had Arthur been her husband, he would have had the legal right to read anything she wrote, to approve it, alter it, or destroy it—just as he pleased. Abigail’s lips tightened.

  “Are you asking to see my letters?”

  “No, of course not,” Arthur replied indignantly. “It is an abomination to read other people’s mail.”

  “Yes,” Abigail agreed, and then suddenly laughed. How ridiculous to punish Arthur for the world’s sins, with which he, poor man, had very little to do. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of something unpleasant, and it rubbed off on you.” Then she told him what she had written.

  “Friday.” His voice was flat. “Will you really leave so soon?”

  Abigail stood up and put her arms around his neck. “You are a very wonderful person, Arthur. You have managed to make me understand that you would very much like me to stay and yet have not urged me to do so.” She kissed him lightly. “Believe me, you do not need to urge me. I want very much to stay. I am sure that Daphne and Griselda will write back. Victor may or may not. Let me see what they say. Perhaps I can stretch the time.”

  “Not long enough,” he said softly, pressing her tight all along his aroused body. “It can never be long enough.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first letters Abigail received from home were very cheerful. Victor did not write at all, which was a good sign. He never wrote unless he was unhappy or wanted more spending money. Daphne wrote that she missed her but that Aunt Griselda was “lots of fun”, and if Victor decided to do something “too horrible”—Abigail finally translated this from other clues to mean that Victor had taken out a gun under the tutelage of Vastaly, the gamekeeper—Aunt Griselda always found something truly interesting for her to do. Griselda wrote that the children seemed busy and happy. Victor and Daphne both had been invited to visit other children and had invited friends to Rutupiae several times. There had been picnics for mixed groups of boys and girls, Daphne had taken several girls to sketch at the old mill, and Victor had taken his friends fishing. Both outings had been great successes. And when they were not busy with their new friends, they explored the estate with Dick or rode with a groom.

  Reading not only the words but between the lines, Abigail decided that she need not hurry home. She wrote again, saying that since no crises were impending and she herself was enjoying her stay in London, she would remain in Town a little longer. A note dispatched by a footman to Mr. Claridge altered the date of her reservation, and Arthur’s relief at their reprieve led him to throw the theater tickets in the fire and drag her up to bed at an indecently early hour—which was just as well because they did not actually get to sleep until very late. Had they gone to the theater first, they would not have had a chance to close their eyes before it was time to get up.

  They had a few more halcyon days before the footman who went each morning before breakfast to fetch letters, if there were any, from Claridge’s, brought another pair for Abigail from Rutupiae. There was no difference in tone in Daphne’s note. She seemed to be happy—her big news was that Mrs. Franklin was teaching her some elegant new embroidery stitches—and from what she reported of Victor’s doings, he was both learning about and enjoying the people who would be his tenants and dependents in the future. There was, however, something somehow different about Griselda’s letter.

  The events she reported were insignificant in themselves. Eustace had returned from his visit. Victor had asked permission to join a friend who was being taught to jump and had been annoyed because Griselda felt she had no right to authorize the activity, which could be dangerous. Daphne was waiting eagerly for her mother because a friend who was an only child was going on a week’s holiday to the seashore and wanted Daphne to accompany her but again, Griselda did not feel empowered to give permission.

  Irritated by Griselda’s overanxiety, Abigail was about to write permission for both Victor and Daphne to join their friends when she wondered whether it was overanxiety or whether Griselda knew something about the families that she felt made their children unsuitable friends for hers. Although she knew that Arthur did not like conversation at breakfast, she turned toward him and asked if he knew the Keriells and the Ellingtons.

  He lowered the newspaper he was reading and smiled involuntarily, thinking how silly it was to bury himself in the news when he could talk to Abigail. “John Keriell?” he repeated the name of Victor’s fri
end, frowning as he ran the local gentry through his mind. “Oh yes, by all means let Victor practice jumping with the Keriell boy. The family is sporting mad, and I’m sure Keriell will keep an eye on the boys himself. Now, who was the girl Daphne wants to keep company?”

  Abigail consulted Griselda’s letter. “The Ellingtons’ daughter.”

  A shadow crossed Arthur’s face. “Poor child. I have never seen the girl at all, but I know the parents. It would be perfectly safe for Daphne to go if she likes, but I understand the little girl is a cripple and very frail. Will not Daphne be bored?”

  “Probably not. She had a friend in New York who was confined to a chair, and they seemed to get along very well. Daphne is a motherly creature. Thank you. I’ll write and tell Griselda to approve both projects.”

  Abigail finished her breakfast and then went to the writing table in the parlor to compose her answers to Griselda and Daphne, but she was no longer easy in her mind. It was clear that both families were acceptable. Then why all the fuss? Abigail tried to tell herself that Griselda was simply the kind to make a mountain out of a molehill, but she could not rid herself of the feeling that Griselda wanted her at home and that it had nothing whatsoever to do with Victor’s riding lessons or Daphne’s trip to the seashore. Determinedly she throttled her suspicions. If something had been wrong, Abigail told herself, she would have sensed it in Daphne’s letter first.

  Still, when Arthur followed her into the parlor a few minutes later and asked her if she would forgive him for putting off their projected visit to see Carlton House, the prince regent’s residence, she could barely restrain a sigh of relief.

  He explained that there was a hint in the paper of “revelations from the Foreign Office concerning a peace”, and went on, “That must mean that Metternich has informed Lord Castlereagh that Bonaparte has agreed to discuss a treaty or an extended armistice, but I want to obtain the details. I’m sorry to leave you with nothing to do—”

  “No,” Abigail said, “don’t apologize. I do have a few things to take care of that I have been putting off every day because I preferred to go sightseeing with you. The splendors of Carlton House will wait for us. I will be glad to get my business out of the way and off my mind.”

  Arthur looked at her for just a moment, but she had already turned back to the writing desk and picked up her pen. He was a little hurt. Her remark about putting off her own activities because she preferred his company was flattering, but there had been a sense of relief under the last sentence about getting her business out of the way that implied the business was serious, that possibly it was as much for the business as for him that she had come to London. And it was not the meeting with Deedes. She had made arrangements for extended payments of the rents on the morning after she had written to Rutupiae that she would stay longer in Town.

  At the door he glanced back once more at Abigail and had the strangest sensation. Arthur did not read many novels, but his mother did. Occasionally when Violet found an exceptional passage—whether it was exceptionally good or exceptionally silly—she would read it aloud to him. One of the silliest he had heard had been the ravings of a peculiarly idiotic heroine extolling her feelings about seeing the hero. She had said that “her heart turned over in her breast”—and suddenly Arthur had a name for what he felt. Unfortunately, the association of his emotion with that stupid, simpering heroine was so embarrassing that his tenderness for Abigail, which made him hesitate to part from her even for a short time, was immediately replaced with rage.

  Quite unaware that Arthur had perceived her relief or any of the emotions that had followed that perception, Abigail concentrated on finishing her letters to Griselda and Daphne as quickly as possible. As soon as they were folded and directed, she ordered the carriage brought around, thanking God that she only had to look for books that were out of print. Anything new she could order by letter directly from the publisher. Hatchard’s was her first stop. The books she had ordered were ready, and Mr. Hatchard was most helpful in directing her to collections that might interest her customers. Still, choosing books takes time, particularly for a lover of them. Abigail had to touch the beautiful bindings, read a line or two. It was after eleven before she was able to finish her browsing and arrange for payment through Barings Bank.

  Then she was delayed by Mr. Hatchard’s concern over shipment. He asked whether he should wait for an American vessel, which might at the last minute be forbidden to carry cargo because of the war, or take the chance of sending the books to a neutral port, where they would have the best chance of being transshipped to a vessel ultimately going to New York. Having first mentioned that there would be a shipment from Lackington’s that hopefully would go at the same time, Abigail quickly decided on the latter method. Mr. Hatchard beamed at her, obviously thinking she had greater trust in British ships; however, that was not the reason for Abigail’s decision. She was afraid that the law prohibiting all American trade with Britain, which Mr. Madison had been demanding before she left the United States, might have been already passed, in which case there might not be any American ships available to carry her books.

  Her visits to two other booksellers were brief, just to pick up a single book at one and two at the other, but it was just past noon when she arrived at Lackington’s. There she told the clerk that unless Mr. Allen wished to speak to her himself, she could see no reason to trouble him, as she only wanted to make arrangements for shipping the books they were holding for her and making sure they went at the same time with the shipment from Hatchard’s. The clerk was assuring her that he would take care of the matter, when her name was called and she turned to meet Mr. Lackington’s delighted smile.

  “Now this is a most excellent coincidence,” he said. “I was going to write to you as soon as I had eaten my luncheon. I have just been looking through a recently purchased library—a sad occupation, for its late owner was a longtime customer and friend. However, there are several books you had requested that we did not have on hand. Come, my dear, will you not share my luncheon, and then I will show you the books.”

  It was, of course, impossible for Abigail to resist this invitation both out of courtesy and out of curiosity. Nor was it possible to hurry luncheon. Abigail was conscious of the passing time—until she saw the books. Then she could have kissed Mr. Lackington out of gratitude. At first glance she noticed at least a dozen over which several clients would be willing to come to blows and would pay any price named, and there were also many that she coveted for herself. She began to choose and had completely forgotten everything beyond her delight in the treasures before her until Mr. Lackington returned to take his leave.

  Then she realized it was very late and said she herself must go, asking that her selections be divided—those for customers to be shipped with the others going to America, most of the books for herself to be sent to Rutupiae, and a few to be wrapped to take with her to read immediately, Pride and Prejudice, a second novel by Miss Austen published earlier that year, a volume of Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit, and handsome copies of the Bacchae by Euripides and Satyrica by Petronius.

  Mr. Lackington had protested when she admitted the books were for herself, and she laughed and agreed that the work by Euripides was no doubt very violent and that by Petronius was probably highly improper—which was why her papa had never permitted her to read them—but she felt she was old enough now. He tut-tutted and shook his head, and she promised, to soothe him, that if she found the material shocking, she would not read on.

  By then the clerk sent to summon her carriage came to say it was at the door, and Abigail left for the house on Mount Street, tired but satisfied that she had at last finished her business dealings and could put the affairs of the store out of her mind. She wondered whether Arthur had been able to obtain the information he wanted and hoped his interpretation of the statement in the newspaper was correct, rather than that Bonaparte had actually signed a peace treaty. Peace would be a disaster for America.
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br />   She was still feeling rather guilty about what she knew were misplaced loyalties when she entered the parlor and found Arthur sitting there idly reading one of the morning’s newspapers. “I am so sorry, Arthur!” she cried. “I was sure you would not come back until dinnertime. Have you been waiting long?”

  “I came home for luncheon,” he replied without expression. “Apparently I misunderstood what you said. I thought you only had a few little chores to do.”

  “Well, they were only little chores,” she said, feeling dreadfully ashamed of lying to Arthur, “but then I stopped in at a bookshop. That is always a disaster for me because I completely lose all sense of time, and Lackington’s is so enormous. I should have known better, but I cannot resist.”

  Arthur was surprised at the excuse Abigail offered but felt a tremendous relief. He, too, could lose hours in a bookstore. He grinned at her forgivingly. “You need not look so guilty. There is nothing particularly heinous in visiting a bookshop. It is less ruinous than visiting a modiste, anyway. What did you get?”

  Abigail handed him the package, thinking that he had the sweetest disposition. Even Francis, who was very good-humored, might have been irritated if he had been waiting for her for hours, probably with news he wanted to discuss. “I’ll ring for tea,” she said, “or would you like a glass of wine?”

  He did not answer her question, but lifted his eyes from the undone package of books and asked, “For whom are these?” as he separated the Goethe, Euripides, and Petronius from the Austen.

  “Oh dear,” Abigail sighed, “I had forgotten that you did not approve of redstockings—no, no, I remember, it is bluestockings. I should have told the footman to carry them upstairs, but I had no idea you were here, and I wanted to take a peek at them. I am afraid they are for me, Arthur.”

  “You should have looked more carefully before buying them,” he said, his voice icy. “All three are in the original languages.”