Abigail wrote her letters that evening and managed to catch Griselda in the corridor for long enough to ask whether she would like to come to Hawkhurst and Lydden. Griselda was a puzzle that Abigail could not fathom, and that was interesting enough to pierce the oppression of her spirits. She was ready to swear that Griselda was no longer afraid of her, and what she had heard from Daphne and Victor about Aunt Griselda convinced her that there was a delightful and amusing person buried under the awkward, meek exterior. But since the dinner party, it had been almost impossible to get Griselda alone. Either she was not visible—and where she disappeared to, Abigail could not guess—or she was sitting with her mother.
Griselda glanced apprehensively over her shoulder at the drawing room door when Abigail stopped her. “Mama would not permit it,” she said. “I am sorry. I would have liked to come, but I know she will feel she cannot spare me.”
“Well, will you come with me and the children to the old mill tomorrow?” Because of Griselda’s nervousness, Abigail spoke softly. She clutched at anything that would occupy her mind and keep her from brooding about Arthur, and once out of the house perhaps they could talk more freely and she could pry enough information out of Griselda to solve the oddities in her behavior.
“If I can, I will slip out and join you,” Griselda said. She spoke even more quietly than Abigail had, so softly that Abigail had to lean closer to hear. “Do not wait for me or look for me, but if I can come, I will.” And then, loosening her wrist gently from Abigail’s grip, she said more loudly, “Mama is waiting for me. I must go.”
Despite Griselda’s warning, Abigail was surprised not to see her at the breakfast table. Only Eustace was there when she came down, and he seemed hurried and abstracted, so she made no real attempt at conversation. He left only a few minutes later, but Abigail did not mind. She was pleasantly occupied in deciding what would be best to take for a picnic lunch, for both Victor and Daphne had assured her there would be enough to occupy them at the old mill for the morning and early afternoon.
They left at about ten o’clock, a good time because the dew was dried from the grass, but the sun was not yet hot enough to make the walk unpleasant. All of them were burdened. Young Dick Price carried the heavy picnic basket and would also have taken the rug on which they were to sit, except that Abigail insisted on carrying that. Victor had an assortment of nets and jars for catching and confining the denizens of pond and meadow, and Daphne had a rush basket containing oddments of rag, which she intended to wet to keep fresh the flowers she wished to pick, and several small bowls and a trowel for taking up plants by the root. Under Griselda’s guidance, Daphne was growing into a passionate gardener.
Abigail was surprised by feeling rather cheerful as they made their way toward the mill. It was the first true break in her despondency, and she welcomed it with gratitude, even though she knew it was temporary and could be destroyed by any little upset. She felt she was safe, however, for the next few hours. The children were in high spirits, very glad to be together, for these days there were seldom just the two of them. What was more, Dick was keeping them both interested, now pointing out to Victor a bird’s nest or a tiny path made by some small beast and next showing Daphne a shy flower or a plant that the kittens in the barn would adore. Thus there seemed little chance of a quarrel between the children that would spoil Abigail’s peace. Even the path was lovely, well marked by its smooth and close-clipped growth of grass, speckled with sunlight and shadow, and musical with birdcalls.
After about twenty minutes’ walk, they turned off into a much rougher trail, too narrow for all to walk abreast. Victor and Daphne, who had started a discussion about whether Victor should keep his catch for a few days or let them go before returning to the house, went first. Abigail and Dick followed, and she asked a question about the life and duties of a gamekeeper, to which he replied eagerly enough to convince her that succeeding to his father’s position was truly what he desired out of life. Actually, Abigail could understand his enthusiasm. It was a varied and interesting kind of life, if hard, and she was just about to ask another question when Victor called, “There it is.”
Abigail looked ahead and saw a modest stretch of ground that now had the appearance of a roughly mown hayfield but which she knew must have been a small cleared area surrounding the house and mill. To her right was the ruins of a house, to her left was the millpond, and just ahead was the mill itself—more sturdily built and thus in a less ruined condition than the house—with the water-wheel on the far side and a half-overgrown road running beside the stream that ran the mill. The wheel was still turning slowly, though Abigail could see that several of the buckets on the edge were broken.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed, and Victor and Daphne, who had waited on the edge of the path for her verdict, both laughed and began to run toward the mill.
“Wait,” Dick called, starting after them, “don’t—”
Whatever else he was about to say was drowned in a woman’s shrill scream and the almost simultaneous crack of a gun. Abigail shrieked, “Down! Get down!” and leapt toward her children just as Dick collapsed and a second blast went off. Victor and Daphne were standing still, openmouthed with shock, and Abigail wailed with terror as she ran, knowing she could never reach them in time—but no third shot was fired, and she dragged her children to the ground, trying to get them both beneath her body. Beyond the thundering of her heart, she could hear the screams of the woman—and then those stopped.
Chapter Nineteen
Hours and hours passed—perhaps as much as ten minutes in real time—while Abigail first held her breath and then tried to breathe silently as she listened for the faint crackle of the attacker’s footsteps approaching in the dry stubble. None came. There were no sounds except those of her children breathing and of the wind moving through foliage. Finally Abigail heard a moan, which she knew was Dick, and she lifted her head to peer around fearfully. Nothing. Did that mean the attacker was gone? Or was he?—she?—waiting until someone stood up to make a suitable target?
Carefully Abigail slid herself off her children and whispered to them to crawl as flat as they could back to the path. She turned toward Dick and then gasped in horror, for he was just climbing dazedly to his feet.
“No, don’t!” she cried. “Lie down.”
But he did not drop down to safety, only turned his head toward her, and she gasped in horror again because the eye she could see was glazed and senseless, and the other side of his face was a sheet of blood. For a terror-filled moment self-preservation struggled with her need to save another human being, and then she realized that the gun would have already been fired, had anyone been waiting in hiding to shoot. Dick was wavering dangerously, about to fall, so Abigail climbed hastily to her feet. She held her breath for the few seconds it took her to reach him, because it had occurred to her that he might not be the target for whom the gunman was waiting—but still no shot was fired, and she caught Dick and eased him to the ground, almost convinced that the attacker was gone.
Nonetheless, she was not ready to test the truth of her conviction, and she held Dick still with one arm while she scrabbled in the picnic basket near them for a napkin with which to stop the bleeding. She had just managed to extract a handful of linen when Daphne cried out, and Abigail dropped the napkins and jumped to her feet to protect her children. But she saw them at once, quite safe, standing together at the opening of the path.
“Aunt Griselda,” Victor called, pointing.
Abigail whirled to look. Griselda was coming across from the mill, staggering and weaving, holding a hand to her head. Her gown was torn and filthy, and a long bleeding scrape marred one arm. Abigail’s eyes flashed from Griselda to Dick and back again, trying to decide who needed her help most, and in that moment of hesitation both children ran by her toward their aunt. Abigail’s shock of fear dissipated as quickly as it rose. Griselda must have sneaked out of the house early, before her mother rose, to meet them at
the mill, and somehow she must have come across the gunman, who no doubt fled when he realized someone had seen him.
Later, she told herself, later you can work it all out. Now don’t let Dick bleed to death. He was, in fact, stirring again, mumbling about poachers, and Abigail got down beside him and told him to lie still. She could hear Griselda trying to control her sobs as the children helped her closer, but she was fully occupied with washing Dick’s face with lemonade—since she had no intention of allowing anyone to approach the stream for water. At last she found the wound, a long tear in the scalp, deep enough to show a white glint of bone beneath. Abigail swallowed sickly. The blood had not bothered her much, except for its quantity, because Victor had often returned home with a bloody nose or cuts and scrapes from his rough play. That gleam of white and the way the loose scalp lifted, however, were sickening. Hastily she padded one napkin over the area and tied it firmly in place with another.
Then she turned to Griselda, who was no longer sobbing, although her breath was still uneven. “Will you be able to walk as far as the house?” she asked anxiously as Griselda sank to the ground near her. “I think we must leave here as soon as possible.”
“He’s gone,” Griselda gasped. “He hit me, knocked me down, and ran.”
The whole side of her face was swollen. Abigail thought it must have been a violent blow and that she must also be bruised from her fall. Would it be better to go for help and leave Dick and Griselda here? No, she did not dare do that. If Griselda had recognized the man… They must leave at once. Perhaps shock had sent the gunman running, but if he thought Griselda had recognized him or could identify him, he would certainly come back and try to kill her.
“Yes, but he might come back,” Abigail pointed out shakily. “We must go at once.”
Griselda closed her eyes for a moment, but then she stiffened her body. “Yes, I can walk,” she said.
“Daphne, you help Aunt Griselda,” Abigail ordered, “and you come and help me with Dick, Victor.”
“The baskets—” Daphne began, practical despite being shaken.
“Someone from the house will come for them,” Abigail assured her, and Daphne went obediently to help steady Griselda, who was getting to her feet.
Although he was clearly sick and dizzy, it was not difficult to get Dick on his feet. There was sense—and fear—in his eyes now, and he obviously knew that they had been attacked. Abigail, Dick, and Victor went first down the rough trail, and Griselda followed with Daphne. During that walk, Abigail was terrified because it seemed to her that this short stretch was the place where the gunman could lie in wait. She said nothing because someone had to go down the path, and it was better that they all go together. But her fears were not realized, and when they came out into the well-used path she took a deep breath of relief.
Abigail’s first consideration had been safety. Now that that had been achieved, she wanted to know who had fired those shots and why. Dick seemed steady enough to manage with just Victor’s help, so Abigail stopped and waited for Griselda to catch up.
“Who was it?” Abigail asked, putting her thought into words.
“I don’t know.” Tears ran down Griselda’s face, and she shook despite her effort to control herself before Daphne. “I was sitting on the bench against the wall of the mill that faces the millpond, and I thought I heard someone moving in the mill. At first I paid no attention. The wheel creaks, and it makes the building creak and groan, but I kept hearing noises that didn’t match the movement of the wheel. Well, the village children sometimes come to play in the mill. They are not supposed to because the building is not safe, so I decided to go in and send them home.”
“Mrs. Franklin told us we must not go into the mill,” Daphne confirmed, her voice slightly shaky, “and I don’t think I want to go there anymore.”
Griselda’s arm tightened around the little girl. “Oh,” she said, much more firmly, “you mustn’t feel that way. I think what might be best is for your mama to order that the building be repaired and changed a little so that a nice family could live there. Then you could often come to have picnics and play near the millpond.”
“That is a most excellent idea, Griselda,” Abigail said heartily and gratefully. She had been wondering how to prevent the mill from becoming a nightmare that would haunt her children. “I will send for Mr. Jameson when we get home and have the repairs and renovations put in hand at once, so that when we come back people will be living in the mill. Then no one could ever hide in it again.”
Not long after Abigail and her children had left the house, Violet set out to call on her. Just after breakfast was not a usual time for a formal visit, but Violet had decided to try shock tactics, and the early hour would prevent interruption by Hilda, who usually did not come down for breakfast, or by other visitors. When she heard that Abigail had set out for a day-long picnic with her children, Violet hesitated a few minutes, wondering if she should follow.
Violet had intended to tell Abigail that her reason for arriving at such an unusual hour was that Arthur had come back “from wherever he had gone” in a terrible state, and she wanted Abigail to come to dinner that evening to cheer him. If Abigail refused, Violet reasoned, the refusal would give her an excellent chance to pry. If she accepted, observing her with Arthur might give a hint as to what Abigail feared. Following Abigail to her picnic would certainly show her that Violet felt the situation was urgent, but it might also make her suspicious, Violet feared.
The few minutes of indecision, however, were a few minutes too long. By the time Violet had decided that following Abigail would do more harm than good, Hilda had learned of her arrival and had hurried down from her room to receive her, all agog for bad news. Unable to think of a rational excuse either for coming or for leaving, Violet allowed herself to be shepherded into the morning room to find time to think. Half an hour of Hilda’s company, she told herself, was a deserved punishment for being slow of wit. She should have gone out to her carriage to decide what to do as soon as she learned Abigail was not in the house, instead of dithering about in the hall.
The best Violet could do to explain her early call was to give Hilda, with breathless excitement, a harmless piece of gossip. She was certain that Hilda had already heard it, since it was more than a week old, but that had the advantage of permitting Hilda to feel superior to her. At least that plan worked well, and Violet had little to do besides nod her head at intervals while Hilda told her when and where she had heard the item first and recounted several less savory rumors about their neighbors. During this monologue, Violet’s eyes frequently strayed toward the window, so it was she who first saw the battered procession approaching the house. With a desperate effort, Violet repressed her impulse to cry out with shock. She had no idea what had happened, but she was determined that Hilda should not know of it through her unless Abigail wished to tell her, so she dragged her eyes back to Hilda’s face.
“Why, whatever is wrong with you, Violet?” Hilda asked. “You have turned white as a sheet.”
“A faintness,” Violet whispered, instantly seizing on her chance of escape. “I am so sorry to cut short our visit, but I must go home.”
“Perhaps you had better lie down for a while,” Hilda sneered. “You always were a weakling, Violet. I do not suffer from these turns.”
“My medicine is at home,” Violet improvised, rising from her chair. “It will do me no good to lie down unless I take it.”
“Let me summon Empson to escort you,” Hilda said, annoyed and indifferent.
But Violet was at the door and out before Hilda had finished speaking. She ran down the corridor toward the back of the house and out the French doors of the library, intercepting Abigail’s party on their way to the servants’ entrance at the rear just in time to hear Griselda insist that she did not need a physician.
“If Mama hears—” Griselda began, and then bit her lips as she saw Violet.
“She will make a terrible fus
s,” Violet finished for her, knowing quite well that was not what Griselda had been about to say. “And you would never hear the end of it, either. Abigail, let me take Griselda to her room and help her change her clothes. If I think she needs to see a physician or the apothecary, I will come and tell you.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said, still too shocked and worried to be bothered by the fact that it was Arthur’s mother who had come to her assistance.
By that time the party had been noticed by one of the maids, who must have exclaimed, for the cook and several others came running out. After a short period of confusion, very trying to Abigail’s tense nerves, Empson and Howing arrived and quelled the storm. A groom was sent for the apothecary, Mrs. Franklin was summoned to attend to Dick, who was settled in the housekeeper’s room, and Abigail was free to take her children upstairs to calm them and change their clothes and hers.
Fortunately, Victor and Daphne had cheerful and resilient temperaments. A discussion of what renovations of the mill would be necessary so that a reliable family could live in it and then of the proposed visit to other Lydden properties seemed to remove the shock and horror of the attack from their minds. At least they showed no desire to cling to their mother and began a very typical argument, shouting back and forth between half-open doors as they dressed about whether it was too hot to play in the tennis court and, if it was, whether to take the racquets out on the lawn or go for a ride.
Abigail had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from forbidding them to leave the house, but she knew that would negate all her efforts to divert their minds. Thus, she left them to their discussion, only telling them that she would be in the library later if they wanted her and that they were not to go out before luncheon, which would be served very soon. They would be safe that long, she told herself, and then she would think of something else. But as she started for the library she remembered Griselda.
A Woman's Estate Page 29
