A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “Not at all,” Abigail assured him with mock seriousness. “I will give you a book that shows how it is done—Fielding’s Joseph Andrews.”

  Now he lifted a brow. “Delaying tactics, my love. For some reason you don’t want to talk to Griselda—I don’t blame you; she is the most tiresome girl—”

  “No, no, she isn’t, Arthur,” Abigail said quickly. “I have grown truly fond of her, and the children adore her.”

  He lifted his brow even higher but did not say anything else, only making a slight sardonic bow as he went out the door. Abigail was a little annoyed both by his too quick perception of anything she felt and by his seemingly total lack of perception about Griselda. But Arthur had been perfectly right about her not wanting to talk to Griselda. No matter how Abigail dealt with the subject of going to Scotland, she knew it would hurt Griselda—and Griselda had had enough pain in her life. Nonetheless, the girl could not remain in Rutupiae to become the sole target of a madman. Abigail squared her shoulders and made her way to Griselda’s room.

  There was no answer to her first knock, but she persisted, calling softly, “It is Abigail, Griselda, I must talk to you.” Then the door opened, and she gasped. Griselda’s face was shocking—blue and purple and very swollen. “Oh, you silly girl,” she cried. “Why did you say you did not need the apothecary? I will—”

  “But I don’t need him,” Griselda insisted. “What could he do for me? He cannot reduce the colors, and I am not hurt beyond bruises.” She hesitated and then said, “Please come in,” and closed the door carefully, adding in a rather low and trembling voice, “I have thought of a tale to explain—”

  “I am sorry,” Abigail interrupted, “it is too late for explanations. Your mother knows you were at the mill. But how could you be so silly, Griselda, as to believe I would permit Hilda to drive you out of the house? I hoped we were better friends than that.”

  “Mama can be very…very insistent,” Griselda said, but she spoke as if she hardly heard her own words, and she sank down into a chair as if her legs had become boneless.

  “You were never afraid of being put out!” Abigail exclaimed with sudden understanding. “She threatened you with something else. What was it?”

  Griselda looked out into nothing, then turned to Abigail with a faint, sad smile. “It is nothing to worry about now. Mama is very strong and will live, I daresay, for a long time.”

  Abigail blinked. “She has the power to leave you out of her will? I see. Well, you needn’t let that worry you, either. I promise you that you will never be without a home or adequate care. And Eustace—”

  “Please do not listen to Eustace’s assurances that he will provide for me!” Griselda cried, and then, shaking her head, tried to laugh. “Now that is silly. Mama is alive and well and likely to be so for a long, long time. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “About what happened this morning,” Abigail said slowly, but her mind was really turning over the fearful exclamation about Eustace.

  “I cannot tell you much more,” Griselda said. “I have thought and thought because there was something odd I saw—I thought I saw—just as I came up the stairs. I could swear he was wearing fine boots. But I may not be remembering correctly. I was so surprised to see a man with a gun instead of mischievous children, and the rest of his clothing was common. He wore a rough coat and a countryman’s hat, pulled down, with a neckerchief or a scarf that covered the lower part of his face. That was all I saw—except the gun. I was so frightened, I could not tell you the color of the coat or…”

  Her voice faded away because Abigail was shaking her head. Actually, Abigail had been unable to listen attentively to the beginning of what Griselda told her because she was still so startled by Griselda’s lack of trust in her brother. Abigail finally managed to push the idea away and concentrate, but she knew that what Griselda was telling her would be no help in catching the gunman, and she wanted to get the painful blow she must deal the poor girl over with as quickly as possible.

  “I am less worried about what you saw than what the madman who shot at us saw,” Abigail said. “What I am afraid of is that he saw you, and clearly.”

  “I suppose he did,” Griselda replied, “but what can that matter?”

  “If he saw you and recognized you, it is likely that he will feel you could have recognized him,” Abigail pointed out. “I don’t want to frighten you, but if such a person feels you are dangerous to him, he might try to silence you.”

  Abigail’s voice had been gentle, and she took Griselda’s hand to offer comfort, but Griselda did not look at all alarmed and, although she pressed Abigail’s hand gently in appreciation of her support, she said calmly, “If he had wanted to kill me, he could have done so at once. He could have beaten my head in with the butt of his gun. Even if he ran because he was frightened and only later thought I might know him, I do not think there can be any danger for me. After all, I would surely have already named him if I could, so what would be the use of trying to kill me now?”

  “You may be right,” Abigail answered slowly, “and Dick’s father thinks the intention was to avenge some spite against himself by harming his son—but even if that were true, only a madman would make his attempt when there were three other people there who could be hurt or, for that matter, help Dick if he were only wounded. And madmen do not usually think logically. In any case, my dear, I am too fond of you to allow you to be exposed to danger and too worried about my children to remain here.”

  “Mama will not let me go with you,” Griselda said flatly.

  “Your mama has nothing to say about the matter,” Abigail retorted. “I say you are to go, and that is that. And I will see you do not suffer for it. Sir Arthur thinks we will be safest at his Scottish estate in Glendessary.”

  Abigail said the last sentence quickly, watching Griselda’s face. Her pretty hazel eyes widened with a look of barely suppressed excitement and joy. Abigail’s heart sank, for she could only believe that the emotions were engendered by Griselda’s desire to be near Arthur. She hated to wipe out that small hope of happiness, but she knew Arthur would be completely exasperated if Griselda sat in corners staring at him worshipfully or fluttered about offering to run errands or fetch things for him.

  “My love,” Abigail added hurriedly, “before you say you wish to come, I must tell you two things. The first is that arrangements can be made for you to go elsewhere—to London, if you like—if you do not choose to come with us after you have heard the second—which is that Arthur and I are lovers. If you feel that our relationship would make you uncomfortable—”

  “I am not so much of a prude as that,” Griselda interrupted with a faint smile.

  Abigail was so surprised that she burst out, “But…but I thought you…you had a tendre for Arthur!”

  “Sir Arthur?” Griselda exclaimed. “Oh no!” And then she blushed so hotly that tears rose to her eyes. “That was Mama,” she said in a stifled voice. “She thought she could force me on him, trick him in some way so that he would feel obligated to offer for me. It was dreadful. Every chance Mama could find, she made me approach him, but as soon as I could, I ran away. Bertram helped me.”

  Although Griselda’s voice had faded to a whisper on the last three words, Abigail had to acknowledge that the girl gave no evidence of fighting shock or jealousy. The bruises made her expression hard to read, but the only strong emotion she seemed to feel was shame at her mother’s efforts to trap an unwilling man into marriage.

  “Do you not find Arthur attractive?” Abigail asked curiously.

  For an instant Griselda looked anxious, and then she shook her head. “I hope I do not offend you,” she said shyly, “but you asked me before if we were not good enough friends for me to trust you—and I must do that. I believe Sir Arthur to be a fine, kind man, but I must admit it has always puzzled me why so many—” She stopped abruptly and her eyes widened and again filled with tears. “Oh, forgive me, I didn’t
mean—”

  Abigail laughed. “I am well aware of Arthur’s…er…past rakish proclivities. You need not be afraid of shocking me or hurting me. I am very glad you will be able to come with us without feeling uncomfortable, and I beg your pardon for prying into your private life, but you looked so eager and excited when I mentioned going to Scotland that I was afraid my dear Arthur’s fatal charm had unintentionally bewitched you.”

  “Oh no,” Griselda replied, smiling. “I would have been equally delighted whether Sir Arthur were coming or not and no matter where you said we were going. You see, except for an hour or two once in a while, I have never been anywhere without Mama.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Arthur was somewhat less delighted than Griselda when he learned that she would accompany them, but by the time they reached the house near Glendessary, he was in a mood to embrace the world. An express letter had overtaken them on the road, and its contents seemed to eliminate Bertram as the man who had shot at Abigail’s party from the mill. In the warmth of his relief, Arthur would have found his worst enemy delightful company, however, even when the glow had faded he had to admit that Griselda was a different person when freed of her mother’s influence. He found her gentle wit amusing and was surprised to discover that when she could be drawn into conversation, she was quite intelligent.

  Nonetheless, she made him slightly uncomfortable. Despite the fact that she was taller than Abigail and not really physically fragile, Griselda seemed extremely delicate—as if a single harshness would crush her nearly out of existence. Arthur found himself not only speaking to her in a gentle voice but examining every word he addressed to her lest it contain a hidden meaning that could hurt her. He did not mind because he enjoyed the remarks and grateful smiles his care won, but it was still a relief to turn to Abigail, to whom he could say anything that came into his head without the slightest concern that her robust spirit would be damaged.

  And despite Arthur’s care, Griselda remained quite shy of him and confessed to Abigail that she found so dominant a man overpowering. She looked with a mixture of terror and admiration at Abigail, who argued with Arthur freely, sometimes at the top of her lungs, when their opinions diverged. In time, Griselda grew accustomed to it and was even amused as she realized the participants were not quarreling and not hurting each other, although each was quite sincere about the subject under discussion. But in the beginning of the visit, she preferred to spend her time with Daphne and Victor. It was an arrangement that worked out very well because it permitted the children to become aware only very slowly that Sir Arthur and their mother had a special fondness for each other. Since this knowledge grew concurrently with their own growing affection for him, it was no great shock.

  The developing affection was mutual. Although Arthur was a bachelor, he was accustomed to children since his relatives often left offspring who were problems for one reason or another with his mother. He had liked Abigail’s children as soon as he met them because they were hers. As he grew to know them, he liked them for themselves. Now he was learning to love them. He talked gravely of books and plants with Daphne and enjoyed her serious and absorbed efforts when she was permitted to preside at the tea table. He showed Victor the forest that covered much of the estate and discussed with him the culling and management of the elk herds, the necessary balance between forest for the game animals, grazing for the sheep and cattle, and tillage for the turnips and potatoes, which were the people’s staple foods, together with the small amount of oats, barley, and wheat they grew.

  The nights were Abigail’s. They had been exhausted the evening they arrived and by rights should have tumbled into sleep as soon as they were in bed, but neither Arthur nor Abigail could sleep, and as soon as the house was quiet they met each other in the narrow corridor that separated their rooms, each afraid that the other would be reluctant. Later, they laughed heartily about that, but at the moment the proof of the other’s desire only added fuel to the flames, and they came together in an explosion that was made all the more brutal by the need for silence. Because she knew she must not cry out, Abigail bit Arthur so hard in the convulsion of her climax that he bled. And in the morning she would thank God that the climate of Scotland was so cool because it would permit her to wear a long-sleeved, high-necked gown that would conceal her bruises.

  When it was over and they had caught their breath, they whispered their simultaneous apologies. Then they cosseted and cuddled each other. First Abigail bathed Arthur’s shoulder with cold water and dried it until the bleeding stopped, then he began to kiss all her bruises. When his lips reached her mount of Venus, she crossed her legs over his head and pulled his body around so that she could return the compliment he was paying her. One advantage of the position was that neither could cry out.

  They had slept after that. Arthur knew he should go back to his own bed, but he simply could not find the resolution to do so. Abigail was already asleep, and he had shrugged and snuggled closer, thinking with a tinge of satisfaction that if they were caught she would have to marry him. He had wakened before dawn, however, in a cold sweat of fear, knowing that he did not want marriage on those terms—not with Abigail. But the solid darkness showed there was still time. Arthur told himself he only meant to kiss her gently while she slept, but she woke at once with a response that made it clear to him he had been deceiving himself and his intentions went a good deal further than one kiss.

  Half asleep and still dulled with fatigue, they made a long, lingering process of their act of love. They stroked each other and played with fingers and lips on every sensitive spot. Arthur even took a long time in entering, sliding himself along and between the nether lips, letting only the head enter, stopping altogether with the tip of his shaft just touching her to suck at Abigail’s breasts. Oddly, although she knew she would come to climax as soon as he began to thrust in earnest, Abigail was not impatient. And when he at last yielded to his own need, her joy came in a pulsing flood that nearly deprived her of her senses—but was never so acute that she had to grip him convulsively or grit her teeth against screaming.

  When he finished that time, Arthur did not lie beside her kissing her gently and murmuring love words. Groaning softly, he dragged himself upright and went away. Abigail lay looking into the dark, knowing why he had gone, knowing that if she wanted the comfort of his body beside her through the night and in the morning, she would have to marry him. She pushed the thought away and found sleep.

  It became harder and harder to avoid the thought of marriage. Arthur came every night, and every night it was clear it was harder for him to go and harder for her to let him go. They did not always make love; however, they felt a deep and ever-growing need for each other—to touch, to lie embraced, to exchange a lazy word or two about the day’s activities or the children.

  As August passed, Abigail kept Arthur with her later and later. She was happy enough during the day and while he lay beside her at night, but when she was alone in the dark, her dread of going back to Rutupiae haunted her. At first it had been only a little weight on her heart, but night by night it grew until it was like a black mountain, suffocating her. She was not afraid of whoever had attacked them. The terror of that incident had faded with time. When she did think of it, she had the feeling that it had all been some kind of mistake, that the man in the mill had been expecting something or someone other than her party to come out of the woods. Certainly nothing worse had befallen her children in Scotland than a scraped knee or a twisted ankle. In any case, after only one or two days at home, Victor and Daphne would be safe in schools where they would be under supervision almost every moment. It was the loss of Arthur she dreaded.

  She tried to tell herself it was ridiculous, that there was no question of losing him, that she could see him every day if she liked and that they could make love at the cottage whenever they wanted. But she knew she was lying to herself. If they found it difficult to part now, knowing the other was only across the corridor and k
nowing they would be together again at the breakfast table, what would it do to them to live in separate houses? She and Arthur would suffer the constant irritation of being close, but not close enough to find each other in minutes to offer a tidbit of news, exchange a laughing comment, or confide a sudden idea. They could meet every day, but not spontaneously, as those who live together do. The ease would be gone; they would be in a hurry to transmit everything they had been bottling up and the joy of the exchanges would be lost. Worst of all she feared the meetings to satisfy their sexual tension. They would be far more frustrating than these nights in Scotland.

  Day by day it became plainer to Abigail that Arthur had been right. The kind of love they shared was married love, and it was not possible for them, because of her obligations to her children and Arthur’s to his political activities, to defy convention and live together except in the married state. She knew she would either have to marry Arthur or break free of him completely. And the children’s fondness for him was another complication. Alone in the dark she wept softly. For what reason was it better to learn to hate the man you loved, because you could not have enough of him or because he was doing everything in his power to care for you and protect you?

  The night before they started for home, Arthur made love to her with a desperate intensity that told Abigail he had come to the same conclusions she had. When they were finished, he lay very still, but she knew he was not sleeping. She realized he must feel like someone whose dearest friend had suddenly tied him down and begun to torture him and refused to give any reason for what he was doing. That was unfair. Even if Arthur could not understand and was angry, he had a right to know why she did not want to marry him.

  “It is mostly the bookshop,” she said.

  If Abigail had doubted how closely their minds were attuned, his reply would have been answer enough. He did not ask what she was talking about. He did not sound in the least surprised by the peculiar introduction of a subject neither had mentioned after she had confessed in London to ownership of the bookshop. It was quite apparent that he understood she had begun to explain, if she could, why she had refused him. His voice was very gentle, his arm closed a little more tightly around her when he said, “But I told you I did not mind the bookshop.”