A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  Thus, Arthur had waited until they had all parted for the night and then tapped on his mother’s dressing-room door. He was rather surprised when she came to let him in herself and said so.

  Violet shook her head, gestured him toward a chair, sat down herself, and smiled. “My love, it was perfectly plain that you were bursting with some news you wished to impart privately either to Bertram or to me, so I thought I would read for half an hour before I rang for my maid.”

  “I had no idea I was so transparent,” Arthur said, grinning. “I hope you are more perceptive than others, but I am too happy to care. Abigail has agreed to marry me.”

  “I am so glad for you, Arthur.” Violet’s eyes shone with pleasure, and amusement, for she had guessed what he was waiting to tell her as soon as he had come into the house. “She is exactly the right woman for you,” Violet continued, “and I know you will be very happy. You can ride over and ask the vicar to read the banns tomorrow, and—oh, does Abigail know a notice must be sent to the Gazette to announce the betrothal?”

  Arthur had grinned even more broadly at Violet’s first words. He had known she would be pleased, but as she went on speaking, he began to look very surprised. He was eager to marry as quickly as possible to regain all the privileges of a husband—like sleeping through the night in Abigail’s bed when it suited him and seeing her lovely face each morning. Still, his mother’s haste seemed almost indecent, as if—

  “I haven’t got her with child, Mama,” Arthur said in a shocked voice. “There is no need for such haste that I cannot speak to the vicar on Sunday after the service.”

  “Then why—?” Violet began, and realizing in the next instant what such a question implied, cried, “Oh, Arthur, I did not mean that you are not worth marrying or that Abigail does not love you—” but his expression made her put her hand to her lips and fall silent.

  “What did you mean?” he asked, and before she could answer he added, “You are a very beautiful woman still, Mama, and you are by no means too old even now to marry again. You cannot tell me you have not had many opportunities to do so. Why have you remained a widow?”

  “I loved your father,” she replied.

  “Yes,” Arthur agreed, lifting a brow sardonically. “And I remember that for a few years after his death you did not dance or flirt. Moreover, I am very sure that you remember Papa with great tenderness, but, my dear, dear Mama, you cannot pretend you have been a grieving widow for the past ten years at least.”

  Violet shrugged. “It is more comfortable to be a widow. I can do what I like when I like. I can buy what I like—”

  “Are you saying that Papa kept you short?” Arthur interrupted, rather horrified.

  “No, no, of course not,” Violet assured him. “In fact, I never outspent my pin money—it was very generous. It was merely that your father liked to—to know what I was doing. But there was never a harsh word about money between us, only—only sometimes he would laugh at me, or point out that something I had done was foolish, or say he could have got a better price if I had asked him. He was always right, Arthur, and never angry or unpleasant, and, indeed, as I grew older it happened much less frequently, but,” she laughed, a shade awkwardly, “somehow I always felt just a tiny bit…uneasy. And there were other small things, all very small, and I never minded because I loved him so, but—but I now prefer that no one has the right to tell me what to do or oversee me—”

  She had been gazing past him, not to conceal her expression but because she was seeing the past, and when her thoughts reached the present again, she focused her eyes on her son, and stopped speaking abruptly. Then she said, “What is it, Arthur?”

  “Did you feel like a slave?” he asked.

  Violet burst out laughing. “How can you ask such a silly question? Of course not! A slave! How ridiculous you are. How could I feel like a slave when your father loved me so dearly? I felt cherished.”

  Or smothered, Arthur thought, the scales having been peeled from his eyes. However, he had no intention of distressing his mother by peeling the scales of self-delusion from hers—if she was self-deluded. She had been cherished, and she was not a fighter like Abigail, although she was just as clever—perhaps cleverer. Caught in a silken net, his mother would not struggle to tear it apart and perhaps destroy herself and everything else in the process but work gently at the knots here and there until she made it comfortable or escaped entirely.

  “Arthur, what has got into you?” she continued. “Your father and I were very happy together. I do not believe he was ever unfaithful to me or gave me a single real cause for grief. Why do you look so grim?”

  Arthur shook his head and smiled wryly. “I didn’t realize I was looking grim. I believe you, Mama. You have not shattered my illusions and broken my heart.”

  He had, of course, never doubted the happiness of his parents’ marriage. The thinned lips and set expression his mother had so aptly termed grim had been engendered by the fact that the very phrases he had formed in his mind—a silken net was a trap, however silken it was—proved Abigail’s point. It was true that Abigail might have exaggerated the intensity of the feelings his mother had buried, but there must be some truth to her contention that all wives did sometimes feel helpless and resentful.

  Still, he did not believe that the law could be as unreasonable as Abigail implied. He felt she was mixing up the results of affection—for he was certain it was love rather than fear that had made his mother docile—with the mandates of the law. In any case, he was not going to describe to his mother Abigail’s rather extreme views on the conditions of matrimony. On the other hand, it was quite clear his mama was not going to accept any light dismissal of his troubled expression. She would not put her hands on her hips like a fishwife and demand the truth or pugnaciously accuse him of lying, the way Abigail would. Involuntarily, Arthur smiled. His mother was a wonderful woman, but he was very tired of being watched, wheedled, and trapped. Fortunately he had a perfect red herring at hand with which to distract Violet.

  “And if I was looking grim, it has nothing to do with you and Father,” he went on. “I guess my mind was really on what you said first. I’m afraid that it will be some time before we can get the banns read.”

  Arthur went on to point out that his relationship with Abigail was complicated by his being the trustee for her children and executor of her husband’s estate and that conditions of conflict of interest might be said to exist. “But what I really wanted to talk to you about,” he added, “I mean the reason I didn’t just announce the fact that Abigail had agreed to marry me as soon as I came in, was that I wanted to ask what you think is the best way to break the news to Bertram.”

  “Break the news to Bertram?” Violet echoed. “I am really beginning to think you’ve gone mad, Arthur. Why should you need to break the news to Bertram? Bertram will be delighted.”

  The certainty of her statement wiped the question of marital legalities from Arthur’s mind. What had been a diversion had become of primary importance. If it was not a hopeless love for Abigail that was causing the reserve in Bertram’s manner—what was it?

  “I think you are mistaken,” Arthur answered, hoping he was not exhibiting more than a simple concern for Bertram’s feelings would merit, and went on to tell Violet of his suspicions concerning Bertram’s desire to marry.

  Violet frowned thoughtfully. “You may be right about his wish to have a wife and family,” she said slowly. “I have felt that something was troubling him recently, but I assure you it is not Abigail in whom he is interested—if he has any particular woman in mind. He is fond of her, but not that way, as you would have discovered in a minute if you had not been so worried about hurting him.” Violet paused and reconsidered what she had said in the light of Arthur’s revelation, then added, “No, I am sure. Whatever is on Bertram’s mind, it is not Abigail.”

  Arthur’s heart sank. The report he had had from the bailiff of the estate Bertram had visited had c
leared Bertram of being the gunman, but he could have employed someone else. No, that was ridiculous. Bertram was much too clever to put himself into the hands of some villain. Yet the only result of the investigation to discover who had fired the shots from the mill had been proof that Dick was not the target and that it was likely no local person had been involved.

  Beyond that there had been virtually no evidence to indicate who was guilty, although Price had harrowed the area with a fine-toothed comb with the aid of his fellow gamekeepers. First, Price and the Rutupiae head gamekeeper, Vastaly, questioned every owner of a gun on both estates and in the surrounding villages until they knew where each person capable of firing the weapon had been that morning. Then, they had enlisted the help of gamekeepers and bailiffs on neighboring estates—and the man had to come from within walking distance because no horse had been tethered within the vicinity of the mill, nor could anyone outside of the vicinity have known that Abigail and her children intended to picnic there.

  “Do you have any idea—” Arthur began, then stopped because he was not sure he wanted his mother prying gently at Bertram’s secrets.

  But Violet was already shaking her head. “No, and I do not think we should try to find out,” she said. “When Bertram has worked things out—or come to a point where he knows he cannot work them out—he will tell one of us. He is a very private sort of person, Arthur, but he does love you—and me, a little, I think. If he needs help, he will come to you or me. If he does not need it, he will be angry and embarrassed if we intrude.”

  Arthur nodded agreement, a good deal soothed by his mother’s confidence in Bertram. She was a keen judge of character and knew Bertram as well and as long as he did. Again he told himself he was a fool to doubt a man who had proved himself honest and loyal time and time again. Relieved, Arthur yawned and stretched and rose from his chair saying that he would take himself off to bed, as he had a full day to look forward to on the morrow.

  This was true enough, as a session of Parliament was to open in a few weeks, and there were drafts of bills to be read and commented upon and several articles he had been asked to write for other bills in preparation. But none of the business in hand was really urgent. Bertram had sent anything that needed immediate attention to Scotland by express. So, after Arthur had answered the few important letters that had arrived while he was on the road, his mind began to wander.

  First Bertram sighed in exasperation, then he laughed and said, “Go. You are doing me no good here. Just be sure to tell Abigail that you are allowing the government of England to fall to pieces while you are idling away your time in her company.”

  Arthur smiled dutifully and then said, “I should have told you before. I have asked her to marry me, and she has agreed.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Bertram exclaimed fervently. “The happy event cannot take place too soon. Perhaps once you are married I will be able to hold your attention for more than five minutes at a time.”

  There was such obvious pleasure under Bertram’s teasing that Arthur had to admit that his mother was right and he had been mistaken in suspecting that Bertram was in love with Abigail. In one sense that was delightful, for he would no longer have to bite his tongue each time he felt like talking to Bertram about his loved one—either to damn her for her intransigency or to become lyrical about her. But if a suppressed desire for Abigail had not been Bertram’s secret… And then Arthur really felt like a fool. The woman might not have been Abigail, but if there was a girl Bertram wanted to marry and she was out of reach, Arthur’s courtship might still have generated a strain in him.

  Suppressing a strong desire to urge Bertram to tell him who the girl was and promise to arrange everything—which might well be more than he could perform—Arthur looked down his nose in his best nuisance-quenching manner and said, “I have a very good memory. It seems to me that the last time I was in this office you drove me out with complaints that I was intruding on your territory.” Then abruptly changing his tone and expression to one of deep injury, he added dramatically, “I am doing my best to please you, but nothing—”

  “Go,” Bertram ordered, struggling not to laugh and flicking his handkerchief at Arthur as if he were a fly, but as Arthur punched him gently and affectionately on the shoulder and pushed back his chair, Bertram said, “No, wait. I must find our copy of Lydden’s will, and I think instead of annoying Abigail, who must be very busy getting the children ready to leave for school, you had better ride over and show it to Roger. Our solicitor will have to work out any complications with Deedes, but Roger is the one to pick out any point on which suit could be brought to get rid of you as executor and trustee.”

  “You are quite right.” Arthur’s lips thinned. “It might not occur to Deedes that particular care is needed to prevent Eustace from instituting suit since there is no apparent profit to be made from the appointment, but that is because Deedes is not sporting mad. Eustace could make a very good thing out of the trusteeship. He wouldn’t have to pay for another horse or gun until Victor was of age. No one could prove they weren’t bought for Victor.”

  Bertram twiddled his handkerchief and picked at his sleeve and coat, removing infinitesimal—or imaginary—pieces of fluff. Arthur watched him and put a curb on his impatience. He was aware of Bertram’s sensitivity with regard to the “honor” of his family and realized that a battle was raging in his friend between the need to tell Arthur something that might be important and the need to conceal the unpleasant fact because it would blacken a Lydden. As Arthur expected it would, Bertram’s sense of loyalty to him triumphed.

  “He’s a reckless devil too,” Bertram said with obvious reluctance.

  “Reckless?” Arthur repeated, really surprised. “He’s a damn good horseman and a crack shot, but I never thought of him as reckless. In fact, I’ve always thought of him as rather tame.”

  “I didn’t mean that Eustace was reckless about his precious skin,” Bertram remarked. “But he’s reckless enough to pay his debts and other bills out of the estate and take the chance that Victor wouldn’t prosecute his own uncle when he came of age. Anyway, that appearance of gentleness Eustace projects comes from years of handling Hilda.”

  Arthur frowned. “But he hasn’t any choice about that. She holds the purse strings, and she’s mean enough to cut him off if he doesn’t dance to her piping. And that’s really Lydden’s fault. Why the devil did the old man leave Hilda’s whole fortune to her instead of dividing it up in a reasonable way or making some other arrangement for Eustace? I thought it must have been a provision of their marriage contract, but it doesn’t say that in the will—and usually that kind of thing is stated.”

  “Didn’t you know why?” The note of bitterness was sharply apparent in Bertram’s voice and prepared Arthur for a nasty disclosure, but he was still surprised when Bertram added, “Eustace forged the old man’s name to pay some gambling debts—”

  “Gambling!” Arthur was appalled. All he could think was that the trait did run in the family and that Victor would break Abigail’s heart.

  Bertram seemed to guess what was in Arthur’s mind and shook his head. “The losses were nothing. The kind one suffers on a bad night in a fashionable club. Eustace simply decided paying them would leave him too short, so he wrote a draft and signed his father’s name.”

  “Good God!” Arthur exclaimed, but as the immediate shock receded an oddity struck him, and he frowned. “How did you come to hear of it?”

  A blaze of fury lit the single glance Bertram flashed at Arthur. Then he lowered his eyes to his own fingernails. “I knew because my uncle had first accused me of paying for my luxuries by signing his name to bills. Fortunately, my taste is very different from Eustace’s. I was able to prove that I had never been a client of any of the establishments where payment was made by forged draft. When the last forgery showed up, and my uncle discovered it was Eustace, he wrote to me and apologized.” Bertram paused and then added bitterly, “Do you want to see
the letter?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Arthur said irritably.

  “Sorry.” Bertram smiled. “Except for the revered ancestor who had a passion for Roman ruins, the Lyddens used to be the dullest and most proper family in England. My father seems to have broken precedent, and everyone rushed to emulate his bad example—Francis, then Eustace.”

  Arthur raised his brows. “What you need is a good go at the family records. That would cure you of revering your ancestors. Anyhow, it’s nonsense. I can’t say you are dull, my dear Bertram, but you are quite sickeningly virtuous—and Victor is a clear refutation of any hint of enfeeblement in the line.”

  Bertram laughed. “Yes, I think he is, but I am in awe of your singleness of purpose, Arthur. No matter what we begin to talk about, you come round about in the end to Abigail—or something to do with Abigail. Just let me get the papers you will need, and you can go. I have no time today to listen to raptures.”

  But when Arthur returned from his visit to Roger, he was not in the mood for raptures. Not only had Roger foreseen complications in arranging matters so that Eustace could not bring suit for conflict of interest, but Arthur had discovered that Abigail had not been exaggerating. In 1765 the great jurist Blackstone had summed up the status of married women. By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law—that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage… For this reason, a man cannot grant anything to his wife, or enter into covenant with her, for the grant would be to suppose her separate existence…and the courts of law will still permit a husband to restrain a wife of her liberty…

  Although Roger was not a solicitor, he knew a great deal about the laws concerning women because he had married a wife far richer than himself, and her cousin Sabrina, their foster daughter, was also a considerable heiress. Roger had expended thought and effort in finding a legal way of protecting his own wife and Sabrina from their husbands by creating, through the Court of Chancery, an equitable, separate estate that a married woman could hold as feme sole, free of her husband’s control.