A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “Indeed I will,” she affirmed, waving at the young man. “I know you will be bored to death by our ‘and how ares’ and ‘do you remembers’ about people you either know too well or do not know at all.”

  James smiled and thanked her and bowed his goodbye. His father looked fondly at the closed door for a moment. “I hope you truly do not mind James going, my dear,” he said. “He is very eager to look up Barthelemy de Gallatin, who was a colonel of the Grenadier Guards in the middle of the last century. Just a little streak of the romantic, to which I cannot object. You know, I took James because I thought it would be good for him to see something of the world, but he has done me such excellent service as a secretary that I shudder to think that at first I doubted my wisdom. I felt, young as he is, that he might distract me from my work.” As he said the last words, he shrugged and sighed. “Not that there has been any work to the purpose…”

  “No, of course I do not mind,” Abigail replied. Then she took a deep breath and went on hurriedly. “In fact, it is a most fortunate circumstance that he wished to leave. I have something to tell you that I would not want any third person—not even James—to hear. I am about to commit treason, Albert.”

  “No, you are not,” Albert said firmly, knowing his Abigail. “At least, not this moment. You are going to stop and think first.”

  But for once Abigail was not acting on impulse. She had done her thinking already, and she explained the path of her reasoning quickly and clearly, summing up, “A bitter defeat and shameful concessions for America can only mean another war and more and more hatred, which cannot benefit either nation.” Having heard her out, Albert nodded.

  “It is what the English do not understand,” he said sadly. “They are so convinced of the advantages and superiority of being British that they cannot believe anyone could object to being united to their nation, even in a totally subordinate condition. They call us ‘rebels’ and hate us for any success because it pricks their pride.”

  “Now you are going too far,” Abigail soothed. “The most violent opinions are expressed by those who write articles for the newspapers and need inflammatory ideas to sell their sheets. The common folk may believe these things, but I assure you the leaders are not so foolish.”

  “Mr. Baring is not so hopeful as you are,” Albert remarked with a sigh. “Are you certain you are not saying to me what you wish to believe?”

  “Mr. Baring is not a dreadful traitor at heart,” Abigail pointed out, smiling wryly. “He truly desires an end to the war, I assure you. But he would prefer, I fear, that peace be a magnanimous gift of a victorious Britain to a defeated United States rather than a treaty between equals.”

  “It will not serve,” Albert sighed, shaking his head. “You know, Abigail, that submission will only breed resentment, which must, in the end, bring a renewal of war.”

  “I do indeed know it.” Abigail agreed, her lips thinning with determination. “And England has just had a very great victory over a dreadful tyrant. She does not need to crush a hopeful young nation. Albert, you must get word to President Madison that the British intend to attack Washington in July or August. If they are driven off, it will be much easier to make peace.”

  “Attack Washington in July or August!” Gallatin echoed. “But why? I had hoped that we might have a treaty by then.”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, you will not, at least not unless you are willing to concede every demand that is made, no matter how shameful. You see, with all the troops freed from the war against Bonaparte, there are high expectations of another speedy victory, and I am sure the government intends to delay real negotiations until the outcome of the attacks in Canada and on the coast is known. But if the United States can hold its own or win a few battles, the government will begin to count the costs of a war so far away and the loss of trade, and will think better of a fair peace.”

  Gallatin looked intently at the lovely woman seated opposite him. “Abigail, how do you know this? You were never interested in politics in America or—”

  “In America I had my living to earn. I had no time for politics. Also, somehow I thought it not right for me to have opinions about the governing of a nation to which I did not belong. But here, politics is my major interest. My husband is a Member of Parliament, and I am his hostess. I swear you can rely on what I have told you.” Abigail hesitated, then added, “Well no, I am not perfectly sure about the attack on Washington, it is true. That might be a rumor, but I thought it could do no harm to be prepared, and it might be a disaster if no defense were made. About the government’s attitude toward peace, I am certain. My husband’s uncle is one of the prime minister’s closest friends, and he discusses freely with us Lord Liverpool’s attitudes—anything that is not confidential, of course.” She hesitated and shrugged. “No one considers American affairs important enough to be confidential.”

  “Am I wasting my time here?” Gallatin asked.

  “No,” Abigail replied hastily. “I am sure Lord Castlereagh, Lord Bathurst—he is the colonial secretary—and even Lord Liverpool will receive you privately. How can it be a waste of time to come to know them, even if they are not presently willing to discuss substantive issues? And small things may be settled that will save time later.”

  The clock on the mantel chimed, and Abigail jumped. “Heavens,” she cried, “I have been here a dreadfully long time, and I promised Alex I would be discreet.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Albert asked, and then looked shocked. “Surely you cannot believe anyone would think ill of our friendship. I am old enough to be your father!”

  “Only if you started very young,” Abigail teased.

  “Twenty-one is not so young to have children, you naughty girl,” he said, trying to look severe but failing.

  Abigail had already sobered, and she began to explain Alex Baring’s reasoning. She was disappointed when Albert agreed that it would be better if they were not publicly known to be good friends. Now that she had seen him again, she hated to give up the pleasure of his company and the chats about people and places they both knew. But Albert pointed out an additional problem, one that had not occurred to Baring because it never entered his mind that Abigail would consider passing information that might help America against England. Albert reminded her that her husband’s uncle might talk less freely if he knew she was seeing one of the members of the American mission.

  “Not that I wish to encourage you to betray any secrets,” Albert said, his eyes twinkling, “but since we agree so well on what would be best for both England and America…”

  Abigail did not respond to the gentle teasing. Her forehead was creased in thought. “I do not think it would be wise for me to come here if I have something to tell you,” she said, “and we have just agreed that you cannot come to me. Ah! I know. If James can call at Lackington’s bookshop every day or two, I could leave a note for him there, and he can leave one for me if you wish to speak to me. Of course, in any emergency you must write or come direct to the house—I will give you the direction. Discretion can be carried too far.”

  It was, of course, fashionable to be a little late to social affairs. Hostesses counted on it to cast a last-minute glance over their arrangements. To be nearly two hours late, however, was not at all usual, and not what Abigail had intended. After Baring had convinced her that it would not be wise to acknowledge her friendship with Albert publicly, she had changed her mind about missing Lady Sarah’s breakfast, and when she set out for Seymour Street she had expected to stay with Albert only half an hour and go on to Lady Sarah’s, arriving well within the period for fashionable lateness.

  Still, a Venetian breakfast was not meant to be a formal entertainment, and Abigail knew that a large number of guests had been invited. The guests would wander about through the reception rooms and the garden, choosing what they wished to eat from a buffet, often a little at a time, and sitting at little scattered tables now with one and then with another. Abigail
thought she might be able to enter quietly and mix with the guests in such a way that each thought she had been with a different group earlier. She had slipped through the garden gate, found her hostess and complimented her laughingly on being so popular with her guests that there had been no opportunity before to mention how very delightful the affair was.

  Since Lady Sarah received Abigail’s tribute with a pleased smile and no look of surprise, Abigail felt her plan had succeeded, concealed a sigh of relief, and made light conversation. Lady Sarah’s attention was soon drawn away, and Abigail moved toward the drawing room to chat with others. Through the open doors, however, she heard the strident bray of Hilda’s voice and hurriedly turned away. She was going to have to listen to Hilda at dinner, and that was enough.

  Reminded about the dinner, Abigail realized it was an excellent excuse to circulate rapidly to impress her presence on as many people as possible. To each she said how sorry she was not to have been able to stop to talk at length earlier, adding that she wanted at least to say goodbye, as she was on her way out to prepare for her own party that evening. During the height of the London Season, this was a common situation, as two and three social events often took place every day. No one doubted Abigail’s excuse, nor were the people she chose to tell surprised at not having been invited since they were not in political circles and assumed it was a political party.

  Actually, Abigail was giving only a small private dinner for a few of her neighbors in Kent, which was why Hilda and Eustace had been invited, and it was Hilda who was nearly her downfall. Having outstayed her welcome at Lady Sarah’s, owing to her need to detain her hostess for half an hour to complain of the draft from the doors open to the garden, the service and some of the dishes, Hilda was rather late in arriving at Abigail’s party. She and Eustace entered after all the other guests.

  The moment she laid eyes on Abigail, Hilda brayed, “Where were you this morning? Lady Sarah said you were coming to her breakfast, but you weren’t there.”

  “Of course I was,” Abigail replied, but her breath had caught for an instant and guilt made her color rise.

  “Oh no, you were not,” Hilda insisted. “I wanted to speak to you about allowing Griselda to go home. If you did not need her, you could have sent her to me instead of letting her go to Rutupiae, where she will just indulge her idleness and lachrymose humors. I could make use of her very easily.”

  A double fury gripped Abigail, partly simple rage at the possible disclosure of her little deception but also because she wondered if Hilda was not right. Perhaps she should not have given in so easily to Griselda’s desire to go home. Her flush deepened as she said, “I was at Lady Sarah’s, Hilda. There was an awful crush—”

  “I looked all over for you,” Hilda interrupted, her beady eyes gleaming with spite at the sight of Abigail’s discomfort. “I couldn’t find you.”

  “If Abigail says she was there, I’m sure she was, Mother,” Eustace suggested soothingly.

  Somehow, his statement made everything worse. The other guests had paid little attention up to that point. There had been a momentary hiatus in the conversation when Hilda’s strident voice made her accusation, but being well acquainted with her constant complaints, the guests had gone back to their talk as soon as she mentioned Griselda. After Eustace’s assertion, however, an uncomfortable silence fell.

  “I was there,” Abigail exclaimed, her voice shaking with ill-controlled rage. “I don’t know where you looked for me. You were in the drawing room—I heard your voice. I was out in the garden. If you don’t believe me, ask Lady Sarah. I spoke to her and to Lady Lade and to Miss Power. Perhaps I was a little late in arriving. I had business to attend to this morning.”

  If anyone asked, Abigail intended to mention the leases that had come from Jameson at Rutupiae, but the actual business that had made her late was in her mind, and her color, which had been fading as she saw several amused glances cast at Hilda, rose again. Abigail was satisfied. She knew the hidden amusement was because her company felt she had been deliberately avoiding Hilda. Unfortunately, Abigail never glanced at the one face she should have examined, but it never entered her mind that her husband could have any doubts about her.

  Arthur put a hand casually on the mantelpiece and looked down into the fire. The graceful indolence of his posture proclaimed his contempt for and disinterest in any hint of the scandal Hilda clearly wished to imply—but his eyes were blind with pain. Where did Abigail go? Arthur wondered. Whom did she see? Five, no six times now, his attention had been drawn to the fact that she had not been where she claimed she would be. Each previous time, any doubt that had flickered through his mind had been soothed by the easy indifference with which she explained. This time the ease was gone. Arthur knew his wife. This time she had done something of which she was ashamed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Arthur had been prepared for a dreadfully dull evening since he was not at all interested in social gossip. Twice a year at Stonar Magna and once during the Season he was host to his neighbors from Kent at a “select” dinner party. Violet had explained this to Abigail—in fact, before she went to Bath she had left for her daughter-in-law what amounted to a book of instructions on obligations and proper behavior. She had also told Arthur she would not spend the Season with them.

  “I will come for two or three weeks at the end of April or the beginning of May,” Violet had said, “to see my own friends, but it is Abigail who must be acknowledged as your hostess, Arthur. Besides, I want to see spring in the country again.” She smiled slightly. “I don’t suppose you know, my love, but I was a country girl. I loved your father more than daffodils and violets, but I have not seen them except cut and dying, poor things, for almost thirty-five years. I cannot tell you how happy I am to have no obligations to drag me to Town. I will stay with Joseph and Irma and see spring as it is meant to be.”

  Although he concealed it well, offering Abigail nothing but support and assurances, Arthur had been a little worried about how his American-bred wife would manage and feared that between her temper and her all-too-forthright nature she would offend people and be “cut” by social leaders. To his delight, Abigail had adhered faithfully to Violet’s book of instructions, and with its help—despite being hampered by so different a background—had slid efficiently through the social-shark-infested waters of a London Season and the complex political tangle. In one way her background was helpful; to be a successful shopkeeper, particularly in a bookshop where most of the clients were upper class and well educated, she had learned to hold her own without offending.

  Abigail’s adaptability had rather surprised Arthur because in private he so easily generated explosions from her volatile temper, but he had been very proud of her success—until this evening. For the first time, as he stared into the fire, he allowed himself consciously to wonder whether his wife was a supremely good actress. Did she turn her strong opinions on and off according to the person and situation? Was that look of perfect honesty no more than a mask like those the actors in ancient Greece once wore? And what of the looks of love, the perfect physical response to his passion—were they too perfect?

  At that point, just when the pain became too much to bear, Waggoner announced that dinner was served, and years of rigid training induced in Arthur the correct response. The movement—offering his arm to Hilda, who was the lady of highest rank, seeing her to her chair, going to his own—reduced to a dull ache the spasm of agony that had seized him. Then there were hours of the kind of talk that barely touched the surface of Arthur’s brain. For once he was grateful for Hilda. She talked at him, neither needing nor expecting any reply. But even when he turned to Lady Vernon, he was able to listen and answer while his deeper thoughts ran on a different path.

  They veered wildly from an impulse to attack Abigail and wring the truth from her, to utter rejection of his own suspicions. What, after all, were those suspicions based on? A blush or two. He knew that Abigail blushed with
rage. He had seen her do so often enough. Certainly Hilda had given her reason enough to be angry. Why was he so sure she was blushing with guilt? Was it not because of his own previous life? Was he equating Abigail with the many women who had not been where they said they would be because they were—illicitly—with him?

  A glance down the table showed him Abigail talking pleasantly with Lord Vernon—about horses, no doubt, since Lord Vernon seldom talked about anything else. There was nothing in her face or manner that he could identify as different, yet his heart contracted, and anger roiled under his polite attentiveness to his partner. She is guilty! his mind raged. Guilty and ashamed! However, Arthur was not insane, and he fought down the impulse to jump up and demand an immediate answer—and when the fury subsided, the doubts returned.

  In fact, Arthur had judged Abigail correctly—if for the wrong reason. Abigail was not much more interested in horses and hunting than Arthur was in gossip. Thus, as Lord Vernon pontificated on the subjects he knew best, she nodded and smiled—and her mind wandered to her most recent source of irritation. Further consideration of Hilda’s accusation had brought home to her a realization of what she had done. She had committed treason! She did not regret the thing itself because she was so sure it was best that America not be defeated, but she wished someone else had passed the news. If it got about that Arthur’s wife had betrayed Britain to the American enemy, either he would have to separate from her or he would be finished in politics. He might be finished in any event. Who would trust a man who blabbed military confidences to his wife? It would not matter that she had not obtained the news from Arthur and that he might not even know. He would be blamed anyway.

  Later, after dinner was over and the party was back in the drawing room, some playing whist and others chatting, another aspect of the situation came to her. Arthur himself would despise her if he knew her to be a traitor. She remembered now his fury when she had first defended America. Just because Arthur was too wise to be vindictive and agree with the common demand for reparations and the humbling of the “rebels” did not imply that he would agree the United States must not suffer any major defeat. And even if he understood the eventual bad results of a successful British attack and correspondingly harsh treaty, he would never accept her method of preventing it.