This made Abigail uncomfortable because she had promised Arthur to be discreet, and she developed the habit of scanning the street around each shop for anyone she knew who might see her as she came out. Soon she was presented with a puzzle. There was a street idler who always seemed somewhere in the area, no matter which shop she was in. By the third time she saw him, Abigail, became “aware” of his presence, but she did not associate it with herself because such men often ran errands for shopkeepers or carried parcels for customers. However, when she caught a glimpse of the same man walking on her own street, she felt that to be very odd. He was on the other side and going in the opposite direction rather quickly. Nonetheless, he did not belong in the elegant residential neighborhood in which she lived. Her neighbors had their own servants to run errands and carry parcels.
It was no more than an odd coincidence, Abigail told herself, but she could not help watching for the man—and finding him and realizing that he was following her. First she was simply amazed, unable to understand what it could mean. All too soon, however, it occurred to her that the watcher must be a result of her husband’s jealousy. Fury swept her. Had Arthur been at home when the idea came to her, she would have attacked him for his lack of trust. But as she reviewed in her mind the contemptuous things she would say to him, pity replaced rage. Then she thought of explaining gently and again assuring him that she would never betray him, but she knew that would not help. If Arthur were so far gone as to set a spy on her, he would be beyond reason.
She was so sorry for him, realizing that he must be in agony to do such a thing, that she thought of giving up her attempt to stock her shop before France was forced to stop trading with America. Then she decided that changing her behavior abruptly might make him feel worse. Let the man watch, she thought. After all, she was doing nothing of which she was ashamed. Once Arthur had heard enough of his spy’s reports, perhaps he would come to understand that it was useless to have her followed.
Still, knowing that someone was watching her made Abigail feel very peculiar. She could not resist looking for the man, and one morning when she stepped out of Hatchard’s, he was missing. Surprised, she paused at the curb wondering what that could mean, then shrugged and started to cross the road. She had taken no more than three or four steps when a carriage that had been passing on a cross street swerved, picked up speed, and came directly at her. For a minute, Abigail was frozen by surprise, unable to believe what she saw—that the horse was deliberately being driven diagonally across the road to run her down.
A shout from somewhere behind her broke Abigail’s paralysis, and she screamed and jumped back, then turned to run, but the sound of hooves and the rattle of wheels was upon her. With a strength born of terror she leapt forward, felt a heavy blow on her left arm that threw her toward the walk, felt herself falling—and then nothing.
Abigail woke to a severe headache, intensified by the sound of several voices. Her immediate reaction was that her children had come into her bedroom and were chattering in the background, and she said crossly, “Oh, do be quiet. I have a dreadful headache.”
The voices stopped at once, but as Abigail spoke, she became aware of other aches and pains and that she could not be in her bed. The surface on which she was lying was hard and lumpy. Unwillingly she forced her eyes open and saw the face of the clerk with whom she dealt at Hatchard’s. He was pale, and his voice trembled when he spoke.
“We have sent for an apothecary. He will be here in a moment. Do, please, lie still, Lady St. Eyre.”
For a moment, Abigail closed her eyes again, lost in confusion—and then she remembered. The pain of her headache diminished as rage and amazement filled her mind. Her eyes opened, and she asked, “Did you see that carriage being driven at me?”
“I did,” another voice replied, and Abigail saw that it was Mr. Hatchard himself. “I had just come to open the door. Whoever was driving meant to run you down.”
Abigail closed her eyes once more. A wave of agony far more terrible than the pain in her head was tearing at her. No one in the world could wish her dead—except her jealous husband. Was it the man who had been following her, so surprisingly absent, who had been driving the carriage? The question restored her sanity, which for a moment, had seemed to be slipping away. Even supposing Arthur’s sufferings had reached a point at which he wished her dead, he was not such a fool as to order her killed by someone else. That would place him in the power of her murderer—unless he intended to kill his agent also after she was dead.
“I must go home,” Abigail said.
Both the clerk and Mr. Hatchard began to protest and expostulate, but Abigail ignored them, concentrating for the moment on trying to discover whether she had been hurt worse than she thought. The damage, except to her clothing, which was torn and filthy, seemed rather less than she had expected, however. Her headache was already fading to a dull throbbing, and though she was bruised, her knees and palms scraped, it seemed that she had managed instinctively to protect herself from more than the initial blow dealt by some part of the carriage and a bump when her head came into contact with the walk. The apothecary, who came just as she was attempting to sit up, agreed that she had sustained no serious injury and would recover best in her own bed.
Mr. Hatchard sent at once for his own carriage and accompanied her home. The furor when she arrived was trying, but she would not answer questions and was soon in her own room, where her maid sponged off the dirt, applied arnica to her bruises and scrapes and put her to bed. To her surprise, Abigail fell asleep at once. When she woke, the first thing she saw was Arthur, sitting by the bed and wearing an expression of great anxiety.
“Whatever is wrong?” Abigail asked, then tried to sit up and gasped as every muscle in her body seemed to shriek in protest.
The pain brought instant recollection of what had happened. She stared for a moment at her husband, who cried, “Lie still,” as she moved, and jumped to his feet. Looking at him, she wondered how she could have been so silly as to suspect him, and she smiled. Now that her head was clear, it seemed so obvious that it must have been one of those young lunatics trying to prove how well he could drive by missing her by an inch.
Arthur had gone down on his knees by the side of the bed and dropped his head onto her hand. “You could have been killed,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Yes,” Abigail agreed, “and I wish I had seen the young fool who thinks he drives better than he does. If I had been able to recognize him, I swear I would have had his breeches down and paddled his behind myself. But I am not really hurt, darling, so let us not—”
“Abigail,” Arthur interrupted, raising his head and looking desperately worried, “it was not a sporting vehicle. Hatchard saw it. It was a post chaise. My dearest heart, I beg you to tell me what you are hiding from me. I do not care what it is, but I cannot protect you if—”
“But Arthur,” Abigail exclaimed, round eyed with surprise, “you must know I am not hiding anything at all. The man you have had following me must have told you that the only place I go—aside from my breakfasts and teas and routs and such—is to several bookstores.”
There was no immediate reply. Arthur stared at her, totally dumbfounded. Finally he said, “Why the devil should I have anyone follow you?”
By then Abigail had remembered that she was, indeed, concealing something from her husband. However, it was simply not possible that her revelation of the plan to attack Washington could have anything to do with either the man who had followed her or the attempt to run her down. She stared back at Arthur for a moment, then said, “Help me to sit up. It’s hard to think flat on your back.”
There was a brief exchange about whether she was well enough, which Abigail won by pointing out that she was starving and would have to sit up anyway to eat. A hearty appetite being an excellent sign, Arthur propped her up on pillows and rang for a servant. However, when the flurry of activity was over and Abigail was quickly devouring a hearty
tea, she came back to Arthur’s question and explained her reasoning. Although it was clear to Abigail that he was slightly embarrassed, which confirmed to her that he was jealous, she was also sure from his manner that he had nothing to do with the man who had been following her.
They discussed the matter for some time, but neither could think of a rational—or, for that matter, irrational—reason either for the watcher set on Abigail or for the attack on her. Arthur exclaimed in exasperation that he could not understand why intended mayhem seemed to follow Abigail and her family. Then he paused and frowned, but when Abigail asked what had occurred to him, he shook his head and replied that there was something in the back of his mind, but he could not put a finger on it. At last they abandoned the subject, after Abigail had promised to go nowhere without a stout footman in attendance if Arthur could not accompany her himself.
Abigail was able to describe the watcher, but it was over two weeks before she was ready to pick up her ordinary life, and he never appeared again. After a while, although she kept her promise to have someone accompany her whenever she left the house, Abigail began to wonder whether she had only imagined being followed. The incident with the post chaise was certainly not her imagination, since Mr. Hatchard had seen what happened, but she could not believe it was a personal attack on her. It seemed far more likely to her that the driver was one of those wild, sadistic young men who liked to frighten and injure people, but one who was too clever to chance recognition and thus had rented an anonymous vehicle.
Content with her rationalizations, Abigail put the whole unpleasant incident out of her mind. She had more than enough to think about. Although she was too battered to be seen at balls or other social events, Arthur’s family rallied around so that she was not bored or isolated. Most days cousins or aunts appeared to relay gossip, and most evenings a pleasant, small, family party would gather. One evening when only Roger and Leonie were there, Abigail asked directly about the status of the negotiations with the United States.
Roger frowned. “The Americans have presented their papers, the commission has been recognized, and it is decided to have the meeting in Ghent.”
“Ghent?” Abigail echoed. “I thought it was to be somewhere in Sweden. No, never mind that. It is far more important who is appointed to meet with them.”
“Admiral Lord Gambier, Mr. William Adams and Mr. Henry Goulburn. I—”
Abigail had been staring at him incredulously as he recited the names, and then cut him off. “Who?” she asked. “Who are these men? I thought myself acquainted with the political scene, but I do not recognize a single name.” By the time she had got that far, her face was flushed, and her eyes hard and bright. “Is this meant as an insult?” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
“No, not that,” Roger assured her hastily.
Both Leonie and Arthur, who had been chatting on a sofa near the pianoforte, rose and came toward them, Arthur saying sharply, “Abigail! You cannot mean what you have said,” and Leonie simultaneously asking, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
Despite her anger, Abigail could not help laughing. “I am not insulted, Arthur,” she explained, and then added furiously, “It is the American peace commission that has been insulted. The government has appointed a set of nobodies to deal with them.”
Arthur shook his head disgustedly. “You have no tact, Roger.”
“I have no tact?” Roger countered. “You are a fine one to talk.” Then he turned back to Abigail. “My dear, you have friends in the United States and are concerned for them, but you must recognize the fact that American affairs are very minor compared with those taking place in Europe. Our best people are, of course, being reserved for the conference in Vienna.”
“Oh, yes,” Abigail retorted, “not to mention that the government is not at all eager to make peace. They want to use the ships and troops no longer needed to fight Bonaparte to crush the United States.”
Roger shrugged and then patted her hand. “I wish I could say no to that, but I cannot. On the other hand, you must be reasonable, Abigail. Lord Liverpool is responsible to his country and his party. Naturally he wishes to make the most advantageous peace possible.”
“But it will not remain advantageous,” Abigail pointed out, sighing. “You do not know Americans. I do. If Britain forces an unsatisfactory peace on them, they will fight again. In fact, no matter what the government agrees to, the citizens are likely to go right on fighting if the British try to occupy what they think of as their territory—not openly, of course, but like…what were they called in Spain?”
“Guerrillas,” Roger said, his voice bleak.
He was aware of the damage done to the French army by the roving bands of Spanish and Portuguese peasants. They had killed hundreds—not many, perhaps, compared with the thousands lost in full-scale battles. But, by picking off messengers and small groups and not only killing but mutilating them horribly and leaving the corpses exposed, the guerrillas had almost destroyed communications and morale among the French.
“Would they really?” Arthur asked.
“Not in New York or Philadelphia,” Abigail replied, “but in the territories—along the Canadian border, which Britain might like to change, for example—they would. I honestly don’t think Britain would gain anything by a peace that was unsatisfactory to the United States.”
“That is a point to be remembered and considered,” Roger said seriously. “But to go back to the men who have been appointed, I want to assure you again that they were not chosen as a deliberate insult. They are not men of weight and moment, true, but that is because Liverpool, Castlereagh, and Bathurst want to retain the real power of negotiation in their own hands. Truthfully, there is so much prejudice against the United States that, quite aside from the need for skilled diplomats in Vienna, there are no men of any consequence willing to negotiate. They would be willing to state the British terms, but not in a manner that permitted discussion.”
“What about you?” Abigail asked aggressively.
“I am going to Vienna,” Roger said with a wry smile. “Liverpool wants an independent view of what is being done and said there.” He hesitated and then went on. “I have not forgotten you, Abigail. I mentioned to the prime minister that the commission was very weak—and I suggested he add Arthur to it.”
“Arthur?” Abigail cried, looking hopeful, but Arthur exclaimed, “Damn you, Roger, do you want me to have a stroke?”
Roger laughed. “It almost gave Liverpool a stroke when I first suggested it, but he began to think it over and smile to himself. I think he realized what torture it would be for you. He does not love you, Arthur.”
“But Arthur,” Abigail gasped, “I thought you agreed with me that a good peace with America would benefit all.”
“I do,” Arthur replied, “but desiring peace is one thing. Making it, engaging in weeks or months of niggling arguments over minute points of law and equally minute parcels of land and having to say one thing one day and something exactly opposite, perhaps, the next, according to the fluctuations of someone else’s thoughts and temper, would drive me mad.”
“In any case,” Roger put in, as he saw argument in Abigail’s eyes, “Liverpool decided he could not do it. It would be bad enough if you had been an ordinary member of the opposition, Arthur, but you are such a persistent gadfly and have done so much damage by upsetting votes at the last minute that he felt the outcry from his party would be too violent.”
“I see.” Abigail sighed. “But what about Gambier, Adams, and Goulburn? Are they likely to be less prejudiced than the others toward America?”
“No,” Roger admitted, “but they have no real power. Had men of consequence been appointed, some authority would have had to be placed in their hands, and that might have resulted in a very abrupt end to the negotiations—which is not what the government wants. Gambier, Adams, and Goulburn will be told what to say, and their instructions are to refer all replies back to Castlereagh or Liverpoo
l.”
“But it is likely to take forever to come to an agreement that way,” Abigail said. “Is this not just another way to put off making a treaty?”
“No, I think not,” Roger answered thoughtfully. “At least not the main purpose. Had they merely wished to delay discussions, our government would not have suggested London as a place for negotiation. For dragging one’s heels, Gothenburg, which was the American suggestion, would have been far better because replies would have taken over a week rather than a few days. No, the important reason, I believe, is to give the government the greatest flexibility in reacting, according to what happens both in America and in Vienna.”
Abigail was not very satisfied with this argument, but three weeks later she found herself supporting it to Albert Gallatin. She had met him at Lackington’s shop in response to a note delivered by a clerk and, having quietly beckoned him into one of the small side rooms, which was empty, greeted him fondly. He returned her hug and found a smile for her, but Abigail realized he was deeply depressed.
Although Gallatin had been less shocked than she at the men appointed to negotiate for the British, since he was not at first aware what nonentities they were, he had been greatly disappointed that no minister—not even the colonial minister, Bathurst—would take part in the discussions. Gallatin had not, however, allowed himself to become discouraged. He had pinned his hopes for a more serious and favorable attitude toward the peace commission on intercession by Tsar Alexander, who was coming to England.
Gallatin had hoped that the tsar, who was known to be sympathetic to the American cause, would grant him an interview and, after he had explained the situation, be willing to apply pressure to the British. The first hope was fulfilled; Alexander had come to London on 10 June, and Gallatin had obtained a private interview with him. Unfortunately, Alexander had said with regret, he could do nothing. He had already made several unsuccessful attempts to soften the British attitude, he told Gallatin, and further interference would, he felt, do more harm than good.
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