“Yes,” Jameson agreed, “they’ll speak more freely in my office.”
There were other advantages to riding, Abigail discovered. If she left GoGo at the stables, she had only to walk across the yard to Mr. Jameson’s office, and there was no chance at all that she would encounter Eustace or Hilda in the house. Actually, Abigail was not too eager to meet Griselda, either. Griselda had been so distraught over the letter book, stumbling over apologies and unable to meet Abigail’s eyes even after Abigail had said half a dozen times it did not matter, that Abigail could barely resist shaking the girl and screaming at her. It was far better for both of them, Abigail thought, not to see each other until Griselda calmed down.
It was not until the end of August, when life had settled into a pleasant, easy routine, that Abigail was able to begin her regular morning visits to Rutupiae. By then Victor and Daphne had had their fill of their mother’s attention and were ready to renew local friendships and activities. The neighbors had paid their formal calls, Abigail had returned most of them, and invitations were beginning to arrive. Their first guests had arrived and departed, and another group was due the following week. Abigail gave them little thought; they would cause no trouble. The staff at Stonar Magna was accustomed to many guests and virtually ran itself.
More important than all else was that Bertram seemed to have recovered his spirits. He was no longer silent and morose, doing his work but avoiding all other contact with her and Arthur as much as possible. True, Arthur said he was not really back to normal, that there was still something troubling him, but Abigail could not see it—Bertram was as she had known him when they first met. In any case, there was no sense worrying about what could not be helped, she had told Arthur. Shortly after Bertram had returned to London from escorting Griselda home, he had rejected Arthur’s offer of any help with such fury and violence that Abigail felt—and Arthur agreed—that they had better let Bertram deal with his problems alone. Even if Arthur were right and Bertram had not recovered completely, at least he was no longer like a dead man at the dinner table.
The single dark spot in Abigail’s bright July was Albert Gallatin’s letter saying that the British delegation to the peace conference had never arrived. However, by the end of the month she was assured that they were, indeed, under way, and a second letter—really no more than a note—from Albert confirmed that they had arrived on 7 August. Abigail was very eager for news about the proposals being made, but unfortunately for her, none of the political visitors scheduled for August were at all interested in the American question. They told her little, and that little was all very discouraging. Worse yet, Arthur had suddenly turned his back on anything to do with America and would not discuss it with anyone.
This distressed Abigail so much that about ten days after the British delegation had arrived in Ghent she had stopped Arthur when their guests had left the drawing room and gone to bed and angrily accused him of being lazy and selfish, indifferent to the losses and suffering of war because he wished to avoid a job he thought unpleasant. He shook his head, but he turned away to fill a glass with wine and sipped it without looking at her or answering her. Caught in the grip of temper, Abigail would not accept the refusal to discuss the topic further.
“Answer me, Arthur,” she insisted.
“You know I am neither lazy nor indifferent,” he said. “I was joking with Roger about his suggestion to Liverpool, but I am not suited to negotiation. I am too aware that I would do more harm than good by my impatience with necessary protocol and too clear a statement of the issues. I would not have accepted the appointment.”
“I cannot believe that anything you did could be worse than the stupidities that Goulburn is committing,” Abigail cried. “He is supposed to know something about America, but he is worse than the others. At least you understand which issues are of real importance. Arthur, ask Roger to suggest you to Liverpool again. I am so afraid the conference will fail.”
“For God’s sake, Abigail, let me be.” Arthur put down his glass so hard the thin stem cracked. He dropped the bowl of the glass to the table and turned on his wife. “Do you not realize that with regard to the question of peace with America, I am between the devil and the deep blue sea? Even if Liverpool would reconsider, I would have to refuse.”
Startled by his anger, Abigail came closer and asked more quietly, “Why?”
“Because as a member of the commission, I would be required to make the best arrangement I could for my country—and that would not please you at all, my dear,” he snapped, his voice bitter.
“That isn’t true, Arthur,” Abigail protested, but there was no aggression in the statement, and her eyes pleaded for understanding. “I am sure that the best peace for Britain is one that the Americans can accept without shame. Do you not agree with that?”
Arthur sighed and drew her close, leaning his head against hers. “Whether I agree or not is not the point, Abigail. As a member of a negotiating team, I would be required to try to obtain agreement to the articles the government proposes, not write my own.”
“Even if you knew the articles were bad or unwise?” Abigail asked in a small voice. “Could you not explain to Bathurst or Liverpool why such articles were rejected and thus save much hard feeling, perhaps even the breaking off of the negotiations?”
He hesitated as if thinking over the subject and then said, “No, I cannot take the chance. My love, you do not, I fear, realize how deeply you are committed to the American cause. I cannot become involved in a situation in which urging what I feel to be my country’s best interests may cost me my wife.”
Abigail pushed away, out of his embrace, so she could see his face. “Good God,” she breathed, “you believe that. Arthur, my darling, whatever have I done to make you think that any political difference could affect my love for you? I swear that even if you were as rabid against the United States as the Courier, I would go on loving you.” She took his face between her hands and smiled at him. “Our life would most likely be a very uncomfortable one, with arguments day and night, but have you not yet come to trust me to separate impersonal quarrels from personal ones?”
He took her hands from his face and held them between his own. “I wish I were sure that you do regard American affairs as impersonal.”
“I am sure,” Abigail replied. “Why should you doubt it?”
“Because there are people, real people that you know involved.” Arthur dropped his eyes and released her hands. “You have friends…close friends…”
“Of course,” Abigail said, feeling very puzzled. “But Arthur, even if some dreadful thing happened to those I care for, it would not be your fault. I would be very sad—heartbroken—if harm should befall my friends, but I would not love you the less.” She raised a hand and touched his chin. “Look at me, Arthur.” And when he did, she said very earnestly, “Even if it were your fault, I do not believe I would love you any less.”
The fact that she did not seem to understand what he meant by “friends”, that she had again said she loved him, made him ashamed of himself. Her eyes were unshadowed and hid nothing. He touched her cheek gently. “Perhaps I have been very foolish—” He finally smiled back at her, but with a cynical twist to his lips. “And perhaps you do not understand yourself. In either case, I still feel it much for the best that Liverpool did not take up Roger’s suggestion—and I have no intention, whatever you say, of offering myself up as a sacrifice.”
“Now what objection can you find to helping advance a good cause?” Abigail asked, a note of asperity stealing into her voice.
Partly because her assurances had comforted him and partly because he felt the matter had been settled and there was no chance of his being involved, Arthur felt much happier. He laughed and said lightly, “Mostly that I could not win, whatever I did. As Roger said, Liverpool does not love me. It is far too likely that he would discount any suggestion I made, just because I made it. And, Abigail, my love, although I agree with you
on some points, I disagree on many others.”
“Why?” Abigail snapped. “Have you, too, succumbed to terror of the ‘American threat’? Do you, too, feel that America must be crushed now so that she will not in the future rival Britain? How can you—?”
“I have certainly succumbed to terror of one American threat,” Arthur teased.
“Which—” Abigail had begun, and then realized he was joking. “Monster!” she exclaimed and threw her arms around his neck. “I am not an American or a threat.”
“So you say,” Arthur pointed out after he had succumbed again—though not to terror—and kissed her, “but I find it hard to believe.”
His voice was light, still teasing, and Abigail could see that he was more at ease than he had been when the conversation started. Nonetheless, she realized that as her concern increased, she must have become less and less subtle in pressing her points. She did not abandon the topic of American affairs completely or change her pro-American viewpoint—that would only have made Arthur more suspicious—but she tried to be more moderate.
Although all her care only amused Arthur, who saw through her easily enough, to her chagrin, the discussion and her change in behavior did affect him. Thus, when Roger arrived at Stonar Magna unexpectedly on 31 August specifically to discuss certain demands the government was making of the American peace commission, Arthur did not, as he had previously done, refuse to talk about the subject. Having listened to Roger explain the British desire to create a buffer between Canada and the United States by demanding that America cede territory to the Indians, which neither the British nor the Americans could later purchase, Arthur shrugged.
“I would assume this is a device for breaking off the negotiations—”
“No, not at all,” Roger interrupted.
“Then the demand is ridiculous,” Arthur said impatiently. “Surely Bathurst must realize that he is asking the United States to cede about one-third of their territory to the Indians? They have just purchased part of it from France. Would you be likely to agree to such a condition?”
Roger frowned. “I am not sure Bathurst does realize the extent of the territory involved,” he said slowly, “but extent is a point that can be discussed. The American delegation has refused to recognize the article. They claim that it was not involved in the cause of the war. But surely they must understand that we now require a safeguard against another attack on Canada and for the tribes that were our allies.”
Arthur looked at Abigail, who had, surprisingly, not said a word during Roger’s explanation. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“Have these demands been made in writing?” Abigail asked.
“I don’t know,” Roger replied, surprised. “What does it matter?”
“If they have not been put into writing,” Abigail answered, “the government should withdraw them at once. If they are written, it is too late. The commissioners will send them to the United States by the next ship, they will be published in every newspaper, and they will utterly destroy any opposition to the war in America.”
“You are joking,” Roger said, his voice appalled. “Surely you are joking. The American government would not publish a diplomatic proposal.”
Abigail laughed at his expression. “Oh, yes they would. And even if President Madison and the cabinet did not wish to do so, some clerk or other functionary would carry the news—”
“But the papers would not print it,” Roger stated. “Their licenses would be revoked.”
“Newspapers are not licensed in the United States,” Abigail replied, laughing again. “They may be damaged by an outraged public, but the government has no control of them. It is an amendment to the Constitution that every citizen, so long as he does not preach the overthrow of the government by violent means, is free to say, write or print anything at all. But even if it were not so, this demand for territory is too good a weapon. Mr. Madison is far too clever not to use it to silence those who have opposed the war.”
“But it is not a demand for territory,” Roger protested.
Arthur had been watching Abigail with a look of mingled approval and relief. He had expected her to fly into a rage or burst into tears when Roger described the British conditions for peace. Instead of arguing against the conditions, however, she had warned Roger about the trouble they might cause. Her moderation reassured Arthur. He relaxed, and in a lifelong response took up the cudgels for those he perceived as the underdog.
“The Americans will certainly see it as a demand for territory,” Arthur said with a wry smile, “particularly since I cannot find that any Canadian territory is included in the area to be ceded.”
“Some is,” Roger insisted defensively, and when Arthur laughed, added, “You cannot expect the victor—”
“In any case,” Arthur interrupted, “the Americans will not accept the terms. They will insist on making their own peace with the Indians. After all, they must live with them, and they will not accept our attempt to interfere, any more than we would permit Russia to interfere between us and them.”
“They may be forced to accept,” Roger said.
“Do not count your chicks before they hatch,” Arthur remarked. “Do you not remember what Wellington said about fighting over hostile territory? It will cost a fortune to subdue the Americans to the point where they will cede territory—and I do not think Parliament will support the government in this proposal either—not to mention what the other nations will make of it at Vienna.”
“And do not say the other nations will not know,” Abigail added. “I assure you that they will be told.”
Roger looked uncomfortable but did not deny that news of the proposal would get to the other delegates in Vienna. He argued for a few minutes more that it was not a demand for territory, but Arthur’s responses made him look more and more discontented, and at last he sighed and admitted that Liverpool and he might have been somewhat self-deceived in their interpretation of the conditions. After he left, Arthur lifted Abigail’s chin and smiled into her worried eyes.
“It’s all right, love,” he said comfortingly. “Lord Liverpool is not a brilliant man, but he is a very conscientious one. He will listen to what Roger has to say and will think it over carefully.”
Abigail sighed. “I hope so,” she replied soberly. “I know you think I am only concerned for my friends in America, but that is not true. I have been over some of the taxes with Mr. Jameson, and if they are raised, I will have to raise the rents. I am afraid some of Victor’s tenants will be severely hurt by that.”
“I am well aware of it,” Arthur agreed. “Many of my own people are in no better case.”
Over the next week political affairs receded from Abigail’s mind, and she sent Mr. Jameson a note to say she would not come to Rutupiae on Tuesday and Thursday as usual because she was too busy getting Victor and Daphne off to school again. She was relieved to see that both seemed quite willing to go, although Victor did voice his regret at having to part with Dick Price. Still, he knew he would see the gamekeeper’s son on each vacation, so it was not difficult for Abigail to distract him by giving permission for him to travel with only a servant as the older boys did. Daphne wanted Abigail to come, however, so she did and stayed a day to see her daughter settled.
Abigail set out for home in an extraordinarily lighthearted mood. When she realized her pleasure was owing to being rid of her children, she suffered from a few pangs of guilt, but she shrugged those off. Victor and Daphne would never know how glad she was to be able to give her undivided attention to her husband. She was very surprised at how much she had missed Arthur during the short separation and was so eager to get back to him that she traveled in long stages and arrived after dinner, very tired and very glad of having that excuse to go directly to bed. However, she did not sleep. She did not expect that Arthur would keep her waiting long.
He did not, but when he came into their bedchamber, it was immediately apparent to her that
he had something on his mind. Abigail sat up straighter and asked whether anything was wrong.
“Not wrong,” Arthur said, sounding glad that she was willing to talk, “but I have received a most peculiar proposition from Liverpool through Roger. It seems the prime minister would like me to go to Ghent and advise the British commissioners, but without any official appointment or duties.”
Abigail opened her mouth and then closed it without speaking. Arthur raised his brows, amused by what he thought was an effort at self-restraint, but then he saw that her expression-was uncertain and unhappy. His amusement faded, and he asked, “What is it, Abigail?”
“My first impulse was to urge you to accept,” she said slowly, “but on second thought, I am not sure. I wonder if Lord Liverpool just wishes to have you out of the House and unable to interfere with his plans on taxes and reform. To be an unofficial advisor would place you in a dreadful position and very likely would be useless, too. If you are not a member of the commission, why should the others listen to your advice?”
Arthur sat down on the bed and took her hands in his. “My dear, I don’t believe you are saying what you think. You were about to urge me to accept, I agree, but you haven’t said what really changed your mind.”
To his surprise, Abigail blushed, but she raised her eyes to his and smiled rather wryly. “I find that my devotion to right and justice is not so deep as I thought. It’s only that I would miss you so much if you went. That isn’t a very valid objection, but I can’t see why I should have to miss you if your being in Ghent would not do any real good.”
Arthur pulled her to him and kissed her hard. All along he had assumed that Abigail’s recent moderation with regard to American affairs was less indifference than policy. That might still be true in a general way, Arthur thought, but it was not true on a personal level. Clearly Abigail valued his company above his possible ability to help make a peace treaty. The knowledge took him another long step away from the fear that if he differed from her on this question, it would affect their relationship. Beyond that, buried deeper because he was ashamed of his jealousy, was a sense of relief that she did not beg him to go so that she could be near her idol, Gallatin.
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