A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “Not tomorrow,” Abigail said decidedly, and since offense was the best defense she could think of, smiled archly and added, “You’ve been sour as a pickle all day today, and I know that trailing around to one shop after another will make you bad tempered all over again. I will take my maid tomorrow, but after that I will be delighted to have your company. The guide told me that there are many beautiful paintings in the churches. I would like very much to see those with you. What I am going to do tomorrow is choose some French silk to have made into nightdresses to be trimmed with the lace I bought today. You are very hard on nightdresses, Arthur.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Arthur had laughed at Abigail’s remark about the nightdresses. It was true that he had torn several, and he and Abigail had a running argument about the fact that she wore one at all. He said it was unreasonable to put on a nightdress when she would have to remove it only a few minutes later. She said it was indecent not to do so. Her real reasons, as both well knew, had nothing to do with decency or reason. Abigail was aware that the glimpses of her body in the flimsy garment and the erotic touches of bare flesh through it were initially far more provocative than total nudity, and both found an occasional, seemingly violent destruction of the illusory barrier highly erotic. Actually, little damage was done; Abigail had quickly learned to use fragile thread and loose stitching in putting her nightdresses together so that Arthur tore the seams, not the fabric, and seams could quickly and easily be resewn.

  Unfortunately, Arthur’s laughter had been so mixed with pain that it did more harm than good. The sexual implication brought too vividly to mind the fact that a full nine months after marriage he was more, rather than less, in love with his wife. It was not only sex, of course, that was just a symbol of the whole relationship. As he found Abigail more sensually satisfying than any of his previous sexual partners, so too did he find her more stimulating company than any other person, including men. He could only bear to be away from her during those periods in which separation was necessary, because he knew they were not really separated, that he would come home to find her presiding over the tea table or making ready to go out for the evening, or flying into the house just after he arrived, breathless from some activity she never explained.

  He spent a sleepless night made all the more miserable because he could not toss and turn or even leave the bed. He did not want Abigail to know he could not sleep. She would ask him why, and he could scarcely tell her that what kept him wakeful was his inability to decide whether or not to spy on her. Arthur was sick with shame, but he could not fight the compulsion, the need to know whether her refusal of his company was because she had arranged to meet Gallatin.

  Shame, however, could not break the compulsion Arthur felt to discover whether he was as important to Abigail as she was to him. He left early “on business”, but his business was to rent a closed gig he himself could drive, in which to follow his wife. The shame grew deeper with each stop Abigail made, with each parcel carried by her maid into or out of the shops she visited. Arthur very nearly gave up, but he was urged on by a desire for full proof. If she finished her shopping and returned to their hotel, he would know once and for all that she was not deceiving him. And when at last it was clear that her carriage was on its return journey, Arthur did not know whether to weep over the disgusting thing he had done or laugh with joy.

  His relief had come too soon, however. Abigail’s carriage passed by the cathedral of St. Bavon, then slowed and turned back, stopping at last in an open area not far from the front of the church. As he went by, Arthur caught a glimpse of Abigail standing by the open door of the carriage, apparently talking to her maid inside. Because he had believed his trial was over, Arthur’s fury at this “betrayal” was so enormous that he dared not stop at once. He felt that if he confronted her and found her with Gallatin, he would try to kill them both. Half blind with rage and pain, he drove around the side of the church, telling himself he already knew the worst, that he needed no confirmation of her treachery. But amidst the fury and despair there remained a persistent little hope. The carriage had gone by, then turned back. Could that not mean that Abigail had stopped on impulse?

  Arthur told himself he was being a fool, that he was only going to expose himself to greater disillusionment and greater pain, but the compulsion to cling to that small hope was stronger even than that which had driven him to follow his wife in the first place. He saw another door into the church and did not fight his need any further, stopping his horse and rented gig nearby. He knew he had no right to be there at all, that he had no right to deny his wife a friendship that must be innocent, but he could not bear the idea that she had so great a need for Gallatin that she would lie to him to meet the man. Only, perhaps she had not lied.

  It was the horrid little hope that dragged him into the church and forced him to stand in the shadow of the entryway, staring around. He could see nothing at first, but he heard footsteps and then saw a shaft of light appear and disappear as a door at the other side of the building opened and closed. Was it one pair of footsteps or two? Had there been the murmur of voices or not? But the hope had grown stronger. Abigail could not have been in the church longer than ten or fifteen minutes, and that was not long enough to spend with someone you adored when there was excuse enough in the paintings on the walls to remain for much longer. He reached to open the door, convinced he would see Abigail going down the steps or entering her carriage alone, but the door had not been latched, and the touch of his hand moved it just a little.

  The sound of voices froze him, but before rage could grip him again, words came clear in a young, very young, male voice. “But are you sure you do not wish to look over the paintings more carefully? I would be glad to stay as long as you like.”

  There was a smile in the tone in which Abigail spoke as she replied, “No, I will come back with my husband to examine the art more carefully. He knows so much more about it than I do. It would be a waste of time for me just to gape at the pictures, but I was delighted to find that my guide had not exaggerated when he spoke of them yesterday. Now I must not keep you longer. It was a delightful surprise to see you, but you must get back as soon as possible.”

  Arthur did not hear the protest he was certain the young man would make. He had moved silently away from the door and hurried back across the cathedral and out to his carriage. And, although he knew what he had done was utterly despicable, he was far too relieved and happy to allow his conscience to trouble him. His hope had been fulfilled. He was sure now that Abigail had stopped at St. Bavon’s on impulse and that she had met the young man with whom she was speaking—probably some secretary to the American delegation—by accident. He chuckled as his gig came around to the front and he saw Abigail withdrawing her hand from her persistent swain’s grip. Poor girl, she was having the devil of a time getting rid of the starry-eyed youngling.

  That was not quite what was taking place in the cathedral porch. James Gallatin had not protested against leaving. In fact, he had already turned away when Abigail called him back to ask him once more not to forget that no one was to know where the information had come from.

  “My husband would not approve at all,” she warned. “If he hears of it, he will leave and take me with him and make sure I cannot help again.”

  James assured her that he understood, then thanked her again for news that would provide hope to sustain his father. “It is so hard for Father,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it gratefully. “Mr. Adams is so irritable and unreasonable, and everyone is so angry and dispirited that all but Mr. Clay seem to believe it hardly worth the effort to answer these notes. Father was afraid to leave them, even for the short time it would take to meet you, but he will come after they have written their reply.”

  They talked for a few minutes more, deciding that Abigail would begin to come to the assigned meeting places at the beginning of the next week. Then she gave James’ hand one last squeeze and drew her own aw
ay. A gig rattled by, and Abigail said, “I must go now. Give your father my love and tell him not to lose hope. I am sure that all will turn out for the best.”

  She went down the steps, James waving goodbye as she looked over her shoulder and then turning back into the cathedral. Abigail did not see him wave. Actually she had looked over her shoulder only to make sure that they could not have been seen by her maid, who was waiting in the carriage. Satisfied that James had never been visible from where the maid was sitting, Abigail told the driver to return to the hotel. Arthur was waiting for her again, and she felt a little apprehensive as he jumped to his feet when she entered the room, but this time it was only to wrap her in a hard embrace and kiss her with a passion quite unsuitable to the place and hour.

  “You are quite mad,” she exclaimed, laughing, when she freed her lips. “Yesterday you bit my head off—”

  “And today it is only your tongue I want,” Arthur interrupted, laughing also. “No, I wanted to prove that I am not always sour as a pickle. Was that not a sweet kiss?”

  “Sweet?” Abigail echoed. “Not at all. It nearly scorched my bonnet. If you will let me take off that impediment, though, we can try again.”

  “Come into the other room, and I will do even better,” Arthur offered.

  “But—”

  “It will give me a chance at some other garments,” Arthur teased, “since you feel that I have wrought too much havoc among your nightdresses.”

  His tone was light, but the tight-knit pantaloons he wore showed clearly that he was not joking. It was a crazy thing to do only a few minutes before she usually rang for luncheon to be brought, but her husband’s obvious desire and the very oddity of the time he chose excited her. She did not reply overtly, only put her hand into his and allowed him to lead her into their bedchamber. There, Arthur removed the offending bonnet, bent to kiss her again, and tickled the back of her neck. Abigail was so surprised that she laughed into his mouth, but he only tickled her tongue with his. The combination of sensations was strangely erotic, so that she put her arms around his back to give herself leverage and pressed against him.

  Arthur, however, was bent on mischief. He pushed her hands lower, to his buttocks, so that their pelvises remained in tight contact, and then leaned back and tickled her around the ribs and across the breasts. Abigail convulsed, twisting and squirming and growing more and more excited. She could have defended herself with her hands, but she was unwilling to relax the pressure that forced Arthur’s hips against hers. Meanwhile, Arthur’s other hand was busy at her back, undoing her dress.

  Fortunately the garment had buttons and when loosened could be pulled down or it would have gone the way of the nightdresses—not that Abigail would have cared. Arthur had to pull away for an instant to yank the dress past their hips, but since he chose that moment to run his tongue down into her cleavage, Abigail jerked tight against him again the moment the garment fell. Arthur gasped as his swollen shaft was titillated by the easing off and then the increase in pressure against it. He pulled the straps of Abigail’s shift off her shoulders, snapped the ribbon tie, and dragged it down to follow her gown—and all the while he tickled and teased so that Abigail writhed and struggled, laughing and pleading but clinging to him, her fingers working at his buttocks and lower thighs, seeking the opening between his legs.

  Abigail’s arms were not long enough to reach his genitals, but the attempt was making Arthur squirm and catch his breath. He fumbled at the button on her pantalettes, but by then anything he did tickled Abigail, and she wriggled her hips uncontrollably, setting off in him such waves of pleasure and urgent need that he tore off the button and pushed her back toward the bed, tugging the pantalettes down at the same time. Naturally, as soon as these reached her knees, Abigail was hobbled and this set her off laughing yet again, but the bed was just behind her, and she fell backward onto it with Arthur atop her.

  Abigail was ready, very ready. She did not want to wait until Arthur struggled out of his clothing, for the tight-fitting boots and jacket of a gentleman were not easy to remove. She clung to him as she kicked the pantalettes off completely, not realizing that the movements of her legs were creating an unbearably erotic sensation for her husband. He groaned aloud, pushed her higher onto the bed, and lifted himself just enough to unbutton the flap on his pantaloons and open the slit in his underclothes.

  Abigail’s laughter checked, and a thrill of violent excitement shook her. The fact that Arthur was dressed, coat, boots, and all, while he sought blindly and urgently to impale her brought back an illustration in an erotic book a customer had ordered and she had peeked into. She had not looked further because her relationship with Francis had already deteriorated and she did not wish to be incited to seek his sexual attentions, but the memory of that one picture had remained with her, implying all kinds of exotic delights. Gasping with need, she pushed Arthur’s straining shaft just a little downward to the ready sheath, threw her legs around him, and heaved, sobbing with relief and an already bursting joy.

  Abigail never did understand what had set Arthur off that morning. She put it down to some accidental word or gesture too minor for her to remember since it was never hard to arouse her husband sexually. What was important to her mind was that he had not asked her where she had been or what she had been doing. Nor, in the weeks that followed, did he display any undue interest in her comings and goings, which was just as well because it was necessary for her to meet Gallatin several times.

  The first week in October, the British delegation was informed in a triumphant note that Washington had been captured and burnt. Clearly Liverpool and Bathurst thought this military reverse would bring the Americans to heel. Arthur’s first reaction was horror, not at the fate of Washington but because he would have to tell Abigail. But to his intense surprise, she did not burst into angry recriminations against the British but against the Americans.

  “Oh, those fools! Those thick-headed asses!” she exclaimed, tears of fury rising to her eyes. “They knew it was coming and did nothing.”

  Thrown off balance by Abigail’s unexpected response, Arthur was driven to defending the Americans. Everything he had planned to say in defense of the British action was now useless and, worse, might sound like crowing over a defenseless enemy. “They are not so foolish as it might look,” he soothed.

  “How can you say that,” Abigail raged, “when—” She stopped abruptly, realizing she had been about to admit that she herself had warned Gallatin that an attack on Washington had been planned. To cover the lapse, she stamped her foot as if anger were choking her, then added, “Is not the aim of every conqueror to take the capital city of the enemy?”

  “It is a convenient symbol,” Arthur agreed, “but only practical when the place can be held, which is clearly impossible with Washington.”

  “Impossible?” Abigail echoed, forgetting the rage that had been partly born of fear for her friends. “Why?”

  Arthur explained about the forces necessary to hold a hostile city and the problems of supplies and communications. As he spoke, a frown gathered, and finally he growled, “God, it was a stupid thing to do. There cannot be the slightest military advantage, aside from looting, which I fear may have been one of Cochrane’s purposes. We will be called barbaric and vindictive. This will only make more trouble in Vienna.”

  Abigail took hope from Arthur’s remarks. She had been wrong, apparently, in thinking that the attack on Washington would have catastrophic effects. And from further discussion she learned that because the Russians desired to make Poland part of their nation and the British opposed this plan, the tsar was using every event in the war with America and every article in the peace proposal to show that England also had territorial ambitions and had no right to criticize Russia’s.

  “Actually,” Abigail said to Gallatin when she met him the next day, “that is not really fair. Britain does not covet American territory.”

  “No?” he replied with a sard
onic lift of his brows.

  But Gallatin’s sarcasm was muted by the easing of his depression. He had been nearly hopeless when he came to meet Abigail, reflecting the emotions of the entire American delegation. All of them expected a total rejection of the last note they had submitted and a renewal of demands that they would consider even more outrageous than those first proposed. Abigail had assured Gallatin that was not the purpose of the British government, but that they were still hoping to obtain some advantage in a different way.

  She grinned. “It is not the territory that they want. They call it a frozen wilderness. But the government does hope to restrain American expansion and, of course, to protect the fur traders. Don’t worry too much, Albert. When all is said and done, they are far, far more concerned with the balance of power in Europe. A few do fear the growth of the United States and predict that it will be a rival in maritime power and trade in the future, but most are contemptuous.”

  “And this shameful victory will make them more so,” Albert responded, shaking his head. “Are you sure, Abigail, that they will not reject our note outright and make greater demands?”

  “I suppose the note may be rejected—they have rejected all the others—but Arthur told me that Bathurst’s letter specifically said no new demands would be made. I personally think they will try to rush you into signing an agreement, perhaps on the basis of utipossidetis.”

  Gallatin nodded. It was reasonable enough if the British expected to make military gains to suggest an agreement where each side would keep whatever territory it possessed on a particular date. However, in the case of a great maritime power and a nation with an enormous and unprotectable coastline, such an agreement was out of the question. The British might take and hold for a brief time, just long enough to meet the terms of the agreement, some or all of the great seaports of the United States. Not that they would intend to remain in possession of those cities. They would use them as bargaining counters to gain other territory.