A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  Abigail bit her lip. “I’m sorry about the house, Albert, and I have even more bad news for you. Bathurst has asked Wellington to take charge of the armies in Canada.”

  Gallatin looked startled and stopped short in the middle of the corridor. “That can have nothing to do with New Orleans. Wellington is in Paris. It would be some time before he could reach Canada, but it is still bad news. It sounds very much as if the British government intends to continue the war.”

  “Well, you can hardly blame them,” Abigail said crossly. “They have moderated all their demands, and all you say is no, no, no. Even I feel that you are being unreasonable. Really, Albert, I am sure this project you are preparing is a last chance. I know Goulburn advised ending the negotiations after your last note. You must yield something. You must present some token compromise—”

  “You do not understand,” Gallatin interrupted. “In a federation of many geographically different states, like the United States, very diverse interests must be considered. The northwestern states wish to forbid the Indian fur trade with Britain. The states bordering on the Mississippi wish to forbid the use of that river to Britain. The northeastern states insist on retaining their right to fish in the waters near Canada and dry their fish in Newfoundland. Not only must we try to obtain a reasonable peace from Britain, but we must consider the special interests within our nation.”

  “That is utterly ridiculous!” Abigail exclaimed, stamping her foot. “Did you not hear what I said? Your jumped-up backwoodsman generals and volunteer colonels will be pitted against Wellington. He will wipe up your armies as a scullery maid wipes up ants. If you do not yield a little now, you will lose everything.”

  Gallatin shook his head. “Abigail—”

  She made a grrr sound of frustrated rage and burst out, “You and the others are a bunch of pigheaded mules—” A choked laugh brought an abrupt end to Abigail’s impassioned speech, and she turned angrily toward the sound, but when she saw that it was Arthur, she beckoned impatiently to him to join them. “Tell him,” she said to her husband, “tell him that if they do not offer some sensible compromise, Britain will have no choice but to exert every bit of her power to bring the war to a quick end.”

  Arthur approached smiling and extending a hand to shake Gallatin’s—a remarkable feat of self-control for a man who was divided in his feelings between wanting to hide in a hole and roar with laughter and embrace them both. It was very fortunate that Arthur had an active sense of humor and knew he could be an unmitigated ass when his emotions were involved. He had come out of the room boiling, intending to confront his wife with her sick attachment to a man who cared for her only as a daughter and tell her that he would not accept the remainders of her love for another man.

  Abigail’s furious exclamation and the ill-tempered stamp of her foot had stopped him in his tracks both mentally and physically. He realized that this was the second time a kind fate had saved him from making a damned fool of himself and possibly from ruining his marriage. There would be no third time, he resolved, as he listened to Abigail at her best and her worst—as opinionated and acerbic as ever she was with him. Apparently “dear Albert” was no idol, and what he had taken for a lovesick urge had been a sound, practical desire to deliver a political warning to a man who knew and trusted her. Arthur did not think her method was exactly suited to diplomacy or conducive to inspiring a desire to compromise, but he was not worried about that.

  The final deathblow to any lingering doubt was the eagerness with which Abigail urged him to join them. Very clearly the only passion she felt was a passionate desire to make a political point. Arthur shook Gallatin’s hand with pleasure and with his other arm embraced his wife. He knew that he should pick up her lead and try to convince the American that concessions must be made, but he was far too happy to care about political expediency.

  “A reasonable project would be most helpful,” he said, “but Abigail is too fearful for her friends in the United States. I have my doubts that Lord Wellington will be sent. With Russia growling about war to keep Poland and Austria and Prussia snarling at each other over Saxony, I fear Lord Wellington will be too valuable here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Arthur’s honesty had little effect on the terms of the treaty proposed by the American commissioners, for, as Albert had told Abigail, their own regional needs, pride and jealousy were preeminent. Fortunately these were so conflicting that compromises within the delegation made a certain vagueness in the proposals necessary. And perhaps the threat of a more vigorous prosecution of the war contributed to the covering letter that went with the project, stating that the Americans were “ready to sign a Treaty placing the two Countries in respect to all the subjects of difference between them, in the same state that they were at the commencement of the present War, reserving to each party all its rights, and leaving whatever may remain of controversy between them for future negotiation.”

  Nonetheless, the project would have been rejected out of hand except for largely extraneous circumstances. In Vienna, the allies who had so recently defeated Napoleon were threatening to attack each other. In England, there was growing resistance to the taxes necessary to continue the war in America, and the manufacturers most involved in trade with the United States were impatient and angry at the administration. Last but not least, Lord Wellington was very unenthusiastic about the prospects of any military operation in Canada.

  Thus, instead of a rejection, Bathurst wrote to Goulburn that the government would negotiate on the basis of the proposals the Americans had submitted and made it clear in a private note that Liverpool was eager to bring the treaty to a conclusion. But the continual backing down from haughty demands rankled bitterly in the colonial secretary. Lord Bathurst had a less philosophical temper than Lord Liverpool and, because he had been most deeply and directly involved in the negotiations once Castlereagh left for Vienna, knew he would bear most of the criticism raised against the treaty.

  Lord Bathurst was in the mood to blame someone for something during the final stages of the negotiation, but no real opportunity arose until early in December, when he received a letter from Bertram Lydden, Arthur St. Eyre’s secretary. This, after a paragraph explaining that a terrible struggle between loyalty to his employer and to his country had delayed his revelation, accused Abigail St. Eyre of being an agent for the American government. Enclosed were copies of Abigail’s letters to Gallatin and a record of all the mornings she had spent in bookshops where, the letter stated, she had met American spies and passed information.

  Had Bathurst’s level of frustration been lower, he would have sent the letter on to Arthur with a covering note warning him to control his wife better. At this stage of the game, prosecuting Lady St. Eyre would be useless even if they could prove a case against her, which, on the basis of the evidence provided, was unlikely. In addition, it was most doubtful that Liverpool would even allow an investigation, since Sir Arthur was the nephew of an old and valued friend.

  Still, Bathurst needed to tear into someone, and he associated Arthur closely with the unsatisfactory peace that was being concluded. What was more, Arthur was a member of the opposition party who did not need to be considered for political reasons. It would give Bathurst great satisfaction to accuse Arthur of duplicity in not warning him of his wife’s American sympathies. He could even say Arthur had taken a viper to his bosom and carried that viper into the peace negotiations, where doubtless she had spread her poison.

  Since a warning would give Arthur time both to find excuses and to cover his discomfiture, Bathurst simply wrote asking him to leave Ghent at once and bring Lady St. Eyre with him when he reported to the colonial office in London.

  “Well, the peace is made,” Arthur remarked when he had read the letter at breakfast.

  Abigail dropped her own letters and stared. It had not seemed to her that there had been any forward motion since the agreement to use the American “project” as a basis of negotiatio
n. In fact, she would have said that the bickering over details was more acrimonious than ever.

  “Made?” she echoed. “You mean a treaty has been signed?”

  “Not quite,” Arthur admitted, “but it must be all over except the shouting of hurrahs. I have here an order from Bathurst to return to England at once.”

  “But could that not mean that the government intends to break off the talks completely?”

  “No,” Arthur replied, smiling. “You know that Wellington has said even he could make no real progress against the Americans unless the Great Lakes were under British control, and the government cannot afford to try again and fail again on the lakes. Wellington was their last hope. They must make peace, and they must make it quickly because the Russians are using the war to cast an ugly light on every suggestion Castlereagh makes for a territorial settlement in Europe. And finally, Bathurst asked me to bring you to the colonial office with me. There can be no reason for that except his desire to thank us and dismiss us.”

  An uneasy quiver ran through Abigail. Could her meetings with Gallatin have been noticed and reported? And what if they had been, she thought defiantly. Albert was an old and dear friend. She was certain that no one had heard what they discussed. All she had to do was say they had talked only of personal matters, his family and their common friends.

  Still, she did not want Arthur to know she had deceived him, and she asked nervously, “But if the treaty is all but decided on, why does Bathurst order us home? Not that I will be sorry to go. I have been worried about how near it is to Christmas. We must be there when the children come home. But I still think it would be more natural for us to remain to the end so that you can discourage Goulburn from oversetting everything at the last minute.”

  “Ah, my sweet innocent,” Arthur said, laughing. “It is plain that you are a novice at politics. Bathurst is recalling me so that the opposition—of which I am a member—will get no credit for ending the war. Nor does Bathurst wish it noised about that his own people were so ignorant and incompetent that he needed me to help them. And I promise, you need not worry about Goulburn. He is as eager to get home as you are. He understands that peace must be made and will put no impediments in the way now.”

  Abigail could not quell the feeling that the sudden summons was somehow wrong and that it was odd that Bathurst should want her to come to his office with her husband. If he even remembered that Arthur was married and that she had accompanied her husband, she would have expected a polite thank-you note—but perhaps he did not want to put even so much into writing. She shook off the thread of worry and smiled at Arthur.

  “I am glad to hear that Goulburn understands, but I think it unfair that you should get no credit for all your hard work.”

  After laughing even harder at that naive remark, Arthur explained that he was grateful for Bathurst’s secrecy. “It may save me having brickbats thrown at me by my own party.”

  “But they want peace,” Abigail protested. “I have seen reports of several speeches attacking the war and—”

  “I fear, my love,” Arthur pointed out wryly, “that my fellow Whigs are far more interested in making trouble for Liverpool’s administration than in making peace. If the war continued and grew sufficiently unpopular, it might force a new election, topple the Tories, and bring the Whigs into power again. They will love me no better for depriving them of a useful cause.”

  “Disgusting,” Abigail pronounced, but Arthur only laughed at her again.

  “All politics are, and yet they are the only way to achieve any good, for absolute rule by one man is an invitation to disaster, and anarchy is worse, being a disaster in action.” He pushed aside the remains of what he had been eating and stood up. “I will go and let Goulburn and the others know I have been recalled and then make arrangements for traveling home. When do you think you can be ready, Abigail?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said promptly. “There are only the clothes to pack. I have been sending all the presents I have bought home as I filled a packing case. There is one only half full, but—”

  “We can stay a day or two while you fill it,” Arthur said so gravely that Abigail replied, “Oh no, I can put other—” before she realized he was teasing her and thumbed her nose at him.

  After that, she was too busy writing farewell notes and overseeing the servants’ hurried packing to worry about Bathurst’s letter again. Abigail was mildly sorry not to have time to say goodbye to Albert in person, but she knew he would understand—and she was very glad indeed to be done with meddling in diplomacy. Now that peace was only days, or at worst weeks, away, the anxiety diminished, as did the sense of responsibility she had felt for the welfare of the country in which she had been born. It was as if she had owed a debt to the United States for sheltering her and her parents, and she had now paid that debt and was free.

  The problem that occupied her and Arthur on their way back to England was the one they had left there. Who could have tried to kill her—and why? No answer had been discovered, although Bertram had written that he had done everything possible by way of investigation and had sent regular reports on his attempts to solve the mystery. It did not occur to either of them that the recall to England was part of that pattern even when Lord Bathurst, having greeted them so frigidly that Arthur’s back stiffened with offense, uttered his accusation of Abigail.

  “Are you accusing my wife of being a spy?” Arthur roared. “On what do you base this idiocy—aside from the fact that she was born in the United States?”

  “On a letter from your own secretary,” Bathurst replied with grim satisfaction. “Mr. Lydden suspected her activities and determined where and when she met the agents to whom she passed information.”

  Both Arthur and Abigail were so shocked that they stood staring. In the dead silence, Bathurst passed the letter he had received to Arthur. He looked at it, but his eyes were filled with tears, which he would not permit to fall, and the words were nothing but a blur. Meanwhile, Abigail, who was not nearly as upset as Arthur although she was bitterly hurt by the treachery of a man she had thought was her friend, had recovered enough for her sense of self-preservation to begin to operate. The pain of Bertram’s betrayal was dulled by the need to defend herself, yet she dared not say anything lest she tell Bathurst more than he already knew.

  Abigail was badly frightened because she did not realize that Bathurst intended to do nothing more than embarrass Arthur. Driven by her need to discover of what she was accused, she pulled the letter from Arthur’s hand. Before she could read it, though, Bathurst began to detail its contents, finding his own sharp dissatisfactions somewhat eased by the despairing expression of his victim. He did not realize that Arthur was not hearing a word he said.

  Because Abigail was insignificant to him, only the device used to punish Arthur and ease his own anger and frustration, Bathurst did not look at her. Had he done so, he would have been warned by the growing expression of hope she wore. Abigail knew her letters to Albert were totally innocuous, and she had witnesses who could testify that she had met no one in the bookshops and that her activities there were innocent. Her one guilty exploit in England, when she told Gallatin of the proposed attack on Washington, and the meetings in Ghent were not mentioned.

  “I am sorry you have been so sadly misled,” Abigail said calmly when he had finished.

  Bathurst’s eyes shifted to her. “Misled?” he repeated angrily.

  “I cannot imagine why Bertram Lydden should put so ugly an interpretation on my letters and behavior,” she said. “If you have read the copies of my letters, you must know there is nothing in them of a traitorous nature. Mr. Gallatin is a very old friend. I have known him since I was a child, when he married Hannah Nicholson, a dear friend of my mother’s, and he was my trustee after my father’s death. Surely it could not be wrong for me to write a personal letter to him relating common news just because he was an American?”

  “The letters are irrelevant,”
Bathurst snapped impatiently, trying to dismiss her defense. “It is these meetings with agents of the United States—”

  “I met no one in any bookshop that I visited,” Abigail interrupted, her voice sharp. “So, unless the clerks there or Mr. Hatchard or Mr. Lackington are agents of the United States—”

  “Madam,” Bathurst interrupted, sneering, “even if you were a bluestocking of the most passionate nature, there would be no sense to so many visits to these shops at such early hours of the morning.”

  Abigail hesitated as if she were unsure of herself, but there was triumph hidden by her downcast eyes. At last, when she felt Bathurst was savoring her confusion and defeat, she said, “I do have a secret, Lord Bathurst, but it is not of a political nature. I hope you will be gentleman enough, in recompense for your unkind accusation, to keep it in confidence. It is unfair of you to cause my husband so much pain when you could have discovered the truth by asking Mr. Hatchard and Mr. Lackington. I own a bookshop in the United States. Because I feared the war would stop all commerce, I was purchasing a large number of books to ship to America, and Mr. Lackington was kind enough to allow me to come before the store was crowded with customers.”

  “You own a bookshop?” Bathurst’s voice rose with incredulity. “Why?”

  Abigail knew that question had to come, and she had been seeking for an answer that would satisfy Bathurst without hurting Arthur. She could not bear to say aloud in Bathurst’s presence that her shop was a defense against her husband, a safe haven if he should prove unsatisfactory as had Francis—and as she thought it, she knew it was no longer true. Her trust in Arthur was as complete as her love for him. Then why did she cling to her shop, for she still did not want to sell it.

  Abigail smiled and shrugged. “It is…oh, like a pet or a diversion that has real meaning. Perhaps I have a strange sense of humor, but it has amused me mightily to do business right under everyone’s nose without being suspected of so crude an occupation. There are many reasons. In any case, why I choose to own a bookshop is not to the point. If you will send for Mr. Lackington, he will tell you that I have purchased books from him for many years, and the clerks in his shop and Hatchard’s will testify that I spent my time choosing books, not meeting American agents.”