A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  For a moment Bathurst looked as if he would like to strike Abigail, but instead he bowed and said, “That will not be necessary. Naturally, I would not like such an accusation spread about among tradespeople. You would not lie about a subject so easily proven. I apologize, Lady St. Eyre, but you must understand I could not ignore information from a source so close and confidential.”

  From the corner of her eye Abigail saw a slight movement of Arthur’s body and knew he had winced at the reminder of Bertram’s perfidy. She had been holding the papers Bathurst had handed over and was suddenly aware that sight of them would also hurt her husband. Besides, she did not want those papers left in Bathurst’s hands. She did not trust him to destroy them, and that was dangerous. Even if he did not use them, someone else might find them in the future. Mr. Lackington was old. Mr. Hatchard did not know her as well and might even think that the attempt to run her down, which he had witnessed, was proof of her involvement in some desperate plot. She might not be able to prove her innocence in the future.

  Surreptitiously Abigail began to fold the papers, intending to tuck them into her muff. However, she did not want Bathurst to ask for them, and the best way to achieve that was to make him wish to forget them. Actually, though Abigail did recognize the truth of his defense—that it was impossible for him to ignore an accusation of spying from Arthur’s own secretary—she was still furious with Bathurst. His manner had been unpleasant, as if he were obtaining some pleasure from the accusation, and she was disgusted with the contempt in his tone when he said “tradespeople”.

  “But I am not at all afraid that such honest men as Mr. Lackington and Mr. Hatchard would spread an ugly story they know to be untrue,” Abigail said, her eyes brilliant with rage and her tone vicious. “I would prefer that my name be cleared by their testimony before I leave this office. I would not like it said that I had had time to solicit testimony from them to protect myself.”

  “Lady St. Eyre!” Bathurst protested.

  “In fact,” she sneered, “I wish I could be as sure that the gentlemen who are my husband’s political enemies would be as careful of my reputation as my friend Mr. Lackington has always been.”

  Bathurst gaped, unprepared for so open and acute an attack from a woman, and while he was still stunned, Abigail turned a little away, openly finished folding the papers, and thrust them into her muff. The angle of her body concealed what she was doing from Arthur, who was looking straight ahead, but not from Bathurst. However, he paid no attention to her taking the papers, merely repeating, in an even more shocked and protesting voice, “Lady St. Eyre!”

  Having obtained her objective, since she was now sure that Bathurst would be ashamed to ask for the papers, Abigail smiled forgivingly. “I apologize if I have been misled myself,” she remarked. “Perhaps your intention in not ascertaining the truth of these accusations was to protect me. If so, I thank you—and I hope you will not suffer any reawakening of your suspicions—”

  “No, no,” Bathurst interrupted hastily. “But in any case, that would be impossible because you will not want to buy books—”

  “Why not?” Arthur asked.

  His voice was silky smooth and cold as ice. He had been jolted out of his misery by the vicious tone in which Abigail had spoken. From what she was saying, he understood that she had cleared herself of the accusation made against her and was now on the offensive. Despite his pain and confusion over what Bertram had done, Arthur could not help being amused by Bathurst’s stunned retreat, and in an attempt to conceal his impulse to grin, he had continued to stare ahead with a frozen expression. But in his opinion Abigail had accepted a truce too quickly and cheaply. Arthur felt she needed more protection.

  “The shop is my wife’s amusement,” he continued, his voice carrying a barely veiled threat. “No one in our social circle except myself—and you, my lord—knows of her little game. If a rumor of it should be spread—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Bathurst snarled—and, in fact, it had never entered his mind to expose Abigail. “I only meant that with the treaty all but signed, Lady St. Eyre could carry on her business in a more leisurely fashion and not need to buy in such large lots. If I had intended to do any more than bring this to your attention privately, St. Eyre, it would have been within my right to have both of you arrested and ensured a public scandal.”

  “And possibly brought your own government down by so manifestly arbitrary and unjust an action,” Arthur riposted with a lifted brow.

  “This is getting us nowhere!” Bathurst exclaimed. “I have apologized to Lady St. Eyre, and I give you my word of honor that every aspect of this conversation will be utterly and completely forgotten.”

  “Very well, my lord, the matter is settled,” Arthur said, bowing stiffly. He had extracted a promise he could rely on and knew that if he pushed the subject further, he might arouse a dangerous enmity instead of merely dislike balanced by caution. “I will accept your word gladly.”

  But, of course, the matter was not settled. As soon as Arthur and Abigail were in their carriage he said, “I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe that Bertram would do such a thing to us.”

  “Neither can I,” Abigail replied. “Arthur, this must be the result of some misunderstanding. I do not trust Lord Bathurst at all. Perhaps he made the accusations and Bertram was trying to defend me by showing him my letters and telling him where I was when I seemed to be missing—”

  “How would Bertram know where you were?” Arthur asked.

  Abigail was silent for a moment, and then shook her head. “I don’t know, darling, I don’t know. But there isn’t any reason for Bertram to do such a thing.”

  “And what purpose would it serve?” Arthur asked. “Bertram would know the accusation could be disproved. Why—” His voice checked suddenly, and then he went on in a low, angry tone. “It brought you back to England. It brought you back to England where you would be exposed to new attacks…”

  “Not Bertram!” Abigail cried. “Oh, please, Arthur, let’s not talk about this anymore. We must go home to Stonar and see Bertram and ask him why. There must be a reason, and we will never find it by guessing.”

  Having delayed no longer than necessary to obtain the necessities for a night on the road and inform their servants that they should follow them to Stonar Magna as quickly as they could with the baggage, Abigail and Arthur set out. It was impossible to reach Stonar that day, but they traveled until it was too dark to go farther safely. Neither had much appetite for the simple meal the inn was able to serve, but at least both were very tired and they slept as soon as they got into bed. Little was said, since Abigail’s plea not to discuss the subject was sensible, yet neither could think of anything else to talk about.

  It was an infinite relief to walk up the broad steps of Stonar Magna the following afternoon and be greeted by Martin’s surprised and delighted welcome. Whatever Bertram had done or intended, their doubts would soon be resolved, and the sickening emotional swings from hope to despair would be over.

  Before he had even shed his coat, Arthur asked, “Where is Mr. Lydden?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the footman replied, deftly catching Arthur’s coat as he pulled it off.

  “Will he be back for dinner?” Abigail asked, beginning to unbutton her pelisse.

  “I doubt it, my lady,” Martin replied, shifting Arthur’s coat to his arm and stepping behind her to ease off her pelisse. “He’s been gone over a week, and Mr. Waggoner—”

  “Over a week!” Arthur and Abigail echoed in chorus, obviously dismayed. The news was the final proof of Bertram’s guilt, for it seemed he must have fled as soon as he had written the letter to Bathurst. “Did he say where he was going?” Arthur asked.

  “No, sir,” Martin replied, beginning to look distressed himself. “He didn’t even tell Mr. Waggoner he wouldn’t be eating dinner, and Cook—”

  “Ask Mr. Waggoner to come to me in the library, please,” Arthur ordere
d.

  Martin looked even more distressed. “Oh, sir, we haven’t no fires. We didn’t know—”

  “Ask the housekeeper if we may use her room,” Abigail suggested. “Mr. Waggoner can come to us there while you get fires started. Oh, and please warn Cook that we will need a meal. Tell her not to fuss. We know that she cannot do much in so short a time.”

  But when they were settled and the butler appeared, what he had to say reopened the whole question. “Mr. Lydden did not give me any warning that he would be away,” Waggoner said, “and you know that is not Mr. Lydden’s way. He is always most considerate.”

  “What did he take with him?” Arthur asked.

  “Nothing, sir,” Waggoner replied. “Not so much as a toothbrush or his razors. Nor he didn’t go on horseback neither,” he added, losing control of his grammar in his anxiety. “When he didn’t come home after dark, I was sure he had come to grief, and I sent to Mr. Price, and he sent all the men out to look for him.”

  Arthur and Abigail stared first at Waggoner and then at each other. Finally, Arthur turned back to the butler. “You found no sign of him at all?” he persisted.

  “No sir, nothing.” Waggoner shook his head emphatically. “And we sent grooms all up and down the roads and into the towns for fear he might have been run down by accident by someone who didn’t know him and took him away to be treated. No one’s seen him or heard about him nowhere, from Sandwich to Ramsgate to Canterbury.”

  For a long moment there was silence while Arthur tried to think of something else useful to ask. Finally, he shook his head and looked at Abigail, but she also shook her head. An idea had occurred to her, and she was furious with herself for not thinking of it sooner, but it was not something she wished to discuss in front of the butler.

  “Thank you, Waggoner,” Abigail said. “You have certainly done everything that could be done. We will ring if we can think of anything else.”

  Arthur looked a little surprised, but he made no protest as the butler left the room, and before he could ask a question, Abigail said, “Oh Arthur, what fools we were. Bertram cannot have sent that letter to Bathurst, because he could not have obtained copies of my letters to Albert. Do you not remember? Griselda took my letter book home with her when she left London, and I never bothered to get it back.” Then she drew a sharp breath. “I meant to,” she said, staring into space, remembering. “I looked for it, but it was not in the drawer where I kept the old ones, and Griselda acted so strange when I mentioned it that I dropped the subject, and then I forgot about it.”

  Arthur was looking at her as if she had given him a million pounds in gold. “Damn me for an idiot!” he exploded, jumping to his feet. “I never really looked at that letter. I should have known Bertram would never do such a thing. I should have guessed it was a forgery. Now I’ll have to go back to London—”

  “No, Arthur,” Abigail said, jumping up too and ringing the bell. “I have all the papers with me. I just stuck them in my muff in Bathurst’s office because I-I didn’t trust him.”

  Arthur laughed. “Thank God for your suspicious mind, my love, but Bathurst really isn’t that bad. He has been under a severe strain, and—” He broke off as Martin opened the door and said, “Bring Lady St. Eyre’s muff up to us, please, as quickly as you can.” But when the footman had hurried out, Arthur’s face lost its expression of joy. “I’m afraid he’s dead, Abigail,” he said.

  She nodded, unable to speak, her eyes full of tears. She had realized what must be the answer to Bertram’s disappearance while Arthur’s mind was still on Bathurst. “But why, Arthur?” she sobbed. “Why?”

  “Because he would expose the letter as a forgery, I suppose, but—” He broke off as Martin entered and held out the muff to him. Nodding thanks and dismissal, he pulled the papers out and unfolded them. “It’s a damned good forgery,” he said after looking at the letter. “As a matter of fact, the handwriting might have fooled me for a while, but the phrasing is all wrong.” He refolded the papers and pushed them into an inner pocket of his coat, then brought his eyes back to Abigail. “But if the purpose of the forged accusation was to get you back to England and Bertram knew nothing of the letter, why should he be killed at all? Once you proved your innocence, the fact of forgery would be irrelevant.”

  “Bertram knew who it was,” Abigail said. “Arthur, I wonder if Bertram suspected all along, right from the beginning when someone shot at Victor. Remember, after Vic fell in the river that Bertram suggested Dick Price be hired to accompany him, and then there weren’t any more accidents until someone tried to shoot Dick at the mill.” Then she frowned and shook her head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. What happened to Victor cannot be connected—”

  “Yes, it can,” Arthur interrupted harshly. “I have been an utter ass. Even if I had doubts at first, I should have realized the truth as soon as the attacks on you were begun. When we married you moved to Stonar and took Victor with you, which meant he would not be in reach even on his holidays. If you were dead, my darling, who would be Victor’s natural guardian and where would he live?”

  “Rutupiae,” she whispered, “and Eustace would be his guardian.”

  Arthur nodded. “Eustace.” His voice was soft and casual, and there was no particular expression on his face, but Abigail shivered.

  “Eustace tried to kill us both? Because Victor was the earl and Eustace wanted to be?” Abigail’s voice shook.

  “Yes. And he was the first person I thought of when you showed me Victor’s coat, but I dismissed the idea. Eustace is no fool, and I thought he must realize he would be suspected immediately. I suppose he felt it would be called an accident, but—”

  “But why should Bertram protect Eustace?” Abigail cried. “If he guessed Eustace had made an attempt on Victor, why—”

  “Family pride. He didn’t want the Lydden name blackened with a really revolting scandal.”

  “He risked Vic’s life because he was afraid of a scandal?” Abigail gasped.

  Arthur turned to her and took her in his arms. “No, love, because telling us wouldn’t really have done any good and might have actually endangered Victor more. He had no proof, so there was no way to stop Eustace by locking him up or forcing him to leave the country. And once the suspicion was aired, you would have had to forbid Eustace to live at Rutupiae. That’s where Bertram felt the danger might have grown more acute. As long as Eustace was at Rutupiae, I suppose Bertram felt he could keep an eye on him. Remember how suddenly Eustace left on a visit after Victor fell—or was he pushed—into the river?”

  Abigail shook her head unbelievingly. “But Eustace came back. How could Bertram believe he could control Eustace after that attempt on us at the mill?”

  “I think he might have told us then,” Arthur said, “but I took you all off to Scotland, and then Victor went to school, where Eustace couldn’t get at him. Then we were married. I guess he felt Victor would be safe at Stonar—and he still had no proof.”

  Abigail began to cry again. “And now he’s dead, and we still have no proof.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that yet,” Arthur soothed. “I am going to Rutupiae. I think Eustace will confess and tell us what he did with Bertram.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Abigail cried out in protest, for she feared for Arthur’s safety, but he laughed at her. Calmly, with a gentle smile on his face, he went to his dressing room and changed into rather stained leather breeches and a comfortable shooting coat. Abigail followed on his heels, weeping and pleading, but his smile never varied, and although he made soothing noises at her, it was plain he hardly saw her. Abigail began to feel sick as well as terrified, and when he was ready, she clutched his arm and shook it.

  “Are you going to kill him?” she cried.

  Arthur hesitated, and the smile finally disappeared. “No,” he said regretfully. “That would create legal problems. Nor can I bring Eustace to trial; Bertram would not have liked that.” He shrugged. �
��I’ll get a written confession and then put him on a ship to—to Australia. We have a most insalubrious colony there. The knowledge that I hold his confession will keep him from returning to England—if he survives.”

  Frightened as she was, Abigail realized that Arthur was making good sense. Eustace would be punished for his crime, the scandal involved in his leaving the country would be minor, and Victor would be safe. She could not find any logical protest except that she was afraid Arthur, rather than Eustace, would be hurt, and her husband had already laughed that away. She followed him down, silent with terror, until she realized he was heading for a side door. Then she caught at him again.

  “A gun!” she gasped. “Arthur, you will need a gun.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “For what?”

  “For protection! To threaten Eustace!”

  “Don’t be a fool!” he exclaimed, pulling free of her grasp. “What good would it do to shoot him? I need him able to write and able to travel.”

  He started for the door again, and Abigail cried, “Wait. I’m coming with you.”

  “I don’t think you should,” Arthur said, pausing momentarily to frown at her over his shoulder.

  “It was me and my son he tried to kill,” Abigail said, adding with a sob, “and Bertram was my friend, too.”

  “If you want to come…” Arthur shrugged. “I’m going to the stable to pick up a horsewhip. Get a cloak so you won’t freeze, and meet me at the path.”

  Shock deprived Abigail of speech for a moment, and by the time she echoed, “A horsewhip!” Arthur was gone. And while she was still staring after him, trying to reorient her thinking, Waggoner came through the doors that led to the servants’ quarters at the back of the corridor.