“There you are, my lady,” he said with relief. “Cook wishes to know—”
“Never mind about dinner.” Abigail cut him off breathlessly. “Tell Cook not to prepare anything that can spoil—and get me a cloak, a pelisse, anything—quickly. I must go out.”
Surprise flickered on the butler’s face and was immediately suppressed. He hurried away and returned with a heavy cloak Abigail did not recognize but flung around herself without question as she went toward the front door. Although it seemed to her the height of madness to confront a murderer with a weapon no more lethal than a horsewhip, she was still much less fearful. Arthur might not regard any danger to himself, but she knew he would not have agreed so easily to her decision to accompany him if she might be in danger.
As Abigail hurried around the house toward the path that led to Rutupiae, it occurred to her that Arthur’s choice of weapon was not so foolish. It was almost time for dinner. Eustace probably had no idea that he was suspected and would be unlikely to be carrying a pistol at his own table. And Arthur was an expert whip, a top sawyer. Abigail had seen him touch the lead horse in a tandem pair on any spot he wished from the unstable seat of a high-perch phaeton.
The footman who opened the door for them at Rutupiae looked stunned and tried to say something, but Arthur pushed past him and flung open the door to the drawing room. It was empty. Abigail stopped, reaching for his arm. She had suddenly remembered Griselda and wanted to spare her the horror that was to follow. Her husband had moved forward too quickly, however, and she feared to cry out, so all she could do was run after him. When he pulled open the door to the dining parlor, she was still a few steps behind. His voice came back to her, indolent and infinitely cold.
“Where is Bertram, Eustace?”
Over Arthur’s shoulder, Abigail could see Eustace getting up from the chair at the head of the table—the earl’s chair—but it was Hilda’s voice that replied, and there was no fear in it, only surprise and indignation.
“Are you mad, Arthur? How should Eustace know where Bertram is?”
Abigail had reached the door now, although her legs did not seem to be working properly, and she saw that Griselda was not at the table. “And where is Griselda?” she cried, terrified. Griselda had seen the man who shot at them from the mill. She had not recognized him then, but having murdered Bertram, could Eustace have decided she might remember some gesture that would betray his guilt?
“You are both insane!” Hilda screeched, but there was fear in her voice now. She had glanced at her son, and her eyes had remained riveted on his face, which was pasty gray and distorted with rage and terror. “Griselda is sick,” she went on, even more loudly as if to distract attention from Arthur’s question. She had at last torn her eyes from Eustace’s face. “And we have not seen Bertram for months.”
“Eustace has seen Bertram,” Arthur said with a grim travesty of jocularity as he moved forward into the room. “Eustace was the last person in the world to see Bertram.”
“No!” Eustace got out, his voice a terrified croak. “I never liked Bertram or he me, and—”
The whip, which had been loosely coiled in Arthur’s hand and almost hidden while his arm hung straight down, flicked out and touched Eustace’s cheek. He and his mother screamed simultaneously, and just at the same moment the door at the back of the room swung open for Empson, who was carrying in the first course of the dinner. Greeted by two loud shrieks and the sight of the horsewhip lash recoiling and snapping forward for a second strike, Empson also uttered a startled cry and tried to step backward, only to be struck forcefully by the door as a footman came running in response to the screaming. The impact of the door, impelled by a brawny arm, sent Empson flying forward, and the tray, laden with several large dishes of food and serving pieces, flew up and out before Empson fell to his knees.
Food and silver sprayed in a wide arc, just as Arthur’s whip struck Eustace again. Eustace had already been poised to run, and the pain as the lash nicked his skin a second time narrowed his world to a single need born of a single terror. His need was to escape Arthur, in whose calm and smiling face he saw the knowledge of all his crimes and the promise of being flayed alive. Empson’s disaster hardly impinged on his consciousness. Eustace turned, twisted to avoid the onrushing footman, and darted through the door.
None of the others had quite the same singleness of purpose. Although Arthur automatically retrieved his lash, his attention, and Abigail’s, was drawn to the flying dishes and food. The footman, who had not recognized Arthur and had intended to prevent any further attack on his master by charging the intruder, was paralyzed midstride by the havoc he had created. For Hilda, the domestic catastrophe was a welcome diversion from the terrible revelation of her son’s guilt. She permitted Empson’s mishap to blot out everything else and rose to her feet shrieking.
“This is the last offense! You are dismissed! Dismissed without a character! Leave the house at once! This moment!”
As if the sound of her voice had freed him from his surprise, Arthur leapt over the strewn dishes and ran out the door. Abigail started after him, but the sight of Empson’s face, eyes and mouth distended with horror, made her stop.
“Never mind, Empson,” she said. “It was not your fault. Clean up in here as quickly as possible. Something far worse than spilled soup has happened.”
“No!” Hilda screamed hysterically, falling back into her chair. “No! No!”
Abigail glanced toward her, feeling faintly guilty at leaving her alone in her agony but too anxious about whether Arthur had caught up to Eustace to remain. As she went through the door she found herself almost hoping Eustace would escape. She knew it was foolish, that if he were not caught and dealt with, Victor would always be in danger, but she shrank from what Arthur intended to do to wring a confession from him. Then she was through the butler’s pantry and out into a corridor where for an instant she hesitated, unsure of which way to go, but there was a maid standing with mouth agape, staring toward the door that separated the servants’ quarters from the main body of the house.
Then Eustace had not run toward the back door to escape. Renewed terror closed Abigail’s throat and lent wings to her heels as she ran toward the gun room. If Eustace had not made for the stables, then he had gone for a weapon. As she reached the open door, she heard the snap of Arthur’s whip, a scream from Eustace, and then a heavy thud. The light from the corridor showed Arthur lifting the whip, swinging the lash toward him to free the tangled end from the pistol he had pulled from Eustace’s grasp, but Eustace was raising a second weapon from the table. Abigail screamed at the top of her lungs. The gun jerked in Eustace’s hand. A roar of sound followed, so loud that it seemed to throw Abigail backward. She screamed again as she fell with a heavy weight atop her.
“Are you hurt, Abigail? Are you hurt?”
The words came through in the interval in which Abigail drew breath to scream again, and she realized that the weight that had hit her was Arthur. “No,” she gasped. “Are you? What was that noise?”
“His gun exploded,” Arthur said, lifting himself and helping Abigail up. “In the dark he must have overloaded it in his hurry. I’m sorry to have knocked you down, darling, but I was afraid you would be hit by a fragment. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never mind me,” she said. “Eustace will load another gun—”
“Eustace will never load another gun,” Arthur said calmly. “He must have been knocked unconscious since he isn’t screaming, and he is sure to have lost his hand. I had better tie up his arm so that he won’t bleed to death. Will you ring and send one of the servants for a physician, love?”
There was, of course, no need to ring a bell. The noise of the explosion had penetrated the farthest reaches of the house, and half the staff was running into the hall. Abigail turned to face them.
“There has been a terrible accident,” she said. “A groom must ride at once to fetch a doctor.”
“He had better get Sir John Keriell, the J.P., first,” Arthur said, coming up behind her. His face was rigid and rather pale. “I’m afraid Eustace is dead. Some of the fragments seem to have hit him in the face and penetrated his brain.” Instinctively Abigail turned toward the gun room, but Arthur’s broad shoulders blocked her view, and he gently put an arm around her. “There’s nothing you can do, love,” he assured her, “and it isn’t a very pleasant sight.”
Abigail sighed. It was just as well that Eustace was dead, better for everyone. She could not grieve for Eustace or for Hilda, who had taught him the blind, self-indulgent selfishness that even encompassed murder, but how could they find Bertram now? She shuddered in Arthur’s arms and buried her head in his shoulder. It was terrible that they should not even be able to give Bertram a decent burial.
Meanwhile, Arthur was telling one of the footmen to get him a blanket with which to cover Eustace, ordering one of the maids to send Hilda’s personal maid to her, and driving the rest of the servants back to their own part of the house. The crowd around them melted away, all except for one trembling figure. Arthur had started to bend his head toward Abigail, when the pale pink dress caught his eye. “I told you—” he began, and then his voice softened. “Griselda—”
“Is he really dead?” she whispered.
Abigail freed herself from her husband’s grasp and hurried to put her arms around her sister-in-law, who was shaking so hard she could scarcely keep her feet. “I’m sorry, Griselda,” she murmured.
“I’m not,” Griselda gasped, although her eyes were fixed and staring with horror. “I’m not sorry. He tried to kill Victor and you, Abigail, and—”
“For God’s sake, if you knew, why didn’t you tell us?” Arthur snarled. “You could have saved Bertram’s life, you fool.”
“Bertram isn’t dead,” Griselda got out between sobs. And then she began to laugh with tears streaming down her face. “I did save his life, but—”
“Where is he?” Arthur roared.
“In Mrs. Franklin’s cottage,” Griselda whimpered, recoiling from Arthur’s violence. “Oh, don’t be angry with him, don’t.”
“Arthur, be quiet,” Abigail cried. “Griselda, don’t be silly. Arthur isn’t angry at Bertram. He’s only so relieved to learn that Bertram is alive that he cannot wait to see him.”
“But don’t scold him,” Griselda sobbed. “He knows how foolish he was, and he is so weak—”
Abigail urgently signaled at her husband to give assurances and go away, but too late. Arthur had already asked, “What happened?”
He was obviously trying to moderate his voice and his impatience, but Griselda’s dithering and timidity made him grit his teeth. This, naturally, did nothing to calm Griselda, and her attempts to answer his question were almost unintelligible. All they could make out was that Griselda blamed herself for Bertram’s reluctance to expose Eustace and thus for his injury. It was not until Arthur had promised twice not to reproach Bertram for “her crime” and assured her she was forgiven that Abigail was able to get her into the drawing room and seated. Arthur went to lock the gun room door, and Abigail concentrated on soothing Griselda, who she now realized was in the last stages of physical and nervous exhaustion.
“My dear,” Abigail began, “you must try—”
At that moment the mantel clock chimed six, and Griselda jumped to her feet. “I must go!” she cried. “I must go at once! Oh, I am already late. Bertram will think I am in danger. He may try to come here, and he is still too weak.”
Despite her anxiety, Griselda could hardly control her exhausted body and had taken only a few steps when the door opened and Arthur appeared. Abigail had already laid her hand on Griselda’s arm, and now she said, “Arthur will go. Come, my love, sit down again. You are too upset and too tired. She is afraid,” she said, turning to Arthur, “that Bertram will be worried about her and try to come here. She thinks him still too ill—”
“Yes, I’ll go, of course, and I’ll take him back to Stonar, where he can be more comfortable. If Keriell comes before I get back, Abigail—”
But Abigail had been watching Griselda’s face as she led her back to her chair, and the expressions that played across it plus the statement of Bertram’s deep concern for her explained several puzzling things.
“No, Arthur,” Abigail exclaimed. “Bring Bertram here. It is closer. He will be just as comfortable. And you will not be tempted to plague him with business every ten minutes.”
Arthur’s lips parted to protest Abigail’s unfair accusation, but the wink she gave him and the fact that speed was essential kept him quiet. Griselda cried out faintly about Arthur being gentle and tried to follow, but it was obvious that she would be outdistanced in minutes, and she uttered a sob and sank down onto a sofa.
“Now I know you are terribly tired,” Abigail said, “but you can’t be such a goose as to think Arthur would say anything to distress Bertram. He loves Bertram. Do stop crying. You and Bertram are both safe now.” She hesitated and then took Griselda’s hand. “My dear, how long have you and Bertram been in love? And why did you not tell me or Bertram tell Arthur?”
“I have always loved Bertram,” Griselda sighed. “He is so gentle and so handsome, and I think he began to care for me when Mama tried to…to make a marriage between me and Sir Arthur. As to why he did not speak of it, at first he thought I might wish to be Lady St. Eyre. And we had nothing. I knew Mama would not settle anything on me.”
“What difference did that make?” Abigail asked. “You could have lived at Stonar with Bertram. Surely you could not believe Arthur would not have welcomed you.”
Griselda dropped her head. “Partly it was because Bertram is so aware of how good Sir Arthur is to him. He feels he does not merit the generosity with which he is treated. To ask for still more…”
“Nonsense!” Abigail exclaimed. “Bertram is like Arthur’s other self. I do not know what we would do without him. He is invaluable.”
Griselda looked up and smiled gratefully. “I knew that, but… Mostly it was my fault, really. I was afraid of Sir Arthur and of the life led at Stonar, too—all the political dinners. Here, Mama was quite happy if I sat in a corner, but at Stonar, even before Violet left, I would have been expected to take part and after…” Griselda shivered. “Bertram told me then that Sir Arthur would be glad to have me act as his hostess. I-I could not.”
“But Griselda,” Abigail protested, “you grew to like Arthur in Scotland. I am sure you did. And once we were married you must have known that—”
“It was too late then,” Griselda interrupted. “Bertram knew about Eustace then, although I did not. In fact, I was—I was upset when Bertram did nothing after I told him I had changed my mind and was willing to live at Stonar. And then…then we quarreled.”
“In London. It was a quarrel with Bertram that sent you home.”
“Yes.” Griselda smiled again and uttered a very faint giggle. “He was jealous. Bertram was jealous of me. I could not believe it. I thought it was just an excuse, that he had changed his mind and no longer wanted to marry me.”
“Why should he not be jealous?” Abigail asked gently. “Your dance cards were always filled, and there were several gentlemen who were interested seriously.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Griselda replied, looking troubled. “I would hate to give anyone pain. I have never cared for anyone but Bertram, and he was sorry he had accused me of flirting, which I did not, truly. As soon as you all came back to Stonar, he apologized and said he would speak to Sir Arthur, but he had not found an opportunity before… Do you remember when you asked for your letter book?”
“Yes, of course. You should not have been so silly as to get so upset—” Abigail paused at the violent shake of Griselda’s head.
“That was when I discovered it was Eustace who had shot at you at the old mill,” Griselda said, shuddering. “He said the letter book had fallen behind the drawer, but I knew that
was impossible. At first I was just angry and disgusted because I knew he had taken it—Eustace was always a snoop. But then he turned and raised his arms to put the book on the mantelpiece, and I-I suddenly recognized the set of his shoulders when he lifted the gun, and his boots… I wanted to tell you. I was frightened to death, but Bertram would not let me tell. He did not want me to be branded as the sister of a murderer.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks again, and Abigail soothed her, assuring her that it did not matter. Then Abigail tried to convince her to go to bed, but Griselda insisted she was not at all tired and that she must see Bertram to be sure that moving from Mrs. Franklin’s cottage had done him no harm.
“He nearly died,” Griselda whispered. “I thought he was dead, I only pulled all the rubble off him to see him once more, to kiss him once more.”
“Pulled the rubble off him?” Abigail echoed.
“Eustace buried him in a pit in the Roman ruins. He thought he had killed him—or that he would die of his head wound because he would be too weak to dig his way out. I told Bertram not to meet Eustace, not to trust him, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t let me come. He wouldn’t even tell me where they were meeting. But I knew Eustace better than he. I followed…” Her voice broke, and her eyes were staring wide with remembered horror. “It was dark, and I was too far behind to help, but I saw Eustace burying him.”
Griselda began to shake, and Abigail knew she was on the thin edge of real hysteria. Although Abigail had a million questions to ask and was curious to hear the rest of the story, it seemed better to wait until Griselda was calmer or, if Bertram were well enough, let him explain. Since Abigail also knew it would be impossible to discuss anything else, she supplied Griselda with a diversion by reminding her that a room had to be readied to receive Bertram. The lure was strong enough. Griselda took a deep breath and levered herself to her feet, saying she had to speak to Mrs. Howing and get the maids busy at once.
When Griselda was gone, Abigail realized that she felt rather shaky herself. The long journey in the jolting post chaise, followed by grief, anxiety, terror and now relief had exhausted her, but she had barely let her head fall back on the cushions of the sofa, it seemed, when Empson was standing before her, saying her name.
A Woman's Estate Page 48
