A Woman's Estate (13 page)

“Did I?” Eustace said. “I’m so sorry. It’s none of my
business, of course.”

“I don’t see why you should say that,” Hilda interposed
harshly. “Victor is your nephew, and he is the
earl
. Do you want to see
him ruined, as Francis was?”

“Mama!” Eustace protested. “Francis was Abigail’s husband.”

“Then she must know even better than we how Francis was
ruined,” Hilda snapped.

A few minutes before, Abigail had based an opinion on her
belief that Hilda was stupid. A remark such as she had just made rather shook
that belief, but Abigail was too intent on whatever objections Hilda and
Eustace had to Westminster to follow that path of thought.

“I don’t see what Francis’ faults had to do with
Westminster,” she said.

“Where do you think he learned such habits?” Hilda asked.
“He certainly did not learn them in his family.”

“I can hardly believe he learned to drink and gamble at
school,” Abigail protested, a trifle indignant. “Surely the boys are watched
and other men who have attended that school show no such propensities.”

Eustace had been listening to the exchange with a frown on
his face. Once he had seemed about to speak, then had tightened his lips and
said nothing. He listened to another offensive and ill-judged remark by his
mother, saw Abigail’s chin come forward stubbornly, and put a hand on her arm.

“It isn’t any of my business,” he said. “You’re Victor’s
mother, and you know him best. I can’t even speak from personal experience
because I never went to school—and never regretted not going. But I think what
Mama is trying to say is that because Francis was a sensitive person, the
harshness of school life and the—the teasing and bullying drove him to seek
outlets he might not have otherwise found attractive.”

“Francis never said anything about disliking school.”
Abigail’s voice, however, was uncertain.

Eustace did not contest her statement, but he raised his
eyebrows, and Abigail thought back. Actually she could not remember Francis
saying much about school at all. Was that because he
had
disliked it?
After all, in all the years they had been married he had not once mentioned his
stepmother and half brother and sister, and Mr. Deedes had implied Francis
loathed them. On the other hand, Francis had not protested when she suggested
sending Victor to school, and Francis had been truly fond of his son. In fact,
he had actually bestirred himself to investigate the schools in the area to
choose what he considered the best for Victor.

“Did Francis speak to you about Westminster?” Abigail asked.

“Good Lord, yes,” Eustace replied. “That was why I was
pleased as punch when Mama wouldn’t let me go.” He laughed lightly. “Oh, I said
I wanted to go a few times to please my father, but I was really glad to be
tutored at home. Francis told me the most horrible stories, not only about
being caned by the masters—and some of the brutes enjoy it—but about
mistreatment by the other boys. Has Victor been to school?”

“Yes, and he liked it, as you no doubt guessed.”

“I imagine it was a much smaller school than ours here,”
Eustace pointed out, “and that its existence is far more precarious. I would
suppose that those circumstances made it necessary for the headmaster to be
much more careful that his students did not carry complaints home to their
parents.”

That remark was so reasonable that Abigail was shaken. She
had some doubts about the “horror stories” Francis had told Eustace. Ordinarily
Francis was the kindest person; however, if he had disliked his brother
sufficiently, he might have been trying to frighten him. But there was also the
chance that Francis had been ashamed to admit his misery to his father and had
expressed it to Eustace because he did not care about Eustace’s opinion of him.
Abigail listened with only half an ear to Hilda deplore the dreadful conditions
at the schools and the hardships that she had been too tender to inflict on
her
son, but they did make an impression on her mind.

It was unfortunate that she had not heard about these things
before she had mentioned Westminster to Victor. He would be violently
disappointed if he were told he could not go. Not one of the drawbacks that had
raised doubts in her would have the smallest effect on her son, and when Victor
made up his mind about something, it was difficult and unpleasant to unmake it.
Besides, countless British boys had survived their public schools without
damage to their minds or persons. Her own gentle father had done so. And
Arthur, who
was
a thoughtful, kind person, surely would not have
suggested Westminster if it was so dreadful; after all, he had been there, too.

Abigail thanked Eustace—and Hilda—for their kind intentions
toward her son, smiled at Griselda who, she was sorry to see, looked no less
crushed and distraught than she had earlier, and excused herself on the grounds
that Victor was probably hooking all the precious porcelain ornaments off the
mantelpiece and she had better go and stop him. However, she did not go to her
son’s room, she went into her own sitting room to think. Unfortunately,
thinking did not help her decide. She could only mull over the same ideas. What
she needed, she realized, was another opinion.

Truthfully, she did not trust Hilda or Eustace, not because
she feared they had an ulterior motive in this case—Abigail could not believe
that either had the slightest reason to care whether Victor went to school or
stayed at home—but because she simply did not trust their judgment. She trusted
Arthur’s judgment, but not on this subject. Not only was it he who had
suggested Westminster, but it was apparent that Arthur was self-assertive,
sharply intelligent and physically strong. That was a combination that would
have protected him from the most adverse situations in school. Of course, these
characteristics described Victor too, but Abigail was fearful because of what
Francis had been. She did not want Victor tested too harshly.

Suddenly she recalled the slender and willowy form—and the
effeminate manners—of Sir Arthur’s secretary, Bertram Lydden. If Bertram had
attended public school and survived, Victor certainly could. It would be
interesting to hear what he had to say about his ordeal. Even if Bertram had
not been to school, he was a clever and observant person, and most of the men
he knew had no doubt been educated in one or another public school. His advice
would certainly be of more value than Hilda’s and probably than Eustace’s, too.
Abigail relaxed as she thought she could walk over to Stonar Magna right after
breakfast, when Bertram would most likely be attending to the post or other business,
and talk to him.

The next morning, having eluded her son and blessing the
spell of unusually dry weather, Abigail walked across the little wood to Stonar
Magna. She was briefly startled by the sudden appearance of a man not far from
the path, but he pulled his forelock to her and identified himself as one of
Sir Arthur’s men. Abigail smiled and said she was sorry to have made extra work
for him and the other gamekeepers and was pleased by his ready reply that it
was little trouble and that they had all been shocked by the accident and would
be glad to lay hands on any man crazy enough to carry a fully loaded gun in the
home woods.

The butler admitted her without hesitation or need for
identification this time, although Abigail thought with amusement that behind
his wooden expression there was both disapproval of her informal habit of
walking to the house and considerable surprise at her request to speak to Mr.
Lydden. Nonetheless, he did not, as she had almost expected, say he would
inform Sir Arthur but showed her to the same room in which she had waited the
preceding day, and not more than two minutes later Bertram rushed in wearing an
expression of considerable alarm.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Abigail exclaimed before he
could ask what was wrong. “I only came to ask your advice.”

Although he was obviously greatly relieved, Bertram raised
his brows and flitted the handkerchief he had withdrawn from his sleeve and
pressed briefly to his face while she spoke. “My dear, dearest Lady Lydden, how
could you think you had alarmed me? How can you so greatly underestimate your
attractions? Do not
all
men respond to a summons from you in haste?”

Abigail smiled at him warmly. Although she had only spoken
to him once before, and briefly, it was clear to her that Bertram prided
himself on his sangfroid and was embarrassed by exposing his feelings. She was
grateful to him for his real concern for Victor, even if he felt obliged to
hide it behind silly extravagances. Besides, despite all the extravagant words
and gestures, Abigail knew quite well that Bertram was
not
pursuing her,
and oddly, not because he did not like women or think she was beautiful. His
flirting was, of course, an innocent amusement. Abigail had recognized
immediately his true reaction to her—the impersonal appreciation of a man
committed body and soul to another woman—because she had seen it in many
faithful husbands, like Albert Gallatin.

“You are a very poor conversationalist, Mr. Lydden,” she
complained. “You always ask questions that are unanswerable. Do you propose
that I say ‘Yes, men do always rush to answer my summons,’ and sound like a
fool or say ‘No,’ and sound like a worse fool?”

Bertram chuckled. “I beg your pardon. I did the same thing
yesterday, did I not? I had better descend from the higher plane to which you
exalt me and become practical. How may I serve you, Lady Lydden?”

“Could we discuss it in a room less likely to be invaded by
others?”

Bertram was clearly startled by the request, but he only
nodded and led the way to a large, sunny room at the rear of the house, which
testified by its shelves and cabinets holding boxes of papers and by a littered
table and desk that it was the chamber in which he worked.

“It is not likely we will be disturbed here,” he said with a
touch of reserve.

Abigail could not help laughing. “I did not mean that the
way it sounded,” she said. “It was only that the subject on which I need advice
was one that Sir Arthur proposed to me—no, no,” she exclaimed, laughing again
at Bertram’s expression—or lack of expression, for his face had frozen, “the
proposal was about Victor, not myself.”

“But I do not know your son,” Bertram protested.

“I realize that, but Victor seems to be a very ordinary boy.
In any case, I just wish to ask in a general way whether you think it best for
a boy to go to school or to be tutored at home.”

“As you can imagine, Lady Lydden—”

“Do call me Abigail,” she interrupted. “After all, you are a
cousin by marriage, and I find I really do not like being Lady Lydden instead
of Mistress Lydden.”

Bertram grinned. “Ah, the influence of our strayed
Republican colonies. There were…ah…awed whispers around servants’ hall about a
slight difference of opinion you had with Arthur.”

“Well, he has this stupid British attitude that if you shout
loudly enough at people, you will convince them that you are right.”

“Dreadful habit,” Bertram agreed with downcast eyes and such
alacrity that Abigail, who remembered her own voice had scarcely been kept to a
whisper, burst out laughing. He looked up at her again, his eyes bright with
appreciation. “You are not only a delightful woman, Cousin Abigail, but a most
unusual one. I am proud to call you cousin and honored to be asked for advice,
for I think you well able to make up your own mind.”

“Yes, usually I am. I had no doubt that Victor belonged in
school in the United States, and he was very happy there. In fact, I foolishly
mentioned that Sir Arthur had offered to try to obtain a place in Westminster
for him, and now Victor is very eager to go.”

“Then I do not see that there can be any need for advice. I
was about to say that, as you might guess, I was
not
happy at school.
Nonetheless, I do not think the kind of cloistered life that results from
private tutoring is good for a man. I learned a great deal more in school than
Latin and Greek.”

“Yes,” Abigail said slowly, “that is what makes me a little
doubtful.” And she told him about the discussion the preceding evening.

Bertram shook his head. “I cannot believe it. I was junior
to Francis, of course, but he was still at Westminster during my first two or
three years there. Francis was one of the stars of the school—good at every
sport, a superior scholar, adored by his form and the idol of all the lower
forms.” He paused, looking down at his hands, at the handkerchief he was
weaving in and out of his long, graceful fingers. “Perhaps that is why I never
liked Francis. Envy, just envy. It was most unfair. He was really very good to
me—when he remembered, or I should say, when Arthur reminded him, that I was
alive… But that is not to the point at all,” he added briskly. “To the best of
my knowledge, Francis did not drink or gamble while he was at Westminster.
Perhaps the propensity was there, but he would have been expelled had he been
caught drunk. In any case, his habit did not develop because he was unhappy at
school, I can assure you of that.”

“Did he tell Eustace those stories to tease him, then?”
Abigail asked. “It seems most unlike Francis, but if he hated the boy—”

“I don’t think Francis ever bothered to hate. I would say
his stepmother and her children hardly existed for him. They were just shadowy
nuisances, like a bad servant.” Bertram sighed. “I have just admitted that I
didn’t like Francis, but I must also admit that it is far more likely he told
Eustace horror stories
after
his mother convinced Lord Lydden that the
boy was too frail to undergo the rigors of a public education.”

“Oh, of course!” Abigail cried, greatly relieved. “He would
have done so to permit Eustace to be glad of what he had earlier considered a deprivation.”
She laid her hand on top of Bertram’s to still their uneasy motion. “I loved
Francis when I married him. In a way, I suppose I still love him, but I haven’t
liked
him for many years.” She sighed also and then smiled. “Thank you,
Mr. Lydden—”