A Woman's Estate (15 page)

Annoyed with herself for mistaking the way, Daphne stood
still, frowning. It did not seem possible to have made a wrong turn. Then
Daphne remembered that she had been running hard when she entered the main
path. With a small tremor of fear she realized that she must have run past the
right path. She turned hastily, her nervousness increasing as she was scratched
again, feeling as if the bushes were closing in on her. She reminded herself
that she could not get lost, but through the mist of tears that was forming in
her eyes, the path did not look as clear as it had before.

Biting back a whimper, Daphne began to retrace her steps,
walking quickly at first, and then, as she was whipped by a low branch that
protruded into the path here and there, she became even more frightened and
began to trot. She was moving so fast by the time she reached the fork that she
almost ran into the brush on the other side of the path, which added to her shock,
and she was really running when she caught her balance and started off again.

This path was wider, and the feeling that it must be well
traveled calmed Daphne a little so that she slowed to catch her breath—just in
time to see a fork. There shouldn’t be a fork. She hadn’t seen any fork on the
way down the path. Which way should she go? Had she taken a wrong path at the
fork where she had turned back? She chose the wider of the two trails and ran
forward again, only to find still another fork. Wrong! It must be the wrong
way, the wrong path. Sobbing, Daphne turned around and ran back to the fork,
but there was no other path.

Utterly terrified now, she screamed for Victor, drew breath
to scream again, and heard a loud splash. She shouted several times more before
the meaning of the noise she had heard penetrated her fear. A splash meant
water. Water meant the river. The river meant the meadow. Still sobbing and
calling for Victor, Daphne reentered the narrow left-hand fork she had
abandoned earlier and began to run, holding up her hands to protect her face
and crashing into and through the brush that occasionally blocked her way. She
was making a great deal of noise, but she did not care about that. She did not
care about anything except finding Victor so that she would no longer be lost.

It seemed very far to her, but eventually she burst out into
a small open area beside the water. For a moment her terror increased again
because this was not the place she had expected and for all she knew she might
not even be near the same river, but then she heard someone coughing and
wheezing not too far off to her left. Daphne stopped and drew a long breath of
relief. Whoever it was would either take her home or tell her the way. Daphne
tried to straighten her dress and bonnet, which were a little the worse for her
experience, and began to edge her way past the brush toward the sounds.

The first thing she saw upriver was the pool. She had come
out about a hundred feet downriver of the widened area she had been seeking.
The next thing she saw was Victor, flailing about with his arms to push himself
closer to the shore. He disappeared on the other side of some protruding brush,
but Daphne was no longer afraid. She knew where she was now and even knew what
she had done wrong. In addition, she felt very pleased with herself for finding
her own way to the river and confident because even the strange paths she had
wandered had led to a safe, familiar place.

She felt like laughing aloud when she remembered Victor
sloshing around in the water, but did not dare. If he heard her, he would never
forgive her. Daphne knew the latitude allowed sisters, and laughing at a time
like this was well beyond the line. Still, she hurried as fast as she could
toward the place she had seen Victor disappear, ignoring the new tears the
bushes were making in her delicate dress and the fact that her bonnet was again
all awry. She rounded the sheltering brush to see her brother still in the
river, clinging to the protruding roots of the old fir and breathing in gasps,
his face paper white and his eyes huge as he stared apprehensively in her
direction.

“Victor,” she cried, “can’t you get out?”

“Daph!”

Her name was hardly more than a whisper, and his eyes half
closed in the faintness of relief. Daphne cried out and struggled frantically
through the bushes, fearing he would slip into the water again.

“Hold on,” she called. “Hold on. I’m coming. I’ll help you.
Oh, Vic, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He looked as if he would be, but as she reached the open
area and threw herself down on the roots to grasp at him, he shook his head.
“Get out of the way, Daph. I can climb up myself.” He managed that, but it was
just as well that Daphne was close by, for he teetered on the edge and might
have slipped had she not grabbed his arm and steadied him.

“Did you push me in, Daph?” he asked, sitting down suddenly
when she had pulled him to the safety of solid ground.

“No!” she cried, uttering a frightened sob and sinking down
beside her brother. “No, I wouldn’t. Never. And you saw me coming. I was lost.
I took the wrong path and came out all the way down there.”

She pointed, but her brother did not turn to look. He shook
his head and hugged himself, trying to stop his body from shaking. “Someone
pushed me in,” he said, his eyes too large, “and held me down. Daph, someone
tried to
drown
me.”

“Who?” Daphne whispered, clutching at her brother’s arm and
looking apprehensively around the tiny open area. “Who would try to drown you,
Vic? That’s…that’s crazy.”

“I know,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “Of course it’s
crazy, and I have no idea who it was. I thought I saw a fish rising, and I made
a cast and—and someone gave me an almighty push on the back. I thought it was
you, Daph. I thought you were angry because I wouldn’t take you, and so you
pushed me for spite—”

“No!” Daphne cried again. “No, Vic—”

“I know it wasn’t you,” Victor said, shivering hard in spite
of his arms wrapped tightly around himself. “I know it wasn’t you, because the
person held me down. No matter how mad you were, Daph, you wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh Vic, I’m afraid,” Daphne whimpered. “I want to go home.
I don’t want to stay here.”

“Nor me,” Victor agreed, but he was shivering so hard he had
some difficulty getting to his feet and staggered against his sister, who cried
out as the wet from his clothing seeped into hers.

“You’re so wet, Vic. That’s why you’re shivering,” she
assured him, trying to convince herself that her fearless and nearly
all-powerful brother was not shaking with fear. “Take off that soaked coat and put
my shawl around you. You’ll feel warmer, and you can take it off before we get
to the house.”

Oddly, Daphne’s assurance that he was not afraid did much to
steady Victor’s nerves. The horror of the few minutes when he tried to kick and
struggle against the pressure holding him underwater, only to feel his feet
catch so that he could not raise them either, was fading. He remembered too,
that when he had pushed hard against what had caught his feet, the grip on him
had loosened so that he had moved forward into deeper water, and his head had
come up into the air. He laughed shakily.

“A fine cake I’d look wearing your shawl. But I will take
off my coat. You’re right. It’s cold. My shirt will dry as soon as we get out
into the sun.” His voice had sounded steadier, and that made him feel better,
as did the realization that his knees no longer felt like jelly. He let go of
Daphne and pulled off the sodden coat. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Chapter Ten

“What the devil do you mean by that?” Arthur growled ferociously.

Abigail stiffened slightly at the tone, but she spoke in a
dulcetly reasonable voice. “When a gentleman enters his secretary’s office
wearing an expression that would give second thoughts to Caligula, one must
assume that the gentleman is displeased about something. I only—”

“Second thoughts to Caligula!” Arthur roared. “Are you
trying to insult me, or are you merely ignorant?”

“Arthur—” Bertram began, but Abigail waved a hand at him
imperiously, and her voice cut across his.

“Actually, I thought I was flattering you. A scowl that
could make Caligula think twice must be a powerful weapon.”

Both men now stared at her, Bertram pressing his
handkerchief to his lips and Arthur with astonishment replacing the rage on his
face.

“Good heavens,” Abigail continued, her voice now softer but
coolly contemptuous. “I have been worried about whether Victor’s preparation
was adequate for a good English school, but now I am beginning to wonder
whether I should send him back to America for a decent education. If my
allusion was above your heads—”

“You are a bluestocking!” Arthur exclaimed in an accusatory
tone.

Ostentatiously Abigail lifted her skirt three or four
inches, showing very pretty ankles clothed in thin white silk, and looked down
at them. “I did not think I had picked a color so unsuitable to my gown.”

Bertram gasped, struggling against laughter, cleared his
throat and said, “No, I am afraid you are not acquainted with our…er…patois.
‘Bluestocking’ is the name given to a…ah…scholarly female.”

“From your tone, I suppose you mean a learned goose,”
Abigail remarked sharply. “Perhaps I do qualify. My father was a don until he
married, and he enjoyed teaching. I enjoyed learning. I am sorry you feel that
to be a male prerogative.”

“You had better get a pitcher of cold water, Bertram,”
Arthur said. His face was perfectly sober, but the crinkles at the corners of
his eyes were a telltale sign of internal laughter. “She has burst into flame
again and may need quenching.”

“Arthur! You are being deliberately offensive,” Bertram
protested. “I swear you have the manners of a stoat.”

“But she told me herself she had a flammable disposition,”
Arthur pointed out with injured innocence. “You would not wish our guest to be
utterly consumed by the flames of her temper. I was not suggesting you douse
her at once, you know, only that we be prepared.”

But Abigail had not risen to this bait. She stood smiling
gently, her eyes fixed on Arthur but clearly not seeing him as her mind was
filled by some enchanting inner vision. “Stoat,” she murmured, “how marvelously
apt. A most beautiful animal, as vicious as it is lovely, and given to
screaming at the top of its lungs for no reason at all. There are other
characteristics, too—”

“Abigail!” Arthur thundered.

She looked at him, innocently inquiring. “Oh, are you just
complying with the metaphor, or is there a reason for your shrieking?”

There was a brief silence. Then, as if none of the foregoing
conversation had taken place, Arthur said, “I hope Bertram was able to satisfy
whatever need made you call on him.”

Abigail did not reply at once because a most delightful idea
had crept into her mind. Had that scowl with which Arthur had entered the room
been there because she had asked to see Bertram rather than himself? And if so,
could it be because Arthur was jealous? An extra touch of color rose into
Abigail’s face, accompanying a pleasant but dangerous warmth she recognized in
her body. She had not felt it since Francis’ death, and rarely even with
Francis since he had destroyed her trust in him. She saw Arthur’s lips tighten
and spoke hurriedly.

“Yes, thank you. Our business was finished, and I really
must not intrude any longer. I am sorry to have annoyed you by trying to insert
a note of levity when I saw you come in so angry. It was just that my
conscience is rather sore because with one thing and another, like that
accident in the woods, my children and I seem to be taking up a great deal of
your time and causing you a good deal of trouble—”

“Why are you babbling?” Arthur asked quietly. “I may have
the manners of a stoat, but I can assure you that I will not try to intrude on
any private business you have with Bertram.”

Abigail sighed. “My business with Bertram was not at all
private. He can tell you…” She paused to look around for confirmation, and both
she and Arthur were surprised to find that Bertram had slipped silently out of
the room while they were quarreling.

“I’m afraid Bertram is not a very gallant defender,” Arthur
said. “He seems to have absconded, leaving you to hold the bag.”

“Hold the bag?” Abigail echoed.

“Sorry, that must be another British idiom with which you
are not familiar. The bag, in our terms, would be the one into which the conies
and pheasants ‘just jumped’—in other words, a poacher’s illegal take.”

“Oh, you must mean that he left me to face whatever
punishment would be meted out alone.” Abigail smiled. “I suspect during our
conversation I gave Bertram plenty of reason to believe I could defend myself
without help from him, but actually I’m glad he is gone. It makes it easier to
explain why I wanted his advice. You will be annoyed with me again, and with a
certain amount of justice, for I have been allowing Hilda and Eustace to throw
me off balance. I should have known better, but they couldn’t have had any
ulterior motive, so when they both spoke so strongly against sending Victor to
school and even tied public education to Francis’—”

“I believe I knew Francis better than any of them,” Arthur
remarked coldly. “Why didn’t you come to me for advice? Why Bertram?”

“Well,
that
should be obvious,” Abigail replied
tartly. “You only have to look at Bertram to know that he would be the butt of
every bully and nasty mouth in any school. If he had gone to school and
survived, I didn’t have to worry about Victor.”

Arthur took a step closer and smiled down at her with
shining eyes. Although there had been no contempt in Abigail’s voice when she
spoke of Bertram—indeed, there had been a friendly warmth—no woman spoke in
those terms of a man to whom she was physically attracted. He had been a fool.
Bertram was no rival. He had been stupid to be so furious when he heard she had
come and asked for Bertram, but helplessness did breed fury in Arthur, and he
had known that he could not and would not try to take Abigail away from Bertram,
no matter how much he wanted her for himself.

The general warmth that had touched Abigail earlier flooded
her again as Arthur moved close, and his expression generated even more
dangerous signals in her—an increasing sensitivity in her breasts and a sense
of moisture between her thighs. She knew she should move back away from him
before he touched her, but she did not want to. Desperately she found her
voice.

“And I want you to know, because a woman does not like to
look a fool any more than a man does, that I was not taken in a bit by that
‘noble’ statement about not intruding into my private business with Bertram.
Honestly, if I ever heard a more sinuous, sneaky—”

“Just like a stoat,” he murmured, and bent and kissed her.

He had not embraced her, only put his mouth to hers in such
a way that he offered a sensual invitation Abigail knew she could accept or
reject. She almost pulled away as the thought flashed through her mind that he
had no right to put on her the onus of agreeing to an intimate relationship on
so short an acquaintance. Almost simultaneously, however, she found another
interpretation of the gesture, that she was too strong and intelligent a woman
to need or desire any implication of being forced. And by the time it was
possible to compare the two ideas, it was far too late to do so. Having given
her a moment to recoil and found that instead she allowed their lips to cling
together, Arthur’s arms had come up to hold her, and the tentative kiss had
become far more demanding.

For a little while longer Abigail permitted the caress to
continue, enjoying the sensations of her own body and those she guessed Arthur
was feeling. She remembered vaguely that she had not intended to yield to him
so easily, but she could not remember being so strongly drawn to any man—not
even to Francis, she admitted to herself. Still, she was not out of control and
knew this was not the time or the place for what they were doing. Somewhat
reluctantly she placed one hand against his chest and withdrew her head. At the
same time, she raised the other hand and ran the forefinger around the edge of
Arthur’s ear and down his neck. He sighed and allowed her to break the kiss,
but he did not let her go.

“I suppose I should say I am sorry for taking advantage of
you in my home—”

Abigail giggled. “Are you implying that I yielded to you in
abject terror because I knew that no matter how I fought and screamed, you
would have your dastardly way with me? No doubt your servants are all so
corrupt that they would ignore my pleas for succor.”

“Idiot!” Arthur exclaimed tenderly, chuckling. “I doubt you
would wait for succor if you wanted it. Most likely you would have stamped on
my toes and crippled me for life. No, but I should have waited and approached
the subject more diplomatically.”

“Is there a
diplomatic
way to seduce a woman?”
Abigail asked with interest.

Arthur promptly tightened his grip so quickly and so
forcefully that Abigail let out a startled squeak as the air was ejected from
her lungs. “I will get to the subject of seduction in my own good time,” he
told her severely, while she gasped for breath, “but I will give you a piece of
tactical advice right now. It is unwise to give free rein to your clever tongue
during captivity.”

Abigail laughed, stretched her neck and kissed him on the
nose. “There, I have paid my ransom.”

“Must I let you go?” he asked. “Without even a demand for a
higher ransom?”

“That is blackmail, not diplomacy,” Abigail complained, but
she paid another ransom—a somewhat larger fee—without struggling. In fact, she
did not move away at once but, when their lips parted, dropped her head to rest
against his shoulder.

“Dearest,” he murmured anxiously, touching her hair with his
lips, “have I hurt you somehow?”

“No.” She sighed, pulling away but smiling up at him as she
freed herself. “Only that it felt so strange and so pleasant to be in a man’s
arms again.”

“Come back, then,” he begged, reaching for her.

Abigail shook her head. “A very tempting idea but neither a
safe nor a sensible one. We have been very fortunate that Bertram has not
returned, nor anyone come looking for him, but I do not think we should press
our luck further. I think, perhaps, I should go home.”

“And send me a note saying you are very sorry for the
misunderstanding, but—”

She started to laugh, and then realized that he had not said
it to be amusing. There was a note of mixed anger and anxiety in his voice, and
she took his hand. “Why should you say that, Arthur? You must know that I am
not a silly chit out of the schoolroom nor a fashionable flirt. I am a
full-grown woman and I know my own mind.”

He could not tell her that a “note of withdrawal” seemed to
be the standard second move—almost like a chess gambit—for ladies about to
embark on a little affair. For one thing, a gentleman did not speak of his
conquests, particularly to another woman. For another, Arthur could not
understand why a reaction that ordinarily amused him had angered and distressed
him when he thought he perceived it in Abigail. Unable to reply, he only lifted
the hand she was holding and turned it so that he could kiss hers. She cocked
her head at him and then shook it, suddenly understanding that his reaction
must have come out of his wide experience with other women.

“No,” she said, “I am not turning coy for fear you will
think ill of me. If you are fool enough to believe me a promiscuous woman—”

“For God’s sake, Abigail,” he protested, “don’t begin that.”

She laughed. “No, I promise I will not. I only just realized
that you thought I was about to play coy because I yielded too easily to begin
with. What I wanted to say was that no amount of protest could change your mind
if you thought—”

“No!” he exploded. “I don’t! In fact, no one except a
veritable innocent babe could act as silly as you or tread with such
heavy-footed inelegance on every single attempt I have made to inject a little
romance into—”

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said, feeling stricken. She knew she
was businesslike and practical to a fault. Francis had blamed her for it often,
but she had no idea she had been sounding that way to Arthur.

“Oh God, now I’ve hurt you,” Arthur murmured, pulling her
back into his arms roughly. “I was joking, darling. You are a total refreshment
to my spirit. I adore you. I have adored you since the moment you said you were
not
pleased to meet me.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. You were quite furious.”

“Not nearly as furious as I was when I thought you preferred
Bertram to me,” he admitted, laughing.

“Then you are as silly as you say I am,” Abigail said. “Who
could prefer Bertram to you? No, seriously, Arthur, I even realize that I am
probably making a grave mistake in beginning this kind of relationship with a
man who clearly has had as much experience as you do, but I find you quite
irresistible.”

She had rendered him speechless for a moment once more, and
before he could find words, she shook her head again. “I know that sounded as
if I were trying to drag you into a profession of eternal love or even a
proposal of marriage, but neither is true. I want you to know that I truly
understand this is not—”

He shut her mouth with a kiss, hard and passionate but quite
brief, then lifted his head. “Abigail, be quiet! It is quite clear that no one
has ever made love to you. What the devil did Francis talk about when you were
courting? No, don’t tell me, you idiot. Has no one ever told you how
exquisitely beautiful you are? That your lips are sweet as—” He hesitated,
trying to find a simile that was not trite.