A Woman's Estate (16 page)

“Ambrosia?” she offered in a tiny voice, rather choked with
suppressed laughter.

Arthur raised his hands, which had been embracing her waist
and hips, and put them around her throat, by which he dragged her a few steps
to a sofa, littered, like the rest of the room, with papers. Releasing his grip
on Abigail’s neck with one hand, he swept the papers to the floor and plumped
himself and his prisoner, who was laughing so hard she could barely stand
anyway, down on the sofa together. A cloud of dust rose, making both of them
sneeze so hard that he lost his grip on her completely. Abigail flung her arms
around Arthur’s neck and clung to him, whooping with laughter.

Both quieted after a while, and Arthur kissed her hair and
her face gently. “I have never met a woman like you,” he murmured. “Never.”

Words that had not once entered his mind in any of his
amorous adventures—love, forever, until death do us part—rose to his lips. He
managed to suppress them, but just barely. He had lied to other women, it was
part of the game, but even so, he had never done it willingly, only when they
forced him by ridiculous demands they knew quite well he could not and would
not fulfill. But he would not lie to Abigail, not even if the truth cost him
her…he sought for a word, and it was love. That was very strange. He could not
remember associating love with any of the other women—desire, excitement,
triumph as at the capture of a prize, satisfaction, sometimes even comfort—but
not love.
Ridiculous
, he thought
, I am not even sure what the word
means
.

Abigail had spoken the exact truth when she said she knew it
was not wise to enter a relationship with a man of such wide experience with
women. The chances were strong that at Arthur’s age he had formed the habit of
inconstancy and that no woman could hold his attention for long. She must not
allow herself to become too attached to him, Abigail told herself. She must
remember that she could not either require or expect faithfulness from such a
man. Although he would not hurt her if he could avoid doing so, neither would
he change the habits of a lifetime over one more affair.

On the other hand, she had also spoken the truth when she
said she found him irresistible. Why that was true, she was not sure. Heaven
knew, she had not lacked for male attention at any time of her life. She had
been assiduously courted before marriage, constantly invited to extramarital
adventures while Francis was alive, and almost besieged with offers after his
death. Arthur’s comment that no one had ever made love to her had been as far
from the truth as one could get. Too
many
men had extolled the beauty of
her eyes, her hair, her face, her hands—in fact of every aspect of her person
decency allowed them to mention. Suddenly it occurred to her that it might have
been Francis’ selfishness that made her fall in love with him. He had showed by
his attention and desire that he thought her beautiful, but he had never talked
about her at all. He had talked about himself.

Abigail smiled and responded with small crooning sounds of
pleasure as Arthur’s lips moved from her cheek briefly to her lips and then
down to her throat. It was certainly no similarity to Francis that had
attracted her to Arthur. He was not at all handsome, and the aura he exuded—if
one took away the elegance—was of authority, integrity and rock-solid
reliability. Not very romantic characteristics, Abigail thought, but lovable
ones. Actually, Arthur was almost exactly the opposite of Francis in every way,
except, perhaps, in not trying to tell her she was beautiful as soon as he got
her alone. But even that was different, really, for Arthur did not talk about himself.
He was far more interested in others. Even in this gentle, skilled preparation
for love… Abigail shuddered. Somehow Arthur had loosened the tie of her gown
and was exploring the top of her breasts with his warm mouth.

“Don’t, Arthur,” she said softly, bending her head to kiss
his ear and take the sting from her denial. “You are making me very—willing,
but there is no place to go. I could not—not here, with the expectation of
being intruded upon every moment.”

He paused, letting his mouth rest where it was for a moment
longer, and then lifted his head. “Sorry,” he muttered, and then cleared his
throat and took a deep breath. Abigail was almost as stirred sexually by his
glazed look of desire as by what he had been doing, but still she was grateful that
his self-control was strong enough to preclude his urging her to couple with
him then and there. Had he pressed her, she feared she would have yielded. It
would have been wrong, perhaps fatal to any further relationship, an ugly
experience, groping and grasping in a half-clothed huddle with most of their
attention really on listening for an intruder rather than on each other.

“You are quite right, my darling,” Arthur said, lifting her
face so he could look at her. “But I hope you are not going to say there can
never be a time or place for us.”

Abigail sighed. “I do not wish to say it, but, Arthur, to
make an assignation for that sole purpose…” Her voice faltered, and she
steadied it, but it was very low when she continued. “Somehow, that is ugly to
me. It is not that I am unwilling…”

She had lowered her eyes so that she would not have to look
at him, even though he held her chin, but now she raised them. To her surprise,
she saw he was smiling slightly, his expression very tender.

“You are more romantic than you believe, my love,” he said
softly. “Did you think I would say ‘I will come tomorrow at three of the clock’
as if your body was for sale? I am not a boy to snatch at green apples. I know
they are sweeter when they are ripe and fall into my hand by happy
happenstance.”

“Yes, let’s get out of here—into the sun to dry you off,”
Daphne said, echoing her brother’s words and starting toward the edge of the
river to work her way through the brush back to the meadow.

Victor hesitated, looking at the water, but there was
nothing in the calm, peaceful ripples sparkling in the sunlight to recall the
terror he had felt. He picked up his sodden jacket and followed a few steps,
then stopped and called “Wait,” just as Daphne was about to disappear behind a
bush. “I have to find my rod,” he explained.

It took an effort of will to step out on the roots, but with
Daphne watching, Victor was ashamed to seem afraid. And no one could sneak up
on him again, he told himself; his sister was facing out into the little
clearing and would see if anyone came. He went down on his knees and looked
into the water. He saw the rod almost immediately, but it was not easy to
reach. After a moment’s struggle Victor realized that he was already soaked to
the skin. He could not get any wetter by getting into the water to retrieve the
rod. Without even thinking about it, he slipped off the roots. Daphne cried out
and he called back, “It’s all right, Daph, I didn’t fall in. I can’t reach the
rod from the roots.”

But Victor still could not reach the rod from where he
stood. Muttering curses that neither his sister nor mother realized he knew, he
ducked under the water. To his relief, his hand fell on the reel at once, and
he started to rise, only to feel again a pressure on his back—but this time a
single terrified jerk freed him, although his shirt was torn and his cheek
harshly grazed by an underwater root as his head came up.

Somewhat shaken, Victor swore silently that in the future he
would fish from parts of the bank where no roots protruded. As he came out of
the water and sloshed up on the bank near his sister, he demanded her shawl to
dry his fishing rod. This sparked an argument, which Victor finally won by
pointing out that the shawl was already stained and torn in several places and
that using it to dry the rod could do it little harm—and, he said temptingly,
she could then blame the total condition of the shawl on him.

By then they had reached the meadow. Daphne surrendered her
shawl, and Victor sat down in the grass to attend to his dripping fishing rod,
but he did not remain there long. The weather was changing, the sun had
disappeared behind heavy clouds, and a sharp breeze had sprung up. Victor
shivered, and Daphne did too, rubbing her arms and complaining that she was
cold. Victor got to his feet and handed back the shawl. It was one thing to be
scolded mildly for adding to the dirt and possibly the rents in the shawl, it
would be another thing entirely if Daphne were to fall ill. That would make his
mother really angry. “It isn’t any warmer here,” he said. “We had better—”

“Victor! Daphne! Whatever has happened to you?” Both
children started and stared down the meadow at a man dressed in a manner they
had never seen before in their lives, and both gasped with terror.

Chapter Eleven

“Fa-father?” Victor croaked.

“No! Don’t be frightened. I am not a ghost,” the man
exclaimed, hurrying toward them. “I am Bertram Lydden, your papa’s cousin. Dear
me, I had no idea I had grown to look so very much like Francis.”

As he came nearer and out of the shadow of the trees, the
resemblance faded, leaving just enough familiarity of feature and voice to give
the children a feeling of comfort and confidence. They ran forward, both
speaking at once of their adventures, so that Bertram could make little sense
of what they said, but one thing was clear—Victor was soaking wet and shaking
with cold. Bertram pulled off his coat and told Victor to put it on.

“It will get all wet, sir,” Victor pointed out. “I’ve been
in the river. Some lunatic pushed me in!”

He might not have protested, for he was very cold, but the
coat was of a delicate pale blue with large pearl buttons, far more elegant
than any garment Victor had seen his father or grandfather wear.

“Pushed you in!” Bertram exclaimed. “No, never mind about that
for a minute. Put the coat on. I know it will get wet. It is more important
that you don’t take a chill. Now, come with me, quickly.”

He hurried them along the path, and they went willingly, for
it was apparent that the clouds were thickening and that it might begin to rain
at any moment. Both exclaimed, however, when he turned left rather than right
as they reached the main path.

“We are going to Stonar,” Bertram said. “It’s much closer.
Hurry now, before it starts to rain. As soon as I have you warm and dry, I will
send you home by carriage.”

“But Mother will be worried if we don’t get in in time for
luncheon,” Daphne protested.

“I think your mother is at Stonar, talking to Sir Arthur,”
Bertram said, “but if she has gone home, we will send a footman over with a
note saying you are safe.”

No one spoke again until they were approaching one of the
back entrances to the manor house and Bertram said, “I think it might be best
to take you both to my room and set you to rights before I inform your mother.
She might be a little upset if she saw you both looking like something left out
overnight.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” Daphne said, “but I don’t think I can
mend my gown or shawl—”

“No.” Bertram laughed. “But we can brush the burrs and twigs
out of your clothes and hair—and set your bonnet to rights. And I am sure
Victor should get warm before he begins any explanations. It is very hard to be
convincing when one’s teeth are chattering. And while you are cleaning up and
getting dry, you can tell me all about what happened to you. I haven’t really
understood.”

Neither Victor nor Daphne voiced any objection to this plan.
Both had wanted to recount their thrilling experiences to their mother, but on
second thought decided that Mr. Lydden, who was so kind and sympathetic, might
be a safer audience. Daphne realized that her mother might not be entirely
pleased that she had gone off by herself to follow Victor when he had said he
did not want her. It was more likely that when she described her fear of being
lost she would be told she got what she deserved, and that she would be set to
mending her gown as punishment instead of being praised for finding her way.
Victor also had his doubts. True, he had done nothing wrong. He had been given
permission to fish, but still, a second coat had been ruined, and if the
wetting had hurt his fishing rod…

“Do you think my rod is damaged?” he asked anxiously as they
were shepherded up the back stairs to the floor where Bertram’s suite was.
“Uncle Eustace only gave it to me yesterday.”

“Eustace?” Bertram repeated. “Eustace gave you the fishing
rod?”

Mr. Lydden’s voice sounded so different that Victor
hesitated on the stair and started to turn and look at him, but Bertram urged
him on up, and Victor thought he had better explain. “Yes, you see Mother had
told him about Sir Arthur giving me permission to fish near the pool, and he
said he had this old rod. It didn’t look old to me, but he said he hadn’t used
it in years and I could have it for my own. It is mine. I didn’t take it
without permission.”

“It’s true, Mr. Lydden,” Daphne put in. “Uncle Eustace did
give Victor the rod.”

“I believe you,” Bertram said, his voice still oddly
preoccupied. “I never doubted that you were telling the truth, Victor.”

“Then you think I’ve spoiled it?” Victor asked, his voice
shaking a little.

Bertram laughed. “No, of course not. Don’t worry about the
fishing rod. Fishing rods are made to get wet, you know. I will look at it,
though, and make sure it has come to no harm.” As he opened a door and urged
them through into a small, private sitting room, he added, “Sorry if it seemed
I wasn’t paying attention. I just thought of something I had forgotten to do,
but it can wait until later. Now, you wait here just a minute, Daphne, while I
get something for your brother to wear and find a brush for your clothes.”

Daphne was a little surprised when Mr. Lydden really did
come back in just about a minute from the inner room to which he had taken
Victor, and she was very gratified both by his kindness in gently brushing her
clean and by the close attention he gave to the tale of her adventures. He
wanted to know every little detail, right from the beginning, and although he
tsked
gently and said smilingly that she should not have followed her brother, he
admitted that it was mostly Hilda’s fault for lecturing her. And he asked very
kindly if she had been much frightened at seeing her brother pushed into the
river.

“I didn’t see it. I was still in the woods when I heard the
splash. By the time I got to the river, Vic was sloshing around toward the
bank. First I thought he fell in, but he looked terrible, so then I thought
maybe he had got sick.”

The door to the inner room opened just then and Victor came
out, wrapped in a sumptuous dressing gown that was considerably too large for
him. Daphne giggled, and Victor, after an initial scowl, laughed too.

“You look very grand,” Bertram said. “I hope you are warm
now. Daphne has been telling me that she wasn’t with you when you went into the
river. Are you sure you were pushed, Victor?”

“I didn’t jump into the water for fun,” Victor answered
angrily. “I heard this crackling in the bushes, but I thought it was Daphne, so
I didn’t pay any attention, and then someone hit me on the back, hard.”

“Did you see anyone?” Bertram asked.

Victor shook his head. He wished Mr. Lydden would stop
asking questions. Remembering what had happened made him feel cold and shivery
again.

“I see. Where were you when this happened?”

“Upriver of the pool, under that old fir tree.”

“Good Lord, didn’t Arthur warn you the branches of that tree
are forever coming down? Usually they don’t do any harm, but I was once hit on
the head and nearly stunned.” Bertram hesitated and then went on slowly, as if
the first few sentences he had spoken had nothing to do with what he was now
saying. “I hate to tell your mother about you having been pushed into the
river. She was very worried by that stupid shooting accident.”

“But that had nothing to do with me!” Victor exclaimed in
surprise. “That was only an accident.”

“I know it had nothing to do with you,” Bertram agreed, “but
it happened in the woods—and now this.” He fell silent, watching the
realization come into Victor’s face that this second almost-fatal adventure
might cost him his freedom.

Victor was, indeed, as worried as Bertram hoped he would be.
He had been afraid his mother might forbid his playing in the woods after the
shooting. If he told her that he had been deliberately pushed into the river,
she would certainly put the woods, the river, and probably everything but the
front lawn out of bounds. Victor’s unpleasant train of thought was broken by
Mr. Lydden’s voice.

“Hmmm. Is there any chance you could have been knocked into
the water by a falling branch? You know, the noise in the brush might have been
caused by a gust of wind, and that could easily have brought down one of the
big dead branches. If you were right at the edge of the roots and bent forward
a bit to watch your cast hit—”

“But he was held down in the water,” Daphne said.

Her voice wavered between question and statement. When she
had seen Victor, white-faced with terror, she had had no doubts about the tale
he told her. Now, safe in Mr. Lydden’s sitting room and supported by his
comforting adult presence, she began to wonder whether Victor had really been
pushed. It seemed so unlikely. Could he have embroidered a slip caused by a
blow from a tree branch into an attempt to drown him to prevent her from
laughing at him?

Victor turned his head to look at her, his face puzzled. “I
was held down,” he said. “But you might be right even so, sir,” he went on
slowly, then described how he had been caught under a root for a moment when he
went under the water to pick up his rod. “If I had gone deeper under the roots,
it might have felt like hands holding me down. I-I was a little frightened.”

“If you were only a
little
frightened, Victor, you
are a great deal braver than I,” Bertram said, smiling. “I probably would have
drowned from being too afraid to worm my way out.”

Daphne thought Mr. Lydden’s eyes looked strange in spite of
the smile, and then she looked away because she suspected they were full of
tears. Men did not cry, but Mr. Lydden was different from most men. He looked a
lot like Father, but he was even kinder and more gentle. His voice was softer
and his hands so delicate and quick as he listened to her and picked burrs from
her dress and straightened the tangles in her hair—which her father would never
have bothered to do.

Victor smiled back at Bertram. Mr. Lydden’s praise had eased
a faint feeling that he had been very foolish in jumping to the conclusion that
someone had actually tried to drown him. The more he thought about being hit by
a branch and caught under the roots of the tree, the warmer and safer Victor
felt. He had been frightened when he was in the water, of course, but he had
been mostly occupied with his struggle to get free. It was after he had come up
into the air and put together the hands holding him down and the fact that it
could not have been Daphne teasing him that he had become really terror
stricken. The idea that someone had deliberately tried to drown him was so
unendurable that after he had stated it to Daphne, he had put it out of his
mind. Now, although he felt slightly embarrassed, he wished he could hug Mr.
Lydden as he had sometimes hugged his father.

“So I guess that’s what happened,” Victor said, with a
self-conscious laugh. “I got banged into the water by a tree branch and caught
under the roots. Well, I’m glad no one’s trying to kill me.”

“I’m glad too,” Daphne put in. “I told you you were crazy
when you said someone tried to drown you, Vic.”

“Now, don’t tease your brother, Daphne,” Bertram said. “He
is a very brave and very sensible young man.”

Victor swelled with pride at being called a young man in
addition to being told he was brave and sensible, but he did not lose sight of
another advantage in his experience having been a simple accident. “Then I
guess there’s no real reason to tell Mother about it,” he remarked with
elaborate casualness. “It would only worry her, and I won’t fish there anymore.
There are plenty of other places.”

Bertram laughed. “I don’t think we can go as far as that.
Your coat isn’t going to dry too soon, and the rest of your clothes are too
covered with mud to escape needing explanation.” He laughed again at Victor’s
expression. “You think your mama will forbid you to go fishing or out into the
woods, but I believe I have an answer to the problem. Part of the trouble is
that you don’t know these woods. Suppose I suggest that you go about with a
companion who does know them?”

“We have Mrs. Franklin,” Victor said doubtfully.

“She is a fine woman,” Bertram stated, “but not very fit for
running about in the woods. What you need is a young fellow interested in the
same things you are—”

“Oh, no,” Daphne cried and then covered her lips with a
hand.

“Now what—” Bertram began.

“She thinks that if I have a friend, I won’t let her come
with us,” Victor explained. “Don’t be silly, Daph. I won’t desert you, I
promise.”

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, Victor,” Bertram said, “and I
will tell Dick Price—who is the fellow I have in mind—that he is to show you
things that will interest Daphne as much as you. I am sure he knows where the
birds nest, and where there are baby rabbits, and if I know Dick, a fox den.”

Both children exclaimed with pleasure, and Bertram left them
to discuss the idea while he ran down to break to Abigail the news that her son
had met disaster again. He did not find her or Sir Arthur in his office and was
only just in time to hail them as they strolled across the lawn in the general
direction of the path to Rutupiae Hall. Since, in the exigencies of convincing
the children that Victor’s experience had been an accident, he had forgotten to
put on another coat, Arthur ran toward him asking what was wrong, and Abigail,
with eyes like saucers and a death-white pallor, waited, unable to move at all.

“Nothing is wrong,” Bertram called, permitting Arthur to
stop and draw a deep breath and Abigail to release the breath she had been
holding.

“Or, at least,” Bertram went on with a smile when they were
all close enough to speak in normal tones, “no harm has been done. I’m sorry to
have startled you by forgetting my coat, but Victor was wearing it, and it is
very wet.”

Now Abigail smiled. “That Victor! You are right, Arthur—and
you too, Bertram. That devil
must
go to school. If it is not one batch
of trouble he is mixing, it is another.”