A Woman's Estate (18 page)

“Oh, damn and blast,” Arthur sighed, “you
are
right,
of course. I should have given a dinner, but I never thought of it. And who
would be my hostess?” he finished accusingly.

“You could have asked Leonie,” Violet remarked, smiling. “After
all, Stour Castle is close by, and Roger’s wife is your aunt. But I guessed as
soon as I got Angela Vernon’s letter that it would be necessary to welcome
Abigail formally, so I wrote to everyone that I had asked you not to do
anything until I could arrive. I
was
fond of Francis, and it is only
right that I should do what I can for his wife and children. So I shall find
out—”

“Violet!”

The door had opened quietly, and Bertram had come in. He
moved quickly and gracefully to the chair in which she was sitting, raised her
hand and kissed it. She laughed, put her free hand behind his head and pulled
him down so she could kiss him affectionately. Then she shook her head at him.

“I can excuse Arthur,” she said. “His head is always in the
clouds between urging war against Bonaparte and peace with America, but how
could
you
overlook the need to—”

“Violet!” Bertram exclaimed reproachfully. “I did
not
overlook anything. I knew your sense of duty would bring you home, and I knew
the delay would do Abigail no harm. It has given her a chance to settle, to
become a little accustomed to our ways and everyone will assume we were waiting
for you before we made our move.”

“Dear Bertram,” Violet said, “someday I shall find a point
to which you do not have a reasonable reply—but perhaps I had better not. The
shock might kill me.”

Arthur had stood silent during this exchange, watching
Bertram and his mother. Now he collapsed in a chair, stretching his long legs
out so that the footman who had followed Bertram into the room a few minutes
later almost tripped over his feet as he set down a tray of tea and tiny cakes.

“Poor Martin,” Arthur said. “We seem to give you a hard time
in this house.”

“Oh no, sir,” Martin replied with sincerity. “It is a very
interesting household.”

Violet sneezed, Bertram coughed and Martin took his
departure, while Arthur laughed aloud. He knew Bertram and he knew his mother.
On the surface their meeting had been normal, but Arthur was certain that
neither was really at ease. Each was trying to pass some message to the other
without his knowledge. In a sense, that was annoying, but Arthur was having a
hard time restraining a broad grin. Bertram must have sent for his mother, and
it must be that they were trying to tell each other that he was still unaware of
it.

The deception was obvious, and in her fear of giving herself
and Bertram away, his mama had done so by blaming Bertram for not reminding
Arthur of the need to give a dinner for Abigail. His dear mama was perfectly
correct. It was inconceivable that Bertram could
forget
such a thing,
thus, he had not mentioned it deliberately, probably to give Violet a good
reason to come home. It flicked through his mind that had Bertram intended harm
to young Victor, the last thing he would have done was to bring Violet back to
the house, since she was perceptive and intuitive. In fact, Arthur felt
thoroughly ashamed of his suspicions, and although he still could not guess
Bertram’s purpose, he was not worried about it. Actually, he was so relieved,
he could have kissed them both—but he did not want to deprive them of the
innocent pleasure of thinking they had fooled him.

The one drawback to the situation was the effect it would
have on his relationship with Abigail. Now Arthur realized he had been a fool
not to think of introducing her to the neighborhood himself. If he had done so,
his mother’s coolness to her would have been put down to jealousy. It was his
punishment for greed, for wanting to keep her to himself. Fortunately, he had
done no harm that could not be corrected. His mother would see that Abigail was
accepted, and he was sure they would become friends—if Violet did not perceive
that Abigail was his mistress. With a sigh Arthur resigned himself to a longer
period of celibacy than he had intended to endure.

“Arthur!”

He looked up from the tray of cakes at which he had been
staring. “What is it, Mama?”

“Oh, you are impossible. What are you dreaming about?”

“Whether Wellington will give us a substantial victory
before the alliance between Prussia and Russia falls apart and in time to
convince Austria to declare war,” Arthur lied blandly.

Violet uttered a martyred sigh. “I grant you it is an
important subject, Arthur, but not one about which you can do anything, whereas
you will be the host of this dinner party we are discussing.”

“But I am sure you and Bertram have arranged everything
perfectly,” Arthur said plaintively. “I have no appointments to interfere, and
if I did, Bertram would know more about them than I, anyway. I was merely
waiting for you to tell me what to do, and it seemed reasonable for me to apply
my mind to a subject for which it is fit—”

“Do you not like Abigail Lydden?” Violet asked, looking a
trifle startled.

“Of course I like her,” Arthur replied coolly. “I cannot
think of anyone, except perhaps Hilda, who would not. She is intelligent and
beautiful—and a very good mother too, I think. When we are not shouting at each
other about something, I find her excellent company. What the devil has liking
Abigail to do with listening to the details about a dinner party?”

“The party is being given for her, after all,” Bertram
pointed out. “We assumed you would be interested in who was to be invited.”

“Why?” Arthur asked. “You and Mama surely know better than I
who can bless or damn in the
ton
. I only know who controls the most
votes for seats in the Commons, and I doubt that would be of any help, since
Abigail is obviously not going to stand for Parliament—although I wouldn’t be
surprised if she would like to do so.” He paused to allow a few exasperated comments
to pass over his head and then asked, “Well, what have you decided?”

“Thursday,” Violet said. “That is soon enough to show that I
did come for that purpose and still will give those who have a previous
engagement time to cancel it.”

“Excellent.” Arthur stood up. “I might as well ride over and
explain to Abigail what she is about to endure. Is there anything else she
needs to be told? Are you going to invite Hilda?”

“I hate to do it,” Violet said, “but not asking her would
mean leaving Griselda out too, and that would be unkind. Besides, Abigail has
to live with Hilda, and I doubt she would thank us for providing her
mother-in-law with another source of complaints.”

Arthur smiled his agreement and went out. Bertram and Violet
continued to talk about the guest list for a few minutes, but as soon as it was
certain Arthur would not return, she said, “I think he has finally found a
woman with whom he can live. Thank you for writing, Bertram. Did you hear him,
poor innocent, pretending indifference and admitting that he shouts at her? Can
you imagine Arthur shouting at any of his previous lights of love?”

Bertram laughed. “No, but to be fair, that was only because
none of them had brains enough to discuss any subject about which he cared.”

“I don’t think so,” Violet said thoughtfully. “I think it
was because he wasn’t enough interested in any of them to care what their
opinions were.”

Arthur found Abigail in the library reading a thick letter,
which she put into a drawer as she rose to greet him. “Doom has befallen us,”
he announced, crossing the room and taking her in his arms.

“At least we will be together,” she replied, laughing.

“Yes, but that’s just what we won’t be,” Arthur said
morosely. “I had just got everything fixed. I had found a cottage well within
riding distance but very isolated, and I was working on a good reason why an
empty cottage, which is
not
, I repeat,
not
a place I customarily
bring my paramours, should not only contain tea, wine and biscuits but a bed
all made up to receive us, when—”

“Arthur, you are quite mad,” Abigail exclaimed before she
pulled his head down and kissed him soundly.

“Why does everyone say that to me?” he asked indignantly.

“Because you do things in a very, very odd way,” she
murmured against his lips. “When you had gone to all that trouble to arrange a
place to take me by surprise and sweep me romantically off my feet, you are not
supposed to spoil the surprise by telling me all about it. However, I am
becoming very abandoned. Shall I pretend you did not…er…blow the gaff?”

Although he had intended to make light of the whole subject
and had definitely decided, before he saw Abigail, that he was not going to
increase his frustration by caresses that could lead nowhere, Arthur’s mouth
fastened on those provocative, murmuring lips. One hand slid down from her
shoulders to her buttocks to press her tight against him. Abigail was taken by
surprise, because Arthur had been responding for the past few days to similar
teasing with an expectant half smile plus a brief, if hungry, kiss and
sometimes no more than a playful slap. Before she could think, her body flamed
into response, and she lifted herself on her toes to put the pressure of his
hardened rod where it would ease her need. In the next moment she had pulled
free, blushing. Even with Francis she had never been so forward. To play with
words was one thing, to use her body so crudely was another.

“Oh, we mustn’t,” she gasped. “Empson or one of the men is
sure to be here in a few minutes with wine or something. When he announced you,
I told him to bring what he thought proper until I was more certain of the
correct thing myself.”

He did not answer but, standing with hands clenched, half
turned away.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have teased
you, but you seemed to enjoy it before—”

“I did enjoy it, but then I expected that it would only be a
few days—” He turned to face her fully, held out a hand, and smiled wryly.
“Never mind, my darling, it isn’t your fault, but unfortunately, I’m
not
mad to tell you about the cottage. Or, I guess I am, but in the other sense of
the word. I’m not going to get to sweep you off your feet, at least, not for a
while. In fact, we are going to have to be very careful.”

“Whatever has happened?” she asked.

“You are about to be introduced to the local gentry,” he
replied.

She smiled at him uncertainly. “Do you expect me to be so
overwhelmed with visitors and invitations that I will no longer have time for
you?”

He laughed, although he was aware of a prick of jealousy.
“No, but it is my mama who is going to introduce you. I was a damned fool not
to do it myself, but… Damn! I don’t know whether I really didn’t think of it or
whether I didn’t want to share you. In any case, I have landed us in the soup.”

“Do you realize I have no idea what you are talking about?”
Abigail remarked. “Of course, I will be very grateful to your mother for taking
the trouble to sponsor me, but what has that to do with—with your nefarious
plot to—to damage my virtue?”

Arthur could not help laughing, as he knew she intended by
using the high-flown verbiage of a very bad novel. “My nefarious plot will have
to wait. Mama does not approve of the…ah…light play of love—at least when I am
doing the playing.”

There was a short silence while Abigail stared blankly at
Arthur. At that moment, the door opened and Empson himself carried in a tray
with bottles of wine and glasses as well as a squat silver pot and the
odd-shaped cups in which coffee was served. Abigail thanked him with a
mechanical smile and, when he was gone, turned back to Arthur.

“Are you not a little past the age to be afraid of your
mother?” she asked.

Arthur was so surprised that he just stared back. Then he
exploded, “Don’t be a fool! I’m not afraid of her, but she can hurt
you
.”

Abigail flushed with rage. “I am not a child,” she snapped
viciously. “I am no longer even a ‘minor under the law’. I am an adult female
who can manage her own life. I have not allowed you to kiss me and paw me
because I desire your protection or desire that you procure your mother’s
protection for me. I am very capable of taking care of myself. I wanted you,
but now I am not so sure—”

“Abigail,” Arthur said, his voice overriding hers, “will you
do me the honor of marrying me?”

Abigail was so stunned that she simply stared. It was apparent
that Arthur was not joking and that he meant what he said, yet there was an odd
look about him, almost as if the words had taken him by surprise. He came a
step nearer and took her hand.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I did not know how much until
this moment when it came to me that someday I might lose you. I am not such a
fool as to think marriage can enforce love—I know it cannot, but I believe it
to be the fullest expression of love and—and it is all I have to offer to show
what I feel.”

Most of Abigail’s shock had worn off while Arthur was
speaking, and she found herself filled with a tremulous gladness. He
had
offered his ultimate proof of love, not a small matter for a man who had so
long resisted marriage. Nor could she doubt he wanted her for herself alone. He
knew that what dowry she had, if any, might be unattainable. Yet under her
gladness, there was a small uneasy doubt. Had his offer been stimulated by her
cry of independence? Could the driving impulse—even if Arthur did not recognize
it himself—be a desire to tame a woman who had been so bold as to say she did
not desire or need a man’s authority over her? Abigail examined her lover’s
face and put the ugly thought away.

“You will not lose me,” she assured him, coming still closer
and putting her free arm around his neck. “If my hand and my word will satisfy
you, I would be proud and happy to consider myself and to have you consider me
your wife. I swear I will be faithful and love only you—but I cannot marry you,
Arthur. I
am
honored, and I love you, but…one marriage was enough for
me.”