A Woman's Estate (25 page)

“You see, there was nothing to ‘think’ about,” he whispered
in her ear naughtily. “First you shelled the nut with a good hard blow, and
then you brought out the meat, whole and perfect.”

Chapter Sixteen

Having been married for many years, the feel of a man’s body
beside her in the bed was comforting to Abigail. She turned in her sleep and
threw an arm across the broad, warm male chest and a leg over his hips. What
had been comforting to Abigail, however, spelled danger to Arthur. Ordinarily,
he did not dare allow himself to fall asleep in the bed of a mistress lest he
sleep too long and a maid or jealous husband find him there. Thus, when her
movement woke him and he saw light through the ill-fitting curtains, he almost
leapt out of bed. Panic sent his heart, pounding fiercely, right up into his
throat, but he controlled his first impulse long enough to look at the woman
beside him—whereupon he sighed and relaxed.

The tensing of his body communicated itself to Abigail, who
tightened her grip a little and murmured a wordless sound meant to reassure an
uneasy sleeper. Her confidence sent a tide of joy through him. It was another
proof of her innocence—no woman who cheated in love could be so indifferent to
who lay beside her. But that was the least of his pleasure. He had never
thought that Abigail was other than faithful. The lift in his spirits was on
his own account, generated by the knowledge that there was, at least for now,
no need for concealment, no need to creep out of this warm bed, struggle into
clammy clothes, and steal out into a chill, damp morning. He sighed with
satisfaction. There was no need even to remove to his own room. Abigail’s
embrace told him he was welcome to lie with her as long as he liked, that she
was indifferent to the custom that sent a man back into his own solitary bed
after the act of love was over.

Idly he wondered why the custom had begun, and then smiled
at himself. In so many of the marriages made these days both husband and wife
desired as little of their mates’ company as was possible. Arthur drew back his
head just enough to see Abigail’s face. No, he could not imagine ever wishing
to see less of it, not so much because it was beautiful as because, even smoothed
and motionless in sleep, it was full of her character—little lines of laughter
around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, and two very faint vertical
creases between her brows that marked her frowning concentration or fits of
fury. The years might take away the beauty, but they could not change what was
really Abigail, and he would not tire of that.

He felt a stirring of desire, but she was sleeping so
soundly that he did not wish to wake her, and delight made him smile again.
There was no need to grab and cram. This sweet would be there for him later in
the morning or on the coming night. He shifted his hips to settle her leg more
comfortably over him, put his own arm around her, and drifted easily asleep.

It was Abigail’s movement that again wakened him, but this
time without anxiety. She was inching her way out of his grasp, plainly
intending to get out of bed without disturbing him. Playfully Arthur clutched
her tight to him, growling, “And where do you think you are going, me beauty?
Tryin’ to escape, eh?”

“Oh, don’t squeeze me,” she gasped. “You’ll find yourself
swimming.”

He laughed but let her go at once, and she fled to her
dressing room. Then, thinking her idea excellent, he went into his own room and
emptied his bladder. Still, by the time Abigail returned, he was lying at ease
with his arms behind his head. He noted with amusement that she had not only
relieved herself but combed her hair and put on a delicate peignoir.

Lifting an eyebrow, Arthur said, “That was not a very
romantic remark for your first greeting to me.”

Abigail sniffed disdainfully at his teasing. “It would have
been even less romantic if I got you all wet. Believe me, that was not the
moment for sweet nothings. And it was all your fault anyway. I was in such a
hurry to get into bed that I didn’t—” She stopped abruptly. Arthur had reached
toward her and in shifting from his face to his hand, her eye had been caught
by an odd object on his nightstand beside the bed. It was a limp sack of some
membrane she did not recognize but of oddly familiar shape. “What is that?” she
asked.

Arthur smiled. “It is called a condom, and it is my way of
redeeming my promise to you that you would have no reason to regret loving me.
Did you think I would be so careless of you, my darling, as to get you with
child? There are other ways of prevent­ing it, but I find this the least
disturbing to my partner and myself.” He raised his brows at her look of
astonishment. “Perhaps I should not have left it there, but I thought you might
be familiar with the device. After all, Daphne is nine… Are you displeased?”

“No, of course not,” Abigail replied. “I am grateful. I
suppose I was a fool, but I never gave a thought to becoming pregnant.” She
shook her head. “I don’t think Francis used such a thing, but I don’t know
because we didn’t—” She stopped speaking abruptly again and made a helpless
gesture, unable to mention their foreplay in words and feeling uneasy. It was
not fair, she thought, to talk about Francis, so inferior in every way to
Arthur.

He sat up swiftly and drew her to him, again delighted at
what he felt was the perfect balance in her character. More than one of his
mistresses had complained to him of her husband, and although he realized it
was a way of justifying their relationship and in most cases knew what was said
was true, he still found it distasteful. He found it as crude for a woman to
denigrate one man to another as for a man to boast of the women who yielded to
him. And Abigail’s shyness with regard to talking about their lovemaking he found
as charming as it was foolish.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, hugging her gently and
affectionately. “I did not mean to pry, only to reassure you.” And then he
plucked at her peignoir and asked in a teasing tone, “Why did you put on this
silly piece of fluff? Did you not promise to put no more impediments in my
way?”

She laughed and pushed him away. “That is not an impediment,
it is an expression of vanity. There is less beauty in the naked body than in
one partially concealed. And it is too late in the morning to be complaining
about impediments. If my maid does not scratch at the door any moment, I will
suspect that she is listening outside it.”

Arthur sighed. “That is the horrid truth, and besides I am
very hungry. All that exertion makes a man—”

“Out!” Abigail cried, blushing and laughing. “You are
shameless and want to make me the same.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed with sublime simplicity, but he fled
the room laughing as she threatened to hit him with a pillow snatched from the
bed.

Nonetheless, he was surprised and not terribly pleased to
find her setting a full plate down on the table when he entered the breakfast
room. Arthur was accustomed to eating alone or with other men, like Bertram,
who would not think of expecting him to serve them or of trying to serve him
and would allow him to read his newspaper or his mail in peace, unless there
was important business that had to be mentioned. In a hardly conscious
rejection of her company, he went directly to the sideboard and began to select
from the dishes that were there.

Abigail glanced at him and immediately sat down and turned
her attention to her food without saying anything at all. When he had brought
his plate to the table and picked up a newspaper from the pile lying there, she
silently took another, noting that he had picked up the
Morning Post
and
pleased that it was not the
Sun
, which was particularly rabid against
America. Propping the
Times
in front of her, she soon became thoroughly
absorbed, although there was no very important news, and she was so startled
that she barely kept herself from jumping when he spoke.

“Have I yet told you this morning that I love you, Abigail?”

“No, and it is very dear of you to do so, considering that I
have invaded your breakfast table,” she replied, smiling. “I beg your pardon,
but I was hungry too, and I find it impossible to make a hearty breakfast with
a tray balanced on my thighs.”

He smiled back but still looked uncomfortable, and Abigail
guessed that the sentence must have been intended to mollify her. She was casting
around in her mind for what Arthur thought he had done to annoy her and was
just about to assure him that she was as content as he to read the paper
without conversation when he asked, “What would you like to do today?”

The source of his unease immediately became clear. Abigail
grinned. “I really should demand that you accompany me on a shopping expedition
or take me for a stroll in Hyde Park to look at the swans, just to see the look
on your face and test your devotion. Unfortunately, such a test of your
devotion would be as much of a trial to me as to you. The truth is that I
prefer to shop without an impatient or long-suffering man in attendance, and
what I really wish to do is to finish the charming book I was reading by Miss
Jane Austen. However, if you insist that we suffer together—”

“Tease!” Arthur exclaimed.

“But I did not tease you,” Abigail pointed out, widening her
eyes innocently, and then laughed. “I am sure you have business you would like
to do now that you are here in London. Please do it. I have my own little
business to do—and it is interesting and important to me even if you might find
it foolish.”

Abigail had spoken lightly because she did not want Arthur
to guess that she had real business to conduct, but then was hoist on her own petard.
He believed her, since he had no reason not to, and thus remained doubtful,
concerned that she would be bored because there were no other women for her to
call on or to visit her, no parties to attend. She then had to assure him
vehemently that she truly preferred to have time to herself, fearing that in
his kindness he would insist on keeping her company and so prevent her from
visiting the booksellers she wished to see and from speaking to Alexander
Baring, who, according to Anne Louisa’s letter, would only be in the City that
day and the next.

Arthur recognized the sincerity with which she was urging
him to amuse himself in his own way and not trouble himself about her, but
misinterpreted it completely, assuming that it was for his sake she was insisting
they go separate ways. He also realized that if he did not agree to go off,
Abigail would not be able to enjoy his company for fear he was not enjoying
hers. Thus, he thanked her for her consideration, finished his breakfast, and
went out to track down various political acquaintances—such as clerks and
secretaries of government departments—who were not fortunate enough to be freed
from their work even when Parliament was not in session.

Less than half an hour later, having summoned the carriage
hired for her convenience, Abigail, too, was out of the house. Her first call
was on Alexander Baring, who came out himself to show her into his office,
exclaiming in surprise at seeing her in London.

“Did you write to Anne that you would be here?” he asked. “I
cannot remember her mentioning it to me.”

“No,” Abigail replied, “I didn’t expect to be in Town when I
last wrote to her,” and explained the business she had with Deedes that had to
be completed before Quarter Day quite truthfully except for blaming the innocent
Jameson for not telling her early enough to write. “And since I was here and
knew you were too, I thought I would ask a favor of you,” she finished.

“Whatever I can do, my dear,” he assured her.

“I will not keep you to that,” Abigail said, shaking her
head. “I hope you will not think what I wish is wrong or dangerous, but if you
do, you must not do it.”

“Wrong and dangerous?” Baring repeated, undecided whether he
should laugh or not. “Whatever in the world are you thinking of, Abigail?”

“I received a letter from Albert Gallatin about a week ago,”
she said seriously. “The purpose was to tell me that he was about to transfer
my business to me by deed of gift.”

“Why the devil is Gallatin still acting as your trustee?”
Baring asked. “He should have made over the property to you as soon as Francis
died. A widow can hold property in her own name.”

“Now, Alex,” Abigail protested, “you know Albert would not
have held the trust a day longer than legally necessary.
I
had asked him
to remain as trustee after Francis died because I knew I would have to bring
Victor and Daphne to England and I wanted him to keep an eye on the business.”

“You should have sold it.” Baring shook his head. “It is
ridiculous to try to run a business at the other end of an ocean.”

“Possibly,” Abigail said. She did not agree at all, but she
did not want to argue that subject at the moment. “However, that is not what I
came to see you about, and I do not want to waste your time. I know you must
have more than enough to fill the few days you spend here. The reason Albert
felt he had to deed the business back to me was that he cannot look after it.
He has been appointed to a peace commission—”

“I know,” Baring interrupted. “He wrote to me also to
arrange credit. He is on his way to Russia, it seems.”

“Yes, but I am afraid he does not know—I do not believe
anyone in America knows—that the Russian mediation has been rejected and that
there is no chance that it will be accepted in the future.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Roger St. Eyre and Lord Kevern.” Abigail hesitated and
then asked eagerly, “Could they have been mistaken?”

“No,” Baring replied. “I wish Madison were not so set on
dealing through the Russians. I know our government will never agree to do so.”

“But Alex,” Abigail said eagerly, “I am not at all sure
Madison
is
set on dealing through the Russians. Do you not see that if
Rumiantsev is not telling Mr. Adams the truth about the British rejection of
Russian mediation, he may not be telling Lord Cathcart the truth about the
American willingness to negotiate directly either? And it is not as if Mr.
Adams and Lord Cathcart were likely to be talking to each other. I know Mr.
Adams. He will seize on any excuse not to attend a social function and would
certainly not go to any attended by Lord Cathcart if he could avoid it. He is
simply not the kind to have a friendly chat with the ambassador of a country
with which his is at war. That would mean that Chancellor Rumiantsev is the
only contact between them.”