A Woman's Estate (30 page)

Abigail was certain Arthur
would
give her the whole
income—but he would never understand that he was tearing out half her life and
throwing it away. If she tried to tell him of the pleasure it gave her to buy
books and know that her acumen in choosing made the profit of the store rise,
he would pat her kindly on the shoulder or kiss her and laugh and offer her a
puppy to play with or a new piece of jewelry. He would never understand—
and
there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

“I cannot,” she cried, pulling away from him and jumping to
her feet, her voice rising hysterically. “I cannot be anyone’s wife. I must be
myself. I must be free.”

“Abigail!” Arthur exclaimed, also getting to his feet. “What
do you mean? Is there some legal impediment? Do you think you are ill? If it is
the law, I will get a special act of Parliament to bend it if I must, and—”

“No,” Abigail said, controlling herself with an effort.
“There is no impediment. I simply do not wish to marry again.”

Arthur did not believe her. He was certain she was hiding
some ugly secret—perhaps this was her crazy way of keeping her promise to some
other man to whom she had sworn to be faithful as she had sworn to him. Rage
and jealousy tore at him, but he was too proud to expose such feelings.

“I can no longer accept that,” he said quietly, coldly. “I
love you too much to live apart. I no longer desire a casual bedding now and
then when we can squeeze it in between other activities. I wish to share my
life with you—everything, every day, my whole life. If you do not love me
enough to share yours with me, then it would be better for me to abandon my
hopes and desires altogether and learn to live without them.”

Abigail stood staring at him, tears slowly welling over her
lower lids to streak her cheeks as she realized her brief hope of love and
freedom combined was over. Her breath caught in hiccups of grief, her body
trembled with the desire to yield, to fall into the strong arms that would
always support and protect her, but her mind coldly ran through his speech and
pointed out that what was sharing for a man was a total giving up of everything
for a woman, and that all the beautiful words amounted to a clear and simple
statement that if he could not dominate her completely, he did not want her at
all. Sobbing, she shook her head mutely and ran out of the room.

Chapter Eighteen

Pain was a goad that reinforced rage. Arthur stood looking
at the door, fighting the impulse to follow Abigail up the stairs and beat her
secret out of her. Frightened by the vicious intensity of that desire, he fled
the house. He was not aware of how the next few hours passed, but he eventually
found himself walking, drained and exhausted, along the embankment of the
Thames. Although still hurt and angry, he was no longer a danger to anyone.
Wearily he made his way back to a major thoroughfare, where he hailed a cab to
carry him back to Mount Street. He had no idea what he would do or say if he
found Abigail waiting for him, but he was spared that problem, for she had not
come down from her room. For a few hours longer he sat watching the fire in the
parlor, his eyes fixed on the flames, his mind dull and blank. Eventually, he
told the servants to close the house and went up to his room to undress, lie
down on the narrow bed he had never used, and stare into the dark. Had he heard
a sound from Abigail—the door to the other room still stood invitingly open—he
might have given up and gone to her. But there never was a sound except those
normal to a person sleeping comfortably. That easy sleep and the door left
open—contemptuously, he thought, as if she believed him so much a slave to his
lust that he would not be able to resist the temptation—stiffened his hurt
pride.

He would not even close the door, although the knowledge
that it was open tormented him. He put the refusal down to his desire to show
Abigail she could not force him into a relationship on her terms, but he was
also afraid that if he got close enough to her to shut the door, he would go
the rest of the way and end up in her bed. At last the pain that kept him awake
tired him out. An hour or two before dawn, his burning eyes closed.

Abigail had not been in any condition when she ran up the
stairs to notice whether a door was open or closed. She had been torn apart
between the agony of losing Arthur and her terror of losing what was to her the
bedrock of her existence, her last refuge, the one thing she knew she could
keep alive by her labor. No effort she could make had been able to save her
mother or her father. Francis, weak reed though he was and no loss, she would
also have saved if she could, but she could not. Everything died, everything
except the shop. If she married Arthur, even he could die—but then she would
not have her bookshop anymore because he would have sold it.

She cried and cried, until there were no tears, until each
sob caused a tearing pain across her chest, until she was so exhausted that her
body slipped into a sleep so deep it was near unconsciousness. She never heard
Arthur come in or come up to bed. If she had, she would have closed the door
because she was afraid that if he came to her and made love to her, she would
have yielded.

The first streaks of real light were mottling the sky when
Abigail stirred. Only half awake, she moved more toward the center of the bed,
unconsciously seeking Arthur. The shock of finding the bed empty really woke
her, and she flung back the bed curtain before she remembered what had
happened. The first thing she saw after that memory was the open door. And she
was halfway across the room before she realized that she was on her way to
Arthur—to tell him what? Nothing had changed. Trembling, Abigail backed away
and fled into her dressing room, where somehow, despite her tear-blinded eyes,
she found fresh clothing, took off her soiled and crumpled garments, and
dressed again. She could not stay in the house, not even to have breakfast; she
did not trust herself.

Quietly Abigail snatched up her purse, inched past that
insidiously beckoning open door, and got out of the room. Once in the corridor
she felt stronger. She was terribly sad but able to do what she knew was right.
It was not only for herself that she resisted marriage, it was for Arthur, too.
She loved him now, but if he sold her shop and controlled her life in other
ways, she knew she would end by hating him. At least she had never hated
Francis. Perhaps, she had never loved him deeply enough to generate hate, but
she loved Arthur enough, and he would never understand and be cruelly hurt. He
was right. It was better to learn to live without love than to learn to live
with hate. Time would pass and heal them, and perhaps afterward they could be
friends.

Even the servants were not yet awake. Abigail slipped into
the parlor and went to the writing desk. It was near the window, and when she
drew back the curtain she found it was light enough to write. Surprisingly, the
words came very easily from her full heart.

My dearest, my beloved, please forgive me. I do not know
what you think of me, but I beg you to believe that it is not lack of love that
drives me away from you. I cannot do what you desire of me, and I cannot tell
you why—not for stubbornness or a wish to conceal my motives but because you
would not understand them. You will be angry at me for writing this, but if I
tried to explain, I think you would be angrier and more hurt. If you have any
affection left for me, please send my baggage to Claridge’s hotel and do not
attempt to see me.

She folded the note and addressed it formally, sealing it
with a wafer and writing “Lydden”—a name the servants would not know but would
identify the note to Arthur—across it, and leaving it on the breakfast table,
where she was sure the footman would place it across Arthur’s serving plate as
he did with her letters. Then, waiting her chance, she slipped out the back
door soon after it was opened and through the alley to Mount Street. While the
streets were empty, she made her way to Hyde Park and sat beside a tree in a
quiet area.

By nine o’clock, although she had not been noticed, she
emerged. She had eaten neither dinner nor supper the day before, and by this
time the demands of her body would not be denied. Fortunately, it did not take
long to find a hackney coach and have herself driven to the hotel. She told a
tale of having come away from a friend’s house early because of a family
emergency. Since she was known at the hotel, she was received with sympathy. A
room was found for her, and breakfast was brought up at once. Mr. Claridge
himself followed after a decent time and assured her he would arrange for a
post chaise to take her home. Later in the afternoon her bags arrived, and
early the next morning she left for Rutupiae.

Arthur did not wake until nearly noon, and he woke with a
full recollection of what had happened. Rested and more rational, he lay
quietly reviewing what had been said and cursing himself for a fool. Jealousy
still made him sure that Abigail’s refusal to marry him was owing to some love
affair in America. Perhaps the man was married and they had exchanged some
lunatic vow—she could have sworn that she would wait until he was free or never
marry unless it could be to him. Despite the pangs of jealousy, Arthur smiled
wanly. That was Abigail all over, jumping in headfirst and swearing crazy
vows—and then keeping them. The smile faded, and he lay with closed eyes
battling his rage.

It did not take long. Arthur had learned painfully that rage
was a poor weapon except in physical attack. He shook his head and again called
himself a fool. What earthly difference did it make that Abigail had mistakenly
believed she loved a man in America? Whether or not she had loved Francis, she
must have been frightened and lonely when he died. It was natural for her to
lean on some man and fancy herself in love. Not only was it stupid to be
jealous of a rival thirty-five hundred miles away, Arthur told himself, it was
even stupider when he had nothing about which to be jealous. He
knew
Abigail cared for him. The problem was not how to make her stop loving another
man and love him—that had happened without his even trying—the problem was how
to extricate her from the situation in which she had enmeshed herself.

Arthur closed his eyes against the sense of despair that
flooded him. If he had not conquered his jealousy, he had at least submerged it
enough so that it no longer clouded his view of what he had done. Instead of
calming Abigail, who was nearly hysterical, and gently extracting the cause of
her resistance, he had presented her with an ultimatum. He groaned softly. How
many times had he pointed out in speeches that ultimatums work only with the
stupid or the helpless, that they are immoral in those cases and with any other
subject only produce an opposite effect? Abigail was neither stupid nor
helpless. How could he have said those things to her?

Eventually Arthur got up and dressed. He did not look for
Abigail in the adjoining room, nor when he went down the stairs did he expect
to find her anywhere else in the house. Now that rage and jealousy no longer
obscured everything else, he knew what had happened the night before as clearly
as if he had been watching. That open door had been his last chance, not
because Abigail had left it open deliberately but because she had been too
upset to realize it was open. Once she had regained command of herself, she had
left, he knew that without looking or asking for her, but he shivered slightly
when he saw her note and hesitated to open it.

The contents renewed the whole cycle of jealousy, fury, and
misery. His first impulse was to rush off to Claridge’s and demand to see her.
Fortunately, he too was ravenous, having also missed two meals the previous
day, and by the time he had eaten, he realized that to insist on seeing her was
another ultimatum. In any case, it could accomplish nothing. So personal and
sensitive a discussion could not be carried out in the public lobby or
restaurant, and it was impossible for Abigail to permit a male visitor into her
room. Had he been desperate, he would have tried anyway, but he realized it was
not necessary. Since he was Victor’s trustee, sooner or later matters of
business would bring them together. As much as he hated the idea, he knew it
was better to wait so that the memory of his stupidity would fade from
Abigail’s mind.

He told the servants there had been a death in Abigail’s
family, that he had taken her away very early, as soon as the first, worst
paroxysms of her grief had passed, and that he would be leaving himself later
that afternoon. He asked that a maid pack his wife’s clothing and his own and
that the servants be assembled so that he could pay them, assuring the
distressed butler that they would be paid for the full month. After he had a
hackney coachman deliver Abigail’s bags to Claridge’s, he had gone to the
estate agent to arrange for the closing of the house and then to one of his
clubs, where he had left his own luggage. Then he had walked, and walked, and
walked. It was the only way he could prevent himself from ordering a post
chaise and rushing home to wait for Abigail, and he knew he must not do that.
For both of them to leave and arrive almost at the same time would certainly
raise doubts in the minds of those closest to them.

With considerable self-control, Arthur remained in London
for another ten days and arrived at Stonar Magna late enough so that he did not
need to speak to anyone except his valet that night. By morning, he had himself
well under control. He noticed that Bertram was somewhat stiff and reserved
both at breakfast and later when he presented the accumulated mail and estate
problems, but Arthur assumed that was because his secrecy had put his
secretary’s nose out of joint. Bertram was the one person to whom Arthur
usually confided the name of his current mistress and where he would be so that
he could be reached in case of dire emergency. This time he had left Bertram in
ignorance, not because he doubted his secret would be kept but because he was
afraid Bertram was also attracted to Abigail and would suffer.

Some of the correspondence was important, a few of the
estate problems were absorbing. Arthur found a great relief in having something
to think about that would divert him from the painful round of self-accusation
and equally painful hope that had occupied his mind since Abigail had left him.
He worked steadily, having luncheon brought to him rather than joining his
mother and Bertram, but his concentrated application defeated his purpose in
the end by depriving him of new material.

By midafternoon, only the dullest routine matters remained
to be done, and Bertram asked rather pointedly whether Arthur suddenly thought
him incapable of writing standard apologies and refusals to the endless
requests for money, time and company that flooded the desk of a public servant.
Arthur laughed, made some excuse, and left Bertram to his work. Idly thinking
of taking a rod out on the river, he wandered into the small drawing room
through which he could reach the gun room.

“So you have come out at last.”

Arthur started slightly and turned toward the voice. “Mama.
I did not see you there.” He was about to apologize for not finding a minute to
say good morning to her but could not think of a good excuse. The truth was
that he had been so absorbed by his occupation that he had not been thinking
about his mother.

“You are disgusting!” Violet’s voice shook with fury and
grief.

Totally stunned by this unexpected attack, Arthur simply
stared. He had known his mother might think he was off on the hunt again and
that she might be annoyed with him, but she had never, even when he was much
younger, made any direct reference to his love affairs. In the beginning he had
believed she did not know. Later he realized she had always known but
understood him too well to lecture and argue, which would only have made him
stubborn and perhaps resulted in excesses.

“It is no wonder you have tried to hide from me,” she
continued when he made no answer. “I have often grieved over the fact that you
could not find a woman to suit you and made do with shallow substitutes, but I
have never before realized that it was
you
who was shallow, that all you
sought was an outlet for your lechery. I never knew that instead of grieving I
should have been ashamed of you—bitterly, bitterly ashamed. I never thought you
could be so crude, so unfeeling, so…
so
disgusting.”