A Woman's Estate (31 page)

“What are you talking about?” Arthur got out. “Mama, what do
you think I have done?”

Violet got to her feet. “Do not make me sicker of you than I
am,” she said scornfully. “Do not pretend to me that you did not induce Abigail
to meet you in London, seduce her, and then discard her. I am through with you,
Arthur, finished. I have waited for you because I wanted to speak my mind to
you once and for all, but I will leave this house tomorrow, and I do not want
to see you or speak to you again.”

She began to move toward the door before Arthur caught his
breath, but she had not reached it before he roared, “Just you wait, damn it.
Why the hell didn’t you ask
me
what had happened before you made up a
lot of nonsense? For your information, I did not seduce and discard Abigail. In
fact, I have asked her to marry me twice—no, three times.”

Since Arthur had never in his life raised his voice to his
mother, Violet had stopped from shock as soon as he shouted. Now she stood with
her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. “Oh, Arthur, I am so sorry. Do you
mean you were not the man she went to meet in London?”

“No—I mean yes, I was the man, and for God’s sake don’t
begin making up crazy stories about Abigail now. She did nothing in London to
make me change my mind. I asked her to marry me before we decided to go, and I
asked her again just before she left me.”

He stopped speaking abruptly and sat down in the nearest
chair as if his strength had failed. Violet came back and sat down, too. “I
know Abigail loves you,” she said softly. “That was why I accused you unjustly.
I could not think of anything besides your telling her you had no serious
intentions and were tired of her that could make her so terribly unhappy. She
did her best to conceal her feelings from me, but she gave herself away when
she tried to talk about the things she had seen in London. I knew you had taken
her, they are all your favorite haunts.”

“I know she loves me.” Arthur stared down at his hands. “She
has said so over and over. And now you will ask why we are not setting a date
if she loves me and I love her and wish to marry her.” He stopped and took a
breath to steady his voice. “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know. She says she
cannot
marry me.”

“She cannot?” Violet repeated. “Oh God, do you think Francis
is still alive in a bedlam or that in her distress and confusion after his
death she perhaps married someone unsuitable and—”

“No.” Arthur heaved a sigh, part relief and part
exasperation at his continued inability to see a way to extricate Abigail from
what he thought was her dilemma. Although the discussion had put a new edge on
his pain, it had lightened the dull despair that had weighed him down. He felt
much better now that he was able to tell someone about his puzzlement and
grief.

“Francis
is
dead,” he went on slowly, reciting facts
while he sorted out just how much it was safe to tell his mother. “He was
picked up and recognized by neighbors after he was killed. I have seen his
death certificate and the depositions that accompanied it. And, not to put a
fine finish on a piece of dross, Abigail may have been shocked when Francis was
killed, but she suffered little distress and no confusion. There is nothing of
the frail, dependent flowerlet about Abigail. Anyway, she has assured me there
is no legal impediment. The problem is inside her, but I cannot understand what
she was trying to tell me. All she would
say
was that she had to be
herself and had to be free.”

Arthur hoped uneasily that his mother would not pursue the
problem too closely. It would not do, he had decided, to tell her his guesses
about Abigail’s temporary attempt to assuage her loneliness in America. He
could appreciate Abigail’s sense of honor, no matter how much it hurt him, but
his mother might not.

Actually, Violet came much closer to understanding the truth
than Arthur had. Even though she had never met any of the problems that had
plagued Abigail and given her so sharp an appreciation of the independence of
the widowed state, “be herself…be free” woke an echo in Violet’s heart.
Violet’s husband had appreciated her as well as loved her. She had suffered few
of the frustrations endured by many women, and she had loved her husband
dearly. Nonetheless, the words meant something to her they could not mean to
Arthur. It flicked through her mind that she was herself and free and had
little inclination to marry again either, but she crushed down that thought as
it applied to Abigail and Arthur. He needed a wife and an heir. Joseph and his
son needed to be released from the threat of inheriting Arthur’s position and
estate. Abigail really would be much happier as Arthur’s wife. There must be
some way to work out a compromise.

“And then,” Arthur went on grimly, “instead of behaving like
a rational human being, I acted like a lunatic and said that if she would not
marry me, we had better not be lovers either.”

Violet did not reply, partly because she had a dreadful
desire to laugh, which would have been very unkind to her unhappy son. It was
not that she failed to feel sympathy for him but that the turnabout struck her
funny. It did serve Arthur right, having spoken so ill of marriage and resisted
it so long, to fall in love with a woman who did not wish to marry.

“What am I to do, Mama?” he asked.

There was so much misery in the question that all the humor
of the situation deserted Violet. She offered what comfort she could but
admitted she had no immediate answer. This idea and that flitted through her
mind, but before she could make any concrete suggestion, a crash of thunder and
gust of rain broke off the discussion. She and Arthur both leapt to shut the
windows that stood wide open. They had been so absorbed in their conversation
that they had not noticed the storm rolling in from the sea, a few miles away.

That sudden storm caught Abigail and her daughter when they
were halfway to the old mill. Abigail had done her best to hide her depression
from Victor and Daphne but had succeeded only partially. The children did not
seem to realize she was unhappy, but they sensed something was wrong and had
developed a disconcerting tendency to cling to her, figuratively, of course, by
including her in all their activities.

Actually, Abigail had no objection. She found going to
picnics and escorting a group to examine the Roman ruins for which Rutupiae
Hall was named and which were carefully preserved about half a mile from the
house, diverted her somewhat. The dull depression that held her never left her
completely, but it was assuaged by her children’s lively friends. Originally
that afternoon had been reserved to call on the Ellingtons to discuss the
details of Daphne’s accompanying them when they took their invalid daughter to
the seaside, but a tear-spotted note had come for Abigail the preceding evening
saying that little Charlene had been taken ill suddenly and seriously. The
holiday, Charlene’s mother wrote sadly, would have to be put off until her
daughter had recovered.

Daphne had been very upset, for she was fond of Charlene,
who occupied her long hours of enforced idleness with books and shared Daphne’s
love of reading. Casting around in her mind for something to divert her
daughter, Abigail remembered the child’s excitement about the old mill and that
Griselda’s letter had mentioned the place as Daphne’s choice of a picnic spot.
That evening Abigail had found a way to mention casually to Daphne the fact
that she had never seen the old mill, and had been delighted to see a spark of
enthusiasm replace the concern in her daughter’s face. Thus, she and Daphne had
set off for the mill even though there was a hint of thunder off to the east.

They had run back and found shelter in the stables, and a
few minutes later Eustace had ridden in, soaked and cursing, to be followed by
Victor and his groom. Victor was equally soaked, but he thought it great fun to
have been caught out in a violent storm. When Victor heard that his mother and
sister had intended to go to the old mill, his eyes lit up.

“I haven’t been since—oh, since I don’t know when. And I’ve
never been with Dick. Mother, Dick knows the most interesting things. Let’s all
go tomorrow.”

“I’m not sure,” Abigail began, but Victor seemed rather
crestfallen and pointed out that between riding lessons, studies with the
vicar, and other appointments he had made, he would not have another free day
all week.

“And you said we would move to one of the other houses next
week,” Victor reminded her, “and I’ll be off to school the beginning of next
month, so we won’t be able to go until next summer.”

“Are you leaving Rutupiae, Abigail?” Eustace asked.

“Not permanently,” she replied, smiling, “but I know Victor
must become acquainted with the other Lydden properties, and the people must
get to know him, so I thought we would visit Hawkhurst for a week, then stay at
the old manor at Lydden for two weeks. Meanwhile Mrs. Franklin can get their
boxes for school ready—”

“But Abigail,” Eustace protested, “I am afraid you will find
Hawkhurst and Lydden very uncomfortable. Hawkhurst is no more than a large
farmhouse. Mama
never
stayed there. And the so-called manor at Lydden is
not much better.”

“Why is that?” Abigail asked curiously. “Since the title
comes from Lydden, I would have thought it would be the main seat.”

“It was once,” Eustace answered, “but one of my ancestors
was a little peculiar. You see, back in 1580 or so the Lydden of the time got a
rush of classics to the head. Somehow he induced Queen Elizabeth to grant this
stretch of land to him so he could investigate the Roman ruins. He was so
intent on it for the next twenty years and spent so much digging up Roman
artifacts that Lydden castle was allowed to fall to ruin. Then he got into a
battle with the St. Eyres, who were already here and had been trying to get the
same piece of property, although for different reasons. It grew quite nasty, I
understand, and Rutupiae was built for spite and entailed so that it can’t be
sold and must be lived in. Naturally, no one thought it worthwhile to put up
another big house, so Lydden Manor is a manor in name only.”

“I won’t mind that,” Abigail said. “Coming from America as I
do, I am quite accustomed to smaller houses, and the children enjoy anything
new.”

Eustace frowned. “But no one has lived in either place for
years. There’s no more than a caretaker in the house. Everything will be damp
and moldy—”

“Good gracious!” Abigail exclaimed. “Then it is surely time
someone stayed there at least long enough to be certain the houses are sound
and to discover, if they are not, what repairs must be made. I shall write at
once so that sufficient staff to care for us can be brought in. Yes, all right,
Victor,” she said to her son, who was showing signs of impatience, “we will go
to the old mill tomorrow if it does not rain.” Then she turned back to Eustace.
“I had no idea the other houses might be in bad condition. I am so glad you
told me.”

Eustace seemed stunned by the glow of gratitude with which
Abigail thanked him and the determination she displayed to visit the other
properties. It was also clear to Abigail that he was not at all pleased by her
reaction to his warnings, so she made her escape before he could recover from his
surprise and point out that there was no need for her to go to either of the
houses. She could easily obtain a detailed report of their condition. Abigail
knew this perfectly well, but since her reason for moving was a desire to be
away from Rutupiae before Arthur found some reason to force a meeting, she did
not wish to have the point made.

By dinnertime she had found a counterargument—the old saw
that the farmer’s boot is the best manure, or in words that applied better to
her case, the landlord’s eye is the best paint. To her surprise Eustace did not
mention the matter, and Abigail most willingly allowed the conversation to
drift where it would or, more often, to lapse completely into another whining
monologue from Hilda. These no longer troubled her at all, for her own thoughts
were sufficiently painful and absorbing to deafen her to Hilda’s voice.

Abigail wrote her letters that evening and managed to catch
Griselda in the corridor for long enough to ask whether she would like to come
to Hawkhurst and Lydden. Griselda was a puzzle that Abigail could not fathom,
and that was interesting enough to pierce the oppression of her spirits. She
was ready to swear that Griselda was no longer afraid of her, and what she had
heard from Daphne and Victor about Aunt Griselda convinced her that there was a
delightful and amusing person buried under the awkward, meek exterior. But
since the dinner party, it had been almost impossible to get Griselda alone.
Either she was not visible—and where she disappeared to, Abigail could not
guess—or she was sitting with her mother.

Griselda glanced apprehensively over her shoulder at the
drawing room door when Abigail stopped her. “Mama would not permit it,” she
said. “I am sorry. I would have liked to come, but I know she will feel she
cannot spare me.”

“Well, will you come with me and the children to the old
mill tomorrow?” Because of Griselda’s nervousness, Abigail spoke softly. She
clutched at anything that would occupy her mind and keep her from brooding
about Arthur, and once out of the house perhaps they could talk more freely and
she could pry enough information out of Griselda to solve the oddities in her
behavior.

“If I can, I will slip out and join you,” Griselda said. She
spoke even more quietly than Abigail had, so softly that Abigail had to lean
closer to hear. “Do not wait for me or look for me, but if I can come, I will.”
And then, loosening her wrist gently from Abigail’s grip, she said more loudly,
“Mama is waiting for me. I must go.”

Despite Griselda’s warning, Abigail was surprised not to see
her at the breakfast table. Only Eustace was there when she came down, and he
seemed hurried and abstracted, so she made no real attempt at conversation. He
left only a few minutes later, but Abigail did not mind. She was pleasantly
occupied in deciding what would be best to take for a picnic lunch, for both
Victor and Daphne had assured her there would be enough to occupy them at the
old mill for the morning and early afternoon.