A Woman's Estate (34 page)

“But Victor is only a little boy,” Abigail cried. “Who could
blame him?”

“Only a madman,” Arthur said grimly. “That is why I want you
in Scotland. Madmen are persistent and can be damnably clever. It would not be
difficult to find out about the other Lydden estates and follow you there. It
is not likely, but I do not think we should take that chance. You will all be
safe in Scotland. The estate is well away from any large place a stranger might
come on business. The villages are small, and every person is known to every
other—not to mention the speech. Any Englishman would be noticed immediately.”

Arthur went on, soothing her by telling her more about the
Scottish estate and how Daphne and Victor could move around without restraint
and yet be carefully watched. His mind skidded again into its personal pit of
fear, and he reminded himself that what he had said was especially true for
Bertram, who was known to everyone. Bertram could not come within miles of the
place without being reported. Abigail hardly listened, aware of little beyond
the ebbing of the fear she had finally faced—that someone was trying to kill
her son. It was enormously comforting that Arthur had the means and the will to
protect her children.

It was not until he asked, “Then you will come?” that
Abigail realized there was one problem she had not considered at all—Griselda.
Because the attacker might think that Griselda could identify him, she was in
as much or more danger than the rest of them and must leave Rutupiae. But if
she had a hopeless love for Arthur, it would be torture for her to accompany
them. Abigail had grown fond of Griselda, but not fond enough to refuse Arthur,
and she knew that if she and Arthur were living in the same house, it would be
impossible to conceal their relationship from Griselda.

Abigail sat up and let her arms slide from around Arthur’s
neck to his shoulders. “The children and I and Dick, if he is well enough—yes.
I will have to talk to Griselda. If she does not wish to accompany us, perhaps
she can go to London or someplace else. She could start out with us and then—”

“Whatever you like,” Arthur said quickly. He kissed her once
more, then let her go and stood up. “I must go home and send an express to
Glendessary to tell them we are coming. We will leave in the morning—and that
should be reason enough for Daphne and Victor to stay in this afternoon. They
will be busy packing. It will be a long trip and some of it very rough and
better done on horse-back, so Victor can also oversee getting the horses ready.
Anyway, I will be back this afternoon to cover any details we may have missed.”

He was halfway to the door by the time Abigail had got to
her feet. “Arthur,” she called after him. He stopped and turned, about to come
back, but she shook her head. “I only wanted to say—I love you.”

His eyes, under their heavy lids, smiled. Abigail had no
idea how he created that expression, but it was the only description that fit
it. And then his lips curved, just a trifle at the corners, making him look
quite wicked. “I intend to take gross advantage of that statement, you know,”
he said softly.

Abigail laughed. “Why do you think I made it?”

A comical expression of chagrin rapidly replaced the naughty
invitation on his face. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I forgot
I
was the one
who was supposed to be resisting. It is
very
unnatural.”

“Not at all,” Abigail assured him with mock seriousness. “I
will give you a book that shows how it is done—Fielding’s
Joseph An
drews
.”

Now he lifted a brow. “Delaying tactics, my love. For some
reason you don’t want to talk to Griselda—I don’t blame you; she is the most
tiresome girl—”

“No, no, she isn’t, Arthur,” Abigail said quickly. “I have
grown truly fond of her, and the children adore her.”

He lifted his brow even higher but did not say anything
else, only making a slight sardonic bow as he went out the door. Abigail was a
little annoyed both by his too quick perception of anything she felt and by his
seemingly total lack of perception about Griselda. But Arthur had been
perfectly right about her not wanting to talk to Griselda. No matter how
Abigail dealt with the subject of going to Scotland, she knew it would hurt
Griselda—and Griselda had had enough pain in her life. Nonetheless, the girl
could not remain in Rutupiae to become the sole target of a madman. Abigail squared
her shoulders and made her way to Griselda’s room.

There was no answer to her first knock, but she persisted,
calling softly, “It is Abigail, Griselda, I must talk to you.” Then the door
opened, and she gasped. Griselda’s face was shocking—blue and purple and very
swollen. “Oh, you silly girl,” she cried. “Why did you say you did not need the
apothecary? I will—”

“But I don’t need him,” Griselda insisted. “What could he do
for me? He cannot reduce the colors, and I am not hurt beyond bruises.” She hesitated
and then said, “Please come in,” and closed the door carefully, adding in a
rather low and trembling voice, “I have thought of a tale to explain—”

“I am sorry,” Abigail interrupted, “it is too late for
explanations. Your mother knows you were at the mill. But how
could
you
be so silly, Griselda, as to believe I would permit Hilda to drive you out of
the house? I hoped we were better friends than that.”

“Mama can be very…very insistent,” Griselda said, but she
spoke as if she hardly heard her own words, and she sank down into a chair as
if her legs had become boneless.

“You were never afraid of being put out!” Abigail exclaimed
with sudden understanding. “She threatened you with something else. What was
it?”

Griselda looked out into nothing, then turned to Abigail
with a faint, sad smile. “It is nothing to worry about now. Mama is very strong
and will live, I daresay, for a long time.”

Abigail blinked. “She has the power to leave you out of her
will? I see. Well, you needn’t let that worry you, either. I promise you that
you will never be without a home or adequate care. And Eustace—”

“Please do not listen to Eustace’s assurances that he will
provide for me!” Griselda cried, and then, shaking her head, tried to laugh.
“Now that
is
silly. Mama is alive and well and likely to be so for a
long, long time. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“About what happened this morning,” Abigail said slowly, but
her mind was really turning over the fearful exclamation about Eustace.

“I cannot tell you much more,” Griselda said. “I have
thought and thought because there was something odd I saw—I thought I saw—just
as I came up the stairs. I could swear he was wearing fine boots. But I may not
be remembering correctly. I was so surprised to see a man with a gun instead of
mischievous children, and the rest of his clothing was common. He wore a rough
coat and a countryman’s hat, pulled down, with a neckerchief or a scarf that
covered the lower part of his face. That was all I saw—except the gun. I was so
frightened, I could not tell you the color of the coat or…”

Her voice faded away because Abigail was shaking her head.
Actually, Abigail had been unable to listen attentively to the beginning of
what Griselda told her because she was still so startled by Griselda’s lack of
trust in her brother. Abigail finally managed to push the idea away and
concentrate, but she knew that what Griselda was telling her would be no help
in catching the gunman, and she wanted to get the painful blow she must deal
the poor girl over with as quickly as possible.

“I am less worried about what you saw than what the madman
who shot at us saw,” Abigail said. “What I am afraid of is that he saw you, and
clearly.”

“I suppose he did,” Griselda replied, “but what can that
matter?”

“If he saw you and recognized you, it is likely that he will
feel you could have recognized him,” Abigail pointed out. “I don’t want to
frighten you, but if such a person feels you are dangerous to him, he might try
to silence you.”

Abigail’s voice had been gentle, and she took Griselda’s
hand to offer comfort, but Griselda did not look at all alarmed and, although
she pressed Abigail’s hand gently in appreciation of her support, she said
calmly, “If he had wanted to kill me, he could have done so at once. He could
have beaten my head in with the butt of his gun. Even if he ran because he was
frightened and only later thought I might know him, I do not think there can be
any danger for me. After all, I would surely have already named him if I could,
so what would be the use of trying to kill me now?”

“You
may
be right,” Abigail answered slowly, “and
Dick’s father thinks the intention was to avenge some spite against himself by
harming his son—but even if that were true, only a madman would make his
attempt when there were three other people there who could be hurt or, for that
matter, help Dick if he were only wounded. And madmen do not usually think
logically. In any case, my dear, I am too fond of you to allow you to be
exposed to danger and too worried about my children to remain here.”

“Mama will not let me go with you,” Griselda said flatly.

“Your mama has nothing to say about the matter,” Abigail
retorted. “I say you are to go, and that is that. And I will see you do not
suffer for it. Sir Arthur thinks we will be safest at his Scottish estate in
Glendessary.”

Abigail said the last sentence quickly, watching Griselda’s
face. Her pretty hazel eyes widened with a look of barely suppressed excitement
and joy. Abigail’s heart sank, for she could only believe that the emotions were
engendered by Griselda’s desire to be near Arthur. She hated to wipe out that
small hope of happiness, but she knew Arthur would be completely exasperated if
Griselda sat in corners staring at him worshipfully or fluttered about offering
to run errands or fetch things for him.

“My love,” Abigail added hurriedly, “before you say you wish
to come, I must tell you two things. The first is that arrangements can be made
for you to go elsewhere—to London, if you like—if you do not choose to come
with us after you have heard the second—which is that Arthur and I are lovers.
If you feel that our relationship would make you uncomfortable—”

“I am not so much of a prude as that,” Griselda interrupted
with a faint smile.

Abigail was so surprised that she burst out, “But…but I
thought you…you had a tendre for Arthur!”

“Sir Arthur?” Griselda exclaimed. “Oh no!” And then she
blushed so hotly that tears rose to her eyes. “That was Mama,” she said in a
stifled voice. “She thought she could force me on him, trick him in some way so
that he would feel obligated to offer for me. It was dreadful. Every chance
Mama could find, she made me approach him, but as soon as I could, I ran away.
Bertram helped me.”

Although Griselda’s voice had faded to a whisper on the last
three words, Abigail had to acknowledge that the girl gave no evidence of
fighting shock or jealousy. The bruises made her expression hard to read, but
the only strong emotion she seemed to feel was shame at her mother’s efforts to
trap an unwilling man into marriage.

“Do you not find Arthur attractive?” Abigail asked
curiously.

For an instant Griselda looked anxious, and then she shook
her head. “I hope I do not offend you,” she said shyly, “but you asked me
before if we were not good enough friends for me to trust you—and I must do
that. I believe Sir Arthur to be a fine, kind man, but I must admit it has
always puzzled me why so many—” She stopped abruptly and her eyes widened and
again filled with tears. “Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean—”

Abigail laughed. “I am well aware of Arthur’s…er…past rakish
proclivities. You need not be afraid of shocking me or hurting me. I am very
glad you will be able to come with us without feeling uncomfortable, and I beg
your pardon for prying into your private life, but you looked so eager and
excited when I mentioned going to Scotland that I was afraid my dear Arthur’s
fatal charm had unintentionally bewitched you.”

“Oh no,” Griselda replied, smiling. “I would have been
equally delighted whether Sir Arthur were coming or not and no matter where you
said we were going. You see, except for an hour or two once in a while, I have
never been anywhere without Mama.”

Chapter Twenty

Arthur was somewhat less delighted than Griselda when he
learned that she would accompany them, but by the time they reached the house
near Glendessary, he was in a mood to embrace the world. An express letter had
overtaken them on the road, and its contents seemed to eliminate Bertram as the
man who had shot at Abigail’s party from the mill. In the warmth of his relief,
Arthur would have found his worst enemy delightful company, however, even when
the glow had faded he had to admit that Griselda was a different person when
freed of her mother’s influence. He found her gentle wit amusing and was
surprised to discover that when she could be drawn into conversation, she was
quite intelligent.

Nonetheless, she made him slightly uncomfortable. Despite
the fact that she was taller than Abigail and not really physically fragile,
Griselda seemed extremely delicate—as if a single harshness would crush her
nearly out of existence. Arthur found himself not only speaking to her in a
gentle voice but examining every word he addressed to her lest it contain a
hidden meaning that could hurt her. He did not mind because he enjoyed the
remarks and grateful smiles his care won, but it was still a relief to turn to
Abigail, to whom he could say anything that came into his head without the
slightest concern that her robust spirit would be damaged.

And despite Arthur’s care, Griselda remained quite shy of
him and confessed to Abigail that she found so dominant a man overpowering. She
looked with a mixture of terror and admiration at Abigail, who argued with
Arthur freely, sometimes at the top of her lungs, when their opinions diverged.
In time, Griselda grew accustomed to it and was even amused as she realized the
participants were not quarreling and not hurting each other, although each was
quite sincere about the subject under discussion. But in the beginning of the
visit, she preferred to spend her time with Daphne and Victor. It was an
arrangement that worked out very well because it permitted the children to
become aware only very slowly that Sir Arthur and their mother had a special
fondness for each other. Since this knowledge grew concurrently with their own
growing affection for him, it was no great shock.

The developing affection was mutual. Although Arthur was a
bachelor, he was accustomed to children since his relatives often left
offspring who were problems for one reason or another with his mother. He had
liked Abigail’s children as soon as he met them
because
they were hers.
As he grew to know them, he liked them for themselves. Now he was learning to
love them. He talked gravely of books and plants with Daphne and enjoyed her serious
and absorbed efforts when she was permitted to preside at the tea table. He
showed Victor the forest that covered much of the estate and discussed with him
the culling and management of the elk herds, the necessary balance between
forest for the game animals, grazing for the sheep and cattle, and tillage for
the turnips and potatoes, which were the people’s staple foods, together with
the small amount of oats, barley, and wheat they grew.

The nights were Abigail’s. They had been exhausted the
evening they arrived and by rights should have tumbled into sleep as soon as
they were in bed, but neither Arthur nor Abigail could sleep, and as soon as
the house was quiet they met each other in the narrow corridor that separated
their rooms, each afraid that the other would be reluctant. Later, they laughed
heartily about that, but at the moment the proof of the other’s desire only
added fuel to the flames, and they came together in an explosion that was made
all the more brutal by the need for silence. Because she knew she must not cry
out, Abigail bit Arthur so hard in the convulsion of her climax that he bled.
And in the morning she would thank God that the climate of Scotland was so cool
because it would permit her to wear a long-sleeved, high-necked gown that would
conceal her bruises.

When it was over and they had caught their breath, they
whispered their simultaneous apologies. Then they cosseted and cuddled each
other. First Abigail bathed Arthur’s shoulder with cold water and dried it
until the bleeding stopped, then he began to kiss all her bruises. When his
lips reached her mount of Venus, she crossed her legs over his head and pulled
his body around so that she could return the compliment he was paying her. One
advantage of the position was that
neither
could cry out.

They had slept after that. Arthur knew he should go back to
his own bed, but he simply could not find the resolution to do so. Abigail was
already asleep, and he had shrugged and snuggled closer, thinking with a tinge
of satisfaction that if they were caught she would
have
to marry him. He
had wakened before dawn, however, in a cold sweat of fear, knowing that he did
not want marriage on those terms—not with Abigail. But the solid darkness
showed there was still time. Arthur told himself he only meant to kiss her
gently while she slept, but she woke at once with a response that made it clear
to him he had been deceiving himself and his intentions went a good deal
further than one kiss.

Half asleep and still dulled with fatigue, they made a long,
lingering process of their act of love. They stroked each other and played with
fingers and lips on every sensitive spot. Arthur even took a long time in
entering, sliding himself along and between the nether lips, letting only the
head enter, stopping altogether with the tip of his shaft just touching her to
suck at Abigail’s breasts. Oddly, although she knew she would come to climax as
soon as he began to thrust in earnest, Abigail was not impatient. And when he
at last yielded to his own need, her joy came in a pulsing flood that nearly
deprived her of her senses—but was never so acute that she had to grip him
convulsively or grit her teeth against screaming.

When he finished that time, Arthur did not lie beside her
kissing her gently and murmuring love words. Groaning softly, he dragged
himself upright and went away. Abigail lay looking into the dark, knowing why
he had gone, knowing that if she wanted the comfort of his body beside her
through the night and in the morning, she would have to marry him. She pushed
the thought away and found sleep.

It became harder and harder to avoid the thought of
marriage. Arthur came every night, and every night it was clear it was harder
for him to go and harder for her to let him go. They did not always make love;
however, they felt a deep and ever-growing need for each other—to touch, to lie
embraced, to exchange a lazy word or two about the day’s activities or the
children.

As August passed, Abigail kept Arthur with her later and
later. She was happy enough during the day and while he lay beside her at
night, but when she was alone in the dark, her dread of going back to Rutupiae
haunted her. At first it had been only a little weight on her heart, but night
by night it grew until it was like a black mountain, suffocating her. She was
not afraid of whoever had attacked them. The terror of that incident had faded
with time. When she did think of it, she had the feeling that it had all been
some kind of mistake, that the man in the mill had been expecting something or
someone other than her party to come out of the woods. Certainly nothing worse
had befallen her children in Scotland than a scraped knee or a twisted ankle.
In any case, after only one or two days at home, Victor and Daphne would be
safe in schools where they would be under supervision almost every moment. It
was the loss of Arthur she dreaded.

She tried to tell herself it was ridiculous, that there was
no question of losing him, that she could see him every day if she liked and
that they could make love at the cottage whenever they wanted. But she knew she
was lying to herself. If they found it difficult to part now, knowing the other
was only across the corridor and knowing they would be together again at the
breakfast table, what would it do to them to live in separate houses? She and
Arthur would suffer the constant irritation of being close, but not close
enough to find each other in minutes to offer a tidbit of news, exchange a
laughing comment, or confide a sudden idea. They could meet every day, but not
spontaneously, as those who live together do. The ease would be gone; they
would be in a hurry to transmit everything they had been bottling up and the
joy of the exchanges would be lost. Worst of all she feared the meetings to
satisfy their sexual tension. They would be far more frustrating than these
nights in Scotland.

Day by day it became plainer to Abigail that Arthur had been
right. The kind of love they shared was married love, and it was not possible
for them, because of her obligations to her children and Arthur’s to his
political activities, to defy convention and live together except in the
married state. She knew she would either have to marry Arthur or break free of
him completely. And the children’s fondness for him was another complication.
Alone in the dark she wept softly. For what reason was it better to learn to
hate the man you loved, because you could not have enough of him or because he
was doing everything in his power to care for you and protect you?

The night before they started for home, Arthur made love to
her with a desperate intensity that told Abigail he had come to the same
conclusions she had. When they were finished, he lay very still, but she knew
he was not sleeping. She realized he must feel like someone whose dearest friend
had suddenly tied him down and begun to torture him and refused to give any
reason for what he was doing. That was unfair. Even if Arthur could not under­stand
and was angry, he had a right to know why she did not want to marry him.

“It is mostly the bookshop,” she said.

If Abigail had doubted how closely their minds were attuned,
his reply would have been answer enough. He did not ask what she was talking
about. He did not sound in the least surprised by the peculiar introduction of
a subject neither had mentioned after she had confessed in London to ownership
of the bookshop. It was quite apparent that he understood she had begun to
explain, if she could, why she had refused him. His voice was very gentle, his
arm closed a little more tightly around her when he said, “But I told you I did
not mind the bookshop.”

“You did not mind it as something done in the past a long
way away, but you would mind if your wife was a bookseller.”

“It would certainly be ridiculous for my wife to be a
bookseller,” Arthur agreed mildly, confused by what she had said.

His heart had leapt at her first statement with the hope
that Abigail had been silly enough to have refused him because she thought it
necessary to protect him from marrying a person beneath him. Her next sentence
had killed that hope. Arthur decided he had to take the chance of a gentle
probe.

“You were a bookseller to earn your livelihood,” he went on.
“Surely you cannot think you would need for anything once you became my wife.”

“I knew you would not understand,” she said.

Her voice was quiet, dull, and hopeless. Arthur could feel
the wet of her tears on his shoulder although she did not sob. “You have not
told me very much, my dear,” he pointed out, “although I am beginning to guess
that you wish to keep this bookshop. And you are quite right. I do not
understand. It is silly to own a shop in America when you are in England and
the countries are at war. Nonetheless, my love, if that is your sticking point
I assure you that I will marry you gladly, even as the owner of a bookshop.”

“And then you would own it.”

This time there was a long moment of silence before Arthur
answered. “Now you do have to explain yourself,” he said carefully. “I would
like to know what accusation I must defend myself against. Do you think I will
rob you of whatever income the shop brings or—”

“I knew you would be angry,” Abigail sighed. “You know quite
well I do not think you would rob me. I think you would quietly sell my shop as
soon as you thought I had forgotten about it and carefully invest the money for
me—and give me every penny of the interest as well as a diamond necklace, or
whatever you thought would please me best, to distract me when I discovered
what you had done.”

Since a very similar notion
had
flitted through
Arthur’s mind, there was another silence. Then he said, “Very well, I will give
you my word not to do anything without your express permission.”

She shook her head. “I should be sure your word would bind
you. My head is sure, but my heart is not. And I am afraid you have offered
your word without really considering what it means. I would not be a silent
owner. I will be doing the business of the shop.” She felt the arm that held
her stiffen. He did not like that. The tears that had stopped flowing while she
was speaking filled her eyes again. “And it is not only the shop, my love,” she
went on. “I
hate
the state of a married woman. I hate the knowledge of
helplessness.”

“What the devil does that mean?” Arthur asked, and this time
his voice was angry. “What do you think I will do to you if you become my
wife?”

“Nothing!” Abigail cried. “It has nothing to do with you. I
knew you would not understand. Have you ever been utterly powerless? Do you
realize that a married woman does not own the clothes she wears? That her husband
has the
right
to sell them? Has the right to take from her what she has
earned by her own labor? That if a husband commits a crime, a wife, no matter
how innocent, can be imprisoned for it?”

She was shaking, and Arthur, who had relaxed his grip on her
when he asked his angry question, put both arms around her and held her tight.
“I am not Francis,” he said, but she began to cry despairingly, and he realized
she was not blackening him with the tar of Francis’ habits. He understood she
did not fear that he would sell her clothes or get into a drunken brawl for
which he could not pay the damage so that she would be threatened if payment
was not made. Her very soul was scarred.