A Woman's Estate (35 page)

“Hush,” Arthur murmured, rocking her in his arms. “Hush, my
love. I will find a way. Roger will know, or if he does not, he will know whom
to ask.”

Abigail’s soft sobs stopped abruptly. “You mean there is a
way for us to marry and still let me be free and independent?”

Arthur had not been thinking along that line at all. He had
really hoped that Abigail would find all the legal arrangements so confusing
and tiring that she could be convinced to accept a relatively standard
contract, perhaps containing a clause about her damned bookshop. At worst,
whatever she owned could be settled on her in some way. He was aware that
Sabrina’s property was secured in such a way that her husband could not touch
it and the income from it went direct into Sabrina’s hands. However, Sabrina
could not sell the lands or control the invested capital without the approval
of a group of trustees, so Arthur did not think of her as being free and
independent. The words annoyed him.

“What do you plan to do with this independence and freedom
you crave?” Arthur asked with considerably less tenderness in his voice than the
last time he spoke.

“Nothing,” Abigail said and kissed his neck.

“Then what the devil do you need it for?”

Her tears had dried; her heart was pounding with joy. There
was a way! There was a way to be a wife and still to be free! The irritation in
Arthur’s voice told her that the path to her goal might not be either easy to
find or easy to lead Arthur along, but it was there. Now it was worthwhile to
try to make clear to Arthur why they had to find and walk that path. If only
there was a way to explain so that he would not feel she did not trust him, a
way to express the need to have the
right
to make a choice, even if she
never used it.

“In a way I do not really know,” she said quietly. “I not
only love you, Arthur, I know you. I know you would never do anything to hurt
me, that you will care for me and provide for me with great generosity. Yet, if
I were your slave, unable to live except by your charity—”

“Wife!” Arthur interrupted sharply. “Wife, not slave.”

“There is no difference I know of between the two states
except that a man cannot sell his wife—at least, I think he cannot, although I
have heard of cases—”

“Abigail! Are you insane? What do you mean there is no
difference between a wife and a slave?”

“I do not know all the law,” she answered, pulling free of
his lax arms and sitting up, “but a slave cannot own anything, and neither can
a wife. A slave cannot choose his place of domicile, and neither can a wife.
The law gives permission for a man to beat his slave, and it gives permission
for a man to beat his wife. A slave cannot do anything to control the destiny
of his children, and neither can a wife.”

Arthur sat up too and placed his hands gently on her
shoulders. “My God,” he said, his voice soft with horror, “what did Francis do
to you?”

“Actually nothing,” Abigail replied, “but when he was drunk
and I would not give him money or I refused to pay his debts, he would threaten
me, so I went to a judge to learn what rights I had. I was afraid Francis would
grow worse, you see. And I learned I had no rights at all. If Francis borrowed
money or bought what we did not need and could not afford,
I
could be
put into debtors’ prison. Francis could force me to move away from the shop, or
he could take our children away, or… The details do not matter, but if you can
point out the difference between a wife and a slave, I will be glad to listen.”

“A wife is loved, and that love is her protection,” Arthur
said rather coldly. “And I am not a drunkard or a gambler.”

Abigail cupped his face in her hands. “I said before that my
needs and my fears have nothing to do with you. I was trying to explain why I
used the word ‘slave’.” She felt his head pull back, away from her caressing
hands, and she tightened her grip a little. “No, Arthur, listen. When a person
is abjectly in the power of another, there is a pall of fear—no, fear is too
strong a word for what I mean—a pall of anxiety that distorts the hearing and
vision of the one who is powerless. What might be meant as a light jest or a
loving reminder comes to sound like a gibe or a threat, and this breeds
resentment.”

“I cannot believe this.” Arthur cut her off and pulled away.
“You cannot tell me that my mother spent her life in fear of my father,
misinterpreting and resenting everything he said to her.”

“No,” Abigail agreed, “because she had been taught to bury
such feelings and never had any reason, since your father was a good husband,
to uncover them. Besides, I do not think your mother has my flammable
disposition.”

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur said, ignoring the analysis of
his mother Abigail had offered. “By now I am accustomed to your temper. Why
should I suddenly change if we were to marry?”

“I do not say you will, but men are known to exact
considerably different behavior from their wives than they endured from the
same women during courtship.”

This was true enough, and Arthur stared at Abigail, fuming.
“Oh, and do you plan to have a legal agreement to cover my behavior, too?”

“I will not need one,” Abigail pointed out, “if I control my
own income and my children and have the right to live where I please. If we
cannot agree, I would simply go away.”

“Do you think I would try to hold you if you really wished
to leave me?” Arthur snarled. “I give you my word I would not.”

“Arthur,” Abigail said gently, touching his hand, “you are
asking me to accept your word about many things. Why are you not willing to
accept mine that I will do nothing of which you would disapprove with my
freedom and independence, except buy books for my shop, and I promise to do
that so discreetly that no one will know. We have lived together these two
months, plus those ten days in London, and all that time I have been completely
free and independent. Have you any complaint of my behavior to you?”

There was an ominous silence, and Abigail’s breath caught.
She thought she had failed. Then Arthur’s deep chuckle made her gasp with joy
and fling her arms around him with such force that he fell back on the pillow.

“How
dare
you ask such a question?” he growled,
hugging her so hard her ribs creaked. “How dare you? Your behavior to me is one
long offense. If I say the sky is blue, you say it is gray—”

“Only when it is raining,” Abigail suggested in a meek
little voice that made Arthur laugh again.

“You are the most contumacious, quarrelsome female I have
ever come across in my life,” he went on severely.

“I am
not
contumacious and quarrelsome,” Abigail
said, biting him. “I am simply a rational being, and when you say something
that is clearly irrational, I must—”

Arthur made a wordless noise, a mixture of growl and laugh
that was perfectly expressive of his mingled exasperation and amusement, and
muted his mischievous tormentor by kissing her. Abigail worked her arms out
from behind his neck, running one hand down along his body to stroke his
buttocks and the back of his thighs while the other played gently with his ear.
He groaned softly.

“We have to be up early tomorrow,” he whispered against her
mouth, but his hands were already caressing her.

“Then perhaps you had better stop,” Abigail murmured, insinuating
a hand between them to touch him more intimately.

He turned so that he was flat on his back and moved his leg
to allow her hand freer movement. “Perhaps,” he admitted, then sighed and
shuddered as Abigail ran a nail ever so gently around the bared head of his
shaft, “but I think…oh God…I think…yes, just there…oh, ah…I think…”

It was perfectly clear that he was not thinking at all, but
since he had one of Abigail’s breasts cupped in his hand, running his thumb
back and forth across her nipple, and the fingers of his other hand were very
busy between her thighs, she was in no condition to criticize. Her own soft
exclamations were no more sensible than his. In fact, a slightly complaining
note soon entered her voice, and she slid her hand across her lover’s thigh to
tug at him in a silent appeal for him to mount her.

When her caresses ceased, Arthur uttered a deep sigh, and
the slight, involuntary thrusts of his hips in response to her touches stopped.
“I think,” he said rather breathlessly but more firmly than might be expected
as he seized her and lifted her over him, “that I will punish you by making you
do all the work this time.”

“Oh, dear heart,” Abigail sighed as she eased herself down
and wriggled them into perfect joining, “if this punishment fits my crime, I
must be sure to commit that crime again
very
often.”

The punishment was so delightful and came to so satisfactory
an ending that it was not until Arthur left her that Abigail realized nothing
had been settled. He had not agreed that he would accept a marriage in which
his wife was not bound by the customary laws. He had, in fact, cleverly
diverted her when she had made the telling point that if he wanted her to
accept his word as to his future behavior, he must be willing to accept hers.

Still, Abigail was happy as she snuggled into her
blankets—for it was growing very cold at night in the Scottish hills—even
though she missed Arthur’s warmth. There was a way, she thought, smiling into
the dark and feeling free of the mountain of misery that usually settled on her
when Arthur left. She would find the way and find a solicitor who would wrap up
the meaning of whatever articles must be signed in long, complimentary phrases
that would not hurt her darling’s pride. Then, although perhaps he would never
understand, they would
both
be free to live and quarrel, laugh and love.

Chapter Twenty-One

No more about marriage was said between Abigail and Arthur
during the journey home, although both thought a good deal about the subject.
Abigail was very happy; she would have bubbled over like warm champagne except
that Arthur’s mood did not match hers. He was not angry or bad tempered but
rather somber, as if something was worrying him. Naturally, Abigail assumed
that he was trying to digest the unpalatable idea of a wife who could not be
forced into obedience but must be trusted to do for love what others did
because they had no choice. She was not angry because he could not accept the
idea immediately or joyously. Partly because of her own frustrations, Abigail
understood that it was hard to give up power. Because she felt sympathy with
his struggle, she moderated her joy and was more gentle than usual, trying to
show him that he did not have to own her to make her compliant with his mood.

Actually, Abigail misinterpreted the reasons for Arthur’s
thoughtfulness. Because he had not intended to marry and his mother and father
had had few conflicts with each other, Arthur had never had any reason to
question the situation of a married woman. In addition, Arthur had been so
deeply shocked by Abigail’s identification of wife and slave that he had
instinctively rejected her remarks as a hysterical reaction to her marriage
with Francis. The notion, however, would not leave him. Now whenever he thought
“wife”, he also thought “slave”, and the idea sickened him.

One of the things that had drawn Arthur into the Whig party
in opposition to his family’s longstanding affiliation with the Tories was his
violent opposition not only to the slave trade but to slavery as an institution.
Although he had long outgrown belief in Rousseau’s “noble savage”, neither
could he accept that primitive ways of life made black, brown or red men less
than men. He had noted that people of those races who were educated like white
men acted like white men, particularly if the education began when they were
children. And even if those were exceptional cases, as his opponents argued, to
his mind they proved the direction in which the races were tending and that
they had a right to develop freely without being preyed upon. He had spoken
again and again in the House in favor of abolition of slavery; how ridiculous
it would be for him to embrace it in the form of marriage.

The first time that notion occurred to him, he had told
himself it was nonsense. Women were different, weaker vessels, in mind as well
as in body. It was the standard answer, equivalent to the arguments of those
who supported slavery on the grounds that other races were subhuman, and Arthur
was too self-aware, too intelligent and analytical, to be able to deceive
himself for long. There was evidence enough in his own family to contradict the
“weaker vessel” theory. His mother had more political sense than many men
elected to office. Leonie had been as heroic as any man during the revolution
in France. Sabrina was as good a diplomat as any man on the Foreign Office
staff, and Abigail was certainly a better classical scholar than he was.

The last resort his mind found was that Abigail had
exaggerated or misunderstood the legal situation, or that it was different in
the United States than in England. This conclusion seemed very logical, and he
determined that as soon as he had got through the business that had piled up
while he had been away in Scotland, he would ride over and speak to Roger, who
would be able, he was certain, to show him the flaws in Abigail’s statements.
Then he could explain to her that she had been mistaken and that a wife was not
a slave by English law. Having convinced himself that such injustice could not
exist in reality, Arthur felt much more cheerful, and the last few days on the
road were very merry, with everyone in the highest spirits.

Since the whole household came out to greet them at Rutupiae
Hall, his parting from Abigail was necessarily formal, but even that did not
matter. All the shadows were gone from her eyes, and she squeezed his fingers
in a small, hidden gesture of intimacy when he kissed her hand in farewell. He
already ached for her body because it had been impossible for them to be
together at all in the inns in which they had lodged during the journey home,
and he knew he would miss her bitterly all day every day, but only until they
could be married, and now that she was willing, that could not be long delayed.

Arthur’s pleasant self-delusion had its first collision with
reality that very evening. Although his doubts concerning Bertram’s involvement
with the attacks on Victor had been resolved, he still worried about whether
Bertram was concealing a desire for Abigail. Therefore, he had wished to consult
his mother before telling Bertram that Abigail had agreed to marry him. He was
reasonably sure Bertram had guessed by now that he cared for Abigail and she
for him, but he wanted to make his announcement in the way that would be least
painful.

Thus, Arthur had waited until they had all parted for the
night and then tapped on his mother’s dressing-room door. He was rather
surprised when she came to let him in herself and said so.

Violet shook her head, gestured him toward a chair, sat down
herself, and smiled. “My love, it was perfectly plain that you were bursting
with some news you wished to impart privately either to Bertram or to me, so I
thought I would read for half an hour before I rang for my maid.”

“I had no idea I was so transparent,” Arthur said, grinning.
“I hope you are more perceptive than others, but I am too happy to care.
Abigail has agreed to marry me.”

“I am so glad for you, Arthur.” Violet’s eyes shone with
pleasure, and amusement, for she had guessed what he was waiting to tell her as
soon as he had come into the house. “She is
exactly
the right woman for
you,” Violet continued, “and I know you will be very happy. You can ride over
and ask the vicar to read the banns tomorrow, and—oh, does Abigail know a
notice must be sent to the
Gazette
to announce the betrothal?”

Arthur had grinned even more broadly at Violet’s first
words. He had known she would be pleased, but as she went on speaking, he began
to look very surprised. He
was
eager to marry as quickly as possible to
regain all the privileges of a husband—like sleeping through the night in
Abigail’s bed when it suited him and seeing her lovely face each morning.
Still, his mother’s haste seemed almost indecent, as if—

“I haven’t got her with child, Mama,” Arthur said in a
shocked voice. “There is no need for such haste that I cannot speak to the
vicar on Sunday after the service.”

“Then why—?” Violet began, and realizing in the next instant
what such a question implied, cried, “Oh, Arthur, I did not mean that you are
not worth marrying or that Abigail does not love you—” but his expression made
her put her hand to her lips and fall silent.

“What
did
you mean?” he asked, and before she could
answer he added, “You are a very beautiful woman still, Mama, and you are by no
means too old even now to marry again. You cannot tell me you have not had many
opportunities to do so. Why have you remained a widow?”

“I loved your father,” she replied.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, lifting a brow sardonically. “And I
remember that for a few years after his death you did not dance or flirt.
Moreover, I am very sure that you remember Papa with great tenderness, but, my
dear, dear Mama, you cannot pretend you have been a grieving widow for the past
ten years at least.”

Violet shrugged. “It is more comfortable to be a widow. I
can do what I like when I like. I can buy what I like—”

“Are you saying that Papa kept you short?” Arthur
interrupted, rather horrified.

“No, no, of course not,” Violet assured him. “In fact, I
never outspent my pin money—it was very generous. It was merely that your
father liked to—to know what I was doing. But there was never a
harsh
word about money between us, only—only sometimes he would laugh at me, or point
out that something I had done was foolish, or say he could have got a better
price if I had asked him. He was always right, Arthur, and never angry or
unpleasant, and, indeed, as I grew older it happened much less frequently,
but,” she laughed, a shade awkwardly, “somehow I always felt just a tiny
bit…uneasy. And there were other small things, all very small, and I never
minded because I loved him so, but—but I now prefer that no one has the
right
to tell me what to do or oversee me—”

She had been gazing past him, not to conceal her expression
but because she was seeing the past, and when her thoughts reached the present
again, she focused her eyes on her son, and stopped speaking abruptly. Then she
said, “What is it, Arthur?”

“Did you feel like a slave?” he asked.

Violet burst out laughing. “How can you ask such a silly
question? Of course not! A slave! How ridiculous you are. How could I feel like
a slave when your father loved me so dearly? I felt cherished.”

Or smothered
, Arthur thought, the scales having been
peeled from his eyes. However, he had no intention of distressing his mother by
peeling the scales of self-delusion from hers—if she was self-deluded. She
had
been cherished, and she was not a fighter like Abigail, although she was just
as clever—perhaps cleverer. Caught in a silken net, his mother would not
struggle to tear it apart and perhaps destroy herself and everything else in
the process but work gently at the knots here and there until she made it
comfortable or escaped entirely.

“Arthur, what has got into you?” she continued. “Your father
and I were
very
happy together. I do not believe he was ever unfaithful
to me or gave me a single real cause for grief. Why
do
you look so
grim?”

Arthur shook his head and smiled wryly. “I didn’t realize I
was looking grim. I believe you, Mama. You have not shattered my illusions and
broken my heart.”

He had, of course, never doubted the happiness of his
parents’ marriage. The thinned lips and set expression his mother had so aptly
termed grim had been engendered by the fact that the very phrases he had formed
in his mind—a silken net was a trap, however silken it was—proved Abigail’s
point. It was true that Abigail might have exaggerated the intensity of the
feelings his mother had buried, but there must be some truth to her contention
that all wives did sometimes feel helpless and resentful.

Still, he did not believe that the law could be as
unreasonable as Abigail implied. He felt she was mixing up the results of
affection—for he was certain it was love rather than fear that had made his
mother docile—with the mandates of the law. In any case, he was not going to
describe to his mother Abigail’s rather extreme views on the conditions of
matrimony. On the other hand, it was quite clear his mama was not going to
accept any light dismissal of his troubled expression. She would not put her
hands on her hips like a fishwife and
demand
the truth or pugnaciously
accuse him of lying, the way Abigail would. Involuntarily, Arthur smiled. His
mother was a wonderful woman, but he was very tired of being watched, wheedled,
and trapped. Fortunately he had a perfect red herring at hand with which to
distract Violet.

“And if I was looking grim, it has nothing to do with you
and Father,” he went on. “I guess my mind was really on what you said first.
I’m afraid that it will be some time before we can get the banns read.”

Arthur went on to point out that his relationship with
Abigail was complicated by his being the trustee for her children and executor
of her husband’s estate and that conditions of conflict of interest might be
said to exist. “But what I really wanted to talk to you about,” he added, “I
mean the reason I didn’t just announce the fact that Abigail had agreed to
marry me as soon as I came in, was that I wanted to ask what you think is the
best way to break the news to Bertram.”

“Break the news to Bertram?” Violet echoed. “I am
really
beginning to think you’ve gone mad, Arthur. Why should you need to
break
the news to Bertram? Bertram will be delighted.”

The certainty of her statement wiped the question of marital
legalities from Arthur’s mind. What had been a diversion had become of primary
importance. If it was not a hopeless love for Abigail that was causing the
reserve in Bertram’s manner—what was it?

“I think you are mistaken,” Arthur answered, hoping he was
not exhibiting more than a simple concern for Bertram’s feelings would merit,
and went on to tell Violet of his suspicions concerning Bertram’s desire to
marry.

Violet frowned thoughtfully. “You may be right about his
wish to have a wife and family,” she said slowly. “I have felt that something
was troubling him recently, but I assure you it is not Abigail in whom he is
interested—if he has any particular woman in mind. He is fond of her, but not
that way, as you would have discovered in a minute if you had not been so
worried about hurting him.” Violet paused and reconsidered what she had said in
the light of Arthur’s revelation, then added, “No, I am sure. Whatever is on
Bertram’s mind, it is not Abigail.”

Arthur’s heart sank. The report he had had from the bailiff
of the estate Bertram had visited had cleared Bertram of being the gunman, but
he could have employed someone else. No, that was ridiculous. Bertram was much
too clever to put himself into the hands of some villain. Yet the only result
of the investigation to discover who had fired the shots from the mill had been
proof that Dick was
not
the target and that it was likely no local
person had been involved.

Beyond that there had been virtually no evidence to indicate
who was guilty, although Price had harrowed the area with a fine-toothed comb
with the aid of his fellow gamekeepers. First, Price and the Rutupiae head
gamekeeper, Vastaly, questioned every owner of a gun on both estates and in the
surrounding villages until they knew where each person capable of firing the
weapon had been that morning. Then, they had enlisted the help of gamekeepers
and bailiffs on neighboring estates—and the man had to come from within walking
distance because no horse had been tethered within the vicinity of the mill,
nor could anyone outside of the vicinity have known that Abigail and her
children intended to picnic there.