A Woman's Estate (40 page)

Abigail did not respond to the gentle teasing. Her forehead
was creased in thought. “I do not think it would be wise for me to come here if
I have something to tell you,” she said, “and we have just agreed that you
cannot come to me. Ah! I know. If James can call at Lackington’s bookshop every
day or two, I could leave a note for him there, and he can leave one for me if
you wish to speak to me. Of course, in any emergency you must write or come
direct to the house—I will give you the direction. Discretion can be carried
too far.”

It was, of course, fashionable to be a little late to social
affairs. Hostesses counted on it to cast a last-minute glance over their
arrangements. To be nearly two hours late, however, was not at all usual, and
not what Abigail had intended. After Baring had convinced her that it would not
be wise to acknowledge her friendship with Albert publicly, she had changed her
mind about missing Lady Sarah’s breakfast, and when she set out for Seymour
Street she had expected to stay with Albert only half an hour and go on to Lady
Sarah’s, arriving well within the period for fashionable lateness.

Still, a Venetian breakfast was not meant to be a formal
entertainment, and Abigail knew that a large number of guests had been invited.
The guests would wander about through the reception rooms and the garden,
choosing what they wished to eat from a buffet, often a little at a time, and
sitting at little scattered tables now with one and then with another. Abigail
thought she might be able to enter quietly and mix with the guests in such a
way that each thought she had been with a different group earlier. She had
slipped through the garden gate, found her hostess and complimented her
laughingly on being so popular with her guests that there had been no
opportunity before to mention how very delightful the affair was.

Since Lady Sarah received Abigail’s tribute with a pleased
smile and no look of surprise, Abigail felt her plan had succeeded, concealed a
sigh of relief, and made light conversation. Lady Sarah’s attention was soon
drawn away, and Abigail moved toward the drawing room to chat with others.
Through the open doors, however, she heard the strident bray of Hilda’s voice
and hurriedly turned away. She was going to have to listen to Hilda at dinner,
and that was enough.

Reminded about the dinner, Abigail realized it was an
excellent excuse to circulate rapidly to impress her presence on as many people
as possible. To each she said how sorry she was not to have been able to stop
to talk at length earlier, adding that she wanted at least to say goodbye, as
she was on her way out to prepare for her own party that evening. During the
height of the London Season, this was a common situation, as two and three
social events often took place every day. No one doubted Abigail’s excuse, nor
were the people she chose to tell surprised at not having been invited since
they were not in political circles and assumed it was a political party.

Actually, Abigail was giving only a small private dinner for
a few of her neighbors in Kent, which was why Hilda and Eustace had been
invited, and it was Hilda who was nearly her downfall. Having outstayed her
welcome at Lady Sarah’s, owing to her need to detain her hostess for half an
hour to complain of the draft from the doors open to the garden, the service
and some of the dishes, Hilda was rather late in arriving at Abigail’s party.
She and Eustace entered after all the other guests.

The moment she laid eyes on Abigail, Hilda brayed, “Where
were you this morning? Lady Sarah said you were coming to her breakfast, but
you weren’t there.”

“Of course I was,” Abigail replied, but her breath had
caught for an instant and guilt made her color rise.

“Oh no, you were not,” Hilda insisted. “I wanted to speak to
you about allowing Griselda to go home. If you did not need her, you could have
sent her to me instead of letting her go to Rutupiae, where she will just
indulge her idleness and lachrymose humors. I could make use of her very
easily.”

A double fury gripped Abigail, partly simple rage at the
possible disclosure of her little deception but also because she wondered if
Hilda was not right. Perhaps she should not have given in so easily to Griselda’s
desire to go home. Her flush deepened as she said, “I
was
at Lady
Sarah’s, Hilda. There was an awful crush—”

“I looked all over for you,” Hilda interrupted, her beady
eyes gleaming with spite at the sight of Abigail’s discomfort. “I couldn’t find
you.”

“If Abigail says she was there, I’m sure she was, Mother,”
Eustace suggested soothingly.

Somehow, his statement made everything worse. The other
guests had paid little attention up to that point. There had been a momentary
hiatus in the conversation when Hilda’s strident voice made her accusation, but
being well acquainted with her constant complaints, the guests had gone back to
their talk as soon as she mentioned Griselda. After Eustace’s assertion,
however, an uncomfortable silence fell.

“I
was
there,” Abigail exclaimed, her voice shaking
with ill-controlled rage. “I don’t know where you looked for me. You were in
the drawing room—I heard your voice. I was out in the garden. If you don’t
believe me, ask Lady Sarah. I spoke to her and to Lady Lade and to Miss Power.
Perhaps I was a little late in arriving. I had business to attend to this
morning.”

If anyone asked, Abigail intended to mention the leases that
had come from Jameson at Rutupiae, but the actual business that had made her
late was in her mind, and her color, which had been fading as she saw several
amused glances cast at Hilda, rose again. Abigail was satisfied. She knew the
hidden amusement was because her company felt she had been deliberately
avoiding Hilda. Unfortunately, Abigail never glanced at the one face she should
have examined, but it never entered her mind that her husband could have any
doubts about her.

Arthur put a hand casually on the mantelpiece and looked
down into the fire. The graceful indolence of his posture proclaimed his contempt
for and disinterest in any hint of the scandal Hilda clearly wished to
imply—but his eyes were blind with pain. Where did Abigail go? Arthur wondered.
Whom did she see? Five, no six times now, his attention had been drawn to the
fact that she had not been where she claimed she would be. Each previous time,
any doubt that had flickered through his mind had been soothed by the easy
indifference with which she explained. This time the ease was gone. Arthur knew
his wife. This time she had done something of which she was ashamed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Arthur had been prepared for a dreadfully dull evening since
he was not at all interested in social gossip. Twice a year at Stonar Magna and
once during the Season he was host to his neighbors from Kent at a “select”
dinner party. Violet had explained this to Abigail—in fact, before she went to
Bath she had left for her daughter-in-law what amounted to a book of
instructions on obligations and proper behavior. She had also told Arthur she
would not spend the Season with them.

“I will come for two or three weeks at the end of April or
the beginning of May,” Violet had said, “to see my own friends, but it is
Abigail who must be acknowledged as your hostess, Arthur. Besides, I want to
see spring in the country again.” She smiled slightly. “I don’t suppose you
know, my love, but I was a country girl. I loved your father more than
daffodils and violets, but I have not seen them except cut and dying, poor
things, for almost thirty-five years. I cannot tell you how happy I am to have
no obligations to drag me to Town. I will stay with Joseph and Irma and see
spring as it is meant to be.”

Although he concealed it well, offering Abigail nothing but
support and assurances, Arthur had been a little worried about how his American-bred
wife would manage and feared that between her temper and her all-too-forthright
nature she would offend people and be “cut” by social leaders. To his delight,
Abigail had adhered faithfully to Violet’s book of instructions, and with its
help—despite being hampered by so different a background—had slid efficiently
through the social-shark-infested waters of a London Season and the complex
political tangle. In one way her background was helpful; to be a successful
shopkeeper, particularly in a bookshop where most of the clients were upper
class and well educated, she had learned to hold her own without offending.

Abigail’s adaptability had rather surprised Arthur because
in private he so easily generated explosions from her volatile temper, but he
had been very proud of her success—until this evening. For the first time, as
he stared into the fire, he allowed himself consciously to wonder whether his
wife was a supremely good actress. Did she turn her strong opinions on and off
according to the person and situation? Was that look of perfect honesty no more
than a mask like those the actors in ancient Greece once wore? And what of the
looks of love, the perfect physical response to his passion—were they too
perfect?

At that point, just when the pain became too much to bear,
Waggoner announced that dinner was served, and years of rigid training induced
in Arthur the correct response. The movement—offering his arm to Hilda, who was
the lady of highest rank, seeing her to her chair, going to his own—reduced to
a dull ache the spasm of agony that had seized him. Then there were hours of
the kind of talk that barely touched the surface of Arthur’s brain. For once he
was grateful for Hilda. She talked at him, neither needing nor expecting any
reply. But even when he turned to Lady Vernon, he was able to listen and answer
while his deeper thoughts ran on a different path.

They veered wildly from an impulse to attack Abigail and
wring the truth from her, to utter rejection of his own suspicions. What, after
all, were those suspicions based on? A blush or two. He knew that Abigail
blushed with rage. He had seen her do so often enough. Certainly Hilda had
given her reason enough to be angry. Why was he so sure she was blushing with
guilt? Was it not because of his own previous life? Was he equating Abigail
with the many women who had not been where they said they would be because they
were—illicitly—with him?

A glance down the table showed him Abigail talking
pleasantly with Lord Vernon—about horses, no doubt, since Lord Vernon seldom
talked about anything else. There was nothing in her face or manner that he
could identify as different, yet his heart contracted, and anger roiled under
his polite attentiveness to his partner.
She is guilty
! his mind raged.
Guilty
and ashamed
! However, Arthur was not insane, and he fought down the impulse
to jump up and demand an immediate answer—and when the fury subsided, the
doubts returned.

In fact, Arthur had judged Abigail correctly—if for the
wrong reason. Abigail was not much more interested in horses and hunting than
Arthur was in gossip. Thus, as Lord Vernon pontificated on the subjects he knew
best, she nodded and smiled—and her mind wandered to her most recent source of
irritation. Further consideration of Hilda’s accusation had brought home to her
a realization of what she had done. She had committed treason! She did not
regret the thing itself because she was so sure it was best that America not be
defeated, but she wished someone else had passed the news. If it got about that
Arthur’s wife had betrayed Britain to the American enemy, either he would have
to separate from her or he would be finished in politics. He might be finished
in any event. Who would trust a man who blabbed military confidences to his
wife? It would not matter that she had not obtained the news from Arthur and
that he might not even know. He would be blamed anyway.

Later, after dinner was over and the party was back in the
drawing room, some playing whist and others chatting, another aspect of the
situation came to her. Arthur
himself
would despise her if he knew her
to be a traitor. She remembered now his fury when she had first defended
America. Just because Arthur was too wise to be vindictive and agree with the
common demand for reparations and the humbling of the “rebels” did not imply
that he would agree the United States must not suffer any major defeat. And
even if he understood the eventual bad results of a successful British attack
and correspondingly harsh treaty, he would
never
accept her method of
preventing it.

This revelation gave Abigail considerable food for thought.
Guilt urged her to confess and promise amendment. Practical common sense bade
her to hold her tongue. There was no reason on earth why poor Arthur should
suffer for her decision to act as a spy, and to tell him would be to place him
in the unenviable position of either condoning what she had done or denouncing
her to the authorities. Not that Abigail seriously feared her husband would
betray her, but he would be made uncomfortable by the knowledge that, strictly
speaking, he should have done so.
And
, a little rebellious voice
whispered inside her,
even if he does not betray that you have spied for the
United States, he will make you promise never to do it again, perhaps never to
see Albert again.

Partly because of the absence of their minds, both host and
hostess were even more cordial than usual. Still, no matter how warmly their
guests were pressed to have one more cup of tea and told that it was still
early, at last the evening came to an end. By the time the door closed behind
the last two guests—Hilda and Eustace, naturally—Abigail had decided firmly
that for his own good Arthur must never know what she had done. She smiled at
him and then sighed.

“Another duty done, thank God,” she remarked. “They are good
people, but so dreadfully dull.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed stiffly, and then asked in a rush,
“Where were you, Abigail?”

The question shocked her. It had not occurred to her that
Arthur would not, like all the others, simply assume that Hilda was trying to
blow a nothing up into a scandal. Since no other reference had been made to
Lady Sarah’s breakfast during the whole evening, Abigail had put that matter
out of her mind. She had prepared no explanation—all she knew was that she
dared not tell the truth.

“I
was
at the breakfast,” she repeated, and seeing
the disbelief and anger in his face, her guilt and fear combined to make her
angry, too. “How dare you?” she gasped, and then her voice rose in rage. “Are
you equating
me
with the whores you have played games with all your
life? I can assure you that if I were of a mind to sample the field, I would
not have bothered to marry.”

Arthur stood staring down at her, knowing what she said was
true. First he felt a wash of relief because his initial reaction was to the
natural connection built up in his mind over the years, husband-cuckold. Then
he felt ashamed momentarily, realizing that his past experience of the many
married women who seemed only too eager to find their satisfaction outside
their vows had distorted his view. But he knew too, that Abigail’s anger was
wrong, not natural for her. She should have laughed at him or kissed him and
explained. Something was hidden behind that anger. He shook his head.

“I am not accusing you of having an affair,” he said, “but I
am also certain that although you may have appeared at Lady Sarah’s, it must
have been a very brief appearance.”

Abigail also knew she had made the wrong response. That
threw her further off balance, and she panicked. In desperation she cried, “It
is none of your business.”

“What?” Arthur exclaimed, his voice also rising. “You are my
wife.
Everything
you do is my business, and it is my
right
to
know—”

“No!” she shrieked. “I am a person, not only a wife.” And
she whirled and ran up the stairs and into her dressing room, where she slammed
the door.

Once there she leaned, shaking, against the wall, thanking
God that it was not her custom to have her maid waiting for her. If Abigail did
not summon her by eleven, she left a nightgown and peignoir lying ready for her
mistress and went off to bed. It was much more enjoyable, Abigail had found, to
get Arthur to help her should she find difficulty in undressing. Indeed, the
sight of her nightclothes brought to Abigail’s mind the many times she had
called him to her assistance, often when she could have managed very well
herself. She uttered a sob and shuddered.

Abigail knew she had no right to say what she had said.
Arthur never treated her as less than a person who had every right to normal
privacy. He never examined her letters—either those that came to the house or
those she sent out. Even when she asked him to frank them for her, he scrawled
his name on them without bothering to look at the address. This very morning he
had passed the material from Rutupiae to her with hardly a glance. She
must
tell him something, but she could not tell him the truth. And then a chill of
fear passed through her. Alex would tell him…

With that thought came an enlightenment that might bring
salvation. Abigail paused a moment longer to collect her thoughts, and then
hurried through the bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that the
door to Arthur’s dressing room was not shut. She was only just in time, he was
in the act of crossing his room to close the door.

“Arthur,” she called, “don’t shut me out.”

He hesitated, then came into the bedroom and pulled the door
closed behind him. From that Abigail knew that he had already rung for his
valet, and she would have only a few minutes. If she had not convinced him she
was telling the truth by the time his man announced his arrival by tapping on
the door, Arthur would use that as an excuse to leave her.

“Forgive me,” she began. “I had no right to say that.”

He shrugged. “It is your mania,” he admitted, his voice
cold. “I suppose I should have phrased my objection to your refusal to explain
differently.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean I had no right to say it was
none of your business—but I was still angry because you thought I would cheat.
I never would, Arthur, never. I don’t believe I will ever love another man as I
love you, but if it should happen, if something should change the way we feel
about each other—I would go away. I would never live with you and cheat you.”

He looked down into the lovely violet eyes brimming with
tears. He could barely resist her statement of love. It was a struggle not to
take her in his arms and say all was forgiven, that he did not care what had
delayed her. Yet if he did that, Arthur knew he would feel a fool, feel that he
was being manipulated like a puppet, or worse, like a beast whose brain was
ruled by his genitals. Even knowing, he almost yielded. It was Abigail who
saved him. She had paused to sniff and steady her voice, but he was just about
to draw her to him when she shook her head and went on.

Abigail was not stupid. She had seen the struggle in her
husband’s face, and she knew she had won. She could stop right now, and he
would never ask again—but a little sore spot would remain where she had bruised
his pride. To tell him what she had planned, even though it was no longer
necessary, would ease that—and save any new questions being asked if Alex
Baring happened to mention his visit.

“And worse than that,” she added, biting her lip, “the only
reason the idea that you suspected me of being unfaithful came into my head was
because I was furious that you didn’t believe me. I thought I had been so
clever. I had made everyone think that Hilda was simply trying to create
trouble—and you saw through me. Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry. One minute after I ran
up, I knew how stupid I was. You noticed because you cared more than any of the
others. Francis would never have noticed.”

“Perhaps he was fortunate.”

“Now you are just being spiteful,” Abigail said with a very
tentative smile. “I did have a reason for not wanting to explain to everyone
why I was late. You see, I had a note from Albert—” She hesitated as a
blankness flickered across Arthur’s expression and, assuming it was because he
did not recognize the name, continued, “Albert Gallatin. He has been appointed
one of the members of the peace commission and has come to London. We were
close friends in the United States, and I wished to invite him to stay with us
while he was here.”

“Stay with us?” Arthur repeated.