A Woman's Estate (43 page)

Abigail frowned. “Is there anything very urgent? I promised
the children we could ride to the mill and meet the…Broadbridges. Is that the
right name?”

“Yes, my lady, Broadbridge is the name,” Jameson replied.
“Most excellent people, who will be glad to have Lord Lydden and Lady Daphne
and their friends visit whenever they like. As to ‘urgent’, my lady, only one
matter I feel I must mention at once. I changed the repair clause in the leases
as you directed, and explained to the tenants. They have agreed, and the leases
have been sent on to Mr. Deedes. But it was my understanding that Sneath’s lease
was
not
to be renewed—that was in the letter you wrote in March. I had
told him to go, but Mr. Lydden said—”

“Let me get my letter book, Mr. Jameson. So much has
happened that I don’t remember what I wrote.”

In fact, Abigail did not really remember Sneath or why she
had objected to his tenancy and hoped the letter would revive her memory. She
went to her desk and opened the drawer in which her letter books were kept, but
the last—the book Griselda had taken back with her—was not there. Repressing an
unladylike exclamation, Abigail turned back to Jameson. If she asked Griselda
for that letter book and Griselda could not remember at once where she had put
it, the girl would feel dreadful. It was not worth the bother.

“It isn’t here,” she said to Jameson. “Miss Lydden may have
forgotten to put it here, or I might not have told her to do so.” She hesitated
and asked, “Do you feel I was unjust about Sneath?”

“Not at all,” Jameson replied. “I was delighted when you
told me you wanted a new tenant on that land. I would have complained about him
myself, except that I never liked him, not from the time Mr. Lydden insisted he
be put on old Tooker’s farm. The old man was getting beyond the work, I know,
and he had had very bad luck, losing his two older sons. Still, the youngest
boy was getting into the way of farming and would have done very well in a
matter of a few years. Tooker had always been a good tenant, and I felt his
lease should have been renewed, even if the farm were not producing what it
could for a while. Well, that’s neither here nor there, but I was afraid you
would think as Mr. Lydden did when I complained about Sneath—that I was
prejudiced against him.”

Abigail smiled at him warmly. “You are far too good at your
work to allow personal prejudice to blind you to a well-run farm, Mr. Jameson,
and you know that I do not always agree with Mr. Lydden on the way the estate
should be managed. If you think my decision about Sneath was fair, I am
confident it was. Tell him again to go, no matter what Mr. Lydden says, and if
Tooker and his family have not found another place that they like, you can ask
them to come back.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said. “It is truly a pleasure to
work for you.”

“Thank
you
,” Abigail replied, and laughed. “I hope
your opinion remains as good after I tell you that in a week or two I intend to
unloose Victor on you. I would greatly appreciate it if you would sometimes
take him about with you when you visit the farms. Sir Arthur will do what he
can, but Victor must come to know his own lands and tenants, not those of
Stonar.”

“You honor me, my lady.” Jameson smiled and shook his head.
“Lord Lydden may not be very interested in what I have to show him, but some of
it will sink in, and in a few years he will feel very differently.”

“I think so too,” Abigail agreed, “because, you know,
Francis used to talk about Rutupiae, and Victor sees that Sir Arthur, whom he
admires, is interested in and concerned about the land.” She looked at the
clock on the mantel and
tchk’d
irritably. “I must go, but I will be here
by ten tomorrow morning, and then I will come regularly until we have gotten
through everything.”

But Abigail’s desire to leave was thwarted once again. As
she opened the door, a footman was coming down the corridor toward her. He
informed her that Hilda had returned and was waiting for her in the drawing
room. For one moment Abigail considered asking the footman to say she had
already gone, but she knew Hilda would scold him, and if he weakened and
confessed—or Hilda learned some other way that she had been there—more hard
feel­ings would be generated.

Sighing, Abigail went to the drawing room, only to be
greeted with a screech of “What are
you
doing here? This is no longer
your
house. By
marrying
Sir Arthur—”

Abigail’s fury with Hilda, which had been overlaid by her
satisfaction in soothing Empson and Howing and her talk with Jameson, woke to
renewed life. “You are entirely mistaken,” she snarled, cutting Hilda off
mid-screech. “Victor is still my son. I am still his guardian, and Sir Arthur is
still his trustee. All those facts add up to make me mistress of Rutupiae Hall
until my son comes to his majority.”

“That cannot be true,” Hilda shrieked. “You
cannot
have Rutupiae’s interests as much at heart as those of Stonar. There is a
thing—a legal thing—”

“If you mean conflict of interest,” Abigail broke in again,
her sense of triumph and satisfaction cooling her anger, “you are both mistaken
about my feeling for my son’s property and ignorant of the facts. Sir Arthur
made very careful arrangements to permit us to remain guardian and trustee
without any conflict of interest.”

“Mr. Deedes will hear of this!” Hilda yelled. “He will know
how to prevent a greedy, treacherous foreigner from grabbing everything.”

“Mr. Deedes was involved in making the arrangements to
assure my continued control of the estate, and it will be useless for you to
torment him to change them, for he cannot do so.” Abigail spoke quite calmly
now, mentally blessing Arthur again and again for his foresight and care. “I
am
still mistress of Rutupiae Hall—and as such, I am warning you not to meddle
with the staff. I will tell you plainly and clearly that Mr. Empson and Mrs.
Howing and most of the other servants are necessary to me, to Victor and to
Rutupiae.
You are not
. You may live here if you like. You may
not
distress
my
servants. If you do, I will have you removed from this
house, no matter how dreadful the scandal. I will call in the bailiffs if I
must.”

Hilda fell back in her chair, so outraged that she could not
speak, and Abigail turned away without waiting for her to catch her breath,
only to see Eustace standing by the open door, which he had seemingly been too
stunned to close. The sight annoyed Abigail, for she had vented her anger and
did not want Hilda further embarrassed by knowing that the servants had heard
her being put in her place. Thus, she decided to give Eustace a taste of the
same medicine and turned on him. “And
I
manage the farms too,” she
added. “Sneath’s lease will
not
be renewed.”

Then she walked past him and went toward the front door, but
before she reached it, Empson emerged from a side passage and hurried to open
it for her. Abigail almost gave him a dressing down, too. She knew he had been
in that passage only in order to listen. She controlled herself, however,
realizing that it would be useless and unwise to lash out at Empson,
particularly that day. Then, although his face was as wooden as ever, Empson
glanced up as he bowed and said, “Thank you, my lady.”

Somehow, the fact that he seemed to have guessed what she
was thinking and to have confessed, apologized and answered her without saying
a single word about the subject restored her mood. With the return of her good
temper, Abigail remembered to inform Empson that she would be back the next day
in case of any difficulty and to ask him to tell Griselda to find the letter
book she had brought back from London and put it in the top drawer of her desk.

This request caused one more furor, but one of which Abigail
remained unaware. When Empson transmitted the message, Griselda frowned and
muttered that she
had
put the copies of Abigail’s letters in that
drawer. She went to look herself, assuming Abigail had not seen the letter book
in her haste. But when she found it really was missing, Griselda became hysterical
and accused her mother and brother of stealing Abigail’s correspondence.

Eustace sprang to his feet and slapped her hard. “You
feebleminded, mewling bitch,” he snarled. “You’re always interfering in what
does not concern you. Anyway, what would Mama or I want with Abigail’s
letters?”

Griselda cowered away, shielding her face with her arm and
sobbing.

“Do not strike her, Eustace,” Hilda shrieked. “She deserves
it, but the next thing you know, she will be off to Stonar Magna to complain to
Abigail—you know she has toadied to her—and
we
will be put out of our
home.”

Eustace grasped his sister’s arm. “You would not do that,
would you?” he asked. His voice was soft now, but there was a threat in it. He
stared into Griselda’s face, watching her eyes grow more and more frightened,
then he shook her arm and let her go. “Bah! You are an idiot. The letter book
must be there.”

He returned a few minutes later, carrying the book. “God,
what fools!” he exclaimed as he entered the room. “Did you not think to look on
the ledge below the drawer? It must have been on top, and when Abigail opened
the drawer, it was pushed back and fell down. Or perhaps Mr. Jameson added
something and pushed it down.”

Griselda looked stricken and even more frightened. She
stared at Eustace with dilated eyes and a hand to her lips, but he paid her no
attention, going to the fireplace to set the letter book on the mantelpiece. As
he raised his arms, Griselda gave a gasp, buried her face in her hands, and
began to sob. Eustace gave an exaggerated sigh and turned toward her.

“Oh, very well,” he said in a bored voice, “you are
forgiven. Do not continue to make those revolting noises—or, if you cannot
stop, go away.”

Still hiding her face and crying as if her heart were
breaking, Griselda fled.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Four mornings of concentrated application had settled the
estate matters about which Mr. Jameson had doubts and had proved an ideal way
to exercise GoGo as well. Abigail found that walking through the wood made her
nervous. She knew it was ridiculous, but they had never caught the man who
fired at Victor, and she found herself thinking about that incident and looking
over her shoulder both the first and second times she had gone to Rutupiae. It
was more pleasant to ride the long way down the drive from Stonar to the main
road, and then up the drive to Rutupiae.

Sometimes Abigail started early and rode quite a distance
before settling down to work, and the exercise made the work a pleasure. In
fact, when it was done, she felt somewhat regretful and asked almost wistfully
whether Mr. Jameson would need her again. Misunderstanding, he assured her that
he would not need to trouble her anymore now that he was certain what she
wanted done. However, he pointed out that Abigail had been away from Rutupiae a
long while, and some tenants had personal problems they wished to bring to her.
Abigail nodded, feeling both pleased and remorseful; she had forgotten.

“Tell them that I will be here and welcome anyone who wishes
to speak to me every Tuesday and Thursday from ten in the morning until half
after noon. I think, if you do not mind, I will use your office for that. I am
afraid the library might be rather awesome to them.”

“Yes,” Jameson agreed, “they’ll speak more freely in my
office.”

There were other advantages to riding, Abigail discovered.
If she left GoGo at the stables, she had only to walk across the yard to Mr.
Jameson’s office, and there was no chance at all that she would encounter
Eustace or Hilda in the house. Actually, Abigail was not too eager to meet
Griselda, either. Griselda had been so distraught over the letter book,
stumbling over apologies and unable to meet Abigail’s eyes even after Abigail
had said half a dozen times it did not matter, that Abigail could barely resist
shaking the girl and screaming at her. It was far better for both of them,
Abigail thought, not to see each other until Griselda calmed down.

It was not until the end of August, when life had settled
into a pleasant, easy routine, that Abigail was able to begin her regular
morning visits to Rutupiae. By then Victor and Daphne had had their fill of
their mother’s attention and were ready to renew local friendships and
activities. The neighbors had paid their formal calls, Abigail had returned
most of them, and invitations were beginning to arrive. Their first guests had
arrived and departed, and another group was due the following week. Abigail
gave them little thought; they would cause no trouble. The staff at Stonar
Magna was accustomed to many guests and virtually ran itself.

More important than all else was that Bertram seemed to have
recovered his spirits. He was no longer silent and morose, doing his work but
avoiding all other contact with her and Arthur as much as possible. True,
Arthur said he was not really back to normal, that there was still something
troubling him, but Abigail could not see it—Bertram was as she had known him
when they first met. In any case, there was no sense worrying about what could
not be helped, she had told Arthur. Shortly after Bertram had returned to
London from escorting Griselda home, he had rejected Arthur’s offer of any help
with such fury and violence that Abigail felt—and Arthur agreed—that they had
better let Bertram deal with his problems alone. Even if Arthur were right and
Bertram had not recovered completely, at least he was no longer like a dead man
at the dinner table.

The single dark spot in Abigail’s bright July was Albert
Gallatin’s letter saying that the British delegation to the peace conference
had never arrived. However, by the end of the month she was assured that they
were, indeed, under way, and a second letter—really no more than a note—from
Albert confirmed that they had arrived on 7 August. Abigail was very eager for
news about the proposals being made, but unfortunately for her, none of the
political visitors scheduled for August were at all interested in the American
question. They told her little, and that little was all very discouraging.
Worse yet, Arthur had suddenly turned his back on anything to do with America
and would not discuss it with anyone.

This distressed Abigail so much that about ten days after
the British delegation had arrived in Ghent she had stopped Arthur when their
guests had left the drawing room and gone to bed and angrily accused him of being
lazy and selfish, indifferent to the losses and suffering of war because he
wished to avoid a job he thought unpleasant. He shook his head, but he turned
away to fill a glass with wine and sipped it without looking at her or
answering her. Caught in the grip of temper, Abigail would not accept the
refusal to discuss the topic further.

“Answer me, Arthur,” she insisted.

“You know I am neither lazy nor indifferent,” he said. “I
was joking with Roger about his suggestion to Liverpool, but I am
not
suited to negotiation. I am too aware that I would do more harm than good by my
impatience with necessary protocol and too clear a statement of the issues. I
would not have accepted the appointment.”

“I cannot believe that anything you did could be worse than
the stupidities that Goulburn is committing,” Abigail cried. “He is supposed to
know something about America, but he is worse than the others. At least you
understand which issues are of real importance. Arthur, ask Roger to suggest
you to Liverpool again. I am so afraid the conference will fail.”

“For God’s sake, Abigail, let me be.” Arthur put down his
glass so hard the thin stem cracked. He dropped the bowl of the glass to the
table and turned on his wife. “Do you not realize that with regard to the
question of peace with America, I am between the devil and the deep blue sea?
Even if Liverpool would reconsider, I would have to refuse.”

Startled by his anger, Abigail came closer and asked more
quietly, “Why?”

“Because as a member of the commission, I would be required
to make the best arrangement I could for my country—and that would not please
you at all, my dear,” he snapped, his voice bitter.

“That isn’t true, Arthur,” Abigail protested, but there was
no aggression in the statement, and her eyes pleaded for understanding. “I am
sure that the best peace for Britain is one that the Americans can accept
without shame. Do you not agree with that?”

Arthur sighed and drew her close, leaning his head against
hers. “Whether I agree or not is not the point, Abigail. As a member of a
negotiating team, I would be required to try to obtain agreement to the
articles the government proposes, not write my own.”

“Even if you knew the articles were bad or unwise?” Abigail
asked in a small voice. “Could you not explain to Bathurst or Liverpool
why
such articles were rejected and thus save much hard feeling, perhaps even the
breaking off of the negotiations?”

He hesitated as if thinking over the subject and then said,
“No, I cannot take the chance. My love, you do not, I fear, realize how deeply
you are committed to the American cause. I cannot become involved in a
situation in which urging what I feel to be my country’s best interests may
cost me my wife.”

Abigail pushed away, out of his embrace, so she could see
his face. “Good God,” she breathed, “you believe that. Arthur, my darling,
whatever have I done to make you think that any political difference could
affect my love for you? I swear that even if you were as rabid against the
United States as the
Courier
, I would go on loving you.” She took his
face between her hands and smiled at him. “Our life would most likely be a very
uncomfortable one, with arguments day and night, but have you not yet come to
trust me to separate impersonal quarrels from personal ones?”

He took her hands from his face and held them between his
own. “I wish I were sure that you
do
regard American affairs as
impersonal.”

“I am sure,” Abigail replied. “Why should you doubt it?”

“Because there are people, real people that you know
involved.” Arthur dropped his eyes and released her hands. “You have
friends…close friends…”

“Of course,” Abigail said, feeling very puzzled. “But
Arthur, even if some dreadful thing happened to those I care for, it would not
be
your
fault. I would be very sad—heartbroken—if harm should befall my
friends, but I would not love you the less.” She raised a hand and touched his
chin. “Look at me, Arthur.” And when he did, she said very earnestly, “Even if
it
were
your fault, I do not believe I would love you any less.”

The fact that she did not seem to understand what he meant
by “friends”, that she had again said she loved him, made him ashamed of
himself. Her eyes were unshadowed and hid nothing. He touched her cheek gently.
“Perhaps I have been very foolish—” He finally smiled back at her, but with a
cynical twist to his lips. “And perhaps you do not understand yourself. In
either case, I still feel it much for the best that Liverpool did not take up
Roger’s suggestion—and I have no intention, whatever you say, of offering
myself up as a sacrifice.”

“Now what objection can you find to helping advance a good
cause?” Abigail asked, a note of asperity stealing into her voice.

Partly because her assurances had comforted him and partly
because he felt the matter had been settled and there was no chance of his
being involved, Arthur felt much happier. He laughed and said lightly, “Mostly
that I could not win, whatever I did. As Roger said, Liverpool does not love
me. It is far too likely that he would discount any suggestion I made, just because
I made it. And, Abigail, my love, although I agree with you on some points, I
disagree on many others.”

“Why?” Abigail snapped. “Have you, too, succumbed to terror
of the ‘American threat’? Do you, too, feel that America must be crushed now so
that she will not in the future rival Britain? How can you—?”

“I have certainly succumbed to terror of
one
American
threat,” Arthur teased.

“Which—” Abigail had begun, and then realized he was joking.
“Monster!” she exclaimed and threw her arms around his neck. “I am
not
an American or a threat.”

“So you
say
,” Arthur pointed out after he had
succumbed again—though not to terror—and kissed her, “but I find it hard to
believe.”

His voice was light, still teasing, and Abigail could see
that he was more at ease than he had been when the conversation started.
Nonetheless, she realized that as her concern increased, she must have become
less and less subtle in pressing her points. She did not abandon the topic of
American affairs completely or change her pro-American viewpoint—that would
only have made Arthur more suspicious—but she tried to be more moderate.

Although all her care only amused Arthur, who saw through
her easily enough, to her chagrin, the discussion and her change in behavior
did affect him. Thus, when Roger arrived at Stonar Magna unexpectedly on 31
August specifically to discuss certain demands the government was making of the
American peace commission, Arthur did not, as he had previously done, refuse to
talk about the subject. Having listened to Roger explain the British desire to
create a buffer between Canada and the United States by demanding that America
cede territory to the Indians, which neither the British nor the Americans
could later purchase, Arthur shrugged.

“I would assume this is a device for breaking off the
negotiations—”

“No, not at all,” Roger interrupted.

“Then the demand is ridiculous,” Arthur said impatiently.
“Surely Bathurst must realize that he is asking the United States to cede about
one-third of their territory to the Indians? They have just purchased part of
it from France. Would
you
be likely to agree to such a condition?”

Roger frowned. “I am not sure Bathurst does realize the
extent of the territory involved,” he said slowly, “but extent is a point that
can be discussed. The American delegation has refused to
recognize
the
article. They claim that it was not involved in the cause of the war. But
surely they must understand that we now require a safeguard against another
attack on Canada and for the tribes that were our allies.”

Arthur looked at Abigail, who had, surprisingly, not said a
word during Roger’s explanation. “Well?” he asked. “What do
you
think?”

“Have these demands been made in writing?” Abigail asked.

“I don’t know,” Roger replied, surprised. “What does it
matter?”

“If they have not been put into writing,” Abigail answered,
“the government should withdraw them at once. If they are written, it is too
late. The commissioners will send them to the United States by the next ship,
they will be published in every newspaper, and they will utterly destroy any
opposition to the war in America.”

“You are joking,” Roger said, his voice appalled. “Surely
you are joking. The American government would not
publish
a diplomatic
proposal.”

Abigail laughed at his expression. “Oh, yes they would. And
even if President Madison and the cabinet did not wish to do so, some clerk or
other functionary would carry the news—”

“But the papers would not print it,” Roger stated. “Their
licenses would be revoked.”

“Newspapers are not licensed in the United States,” Abigail
replied, laughing again. “They may be damaged by an outraged public, but the
government has no control of them. It is an amendment to the Constitution that
every citizen, so long as he does not preach the overthrow of the government by
violent
means, is free to say, write or print anything at all. But even
if it were not so, this demand for territory is
too
good a weapon. Mr.
Madison is far too clever not to use it to silence those who have opposed the
war.”