A Woman's Estate (44 page)

“But it is
not
a demand for territory,” Roger
protested.

Arthur had been watching Abigail with a look of mingled
approval and relief. He had expected her to fly into a rage or burst into tears
when Roger described the British conditions for peace. Instead of arguing
against the conditions, however, she had warned Roger about the trouble they
might cause. Her moderation reassured Arthur. He relaxed, and in a lifelong
response took up the cudgels for those he perceived as the underdog.

“The Americans will certainly see it as a demand for
territory,” Arthur said with a wry smile, “particularly since I cannot find
that any Canadian territory is included in the area to be ceded.”

“Some is,” Roger insisted defensively, and when Arthur
laughed, added, “You cannot expect the victor—”

“In any case,” Arthur interrupted, “the Americans will not
accept the terms. They will insist on making their own peace with the Indians.
After all, they must live with them, and they will not accept our attempt to
interfere, any more than we would permit Russia to interfere between us and
them.”

“They may be forced to accept,” Roger said.

“Do not count your chicks before they hatch,” Arthur
remarked. “Do you not remember what Wellington said about fighting over hostile
territory? It will cost a fortune to subdue the Americans to the point where
they will cede territory—and I do not think Parliament will support the
government in this proposal either—not to mention what the other nations will
make of it at Vienna.”

“And do not say the other nations will not know,” Abigail
added. “I assure you that they will be told.”

Roger looked uncomfortable but did not deny that news of the
proposal would get to the other delegates in Vienna. He argued for a few
minutes more that it was not a demand for territory, but Arthur’s responses
made him look more and more discontented, and at last he sighed and admitted
that Liverpool and he might have been somewhat self-deceived in their
interpretation of the conditions. After he left, Arthur lifted Abigail’s chin
and smiled into her worried eyes.

“It’s all right, love,” he said comfortingly. “Lord
Liverpool is not a brilliant man, but he is a very conscientious one. He will
listen to what Roger has to say and will think it over carefully.”

Abigail sighed. “I hope so,” she replied soberly. “I know
you think I am only concerned for my friends in America, but that is not true.
I have been over some of the taxes with Mr. Jameson, and if they are raised, I
will have to raise the rents. I am afraid some of Victor’s tenants will be
severely hurt by that.”

“I am well aware of it,” Arthur agreed. “Many of my own
people are in no better case.”

Over the next week political affairs receded from Abigail’s
mind, and she sent Mr. Jameson a note to say she would not come to Rutupiae on
Tuesday and Thursday as usual because she was too busy getting Victor and
Daphne off to school again. She was relieved to see that both seemed quite
willing to go, although Victor did voice his regret at having to part with Dick
Price. Still, he knew he would see the gamekeeper’s son on each vacation, so it
was not difficult for Abigail to distract him by giving permission for him to
travel with only a servant as the older boys did. Daphne wanted Abigail to
come, however, so she did and stayed a day to see her daughter settled.

Abigail set out for home in an extraordinarily lighthearted
mood. When she realized her pleasure was owing to being rid of her children,
she suffered from a few pangs of guilt, but she shrugged those off. Victor and
Daphne would never know how glad she was to be able to give her undivided
attention to her husband. She was very surprised at how much she had missed
Arthur during the short separation and was so eager to get back to him that she
traveled in long stages and arrived after dinner, very tired and very glad of
having that excuse to go directly to bed. However, she did not sleep. She did
not expect that Arthur would keep her waiting long.

He did not, but when he came into their bedchamber, it was
immediately apparent to her that he had something on his mind. Abigail sat up
straighter and asked whether anything was wrong.

“Not wrong,” Arthur said, sounding glad that she was willing
to talk, “but I have received a most peculiar proposition from Liverpool
through Roger. It seems the prime minister would like me to go to Ghent and
advise the British commissioners, but without any official appointment or
duties.”

Abigail opened her mouth and then closed it without
speaking. Arthur raised his brows, amused by what he thought was an effort at
self-restraint, but then he saw that her expression-was uncertain and unhappy.
His amusement faded, and he asked, “What is it, Abigail?”

“My first impulse was to urge you to accept,” she said
slowly, “but on second thought, I am not sure. I wonder if Lord Liverpool just
wishes to have you out of the House and unable to interfere with his plans on
taxes and reform. To be an unofficial advisor would place you in a dreadful
position and very likely would be useless, too. If you are not a member of the
commission, why should the others listen to your advice?”

Arthur sat down on the bed and took her hands in his. “My
dear, I don’t believe you are saying what you think. You were about to urge me
to accept, I agree, but you haven’t said what really changed your mind.”

To his surprise, Abigail blushed, but she raised her eyes to
his and smiled rather wryly. “I find that my devotion to right and justice is
not so deep as I thought. It’s only that I would miss you so much if you went.
That isn’t a very valid objection, but I can’t see why I should have to miss
you if your being in Ghent would not do any real good.”

Arthur pulled her to him and kissed her hard. All along he
had assumed that Abigail’s recent moderation with regard to American affairs
was less indifference than policy. That might still be true in a general way,
Arthur thought, but it was not true on a personal level. Clearly Abigail valued
his company above his possible ability to help make a peace treaty. The
knowledge took him another long step away from the fear that if he differed
from her on this question, it would affect their relationship. Beyond that,
buried deeper because he was ashamed of his jealousy, was a sense of relief
that she did not beg him to go so that she could be near her idol, Gallatin.

“You goose,” he said, smiling. “If Goulburn can take his
wife, why should I be without mine?”

“I thought they might consider a person born in America
not…oh, I don’t know…”

“Nonsense. You may be a bit prejudiced, but there can be no
question of your loyalty,” Arthur said.

He hugged Abigail again as she burrowed her face against his
shoulder, not realizing that his remark had reminded her of her painful and
uneasy conscience. If not for that, she might have urged him to accept, now
that she knew she would not be left behind. Instead, she asked, “Have you
decided what to do?”

“No, I wanted to talk to you. I wrote to Roger that I would
think about the idea, but even with the best will in the world to help, I
believe I would be useless. You are quite right that the unofficial position
will be awkward, especially since I am known not to be a favorite with the
government. Worse yet, Liverpool and Bathurst will be responding to suggestions
from Castlereagh, who will be sending instructions from Vienna, quite unaware
of anything I have said or done.”

When he said that, Abigail pulled away so she could look at
him. “But Castlereagh
will
know that you are with the peace delegation
because Roger will be going to Vienna soon and will tell him,” Abigail pointed
out, then paused doubtfully and added, “unless, of course, Castlereagh dislikes
you even more than Liverpool does and—”

Arthur laughed. “Actually Lord Castlereagh rather likes me,
and I him. You see, I have always supported the war against Bonaparte, even in
opposition to my party, and Castlereagh used to be Secretary for War…” He let
his voice drift off, looking into the distance, and then his lips twisted. “Oh,
damn Roger!” he exclaimed. “He’s too clever by half. I see what that devious
legal mind of his has worked out. I’ll murder him.”

“What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

“Liverpool needed a reason for sending Roger to Vienna that
would not offend Castlereagh, who’s a touchy devil—and even if he were not, he
wouldn’t like the idea that Liverpool had sent someone to keep an eye on him. I
am to serve two purposes in Ghent—as Roger’s reason for being in Vienna, that
is, to tell Castlereagh why I had been sent to Ghent and explain my opinions on
America. And Roger does feel that peace with the United States is necessary,
although he may not agree with your notions of what the terms should be, so he
hopes I can do something to help.”

Abigail was in a quandary. She wanted very much to go to
Ghent, but she knew that urging Arthur would be the wrong move. First she must
discover some logical reason for a rapid right about-face from hinting he
should refuse Liverpool’s offer to demanding that he accept it.

“Let it go for tonight,” she said, kissing him on the neck.
“Perhaps you will get some news or something will happen in the next few days
that will push you one way or the other.”

“A most excellent idea,” Arthur agreed, lifting his head so
that his chin would not impede the path of her lips.

One arm supported her, and he began to pull at the tie of
his belt with the other. Abigail hastened to help, taking advantage of the
loosening of his robe to extend her explorations. Her tongue found his nipple,
moved from one to the other. They were not as sensitive as hers, but sensitive
enough so that he shivered and sighed, sliding down flat and carrying Abigail
with him. When he stroked her, he realized he had not removed his robe, but by
then he felt it would be too much trouble. It had fallen open when the belt was
untied, and it did not impede Abigail’s hands or mouth. Her nightdress was another
matter, but it was of fragile construction and did not interfere for long.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Abigail suggested that events might determine whether
they went to Ghent, it almost seemed she had had the ability to predict the
future. The very next day there was news from America. In two battles on
Chippewa Plain, General Brown had defeated a British force and taken their
guns. However, Brown could not hold his ground, and British expectations of
sufficient military gains to make the United States agree to their terms were
not significantly dimmed. Nonetheless, Abigail was encouraged. Although she did
not yet want to urge Arthur to go to Ghent, she began to prepare to leave
Stonar. Her first step was to ride to Rutupiae and tell Mr. Jameson to let the
tenants know that anyone who wished to speak to her would have to do so in the
next week or two because she expected to leave the area soon.

There were more people than she expected on the following
Tuesday, and she had to send several away with the promise that she would see
them on Thursday. Thus, although it rained hard Wednesday and was still dark
and misty Thursday morning, Abigail decided she would not skip her promised
visit. Being unaware of what she had said to her bailiff, Arthur argued that it
was ridiculous to go out in such weather. It took Abigail a while to convince
him she must go without explaining why, but he agreed grudgingly that if the
tenants came, some of them having walked long distances, she must honor the
appointments she had made.

By the time she won Arthur’s reluctant agreement, Abigail
was later than usual, and she rode at a spanking pace. As a result, GoGo
slipped on some wet fallen leaves as she turned on the main road just past the
gatekeeper’s lodge. The mare managed to keep her balance, but Abigail had a
fright and realized that there might be other spots equally treacherous. She
moderated GoGo’s speed and began to keep a careful watch on the road ahead, but
the mare had not been exercised because of the rain, and she was eager to go.
Insensibly the pace increased again and was back to a fast canter as they came
up the long drive to Rutupiae Hall.

Although she was not totally aware of how fast she was
going, Abigail was paying strict attention to the surface of the drive, particularly
at anyplace where it was edged with trees or ornamental bushes that could shed
leaves. Thus, she was startled by the movement of a peculiar, thin shadow that
stretched across from a handsome oak to a stand of rhododendrons. Instinctively
she pulled up on the reins, but GoGo was moving too fast to stop. Suddenly the
shadow was under the mare and her front legs were somehow tangled by it so that
she was falling forward. With a cry of surprise, Abigail threw herself out of
the saddle toward the grass verge of the drive. GoGo went to her knees,
neighing in distress, floundered, found her footing again and bolted.

Because she had been subconsciously prepared for a fall,
Abigail was not really surprised. She landed hard, but on the grass with her
hands extended to protect her, and even as she fell, she was aware that she had
been ready and would not be injured. Her concern was for her mount, and Abigail
was struggling up and turning toward the road seconds after she landed, only to
be tripped so that she almost fell again. Without thinking, she grabbed at the
unstable object that had lifted so suddenly under one of her feet. It moved
once more in her hand, and then she screamed as loud as she could and screamed
again and again.

The rope, for it was a rope that had been strung across the
road and pulled tight to trip the mare, went slack. The screams choked off as
terror closed Abigail’s throat. She began to back away from the bushes, where
she could hear twigs breaking and see something dark moving.
Run
, she
thought,
run
—but she could not because her legs had started to shake.
Defensively she raised the riding crop that was still hanging from her wrist,
and then in the distance there were voices. The hope of help released the
paralysis of her voice, and she screamed again and then once more as the
branches closest to her moved.

Still, no one emerged from the bushes. There was a pull on
the rope, but Abigail’s hand was frozen to it. Though the tug jerked her
forward, she could not let go. Terror lent her strength. She pulled back and
struck out viciously with the crop, though she had no target. An obscenity was
shrieked in a voice so distorted by rage that it was unrecognizable, but the
rope came loose into the road, and a fierce crackling began in the bushes. This
time the sound marked a retreat.

Abigail knew that she should run down the line of
rhododendrons to try to see who came out, but she could not force herself to
move. The reaction of the physical shock of falling and the emotional shock of
fear at last overcame her, and barely conscious, she sank down on the road.
Unfortunately, the men who reached her first did not know her well. They were
tenant farmers, who had come in from a side gate in the park and had been
making their way to the house. Having seen GoGo flash by without a rider and
then hearing screams, they had expected to find a woman who might be badly
hurt. Thus, they assumed Abigail was hysterical when she tried to explain about
the rope and the person who should be pursued. She did not blame them, because
she was crying and knew she was not making herself clear, but the delay ensured
that whoever had tried to kill her got safely away.

This time there could be no doubt in Abigail’s mind that
there had been a deliberate attempt on her life. She knew one was seldom killed
in a fall from a horse, but it did happen. And from what had occurred after she
fell, she understood that her death was not to be left to chance. If GoGo had
not slipped and she had not been prepared, she would probably have fallen more
heavily and painfully and would have been left shaken and relatively helpless
for a while. In those few minutes, whoever had stretched the rope across the
drive expected to emerge from the bushes and either break her neck or crush her
skull with a stone. Probably the latter, because a stone could be artfully
arranged to testify to accidental death.

“But why?” she asked Arthur furiously. “Whom have I ever
hurt? Who could profit from
my
death?”

They were together on the sofa in Abigail’s private sitting
room with Arthur’s arm around her shoulders. He had not let go of her from the
moment he took her into his arms when he arrived in Rutupiae.

“I don’t know,” he replied. His face was still rigid with
shock. “At first I must admit I thought the attacks were meant to remove Victor
so that someone else could inherit the Lydden estate, but harming you could not
advance that purpose—at least…”He shook his head and then said softly, “If I
could guess, even guess, I would take my guesses apart with my own hands until
I found the answer.”

His voice, although soft, was so cold, so deadly, that
though she knew it was not directed at her, Abigail shuddered. Arthur tightened
his grip on her and began to reassure her that she was safe, but she shook her
head.

“I’m not frightened now, Arthur, but you are too angry.”

“Too angry? Someone tries to kill my wife, and I am
too
angry?”

“Yes,” she said, “because it must be a—a lunatic. There
can’t be any profit in killing me. I can only think that it must be someone
who—who resents the fact that I love you. Perhaps that first shot at Victor was
an accident. It could have been, darling. Then the incident at the mill
happened after we became lovers, and the other attempts were after we were
married.”

Arthur stared at her, closed his eyes for a moment, and then
looked off into space. “It’s true,” he admitted, “but if you suspect one of
my…er…past loves, I just cannot believe it. Beloved,” he said softly, “I always
chose with care, women who would not be hurt, and except for a few who were
greedy and were not satisfied with what I was willing to give, I have always
parted on good terms.”

Abigail looked slightly startled. “Oh, I never thought of
them. What I meant was that some man might have believed what I offered to him
as casual courtesy meant more. And then, when I chose you, believed I had
injured him or played him false and decided to punish me. Am I being
conceited?”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to look surprised and then
thoughtful. “No, you are not being conceited at all. In fact, in a totally
crazy situation, that does seem to make some kind of sense. Was there anyone?”

She shook her head. “No, or if there was, I never noticed.
The chances are that it is someone I would never think of needing to keep at
arm’s length—a boy or a shopkeeper to whom I was polite. And of course, I never
had eyes for anyone except you, Arthur. From that very first quarrel we had
about impressment—”

Her voice was cut off as Arthur enveloped her in his arms,
holding her tightly against him. Abigail could feel the slight tremor of his
muscles, and she freed a hand and stroked his face.

“I can’t bear it,” he said. His voice was flat, but Abigail
knew it was because he was fighting to keep it steady so as not to frighten her
more. “Abigail, I simply cannot bear to let you out of my sight, and yet—”

“I cannot live a prisoner. I would go mad,” she protested,
but she spoke gently, aware of his agonizing frustration at his inability to
protect her. “And it would not do any good,” she added, her voice trembling a little
with the realization of what she was about to say. “You see, whoever it is no
longer needs to try to pretend that an accident has taken place, because the
presence of the rope betrayed intent to do harm. No one could protect me if—if
he should shoot from a distance.”

There was a little silence. Abigail drew in her breath as
her husband’s grip tightened painfully, glanced at his face and then away. She
was almost more frightened by the naked rage exposed by Arthur’s expression
than by the idea that someone hated her enough to want to kill her. Anger and
fear for her had peeled away the layers of urbanity imposed by her husband’s
training and exposed the primitive violence, the desire to rend and tear, only
there was no one to attack.

“Arthur,” she whispered, “you are hurting me.”

“My darling, I’m sorry.” He relaxed his grip and bent to
kiss her hair. “If only I could take you away—” And then, suddenly the look of
rage and frustration was gone. Arthur’s eyes lit. “I’ll tell you what we can
do, Abigail,” he said, his voice eager and excited. “We can go to Ghent. It’s
not a large city, nor the type that attracts visitors looking for a good time.
And there’s an English garrison there, so I can learn if any Englishman arrives
after we do. Meanwhile, Bertram and Jameson can scour the neighborhood for
anyone who has been acting peculiarly or has a history of any kind of
eccentricity.”

Relief made Abigail burst into tears. She had not realized,
until Arthur offered an escape, how frightened and trapped she had felt. But
when her fit of weeping was over, her spirits bubbled up into excited
exclamations about seeing Europe and questions about when they would leave and
what they should take.

To that question Arthur replied, laughing, “Money. Anything
you neglect to bring can be purchased for good English gold. It is not so far
from Ghent to Paris, and peace negotiations are likely to be a leisurely
activity for an unofficial advisor. We can take a side trip or two for
shopping.” Then he grew more serious. “As to leaving, I think we should go as
soon as possible and as privately as possible.”

The final words sobered Abigail too. “I must tell the
children, and should I not also tell Griselda so that— Oh heavens, I must send
to Rutupiae and ask how Griselda is. I seem to remember someone saying she had
fainted when she heard of my fall.”

“Fainted?” Arthur repeated. “But why? She cannot have
thought you were injured in the fall.” He hesitated and then said slowly, “It
would be better, I think, not to see Griselda before we leave and not to tell
her anything.”

“Arthur,” Abigail cried, “you cannot think Griselda had any
part—”

“No, no,” he soothed, “I am sure Griselda is fond of you and
would not deliberately hurt you for anything in the world, but she is not the
wisest or strongest willed person.”

“And she has been behaving very strangely since we came back
from London,” Abigail mused. “She seems to feel guilty about something—and
frightened too, and the more I try to soothe her, the worse she gets.” Abigail
sighed. “I think you are right, Arthur. I will just send a note saying that we
had to leave in a hurry for some political reason or other and that I am not
sure where we will be staying but that in an emergency, Bertram will know where
to reach us. But what about the children? I don’t feel I can go without telling
them.”

“Of course you must tell Daphne and Victor,” Arthur agreed,
“but I think we should stop and visit each of them so you can explain fully.
They might feel put out if they believed we were taking a pleasure trip and not
including them. If you tell them the purpose is political, they will be
delighted to have escaped coming with us.”

“Are you sure you have never been a father?” Abigail asked
teasingly. “Your understanding of children is suspiciously acute.”

“It is my memory that is acute,” Arthur replied, drawing
himself up in a playful pretense at offended innocence, but when Abigail stuck
out her tongue at him, he laughed and explained. “No, it is true. My parents
did not subscribe to the general opinion that the less one sees of one’s
partner in life or one’s children, the better. They liked to be together and to
have us with them, and I suppose that was admirable, but the result was that
all too often my vacations were spent in a damned dull city while my papa performed
some service for his country. There were times when I bitterly envied my
friends who were neglected by their parents.”