A Woman's Estate (49 page)

Abigail smiled and shrugged. “It is…oh, like a pet or a
diversion that has real meaning. Perhaps I have a strange sense of humor, but
it has amused me mightily to do business right under everyone’s nose without
being suspected of so crude an occupation. There are many reasons. In any case,
why I choose to own a bookshop is not to the point. If you will send for Mr.
Lackington, he will tell you that I have purchased books from him for many
years, and the clerks in his shop and Hatchard’s will testify that I spent my
time choosing books, not meeting American agents.”

For a moment Bathurst looked as if he would like to strike
Abigail, but instead he bowed and said, “That will not be necessary. Naturally,
I would not like such an accusation spread about among tradespeople. You would
not lie about a subject so easily proven. I apologize, Lady St. Eyre, but you
must understand I could not ignore information from a source so close and
confidential.”

From the corner of her eye Abigail saw a slight movement of
Arthur’s body and knew he had winced at the reminder of Bertram’s perfidy. She
had been holding the papers Bathurst had handed over and was suddenly aware
that sight of them would also hurt her husband. Besides, she did not want those
papers left in Bathurst’s hands. She did not trust him to destroy them, and
that was dangerous. Even if he did not use them, someone else might find them
in the future. Mr. Lackington was old. Mr. Hatchard did not know her as well
and might even think that the attempt to run her down, which he had witnessed,
was proof of her involvement in some desperate plot. She might not be able to
prove her innocence in the future.

Surreptitiously Abigail began to fold the papers, intending
to tuck them into her muff. However, she did not want Bathurst to ask for them,
and the best way to achieve that was to make him wish to forget them. Actually,
though Abigail did recognize the truth of his defense—that it was impossible
for him to ignore an accusation of spying from Arthur’s own secretary—she was
still furious with Bathurst. His manner had been unpleasant, as if he were
obtaining some pleasure from the accusation, and she was disgusted with the
contempt in his tone when he said “tradespeople”.

“But I am not at
all
afraid that such honest men as
Mr. Lackington and Mr. Hatchard would spread an ugly story they know to be
untrue,” Abigail said, her eyes brilliant with rage and her tone vicious. “I
would
prefer
that my name be cleared by their testimony before I leave
this office. I would not like it said that I had had time to solicit testimony
from them to protect myself.”

“Lady St. Eyre!” Bathurst protested.

“In fact,” she sneered, “I wish I could be as sure that the
gentlemen
who are my husband’s political enemies would be as careful of my reputation as
my friend Mr. Lackington has always been.”

Bathurst gaped, unprepared for so open and acute an attack
from a woman, and while he was still stunned, Abigail turned a little away,
openly finished folding the papers, and thrust them into her muff. The angle of
her body concealed what she was doing from Arthur, who was looking straight
ahead, but not from Bathurst. However, he paid no attention to her taking the
papers, merely repeating, in an even more shocked and protesting voice, “Lady
St. Eyre!”

Having obtained her objective, since she was now sure that
Bathurst would be ashamed to ask for the papers, Abigail smiled forgivingly. “I
apologize if I have been misled myself,” she remarked. “Perhaps your intention
in not ascertaining the truth of these accusations was to protect me. If so, I
thank you—and I hope you will not suffer any reawakening of your suspicions—”

“No, no,” Bathurst interrupted hastily. “But in any case,
that would be impossible because you will not want to buy books—”

“Why not?” Arthur asked.

His voice was silky smooth and cold as ice. He had been
jolted out of his misery by the vicious tone in which Abigail had spoken. From
what she was saying, he understood that she had cleared herself of the
accusation made against her and was now on the offensive. Despite his pain and
confusion over what Bertram had done, Arthur could not help being amused by
Bathurst’s stunned retreat, and in an attempt to conceal his impulse to grin,
he had continued to stare ahead with a frozen expression. But in his opinion
Abigail had accepted a truce too quickly and cheaply. Arthur felt she needed more
protection.

“The shop is my wife’s amusement,” he continued, his voice
carrying a barely veiled threat. “No one in our social circle except myself—and
you, my lord—knows of her little game. If a rumor of it should be spread—”

“Don’t be a fool,” Bathurst snarled—and, in fact, it had
never entered his mind to expose Abigail. “I only meant that with the treaty
all but signed, Lady St. Eyre could carry on her business in a more leisurely
fashion and not need to buy in such large lots. If I had intended to do any
more than bring this to your attention privately, St. Eyre, it would have been
within my right to have both of you arrested and ensured a public scandal.”

“And possibly brought your own government down by so
manifestly arbitrary and unjust an action,” Arthur riposted with a lifted brow.

“This is getting us nowhere!” Bathurst exclaimed. “I have
apologized to Lady St. Eyre, and I give you my word of honor that every aspect
of this conversation will be utterly and completely forgotten.”

“Very well, my lord, the matter is settled,” Arthur said,
bowing stiffly. He had extracted a promise he could rely on and knew that if he
pushed the subject further, he might arouse a dangerous enmity instead of
merely dislike balanced by caution. “I will accept your word gladly.”

But, of course, the matter was not settled. As soon as
Arthur and Abigail were in their carriage he said, “I cannot believe it. I
simply cannot believe that Bertram would do such a thing to us.”

“Neither can I,” Abigail replied. “Arthur, this must be the
result of some misunderstanding. I do not trust Lord Bathurst at all. Perhaps
he
made the accusations and Bertram was trying to defend me by showing him my
letters and telling him where I was when I seemed to be missing—”

“How would Bertram know where you were?” Arthur asked.

Abigail was silent for a moment, and then shook her head. “I
don’t know, darling, I don’t know. But there isn’t any
reason
for
Bertram to do such a thing.”

“And what purpose would it serve?” Arthur asked. “Bertram
would know the accusation could be disproved. Why—” His voice checked suddenly,
and then he went on in a low, angry tone. “It brought you back to England. It
brought you back to England where you would be exposed to new attacks…”

“Not Bertram!” Abigail cried. “Oh, please, Arthur, let’s not
talk about this anymore. We must go home to Stonar and see Bertram and ask him
why. There
must
be a reason, and we will never find it by guessing.”

Having delayed no longer than necessary to obtain the
necessities for a night on the road and inform their servants that they should
follow them to Stonar Magna as quickly as they could with the baggage, Abigail
and Arthur set out. It was impossible to reach Stonar that day, but they
traveled until it was too dark to go farther safely. Neither had much appetite
for the simple meal the inn was able to serve, but at least both were very
tired and they slept as soon as they got into bed. Little was said, since
Abigail’s plea not to discuss the subject was sensible, yet neither could think
of anything else to talk about.

It was an infinite relief to walk up the broad steps of
Stonar Magna the following afternoon and be greeted by Martin’s surprised and
delighted welcome. Whatever Bertram had done or intended, their doubts would
soon be resolved, and the sickening emotional swings from hope to despair would
be over.

Before he had even shed his coat, Arthur asked, “Where is
Mr. Lydden?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the footman replied, deftly catching
Arthur’s coat as he pulled it off.

“Will he be back for dinner?” Abigail asked, beginning to
unbutton her pelisse.

“I doubt it, my lady,” Martin replied, shifting Arthur’s
coat to his arm and stepping behind her to ease off her pelisse. “He’s been
gone over a week, and Mr. Waggoner—”

“Over a week!” Arthur and Abigail echoed in chorus,
obviously dismayed. The news was the final proof of Bertram’s guilt, for it
seemed he must have fled as soon as he had written the letter to Bathurst. “Did
he say where he was going?” Arthur asked.

“No, sir,” Martin replied, beginning to look distressed
himself. “He didn’t even tell Mr. Waggoner he wouldn’t be eating dinner, and
Cook—”

“Ask Mr. Waggoner to come to me in the library, please,”
Arthur ordered.

Martin looked even more distressed. “Oh, sir, we haven’t no
fires. We didn’t know—”

“Ask the housekeeper if we may use her room,” Abigail
suggested. “Mr. Waggoner can come to us there while you get fires started. Oh,
and please warn Cook that we will need a meal. Tell her not to fuss. We know
that she cannot do much in so short a time.”

But when they were settled and the butler appeared, what he
had to say reopened the whole question. “Mr. Lydden did not give me any warning
that he would be away,” Waggoner said, “and you know that is not Mr. Lydden’s
way. He is always most considerate.”

“What did he take with him?” Arthur asked.

“Nothing, sir,” Waggoner replied. “Not so much as a
toothbrush or his razors. Nor he didn’t go on horseback neither,” he added,
losing control of his grammar in his anxiety. “When he didn’t come home after
dark, I was sure he had come to grief, and I sent to Mr. Price, and he sent all
the men out to look for him.”

Arthur and Abigail stared first at Waggoner and then at each
other. Finally, Arthur turned back to the butler. “You found no sign of him at
all?” he persisted.

“No sir, nothing.” Waggoner shook his head emphatically.
“And we sent grooms all up and down the roads and into the towns for fear he
might have been run down by accident by someone who didn’t know him and took
him away to be treated. No one’s seen him or heard about him nowhere, from
Sandwich to Ramsgate to Canterbury.”

For a long moment there was silence while Arthur tried to
think of something else useful to ask. Finally, he shook his head and looked at
Abigail, but she also shook her head. An idea had occurred to her, and she was
furious with herself for not thinking of it sooner, but it was not something
she wished to discuss in front of the butler.

“Thank you, Waggoner,” Abigail said. “You have certainly
done everything that could be done. We will ring if we can think of anything
else.”

Arthur looked a little surprised, but he made no protest as
the butler left the room, and before he could ask a question, Abigail said, “Oh
Arthur, what fools we were. Bertram cannot have sent that letter to Bathurst,
because he could not have obtained copies of my letters to Albert. Do you not
remember? Griselda took my letter book home with her when she left London, and
I never bothered to get it back.” Then she drew a sharp breath. “I meant to,”
she said, staring into space, remembering. “I looked for it, but it was not in
the drawer where I kept the old ones, and Griselda acted so strange when I
mentioned it that I dropped the subject, and then I forgot about it.”

Arthur was looking at her as if she had given him a million
pounds in gold. “Damn me for an idiot!” he exploded, jumping to his feet. “I
never really looked at that letter. I should have
known
Bertram would
never do such a thing. I should have guessed it was a forgery. Now I’ll have to
go back to London—”

“No, Arthur,” Abigail said, jumping up too and ringing the
bell. “I have all the papers with me. I just stuck them in my muff in
Bathurst’s office because I-I didn’t trust him.”

Arthur laughed. “Thank God for your suspicious mind, my
love, but Bathurst really isn’t that bad. He has been under a severe strain,
and—” He broke off as Martin opened the door and said, “Bring Lady St. Eyre’s
muff up to us, please, as quickly as you can.” But when the footman had hurried
out, Arthur’s face lost its expression of joy. “I’m afraid he’s dead, Abigail,”
he said.

She nodded, unable to speak, her eyes full of tears. She had
realized what must be the answer to Bertram’s disappearance while Arthur’s mind
was still on Bathurst. “But why, Arthur?” she sobbed. “Why?”

“Because he would expose the letter as a forgery, I suppose,
but—” He broke off as Martin entered and held out the muff to him. Nodding
thanks and dismissal, he pulled the papers out and unfolded them. “It’s a
damned good forgery,” he said after looking at the letter. “As a matter of
fact, the handwriting might have fooled me for a while, but the phrasing is all
wrong.” He refolded the papers and pushed them into an inner pocket of his
coat, then brought his eyes back to Abigail. “But if the purpose of the forged
accusation was to get you back to England and Bertram knew nothing of the
letter, why should he be killed at all? Once you proved your innocence, the
fact of forgery would be irrelevant.”

“Bertram knew who it was,” Abigail said. “Arthur, I wonder
if Bertram suspected all along, right from the beginning when someone shot at
Victor. Remember, after Vic fell in the river that Bertram suggested Dick Price
be hired to accompany him, and then there weren’t any more accidents until
someone tried to shoot
Dick
at the mill.” Then she frowned and shook her
head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. What happened to Victor cannot be
connected—”

“Yes, it can,” Arthur interrupted harshly. “I have been an
utter ass. Even if I had doubts at first, I should have realized the truth as
soon as the attacks on you were begun. When we married you moved to Stonar and
took Victor with you, which meant he would not be in reach even on his
holidays. If you were dead, my darling, who would be Victor’s natural guardian
and where would he live?”