A Woman's Estate Read online

  The first fruits of the arrangement had appeared this very morning. Victor and Daphne had breakfasted in the nursery quarters under Mrs. Franklin’s severe but sympathetic eye, then had gone outside. Some of the benefit was owing to the fact that the sun was shining and the children could explore the grounds, but Abigail was in an especially good humor because she had not personally had to attend to their washing and dressing.

  Then, to her pleasure, she discovered that only Griselda was at the table. Hilda never came down, preferring breakfast in bed, but Eustace was usually there. Not that Abigail objected to Eustace’s company. Whatever had oppressed him at dinner that first day seemed to have disappeared, and she generally found him most useful in dealing with his mother. Today, however, she wanted to talk to Griselda alone because it seemed to her that the girl was almost as frightened of her brother as of her mother.

  Of course, Griselda seemed equally frightened of her. As it was, the moment she came in, Griselda jumped to her feet, clumsily overturning her cup of tea. “I am sorry I startled you,” Abigail said with a smile, although Griselda’s ineffectual fluttering dabs at the wet spot on the cloth with a napkin made her want to grit her teeth.

  “A dreadful mess,” Griselda gasped. “I am so clumsy. So sorry. I will fetch a maid to—”

  “The bell is on the table,” Abigail remarked. “If you ring, the servant will come. Do sit down, Griselda. No, not there,” she added, ignoring the hunted looks her sister-in-law was casting around the room. “That seat may be wet. Come to this side of the table and sit near me.”

  With a last terrified glance at the door, which, no doubt, meant safety to her, Griselda did as she was told. Abigail was pleased to avoid further argument because she was eager to explain to Griselda how she wished to divide the duties of the household, but she would gladly have traded both delay and expostulation for an absence of or even a reduction in Griselda’s nervousness. Abigail studied the girl for a moment, surprised at how pretty she was. She had the straight nose and well-formed lips of the Lyddens in a delicate, feminine mold, but her eyes were a soft gray rather than the sharp, bright blue that Victor had inherited from Francis. Her skin was clear, if slightly sallow—no, perhaps that was owing to the unsuitable color of her gown—her hair a light golden brown. Abigail wondered why she had not noticed before—and then Griselda made a nervous gesture and hunched her rather broad shoulders in a self-effacing way, which Abigail suddenly realized distracted her attention from Griselda’s more attractive features.

  “I thought—” Abigail began, only to have Griselda spring to her feet again.

  “The tea is cold,” she cried. “I will order fresh tea for you.”

  “You have already rung for—ah, here she is now,” Abigail said with relief. “Betty, please put a cloth under where the tea was spilled, so the wet does not mar the table until it is free to be cleared. I caused a slight accident. And bring my coffee and some fresh tea for Miss Lydden.” As soon as the maid went out, she hurried on before Griselda could find another reason to flee. “There is no reason why you should carry the entire burden of the housekeeping. At the same time, I realize you would be bored to death with nothing to do—as would I.”

  At this point, Abigail took the chance of pausing to allow Griselda to speak if she wished, since it would now be openly rude if she tried to run away. But Griselda had slid farther back in her chair, no longer perching on the extreme edge, and she was staring at Abigail in wide-eyed amazement.

  “You said you spilled the tea,” she whispered.

  “No,” Abigail contradicted smilingly. “I seldom lie—only when it is absolutely necessary. I said I caused the accident—and that was true. I startled you.”

  Griselda dropped her eyes. “You are very kind,” she said in a stifled voice. “I know Mama has not made you very welcome, and—”

  “That is not your fault,” Abigail interrupted briskly, not wishing to be drawn into a discussion in which she, or even Griselda, might say too much.

  “No,” Griselda replied, “but not everyone would see it that way.”

  Abigail shrugged, thinking that there must be those who took out their irritation at Hilda on the nearly defenseless Griselda. “The more fools they,” she said almost angrily, and as Griselda winced, Abigail shook her head and softened her tone. “Now, as I was saying, I do not like to be idle. I am not accustomed to it.”

  She thought of telling Griselda that she had managed a business as well as running her own house, but shied away from that confidence. Abigail’s mother had made it very clear that in England, conducting a business was an activity that might cause her to be excluded from the upper levels of society. It was because Martha Milford had been a bookseller’s daughter that her husband’s family would not accept her.

  “In America,” she went on, “I ran my own house. Of course, my household was much smaller and less complicated than that of Rutupiae Hall. I do not wish to make a fool of myself or upset the staff.”

  “They like you,” Griselda offered.

  “I am glad to hear it,” Abigail said, “and I would like to keep it that way. So, for the present, I think you had better continue with the day-to-day chores, such as doing the flowers and approving the menus—” she paused and smiled. “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how many courses or what dishes would be suitable for any particular occasion. Someday, when I am a little more settled, you must teach me. I would be in an appalling state if you should leave to marry—”

  Abigail’s voice checked as Griselda’s breath drew in sharply and she turned her head away. Unwitting, she had apparently turned a knife in an already painful wound. Had the girl been rejected so openly as to make any reminder unbearable? Or—Abigail’s lips thinned with anger—more likely, had her mother made her feel she was so undesirable as to be incapable of attracting any man? Distressed all the more because she knew any apology would only add to Griselda’s pain, Abigail could do no more than touch her arm gently and talk for a few minutes about how she feared to offend the upper servants by her ignorance. Then, as she saw the flaming red fade from Griselda’s cheek and ear—all Abigail could see of her face—she came back to the more serious part of her subject.

  “My part will be approving the work assignments of the staff, hiring and dismissing—whenever either is necessary—settling quarrels and such matters.” Abigail smiled again as Griselda finally brought herself to look at her. “I cannot get into any trouble over those tasks, since Empson and Mowing will really arrange the work assignments and since hiring and dismissal do not, I believe, occur very frequently.”

  “My mother’s personal maids come and go,” Griselda said colorlessly.

  “But that is none of my affair,” Abigail replied gently. “I will not pay Hilda’s dresser or Eustace’s valet, so I will have no right to any decisions over their employment. However, since you are taking part of the burden of the housekeeping, I will very gladly pay your maid—or add to your pin money if you would prefer that.”

  Griselda’s eyes opened wide, but her shock had nothing to do with Abigail’s offer to pay her. “But Howing and Empson pay the lower servants, including Mother’s maid and Eustace’s valet,” she whispered, horrified. “If they refuse—”

  “I have spoken to them about that, Griselda,” Abigail interrupted. “It seems the first Lady Lydden did distribute all the wages herself and had a word with each servant. Your mama did not choose to do so, but I think I will renew the old custom. I feel that a word of praise—or blame—from the mistress four times a year has a stronger effect than the same word from the butler or housekeeper who has been approving or scolding every day. Besides, I need to get to know the staff, even those like the boot boy and scullery maids whom I am not likely to see, and paying them will give me that opportunity in a manner that will not intrude.”

  “Oh, dear,” Griselda sighed. “Mama will not be pleased.”

  “Perhaps not,” Abigail remarked dryly, “bu
t by your father’s will she has a very handsome income—very nearly as large as Victor’s—and she is not supporting a household and paying for the upkeep of several country houses and a town house in London. I cannot feel that forty pounds a year or even one hundred forty pounds—if Eustace’s valet is paid what seems to be the usual rate—will constitute a dangerous drain on her jointure.”

  Griselda’s mouth opened but nothing came out, and she closed it and swallowed hard. However, whatever she had been about to say was lost forever as the hard thud of running feet sounded in the corridor, and Victor, covered with earth and dead leaves and twigs, burst into the room.

  “Mother!” he shouted. “Oh, Mother, someone shot at me!”

  “Shot at you?” Abigail repeated unbelievingly. “Don’t be silly, Vic. Who would shoot at you? It must have been someone after a hawk or—”

  Silently Victor handed over his coat. The blood drained out of Abigail’s face as her eyes fell on it. The collar and upper back of the garment were pocked and torn, and she cried out and turned Victor so that she could see the back of his head and shoulders.

  “I’m not hurt, Mother,” Victor said, twisting around again. “I—”

  “Where is Daphne?” Abigail cried.

  Victor started to answer but stopped when his sister entered the room at a pace only a little slower than his. “Did you see Victor’s coat?” she got out between gasps for air. “Mother! Someone shot at Victor.”

  “Yes, I see,” Abigail said, her voice flat with the effort not to burst into tears or hold both children to her in a spate of protective ferocity. She dared not, Victor and Daphne were shocked and surprised but not afraid. She knew she must not infect them with the terror she felt. “I am sure,” she added, “that it must have been a mistake.” With trembling fingers she examined the holes made by the pellets in the fabric of her son’s coat, turning and turning it in her hands. “Where were you when this happened?”

  “In the woods,” Victor replied. “We were playing with the tennis balls and racquets, and it was so nice we went out on the lawn over there,” he gestured to the north, “but it got hot out in the sun, so we walked into the woods. I was carrying my coat—“

  “He was going to leave it on the lawn,” Daphne put in righteously, “but I said he had better take it. His shirt is thin, and he might get chilled in the shade.”

  “Oh, she makes more fuss than you do, Mother. I wasn’t chilled, and there was a toad, a beautiful toad, so I threw my coat over a big bush and stooped down—”

  Abigail closed her eyes for a moment to hold back tears of thankfulness, and Daphne asked anxiously, “Are you all right, Mother?”

  “Yes, of course,” Abigail said mendaciously. “I was just worrying about what Victor intended to do with that toad.”

  “I was telling you how someone shot at me,” Victor exclaimed indignantly. “Never mind about the toad.”

  “Very well,” Abigail agreed, “since you didn’t catch it—”

  “No, I didn’t, because just then there was this roar, and my coat flew up in the air and fell down right on top of me, and I was so surprised that I fell down too, and the toad got away.”

  “Thank God,” Abigail breathed. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Oh, all right,” Victor said, making a face. “She might have squashed the poor thing anyway.”

  Then he looked anxious. Victor was aware that his mother knew he had planned to hide the toad in Hilda’s bed or, failing that, in her favorite chair, but he felt perhaps it would have been more diplomatic not to admit it.

  A gasp of sound, half sob, half laugh, drew Abigail’s eyes from Victor’s revealing expression to Griselda, who, she saw, was as white-faced as she herself must be, but who had just realized why Victor wanted the toad. Knowing her son, Abigail had been in no doubt about his purpose from the beginning, although her simple prayer of thanksgiving had not, of course, referred to the escape of the toad or to being spared Hilda’s fury.

  “I almost fell down too, I was so surprised,” Daphne said quickly, loyally trying to distract her mother from her brother’s unwise honesty. “I had just stopped to pick some flowers—” She hesitated, fearing she might have offended Griselda, who, she knew, was in charge of the gardens. “Not that I don’t like your flowers,” she said to Griselda. “They are very beautiful, but in the woods—”

  “One must pick flowers. I understand,” Griselda assured her with the first smile Abigail had seen. The smile surprised Abigail, as did the calm tone of voice. Now that Abigail’s shock had diminished enough for her to think about anything other than Victor’s narrow escape, she realized she would have expected gasps and shrieks from Griselda. There might be more to Griselda than Abigail had believed. Her good opinion was reinforced when Griselda went on, very casually, “I hope the noise did not frighten you very much.”

  “Not really,” Daphne replied. “I have heard shooting before.”

  Daphne spoke in an old-young way that always caused Abigail’s heart to ache because it told her she had not been successful in shielding the child from her father’s weaknesses or her own frustration, pity and disgust. But the next moment the too adult voice and manner disappeared as Daphne’s eyes widened in remembered excitement.

  “But when Vic’s coat flew up in the air,” she went on, “and he fell down on the ground, I did get scared. I screamed and screamed.” She giggled and shrugged. “And then Vic got up and yelled at me for being such an idiot, because screaming was useless and what I should have done was—” Daphne’s voice stopped abruptly as she remembered she was supposed to be diverting her mother’s attention from the toad, and she knew her brother’s fury because she had not marked where the creature had gone was not likely to win much sympathy from either adult. “Anyhow, we were both pretty angry at that hunter, shooting so close to a house, and when Vic picked up his coat and saw the shot holes, then we ran home as quickly as we could.”

  There was a murmur from the doorway, and Abigail realized for the first time that they had an audience. Her attention had been so concentrated on her children and her own battle to keep from terrifying them that she had not noticed that Howing, Empson, a maid and two footmen were crowded around the entrance to the breakfast parlor.

  “Would someone please arrange for the outside men, the gamekeepers and anyone else who has a right to carry a gun on Lydden land, to be gathered together so that I can speak to them?” Abigail said in an icy voice. “I think it needs to be made clear that at least for the next few years there will be no preserving on Lydden land, and no shooting of poachers for any reason.’“

  “Yes, my lady,” Empson answered, “I will send word out at once. But, my lady, I’m sure as I can be that it was no Lydden gamekeeper that shot at his lordship. You see, he probably wasn’t on Lydden land—or even if he was, the wooded areas north and south of the house are tended by St. Eyre people. Our men are all west, out past the mill and toward the river. It’s only a few hundred feet past the lawns on either side of the house or behind it that’s Lydden land, and it isn’t worth the keepers’ time to come all the way around the park.”

  “What you are saying, then, is that it was one of St. Eyre’s men who fired at Victor?” Abigail asked.

  “Not at his lordship,” Empson said. “I mean, if he’d known it was his lordship he would never—”

  Abigail stood up, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I think,” she said quietly and yet so ominously that the lower servants melted away from the doorway and even Empson and Howing retreated, “that the time has come for me to meet Sir Arthur.”

  Chapter Five

  The time it had taken for Abigail to send a note to Stonar Magna and receive one in reply assuring her that Sir Arthur was at home and would receive her at any time did nothing to diminish her fury. Not that she thought the shot had been fired at Victor as Victor. Her rage was not on her son’s account as an individual but for the sake of humanity as a whole.

  Al
though Abigail had been born and lived all her life in a town, she knew all about English game and forest laws. Since her husband had emigrated unwillingly, to escape debtors’ prison, he regretted what he had left behind. Moreover, he knew that his father could not disinherit him, and he expected to return to England with his wife and children. Besides that, he was not at all interested in Abigail’s business, so most of his conversation was about England, about his amusements there—at least, those of which he was not ashamed. The principal of these was hunting, and connected with that was the preservation of game.

  Francis’ sweetness of temper had not extended to poachers, and he had spoken with relish of the methods used to discourage them and the punishment meted out to those who were caught. At the time, Abigail had listened with indulgence. Poaching was stealing, and as a merchant she had a dim view of stealing. But now she was far less sympathetic. Breaking a man’s leg in a mantrap was bad; shooting a twelve-year-old child was murder.

  Abigail thought of having the carriage brought around so that she could arrive at Stonar Magna with dignity, but driving through Rutupiae’s park, out along the road, and then up Stonar’s long drive would take almost half an hour. She was far too impatient to wait that long to tell Sir Arthur what she thought of him, and she realized, as her teeth gritted together in anticipation, that every minute she delayed was making her angrier instead of calmer. But Abigail knew it would be stupid to lose her advantage by scolding like a hysterical fishwife. She would be sensible to forgo dignity and take the ten-minute walk through the woods to Sir Arthur’s house. Possibly the exercise would calm her.

  Perhaps it would have had that effect if Abigail had not been carrying Victor’s coat as evidence. Her fingers kept slipping into the tears and holes made by the shot, and cold terror alternated with hot rage all the time she trod the well-marked path between the houses. However, the butler’s astonishment when he found her on the doorstep clutching a ragged coat as if it were her dearest possession was so apparent that a ray of humor pierced the darker emotions that had filled her.