A Woman's Estate Read online

  It was too soon to start worrying about madmen, Abigail told herself. First of all, Mr. Lydden had not returned to report the results of his investigation. And second, there might be other, perfectly logical causes that had not been suggested or examined. In any event, at present Victor and Daphne were being kept busy by Mrs. Franklin in or near the house and would be in no danger.

  Actually, Abigail would have liked to put the incident out of her mind for a while. Her discussion of the war with Sir Arthur had reminded her of her American obligations, and she would have liked to spend the afternoon writing to the book dealers with whom she had done business in the past to let them know she was in England. In addition, she had a number of commissions to procure books for customers who were totally indifferent to the war but keenly alive to and combative about scholarly issues. She had been too busy during her brief stay in London to fulfill those commissions, but she decided she could write now to reserve the books and travel down to London in the next week or two to arrange for their shipment. The journey would take only one day and would not be unpleasant if she did not have the children to amuse. Perhaps, Abigail thought, as she opened the drawer of the writing table and drew out paper and pens, she should also make appointments with the book dealers to examine the stock not generally exposed to private customers with a view to some large purchases for her shop in New York.

  She had been startled by Sir Arthur’s vehemence about the war. Her impression had been that the British were annoyed and contemptuous rather than vindictively enraged—rather like an elephant being pestered by a small, snapping, yapping dog—and that any time the United States wished to back down and ask for peace, it would be granted. The news that Britain would not agree to the Russian mediation had been a shock, and what Sir Arthur had told her later had been even more depressing.

  She learned from Sir Arthur that Bonaparte had been so badly hurt by two narrow “victories” he had won on 2 May at Lützen and eighteen days later at Bautzen that he had agreed to an armistice. In addition, it now seemed likely that Austria would declare war against France again when the armistice ended. It was not that Abigail regretted the damage Bonaparte had suffered or that the forces against him would be stronger. She had been raised by her parents with a strong anti-French bias. However, she had realized that when Bonaparte was beaten, England would be able to concentrate her full strength on defeating America.

  Abigail was surprised by the strength of her feelings. In the United States she had thought of herself as British and had thought she identified with British interests. It was not until she had become involved in the argument with Sir Arthur that she had realized how much an American partisan she was and how much she resented the British positions. The paper and pens and the letter book into which she would copy her letter to have a record of what she had written lay unused before her as she tried to examine her motives and filter out the effects of her love for individuals she had left behind, her fondness for her home and her business, and other such private factors so that she could consider objectively the rights and wrongs of the conflict. But before she had made much headway, the door of the library swung open and Hilda marched in.

  “I really must insist, Abigail,” she said indignantly, “that you leave the management of the servants to Griselda. I do not know what you have been saying to Empson and McPherson, but they seemed quite distracted when they left you. You are confusing them.”

  “I imagine they are more frightened than confused,” Abigail replied. “I was not giving them orders but trying to find out who had shot at Victor when he and Daphne were in the woods.”

  “Shot at Victor!” Hilda screeched. “Don’t be a goose! The boy was telling a tale to make himself important. No doubt he was imagining red Indians in the woods and got carried away by his game.”

  “Games do not tear the collar and shoulders of a boy’s coat to shreds,” Abigail said dryly.

  “No doubt he made that up, too.” Hilda cackled. “You spoil those children dreadfully, believing every word they say. You should have insisted on seeing the coat before upsetting Empson and McPherson.”

  Abigail had been about to say something really nasty when she realized that Hilda was not implying that Victor had damaged his own coat. Obviously Hilda did not know the boy had brought the garment with him to show to his mother. In fact, it seemed that Hilda knew nothing about what had happened in the morning. Abigail had been crediting her with rare restraint and tact for not talking about the shooting during luncheon, but it occurred to her that Griselda had not told her mother about the accident.

  That was puzzling to Abigail only for a moment. Considering Hilda’s behavior to her daughter, Abigail was relatively sure Griselda would have expected to be blamed for something—if not for the accident itself, then for upsetting her mother by telling her of it. Now, without doubt, Griselda would be blamed for not telling Hilda. Not if I can help it, Abigail thought.

  Under the circumstances, Abigail suppressed her angry retort and said mildly, “No, a shot really was fired at Victor, but everyone is certain he was not intended to be the target. Nonetheless, we must discover, if we can, who the real target was so that—”

  “Real target, nonsense!” Hilda snorted contemptuously. “You are mad! If a shot was fired, it was fired by a poacher. Why upset our butler and chief gardener over that? Your ignorance is appalling. You should have told Eustace to speak to Vastaly, the gamekeeper, or the bailiff, Mr. Jameson.”

  Abigail could feel her teeth grit together, but she swallowed her fury because she was beginning to understand it was useless to argue with or explain to Hilda. Her mother-in-law leapt to conclusions that suited her, and her opinions only became more fixed in blind opposition to reasoning or argument. Thus, Abigail first tried to divert Hilda to a less exacerbating subject and, when that failed, hinted broadly that she had letters to write and would like to be left alone. Neither tactic worked, and Abigail was thinking about using physical force to rid herself of her unwelcome companion when the clock on the mantel struck and she was able to say it was time to dress for dinner.

  This respite, unfortunately, did not last beyond the actual period that Abigail was in her own rooms. As soon as she entered the drawing room it became clear that Hilda had never stopped talking about the shooting that morning. Her steel-file screech carried all too well across the whole room, although she was plainly addressing Eustace, who stood beside her.

  “But it must be St. Eyre’s fault,” Hilda was saying. “There is not sufficient Lydden property for a poacher to catch anything. I am ashamed of you, Eustace, refusing to inform St. Eyre that his gamekeeper has been careless and your nephew’s life was endangered.”

  “Now, now, Mother,” Eustace answered calmly, “you know the poacher must have been more frightened than the boy. You may rest assured he will never come near that place again. And as for complaining against Price, I certainly will not do so over something he could not possibly have foreseen. You know he is married to Mrs. Franklin’s daughter, and if Nelly were made unhappy over any complaint against her husband, Griselda would be unhappy, too.”

  “Ridiculous!” Hilda exclaimed. “Griselda could not possibly have any feeling for a common creature like Nelly.” She began to turn to her daughter to obtain confirmation of this statement and saw Abigail coming toward them. “You are late, Abigail,” she rasped. “Why did it take you so long to dress?” And then, looking down her nose at the simple dinner gown Abigail had chosen to wear since it was only the family. “One would think you would have more to show for such a long effort.”

  “I…er…rested for a little while,” Abigail replied, tactfully suppressing the fact that she had delayed coming down to avoid Hilda as long as possible.

  “I suppose you are implying that you needed to rest because of the shock you sustained. Well, let me say you deserved it. It is all your own fault, you know, because you allow those children to run wild. They should never have been in the wood by
themselves. And if you want my opinion, Mrs. Franklin is getting too old to deal properly with children. I never had so high an opinion of her. Griselda was quite unmanageable for months after she came back, forever running down to that cottage—”

  The diatribe was cut short by Empson’s announcement that dinner was served, and for a little while Hilda abandoned the topic of who was to blame for the shooting in favor of complaining because Abigail had arranged for dinner to be served in a small parlor nearer the kitchens than the dining room. Now that the children no longer ate with them, it had seemed foolish for the four to be seated around the dining table, which was too large even with the leaves removed. Conversation had been impossible for anyone with a voice that carried less than Hilda’s.

  Abigail’s attempt to reduce Hilda’s domination of the talk during dinner had not been a notable success so far, but the move did make the servants’ work easier and permitted the food to reach the table hot. Moreover, it quickened the service so that the meal did not last so long, a considerable advantage in Abigail’s opinion. Another advantage, although a minor one, was that the round table they used had no “head” or “foot”, so that Abigail was saved the problem of where Eustace should sit now that Victor was no longer at the head of the table. It would have been embarrassing to insist that the master’s seat should be left vacant, but Eustace had reacted so strongly when Victor had taken that place that Abigail decided she did not want to go through the changeover again.

  When the meal was mercifully over, Abigail considered excusing herself with a “headache” but resisted the temptation to avoid starting Hilda off on the shooting again. That made her remember that Hilda had been urging Eustace to complain to Sir Arthur, and she realized that to stop his mother’s nagging he might give in and do so. Abigail certainly did not want Sir Arthur to be harassed by another complaint, so she waited until Hilda seemed occupied in criticizing Griselda’s needlework and said softly to Eustace, “There is no need to speak to Sir Arthur. I have already done so this morning, and he is fully aware of what happened.” She might have told Eustace more of what had been said but was afraid of attracting Hilda’s attention.

  Eustace’s lips thinned with irritation, but then he shook his head. “You must not mind too much what my mother says,” he remarked. “There was no need to drag St. Eyre into the matter. I am sure it was an accident that will not occur again. And, really, you must not confine Victor to the house or the lawns. He must get to know the property. If you are nervous about his wandering in the woods, let him ride—oh, I forgot—perhaps he cannot ride.”

  “Yes, he can,” Abigail replied. “Both Victor and Daphne ride quite well. Francis taught them.”

  Eustace suddenly looked interested, which both surprised and rather pleased Abigail. She had hoped when she first heard about Francis’ half brother that Eustace might feel a responsibility—or even a fondness—for Victor and spend some time with him showing him over the estate and continuing Francis’ tutoring in male sports and other activities. The cold welcome and Eustace’s reaction to Victor’s seating himself at the head of the dinner table had quickly killed that hope. Until this moment, there had been nothing to reawaken it, for Eustace had ignored Victor over the intervening days. But perhaps, Abigail thought, noting what was almost a flicker of eagerness in Eustace’s expression, the rejection was mostly a result of shock, and he would get over it.

  “However, I do not think,” she went on, “that there are any suitable horses in the stable.”

  The remark was a deliberate invitation. Francis, by whom Abigail judged all English gentlemen, would drop everything—if he were not in one of his drinking or gambling fits—to look at horses. He would have leapt into an opening such as Abigail had provided and offered to choose the horses himself, or help choose the horses, or just go along to accompany the person who was to choose the horses. And for just a moment, she thought it was going to work. Eustace’s eyes gleamed and he seemed about to make an eager reply, but then his lips tightened again.

  “No,” he said stiffly, “I am afraid that is true. My father did not ride toward the end of his life, and my mother and Griselda have never done so.” He hesitated, and then shook his head slowly. “I do not think any of my horses would be suitable,” he added.

  His voice seemed to hold what Abigail felt was a touch of reluctance, and she was startled briefly—until she guessed that Eustace was afraid she might expect him to offer to mount her children and was so ignorant that she would think it selfish of him not to make the offer.

  “Oh, no,” she exclaimed, smiling, “of course they would not be suitable. I do realize your mounts would be too much for the children to handle—although I am not so sure that is true for Victor. He seems able to ride anything at all. But they must have their own horses, and I will need a riding mare, too.”

  This second subtle invitation received an almost identical response to the first. Eustace seemed about to offer to choose for her the horses she and her children would need, but then his expression hardened, as if he had reminded himself of his resentment against them. However, he did recommend a reliable dealer in Ramsgate, which was not many miles distant. Abigail was a trifle disappointed, but she thought it unwise to press the issue with an overt request. Possibly, if she allowed a few days more to pass, Eustace’s attitude toward Victor might be further improved. Besides, she thought, Eustace might not know a horse from a camel. She had better make the time to get over to the stable and look over his animals and talk to the grooms.

  Actually, Abigail herself was a moderately good judge of horses, owing to the fact that Francis could not resist expatiating at length on the quality of any animal upon which his eyes fell. Nonetheless, she was aware that ladies were not expected to visit horse-coper’s establishments. Of course, it was permissible to write to the dealer, who would then bring the horses he believed would best suit the requirements to Rutupiae for approval. But Abigail thought it better that someone look over the whole stock and, in addition, really preferred that someone with more practical knowledge than herself examine the animals.

  If Eustace would not, there was always the head groom, but… No, there was Sir Arthur. Involuntarily Abigail smiled as she remembered Mr. Deedes telling her that Sir Arthur would be delighted to be helpful for any purpose. Abigail was not at all sure that choosing horses was part of an executor’s responsibility, but it would be a most excellent excuse to call at Stonar Magna again. Oddly, Abigail did not doubt Sir Arthur’s ability to judge the quality of a horse as she had doubted Eustace’s. There was something about Sir Arthur that proclaimed he would be competent at whatever he did. And for some reason, that thought made her smile again. Unfortunately, the second smile came at the wrong moment, just as Hilda was sure she had made her daughter understand that she must unpick most of the work she was doing because the colors were not feminine enough.

  “And what are you two chattering about?” she asked.

  The arch tone of the question not only indicated to Abigail that Hilda had been aware of the fact that she and Eustace had been talking, but startled her considerably by its implication that the conversation had had romantic overtones. Such a thought had never entered Abigail’s mind. Eustace was at least five years younger than she and had, in many ways, led a far more sheltered life. She considered him hardly more than a boy.

  To make any comment on so ridiculous an implication, however, could only add emphasis to it, so Abigail answered blandly, “We were talking about horses. Victor, Daphne, and I all need mounts.”

  “Well, you will have to do without them.” Hilda uttered a triumphant chuckle. “Sir Arthur does not believe horses to be a legitimate charge on the estate. That was what he said when he sent back the bill for the hunter Eustace wished to purchase.”

  “No, Mama, he did not believe my horse to be a legitimate charge. He will approve payment for Victor’s horse. Victor is the earl.”

  Eustace’s voice was so odd that Abigail’
s head snapped around to him, but he was smiling, and she released the breath that had caught in her throat. He was baiting his mother, she thought, although Hilda seemed unaware of the fact and shrugged, saying peevishly that if it were so, Sir Arthur was monstrously unfair because she knew her late husband would not have wished her to have to bear the financial burden of his children.

  Abigail’s mouth opened to point out that the late earl knew perfectly well that Hilda’s income was more than adequate, but she closed it firmly. Such a discussion could only lead to unpleasant exchanges that would have no effect on Hilda’s opinion. Overtly she simply ignored everything that had been said, stated firmly that she had not seen enough of her children and left.

  Having made the statement, Abigail realized that it was true. She had not seen Victor and Daphne since she handed them over to Mrs. Franklin before she went to tell Sir Arthur about the shooting. A pang of guilt made her rush up the stairs and almost run to the rooms set aside for the children, but both her guilt and her anxiety were a waste of time. Although she was greeted with shouts of enthusiasm, these were only engendered by the hope of snaring another player into the card game Mrs. Franklin had taught them. After an initial hesitation, for the letters Abigail had intended to write were still undone, she laughed and sat down at the table.

  One more quiver of anxiety passed through her as she realized the children were gambling with counters, but she suppressed it. She knew that often efforts were made to keep the children of gamblers in ignorance of the vice, but she had long ago made up her mind that was not the path she wished to take for Victor and Daphne. She had made no protest when they learned to play cards from their friends. Instead she played against them, and if they proposed to play for money, she won every penny and refused to lend against any future money they could earn by running errands for the shop or doing other chores. They learned the bitterness of gambling with real coin, for when they played for straws or some other harmless symbol, Abigail played less fiercely—and admitted this to them, pointing out that play for money was always vicious and often dishonest—so the winning and losing became more even.