Why should Arthur even think of Griselda, except to pity her? And with the word the horrible possibilities became clear to Abigail at once. If Arthur had been kind out of pity, Hilda was exactly the type to misread the courtesies he had extended. Had Griselda fixed her affection on Arthur because of the kindness, or had her idiot mother convinced her that he loved her? The girl was so starved for affection of any kind that it would not have taken much. Abigail could have wept, but that would only make everything worse.
She became aware that Hilda was now engaged in providing a catalogue of Sir Arthur’s notorious amours all over the neighborhood. Surprisingly, for she admitted to herself that she was interested in the man, she did not feel at all jealous. Although she did not doubt Arthur did, indeed, play with women, Hilda’s list amused rather than infuriated her. So determined a lothario would have little time for politics—or for anything else.
“And you need not look so amused and superior,” Hilda exclaimed waspishly. “If you think you are an exception, you are quite wrong. He gives that impression to everyone.” She uttered a spiteful cackle of laughter when she saw Abigail frown. “Oh, so you have fallen victim to Sir Arthur’s practiced lechery.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” Abigail said coldly. “If I was displeased at the scandals you chose to relate, it was because Sir Arthur has been very kind to me. He came to explain to me the precautions he had taken with regard to avoiding another accidental shooting, since my children are likely to wander in the woods a good deal.”
“Precautions?” Eustace remarked, his voice slightly sneering. “What precautions are necessary against that kind of accident? It won’t happen again, anyway. Most probably it was one of his own gamekeepers who panicked for some reason and fired the shot. Arthur’s a fool if he really believes the man would confess.”
“None of his people are honest.” Hilda cackled. “He coddles them too much. They know they can get away with anything, and they do.”
Abigail did not agree with either Eustace or Hilda, but she was more intent on changing the conversation for Griselda’s sake than on defending Arthur’s servants. The attempt she made was a failure, however. Hilda’s mind was like the proverbial immovable object.
Ignoring Abigail’s tempting gambit on the subject of finding a local dressmaker, Hilda said, “I suppose you walked out into the woods with him to make sure the ‘precautions’ he told you about were really taken.”
“I walked out with Daphne,” Abigail remarked with pretended indifference, realizing that any show of the anger and disgust she felt would only confirm Hilda’s ugly innuendo. “Sir Arthur kindly offered to show Victor a good place to fish and swim, and my daughter felt a bit left out. Since you were watching so carefully, you must have noticed that Daphne and I came back with wildflowers.”
“Oh,” Eustace put in, before his mother could reply, “the pool where there’s a small island in the river? That is a good spot to swim. Is Victor good at it?”
“Quite good,” Abigail replied eagerly. She was delighted both by Eustace’s willingness to divert the conversation and by the fact that he seemed interested in Victor’s liking for the sport. Eustace did seem to be getting over his envy. “But Victor won’t be doing any swimming for a while. He was used to a much warmer climate in America and must grow accustomed to an English summer. Besides, he will have to find a companion for swimming. I would not permit him to do so alone.”
“Yes, of course, that’s only sensible,” Eustace said, seeming almost disappointed, which warmed Abigail’s heart because she felt he was sympathizing with Victor. Then he asked with interest, “Does Victor like to fish?”
“Yes, he does,” Abigail answered, smiling encouragement. “Francis taught him. Are you a fisherman, too?”
“Not a very passionate one,” Eustace replied, also smiling, “but I do take out a rod now and again. I have some old equipment that I could lend Victor.”
“How kind of you!” Abigail exclaimed. “He will be so delighted. Could I impose on you a little further and ask you to explain how to use it? He was barely eleven the last time Francis took him, you see, and I don’t believe he was allowed to do much with the equipment. He has been fishing since then, of course, but with a string tied to a stick sort of thing. And, naturally, if he damages the rod or anything else, I will have it repaired.”
“Not to worry,” Eustace said pleasantly. “I don’t think I have used the rod I have in mind for him in ten years. In fact, I will give it to him outright. Then he won’t need to worry if something goes wrong.”
Abigail’s eyes glowed with gratitude. “Thank you. Victor will adore you for this.”
“I doubt that it is Victor’s adoration Eustace wants,” Hilda said archly.
Eustace closed his eyes for a moment, but he only smiled at his mother when he turned toward her. Whatever he had intended to say was lost as Empson opened the door at that moment to announce that dinner was served. Worse yet, despite Eustace’s and Abigail’s combined efforts, Hilda managed to drag the conversation back to Sir Arthur time and again during dinner, and several gibes were directed toward Griselda. From these, Abigail was forced to the astounding conclusion that Hilda had tried to induce her daughter to threaten Arthur with a suit for breach of promise, and had been unsuccessful. She could not decide which of the two ideas shocked her more—that any mother could wish to expose her daughter to such public humiliation or that Griselda had found the strength to resist.
As she did far too often, Abigail offered up a prayer of thanksgiving when dinner ended. However, this time she could not bring herself simply to flee to the quiet of her own apartment or to the noisy amusement of her children’s company. Griselda, she was sure, would not be allowed to escape, and Abigail could not bear to leave her to be tormented by her mother. The solution was to send for Victor and Daphne to come down and join her.
For a little while the success of the maneuver hung in the balance. Victor scored the first points by being so volubly grateful over Eustace’s offer of a real fishing rod that Hilda could not get a word in. But when, with grim patience, Eustace took the boy to fetch the rod at once, Hilda made a strong recovery by snidely suggesting that Sir Arthur had spent a very long time in the library with Abigail for a purpose that could have been accomplished by a short note.
Since Arthur had made that point himself, Abigail could not blame Hilda for thinking of it, and she answered calmly. “He also wanted to discuss the subject of school for Victor. Obviously, since I am Victor’s guardian, he cannot make arrangements without my concurrence, and there is much to be talked over.”
“Don’t you let him send your poor little boy off to school!” Hilda exclaimed.
To Abigail’s surprise, an expression of anxiety appeared on Hilda’s face. Abigail had no way of knowing why such an expression should be assumed, but her instinctive reaction was that Hilda was too stupid and too self-centered to be capable of pretense, thus, she was truly concerned. Fortunately, the mingling of surprise and doubt kept Abigail from bursting into laughter at hearing Victor called a “poor little boy”. A less apt description of her sturdy, fearless devil of a son would be hard to find.
“But what will I do if Victor goes to school?” Daphne asked.
“You may go too, my love,” Abigail replied. “Sir Arthur was naturally concerned with Victor, since he must make the recommendations that will gain a place, but you will not be forgotten. Perhaps there is a day school that you could ride to each day if you do not wish to stay at the school all term. Or I could find you a governess who could teach you properly.”
“You are very foolish to be allowing a little girl to make such choices,” Hilda screeched. “Daughters must learn to be obedient.”
“I had rather she learned to be sensible and to manage her own life,” Abigail snapped.
Hilda glanced sidelong at Griselda, who had not uttered a single sound all evening, since that one pathetic protest. “You will have p
lenty of time to regret your foolishness when your sensible daughter leaves you to die of loneliness.”
“I would never let Mother be lonely,” Daphne cried.
Abigail laughed aloud, although she was furious. “Don’t be a goose, Daphne. You know I am never lonely, because I am too busy. Heaven knows I am always glad to see you, but I am just as glad when you have things to do on your own and let me get on with my work.”
“What work?” Hilda asked.
“At the moment learning to run this house and the estate,” Abigail replied calmly. The children had been warned not to speak of the business in New York, and though Abigail might have been concerned if Victor had been there, she did not even glance at Daphne, who was a careful, less volatile child.
“Run the estate!” Hilda echoed. “What right have you—?”
But before she could finish the question, Victor burst into the room waving his new possession and exclaiming on its wonders and beauties. Abigail let him run on for a time, ignoring Hilda’s outraged exclamations, but when he began to demonstrate casts, endangering the candles and ornaments in the room, not to mention the people—his skill not being equal to his enthusiasm—she realized she would have to divert him.
“Stop now, before you hurt someone or break something, Victor,” Abigail ordered. “You may take it to the pond tomorrow. Also, I have something important to tell you. Sir Arthur offered to try to secure you a place at Westminster—that is a—”
“A school,” Victor interrupted. “I know! It’s the school William Baring goes to. Oh, Mother, that’s good! When can I go?”
Abigail was appalled. She had only wished to divert Victor from the fishing rod and had thought that he would be interested in talking about school but not eager to go because everything on the estate was still so new and interesting. There were a number of reasons not to send Victor away too soon, one of which was finding out whether his American schooling had, indeed, been adequate.
“Well,” she said, “I see that I do not need to ask whether you wish to go or be tutored privately.”
“Oh, no, Mother! I like school, and William will be there. I know he’s two years ahead, but that’s all to the good. He won’t let anyone bully me.”
“Well, then, we will hope a place can be found for you,” Abigail temporized. “Now don’t set your heart on going, Vic. A fine school like Westminster always has more applicants than places, and—”
“But Father went there, and with Sir Arthur and Mr. Baring both asking for a place for me, they’ll make one, I bet,” Victor said ebulliently.
“Make a place where?” Eustace asked as he came in.
“At Westminster. My father went to school there, and Sir Arthur has offered to get me a place.”
“Ask for one, I said,” Abigail reminded him.
Eustace looked startled but did not speak. Noting his expression and the fact that Daphne’s face was still clouded, Abigail suggested that Victor take his rod up to his room temporarily, if he could not bear to put it away with the other fishing gear, and that Daphne consult Mrs. Franklin about schools. She was likely, Abigail remarked, to know what schools the girls in the area attended and how well they liked them. Both children went off with alacrity. Abigail suspected that Victor intended to do more with his fishing rod than put it away and hoped he would not seriously damage the furniture or bric-a-brac in his apartment. However, she wanted to ask Eustace why he had looked so startled at the notion that Victor might go to Westminster and forbore to issue any warning that might make Victor reluctant to leave.
When the door had closed behind her children, she turned to Eustace. “Why did you look so surprised when Victor implied he wished to go to Westminster?”
“Did I?” Eustace said. “I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business, of course.”
“I don’t see why you should say that,” Hilda interposed harshly. “Victor is your nephew, and he is the earl. Do you want to see him ruined, as Francis was?”
“Mama!” Eustace protested. “Francis was Abigail’s husband.”
“Then she must know even better than we how Francis was ruined,” Hilda snapped.
A few minutes before, Abigail had based an opinion on her belief that Hilda was stupid. A remark such as she had just made rather shook that belief, but Abigail was too intent on whatever objections Hilda and Eustace had to Westminster to follow that path of thought.
“I don’t see what Francis’ faults had to do with Westminster,” she said.
“Where do you think he learned such habits?” Hilda asked. “He certainly did not learn them in his family.”
“I can hardly believe he learned to drink and gamble at school,” Abigail protested, a trifle indignant. “Surely the boys are watched and other men who have attended that school show no such propensities.”
Eustace had been listening to the exchange with a frown on his face. Once he had seemed about to speak, then had tightened his lips and said nothing. He listened to another offensive and ill-judged remark by his mother, saw Abigail’s chin come forward stubbornly, and put a hand on her arm.
“It isn’t any of my business,” he said. “You’re Victor’s mother, and you know him best. I can’t even speak from personal experience because I never went to school—and never regretted not going. But I think what Mama is trying to say is that because Francis was a sensitive person, the harshness of school life and the—the teasing and bullying drove him to seek outlets he might not have otherwise found attractive.”
“Francis never said anything about disliking school.” Abigail’s voice, however, was uncertain.
Eustace did not contest her statement, but he raised his eyebrows, and Abigail thought back. Actually she could not remember Francis saying much about school at all. Was that because he had disliked it? After all, in all the years they had been married he had not once mentioned his stepmother and half brother and sister, and Mr. Deedes had implied Francis loathed them. On the other hand, Francis had not protested when she suggested sending Victor to school, and Francis had been truly fond of his son. In fact, he had actually bestirred himself to investigate the schools in the area to choose what he considered the best for Victor.
“Did Francis speak to you about Westminster?” Abigail asked.
“Good Lord, yes,” Eustace replied. “That was why I was pleased as punch when Mama wouldn’t let me go.” He laughed lightly. “Oh, I said I wanted to go a few times to please my father, but I was really glad to be tutored at home. Francis told me the most horrible stories, not only about being caned by the masters—and some of the brutes enjoy it—but about mistreatment by the other boys. Has Victor been to school?”
“Yes, and he liked it, as you no doubt guessed.”
“I imagine it was a much smaller school than ours here,” Eustace pointed out, “and that its existence is far more precarious. I would suppose that those circumstances made it necessary for the headmaster to be much more careful that his students did not carry complaints home to their parents.”
That remark was so reasonable that Abigail was shaken. She had some doubts about the “horror stories” Francis had told Eustace. Ordinarily Francis was the kindest person; however, if he had disliked his brother sufficiently, he might have been trying to frighten him. But there was also the chance that Francis had been ashamed to admit his misery to his father and had expressed it to Eustace because he did not care about Eustace’s opinion of him. Abigail listened with only half an ear to Hilda deplore the dreadful conditions at the schools and the hardships that she had been too tender to inflict on her son, but they did make an impression on her mind.
It was unfortunate that she had not heard about these things before she had mentioned Westminster to Victor. He would be violently disappointed if he were told he could not go. Not one of the drawbacks that had raised doubts in her would have the smallest effect on her son, and when Victor made up his mind about something, it was difficult and unpleasant to unmake it
. Besides, countless British boys had survived their public schools without damage to their minds or persons. Her own gentle father had done so. And Arthur, who was a thoughtful, kind person, surely would not have suggested Westminster if it was so dreadful; after all, he had been there, too.
Abigail thanked Eustace—and Hilda—for their kind intentions toward her son, smiled at Griselda who, she was sorry to see, looked no less crushed and distraught than she had earlier, and excused herself on the grounds that Victor was probably hooking all the precious porcelain ornaments off the mantelpiece and she had better go and stop him. However, she did not go to her son’s room, she went into her own sitting room to think. Unfortunately, thinking did not help her decide. She could only mull over the same ideas. What she needed, she realized, was another opinion.
Truthfully, she did not trust Hilda or Eustace, not because she feared they had an ulterior motive in this case—Abigail could not believe that either had the slightest reason to care whether Victor went to school or stayed at home—but because she simply did not trust their judgment. She trusted Arthur’s judgment, but not on this subject. Not only was it he who had suggested Westminster, but it was apparent that Arthur was self-assertive, sharply intelligent and physically strong. That was a combination that would have protected him from the most adverse situations in school. Of course, these characteristics described Victor too, but Abigail was fearful because of what Francis had been. She did not want Victor tested too harshly.
Suddenly she recalled the slender and willowy form—and the effeminate manners—of Sir Arthur’s secretary, Bertram Lydden. If Bertram had attended public school and survived, Victor certainly could. It would be interesting to hear what he had to say about his ordeal. Even if Bertram had not been to school, he was a clever and observant person, and most of the men he knew had no doubt been educated in one or another public school. His advice would certainly be of more value than Hilda’s and probably than Eustace’s, too. Abigail relaxed as she thought she could walk over to Stonar Magna right after breakfast, when Bertram would most likely be attending to the post or other business, and talk to him.
A Woman's Estate Page 12