“Now, Arthur, there’s no need to shout at me,” Violet said calmly. “You know you only do so when you realize you are in the wrong. Ordinarily no one would pay too much attention to Hilda Lydden’s nasty remarks, but people simply cannot resist a scandal. It is ridiculous to say no one would know Abigail came here alone and on foot. Servants gossip to each other, and every house in the area doubtless knew by the next day. Nor is it sensible to say she is one of the Milfords from Somerset as if it were common knowledge. How would anyone know that? You did not, I am sure, until Mr. Deedes wrote to you of it. And knowing what Francis was, I am sure everyone suspects she is an innkeeper’s daughter or worse.”
“Oh, damn and blast,” Arthur sighed, “you are right, of course. I should have given a dinner, but I never thought of it. And who would be my hostess?” he finished accusingly.
“You could have asked Leonie,” Violet remarked, smiling. “After all, Stour Castle is close by, and Roger’s wife is your aunt. But I guessed as soon as I got Angela Vernon’s letter that it would be necessary to welcome Abigail formally, so I wrote to everyone that I had asked you not to do anything until I could arrive. I was fond of Francis, and it is only right that I should do what I can for his wife and children. So I shall find out—”
“Violet!”
The door had opened quietly, and Bertram had come in. He moved quickly and gracefully to the chair in which she was sitting, raised her hand and kissed it. She laughed, put her free hand behind his head and pulled him down so she could kiss him affectionately. Then she shook her head at him.
“I can excuse Arthur,” she said. “His head is always in the clouds between urging war against Bonaparte and peace with America, but how could you overlook the need to—”
“Violet!” Bertram exclaimed reproachfully. “I did not overlook anything. I knew your sense of duty would bring you home, and I knew the delay would do Abigail no harm. It has given her a chance to settle, to become a little accustomed to our ways and everyone will assume we were waiting for you before we made our move.”
“Dear Bertram,” Violet said, “someday I shall find a point to which you do not have a reasonable reply—but perhaps I had better not. The shock might kill me.”
Arthur had stood silent during this exchange, watching Bertram and his mother. Now he collapsed in a chair, stretching his long legs out so that the footman who had followed Bertram into the room a few minutes later almost tripped over his feet as he set down a tray of tea and tiny cakes.
“Poor Martin,” Arthur said. “We seem to give you a hard time in this house.”
“Oh no, sir,” Martin replied with sincerity. “It is a very interesting household.”
Violet sneezed, Bertram coughed and Martin took his departure, while Arthur laughed aloud. He knew Bertram and he knew his mother. On the surface their meeting had been normal, but Arthur was certain that neither was really at ease. Each was trying to pass some message to the other without his knowledge. In a sense, that was annoying, but Arthur was having a hard time restraining a broad grin. Bertram must have sent for his mother, and it must be that they were trying to tell each other that he was still unaware of it.
The deception was obvious, and in her fear of giving herself and Bertram away, his mama had done so by blaming Bertram for not reminding Arthur of the need to give a dinner for Abigail. His dear mama was perfectly correct. It was inconceivable that Bertram could forget such a thing, thus, he had not mentioned it deliberately, probably to give Violet a good reason to come home. It flicked through his mind that had Bertram intended harm to young Victor, the last thing he would have done was to bring Violet back to the house, since she was perceptive and intuitive. In fact, Arthur felt thoroughly ashamed of his suspicions, and although he still could not guess Bertram’s purpose, he was not worried about it. Actually, he was so relieved, he could have kissed them both—but he did not want to deprive them of the innocent pleasure of thinking they had fooled him.
The one drawback to the situation was the effect it would have on his relationship with Abigail. Now Arthur realized he had been a fool not to think of introducing her to the neighborhood himself. If he had done so, his mother’s coolness to her would have been put down to jealousy. It was his punishment for greed, for wanting to keep her to himself. Fortunately, he had done no harm that could not be corrected. His mother would see that Abigail was accepted, and he was sure they would become friends—if Violet did not perceive that Abigail was his mistress. With a sigh Arthur resigned himself to a longer period of celibacy than he had intended to endure.
“Arthur!”
He looked up from the tray of cakes at which he had been staring. “What is it, Mama?”
“Oh, you are impossible. What are you dreaming about?”
“Whether Wellington will give us a substantial victory before the alliance between Prussia and Russia falls apart and in time to convince Austria to declare war,” Arthur lied blandly.
Violet uttered a martyred sigh. “I grant you it is an important subject, Arthur, but not one about which you can do anything, whereas you will be the host of this dinner party we are discussing.”
“But I am sure you and Bertram have arranged everything perfectly,” Arthur said plaintively. “I have no appointments to interfere, and if I did, Bertram would know more about them than I, anyway. I was merely waiting for you to tell me what to do, and it seemed reasonable for me to apply my mind to a subject for which it is fit—”
“Do you not like Abigail Lydden?” Violet asked, looking a trifle startled.
“Of course I like her,” Arthur replied coolly. “I cannot think of anyone, except perhaps Hilda, who would not. She is intelligent and beautiful—and a very good mother too, I think. When we are not shouting at each other about something, I find her excellent company. What the devil has liking Abigail to do with listening to the details about a dinner party?”
“The party is being given for her, after all,” Bertram pointed out. “We assumed you would be interested in who was to be invited.”
“Why?” Arthur asked. “You and Mama surely know better than I who can bless or damn in the ton. I only know who controls the most votes for seats in the Commons, and I doubt that would be of any help, since Abigail is obviously not going to stand for Parliament—although I wouldn’t be surprised if she would like to do so.” He paused to allow a few exasperated comments to pass over his head and then asked, “Well, what have you decided?”
“Thursday,” Violet said. “That is soon enough to show that I did come for that purpose and still will give those who have a previous engagement time to cancel it.”
“Excellent.” Arthur stood up. “I might as well ride over and explain to Abigail what she is about to endure. Is there anything else she needs to be told? Are you going to invite Hilda?”
“I hate to do it,” Violet said, “but not asking her would mean leaving Griselda out too, and that would be unkind. Besides, Abigail has to live with Hilda, and I doubt she would thank us for providing her mother-in-law with another source of complaints.”
Arthur smiled his agreement and went out. Bertram and Violet continued to talk about the guest list for a few minutes, but as soon as it was certain Arthur would not return, she said, “I think he has finally found a woman with whom he can live. Thank you for writing, Bertram. Did you hear him, poor innocent, pretending indifference and admitting that he shouts at her? Can you imagine Arthur shouting at any of his previous lights of love?”
Bertram laughed. “No, but to be fair, that was only because none of them had brains enough to discuss any subject about which he cared.”
“I don’t think so,” Violet said thoughtfully. “I think it was because he wasn’t enough interested in any of them to care what their opinions were.”
Arthur found Abigail in the library reading a thick letter, which she put into a drawer as she rose to greet him. “Doom has befallen us,” he announced, crossing the room and taking her
in his arms.
“At least we will be together,” she replied, laughing.
“Yes, but that’s just what we won’t be,” Arthur said morosely. “I had just got everything fixed. I had found a cottage well within riding distance but very isolated, and I was working on a good reason why an empty cottage, which is not, I repeat, not a place I customarily bring my paramours, should not only contain tea, wine and biscuits but a bed all made up to receive us, when—”
“Arthur, you are quite mad,” Abigail exclaimed before she pulled his head down and kissed him soundly.
“Why does everyone say that to me?” he asked indignantly.
“Because you do things in a very, very odd way,” she murmured against his lips. “When you had gone to all that trouble to arrange a place to take me by surprise and sweep me romantically off my feet, you are not supposed to spoil the surprise by telling me all about it. However, I am becoming very abandoned. Shall I pretend you did not…er…blow the gaff?”
Although he had intended to make light of the whole subject and had definitely decided, before he saw Abigail, that he was not going to increase his frustration by caresses that could lead nowhere, Arthur’s mouth fastened on those provocative, murmuring lips. One hand slid down from her shoulders to her buttocks to press her tight against him. Abigail was taken by surprise, because Arthur had been responding for the past few days to similar teasing with an expectant half smile plus a brief, if hungry, kiss and sometimes no more than a playful slap. Before she could think, her body flamed into response, and she lifted herself on her toes to put the pressure of his hardened rod where it would ease her need. In the next moment she had pulled free, blushing. Even with Francis she had never been so forward. To play with words was one thing, to use her body so crudely was another.
“Oh, we mustn’t,” she gasped. “Empson or one of the men is sure to be here in a few minutes with wine or something. When he announced you, I told him to bring what he thought proper until I was more certain of the correct thing myself.”
He did not answer but, standing with hands clenched, half turned away.
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have teased you, but you seemed to enjoy it before—”
“I did enjoy it, but then I expected that it would only be a few days—” He turned to face her fully, held out a hand, and smiled wryly. “Never mind, my darling, it isn’t your fault, but unfortunately, I’m not mad to tell you about the cottage. Or, I guess I am, but in the other sense of the word. I’m not going to get to sweep you off your feet, at least, not for a while. In fact, we are going to have to be very careful.”
“Whatever has happened?” she asked.
“You are about to be introduced to the local gentry,” he replied.
She smiled at him uncertainly. “Do you expect me to be so overwhelmed with visitors and invitations that I will no longer have time for you?”
He laughed, although he was aware of a prick of jealousy. “No, but it is my mama who is going to introduce you. I was a damned fool not to do it myself, but… Damn! I don’t know whether I really didn’t think of it or whether I didn’t want to share you. In any case, I have landed us in the soup.”
“Do you realize I have no idea what you are talking about?” Abigail remarked. “Of course, I will be very grateful to your mother for taking the trouble to sponsor me, but what has that to do with—with your nefarious plot to—to damage my virtue?”
Arthur could not help laughing, as he knew she intended by using the high-flown verbiage of a very bad novel. “My nefarious plot will have to wait. Mama does not approve of the…ah…light play of love—at least when I am doing the playing.”
There was a short silence while Abigail stared blankly at Arthur. At that moment, the door opened and Empson himself carried in a tray with bottles of wine and glasses as well as a squat silver pot and the odd-shaped cups in which coffee was served. Abigail thanked him with a mechanical smile and, when he was gone, turned back to Arthur.
“Are you not a little past the age to be afraid of your mother?” she asked.
Arthur was so surprised that he just stared back. Then he exploded, “Don’t be a fool! I’m not afraid of her, but she can hurt you.”
Abigail flushed with rage. “I am not a child,” she snapped viciously. “I am no longer even a ‘minor under the law’. I am an adult female who can manage her own life. I have not allowed you to kiss me and paw me because I desire your protection or desire that you procure your mother’s protection for me. I am very capable of taking care of myself. I wanted you, but now I am not so sure—”
“Abigail,” Arthur said, his voice overriding hers, “will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
Abigail was so stunned that she simply stared. It was apparent that Arthur was not joking and that he meant what he said, yet there was an odd look about him, almost as if the words had taken him by surprise. He came a step nearer and took her hand.
“I love you,” he said softly. “I did not know how much until this moment when it came to me that someday I might lose you. I am not such a fool as to think marriage can enforce love—I know it cannot, but I believe it to be the fullest expression of love and—and it is all I have to offer to show what I feel.”
Most of Abigail’s shock had worn off while Arthur was speaking, and she found herself filled with a tremulous gladness. He had offered his ultimate proof of love, not a small matter for a man who had so long resisted marriage. Nor could she doubt he wanted her for herself alone. He knew that what dowry she had, if any, might be unattainable. Yet under her gladness, there was a small uneasy doubt. Had his offer been stimulated by her cry of independence? Could the driving impulse—even if Arthur did not recognize it himself—be a desire to tame a woman who had been so bold as to say she did not desire or need a man’s authority over her? Abigail examined her lover’s face and put the ugly thought away.
“You will not lose me,” she assured him, coming still closer and putting her free arm around his neck. “If my hand and my word will satisfy you, I would be proud and happy to consider myself and to have you consider me your wife. I swear I will be faithful and love only you—but I cannot marry you, Arthur. I am honored, and I love you, but…one marriage was enough for me.”
“You still feel bound to Francis? Did you love him so much?” he asked harshly.
She kissed him gently. “No, Arthur. Do not waste time and thought on Francis. I certainly do not feel bound to him. If I did, I would never have let you touch me, and I would have made my inaccessibility plain at once. As to love—I suppose I did love him as a man at one time, although I cannot remember it. All I remember is caring for him as one cares for a child with a deformed mind. It is a very strange, bitter kind of love, mixed with shame and hatred. One cannot break loose from it—but one does not desire to renew it, either.”
“In God’s name, Abigail,” Arthur exclaimed, “you cannot think me another Francis.”
She pulled his head down and kissed his lips, then pulled back a trifle. “No, that is not what I meant. I was only explaining that I do not miss Francis and never have missed him. And I think you are as near his opposite as it is possible to be without losing his good qualities—for he had some. That is not why I do not wish to be your wife legally. I… You heard what I said when I was angry. Angry or not, that was true. I simply wish to be free. I do not wish to be protected.”
Arthur looked down into the beautiful face raised to his with mingled regret and relief. He loved Abigail in a way he had not cared for any other woman, and he had offered marriage because he had needed desperately to demonstrate that difference to her—and to himself. But he was not really sorry she had refused him, especially since she had also said she loved him and given her word to be faithful. Naturally Arthur had heard such promises many times, but he did not judge Abigail by the women who had broken their words with such frequency. She would be faithful, he was sure—unless he gave her r
eason to withdraw her commitment.
Although Arthur had not been constant in the past, he was certain he would give Abigail no cause for doubting his faithfulness to her. He was very tired of ephemeral affairs, and yet he shrank from being held on a tether, needing always to consider another person’s feelings and convenience. Even small, everyday matters were changed by marriage. He would have to remember, for instance, to warn his wife if he would not be home for dinner or if he met someone and wished the friend to dine with him.
Worse yet was the necessity of attending a wife’s entertainments. Arthur restrained a shudder. He had been dragged by his mistresses to enough brainless tea parties and musicales and operas, when no one listened to the music or the singers and would not let him listen. With the mistresses the situation was endurable because he knew he could end it whenever he grew sufficiently tired of it, but with a wife there was no end. Slowly Arthur smiled. He had the best of both possible worlds—a beautiful and intelligent woman who was all his, and no chains.
Chapter Thirteen
Violet St. Eyre called on Abigail the next day. Unfortunately, Arthur and Abigail had not had time to thrash out the subject of his mother’s attitude toward their relationship, because they had been interrupted by Victor and Daphne, sent home by the vicar, who was not feeling well. The children were so happy to have some extra time to spend with their mother that Abigail did not wish to send them away, particularly since they might associate her dismissal with Arthur’s presence. It was not surprising, therefore, that Abigail received Arthur’s mother with considerable reservations.
These did not last beyond the first few minutes of the visit, during which Violet, looking over her shoulder like a hunted thing, said breathlessly, “You will think me quite mad, but I must tell you what I have to say very quickly. I think Hilda saw me coming in, and she will no doubt be upon us as soon as she realizes I am not waiting to be shown into the drawing room. How clever of you, my dear, to use the library as your sitting room. I could not imagine how I was going to get you away from her. What I want to know is whether my featherbrained son actually told you that I would be giving a dinner party on this Thursday coming to introduce you to our neighbors. I hope you do not think it interfering of me, but they think, because of the way Francis drank, you know, that you might be an innkeeper’s daughter and also that you are an American.“
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