“Which is worse?” Abigail asked, unable to prevent herself from laughing.
Violet sank into a chair. “I am not at all sure. Perhaps being American. I wish for your sake that this wretched war had never started—and the American naval victories will make things particularly hard.”
“I wish the war had never started too,” Abigail said, her voice sharp, “but I do not begrudge the Americans their little victories. British behavior in this war has been appalling! For the first time in my life, I have been ashamed to admit my nationality.”
“Two of them!” Violet announced in a tragic voice, raising her eyes to heaven. “Arthur has never had sense enough not to espouse the most unpopular cause available at the top of his lungs in public, but you are a woman. Surely you know there are better ways to make a point.” She paused and frowned, then said, “Mind you, from time to time I have had my doubts, particularly about encouraging the Indians to join the fighting, but… No! I will not allow myself to be distracted to inessentials!”
“You consider a war an inessential?” Abigail asked.
“No, of course not, not in a general way,” Violet replied with an impatient gesture, “but when one’s purpose is discussing a dinner party, it certainly is. My dear Abigail—oh, may I call you Abigail? When I say Lady Lydden, I think of Hilda, and that is awful. Heaven, now I sound as waspish as she. You will think me not a bit better.”
Abigail laughed again. “I prefer Abigail, thank you. What would you prefer me to call you?”
“Didn’t Empson say? I do beg your pardon, I am Arthur’s mother, Violet St. Eyre. No, I understand now. Please call me Violet. I know I am much older than you are, my dear, but everyone calls me Violet, except toadeaters and tradesmen. I suspect I haven’t enough dignity to be ‘Lady St. Eyre’. But what I was about to say to you before I ran off the track was that, although there certainly are more important things than dinner parties, that is not true while you are planning and making the dinner party.”
“Well, I must admit,” Abigail agreed gravely, although her eyes twinkled with amusement, “I have always concentrated on my dinner parties while I was giving them.”
“Very good,” Violet said, “but to come back to a more important point, must you espouse the American cause so passionately with everyone?”
“I do not intend to,” Abigail sighed. The question had been put with such earnest anxiety that she could not be offended, nor could she help liking Violet very much. “But I am so irritated by the injustice of the British position, like a big bully picking on a poor, helpless mite that has nothing but its pride.”
“Now there,” Violet pointed out with satisfaction, “you have a point you can make in perfect safety. Perhaps if you were to substitute ‘a big strong person’ for ‘bully’, you might even wake a little sympathy for the American cause—that is, if you cannot manage to refrain from speaking of the subject at all.”
“Perhaps no one will bring it up.” Abigail shrugged. “If I have time to think, I won’t speak, but very often, unfortunately, my tongue works before my brain.”
As she spoke, Abigail realized how she had arrived so quickly at such terms with Violet St. Eyre that she was not only listening to her advice without resentment but truly wishing she were capable of taking that advice. Nor had the wish anything whatever to do with fear. Abigail had put together Violet’s genuine desire to speak to her alone and the fact that she really did not have anything to say that required privacy and had come to the logical conclusion that Violet simply wanted to meet her under informal and unstrained conditions.
It was very clear that Violet had come to Rutupiae not only determined to like Abigail but aware that Arthur was interested in her. Abigail was sure the tone Violet took in speaking of him was one she used only when convinced the other person was as fond of him as she was herself. Moreover, Violet knew a great deal about her. Yet what Arthur said to her before the children interrupted them proved that he had not written to his mother about her. Could Hilda have written to warn Arthur’s mother that a widowed harpy was about to hook claws into him? If so, the information had apparently had an effect opposite to what was intended.
The old adage that thinking of the devil was tantamount to calling him seemed to be true. No sooner had Hilda come into Abigail’s mind than the door opened and she entered the room.
“Oh, here you are, Violet,” she said. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
“I am so scatterbrained, Hilda,” Violet lied without a blink. “I told Empson that I would find my own way and then mistook the door and came into the library instead of the drawing room, but I found Abigail, so all was well.”
Hilda sniffed disdainfully, making it clear that she thought so little of Violet’s mental abilities, she was not surprised that after years of visiting she should not know one room from another. Sometimes it was fortunate, Abigail thought, as she asked Hilda to sit down and join them, that the woman was so able to believe only what she liked. But Hilda would have none of sitting in the library and insisted they all remove to the drawing room. Abigail and Violet yielded without argument, and Hilda seemed to regard that as a triumph. She was quite benign when she had waved them to seats.
“So you are back again,” she said to Violet. “I thought you would find it unwise to leave Stonar Magna to live on your own.”
Abigail saw Violet’s lips tighten, but all she said was, “I found Bath to be too hot at this season. And imagine my delight when I discovered that Francis’ widow had managed to come to England despite the war. I am looking forward to seeing the children, and I am giving a dinner to welcome Abigail to the neighborhood and to introduce her to our friends.”
“I cannot see why you think that necessary,” Hilda remarked ungraciously. “Abigail is the dowager countess of Lydden, and people should call on her. I do not understand why they have not.”
“Perhaps because they do not know who she is—aside from Francis’ widow, I mean,” Violet suggested.
“Should that not be enough for them?” Hilda puffed up like an affronted pigeon. “What can you be thinking of, Violet? Francis was a Lydden. How could anyone think he would marry unsuitably? Abigail’s family may not be quite the equal of ours, but who could doubt that she is a gentlewoman?”
While Violet explained that not everyone had her perfect faith in Francis, sparking an argument that Abigail had no desire to join, Abigail thought that Violet had not mentioned her being American to Hilda. She wondered whether that was because she felt Hilda was too unaware of public affairs to know about the war or because the possibility of being an innkeeper’s daughter—or a shopkeeper’s, for that matter—was really a greater disgrace. Of course, Violet might only be amusing herself by making Hilda, who had never liked Francis but had enormous family pride, defend the black sheep. Still, Abigail thought, she had been right in keeping the bookshop to herself, and she would continue to keep any business she did for it secret.
Oddly enough, by the next day it almost seemed that Hilda had been right in saying that Violet need not have arranged to give a formal dinner for Abigail. Carriages began to roll up the drive to Rutupiae Hall, and ladies handed out visiting cards of varying degrees of elegance and asked whether Lady Abigail Lydden was at home for visits. Fortunately Abigail had been out riding with Victor and Daphne when the first visitors came. She looked with dismay at the cards they had left and, without bothering to change from her riding dress, rushed to Stonar and asked for Violet.
Waggoner looked at her with a kind of mingled amusement and despair and led her toward the small back parlor that Violet preferred to the grander reception rooms. It was pure coincidence that Arthur came out into the corridor and saw her.
“Abigail,” he said with pleased surprise, “did you ride over?”
“I cannot speak to you now,” she said hurriedly. “I must see Violet.”
“What the devil—” he began, but she passed him and entered Violet’s parlo
r.
Arthur stood staring at the closed door for a blank moment and then burst out laughing and followed Abigail in time to hear her wail, “But how will I know? Of course I have more sense than to receive unsuitable people, but how can I know from a card who is who?”
“You can peek through the curtains,” Arthur said mischievously. “Oh no, that won’t work. The library does not look out on the drive.” Both women turned toward him, and he caught at his chest dramatically as if something had struck him in the heart. “Ah!” he cried. “If looks could kill, I would be stretched cold on the floor.”
“And so you deserve to be,” Violet remarked severely, although both she and Abigail were laughing. “But in a way Arthur is right, my dear,” she said turning to Abigail. “I do not think anyone unsuitable would call, which is what he means. After all, I am sure everyone knows that Hilda is still living at Rutupiae, and she would warn you if… But when I think about it that will not serve. Hilda is entirely too particular. She would not receive a number of local families I think you should know and would enjoy knowing. I will make a list for you. Arthur, be useful. Amuse Abigail until I have noted down the names.”
“Delighted,” Arthur responded promptly. “I only wish all your schemes for making me useful were as agreeable. Come, let us sit here—”
“Not here,” Violet protested. “You know I will be drawn into your conversation if you stay here. Go away. Go walk in the woods for half an hour.”
Smiling, Arthur obediently opened the door and led Abigail out. “What is your wish, my lady?” he asked, with a provocative smile. “Shall we walk in the woods?”
“No, this riding skirt is not at all comfortable for walking,” Abigail replied absently, still thinking of the subject of visitors and realizing that her free time would be much restricted once she became part of the social life of the area. “Let’s sit in the library,” she said.
“Is that because you think we are less likely to be disturbed there or because you are strongly drawn to books?” Arthur teased.
Abigail flashed a glance at him. Did he know what her relationship with books really was? If so, it had not prevented him from asking her to marry him. However, it might easily have been a chance remark. “If you want the truth,” she said pertly, “I find library furniture more comfortable than the stiff, spindly pieces in drawing rooms.” But the emphasis on books had reminded her of letters she had received from several booksellers in London about the volumes she had ordered, and suddenly she saw a solution to the problem she and Arthur had not yet had a chance to discuss.
“You have made a total conquest of my mother,” Arthur remarked, as they settled onto a sofa.
“She has made a conquest of me,” Abigail replied, smiling. “And you deserve a scolding for giving me so false an impression of her. You left me believing she was a sour-mouthed Tartar.”
“Only because you jumped down my throat so fast I never had a chance to explain,” Arthur pointed out with a spurious air of indignation. But then he frowned and said seriously, “She isn’t sour-mouthed, Abigail, and she isn’t a Tartar, but what I said is true nonetheless. It…my love, you have no idea how happy it made me to see that there was real liking between you. It would break my heart to destroy it, and yet I…I am not willing to forgo loving you.” He took her hand. “Beloved, will you not reconsider and marry me?”
Abigail shook her head nervously. “Don’t be angry with me, Arthur. I will not marry again.” She smiled pleadingly. “Not even to please Violet. But something did occur to me. Jameson asked me to arrange with Mr. Deedes for certain changes in the terms of payment for the leases of two tenants. I was going to write, but…but I could go and speak with Deedes instead.”
“Why the devil doesn’t Jameson write to Deedes himself?” Arthur asked, saying the first thing that came into his head while he wondered what was wrong with him. Only yesterday he had decided the situation was just as he wished, and now, before he thought, he had again urged Abigail to marry him.
Abigail stared at him, thinking his instincts as a landlord had made him miss the significance of what she had said. She wondered if it would be necessary to state what she meant in cruder terms as she explained, “Because the subject came up before Lord Lydden died but when he was too weak to be troubled, and Eustace refused to agree to the changes. Jameson felt Eustace might have already told Deedes to stick to the letter of lease. That was why I felt I should go to London myself rather than write.”
“It will be hot as the hinges of hell in London,” Arthur remarked.
“Good,” Abigail retorted, quite annoyed with the lack of understanding Arthur was showing. “Then perhaps I will thaw out. You do not seem to realize that it is much warmer in America than it is in England.”
“And what am I to do while you are gone?” Arthur asked. “Visit friends?”
Abigail was torn between the desire to flounce out of the room in disgust and tell him in the lowest language she knew what the real intention of her trip to London was, until she realized she had also misunderstood him. “If you think that would be best,” she agreed, with a half smile, “but is there no political business that would take you to London? I prefer to tell as few lies as possible.”
“It would not be difficult to arrange,” Arthur said thoughtfully.
His voice was flat because his mind was working on several different levels at once. Most directly, he was thinking that he would ride over to Stour and speak to Roger, who could easily arrange to have one of his friends in the government ask Arthur to come to Town for a day to discuss something or other. At the same time, he was wondering whether that would be enough to deceive Bertram. Arthur was still worried about Bertram being in love with Abigail and did not want him to be tormented by thinking about them together. And he was also wondering if the separation would make his mother less perceptive about the change in his relationship with Abigail.
Over all these practical considerations hung a delicate veil of joy and expectation. Often, hearing those friends who had married for love speak about their brides, he had wondered why they did not immediately take what they seemed so much to desire. Now he knew. If the best chance in the world to make love to Abigail had presented itself at that very moment, he would have resisted the temptation in order to retain the vision he had of a perfect time and place with leisure to sit and talk, to laugh and love, and no need to part and pretend in their separate homes that no momentous event had occurred.
“You do not seem very happy,” Abigail said, a tremor of uncertainty in her voice.
He moved closer and drew her into his arms. “You are wrong,” he murmured, and kissed her nose and then her chin. “If I expressed what was within, we would have the entire household in here wondering at my cries of joy.” He saw that doubt still troubled her, and smiled. “Truly, sweetheart, I am delighted with your clever scheme, but you have not thought it through, and I was doing that.”
“I don’t understand.”
Arthur laughed. “It is easy to see that you are quite unaccustomed to deception. Did you intend to live at my house? Or think I could live at yours? Or were you intending that we stay at the same hotel? Perhaps you have heard that there is much freedom with regard to affairs of the heart in the British upper classes? That is not untrue, but discretion is necessary. One may not flaunt one’s love with impunity.”
“But I—”
He silenced her with another brief kiss. “Abigail, it does not matter whether you were about to say ‘I don’t care’ or ‘I will not be hurting anyone’. The second, oddly enough, is not considered an excuse and is a cause for even closer scrutiny by the tattling old cats. And even if you were willing to endure ostracism, it would hurt me to see you left out and ignored. More important, you must think of Victor and Daphne. How do you think Victor would like hearing his mother called ‘whore’ at school? And although Daphne is only nine, memories are long in our ingrown society. Are you willing to take the chance
that she will be tainted by your reputation?”
She was staring at him with horror, and he shook his head. “I did not mean to frighten you to death, love, nor certainly to frighten you enough to back away from me. As long as you maintain a decent decorum, I swear to you there will be no consequences. In fact, the hint of a romantic intrigue will make you even more desirable as a guest. Abigail, I love you. I want you. But I would not take you if I thought it would hurt you, or your children. Trust me, my love.”
Abigail let out her breath in a long sigh and allowed her head to fall onto his shoulder, listening with only half an ear to his plans. They betrayed again what she already knew, that Arthur was an old hand at such arrangements. She could, indeed, trust him to cover their tracks, but she had her first quiver of doubt regarding the absolute wisdom of clinging to her independence. She pushed it away. If necessary she could live without any man, but she could not allow herself to become less than a slave to one again.
Whatever uneasiness Abigail continued to feel throughout the following week was buried under new impressions and occupations. The first thing Abigail discovered was that the flood of welcome now descending on her was not spontaneous but the direct result of Violet’s formal dinner. Many more people came than had been invited, of course, because those who had received invitations told others, and everyone was curious about Francis’ American-born bride now that Violet St. Eyre’s approval had guaranteed her respectability.
Abigail was grateful for Violet’s list. Some of the visitors, often those whom Hilda approved with nods and smiles of satisfaction, were very tedious but their names were never on the list. Those who were listed sometimes caused Hilda to rise and leave the room, but they were the ones Abigail found most interesting.
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