It was these subjects, Abigail saw, that were of primary significance to everyone except herself. Perce and Sabrina had been curious about the war with America because of Russia’s interest in it, not because the war itself was important. From the rapidity with which the subject was dropped when she did not keep the discussion going, it was clear that the American war was considered by the English little more than a nuisance. What was more, that was almost certainly the government attitude, because Perce, Roger and Arthur were not common country squires. Arthur was an active Member of Parliament, Perce was in the diplomatic service, and Roger, who held no official position, was clearly—from the way he spoke about Lord Liverpool—a close and influential friend of the prime minister.
Abigail felt oddly resentful at the indifference exhibited toward the United States. Would it help Albert, she wondered, to know how unimportant American affairs were to the British government? He was so clever. Could he possibly manipulate some advantage to America out of the British neglect? Then she was shocked at her thoughts. She was British herself. How could she consider passing information to the enemy? The enemy? Dear Albert and Hannah and all her other friends were now enemies? Nonsense. Besides, anything that would help to bring peace would be of as great advantage to England as to the United States.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Abigail set out for London, the idea that had come to her the evening of the dinner party had become a firm conviction. The more she learned about the war against Bonaparte, the clearer it became that food and other commodities from America were necessary and the depredations made by American privateers on British shipping were damaging, although by no means crippling. Thus, if she could supply information that would sooner bring peace, she would not be a traitor but a patriot.
Not that Abigail was thinking about war and peace—except in personal terms—when the Rutupiae carriage took her into Sandwich, where a post chaise was waiting to carry her to London. Although she looked calm, she was shaking inside with a mixture of nervousness and relief. The relief stemmed from escaping Hilda, the nervousness came from doubts about what she was doing. It had seemed very simple, almost innocent, when she suggested to Arthur that they meet in London. Now it did not seem simple at all. It seemed quite dreadful to set out deliberately to live with a man she had known for only a few weeks, a man she had no intentions of marrying.
To add to her fear and uncertainty, Arthur had, to her mind, behaved very strangely. Instead of telling her what he had arranged, he had insisted on her setting an exact date for her departure and choosing a hotel at which she would arrive. He had made the whole thing sound so exciting and inviting that she had not uttered a single protest—and then he had disappeared. When she had ridden over later in the afternoon to obtain more information, Violet told her that Arthur had been called away suddenly over some political matter. Abigail could see, however, that Violet was angry and embarrassed, and she realized Arthur’s mother believed he had set off in pursuit of a woman.
This, of course, made Abigail even more uncomfortable since she was aware of the reasons for Violet’s anger and knew, though Violet did not, that she was the cause. She might not have gone at all, except for three reasons. The most important was that she had delayed the discussion of the leases with Mr. Deedes too long to leave the matter to a letter. Quarter Day was 24 June. The method of payment must be settled well before then. Secondly, she knew that if she did not obtain some relief from Hilda’s berating her for inspiring rebellion in Griselda and nagging at Griselda for disobedience and unfilial behavior, she would doubtless do something quite unforgivable—like murder. Not that she knew which one she would murder. Hilda was unbearable, but Griselda asked to be stepped on by never fighting back.
Least important in rational terms, but a strong driving force to Abigail, was that there was no way to tell Arthur she was not coming. She had no address for him, and she was afraid and ashamed to ask Violet. Perhaps he did not deserve the courtesy—he had, after all, been dreadfully high-handed with her—but she simply could not bear to disappoint him. It seemed cowardly and unfair. She did not need to go through with the assignation, she told herself. She could stay in a hotel, one or another would have rooms for her in this slack season. And she did have business to transact with Mr. Deedes and with a number of booksellers, particularly Lackington, and also with Alexander Baring, who, Anne Louisa had written, would be in Town for a few days.
But what she would say to Arthur, she had no idea. It would be impossible to invite him to her room in the hotel, of course, and she was much afraid he would not accept her refusal passively. She shuddered at the idea of a loud quarrel in the lobby. Nonetheless, she must refuse. It was too crude, too forward… Abigail had a sudden memory of lifting herself along Arthur’s body that day when a playful gesture had gone too far, and she shuddered again, but for a different reason. Must she refuse? No, she would not decide—not yet.
Realizing she had again been around the track of a treadmill in which she seemed to be imprisoned, Abigail resolved she would not think about it anymore and opened Sense and Sensibility, a novel she had been intending to read for some time. However, because she had been in this state for several days, now certain she would not fall in with Arthur’s arrangements, whatever they were, now wavering indecisively toward the opposite point of view, she had slept poorly. The post chaise was a luxurious one, but the road from Sandwich to Canterbury was not in prime condition, so that the carriage swayed about. Thus, despite her feeling that Miss Jane Austen had written something superior to any similar work she had read, Abigail was soon asleep.
She woke when the horses and postilions were changed at Faversham, but did not elect to leave the chaise. Her nap had refreshed her, and she intended to have luncheon at the next stop, which would be at Gad’s Hill. Mr. Deedes had recommended the Sir John Falstaff as quieter and more convenient than the posting inns in Rochester, and Abigail had liked it very much when she stopped there on the way from London to Rutupiae. The road from Canterbury to London was one of the best in England. Abigail again opened Sense and Sensibility and was soon utterly absorbed in the problems of the Dashwoods. She was actually startled when the carriage rattled to a halt and looked up from her book with bemused eyes to see the door open and Arthur waiting to help her down.
Fortunately she reacted automatically to the hand held out to assist her, making it seem as if she had expected to be met. Arthur smiled at her brilliantly, and the innkeeper, who had come out, bowed and assured her that Mrs. Luvve’s private parlor was ready for her. The name struck her dumb momentarily but just as she was about to ask a stupid question, Arthur said, “I hope you were not too nervous doing the first two stages alone, my love, but it would have meant another two days if I had come all the way home, and you know we could not afford the time.” His remark filled up the few last seconds until he could lead her to the private parlor and close the door. There, Abigail still had no opportunity to speak, because he caught her in his arms and kissed her.
“My darling, were you frightened?” he asked as he lifted his lips from hers. “I would have met you at Sandwich, but I was afraid your coachman or groom might catch sight of me, and so many of the postilions from Sandwich know me that I did not want to wait for you at Faversham. Will you forgive me for making you travel alone?”
“I’m not frightened,” she replied, feeling dazed, “only surprised.” And then she remembered what the landlord had called her and began to laugh. “Oh, Arthur, what a name! How could you?”
He laughed too, but he continued to hold her against him. “It was your fault, really,” he said. “You gave me so little time. I left for Town right after I spoke to you and drove all night. Then I had to find an agent who did not know me—which was not so very simple because, in the first place, I had never rented a house in my life and hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it, and then I discovered there are not very many men who deal with houses in suitable parts of Lo
ndon, and many of them are agents for people I know. By the time I obtained the name of a man I did not know without giving away why I wanted it, I was so addled that when he asked my name all I could think was that I was doing this for love—and obviously I couldn’t hesitate when asked for my name—so I said love. At least I made him spell it L-u-v-v-e.”
“Poor Arthur,” Abigail murmured.
His arms tightened around her, and then relaxed. “I must let you go. The innkeeper will be in here in a moment with our food, and I am afraid he would think it odd for a husband to be so passionate. But I was afraid you would not come, Abigail. I knew you must have a thousand doubts and second thoughts. I love you.”
Abigail felt like singing with joy and bursting into tears at the same moment. He had countered every objection she could have made before she mentioned it, and her body had turned traitor the moment he touched her. If she believed him, there was nothing high-handed about what he had done. It was she who had convinced herself that he had already made arrangements, yet how could he have done so before she had told him when she would go to London? What could be more thoughtful than to come to meet her because he feared she might be afraid to travel alone and to judge so carefully the first spot he could join her without any chance of damaging her reputation? And how could she worry about his thinking her crude and forward when he held her so tenderly and said he was afraid she would not come?
Nonetheless Abigail could not help suspecting he had made arrangements earlier and disappeared deliberately after she set a date so that she would not have a chance to protest or back out of her bargain. And could he possibly believe she would be afraid to travel a major post road during the day, or was his arrival at this midway point another device to prevent her from changing her mind? Yet if he were so eager for her company as to invent the devices she was imagining, could he think ill of her? Or were all the devices, even the tender uncertainty in his face at this moment, well-practiced procedures? Other women must have had doubts also.
He had her face cupped in his hand, and he leaned forward and barely touched her lips. “Abigail?”
What did it matter? Abigail asked herself as the warm fullness of his mouth brought a response from hers that instantly flooded through her body. The trouble he had taken proved his kindness. Whatever he thought of her he would keep to himself—and it was she who had rejected marriage. She was a hopeless fool to allow herself to become so serious and dramatic.
“I did have second thoughts,” she admitted, and then smiled mischievously at him, “but you have a very strong advocate.”
“Strong advocate? Abigail, you haven’t—”
“Hilda,” she interrupted. “Whenever my purpose wavered, she was right there telling me I had turned her daughter into a monster and that my own would turn on me and, if she did not cast me out in the snow to starve, would banish me to the cold corner of the room. And—”
The door opened, and the landlord brought in a tray of cold, sliced meats, cheeses and other tempting morsels, thin-cut bread and butter, a pitcher of lemonade and a large pitcher of ale. A maid followed with a tea service and glasses. Arthur seated Abigail and himself and permitted the maid to serve them. He had been laughing at her description of Hilda’s behavior, but his eyes were wary, and when the maid left the room, he shook his head at Abigail.
“That was very clever, darling, but you should not have done it.”
“What in the world do you mean?” Abigail asked, so surprised that her glass of lemonade remained suspended halfway to her mouth.
“Did you not get that dress for Griselda just to make Hilda so angry she would not pry to discover where you would be staying in London?”
“No!” Abigail exclaimed indignantly. “What a disgusting, devious mind you think I have. And how could you believe me so cruel as to use Griselda for my purposes. She is a person, not a thing.”
“But it was not cruel,” Arthur protested, and put down his ale to touch her hand. “It was a kindness that would serve a double purpose. Griselda looked lovely—probably for the first time in her life—and she knew it.”
“I am not as clever as you think,” Abigail said. “I simply could not bear to look at the girl in one of those yellow or blue abominations her mother makes her wear.” Then she looked down at her plate. “I-I did not think of needing an address. I did not expect to be away long enough for anyone to wish to write.”
“That is no problem,” Arthur assured her. “You can send a note to the hotel saying you will be staying there one night, and they will hold any letters that come for you. And you can change the date if you like. They are accustomed to that.” He was silent for a moment and then leaned forward to touch her cheek. “Come, my love, I have not changed into a monster. Eat your lunch. You may say no to me at any time. I love you, Abigail.”
“I do not wish to say no,” she replied in a small voice. “But for all my bold words, I think I am ashamed.”
He held out his hand and she put hers into it. “I will make an honest woman of you at any moment you desire,” he told her, smiling.
Abigail shook her head, but she was comforted and turned to her meal with better appetite. They talked of general matters, politics—avoiding the war with America—and the estate, and when they left the inn, Arthur did not come into the chaise with her, choosing to ride alongside until it was necessary to change horses again. By then, Abigail had been traveling for eight hours, less the hour and a half spent in the inn, and she was tired. It was remarkably comforting to have Arthur’s strong arm around her to steady her against the occasional jolting of the carriage and to rest her head on his shoulder, particularly when it got quite dark and began to rain hard. She did not realize that she had fallen asleep again or how deeply she had slept—right through the noise of London streets and the clatter of the wheels on cobblestones—until she was wakened by Arthur’s kiss and his voice telling her they had arrived.
She was again too dazed to do more than accept passively when he helped her from the carriage and into the shelter of an umbrella held solicitously over her by a tall footman. The door was wide open and a golden glow of light stretched a welcoming carpet toward her. Arthur laughed at her gently because she stared around with so much surprise as he led her quickly into a small but well-appointed parlor, where he tenderly undid her bonnet and removed it.
“Shall I take you up to your room now, or would you like a few minutes to come awake, my love? Or a glass of wine or cup of tea? I have coffee in the house, but you will have to instruct the cook how to make it, so I cannot offer you any now.”
Abigail blinked. It seemed odd to rush upstairs the moment they got into the house, but she realized she had given Arthur reason to believe she was wavering. He might think that once they had been together, she would feel it was too late to worry anymore. Although she was faintly repelled by the notion of making love all dusty and tired from traveling, she felt she owed him ease of mind and agreed to go up at once. And then almost laughed aloud at her stupidity when she saw the maid waiting in her bedchamber with water and towels.
“I hope you will find it comfortable,” Arthur said, as he opened the door for her. “It is not very large, but you do have a dressing room. My room is just through that door.” He gestured, kissed her brow and added, “Don’t dress for dinner tonight, Abigail. I know you are tired. I will go and get clean now and leave you to do the same.”
“Thank you, my love,” she said, “I am rather tired. If you do not mind, I will make it an early night.” And then turning to the maid, said, “Just pour the water. Then go and tell Cook we will be ready to eat in half an hour.”
When Abigail had washed and the maid had recombed her hair, she discovered she was not at all tired and that she was at ease for the first time in days. She was not certain whether that was because the house felt like home, whether Arthur’s unvarying consideration for her had at last convinced her to trust him, or whether her own final commitment had broug
ht her peace. The house certainly played a role. It was just about the size of the Williams Street house in New York, and the furniture, more sturdy than elegant and used without too much care by many tenants, also had a familiar feel to it. But the sympathy in Arthur’s smile when she said she was tired and would make an early night, which might easily have meant she would not invite him to her bed, had also helped.
On the other hand, his thoughtfulness also posed a problem because it placed on Abigail the responsibility for making the first move again. However, she found that passed over with ease also. As she came down the stairs, Arthur said, “You look very much better now, my dear,” and she only needed to reply, “I feel much better, not at all tired now.” It was all very comfortable. They talked during dinner about Abigail’s children. Arthur had told her a few days earlier that there would be a place for Victor at Westminster, but they had had no time to discuss the matter. Now Abigail said that the vicar was sure Victor would have no trouble in keeping up with the work, and they went on to talk of what the boy would need to take to school.
Arthur did not stay at the table to drink when the meal was over but brought his second glass of wine with him into the parlor, where he asked about Daphne. While Abigail answered that Violet had suggested Lady Eleanor Holles’, which happened to be the school one of Daphne’s new friends attended and that she had written to secure a place for her daughter, she thought gratefully that Arthur was not making the mistake of drinking too much. Far too often Francis had promised much and performed little because he was too sodden with wine. Drink, Abigail had learned, inflames the mind but incapacitates the body.
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