A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “No, no,” he said. “They are not that foolish. You did not attend when I said they would listen to Roger, who, after all, does not even have the rank of baronet. I’m afraid it is a matter of party, my love, and has little to do with their opinion of me as an individual. Roger is a Tory, but I am a rebel against family tradition and have embraced the Whigs—most unwisely as it turns out, for most of the time I have as little sympathy with Whig foreign policy as I have with the domestic policy of the Tories. Alas,” he admitted comically, “neither party loves me much.”

  “Oh, party!” Abigail exclaimed angrily. “That is an even more foolish reason than rank for dismissing good advice. My friend Albert Gallatin has often been the main target of the most vicious attacks by the Federalists just because he is so brilliant. I thought this government would be above such petty notions, but I see it is just the same. Just because you are cleverer than your fellows, I will lay odds your so-called friends look aside while your enemies fall on you to tear you to pieces.”

  The cold stab of jealousy Arthur felt when Abigail spoke of her “friend Albert Gallatin” melted under the warmth of her ire for his sake. He could not help laughing again at her antiparty ferocity, however, even while he assured her he was well able to take care of himself and found his mid-parties position very useful.

  “They do not love me, but they accredit me as a man of honesty and principle—which I hope I am—and when I speak, they do listen. I have pushed more than one close vote in the direction I wanted it to go. I have a kind of power, and though I do not approach the government directly, I have methods of communicating with them.”

  “Through Roger.” Abigail nodded and then shrugged. “Every government seems to be the same, more ruled by petty spites than by large issues, but I suppose if it gets the work done, one should not complain.”

  “No doubt women would run it better,” Arthur said slyly, enough recovered now to tease.

  “Alas, no,” Abigail confessed, her eyes wide with pretended innocence. “You see, women are human, so when they are not forced into unnatural behavior, they are very much like men. I do not think you would see a hairsbreadth of difference in the government if women ran it.”

  Arthur caught her into his arms, almost overturning the table, and squeezed her until she squeaked with pain amid her laughter. Then he relaxed his arms and kissed her both tenderly and passionately. “Beloved, beloved,” he murmured when their lips parted, “you are the delight of my life. I cannot imagine being without you.”

  Abigail dropped her head to his shoulder and slid closer. “It will be very hard to part,” she agreed with a sigh. “I suppose we will be able to meet in that cottage of yours, but it will not be the same. And I must go soon. There is something in the letter I received from Griselda today—not a direct statement like ‘I wish you would come home’—just a hint, a feeling that she is not easy.”

  He had known it had to end, of course, but he had not permitted himself to think about it, expecting each day that he would grow a little impatient of always needing to consider Abigail’s comfort and pleasure or even just a trifle bored and tired of her. Instead he had grown more comfortable during the day, more eager to touch her and love her every night, more thrilled to see her face when he woke every morning. Now that she spoke of parting, a sense of panic gripped him. It did not matter that they were not really parting, that she had told him as plainly as she could that she still wished to be his mistress. That was not important. As much as he loved her body and despite the fact that he had found with Abigail a height and range of passion no other woman had induced in him, it was not their sexual relationship he needed. He needed Abigail, to talk with, to laugh with, to quarrel with each day and every day at whatever hour the impulse struck him. But he knew that she was right, that she must leave. In fact, he was bitterly ashamed that he had sacrificed her to his need and let her stay so long.

  Arthur’s face was impassive, the heavy-lidded eyes and high-bridged nose as usual drawing notice from the sensitive mouth. That had thinned a little with pain, and the corners of the lips were tucked back defensively. This time Abigail recognized the small signs that betrayed his unhappiness, and she stroked his arm.

  “You are very good not to tease me to stay or to tell me that I am imagining things,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, I do not think you are imagining things.” Arthur’s voice was as expressionless as he could make it. “I have been selfish and thoughtless because you give me such joy, body and soul, that I could not make myself be sensible—but Griselda has probably been hearing wonderings about what you could be doing so long alone in London, and I am sure Hilda is doing more than wondering.”

  Abigail pressed her lips briefly to Arthur’s neck, taking in the mingled odors of clean linen, a bare touch of some scented material, powder or lotion, he used after shaving, a tang of sweat. She wished it was not only midafternoon, that they had instead had their dinner and come home from their evening’s entertainment so she could suggest they go to bed, but even if Arthur did not think it indecent to make love before dinner, the servants would feel it was very odd behavior indeed for a married couple.

  “If I thought it was only that,” she told him, “I would not leave. Don’t laugh at me, but the letter is…strange, almost as if Griselda is…is afraid.”

  Arthur’s mind immediately leapt to that still-unexplained gunshot that had nearly killed Victor and Bertram’s inexplicably odd behavior. And then he thought of Griselda, of the way her hands trembled and how nervous and breathless she became every time he spoke to her, although she had known him all her life and could not possibly believe he would hurt her or be unkind. Griselda was afraid of her own shadow. Not, he reminded himself, that that made any difference—his fears were not baseless and Abigail must go home. The panic had subsided as the idea grew familiar, but it had been replaced by a dull, hollow misery.

  “Abigail, will you not marry me?” he asked softly. “It must be as clear to you as to me that we live well together. Will you not do me the honor of marrying me?”

  “Oh, thank you, Arthur,” she said, sitting up and smiling. “You are very sweet to worry so about me, but I do not think a few vague rumors can harm my reputation—and anyway,” she added, with a laugh, “you have already given me the perfect excuses for lingering. I can describe all my sightseeing—the picture galleries, the museums, the Tower. Everyone may think I am mad, but they will not think me abandoned.”

  “No,” he said urgently, “you do not understand. I assure you it is not your reputation or your social status I was thinking about. Abigail, I cannot bear the thought of living without you. I want you at my breakfast table every day—”

  “Good God!” she exclaimed, trying to stem the tide. “Never has a woman received such a compliment.”

  “Not from me, anyway,” Arthur remarked forcefully. “I have told you a thousand times that I love you, but when I think of living separately, I know that is not the way love should be expressed. I love to join our bodies, Abigail, but that is not all I want from you. I want—I need to join our lives.”

  She realized that this time she could not divert him and recognized the depth of his feeling. Her body and her soul wished to fling themselves into his arms and cry, “Yes, yes, I love you, too. Let us be one.” Only her mind stood coolly aloof and reminded her that for a woman being one with a man meant just that—he was one, and she was nothing. She had no rights, not over her property, not over her children, not even over her own body. Not that Abigail feared Arthur would do anything dreadful to her children or her property or commit a crime so that she would be in danger of imprisonment—but what if he did not like what she was reading? He had the right to take the book from her forcibly; he had a right to forbid her ever to read a book again. She did not think he would, but…

  “I cannot,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I cannot marry, ever again.”

  “Why not?” Arthur cried.
>
  Abigail’s lips parted, but no sound came out. How could she explain to Arthur? He was honest and honorable. He would manage Victor’s estate with perfect integrity—he was doing so already. There could be no doubt he would never do anything deliberately to hurt her or her children—and out of his kindness, his consideration and his care for her, he would destroy her. By all logic, his first act after they were married would almost certainly be to sell her bookshop. It would make no difference if she begged him not to. He would explain patiently, as if she were an idiot and did not know it herself, that it was not a good thing socially to cling to the bookshop and that it could not be managed efficiently at long range. He would point out that the money could be invested, and she could have the whole income for her own use, which might be more than she could realize from the store because of the expenses of running a business.

  Abigail was certain Arthur would give her the whole income—but he would never understand that he was tearing out half her life and throwing it away. If she tried to tell him of the pleasure it gave her to buy books and know that her acumen in choosing made the profit of the store rise, he would pat her kindly on the shoulder or kiss her and laugh and offer her a puppy to play with or a new piece of jewelry. He would never understand— and there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

  “I cannot,” she cried, pulling away from him and jumping to her feet, her voice rising hysterically. “I cannot be anyone’s wife. I must be myself. I must be free.”

  “Abigail!” Arthur exclaimed, also getting to his feet. “What do you mean? Is there some legal impediment? Do you think you are ill? If it is the law, I will get a special act of Parliament to bend it if I must, and—”

  “No,” Abigail said, controlling herself with an effort. “There is no impediment. I simply do not wish to marry again.”

  Arthur did not believe her. He was certain she was hiding some ugly secret—perhaps this was her crazy way of keeping her promise to some other man to whom she had sworn to be faithful as she had sworn to him. Rage and jealousy tore at him, but he was too proud to expose such feelings.

  “I can no longer accept that,” he said quietly, coldly. “I love you too much to live apart. I no longer desire a casual bedding now and then when we can squeeze it in between other activities. I wish to share my life with you—everything, every day, my whole life. If you do not love me enough to share yours with me, then it would be better for me to abandon my hopes and desires altogether and learn to live without them.”

  Abigail stood staring at him, tears slowly welling over her lower lids to streak her cheeks as she realized her brief hope of love and freedom combined was over. Her breath caught in hiccups of grief, her body trembled with the desire to yield, to fall into the strong arms that would always support and protect her, but her mind coldly ran through his speech and pointed out that what was sharing for a man was a total giving up of everything for a woman, and that all the beautiful words amounted to a clear and simple statement that if he could not dominate her completely, he did not want her at all. Sobbing, she shook her head mutely and ran out of the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pain was a goad that reinforced rage. Arthur stood looking at the door, fighting the impulse to follow Abigail up the stairs and beat her secret out of her. Frightened by the vicious intensity of that desire, he fled the house. He was not aware of how the next few hours passed, but he eventually found himself walking, drained and exhausted, along the embankment of the Thames. Although still hurt and angry, he was no longer a danger to anyone. Wearily he made his way back to a major thoroughfare, where he hailed a cab to carry him back to Mount Street. He had no idea what he would do or say if he found Abigail waiting for him, but he was spared that problem, for she had not come down from her room. For a few hours longer he sat watching the fire in the parlor, his eyes fixed on the flames, his mind dull and blank. Eventually, he told the servants to close the house and went up to his room to undress, lie down on the narrow bed he had never used, and stare into the dark. Had he heard a sound from Abigail—the door to the other room still stood invitingly open—he might have given up and gone to her. But there never was a sound except those normal to a person sleeping comfortably. That easy sleep and the door left open—contemptuously, he thought, as if she believed him so much a slave to his lust that he would not be able to resist the temptation—stiffened his hurt pride.

  He would not even close the door, although the knowledge that it was open tormented him. He put the refusal down to his desire to show Abigail she could not force him into a relationship on her terms, but he was also afraid that if he got close enough to her to shut the door, he would go the rest of the way and end up in her bed. At last the pain that kept him awake tired him out. An hour or two before dawn, his burning eyes closed.

  Abigail had not been in any condition when she ran up the stairs to notice whether a door was open or closed. She had been torn apart between the agony of losing Arthur and her terror of losing what was to her the bedrock of her existence, her last refuge, the one thing she knew she could keep alive by her labor. No effort she could make had been able to save her mother or her father. Francis, weak reed though he was and no loss, she would also have saved if she could, but she could not. Everything died, everything except the shop. If she married Arthur, even he could die—but then she would not have her bookshop anymore because he would have sold it.

  She cried and cried, until there were no tears, until each sob caused a tearing pain across her chest, until she was so exhausted that her body slipped into a sleep so deep it was near unconsciousness. She never heard Arthur come in or come up to bed. If she had, she would have closed the door because she was afraid that if he came to her and made love to her, she would have yielded.

  The first streaks of real light were mottling the sky when Abigail stirred. Only half awake, she moved more toward the center of the bed, unconsciously seeking Arthur. The shock of finding the bed empty really woke her, and she flung back the bed curtain before she remembered what had happened. The first thing she saw after that memory was the open door. And she was halfway across the room before she realized that she was on her way to Arthur—to tell him what? Nothing had changed. Trembling, Abigail backed away and fled into her dressing room, where somehow, despite her tear-blinded eyes, she found fresh clothing, took off her soiled and crumpled garments, and dressed again. She could not stay in the house, not even to have breakfast; she did not trust herself.

  Quietly Abigail snatched up her purse, inched past that insidiously beckoning open door, and got out of the room. Once in the corridor she felt stronger. She was terribly sad but able to do what she knew was right. It was not only for herself that she resisted marriage, it was for Arthur, too. She loved him now, but if he sold her shop and controlled her life in other ways, she knew she would end by hating him. At least she had never hated Francis. Perhaps, she had never loved him deeply enough to generate hate, but she loved Arthur enough, and he would never understand and be cruelly hurt. He was right. It was better to learn to live without love than to learn to live with hate. Time would pass and heal them, and perhaps afterward they could be friends.

  Even the servants were not yet awake. Abigail slipped into the parlor and went to the writing desk. It was near the window, and when she drew back the curtain she found it was light enough to write. Surprisingly, the words came very easily from her full heart.

  My dearest, my beloved, please forgive me. I do not know what you think of me, but I beg you to believe that it is not lack of love that drives me away from you. I cannot do what you desire of me, and I cannot tell you why—not for stubbornness or a wish to conceal my motives but because you would not understand them. You will be angry at me for writing this, but if I tried to explain, I think you would be angrier and more hurt. If you have any affection left for me, please send my baggage to Claridge’s hotel and do not attempt to see me.

  She folded the note and addressed it forma
lly, sealing it with a wafer and writing “Lydden”—a name the servants would not know but would identify the note to Arthur—across it, and leaving it on the breakfast table, where she was sure the footman would place it across Arthur’s serving plate as he did with her letters. Then, waiting her chance, she slipped out the back door soon after it was opened and through the alley to Mount Street. While the streets were empty, she made her way to Hyde Park and sat beside a tree in a quiet area.

  By nine o’clock, although she had not been noticed, she emerged. She had eaten neither dinner nor supper the day before, and by this time the demands of her body would not be denied. Fortunately, it did not take long to find a hackney coach and have herself driven to the hotel. She told a tale of having come away from a friend’s house early because of a family emergency. Since she was known at the hotel, she was received with sympathy. A room was found for her, and breakfast was brought up at once. Mr. Claridge himself followed after a decent time and assured her he would arrange for a post chaise to take her home. Later in the afternoon her bags arrived, and early the next morning she left for Rutupiae.

  Arthur did not wake until nearly noon, and he woke with a full recollection of what had happened. Rested and more rational, he lay quietly reviewing what had been said and cursing himself for a fool. Jealousy still made him sure that Abigail’s refusal to marry him was owing to some love affair in America. Perhaps the man was married and they had exchanged some lunatic vow—she could have sworn that she would wait until he was free or never marry unless it could be to him. Despite the pangs of jealousy, Arthur smiled wanly. That was Abigail all over, jumping in headfirst and swearing crazy vows—and then keeping them. The smile faded, and he lay with closed eyes battling his rage.

  It did not take long. Arthur had learned painfully that rage was a poor weapon except in physical attack. He shook his head and again called himself a fool. What earthly difference did it make that Abigail had mistakenly believed she loved a man in America? Whether or not she had loved Francis, she must have been frightened and lonely when he died. It was natural for her to lean on some man and fancy herself in love. Not only was it stupid to be jealous of a rival thirty-five hundred miles away, Arthur told himself, it was even stupider when he had nothing about which to be jealous. He knew Abigail cared for him. The problem was not how to make her stop loving another man and love him—that had happened without his even trying—the problem was how to extricate her from the situation in which she had enmeshed herself.