A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  Arthur closed his eyes against the sense of despair that flooded him. If he had not conquered his jealousy, he had at least submerged it enough so that it no longer clouded his view of what he had done. Instead of calming Abigail, who was nearly hysterical, and gently extracting the cause of her resistance, he had presented her with an ultimatum. He groaned softly. How many times had he pointed out in speeches that ultimatums work only with the stupid or the helpless, that they are immoral in those cases and with any other subject only produce an opposite effect? Abigail was neither stupid nor helpless. How could he have said those things to her?

  Eventually Arthur got up and dressed. He did not look for Abigail in the adjoining room, nor when he went down the stairs did he expect to find her anywhere else in the house. Now that rage and jealousy no longer obscured everything else, he knew what had happened the night before as clearly as if he had been watching. That open door had been his last chance, not because Abigail had left it open deliberately but because she had been too upset to realize it was open. Once she had regained command of herself, she had left, he knew that without looking or asking for her, but he shivered slightly when he saw her note and hesitated to open it.

  The contents renewed the whole cycle of jealousy, fury, and misery. His first impulse was to rush off to Claridge’s and demand to see her. Fortunately, he too was ravenous, having also missed two meals the previous day, and by the time he had eaten, he realized that to insist on seeing her was another ultimatum. In any case, it could accomplish nothing. So personal and sensitive a discussion could not be carried out in the public lobby or restaurant, and it was impossible for Abigail to permit a male visitor into her room. Had he been desperate, he would have tried anyway, but he realized it was not necessary. Since he was Victor’s trustee, sooner or later matters of business would bring them together. As much as he hated the idea, he knew it was better to wait so that the memory of his stupidity would fade from Abigail’s mind.

  He told the servants there had been a death in Abigail’s family, that he had taken her away very early, as soon as the first, worst paroxysms of her grief had passed, and that he would be leaving himself later that afternoon. He asked that a maid pack his wife’s clothing and his own and that the servants be assembled so that he could pay them, assuring the distressed butler that they would be paid for the full month. After he had a hackney coachman deliver Abigail’s bags to Claridge’s, he had gone to the estate agent to arrange for the closing of the house and then to one of his clubs, where he had left his own luggage. Then he had walked, and walked, and walked. It was the only way he could prevent himself from ordering a post chaise and rushing home to wait for Abigail, and he knew he must not do that. For both of them to leave and arrive almost at the same time would certainly raise doubts in the minds of those closest to them.

  With considerable self-control, Arthur remained in London for another ten days and arrived at Stonar Magna late enough so that he did not need to speak to anyone except his valet that night. By morning, he had himself well under control. He noticed that Bertram was somewhat stiff and reserved both at breakfast and later when he presented the accumulated mail and estate problems, but Arthur assumed that was because his secrecy had put his secretary’s nose out of joint. Bertram was the one person to whom Arthur usually confided the name of his current mistress and where he would be so that he could be reached in case of dire emergency. This time he had left Bertram in ignorance, not because he doubted his secret would be kept but because he was afraid Bertram was also attracted to Abigail and would suffer.

  Some of the correspondence was important, a few of the estate problems were absorbing. Arthur found a great relief in having something to think about that would divert him from the painful round of self-accusation and equally painful hope that had occupied his mind since Abigail had left him. He worked steadily, having luncheon brought to him rather than joining his mother and Bertram, but his concentrated application defeated his purpose in the end by depriving him of new material.

  By midafternoon, only the dullest routine matters remained to be done, and Bertram asked rather pointedly whether Arthur suddenly thought him incapable of writing standard apologies and refusals to the endless requests for money, time and company that flooded the desk of a public servant. Arthur laughed, made some excuse, and left Bertram to his work. Idly thinking of taking a rod out on the river, he wandered into the small drawing room through which he could reach the gun room.

  “So you have come out at last.”

  Arthur started slightly and turned toward the voice. “Mama. I did not see you there.” He was about to apologize for not finding a minute to say good morning to her but could not think of a good excuse. The truth was that he had been so absorbed by his occupation that he had not been thinking about his mother.

  “You are disgusting!” Violet’s voice shook with fury and grief.

  Totally stunned by this unexpected attack, Arthur simply stared. He had known his mother might think he was off on the hunt again and that she might be annoyed with him, but she had never, even when he was much younger, made any direct reference to his love affairs. In the beginning he had believed she did not know. Later he realized she had always known but understood him too well to lecture and argue, which would only have made him stubborn and perhaps resulted in excesses.

  “It is no wonder you have tried to hide from me,” she continued when he made no answer. “I have often grieved over the fact that you could not find a woman to suit you and made do with shallow substitutes, but I have never before realized that it was you who was shallow, that all you sought was an outlet for your lechery. I never knew that instead of grieving I should have been ashamed of you—bitterly, bitterly ashamed. I never thought you could be so crude, so unfeeling, so… so disgusting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Arthur got out. “Mama, what do you think I have done?”

  Violet got to her feet. “Do not make me sicker of you than I am,” she said scornfully. “Do not pretend to me that you did not induce Abigail to meet you in London, seduce her, and then discard her. I am through with you, Arthur, finished. I have waited for you because I wanted to speak my mind to you once and for all, but I will leave this house tomorrow, and I do not want to see you or speak to you again.”

  She began to move toward the door before Arthur caught his breath, but she had not reached it before he roared, “Just you wait, damn it. Why the hell didn’t you ask me what had happened before you made up a lot of nonsense? For your information, I did not seduce and discard Abigail. In fact, I have asked her to marry me twice—no, three times.”

  Since Arthur had never in his life raised his voice to his mother, Violet had stopped from shock as soon as he shouted. Now she stood with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. “Oh, Arthur, I am so sorry. Do you mean you were not the man she went to meet in London?”

  “No—I mean yes, I was the man, and for God’s sake don’t begin making up crazy stories about Abigail now. She did nothing in London to make me change my mind. I asked her to marry me before we decided to go, and I asked her again just before she left me.”

  He stopped speaking abruptly and sat down in the nearest chair as if his strength had failed. Violet came back and sat down, too. “I know Abigail loves you,” she said softly. “That was why I accused you unjustly. I could not think of anything besides your telling her you had no serious intentions and were tired of her that could make her so terribly unhappy. She did her best to conceal her feelings from me, but she gave herself away when she tried to talk about the things she had seen in London. I knew you had taken her, they are all your favorite haunts.”

  “I know she loves me.” Arthur stared down at his hands. “She has said so over and over. And now you will ask why we are not setting a date if she loves me and I love her and wish to marry her.” He stopped and took a breath to steady his voice. “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know. She says she cannot marry me.”


  “She cannot?” Violet repeated. “Oh God, do you think Francis is still alive in a bedlam or that in her distress and confusion after his death she perhaps married someone unsuitable and—”

  “No.” Arthur heaved a sigh, part relief and part exasperation at his continued inability to see a way to extricate Abigail from what he thought was her dilemma. Although the discussion had put a new edge on his pain, it had lightened the dull despair that had weighed him down. He felt much better now that he was able to tell someone about his puzzlement and grief.

  “Francis is dead,” he went on slowly, reciting facts while he sorted out just how much it was safe to tell his mother. “He was picked up and recognized by neighbors after he was killed. I have seen his death certificate and the depositions that accompanied it. And, not to put a fine finish on a piece of dross, Abigail may have been shocked when Francis was killed, but she suffered little distress and no confusion. There is nothing of the frail, dependent flowerlet about Abigail. Anyway, she has assured me there is no legal impediment. The problem is inside her, but I cannot understand what she was trying to tell me. All she would say was that she had to be herself and had to be free.”

  Arthur hoped uneasily that his mother would not pursue the problem too closely. It would not do, he had decided, to tell her his guesses about Abigail’s temporary attempt to assuage her loneliness in America. He could appreciate Abigail’s sense of honor, no matter how much it hurt him, but his mother might not.

  Actually, Violet came much closer to understanding the truth than Arthur had. Even though she had never met any of the problems that had plagued Abigail and given her so sharp an appreciation of the independence of the widowed state, “be herself…be free” woke an echo in Violet’s heart. Violet’s husband had appreciated her as well as loved her. She had suffered few of the frustrations endured by many women, and she had loved her husband dearly. Nonetheless, the words meant something to her they could not mean to Arthur. It flicked through her mind that she was herself and free and had little inclination to marry again either, but she crushed down that thought as it applied to Abigail and Arthur. He needed a wife and an heir. Joseph and his son needed to be released from the threat of inheriting Arthur’s position and estate. Abigail really would be much happier as Arthur’s wife. There must be some way to work out a compromise.

  “And then,” Arthur went on grimly, “instead of behaving like a rational human being, I acted like a lunatic and said that if she would not marry me, we had better not be lovers either.”

  Violet did not reply, partly because she had a dreadful desire to laugh, which would have been very unkind to her unhappy son. It was not that she failed to feel sympathy for him but that the turnabout struck her funny. It did serve Arthur right, having spoken so ill of marriage and resisted it so long, to fall in love with a woman who did not wish to marry.

  “What am I to do, Mama?” he asked.

  There was so much misery in the question that all the humor of the situation deserted Violet. She offered what comfort she could but admitted she had no immediate answer. This idea and that flitted through her mind, but before she could make any concrete suggestion, a crash of thunder and gust of rain broke off the discussion. She and Arthur both leapt to shut the windows that stood wide open. They had been so absorbed in their conversation that they had not noticed the storm rolling in from the sea, a few miles away.

  That sudden storm caught Abigail and her daughter when they were halfway to the old mill. Abigail had done her best to hide her depression from Victor and Daphne but had succeeded only partially. The children did not seem to realize she was unhappy, but they sensed something was wrong and had developed a disconcerting tendency to cling to her, figuratively, of course, by including her in all their activities.

  Actually, Abigail had no objection. She found going to picnics and escorting a group to examine the Roman ruins for which Rutupiae Hall was named and which were carefully preserved about half a mile from the house, diverted her somewhat. The dull depression that held her never left her completely, but it was assuaged by her children’s lively friends. Originally that afternoon had been reserved to call on the Ellingtons to discuss the details of Daphne’s accompanying them when they took their invalid daughter to the seaside, but a tear-spotted note had come for Abigail the preceding evening saying that little Charlene had been taken ill suddenly and seriously. The holiday, Charlene’s mother wrote sadly, would have to be put off until her daughter had recovered.

  Daphne had been very upset, for she was fond of Charlene, who occupied her long hours of enforced idleness with books and shared Daphne’s love of reading. Casting around in her mind for something to divert her daughter, Abigail remembered the child’s excitement about the old mill and that Griselda’s letter had mentioned the place as Daphne’s choice of a picnic spot. That evening Abigail had found a way to mention casually to Daphne the fact that she had never seen the old mill, and had been delighted to see a spark of enthusiasm replace the concern in her daughter’s face. Thus, she and Daphne had set off for the mill even though there was a hint of thunder off to the east.

  They had run back and found shelter in the stables, and a few minutes later Eustace had ridden in, soaked and cursing, to be followed by Victor and his groom. Victor was equally soaked, but he thought it great fun to have been caught out in a violent storm. When Victor heard that his mother and sister had intended to go to the old mill, his eyes lit up.

  “I haven’t been since—oh, since I don’t know when. And I’ve never been with Dick. Mother, Dick knows the most interesting things. Let’s all go tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure,” Abigail began, but Victor seemed rather crestfallen and pointed out that between riding lessons, studies with the vicar, and other appointments he had made, he would not have another free day all week.

  “And you said we would move to one of the other houses next week,” Victor reminded her, “and I’ll be off to school the beginning of next month, so we won’t be able to go until next summer.”

  “Are you leaving Rutupiae, Abigail?” Eustace asked.

  “Not permanently,” she replied, smiling, “but I know Victor must become acquainted with the other Lydden properties, and the people must get to know him, so I thought we would visit Hawkhurst for a week, then stay at the old manor at Lydden for two weeks. Meanwhile Mrs. Franklin can get their boxes for school ready—”

  “But Abigail,” Eustace protested, “I am afraid you will find Hawkhurst and Lydden very uncomfortable. Hawkhurst is no more than a large farmhouse. Mama never stayed there. And the so-called manor at Lydden is not much better.”

  “Why is that?” Abigail asked curiously. “Since the title comes from Lydden, I would have thought it would be the main seat.”

  “It was once,” Eustace answered, “but one of my ancestors was a little peculiar. You see, back in 1580 or so the Lydden of the time got a rush of classics to the head. Somehow he induced Queen Elizabeth to grant this stretch of land to him so he could investigate the Roman ruins. He was so intent on it for the next twenty years and spent so much digging up Roman artifacts that Lydden castle was allowed to fall to ruin. Then he got into a battle with the St. Eyres, who were already here and had been trying to get the same piece of property, although for different reasons. It grew quite nasty, I understand, and Rutupiae was built for spite and entailed so that it can’t be sold and must be lived in. Naturally, no one thought it worthwhile to put up another big house, so Lydden Manor is a manor in name only.”

  “I won’t mind that,” Abigail said. “Coming from America as I do, I am quite accustomed to smaller houses, and the children enjoy anything new.”

  Eustace frowned. “But no one has lived in either place for years. There’s no more than a caretaker in the house. Everything will be damp and moldy—”

  “Good gracious!” Abigail exclaimed. “Then it is surely time someone stayed there at least long enough to be certain the houses are sound and to d
iscover, if they are not, what repairs must be made. I shall write at once so that sufficient staff to care for us can be brought in. Yes, all right, Victor,” she said to her son, who was showing signs of impatience, “we will go to the old mill tomorrow if it does not rain.” Then she turned back to Eustace. “I had no idea the other houses might be in bad condition. I am so glad you told me.”

  Eustace seemed stunned by the glow of gratitude with which Abigail thanked him and the determination she displayed to visit the other properties. It was also clear to Abigail that he was not at all pleased by her reaction to his warnings, so she made her escape before he could recover from his surprise and point out that there was no need for her to go to either of the houses. She could easily obtain a detailed report of their condition. Abigail knew this perfectly well, but since her reason for moving was a desire to be away from Rutupiae before Arthur found some reason to force a meeting, she did not wish to have the point made.

  By dinnertime she had found a counterargument—the old saw that the farmer’s boot is the best manure, or in words that applied better to her case, the landlord’s eye is the best paint. To her surprise Eustace did not mention the matter, and Abigail most willingly allowed the conversation to drift where it would or, more often, to lapse completely into another whining monologue from Hilda. These no longer troubled her at all, for her own thoughts were sufficiently painful and absorbing to deafen her to Hilda’s voice.