“You did not mind it as something done in the past a long way away, but you would mind if your wife was a bookseller.”
“It would certainly be ridiculous for my wife to be a bookseller,” Arthur agreed mildly, confused by what she had said.
His heart had leapt at her first statement with the hope that Abigail had been silly enough to have refused him because she thought it necessary to protect him from marrying a person beneath him. Her next sentence had killed that hope. Arthur decided he had to take the chance of a gentle probe.
“You were a bookseller to earn your livelihood,” he went on. “Surely you cannot think you would need for anything once you became my wife.”
“I knew you would not understand,” she said.
Her voice was quiet, dull, and hopeless. Arthur could feel the wet of her tears on his shoulder although she did not sob. “You have not told me very much, my dear,” he pointed out, “although I am beginning to guess that you wish to keep this bookshop. And you are quite right. I do not understand. It is silly to own a shop in America when you are in England and the countries are at war. Nonetheless, my love, if that is your sticking point I assure you that I will marry you gladly, even as the owner of a bookshop.”
“And then you would own it.”
This time there was a long moment of silence before Arthur answered. “Now you do have to explain yourself,” he said carefully. “I would like to know what accusation I must defend myself against. Do you think I will rob you of whatever income the shop brings or—”
“I knew you would be angry,” Abigail sighed. “You know quite well I do not think you would rob me. I think you would quietly sell my shop as soon as you thought I had forgotten about it and carefully invest the money for me—and give me every penny of the interest as well as a diamond necklace, or whatever you thought would please me best, to distract me when I discovered what you had done.”
Since a very similar notion had flitted through Arthur’s mind, there was another silence. Then he said, “Very well, I will give you my word not to do anything without your express permission.”
She shook her head. “I should be sure your word would bind you. My head is sure, but my heart is not. And I am afraid you have offered your word without really considering what it means. I would not be a silent owner. I will be doing the business of the shop.” She felt the arm that held her stiffen. He did not like that. The tears that had stopped flowing while she was speaking filled her eyes again. “And it is not only the shop, my love,” she went on. “I hate the state of a married woman. I hate the knowledge of helplessness.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Arthur asked, and this time his voice was angry. “What do you think I will do to you if you become my wife?”
“Nothing!” Abigail cried. “It has nothing to do with you. I knew you would not understand. Have you ever been utterly powerless? Do you realize that a married woman does not own the clothes she wears? That her husband has the right to sell them? Has the right to take from her what she has earned by her own labor? That if a husband commits a crime, a wife, no matter how innocent, can be imprisoned for it?”
She was shaking, and Arthur, who had relaxed his grip on her when he asked his angry question, put both arms around her and held her tight. “I am not Francis,” he said, but she began to cry despairingly, and he realized she was not blackening him with the tar of Francis’ habits. He understood she did not fear that he would sell her clothes or get into a drunken brawl for which he could not pay the damage so that she would be threatened if payment was not made. Her very soul was scarred.
“Hush,” Arthur murmured, rocking her in his arms. “Hush, my love. I will find a way. Roger will know, or if he does not, he will know whom to ask.”
Abigail’s soft sobs stopped abruptly. “You mean there is a way for us to marry and still let me be free and independent?”
Arthur had not been thinking along that line at all. He had really hoped that Abigail would find all the legal arrangements so confusing and tiring that she could be convinced to accept a relatively standard contract, perhaps containing a clause about her damned bookshop. At worst, whatever she owned could be settled on her in some way. He was aware that Sabrina’s property was secured in such a way that her husband could not touch it and the income from it went direct into Sabrina’s hands. However, Sabrina could not sell the lands or control the invested capital without the approval of a group of trustees, so Arthur did not think of her as being free and independent. The words annoyed him.
“What do you plan to do with this independence and freedom you crave?” Arthur asked with considerably less tenderness in his voice than the last time he spoke.
“Nothing,” Abigail said and kissed his neck.
“Then what the devil do you need it for?”
Her tears had dried; her heart was pounding with joy. There was a way! There was a way to be a wife and still to be free! The irritation in Arthur’s voice told her that the path to her goal might not be either easy to find or easy to lead Arthur along, but it was there. Now it was worthwhile to try to make clear to Arthur why they had to find and walk that path. If only there was a way to explain so that he would not feel she did not trust him, a way to express the need to have the right to make a choice, even if she never used it.
“In a way I do not really know,” she said quietly. “I not only love you, Arthur, I know you. I know you would never do anything to hurt me, that you will care for me and provide for me with great generosity. Yet, if I were your slave, unable to live except by your charity—”
“Wife!” Arthur interrupted sharply. “Wife, not slave.”
“There is no difference I know of between the two states except that a man cannot sell his wife—at least, I think he cannot, although I have heard of cases—”
“Abigail! Are you insane? What do you mean there is no difference between a wife and a slave?”
“I do not know all the law,” she answered, pulling free of his lax arms and sitting up, “but a slave cannot own anything, and neither can a wife. A slave cannot choose his place of domicile, and neither can a wife. The law gives permission for a man to beat his slave, and it gives permission for a man to beat his wife. A slave cannot do anything to control the destiny of his children, and neither can a wife.”
Arthur sat up too and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “My God,” he said, his voice soft with horror, “what did Francis do to you?”
“Actually nothing,” Abigail replied, “but when he was drunk and I would not give him money or I refused to pay his debts, he would threaten me, so I went to a judge to learn what rights I had. I was afraid Francis would grow worse, you see. And I learned I had no rights at all. If Francis borrowed money or bought what we did not need and could not afford, I could be put into debtors’ prison. Francis could force me to move away from the shop, or he could take our children away, or… The details do not matter, but if you can point out the difference between a wife and a slave, I will be glad to listen.”
“A wife is loved, and that love is her protection,” Arthur said rather coldly. “And I am not a drunkard or a gambler.”
Abigail cupped his face in her hands. “I said before that my needs and my fears have nothing to do with you. I was trying to explain why I used the word ‘slave’.” She felt his head pull back, away from her caressing hands, and she tightened her grip a little. “No, Arthur, listen. When a person is abjectly in the power of another, there is a pall of fear—no, fear is too strong a word for what I mean—a pall of anxiety that distorts the hearing and vision of the one who is powerless. What might be meant as a light jest or a loving reminder comes to sound like a gibe or a threat, and this breeds resentment.”
“I cannot believe this.” Arthur cut her off and pulled away. “You cannot tell me that my mother spent her life in fear of my father, misinterpreting and resenting everything he said to her.”
“No,” Abigail agreed, “
because she had been taught to bury such feelings and never had any reason, since your father was a good husband, to uncover them. Besides, I do not think your mother has my flammable disposition.”
“This is ridiculous,” Arthur said, ignoring the analysis of his mother Abigail had offered. “By now I am accustomed to your temper. Why should I suddenly change if we were to marry?”
“I do not say you will, but men are known to exact considerably different behavior from their wives than they endured from the same women during courtship.”
This was true enough, and Arthur stared at Abigail, fuming. “Oh, and do you plan to have a legal agreement to cover my behavior, too?”
“I will not need one,” Abigail pointed out, “if I control my own income and my children and have the right to live where I please. If we cannot agree, I would simply go away.”
“Do you think I would try to hold you if you really wished to leave me?” Arthur snarled. “I give you my word I would not.”
“Arthur,” Abigail said gently, touching his hand, “you are asking me to accept your word about many things. Why are you not willing to accept mine that I will do nothing of which you would disapprove with my freedom and independence, except buy books for my shop, and I promise to do that so discreetly that no one will know. We have lived together these two months, plus those ten days in London, and all that time I have been completely free and independent. Have you any complaint of my behavior to you?”
There was an ominous silence, and Abigail’s breath caught. She thought she had failed. Then Arthur’s deep chuckle made her gasp with joy and fling her arms around him with such force that he fell back on the pillow.
“How dare you ask such a question?” he growled, hugging her so hard her ribs creaked. “How dare you? Your behavior to me is one long offense. If I say the sky is blue, you say it is gray—”
“Only when it is raining,” Abigail suggested in a meek little voice that made Arthur laugh again.
“You are the most contumacious, quarrelsome female I have ever come across in my life,” he went on severely.
“I am not contumacious and quarrelsome,” Abigail said, biting him. “I am simply a rational being, and when you say something that is clearly irrational, I must—”
Arthur made a wordless noise, a mixture of growl and laugh that was perfectly expressive of his mingled exasperation and amusement, and muted his mischievous tormentor by kissing her. Abigail worked her arms out from behind his neck, running one hand down along his body to stroke his buttocks and the back of his thighs while the other played gently with his ear. He groaned softly.
“We have to be up early tomorrow,” he whispered against her mouth, but his hands were already caressing her.
“Then perhaps you had better stop,” Abigail murmured, insinuating a hand between them to touch him more intimately.
He turned so that he was flat on his back and moved his leg to allow her hand freer movement. “Perhaps,” he admitted, then sighed and shuddered as Abigail ran a nail ever so gently around the bared head of his shaft, “but I think…oh God…I think…yes, just there…oh, ah…I think…”
It was perfectly clear that he was not thinking at all, but since he had one of Abigail’s breasts cupped in his hand, running his thumb back and forth across her nipple, and the fingers of his other hand were very busy between her thighs, she was in no condition to criticize. Her own soft exclamations were no more sensible than his. In fact, a slightly complaining note soon entered her voice, and she slid her hand across her lover’s thigh to tug at him in a silent appeal for him to mount her.
When her caresses ceased, Arthur uttered a deep sigh, and the slight, involuntary thrusts of his hips in response to her touches stopped. “I think,” he said rather breathlessly but more firmly than might be expected as he seized her and lifted her over him, “that I will punish you by making you do all the work this time.”
“Oh, dear heart,” Abigail sighed as she eased herself down and wriggled them into perfect joining, “if this punishment fits my crime, I must be sure to commit that crime again very often.”
The punishment was so delightful and came to so satisfactory an ending that it was not until Arthur left her that Abigail realized nothing had been settled. He had not agreed that he would accept a marriage in which his wife was not bound by the customary laws. He had, in fact, cleverly diverted her when she had made the telling point that if he wanted her to accept his word as to his future behavior, he must be willing to accept hers.
Still, Abigail was happy as she snuggled into her blankets—for it was growing very cold at night in the Scottish hills—even though she missed Arthur’s warmth. There was a way, she thought, smiling into the dark and feeling free of the mountain of misery that usually settled on her when Arthur left. She would find the way and find a solicitor who would wrap up the meaning of whatever articles must be signed in long, complimentary phrases that would not hurt her darling’s pride. Then, although perhaps he would never understand, they would both be free to live and quarrel, laugh and love.
Chapter Twenty-One
No more about marriage was said between Abigail and Arthur during the journey home, although both thought a good deal about the subject. Abigail was very happy; she would have bubbled over like warm champagne except that Arthur’s mood did not match hers. He was not angry or bad tempered but rather somber, as if something was worrying him. Naturally, Abigail assumed that he was trying to digest the unpalatable idea of a wife who could not be forced into obedience but must be trusted to do for love what others did because they had no choice. She was not angry because he could not accept the idea immediately or joyously. Partly because of her own frustrations, Abigail understood that it was hard to give up power. Because she felt sympathy with his struggle, she moderated her joy and was more gentle than usual, trying to show him that he did not have to own her to make her compliant with his mood.
Actually, Abigail misinterpreted the reasons for Arthur’s thoughtfulness. Because he had not intended to marry and his mother and father had had few conflicts with each other, Arthur had never had any reason to question the situation of a married woman. In addition, Arthur had been so deeply shocked by Abigail’s identification of wife and slave that he had instinctively rejected her remarks as a hysterical reaction to her marriage with Francis. The notion, however, would not leave him. Now whenever he thought “wife”, he also thought “slave”, and the idea sickened him.
One of the things that had drawn Arthur into the Whig party in opposition to his family’s longstanding affiliation with the Tories was his violent opposition not only to the slave trade but to slavery as an institution. Although he had long outgrown belief in Rousseau’s “noble savage”, neither could he accept that primitive ways of life made black, brown or red men less than men. He had noted that people of those races who were educated like white men acted like white men, particularly if the education began when they were children. And even if those were exceptional cases, as his opponents argued, to his mind they proved the direction in which the races were tending and that they had a right to develop freely without being preyed upon. He had spoken again and again in the House in favor of abolition of slavery; how ridiculous it would be for him to embrace it in the form of marriage.
The first time that notion occurred to him, he had told himself it was nonsense. Women were different, weaker vessels, in mind as well as in body. It was the standard answer, equivalent to the arguments of those who supported slavery on the grounds that other races were subhuman, and Arthur was too self-aware, too intelligent and analytical, to be able to deceive himself for long. There was evidence enough in his own family to contradict the “weaker vessel” theory. His mother had more political sense than many men elected to office. Leonie had been as heroic as any man during the revolution in France. Sabrina was as good a diplomat as any man on the Foreign Office staff, and Abigail was certainly a better classical scholar than he was.
&n
bsp; The last resort his mind found was that Abigail had exaggerated or misunderstood the legal situation, or that it was different in the United States than in England. This conclusion seemed very logical, and he determined that as soon as he had got through the business that had piled up while he had been away in Scotland, he would ride over and speak to Roger, who would be able, he was certain, to show him the flaws in Abigail’s statements. Then he could explain to her that she had been mistaken and that a wife was not a slave by English law. Having convinced himself that such injustice could not exist in reality, Arthur felt much more cheerful, and the last few days on the road were very merry, with everyone in the highest spirits.
Since the whole household came out to greet them at Rutupiae Hall, his parting from Abigail was necessarily formal, but even that did not matter. All the shadows were gone from her eyes, and she squeezed his fingers in a small, hidden gesture of intimacy when he kissed her hand in farewell. He already ached for her body because it had been impossible for them to be together at all in the inns in which they had lodged during the journey home, and he knew he would miss her bitterly all day every day, but only until they could be married, and now that she was willing, that could not be long delayed.
Arthur’s pleasant self-delusion had its first collision with reality that very evening. Although his doubts concerning Bertram’s involvement with the attacks on Victor had been resolved, he still worried about whether Bertram was concealing a desire for Abigail. Therefore, he had wished to consult his mother before telling Bertram that Abigail had agreed to marry him. He was reasonably sure Bertram had guessed by now that he cared for Abigail and she for him, but he wanted to make his announcement in the way that would be least painful.
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