“Damn it all, I wish she hadn’t gone too,” Arthur interrupted tartly. “Bertram was not pleased at being asked to escort her home, and he’s been like a bear with a sore head since he got back. I wish— No, I’m not going to say it again, and I’ll be late if I don’t go now.”
He tipped her face up and kissed her lips, but he was still frowning as he went out of the room. Abigail heaved a brief sigh and thought irritably that Francis’ family was as infuriating as he himself had been. She was very annoyed with Bertram and blamed him for Griselda’s departure. Abigail was almost certain that Bertram had had a bitter quarrel with her, for she had heard him shouting at someone and later had found Griselda in tears. At the time Abigail had not associated Bertram’s fury and Griselda’s tears, but when he had been so very ungracious about escorting Griselda home—which had really surprised Abigail because usually Bertram was protective of her—it had occurred to Abigail that the two incidents might be connected. She had not mentioned her suspicion to Arthur because she knew he was already disturbed about Bertram, and it seemed senseless to add to his worries.
But perhaps it was as much her own fault, Abigail thought, because she had unwittingly provided a refuge. In the interests of making peace so that she and Griselda would not be driven mad by Hilda, Abigail had invited her mother-in-law and Eustace to use Lydden House in London for the Season. Since Hilda’s other choices were to stay in the country (unthinkable!) or to rent a suitable house (equally unthinkable, owing to the expense), she had rather grudgingly accepted Abigail’s olive branch.
This was a mixed blessing to begin with, since it meant that Hilda and Eustace had to be included in the guest list of any large ball Abigail gave and also invited to some family dinners. Naturally, Hilda had used these opportunities to complain that Abigail and Arthur, rich as they were, forced her, a helpless and impoverished widow, to pay her own expenses. This was irritating but not important. Far more irritating was the fact that if Hilda and Eustace had been at Rutupiae, Griselda might have thought it the lesser of the evils to stay in London—but perhaps not. Griselda was far too sensitive. Still, she could not help that, poor thing, and Bertram who knew her well, should not have scolded her so harshly, no matter what the reason. Abigail sighed again. What was done was done, and there was no sense worrying about it now.
Returning to the lease, Abigail turned the page and exclaimed with irritation. Surely she had told Jameson that the question of repairs must be more clearly defined. All this lease said was that the landlord agreed to “keep the property in good repair”. That was far too vague and not at all what Abigail meant. She was willing to supply materials—that was a landlord’s responsibility since the pens and buildings would remain on the property even if the tenant left—but the tenant must supply the labor.
She took the packet with her and went to her writing desk to get her letter book, wishing to be sure she had already written to Jameson and made her intentions clear to him before she blamed him for ignoring her instructions. But the letter book was not there. Abigail said several words that would have shocked anyone who heard them. Now she remembered that the drawer had been too full and she had sent back to Rutupiae with Griselda all the letter books except the one holding the copies of her replies to invitations and social notes here in London.
Thoroughly exasperated but hoping that Jameson had perhaps included some explanation for the phrasing he had used, Abigail shook everything out of the packet. The letter he had included, smaller and more compact than the other papers, skittered across the table and into her lap. She lifted it and uttered a brief cry of pleasure at the sight of Albert Gallatin’s familiar handwriting. Albert had written to her from Russia describing his frustrations at the lack of movement in arranging peace negotiations, and she had replied, warning him that the end of the war with France would make Britain more intractable. She had written again after the New Year to tell Albert about her marriage to Arthur, but had not had an answer. Eagerly she broke the seal, then felt a little disappointed when she saw only a brief note, however, the contents made up for everything else. Albert obviously had not received her last letter. He had written from Amsterdam on 22 March to say that he had received permission from the British government through Baring to visit England, was leaving for London immediately, and expected to arrive about 9 April.
Abigail jumped up and hurried to the bell pull to ring for a footman. When he arrived, she told him the note she was writing must be delivered to Alexander Baring, and he was to try the Baring home first and then the bank. She wanted Albert’s address in London. Lady Sarah would have to do without her company at the breakfast. She had to see Albert as soon as possible. Yet after the note had been dispatched, Abigail sat staring blankly into space. However deeply her sympathies were engaged with the United States, she was an Englishwoman. To urge her own husband and everyone else she could influence to make peace was legitimate, because peace would be to Britain’s advantage as well as to America’s. But to pass military information to Britain’s enemy was entirely different. Would it not be treason to tell Albert what she had heard?
Only two days earlier, at a tea attended mostly by political wives, Abigail had learned that Admiral Cochrane intended to capture Washington. The tidbit had not been meant for her ears. In fact, it was her own name in the phrase “for goodness sake, don’t tell Abigail or Anne” that had attracted her attention. Since her name and Anne Baring’s coupled that way almost certainly meant the news referred to America, Abigail had strained to listen while remaining unseen. Unfortunately, because of the cacophony of voices around her, she was unable to determine who was speaking. This made her uncertain of the value of the information she had obtained. It might be only a rumor.
Abigail had told herself that the speaker was just trying to make herself important. Everyone knew that the admiral intended to raid the coast, so to name Washington was believable and would make her seem particularly in the confidence of someone high in the government. Still, Abigail felt frightened because the information might be true and she did not understand what the capture of the capital of the United States would mean. If Washington were taken, would that mean the end of the war? Would that mean that England would rule America again? No, not that, she assured herself, because she had heard many discussions about who should rule France after Bonaparte was deposed, and despite differing opinions, it was clear that France would remain independent. Still, France was rich and important, and the United States was poor and insignificant.
Yes, and would it do anyone any good to defeat and ruin America? Abigail wondered angrily. This was different entirely from defeating Bonaparte. He wished to conquer and rule all Europe. The United States did not wish to conquer or rule anyone and was fighting only to protect its own rights and citizens. That thought was so partisan that it made Abigail a trifle uneasy. She had heard a good deal of talk before she left New York about driving the British out of Canada and uniting that territory with America. Still, there was no question of that happening now, because the army in Canada had been reinforced by veteran soldiers, and in any case attacking Washington had nothing to do with Canada.
Resentment rose in Abigail when she thought of the experienced British troops fighting against the untrained American volunteers. Most of them were only plowboys with romantic ideas about being soldiers—Albert had told her that. It was unfair, like a bully beating a child who had picked up a stick because he was frightened. And what good would it do Britain to conquer America? The people would never accept British rule.
There were some fanatics among the Federalists who were talking and writing about separating from the United States and becoming colonies again. Abigail had seen reprints of their speeches and articles in newspapers in London. Those sentiments might deceive the British because they wanted to believe them, but Abigail knew the people in general would violently oppose submitting to the king. And even the most passionate Federalist would find that his enthusiasm for the colonial st
ate would not last a week after the first imposition of British taxes.
Suddenly Abigail remembered an argument Arthur had had about the punishment of France by depriving her of territory and demanding reparations. He had taken the position that no reparations be asked and that no French territory should be ceded to other nations, only conquered lands be freed and allowed to choose their own governments. This had astonished the man to whom he was speaking because Arthur had always been so adamant about depriving Bonaparte of his throne.
But the two were entirely unrelated, Arthur had pointed out. It was necessary to remove Bonaparte from leadership in self-defense. His thirst for conquest was not likely to be extinguished by losing a war, and if he were left to rule France, he would lead her to war again very quickly. On the other hand, if France were not bled and not humiliated, the new ruler and the people would be only too happy to live in peace. Trade would be quickly renewed, and all would benefit.
The merchant’s heart in Abigail stirred, and her lips thinned with determination. That was what was important—peace and renewed trade. Well, the capture of Washington and the humiliation of America would not produce those results. In fact, it would surely infuriate the people and arouse resistance. Then the revolution would begin again, and the hatred would be burned deeper into American souls—and that was wrong.
Memory of the proud and independent congressmen and senators who were her clients and some also her friends wrenched Abigail’s heart. She bit her lip and then sighed. Even if it were technically treason, it was right to save America from defeat because that would benefit Britain in the end. Besides, she thought with wry humor, now ready to acknowledge a personal motive that she could no longer ignore, there was no way she could face Albert while knowing something that might help America and yet not tell him.
Abigail drew out another sheet of paper and wrote to Albert, saying how delighted she was that he was in London and asking him to call on her as soon as he could or to set a convenient time for her to call on him. Then she looked up at the clock, wondering when the footman would return. She did not have long to wait, however, it was not the footman who relieved her impatience but Alex Baring himself. Her note had caught him just as he was about to leave for the bank, and he had decided to come in person to answer her.
“How kind of you,” Abigail said, smiling but very surprised. “But really, it was not necessary to come. I only need Albert’s address. His note saying he was coming to England was directed to Rutupiae and took so long to get to me that I had no chance to write back and invite him to come here directly. It is silly and expensive for him to stay in lodgings. He would be much more comfortable with us while he is in England, and I am sure that he and Arthur will enjoy each other’s company very much.”
“Yes, I suspected that was what you had in mind,” Alex said, “but it would be a grave mistake for Albert to accept your offer. For him to associate himself closely with the opposition party will not endear him to the government.”
“But it has nothing to do with party,” Abigail cried. “It’s true that I cannot say he dandled me on his knee when I was an infant, but we have known each other since I was a child. He has been my friend for almost twenty years. What in the world has party to do with—?”
“My dear Abby,” Alex said soothingly, taking her hand. “You don’t understand. I do not think anyone in the government really cares with whom Albert associates. What I fear is that they will be seeking excuses for delay and dissatisfaction, and a too great intimacy with the opposition could give them a cause to refuse to meet and confer with him.”
“But that is ridiculous,” Abigail protested. “The very few men who have recognized that there is some justice in American complaints have been Whigs. It must be only natural that—”
“Natural or not,” Alex interrupted again, his voice more firm than soothing this time, “there is a chance that such association might be used against the commission. You must know, Abigail, that peace with the United States is not at present desired by the public at large or by most of Parliament. Although I do not believe that either Lord Castlereagh or Lord Liverpool is infected by the popular hysteria and demands for ‘punishment’ of America, there is a good possibility that the only reason they suggested direct negotiations was to prevent further offers from the tsar to mediate a peace without offending him.”
“My God,” Abigail exclaimed, “is everyone in this country mad? Can they not see that the economy of England is being hurt? Do they wish to continue paying taxes to support a war forever?”
“Most are not thinking at all,” Baring conceded dryly. “They are inflamed by the victory over Bonaparte and feel that a further victory is only a matter of closing a hand already poised over America and crushing it. And you should realize the government must consider the effects of going against popular sentiment.”
Abigail frowned. “I do realize it, but I cannot see why that should prevent Albert from staying here.”
“Only because you do not wish to see,” Alex said reprovingly. “Consider what the newspapers will make of the fact that one of the American commissioners is living in the home of a Member of Parliament and being wined and dined and invited to the most exclusive social events.”
“Oh dear,” Abigail sighed.
Seeing that she was weakening, Alex continued his attack. “And there is another reason why you and Arthur, above all, should avoid being classed as Albert’s friends. So far, I believe Castlereagh has not associated Arthur’s expertise about America with the fact that he has a wife who was born there. In other words, I hope he and Lord Liverpool assume that Arthur’s espousal of the cause of peace derives from an impersonal study of economic and political factors rather than a prejudice for the United States based on purely personal reasons.”
“It is not based on purely personal reasons,” Abigail said quickly, blushing a little. “I have pointed out the bad effects of the war, but Arthur is not such a fool as to accept something simply because I say it. He has been studying—”
“I know, Abigail.” Baring laughed. “I have been supplying him with information—hard facts concerning trade in pounds per year—but I fear he would never have thought of investigating closely enough to be convinced had you not prodded him. You know and I know that the reason for his interest is irrelevant. Nonetheless, if notice is drawn to the fact that Arthur’s new wife is American born and that he is intimate with one of the American commissioners, any hope of his opinions being regarded seriously by the government would be gone.”
Abigail thought that over and sighed again. Alex was right. If there were any chance at all that her friendship with Albert would prove damaging to his mission, they must avoid each other. But what about the information she had concerning the attack on Washington? Would Alex—? As the idea began to form in her mind, Abigail dismissed it. Alex might be eager for peace with the United States for financial reasons—and perhaps, a little to ease Anne’s fears—but he would never pass military information. The recognition that Alex would consider what she planned to do very wrong made Abigail’s conscience twinge. Possibly he would not even agree that military defeat for the United States would do more harm than good. However, Abigail felt that she had reasoned it all out carefully and must do what she thought right.
“Very well,” she said. “I suppose I must accept that, but I would like to have Albert’s address anyway. I must write to him at least once and explain why I did not reply to his note and tell him I am married. I will be discreet, I promise.”
“You are too clever to be otherwise.” Alex smiled at her and handed her a slip on which was written a Seymour Street address.
When Alex had taken his leave, Abigail tore up the note she had written to Albert and scribbled another saying, “I am below in a cab. If you are alone, may I come up? I must speak to you.” Then she rushed to her room, dressed without summoning her maid, and quietly left the house. She walked to Bond Street, where there were many e
legantly dressed ladies, and hired a hackney cab to take her to Seymour Street, sending the driver up to the apartment with her note. A bare five minutes later, Gallatin’s son James came rushing out to greet her fondly and escort her up the stairs, where, on the landing, she was enfolded in Albert’s paternal embrace.
At first, neither could make sense of what the other was saying because Abigail was trying to explain why she had not replied to the letter from Amsterdam, and Gallatin was trying to calm her and discover whether her urgent-sounding note meant that she was in trouble. Finally, however, he drew her into the parlor where they sorted out the most immediate news, caught their breaths, and stood smiling delightedly at each other for a few moments more.
Abigail was very happy in her new life, yet it was so good to see someone who had been part of her old life that tears came to her eyes. As she looked at her friend’s face, she felt he looked worn, although his rather round countenance was no thinner and he was now smiling. Nonetheless, she thought there were more lines around his small, well-shaped mouth, and the kind, dark eyes under their heavy brows seemed somewhat sunken. As he saw her eyes brim, Albert took her hands and drew her close again.
“Dear Abigail,” he said, in his charmingly accented English, “why do you weep? I ask again, is all well with you?”
“Very, very well,” she assured him, smiling through the tears. “It is only so good to see you. I had no idea how much I missed you and dear Hannah and everyone else I left behind until suddenly you were there—I mean here.”
Laughing, Albert squeezed her hands, then let them go and invited her to sit down, taking a chair near hers. Then he turned to his son, who was still standing, and said, “If you wish to go, James, you may go. I am sure Abigail will excuse you.”
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