A Woman's Estate (4 page)

Victor was almost as tall and broad as William, who was two
years older, with real muscle rather than baby fat showing under his sweat-wet
shirt, but his neck had not yet thickened into the strong column it would be in
manhood. There was just a hint of the baby neck, frail and vulnerable, between
the broad shoulders and the tensely held head. That neck called to Abigail to
gather him into her arms and defend him—although his stance and forward-thrust
chin showed he knew he was in trouble and that he was determined not to ask for
help. The chin was hers, and the determination. Everything else was Lydden, the
fair hair, the bright, light-blue eyes, the handsome regularity of feature.

The tale, told by William, the eldest Baring boy, began with
a rather vague excuse, which Victor interrupted. “Beg pardon,” he said
sturdily, “but it was me, sir. I’m not a very good bat yet.”

Alexander Baring cleared his throat, struggling to hide a
combination of amusement and pleasure, for it was clear that his son had
offered to shoulder the blame for his guest and Victor was too well taught to
accept such an arrangement. But before he could find the proper combination of
words to warn, reprimand and praise all at once, Daphne had stepped up beside
her brother and taken Victor’s hand.

“Oh, please,” she said, “it wasn’t Victor, it was me, sir. I
begged so hard for a turn that the boys let me, but the bat was so heavy that
it turned in my hand and the ball went all awry. I am very sorry.”

Daphne’s large blue eyes, like Abigail’s in shape but much
lighter and gentler, looked up appealingly. She did not seem at all the type of
little girl that would wish to swing a bat, still being round and soft,
puppy-plump. Her hair was darker than her brother’s and already beginning to
show the trace of red that would give her a match in maturity to her mother’s
magnificent mane, but her features were still childishly unformed—except for
the chin, which matched Victor’s to a T and would have explained, had Baring
noticed it, both the desire to play cricket with the boys and the unwillingness
to hide behind them.

Baring choked, the boys all glared at Daphne, and Abigail
and Anne burst out laughing. It was quite clear that the boys expected to be
punished more severely for allowing Daphne to commit an “impropriety” than for
breaking the window, whereas Daphne had mistaken their confession for an act of
protectiveness and was determined not to allow them to suffer for their
generosity. Unable to maintain his gravity, Baring also laughed.

“Well,” he said indulgently, “now I suppose you understand
one of the reasons why young ladies do not play cricket. Shall we say—?”

“We shall say that Daphne will repay the cost of the broken
pane out of her pin money,” Abigail put in firmly, seeing that Baring was going
to let her get away without any punishment. “Young ladies must learn to pay
their debts as well as young gentlemen.”

“I’ll share,” Victor offered cheerfully, because he knew
Daphne’s intervention had saved them a scolding. His mother would have insisted
on their paying for the glass in any case, so he considered himself ahead. “I
was the one who said to let her bat.”

“But we all agreed,” William protested, not wishing to be
outdone in generosity.

“My, my,” Anne remarked, trying not to laugh. “This is going
to be a most complicated accounting. Alex will have to work it all out and send
you a bill, Abby.”

“Very well,” Abigail agreed, “but he must not forget. I
would not want to withhold more than necessary, especially since we must do
some shopping while we are in London.”

“Indeed you must,” Anne agreed, suddenly looking thoughtful.
She then turned to her husband and, giving him a glance full of meaning, asked,
“Might we put off going out of town for a few days, my dear? I would like to
accompany Abby on her shopping tour.”

“Certainly,” Baring replied, understanding that Anne was
going to explain to her friend the need for patronizing certain fashionable
shops, not so much because the style or quality of their goods was better but
to prove that she herself was
au courant
.

Further talk became momentarily impossible because of the
noise the children were making, but seeing how much they were enjoying each
other’s company, Anne said it would be a shame to part them and asked Abigail
whether she and the children could stay for an informal dinner. Abigail agreed
at once, the children were sent off to wash, with the warning that they would
be exiled to the nursery if they continued to be so noisy when they returned,
and Baring excused himself to attend to some business matters.

The advice Anne gave Abigail did not, of course, confine
itself to shops but ranged widely over the manners and mores of England’s high
society, which the newspapers, Anne told Abigail, giggling, called the
haut
ton
or simply the
ton
. What Anne said was all the more valuable
because she had made the transition herself and knew from personal experience
just what would most confound and annoy her American-born and -bred friend.
Another woman, who had been as socially successful in the past as Abigail,
might have listened with only half an ear or inwardly dismissed what she was
being told, but Abigail paid strict and particular attention—to the point of
requesting writing materials and taking notes.

Anne was much flattered by what she felt was her pupil’s
respect for her wisdom and searched her memory for every sharp lesson taught
her by embarrassment in the early years of her residence in England, even
though some of them were painful to recall. However, Abigail’s intense
seriousness owed little either to her respect for Anne’s experience or her own
considerable common sense. She had been sensitized by her mother early in her
life to the need for conforming strictly to the rules of the
ton
—no
matter how idiotic they might seem to her.

Abigail’s mother, Martha Milford, had been severely punished
for nonconformity. Having married outside of her class, Martha found that
neither her beauty nor her intelligence would provide her with a passport into
the society to which her husband’s family belonged. In fact, it was the
coldness with which his wife was treated that had convinced Abigail’s father to
emigrate to America, where Martha’s origins would be unknown and she would be
accepted. Thus Abigail carried both an intense desire to be accepted—not so
much for herself as to prove that her mother’s daughter was as good as the
best—and a deep resentment that urged her to make fools of the know-nothings
who had rejected her dearest mama.

Chapter Three

Two weeks after her informal dinner with the Barings,
Abigail and her children bowled in high style up the long drive through the
park that surrounded Rutupiae Hall. A note dispatched to Mr. Deedes on the
morning after the visit had requested that he arrange transport for them in a
fortnight, and he had done so according to the demands of his own high
standards of what was owing to his noble clients. Abigail had done nothing to
discourage his efforts. A careful scrutiny of Lord Lydden’s will and a long
afternoon in Alexander Baring’s office going over accounts had clarified to her
what she could afford to spend and what her powers were as Victor’s guardian.

Thus, the post chaise that bore them was the most elegant
that could be obtained, and two outriders accompanied them. A few hours behind
them a coach followed, carrying a mountain of boxes containing morning dresses,
evening dresses, pelisses, hats, cloaks, gloves, delicate undergarments, in
fact, a complete wardrobe. Every box bore an irreproachable name, every box was
brand new, and each time Abigail thought of them, her eyes sparkled with
mischief. About one garment in ten had actually come from the maker named; the
remainder, from sources such as the Pantheon Bazaar and others even less
respectable, looked no different, cost about one-fifth the price, and were
Abigail’s private joke on the snobbish.

However, as they came up the drive, Abigail was in no mood
for mischief. Being closed up in a post chaise all of one day and more than
half of another with two lively children had brought silent prayers of
thanksgiving from her when they had, at last, turned in through the wrought
iron gates that closed off the private drive from the public road. Still,
caution mingled with her relief when she saw the nervous eagerness with which
the gatekeeper and his wife examined her, bowing and wishing her and the new
lord and young lady welcome. She had forgotten until that moment what Anne had
told her about the number of servants and the custom of turning out the entire
staff to greet a new master.

The length of the drive gave her an opportunity to explain
to Victor and Daphne what would be required of them, but the incredulous
expressions on their faces and the giggles that they uttered led her to expect
the worst. Fortunately the solemn attitude of the long line of men and women
awaiting them awed her generally irrepressible offspring, and they went down
the line, Victor before her and Daphne following, with creditable decorum.
Abigail knew that this could not last, however, and she took the bull by the
horns and explained to Empson, the butler, and Howing, the housekeeper, that
they had better expect the young lord and Miss Daphne to show up in unexpected
places.

“It is a larger house than they are accustomed to,” she
said, smiling apologetically, “and of course, they are very curious.”

To her relief, her smile was returned by Howing, a gaunt,
middle-aged woman whose severe features suddenly lightened. “Don’t you fret, my
lady,” the housekeeper responded warmly. “I’ll warn Cook and the maids, and
Empson will explain to the footmen. Really, my lady, it will be a pleasure to
have young ones about again. They won’t be any trouble.”

“If you think so,” Abigail said, laughing and shaking her
head, “it’s because you don’t know Victor and Daphne. But please do tell me if
they get in the way. I have not yet had time to decide whether they are to go
to school or have a tutor and governess, so they will be quite free and may be
too much underfoot.”

“They will be mostly out-of-doors in this weather, my lady,”
Empson put in, not unbending so far as to smile but indicating his approval of
her confidence by an indulgent note in his voice. “But there are the attics and
box rooms to entertain them in wet weather. They won’t get underfoot. Master
Francis…” He hesitated and then said softly, “I hope you will pardon my
boldness, my lady, and allow me to express for all the staff the sorrow we felt
upon hearing of the tragic accident.”

“Thank you, Empson,” Abigail replied.

“It was a pleasure to serve him, my lady. Always thoughtful,
he was, with a kind word for all.”

Tears misted Abigail’s eyes for a moment. At least part of
what Empson said was true. Drunk or sober, Francis had the sweetest disposition
in the world. Even when he was most stubborn in refusing to shoulder his share
of any burden, he did it so seductively that most of the time his victims
thanked him.
If only
… She shut off the thought. It was too late for
regrets.

“I am glad to know that Francis was a considerate master,”
she said, her voice only very slightly unsteady. “You will have to be patient
with me, Empson, for the way of life in America is very different, but I assure
you that I will learn as fast as I can and that I will do my best to make
Victor as well loved by the household as his father was.”

“Thank
you
, my lady” was all that Empson said, nor
did his dignified expression change, but Abigail knew that he was extending a
deep sympathy for the dreadful life she led in the appalling wilderness
overseas.

Abigail had not the slightest doubt that Empson believed she
had been required to cook over open fires and barricade her house against
whooping, war-dancing, naked savages. She swallowed desperately, fighting her
desire to laugh, and was saved by hearing her son and daughter cry out with
glee as a procession of a peacock and his attendant harem stalked slowly around
the end of the raised terrace bordering the house.

“Mother, look! Oh look, Mother!” they cried in chorus.

Truthfully, Abigail herself was impressed, and the peacock
did his best to deserve the awe with which he was being regarded. Either
startled by the children’s voices or reacting to the mass of people, he raised
and displayed his magnificent tail, screaming harshly. The house had been no
surprise to Abigail or to the children, for Francis had spoken of it often and
had described it, in the throes of homesickness, in a grand way he would not
normally have done. In fact, he had even mentioned the peacocks—with
considerable scorn, for he clearly thought them an ostentatious nuisance—but somehow
seeing the exotic creatures tamely walking about brought home in a forceful way
to Abigail how different her life would be.

She did not, however, give any outward sign of what she
felt. The first and most important rule, Anne had told her, whether in dealing
with the
ton
or her servants, was never to seem surprised, flustered, or
nervous. So Abigail smiled and told the children that she was sure Empson would
know whose duty it was to feed the birds and that Victor and Daphne might help
in the task if they asked politely—but later. Now, she said firmly, it was time
to go inside and meet their grandmama-by-marriage and Aunt Griselda and Uncle
Eustace.

As she spoke the words, Abigail’s eye caught the faintest
flicker of expression on Empson’s face, a twitch of an eyelid, a quiver at the
corner of his mouth. Had she known the man better, she would have been sure he
was hiding a rather malicious amusement or satisfaction, but it was a most
peculiar reaction. Surely, Abigail thought, there could be no cause for
amusement, malicious or not, in what she had said. She put the puzzle out of
her mind as she nodded assent to the butler’s request to dismiss the waiting
servants, telling herself that she had probably misunderstood the tiny signals
she had seen.

Not long after Abigail had met Lady Hilda Lydden, however,
she realized that she should have trusted her well-developed instinct. Just a
few minutes after the initial greetings were over, it became apparent to
Abigail that no woman would be less likely to enjoy being called
“grandmama”—which was, no doubt, the cause of Empson’s amusement. And the
ungracious manner with which Hilda scolded Empson because he had not asked
Abigail and the children to wait while he announced them formally was a good
reason for the hint of malicious satisfaction over Hilda’s discomfiture that
she had detected in the butler.

Instinctively, because she liked Empson for the way he had
accepted her, Abigail had tried to explain away his omission by pointing out,
smilingly, that the butler’s position was awkward. One could not, after all,
expect him to tell a family who had arrived in their own home to wait while
they were announced. In the next moment she wished she had held her tongue.
From the icy silence that greeted her remark, it was very clear that Hilda did
not welcome the reminder that Victor was the new master of Rutupiae and Abigail
its new mistress.

Beady black eyes bored into her, and Hilda rose slowly to
her feet, fully displaying a clinging gown, which Abigail had already recognized
as being of a color and style more appropriate for a woman thirty years younger
and thirty pounds lighter, and a throat and arms almost covered with expensive
jewelry that urgently needed cleaning. Hilda had tried somewhat unsuccessfully
to conceal the gray in her hair, and that too, was dressed in a too youthful,
too dainty style for her features, which had once been handsome, if heavy.
Worse yet, her face had coarsened with age and weight, which made the fairy
curls more ridiculous than they must have been in her youth.

“I had hoped to welcome you to Rutupiae,” Hilda said, “but
now I fear you might consider it presumptuous of me,
a mere guest
, to
welcome you to your
own
home.”

The voice jarred on Abigail almost more than the words—high,
harsh and whining all at the same time. Abigail could feel herself stiffen, but
fortunately, before she could burst out with an answer of equal rudeness, a
man’s voice interposed.

“Mama, Abigail was joking! Oh, I may call you Abigail, may I
not? I am so sorry. Mama has not the slightest sense of humor.”

On the words the speaker came forward holding out his hand
and smiling. Automatically, Abigail put her hand in his, and he bent gracefully
and kissed it. He was obviously Hilda’s son, he bore a striking resemblance to her.
However, the fact that he was male and in the prime of life made the sharp
black eyes, the slightly hooked nose and the thin although well-shaped lips
combine into remarkable handsomeness.

“I am Eustace,” he went on, “and this is my sister,
Griselda. You must forgive Mama. When she is nervous, her bark becomes quite
excruciating.”

Abigail turned her head in Griselda’s direction, but she had
opportunity for no more than a single glance at the tall, awkward-looking girl
before Hilda’s voice again assaulted her ears.

“And you have given us reason enough to be nervous,” Hilda
complained. “How
could
you be so cruel as not to notify us of Francis’
death? I understand it was a full year ago. Surely no matter how distraught you
were, you could have managed to scrawl
a few words
or have
a friend
write for you. And how could you be so mad as to come from America in the
middle of a war? Don’t you realize that until your son has issue, he is
especially precious? He is the
heir
.”

Since this was the third time of hearing, Hilda’s strident,
peevish tones were less of a shock, and Abigail was better able to absorb the
sense of what had been said. She began to wonder if the voice and appearance
had given her a wrong impression. Hilda seemed concerned both about Francis and
Victor, which was generous, considering that Eustace would have been the heir
if neither Francis nor Victor had survived. There were some people who meant
well but had a most unfortunate pattern of expression.

Under the circumstances, Abigail decided it would be cruel
to tell Hilda that Francis had never mentioned the existence of his father’s
second wife or her children, and she replied, “I am very sorry that you should
have suffered, but I did write. The ship carrying my letters to you and Mr.
Deedes and Mr. Baring must have been taken by the French or gone down. And
there was very little danger in bringing Victor to England. Admiral Warren
provided passports for us, and we transferred to a British ship well within
safe waters.”

“I told you, Mama,” Eustace said, smiling. “When we received
Mr. Deedes’ note, I said that Abigail must have written and some accident
occurred to prevent our receiving her letter.”

Deprived of one cause for complaint, Hilda found another. “I
suppose we must wait dinner for you—or did you have sense enough to eat on the
road?”

It was then that Abigail realized that everyone was attired
in evening dress. That made the jewelry Hilda was wearing more reasonable if
not more appealing. “I did not realize that you dined so early,” Abigail said
with poisonous sweetness, “or I would have sent one of the outriders ahead with
a note. But we had no more than a bite of luncheon on the road, so dinner will
most certainly have to wait for us. If you will ring the bell for me, please,
Eustace, I will ask Empson to send my apologies to Cook and tell her to hold
back dinner for half an hour.”

“Oh, you don’t have to bother with that,” Hilda said,
plumping herself ill naturedly down on the chair again. “Griselda will take
care of it. She’s not good for anything besides running errands.”

As ungracious as the tone and remark were, they at least
seemed to prove that Hilda was no pleasanter to her own daughter than she was
to anyone else. The only one who seemed to be spared her tongue was Eustace.
Still, Abigail had a feeling that the remark was intended to embarrass her so
that she would say a tray in her room would be sufficient. Another time,
Abigail might have agreed, to save the servants trouble, but she did not plan
to set any precedent of meek acquiescence. Nor did she wish to permit any
member of the family to intrude between her and the servants until she had
established firmly in their minds to whom power now belonged.