Authors: Roberta Gellis
“Well,” Arthur growled, “you don’t sound British. You sound
like a damned rebel—or a traitor.”
“Do you mean that to be a loyal Briton, I must also become
an idiot or a liar, to be blind to the truth, and believe only what the
government chooses to tell me?” Abigail asked nastily. “I tell you I know the
Constitution
is a forty-four-gun ship. I have been aboard her. And I know the British navy
is filled with bullies who oppress the weak, because the ship I sailed on was
an unarmed merchantman that even had a passport from Admiral Warren. Still, it
was stopped, and two seamen were dragged off—”
“Because they were traitors who had abandoned their country
in her time of need,” Arthur exclaimed passionately, his voice nearing a shout.
“Nonsense!” Abigail exclaimed, equally passionately. “I
sailed with Captain Brown, whom I have known for years, and one of the
impressed seamen had been with him for five years or more—”
“And we have been at war for more than ten years,” Arthur
interrupted.
Abigail sniffed disdainfully. “That cannot be of
significance in this case, for Billy was in his teens and had sailed with
Captain Brown starting as a cabin boy—unless the British usually impress
five-year-olds?”
“He was still British,” Arthur roared furiously, “and he
should be proud to serve his country against that damned tyrant Bonaparte.”
“Ridiculous!” Abigail exclaimed, her voice rising to match
his. “He was a naturalized American citizen. According to your reasoning, the
only Americans that exist are the red Indians—”
A loud sound of throat clearing caused her to stop abruptly.
Both Abigail and Arthur turned sharply toward the door, where their eyes
encountered the astonished and rather frightened gaze of a young footman. There
was a brief silence. Then Arthur drew a deep breath and said in a deceptively
calm voice, “Lady Lydden would like coffee. I suppose Cook will know what is
suitable to be served with it.”
“Coffee, my lord?” the footman repeated, one surprise atop
another making him forget his training. “But—”
“Sir Arthur,” Abigail protested, refraining with difficulty
from laughing at the footman’s horror. She was not certain whether he was more
frightened at the idea of putting Sir Arthur’s request to the cook or returning
to Sir Arthur with the cook’s reply. “I should not think there is any coffee in
the house, nor that your cook is accustomed to preparing the drink. You did not
hear me, I fear. I said I had just finished breakfast and desired no
refreshment. But I have changed my mind, if you will accord me that female
privilege. I would like some tea.”
She spoke the final two sentences quickly, fearing that Sir
Arthur would believe she was angry or offended by his fierce opposition to her
support of the American point of view about the war. On the contrary, in a way
she was delighted. Not that she liked his opinions, but that was not
important—one could always hope to change opinions. What was significant was
what he had
not
said. Sir Arthur had not told her to mind her needle and
leave men’s business to men. He had sneered at what he believed a dishonorable
naval tactic, but not at the fact that a woman claimed she knew the difference
between a forty-four-gun and a seventy-four-gun ship. And he had not been
condescendingly indulgent because of her beauty, either. Abigail was pleased
with Sir Arthur and found him a very interesting man.
“Tea, then,” Arthur said curtly, and the now red-faced
footman disappeared hastily, shutting the door behind him.
“I am very sorry.” Abigail’s voice was choked as she
addressed her apology to her host’s back, for he had not immediately turned to
face her when the footman left. “I am afraid we…frightened your servant.”
Her voice began to quiver and she had to stop, but relief
for her pent-up emotion was immediately forthcoming. A roar of laughter split
the air as Sir Arthur, who had also been struggling to subdue his mirth, gave
up and faced around. Then she was free to laugh, too.
“Poor Martin,” Arthur gasped. “He’s only just come to us
from a very quiet place. He told Waggoner—my butler—that he wanted a larger,
livelier household. But I don’t suppose,” he went on between chuckles, “that he
expected it to be quite as lively as to find host and guest shrieking at each
other. I seem to do nothing but apologize to you, but I
am
sorry for my
discourtesy. I
do
know how to behave to a guest, I swear it.”
“I could scarcely complain of your behavior, considering my
own,” Abigail admitted, smiling. “I have hardly stopped assaulting you with
words since I arrived.”
Arthur shook his head. “It was natural for you to be
distressed when your son had so narrow an escape,” he said, sober again. “And,
if you will forgive me for alluding to a topic that you might feel would be
better allowed to rest, it is natural for you to regard the American cause in
this war with sympathy. I fear, however, that in the United States the wider
implications of Bonaparte’s conquests are not fully understood.”
“You may be correct about the ignorance with regard to
Bonaparte,” Abigail replied, “although I think there has been a better understanding
of the tyrannical aspects of his character since 1810, when he confiscated so
many American ships in European ports—which
he
had invited to come and
trade. That was bad enough, but he sold the ships and cargoes without any trial
or even any investigation, which, I must admit, the British have never done.”
Sir Arthur grinned and bowed. “You do us the honor of
fairness.”
But Abigail did not return the smile. “You are very wrong,
however, in believing that I have any sympathy with this war, for I have not,
nor have many Americans, especially in New York and the New England states.
What is more, I think that even in the western states, like Ohio, the original
enthusiasm is much dampened. It was stupid for the British to provoke the
Americans too far, and it was
idiotic
for the Americans to declare war.”
Arthur shrugged. “Some of the provocation was not the fault
of the government—it was owing to the hot-headedness or greed of individual
naval commanders—but with that lazy lech—ah—with the Earl of Mornington at the
Foreign Office, any rational action was not to be expected. Mornington had been
viceroy of India, and he seems to have regarded the Americans as equally supine
and willing to bow to authority. Thus, he took the most high-handed and
inflexible tone—at those few times when he could be drawn from his harem to do
any bus— Oh, I beg your pardon.”
This time it was Abigail who grinned. “You need not. I have
read a great deal of Eastern literature. You do not need to fear shocking
me—but your foreign secretary seems appallingly ill informed. He could not have
made a less accurate assumption about the American character. A high tone
applied to Americans will drive them into a passion more quickly than anything
else. In fact, I begin to feel more sympathy for President Madison’s
declaration of war.”
“Be that as it may,” Arthur said dryly, “it was not during
Mornington’s tenure that war was declared. Viscount Castlereagh has the Foreign
Office now, and he is both clever and painstaking. Indeed, it was under his
influence that the Orders in Council, to which Americans objected so strongly,
were repealed.”
“Not soon enough,” Abigail countered coolly, “and the
question of impressment of American seamen was rudely dismissed. Moreover, from
what Mr. Gallatin said to me, the tone of the communications was not much
improved.” She saw the slight stiffening in Arthur’s stance and, not wanting to
begin another shouting match, shook her head. “I think there is something the
British government does not understand about Americans. Because they are a new
nation and still raw, because they are aware of their inferiority in power they
are all the more sensitive and take offense at that which an equal might
understand or be willing to overlook.”
“Now that,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “is a most interesting
observation. I must remember it. It might be useful in debate.”
“Well, I hope you will find a better purpose for it than
debate. I hope you will pass it along to those who will be involved in the
peace negotiations.”
Arthur had turned, his attention being attracted by the
opening of the door, which revealed the footman carrying a laden tray. But his
head jerked back toward Abigail in response to her final words, and he said
sharply, “What peace negotiations?”
“The Russians offered to mediate a peace between Britain and
the United States—did you not know?”
“Oh, that,” Arthur replied dismissively. “I would not count
on any offer of mediation being accepted by the British government.”
Heturned away as he spoke and nodded to the footman.
“Thank you, Martin. That will be all.” Returning his attention to Abigail, he
smiled. “If you will do me the honor of pouring, I will join you in a cup. I
find myself almost as thirsty as after a hot debate in the House.”
Abigail stared at him blankly, shocked at the disappointment
she felt over his casual dismissal of any chance of the hoped for peace.
“Come,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the table where the
tea service stood, “do pour. And don’t look so downcast. I feel as you do, that
a peace between the United States and Britain is of the utmost importance. The
government won’t accept mediation, especially by Russia, but there are other
ways.”
Chapter Six
Abigail returned to Rutupiae in Sir Arthur’s carriage and in
rather high spirits. She had enjoyed her discussions with him enormously, for
she was accustomed to talking about serious subjects and had been deprived of
that pleasure since leaving New York. In addition, the conversation indicated
clearly that Alexander Baring had been correct in his judgment. Sir Arthur was
far more interested in politics than in children or estate management. At that
point in her thoughts Abigail chuckled, realizing that she had herself
completely forgotten to raise some essential personal questions in favor of political
ones, such as how fully Sir Arthur wished to exert his executor’s power.
However, she was no longer really worried about that.
Her pleasant mood was somewhat disturbed when she summoned
Empson after lunch and suggested to him—as delicately as possible so as not to
shock his propriety, which Abigail was sure was far more sensitive than
hers—Sir Arthur’s ideas on what might have caused the shooting. The butler
protested vehemently that none of the men under his authority was involved in
any illicit affair or had given any other cause for such an attack. The results
with Mr. McPherson, the head groundskeeper, whom Abigail summoned next, were
identical. She did not know the man as well as she knew Empson, but
circumstances supported his claim because the under gardeners did not live on
the grounds and would be unlikely to be found in the wooded area between the
houses.
Abigail would not have been troubled if she had thought that
each man was simply defending his subordinates, but both gave her reason to believe
that what they said was the truth. That left the unlikely probability that a
poacher had been so startled by Victor’s sudden appearance that he had fired
both barrels of his gun or the frightening possibility that a madman was loose
with a grudge so violent as to be indifferent to who was shot.
It was too soon to start worrying about madmen, Abigail told
herself. First of all, Mr. Lydden had not returned to report the results of his
investigation. And second, there might be other, perfectly logical causes that
had not been suggested or examined. In any event, at present Victor and Daphne
were being kept busy by Mrs. Franklin in or near the house and would be in no
danger.
Actually, Abigail would have liked to put the incident out
of her mind for a while. Her discussion of the war with Sir Arthur had reminded
her of her American obligations, and she would have liked to spend the
afternoon writing to the book dealers with whom she had done business in the
past to let them know she was in England. In addition, she had a number of
commissions to procure books for customers who were totally indifferent to the
war but keenly alive to and combative about scholarly issues. She had been too
busy during her brief stay in London to fulfill those commissions, but she
decided she could write now to reserve the books and travel down to London in
the next week or two to arrange for their shipment. The journey would take only
one day and would not be unpleasant if she did not have the children to amuse.
Perhaps, Abigail thought, as she opened the drawer of the writing table and
drew out paper and pens, she should also make appointments with the book
dealers to examine the stock not generally exposed to private customers with a
view to some large purchases for her shop in New York.
She had been startled by Sir Arthur’s vehemence about the
war. Her impression had been that the British were annoyed and contemptuous
rather than vindictively enraged—rather like an elephant being pestered by a
small, snapping, yapping dog—and that any time the United States wished to back
down and ask for peace, it would be granted. The news that Britain would not
agree to the Russian mediation had been a shock, and what Sir Arthur had told
her later had been even more depressing.
She learned from Sir Arthur that Bonaparte had been so badly
hurt by two narrow “victories” he had won on 2 May at Lützen and eighteen days
later at Bautzen that he had agreed to an armistice. In addition, it now
seemed likely that Austria would declare war against France again when the
armistice ended. It was not that Abigail regretted the damage Bonaparte had
suffered or that the forces against him would be stronger. She had been raised
by her parents with a strong anti-French bias. However, she had realized that
when Bonaparte was beaten, England would be able to concentrate her full
strength on defeating America.
Abigail was surprised by the strength of her feelings. In
the United States she had thought of herself as British and had thought she
identified with British interests. It was not until she had become involved in
the argument with Sir Arthur that she had realized how much an American
partisan she was and how much she resented the British positions. The paper and
pens and the letter book into which she would copy her letter to have a record
of what she had written lay unused before her as she tried to examine her
motives and filter out the effects of her love for individuals she had left
behind, her fondness for her home and her business, and other such private factors
so that she could consider objectively the rights and wrongs of the conflict.
But before she had made much headway, the door of the library swung open and
Hilda marched in.
“I really must insist, Abigail,” she said indignantly, “that
you leave the management of the servants to Griselda. I do not know what you
have been saying to Empson and McPherson, but they seemed quite distracted when
they left you. You are confusing them.”
“I imagine they are more frightened than confused,” Abigail
replied. “I was not giving them orders but trying to find out who had shot at
Victor when he and Daphne were in the woods.”
“Shot at Victor!” Hilda screeched. “Don’t be a goose! The
boy was telling a tale to make himself important. No doubt he was imagining red
Indians in the woods and got carried away by his game.”
“Games do not tear the collar and shoulders of a boy’s coat
to shreds,” Abigail said dryly.
“No doubt he made that up, too.” Hilda cackled. “You spoil
those children dreadfully, believing every word they say. You should have
insisted on seeing the coat before upsetting Empson and McPherson.”
Abigail had been about to say something really nasty when
she realized that Hilda was not implying that Victor had damaged his own coat.
Obviously Hilda did not know the boy
had
brought the garment with him to
show to his mother. In fact, it seemed that Hilda knew nothing about what had
happened in the morning. Abigail had been crediting her with rare restraint and
tact for not talking about the shooting during luncheon, but it occurred to her
that Griselda had not told her mother about the accident.
That was puzzling to Abigail only for a moment. Considering
Hilda’s behavior to her daughter, Abigail was relatively sure Griselda would
have expected to be blamed for something—if not for the accident itself, then
for upsetting her mother by telling her of it. Now, without doubt, Griselda
would be blamed for
not
telling Hilda.
Not if I can help it
,
Abigail thought.
Under the circumstances, Abigail suppressed her angry retort
and said mildly, “No, a shot really was fired at Victor, but everyone is
certain he was not intended to be the target. Nonetheless, we must discover, if
we can, who the real target was so that—”
“Real target, nonsense!” Hilda snorted contemptuously. “You
are mad! If a shot was fired, it was fired by a poacher. Why upset our butler
and chief gardener over that? Your ignorance is appalling. You should have told
Eustace to speak to Vastaly, the gamekeeper, or the bailiff, Mr. Jameson.”
Abigail could feel her teeth grit together, but she
swallowed her fury because she was beginning to understand it was useless to
argue with or explain to Hilda. Her mother-in-law leapt to conclusions that
suited her, and her opinions only became more fixed in blind opposition to reasoning
or argument. Thus, Abigail first tried to divert Hilda to a less exacerbating
subject and, when that failed, hinted broadly that she had letters to write and
would like to be left alone. Neither tactic worked, and Abigail was thinking
about using physical force to rid herself of her unwelcome companion when the
clock on the mantel struck and she was able to say it was time to dress for
dinner.
This respite, unfortunately, did not last beyond the actual
period that Abigail was in her own rooms. As soon as she entered the drawing
room it became clear that Hilda had never stopped talking about the shooting
that morning. Her steel-file screech carried all too well across the whole
room, although she was plainly addressing Eustace, who stood beside her.
“But it must be St. Eyre’s fault,” Hilda was saying. “There
is not sufficient Lydden property for a poacher to catch anything. I am ashamed
of you, Eustace, refusing to inform St. Eyre that his gamekeeper has been
careless and your nephew’s life was endangered.”
“Now, now, Mother,” Eustace answered calmly, “you know the
poacher must have been more frightened than the boy. You may rest assured he
will never come near that place again. And as for complaining against Price, I
certainly will not do so over something he could not possibly have foreseen.
You know he is married to Mrs. Franklin’s daughter, and if Nelly were made
unhappy over any complaint against her husband, Griselda would be unhappy,
too.”
“Ridiculous!” Hilda exclaimed. “Griselda could not possibly
have any feeling for a common creature like Nelly.” She began to turn to her
daughter to obtain confirmation of this statement and saw Abigail coming toward
them. “You are late, Abigail,” she rasped. “Why did it take you so long to
dress?” And then, looking down her nose at the simple dinner gown Abigail had
chosen to wear since it was only the family. “One would think you would have
more to show for such a long effort.”
“I…er…rested for a little while,” Abigail replied, tactfully
suppressing the fact that she had delayed coming down to avoid Hilda as long as
possible.
“I suppose you are implying that you needed to rest because
of the shock you sustained. Well, let me say you deserved it. It is all your
own fault, you know, because you allow those children to run wild. They should
never have been in the wood by themselves. And if you want my opinion, Mrs.
Franklin is getting too old to deal properly with children. I never had so high
an opinion of her. Griselda was quite unmanageable for months after she came
back, forever running down to that cottage—”
The diatribe was cut short by Empson’s announcement that
dinner was served, and for a little while Hilda abandoned the topic of who was
to blame for the shooting in favor of complaining because Abigail had arranged
for dinner to be served in a small parlor nearer the kitchens than the dining
room. Now that the children no longer ate with them, it had seemed foolish for
the four to be seated around the dining table, which was too large even with
the leaves removed. Conversation had been impossible for anyone with a voice
that carried less than Hilda’s.
Abigail’s attempt to reduce Hilda’s domination of the talk
during dinner had not been a notable success so far, but the move did make the
servants’ work easier and permitted the food to reach the table hot. Moreover,
it quickened the service so that the meal did not last so long, a considerable
advantage in Abigail’s opinion. Another advantage, although a minor one, was
that the round table they used had no “head” or “foot”, so that Abigail was
saved the problem of where Eustace should sit now that Victor was no longer at
the head of the table. It would have been embarrassing to insist that the
master’s seat should be left vacant, but Eustace had reacted so strongly when
Victor had taken that place that Abigail decided she did not want to go through
the changeover again.
When the meal was mercifully over, Abigail considered
excusing herself with a “headache” but resisted the temptation to avoid
starting Hilda off on the shooting again. That made her remember that Hilda had
been urging Eustace to complain to Sir Arthur, and she realized that to stop
his mother’s nagging he might give in and do so. Abigail certainly did not want
Sir Arthur to be harassed by another complaint, so she waited until Hilda
seemed occupied in criticizing Griselda’s needlework and said softly to
Eustace, “There is no need to speak to Sir Arthur. I have already done so this
morning, and he is fully aware of what happened.” She might have told Eustace
more of what had been said but was afraid of attracting Hilda’s attention.
Eustace’s lips thinned with irritation, but then he shook
his head. “You must not mind too much what my mother says,” he remarked. “There
was no need to drag St. Eyre into the matter. I am sure it was an accident that
will not occur again. And, really, you must not confine Victor to the house or
the lawns. He must get to know the property. If you are nervous about his
wandering in the woods, let him ride—oh, I forgot—perhaps he cannot ride.”
“Yes, he can,” Abigail replied. “Both Victor and Daphne ride
quite well. Francis taught them.”
Eustace suddenly looked interested, which both surprised and
rather pleased Abigail. She had hoped when she first heard about Francis’ half
brother that Eustace might feel a responsibility—or even a fondness—for Victor
and spend some time with him showing him over the estate and continuing
Francis’ tutoring in male sports and other activities. The cold welcome and
Eustace’s reaction to Victor’s seating himself at the head of the dinner table
had quickly killed that hope. Until this moment, there had been nothing to
reawaken it, for Eustace had ignored Victor over the intervening days. But
perhaps, Abigail thought, noting what was almost a flicker of eagerness in
Eustace’s expression, the rejection was mostly a result of shock, and he would
get over it.