Free A Woman's Estate by Roberta Gellis Page A

stronger effect than the same word from
the butler or housekeeper who has been approving or scolding every day.
Besides, I need to get to know the staff, even those like the boot boy and
scullery maids whom I am not likely to see, and paying them will give me that
opportunity in a manner that will not intrude.”
    “Oh, dear,” Griselda sighed. “Mama will not be pleased.”
    “Perhaps not,” Abigail remarked dryly, “but by your father’s
will she has a very handsome income—very nearly as large as Victor’s—and she is
not supporting a household and paying for the upkeep of several country houses
and a town house in London. I cannot feel that forty pounds a year or even one
hundred forty pounds—if Eustace’s valet is paid what seems to be the usual
rate—will constitute a dangerous drain on her jointure.”
    Griselda’s mouth opened but nothing came out, and she closed
it and swallowed hard. However, whatever she had been about to say was lost
forever as the hard thud of running feet sounded in the corridor, and Victor,
covered with earth and dead leaves and twigs, burst into the room.
    “Mother!” he shouted. “Oh, Mother, someone shot at
me!”
    “Shot at you?” Abigail repeated unbelievingly. “Don’t be
silly, Vic. Who would shoot at you ? It must have been someone after a
hawk or—”
    Silently Victor handed over his coat. The blood drained out
of Abigail’s face as her eyes fell on it. The collar and upper back of the
garment were pocked and torn, and she cried out and turned Victor so that she
could see the back of his head and shoulders.
    “I’m not hurt, Mother,” Victor said, twisting around again.
“I—”
    “Where is Daphne?” Abigail cried.
    Victor started to answer but stopped when his sister entered
the room at a pace only a little slower than his. “Did you see Victor’s coat?”
she got out between gasps for air. “Mother! Someone shot at Victor.”
    “Yes, I see,” Abigail said, her voice flat with the effort
not to burst into tears or hold both children to her in a spate of protective
ferocity. She dared not, Victor and Daphne were shocked and surprised but not
afraid. She knew she must not infect them with the terror she felt. “I am
sure,” she added, “that it must have been a mistake.” With trembling fingers
she examined the holes made by the pellets in the fabric of her son’s coat,
turning and turning it in her hands. “Where were you when this happened?”
    “In the woods,” Victor replied. “We were playing with the
tennis balls and racquets, and it was so nice we went out on the lawn over
there,” he gestured to the north, “but it got hot out in the sun, so we walked
into the woods. I was carrying my coat—“
    “He was going to leave it on the lawn,” Daphne put in
righteously, “but I said he had better take it. His shirt is thin, and he might
get chilled in the shade.”
    “Oh, she makes more fuss than you do, Mother. I wasn’t
chilled, and there was a toad, a beautiful toad, so I threw my coat over a big
bush and stooped down—”
    Abigail closed her eyes for a moment to hold back tears of
thankfulness, and Daphne asked anxiously, “Are you all right, Mother?”
    “Yes, of course,” Abigail said mendaciously. “I was just
worrying about what Victor intended to do with that toad.”
    “I was telling you how someone shot at me,” Victor exclaimed
indignantly. “Never mind about the toad.”
    “Very well,” Abigail agreed, “since you didn’t catch it—”
    “No, I didn’t, because just then there was this roar, and my
coat flew up in the air and fell down right on top of me, and I was so
surprised that I fell down too, and the toad got away.”
    “Thank God,” Abigail breathed. “Oh, thank God.”
    “Oh, all right,” Victor said, making a face. “She might have
squashed the poor thing anyway.”
    Then he looked anxious. Victor was aware that his mother
knew he had planned to hide the toad in Hilda’s bed or, failing