A Woman's Estate Read Free Page B

led him to believe that Francis’ wife would
be plain and dull, he could not now understand. He knew that Francis was not
the type to discommode himself with a dull, plain wife. Francis was sufficiently insinuating and ingenious to survive—at least for a while—without
such a sacrifice.
    Plain and dull, Lady Lydden was not. Her rich auburn hair
curled fetchingly from under her delightful hat, her lips were full and soft,
her nose short and just slightly tip-tilted, her brow broad and beautifully
white and the large, long-lashed, violet-blue eyes turned up to him glowed with
warm friendliness. Mr. Deedes, who had his own fixed opinions of what gently
nurtured females were like, noted Lady Lydden’s sweetly rounded chin but did
not take cognizance of how very firm it was. Nor did he think—as someone who
knew Abigail better than he did had remarked—that the strong, white teeth
exposed by her enchanting smile looked as if they could take a bite out of the
world and grind it down to her purpose.
    The smile, however, indicated to Mr. Deedes that his worst
fears—that Francis was lying drunk and helpless somewhere and that Lady Lydden
could not pay the bills—would not be realized. Deedes could think of only one
other reason for her coming alone, Francis was too lazy to do whatever business
he wanted done himself and had sent her. As a boy, Francis had never done
anything that did not give him pleasure, and apparently he had not changed.
Abigail had not been unaware of Mr. Deedes’ scrutiny. She did not mind. She was
accustomed to goggle-eyed stares from men who were meeting her for the first
time. She was somewhat puzzled, however, at the expressions that had crossed
his face, albeit fleetingly. Abigail was also accustomed to reading
expressions. The success of a bookshop depends partly upon the ability of its
owner or clerk to recommend the type of book a particular customer would enjoy.
When Abigail had been about fifteen, her mother grew too ill to serve in their
shop, and Abigail had taken over the task of dealing with the ladies who wanted
to read novels. After her father’s death, Abigail also assisted those customers
with very scholarly tastes. Over the years, she had become very adept at
interpreting those small facial movements and body gestures that betrayed what
a person was thinking.
    “How pleased I am to meet you, Lady Lydden,” Mr. Deedes
said, “but I am sorry you had to come here. Had you sent a message, I would
have come to you. Lord Lydden should have told you—” His voice checked suddenly
as the smile disappeared from her face and her eyes dropped.
    Now Abigail understood why the solicitor had looked at her
so oddly. He had expected Francis. “Francis—my husband—is dead,” she said.
    Her voice, completely expressionless, was much deeper in
tone than Deedes had expected, and her eyes were dry when she lifted them. Had
he had time to think about the latter fact, he would have been startled, but
his shock at hearing that Francis Lydden was dead blocked out all other
emotions.
    “Oh, heavens!” he exclaimed. “How sorry I am, my lady. Dear,
dear, how dreadful!”
    “You did not receive my letter, then,” she added quickly,
trying to stem the tide of Deedes’ sympathy. Abigail found talking about her
husband’s death very painful, not because she missed him or because her love
had survived the terrible battering Francis’ habits had inflicted on it, but
because she felt that she had somehow failed him, that she should have been
able to stop his dreadful, recurrent fits of drinking and gambling. “I wrote to
you,” she went on, “as soon as…as soon as I was able to do so, but the war had
started by then, and I suppose some accident—”
    “My dear Lady Lydden,” Deedes exclaimed, “I am so sorry. I
had no idea. Had I known, I would have arranged somehow for an escort to
arrange your ladyship’s passage and accompany you. Your ladyship’s journey must
have been harrowing in