She was a person. They were not fighting over an inanimate object. The lieutenant colonel had demonstrated his full awareness of that when he had left his mother-in-law’s house without the child because he could hear her crying upstairs, perhaps with fright.
Perhaps his case was not utterly hopeless. His wife was dead, after all, and there was presumably no hard evidence beyond what she had told her mother that she had ever been slapped or otherwise violently used by her husband. Besides, he had had every right according to law to discipline his wife. The law sometimes needed a jolly good shaking in Abigail’s opinion, but of course it had been written bymen. What did she expect? That its decrees would be fair to women? But her thoughts were digressing. He had behaved badly to his mother-in-law and her servants when he went to fetch his daughter, but he had not actually struck or apparently even touched anyone. Yes, there seemed to be hope.
But none of any of that really mattered, she knew.
Power was what counted in this world. And money and influence, both of which were mere aspects of power. And the power in this situation was all on the side of the general and his wife. Powerlessness was Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s lot. And he clearly knew it. He had poured everything out to her this morning from a position of despair. He would not otherwise have confided in her of all people.
Where was his home? Andwhatwas his home? A hovel or a respectable house? It must surely be the latter if his wife and baby had lived there. But was it likely to be more than marginally respectable? How would he pay his lawyer? He had said the man was the best, and the best was expensive, especially when he worked—how had the lieutenant colonel phrased it?—at the speed of a lame tortoise. Would he have anything left with which to raise a child? An officer’s pay was not very large, was it? And was he now living on half pay?
Oh, the odds were all against him even though he was Katy’s father.
It was no wonder he was in despair.
And she was entirely helpless to offer any aid or solace. There was nothing she could do.
Except one thing, she thought as she got to her feet at last. As she shook out the skirt of her dress, picked up her letters, and began the walk back to the house, she knew what she could and had to do was make him more welcome here than she had done thus far. Not that she would be able to overdo the good cheer lest he feel uncomfortable rather than welcome. She must not make him feel that she pitied him—though she did. What she must do was make it easy for him to remain here as Harry’s friend. She must see to the smooth running of the house in the meanwhile and remain in the background.
She must carry on as usual, in other words.
Oh, how helpless women were. All they could do was nurture those people within the small confines of their world. But who knew? Perhaps nurturing was ultimately as important as anything else. Look where the wars waged by men had got the world. Into ever more wars and conflicts—that was where.
The two lawyers, having flexed their muscles by making nasty threats against each other’s respective clients, would now get down to some serious negotiating, the lieutenant colonel had said—from a position of strength.How utterly foolish. Where was the strength in threats that might have to be put into effect? Why not simplytalk? There was a child involved, the whole of a child’s future and happiness to be decided upon. Why were threats necessary?
All this was none of her business, she reminded herself as she made her way across the lawn toward the house.
Except that he had made it her business by talking to her. She wished he had not. She even felt a bit resentful... But no. That was not really true. She actually felt touched. Honored.
If only there were something she coulddo.
Ten
After the sunshine and heat of the morning it rained during the afternoon, typical of English weather. Gil had his game of billiards with Harry after all. Miss Westcott came to watch, bringing her knitting with her. She was making a coat, bonnet, booties, and blanket for her cousin Elizabeth’s new baby, she explained when Harry asked.
It felt deceptively soothing to move about the table hitting balls, standing aside when it was Harry’s turn, hearing the faint click of the knitting needles, the louder one of the cue hitting a ball, and the steady drumming of rain against the windows. There was almost no conversation as they all concentrated upon the task at hand.
Perhaps, Gil thought, he had overreacted to his letter. He had seen it as an announcement of utter failure and looming disaster. Perhaps indeed what he needed more than anything else was patience. After all, his legal case to take Katy back into his own care was a strong one. He was herfather, and he had provided her with a home and financial support and had never deserted her.
He wished fervently that he had calmed down sufficiently during his walk this morning simply to nod pleasantly when he saw Miss Westcott at the lake and call his dog to heel.
Having poured out all or most of the sordid details to her, however, he now felt it necessary to recount them to Harry too—his host here at Hinsford and supposedly his closest friend. Unfortunately, he had always found sharing himself one of the most difficult things to do. After a friendless, solitary childhood, he had effectively shut the door between himself and everyone outside himself when he had lied about his age and gone off with a recruiting sergeant. He had locked and barred that door after he became a commissioned officer. Had he been afraid of being found? Or perhaps of being foundout?
The best he could do now, he supposed, as before, was leave everything to his lawyer and do nothing to try to help his own case. But inaction was torture to him. To prove it, it seemed, he hit the ball much too hard, with disastrous results, and Harry laughed as he took his place at the table.
“We are not playing cricket, Gil,” he said, and went on to take the game.
Gil won by three games to two. By then Harry was yawning and Miss Westcott, hearing him, put her knitting away in a brightly embroidered bag she had made since their visit to town. She got to her feet with the announcement that she would have tea fetched to the drawing room.
“I had better tell you, Harry,” Gil said before she left, “what I told your sister this morning when Beauty discovered her refuge out at the lake. It is only fair you know too since there may be further developments while I am here. Indeed, you may decide that you wish me to leave, for it isremotely possible that I will be arrested and hauled away in chains.”
“That is surely nonsense,” Miss Westcott said. “But I do think it wise that you confide in Harry too, Lieutenant Colonel. I shall leave you.”
“Well, this sounds intriguing,” Harry said cheerfully as he put away his cue. “And I no longer feel like crawling off to bed.”
And so Gil told him before they went together to the drawing room, where Miss Westcott was already pouring the tea. She gestured them toward the table upon which tea plates and napkins had been set out beside larger plates of scones and sliced seedcake. There were pots of strawberry preserves and clotted cream for the scones.
“I say,” Harry said, taking a piece of cake, “I remember Lady Pascoe. A worse dragon you cannot imagine, Abby. Worse by far than General Pascoe, whose bark was always worse than his bite, I thought—though it was a pretty ferocious bark at that. It was clear to see who ruled that household. She ought to have been the general, by thunder. She would have had us all shaking in our boots in good earnest. She would have put the French to rout a few years before Wellington did it.”
“Is she a kind grandmother, do you think?” Miss Westcott asked, and Gil, who had been about to help himself to a scone with cream changed his mind and merely accepted a cup of tea from her hand.
