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
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
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