Abigail by Malcolm Macdonald Page B

as well.”
    “Abbie says he’s a scribbler.”
    “I did not,” Abigail began, looking at Caroline in alarm.
    “He is a publisher,” Winifred said evenly, knowing how Caspar loved to provoke an overreaction. “He publishes My Lady’s Companion , The Drawing Room , At Home ,and…I don’t know…several other ladies’ journals.”
    Caroline relaxed again. “He sounds most interesting,” she said.
    “Funny name though,” Caspar persisted. “Is he foreign?”
    “His father was. A Dutchman called Porzelijn. But Mr. Laon has anglicized it to Percy Laon.”
    Both Abigail and Caroline saw the sudden change in Caspar’s face; the name meant something to him. It meant something to Nora, too, for she immediately drew breath and looked at Caspar.
    “What did the father do?” Caspar asked. His tone was harsh. There was no suggestion that this was idle curiosity.
    Winifred was momentarily taken aback. “I have no idea,” she said. “Mr. Laon has had a violent quarrel with his father and has severed all connection with him. That’s why he changed his name.”
    “No idea?” Caspar pressed. “You really have no idea?”
    “Caspar!” Nora warned.
    Winifred, goaded, feeling all eyes upon her, said, “I believe I heard once that he was some kind of dealer in antiques.”
    Caspar drew breath, nodding and smiling savagely, as if that was exactly what he had expected to hear. “I must ask you,” he said, “to telegraph this person and put him off.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Winifred bridled. Her eyes filled with that awesome black intensity before which many a young girl had quailed. Even Caspar had to master an urge to retreat.
    “I think you heard me, Winnie,” he said. To anyone else he would have repeated his original words even more forcefully.
    “Caspar,” Nora said. “Be wise now.”
    He turned to her. “How can I have this man here, Mother?”
    Nora stood, looking at Caroline. “Be a dear,” she said, “and take us to another room where we may discuss this.”
    “I shall agree with Caspar,” Caroline warned, “whatever his decision.”
    “But you also have a very cool head. And I’m sure Caspar will welcome your advice.” She was already moving to the door; Winifred rose to join her. “Not just yet, popsie,” Nora told her. Caspar and Caroline had no choice but to follow her out of the door, leaving Winifred standing a little lost in the middle of the carpet.
    Abigail sprang from her father’s lap. “Come on,” she said, taking her sister by the arm. “Let’s see how they’ve unpacked.” She turned and shrugged an apology to her father.
    Winifred, whose instinct was to rush after the others and demand to be a party to any discussion involving her guest, let herself be led only so far in the opposite direction. Abigail, feeling her arm stiffen, said, “Poor Papa. He has no idea what is happening here. He resents being cut out, you know.”
    “He has no one but himself to blame,” Winifred said coldly. “If he hadn’t tried to rule all of us, and Mama, with such a heavy hand…Anyway”—her tone changed—“you talk as if you know.”
    “I do.”
    The butler, hearing them pass, stepped out into the passage. “Can I be of assistance, my ladies? There’s only the kitchens that way.”
    “Thank you, Lucas,” Abigail said. “We shall travel up in the hydraulic lift.”
    “The master frowns on that, ma’am.”
    “We shan’t make a habit of it,” Abigail told him.
    “It emerges by the visiting menservants’ rooms, my lady.”
    “Then we certainly shan’t make a habit of it, Lucas,” Winifred said.
    When they were in the lift and the door was shut, she added, “That was naughty of us. Now—what d’you know about this? Why is Steamer behaving in this monstrous way?” She wished she could see Abigail’s face but it was pitch dark in there.
    They had not been in so many lifts that the sensation of rising vertically had ceased to thrill. Abigail giggled until her