Cry of the Peacock (46 page)

“You know?”

“Yes.” The answer was not much more than a whisper.

“I would much rather have told you myself. I told you I would cause you embarrassment.”

“I’m not embarrassed, Miss Gray,” he said looking at her very directly. “Not of you, at any rate. I do wish you had told me. I also understand why you felt you could not.”

“I knew it could not last. Katherine has known for some time. She might have told you. I expected her to tell you.”

“And I refused to let her. I told you that.”

“But why?”

David sighed. “Circumstances, I suppose. She is not a malicious person. She did not do this to hurt you. The secret has been a great burden, however. She has never been very good at bearing burdens, I’m afraid. She confided, I imagine, in Lady Barnwell, who has been very concerned for her these last few weeks. It’s possible she did not have a choice.”

“So this is Lady Barnwell’s doing.”

“I imagine so.”

“I want to speak to her. Will you take me to her?”

“It can do no good, Miss Gray. It is best to let it go, to wait until it dies down, until some other more prepossessing scandal takes its place. These things never last long.”

“Why? Why would she do it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, though he had his suspicions. With Abbie out of the way, Katherine might at last be married. With Abbie out of the way, Katherine might have suitors more qualified than he. He could not say. And so chose not to. “Your story is a remarkable one, I suppose, and bears telling.”

“I should have known this would never work. You knew it could never work.”

“How much does it matter? Is this, after all, the life you want?”

She seemed not to understand his question. Or perhaps she was afraid to answer it. He waited.

“Yes. It is, only not…”

“Yes?” He willed her to say it.
Not with Ruskin.
But what was the use in that?

She only shook her head. She looked as though she was on the verge of tears.

“Are you quite all right?”

“I’m very dizzy,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve had too much champagne, after all.”

“Shall we stop? Do you want to sit?”

“No,” she said, with her gaze fixed on his jacket collar and speaking very quietly. “I don’t want to stop. I only want not to think.”

He held her closer then. It had been a great temptation from the beginning. There was no resisting it now. For a moment her hair, piled and knotted and curled high at the back of her head, brushed against his cheek. He inhaled the scent of her, and wished the world away. Was it not possible that they two could stand, still and silent and safe in each other’s arms, while the world spun out of control around them?

He could not keep his eyes closed for long. He wished to look at her. She was so very beautiful. Tonight especially, for she was wearing the dress he had bought her. It was his secret, and he would keep it until his dying day.

She looked up at him then.

“What is it?” she asked him. “What is it you are thinking?”

“I am wondering what tomorrow will bring,” he said. “And I am thinking how very beautiful you are tonight.”

She looked at him, apparently confused, though his words, or so he thought, had been simple enough. She pulled a little away from him then, as though she had only then realized they had been dancing too closely together. Perhaps he ought to have considered a little more carefully the crowd’s whisperings. She stopped when the space between them had been restored, and then, as if finding that he did not mean to restrain her, she freed herself entirely and stopped to stare at him.

“Is something the matter?” he asked her.

“Take me to Lady Barnwell.”

“I told you. I don’t think it will do any—”

“Take me. Please.”

He hesitated a moment. Despite all the tittering and whispering, despite all the gawping, or perhaps because of it, his eyes never left her. “If you wish it,” he said, and taking her hand, he wrapped it around his arm before leading her out of the ballroom. Up the stairs they went, and rounded the balcony. All the while people watched and stared. David only looked straight before him, his gaze fixed on the purpose ahead. He was not certain this was a good idea. He was not certain what would come of it. Lady Barnwell, however, deserved to be confronted. Abbie certainly deserved to confront her.

They found Lady Barnwell sitting in an alcove with a few of her most intimate friends. She looked up as they entered.

“Why David, Miss Gray!” she said as if she could not be more pleased to see them.

Abbie stepped forward, and David remained where he stood, just behind her. He would not interfere.

“Won’t you have a seat with us, my dear? You look quite worn out.”

“No. I’ve only come to tell you something. It’s a story. Do you mind?”

Lady Barnwell, clearly puzzled, looked around at her friends, and then, with a condescending raise of her eyebrows, encouraged Abbie to have her say.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “not long ago, there was a young woman of modest birth and humble circumstances. One day a lofty lady and her husband offered the young woman their protection. It turned out she had much to recommend her; some family, though gone, some fortune, which might be hers should she prove herself worthy of it, and a character unsullied by any ill word or unvirtuous deed.

“The good man and his lady proposed to raise her up. Despite her own doubts, and the doubts of their peers, she did her best. But in the course of her training she was given some very wise and valuable counsel—that being that she should never entangle herself in the vile practice of spreading gossip, that the whole of her success depended upon her heeding this one cardinal law. She determined herself to follow that counsel. She avoided, at every turn, engaging in it or giving fodder for it. She might have succeeded, too, were it not for that one lady, of sound advice and good intent, who had counseled her, and whose counsel she had heeded like scripture. And who, in one breath, destroyed all her hopes, all her patron’s hopes, by betraying her own counsel. By betraying her.”

All those who had been listening to her in attentive silence sat watching still, and, one by one, upon realizing the purpose of her tale, turned to Lady Barnwell for her reply. David, too, waited for it. Abbie had made her point and had made it cleverly.

Lady Barnwell remained as she was, sitting nobly, stiffly, very red of face and apparently speechless. “That is quite a story, my dear,” she said at last.

“I’m not ashamed of my history, ma’am, only that I should place so much regard in the advice of someone who is no better than a hypocrite, an exciter and a liar.”

David flinched with this. She had so far obeyed the rules of civilized society. With this she had shattered them to pieces. Perhaps, after all, she had not been wrong to do so.

“David?” Lady Barnwell said, addressing him now. “You bring such presumptuous insolence before me?”

“I regret very much to find that the circumstances have called for it.”

“You shame more than yourself, and her, by coming here as you do.”

“Not yourself?” Abbie said.

Lady Barnwell ignored Abbie. “I speak of Katherine.”

Abbie looked to David.

“I doubt very much she volunteered the information you gained from her,” he answered. “Come, Miss Gray. We are done here.”

Abbie took his arm and allowed herself to be led, practically pulled, from the room.

“David,” she said to him when they were almost alone, “if I have made any difficulty for you-” she said, apparently anxious.

“Don’t,” he said. “There is no more now than there has ever been.” There was though, but he was not so certain he regretted it. This was not Abbie’s doing, after all.

Silently she allowed herself to be led to the veranda, but upon reaching it she broke from him to stand several feet apart. He merely watched her. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? He wished to know but had no right to ask.

“Is it over?” she asked him, her gaze fixed upon the street below. He was not sure he understood her. “There is no chance now, is there? For me, I mean. It is done.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Yes,” she said, with both relief and anguish upon her face. The tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

“Miss Gray, don’t cry, please. It’s not over if you do not wish it to be. It yet remains whatever you want to make of it. It won’t change Ruskin’s regard, nor my father’s support of it.”

“Are you certain of that?” she demanded of him.

“I am. If it is your wish to marry him, he will have you. I promise you.”

“If I do not?” She looked at him for half a minute. And in that thirty seconds he wished to beg her with everything that was in him not to do it, to refuse them, to refuse it all. But he could not be certain of his motivations, nor of the consequences. He chose silence instead.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

“For what?”

“For the trouble I have caused you. For all you have and will be made to bear because of me.”

“Miss Gray, please don’t think—”

“I want to go home.”

“I think that perhaps wise.”

“To my aunt’s, I mean. It is time I returned to my sister.”

“Miss Gray, are you certain that’s for the—”

“I was wrong to accept your family’s invitation. Very wrong. Please,” she begged of him before he could protest further. “I want to go home to Newhaven House.”

David studied Abbie a moment longer. There was no arguing with her. Perhaps this was for the best, after all. And yet he couldn’t quite get over James’ words, for he was certainly right.
She can’t return, not at least until she’s exhausted every other available avenue.
So this was it then. It was goodbye. Was he ready for that? Did he have a choice? Without a word, he took her by the arm and led her out, back into the house and around the balcony that overlooked the great hall below, and then down the staircase as those in attendance watched.

It was there they were joined by Ruskin. “What are you doing?” he asked of David and Abbie at once, and looking more than a little concerned at the sight of them together. “Where are you going?”

“Miss Gray is feeling unwell and wishes to retire,” David said and tried to move past him.

Ruskin, however, proved an implacable barrier. “I will take her home,” he said. “She will come with me.” He attempted to take her arm, but she drew it from him.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m sorry. I’m not returning to your home, but to my aunt’s.”

“I’m sorry?” he said as if she’d spoken in some incomprehensible language.

More quietly now, she answered. “I cannot marry you, Ruskin. I’m sorry, but I cannot. Now if you will excuse me.”

David tried, once more, to lead her onward, but they were stopped once more by Ruskin, who took Abbie a little too forcefully by the arm. David, however, was not about to stand for it. He had stood for too much already. With a hand on Ruskin’s shoulder, he turned his brother to face him, freeing Abbie to continue her descent on her own. Ruskin, in turn, pushed David hard up against the bannister, which gesture was met by gasps and cries of the crowd that now played audience. What they would make of this, he could not imagine. Or possibly he could. He shoved Ruskin away, and followed after Abbie, as Ruskin followed after them both. But they were all stopped short at the base of the staircase by Sir Nicholas.

“We are leaving,” he ground out. “Now!” He turned to lead them toward the carriages that had already been arranged to wait for them outside. He turned back again when Abbie stopped upon the outside step. Ruskin, once more, tried to take her arm, but she avoided him.

“Please, sir,” she said to him. “Do not touch me.”

“What is this?” Sir Nicholas demanded of her, approaching so that he could speak in a voice too low to be overheard. It was nevertheless a demand.

“I’m grateful, sir, for all you’ve done. I cannot accept what you have to offer me. I cannot help you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Do you have any idea what you say? Do you have any idea what this means, to you, to us, to my son?” he demanded of her. He continued on, as David waved down a cab, and as Abbie patiently listened. She was not to be persuaded this time. She had made up her mind.

David was grateful. He was certainly proud of her. But this end, though he had prayed for it a million times, was no victory.

“You need time,” Ruskin intervened. His tone was too pleading. “You have said so yourself. You need time. You cannot mean no.”

“I do mean no, sir. I’m sorry, but it is as you said, there is no time. I need no more of it at any rate. Every day I grow more certain that I could never be happy with you. I truly regret the difficulty my decision must bring upon you, but I cannot do other than my conscience dictates. You will be grateful, I think, in time.”

“Grateful!” Sir Nicholas began again. “It is you who should be grateful! Is this how you show it?”

“Miss Gray?” David said, interrupting. “If you would be so good. There is a cab waiting.”