Cry of the Peacock (9 page)

T
HE LAST OF the crates had finally arrived, and David had only to unpack and sort them. He had been given the charge of stocking Miss Gray’s library, and he was not best pleased that his time at home was to be spent in this way. Not that he minded the task in and of itself. He was the bookish one in the family, after all, but that he should be doing it for
her
, when he had certainly never been allowed a library for his own use, rather galled him. Neither had he any doubt this was one of his father’s schemes to make him better acquainted with Miss Gray—and therefore more supportive of his family’s plans for her.

David, with the footmen following closely behind, entered the room through the servants’ entrance. He had not quite accustomed himself to the alterations. The library had been cleaned and freshened, new paint and papers had been applied, the curtains replaced. Considering all the trouble taken to brighten the place up, it surprised him that more care had not been taken with the furnishings. These must have been leftovers from storage, or retrieved from one of the attic rooms perhaps. Would she approve or disapprove of the changes made? No doubt she would wish for better.

No sooner had the footmen left, than the door opposite opened and Miss Gray entered. She did not see him right away, so taken with the room was she. Turning in a slow circle, she examined every wall, every corner, the newly polished shelves and woodwork, the blue and brown India paisley walls. Her expression was one of strong emotion, but what that emotion was—surprise, awe, or even disgust—David could not guess.

“Is it possible you do not approve, Miss Gray?” he asked, and startled her.

Flustered, she looked at him a moment, and then recovered herself. “I could not have guessed it would be so altered, and yet so familiar at once,” she said at last. “It pleases me very much.”

“There are no new furnishings,” he said, directing her attention toward a sitting area arranged around the fireplace. “It’s all rather shabby. I apologize if you expected better.”

“It’s perfect,” she answered, with apparent sincerity. “I’m very grateful for such thoughtfulness. I see my books have been brought from the Oak Lodge as well.”

As well? He looked to the crates, the ones that had been here already, and suddenly remembered what his father had told him. He had not been listening very astutely then. He had been too busy inwardly grumbling over the unwelcome occupation before him.

“These are your books,” he said. It was an unnecessary observation. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and then stopped again, conscious it was giving his discomfort away.

“They are not all mine,” she said with a nod toward the newer crates, those which the footmen had opened before quitting the room. “We never had so many.”

“Your collection has been fortified, as it were. There was nothing more modern than the first half of the century.”

“Well there wouldn’t be, would there.”

Had he offended her? His manner, he supposed, was not exactly welcoming. And he was conscious of the guilt he yet bore in having caused offense on that previous occasion. Not that he was actually repentant of it. He had meant what he had said. It was just that it was so very seldom that anyone might have cause to accuse him of ungentlemanlike behavior. Perhaps, after all, he ought to make a better effort.

“That is,” she continued and approached the table where he stood, “the books we had at Oak Lodge are those salvaged from my grandfather’s library. Of course we’ve never been in a position to add to the collection.”

“No,” he said, watching as she drew her fingers appreciatively over the spines. “No, I suppose not.” Her manner was not that of a laborer, nor even of a common tenant, she was more studied, more poised. His mother had done her work well, indeed.

She looked at him and he was suddenly aware that the silence, while he had been observing her, had drawn on a little longer than was comfortable. He cleared his throat. “Are you a great reader, Miss Gray?”

“I would like to think I am. I enjoy it greatly. Perhaps above anything else.”

“Well then,” he said, finding his way much easier now he had found a common interest. “It may please you to know that we’ve made some contributions of our own to your collection. These last ten or twenty years have produced some extraordinary literature. It is a pity to have missed out on so much good reading.”

“I haven’t missed out entirely. The vicar’s library has always been open to us.”

“So you are not ignorant of Meredith and Hocking, then,” he said, assuming that the library of a religious man would hold the works of other religious men.

“No, certainly not,” she answered. “Nor Hardy.”

“The vicar has Hardy?” David asked, intrigued by this. “I would have thought him a Meredith man, myself.”

“He likes George Eliot a great deal.”

“
Middlemarch
, I suppose.”

“He recommended
Daniel Deronda
, actually.”

This surprised him even more. All the more so for it being rather fortuitous subject matter—that of a young woman tempted by wealth to marry above her station. “And what did you think of it?” he asked with sincere interest.

“Well, it was around the time of my mother’s death, I’m afraid.  I never got around to reading it. I’ve read very little indeed these last twelve months or more.”

He didn’t know how to answer this, and so found himself silently looking at her, the opening lines of the book running through his mind.

Was she beautiful, or not beautiful? And what was the secret of form or expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good or the evil genius dominant in those beams?

He turned his attention back to the books upon the table and pushed the lines from his mind, and the questions that followed them. He remembered now why he had determined to be so careful around her. It would be better yet if he did not have to associate with her at all. Well he needn’t. And he wouldn’t beyond what was necessary.

“As you can see,” he said, conscious that the reserve he had once more adopted, now made him sound a little like a schoolmaster, “we have included some of the more popular volumes printed in the last fifty or so years.”

“That is very kind of you,” she answered with a determined politeness that told him she had taken note of his altered manner—and perhaps was trying to decide what to make of it. Did she think him rude? Well, he didn’t care. He would train himself not to care.

“It was my father’s suggestion,” he answered. “He merely asked me to make the selections and to see that all was arranged for you. I’m afraid I’m late getting started.”

“I did not mean to interrupt you. Excuse me,” she said, and moved away from the table, toward the door. But then stopped to look once more about the room.

He watched her, but catching himself in the act, he turned once more to the books and determined himself to ignore her. Why would she not just go?

She moved to stand at the other end of the room now, before the empty grate. Her hand rested on top of a small, round mahogany side-table, her fingers feeling the wood as though she could summon from it some answer to her apparent trouble. Her gaze was fixed contemplatively upon the portrait that hung above the mantelpiece, her figure poised, no doubt as she planned it, to show itself to its greatest advantage.

Before he could recall himself to his purpose, she turned to him. She had been crying, and had apparently forgotten, until that moment, that he was there at all. The look he saw on her face was similar, too similar, to the look he had seen once before. In London. The look that had nearly unmanned him. That of a woman out of her element, lost and heartsick.

“Miss Gray. If I have said anything to—”

Excuse me,” she said, and moved to the door. She opened it to reveal James on the other side of it, just preparing to enter.

For a moment James stood there, looking from one to the other of them, no doubt observing her emotion. Perhaps observing David’s own confusion of purpose. Dash it! She
was
an inconvenience.

“Am I interrupting something?” James asked cautiously.

“No, nothing,” Abbie answered. “I was just leaving.”

“You needn’t feel you must go,” James said.

“I’ve stayed too long as it is. Excuse me, won’t you?” And with that, she quit the room.

“Are you quite sure I wasn’t interrupting?” James asked when the door was closed again.

“Certainly not.” He did not wish to discuss it, and so turned back to the book laden table.

“Do you know why she was crying?”

“Do you have a purpose, James? I’m rather busy, as you can see.”

James was silent for some time, and then: “Do you not think she looks exactly like her mother?”

“How on earth would I know that? I hardly remember the woman.”

James’ answered with a nod in the direction of the portrait that hung over the fireplace.

“The portrait was brought from the overseer’s cottage,” David realized. No wonder she had studied it so thoughtfully.

“Yes,” James answered.

“And her books came from Oak Lodge as well?”

James nodded sagely.

“Please tell me the furnishings were not brought from her old home as well.”

“Sorry, old man. I can’t oblige you there.”

David recalled his words and closed his eyes against them. Had he called her things shabby? “Did you or did you not come for a purpose, James?” David asked him. His patience was quickly ebbing.

“I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m returning to Oxford tomorrow. It seems I’m in the way.”

“In whose way? Ruskin’s?” David laughed, then sobered. “Are you?”

“Possibly, though not in the way he fears. Certainly not in the way you are apparently thinking.”

“Well, he can’t very well just pack you off without—”

“But he can, it seems. Listen, I know I said I no longer objected to Ruskin’s plans,” James continued, “but I yet have my concerns.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I ceased to object to her because I saw how she might inspire Ruskin to rise to the office so recently appointed him. I’m not sure he’s capable of doing it on his own, and frankly I’m surprised our father does. He means to prepare him, I suppose. With Miss Gray’s help, I can see how it might be accomplished. But if she doesn’t want him I’m certainly not going to stand by and watch him wear her down.”

“What are you talking about? Of course she wants him.”

“Does she, though? Are you quite certain?” But James did not wait for an answer. “Think about it, will you? If it
is
her plan to marry a fortune then there is no reason to dally, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Yet she does dally. She has taken the earliest opportunity of retiring these three nights past. She’s been keeping close to her rooms as well, or close to Mother’s side, when she might easily be entertaining Ruskin.”

David answered with a sigh. He hated it when James was right. He was threatening to do it a lot of late.

“You know him,” James persisted. “You know how he can be once he’s made his mind up to something. Doggedly determined and unrelenting until he has his way. He will not accept no for an answer, and I’m not sure how long he will wait for her to make a decision. Tell me you will keep an eye on things while I’m away? Tell me you will keep an eye on Ruskin and make sure he behaves the gentleman?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” David relented in frustration. Ruskin wasn’t the only one who could be doggedly persistent. “I don’t want to see Ruskin impose himself any more than you do.”

“And make some effort to put yourself on good terms, will you?” James added. “She’s very likely to be your sister soon enough.”

Which was of no comfort whatever. “A lot of good your proximity did! It’s the reason you’re being transported, isn’t it?”

“You don’t pose the same threat to Ruskin’s aims and you know it. You’ve Katherine to keep your loyalties in the right place.”

“I hope you don’t think the reminder necessary, James. I know my duty as well as anyone.”

“Speaking of which, Father wishes to see you.”

David hesitated. This announcement did not bode well, not in light of James’ news—or of his request. He considered a moment, considered James, considered Ruskin and how he very nearly hated him at that moment. At last David crossed to the door, opened it, hesitated a half a minute, and then slammed it shut behind him.

“I
’VE AN ERRAND for you,” Sir Nicholas said to David upon his entering the study. “I need you to go into Town for me.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve committed to undertaking the project of building new cottages. Financially speaking, it isn’t a simple matter. I want the books at home and you close at hand to guide us through it.”

“Very well,” David answered cautiously. “When shall I go?”

“The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back. If we mean to have the cottages ready by winter, there’s not a day to waste.”

“I’ll go this afternoon, then,” he answered and reached for the door.

“While you’re there…”

He turned back.

“You should stop in at the Barnwell’s. There’s no telling how long all this will take, and I’d hate for it to make difficulties for you. When was the last time you saw Katherine, might I ask?”

He regretted the answer. “A week or two, I suppose.”

Sir Nicholas gave him a predictably disapproving look.

“I
have
been very busy.”

“Yes, well,” Sir Nicholas answered. “Lord Barnwell is anxious to speak to you about that cabinet position he means to offer you.”

“I’ve told you, sir, I don’t have a mind for politics.”

“Then it’s simply a matter of forming one.”

“Yes, but—”

“You’ve procrastinated making your engagement formal long enough. If it’s for a steady income you hesitate, well then, we’ll remedy that.”

“I have employment enough, sir, managing our investments.”

“I think it’s time you consider the other opportunities now before you. Lord Barnwell’s offer is not one that is likely to come your way a second time.”

“But, sir—” David began but was stopped again.

“I intend for you to try it, and there’s an end of it!”

“Why is it so important to you I do this? You’ve never been a politically minded man yourself.”

“It isn’t important to me. It’s important to Lord Barnwell. It’s important that his daughter has something more reliable to live on than a commission earned by risky speculations made in an uncertain financial climate. He has seen banks close in his lifetime, David. He is simply being pragmatic. I would have thought you’d be grateful.”

“I’m not ungrateful. I simply—”

“If you were grateful you would have left already!”

David, speechless, bowed and quit the room, a sense of foreboding settling heavily upon him. The books, when he had taken them over three years ago, had been a mess, the records shoddily kept and the family up to its ears in debt. They were solvent now, but only just, and the feat had not been accomplished without a great deal of dedicated effort and sacrifice. Was he to give it up just like that? And what would come of it under Ruskin’s management? He dreaded the thought, and tried to trust in his father’s better judgment. Perhaps Sir Nicholas only wished to take a measurement of their financial well-being. He prayed it would end with that—and somehow knew it would not.

*   *   *

Abbie arose the next morning to a house eerily quiet. Only Ruskin, who on any other morning would have been hard at work in his father’s study, was at the breakfast table. He stood as she entered. Had he come on purpose to find her out? Was he frustrated by her determination to avoid him these last few days? Or had he even noticed?

“Good morning,” he said, cheerfully. “I trust you slept well.”

“I did, thank you,” she said and took up a plate as she examined the sideboard. Her thoughts were elsewhere. On him, and on the fact that they were, once more, conspicuously alone. “Where is everyone?”

“Mother has gone into the village to do some shopping.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I would have liked to have gone with her.”

“Another time, no doubt,” Ruskin answered.

“What of the others?”

“Work commences this morning on the new construction, and so my father has gone to oversee the progress for himself.”

She was pleased by this news. “You did not go with him?”

“Not this morning,” he answered.

“Your brothers are with him, then, no doubt,” she said, and wondered that he was not more interested in the project so newly initiated.

“James has returned this morning to University.”

“University?” she echoed and looked at him over her shoulder. “You said he was to go. I had no idea it was so imminent as that.”

“And David has gone to London for the day,” he added as she took her usual place, opposite him. “And so it is just us.”

“So I see,” she said, and hoped her answer did not betray the anxiety she felt. “It’s a lovely day,” she observed, hoping to fill the silence with idle trivialities. She prayed he would not continue upon the vein last left off. She avoided his gaze, turning her attention, instead, toward the breakfast room doors, which had been left open to let in the fresh air. Without, she could hear the birds singing, and she watched them as they occasionally descended from the trees to peck at seeds and insects on the ground.

“Did you get the music I sent?” he asked her.

She swallowed the bite of toast she had just taken. “Oh, yes. It was very good of you to think of it. Thank you.”

“It is not too difficult, I hope?”

“No. Not too difficult, at all. In fact, it is one I’ve played before, though it was some time ago.”

Ruskin’s smile broadened. “Then you will be able to play it soon. Today, perhaps.”

She was prevented from answering him by the entrance of Sarah, and Abbie was not ungrateful for the interruption. Sarah offered a curtsey though the gesture seemed more for Ruskin’s benefit than Abbie’s own. Since her promotion from a common chamber maid to a makeshift companion, the girl had seemingly set her mind upon impressing her employers, at the expense of pleasing her mistress. It was, for Abbie, a matter of growing resentment.

“I believe your instructors have come,” Ruskin observed to Abbie. “Drawing, is it?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Miss Gray will be in the conservatory this morning,” Sarah added, “sketching the late roses.”

“Sounds charming,” he said, looking at Abbie. He stood with her rising.

She was almost reluctant to leave him. Perhaps, after all, it was not fair to avoid him when what she really needed was the time to get to know him, to grow to love him.

Just such an opportunity presented itself an hour later, when Ruskin joined her in the conservatory. Quietly he entered and approached to observe her work. She looked up to gauge his assessment. It was offered in a look of unmistakable approbation. She found it pleased her to please him. She wished to do it always, at least to do it more often. Such was certainly a balm from the less approving manner of others.

When her things were packed away and the instructor had gone, tea was brought in and they sat over it together. Ruskin chose topics of interest to them both. He spoke of his developing plans for the estate, of his hopes, his aspirations. All things she, herself, cared deeply about. It was apparent to her that he had taken great pains to dedicate this time to her today. She was flattered by his attention, and appreciative of it, but she did not thrill in it as she thought she should. She wanted to want him, and that was as far as she could presently commit herself. She was grateful, nevertheless, for this time, free of the pressure to return his regard, to consider it, and to acquaint herself with it.

When their tea was finished, Ruskin released her to go to the music room, where she could practice her music at leisure and alone. She took her place at the piano with a determination to make the most of her practicing. For a moment she studied the music, that which he had lately made a gift of to her, and which she had once played so well. Would she remember it still?

At last prepared to begin, she pressed her fingers to the keys and, note by note, spelled out the first tentative phrases. Yes, she remembered it. There was a certain familiar predictability to the first measures, and it appeared, after all, that her fingers remembered more than her mind did. As the sound filled the air, she relished the joy of making beautiful music, and so closed her eyes that she might allow her fingers to play, untrammeled by the temptation to over study the printed notes before her. Of course she could not continue in this way for very long, and when she came upon the more difficult passages, she opened her eyes to look once more upon the music. To find Ruskin standing within the open doorway.

“Don’t stop,” he said and approached the piano. Then nodded to Sarah, who arose and quietly left. He did not speak until the door had closed once more. “Do go on. Please.”

“I don’t know that I can,” she said, and was aware of the heat in her face. His approval mattered so much more now for having received it earlier. She did not wish to disappoint him.

“Do you really mind so much my listening?” he asked.

“No, of course not. I simply wanted to have it quite perfect first.”

“It sounded perfect to me.”

“That’s only because you have not heard me play it through.”

Silence for a moment. Then: “May I?”

Uncertain, she waited. She was not ready for this. She needed time and it seemed he was not going to give it to her. She could not deny her disappointment. But she was disappointed in herself, as well. This was music, not a proposal of marriage. She could play if she determined herself to do it.

While she tried to do just that, he crossed the room and took a chair beside the window. He would wait for her, but he was going nowhere. She watched him for half a moment more. If he would only grant her another day. Another hour, even.

A flash of movement outside the window called her attention. Curious, and perhaps eager for the reprieve the distraction provided, she arose to look without. A young woman was crossing the lawn. She stopped suddenly, wrung her hands in apparent anxiety, and then continued on.

“I believe that’s Hetty Summerson.”

“She’s come to see my father, no doubt,” Ruskin answered, unmoved. “She’ll wait.”

Had she come seeking a position, then? “You might go to her. I needn’t keep you.”

“No. You needn’t,” he said pointedly. He gestured then toward the piano. “Will you?”

“If I play, will you go to her? Will you help her?”

“You know I will.”

With this incentive, she took her place, and with a steadying breath, placed her fingers once more upon the keys. Those opening phrases, now so well remembered, came without effort. She turned her thoughts from Ruskin and toward Hetty and what he might do for her, toward all he might do for Holdaway and those who lived and worked here. She imagined his home her home, his people her people, a prosperous estate restored to what it should always have been, because of her.

But the spell of harmonious music perfectly played crashed and shattered with the striking of a handful of wrong notes. Ruskin had come to stand behind her. She had not noticed him until that moment. Until the moment he had reached out to touch his fingers to the back of her neck.

The door opened once more, and David entered.

*   *   *

David had dispensed with his London business as quickly as possible. As much as he loved London and city life, he was not comfortable being away just now. Not with so many changes underway. Not with so much hanging in the balance. Without any rational explanation, James’ warning had played itself over and over in his head until he was almost mad from hearing it.

You know how he can be once he’s made his mind up to something. Doggedly determined and unrelenting until he has his way.

David was aware that certain measures had been taken to ensure that the recently reclusive Miss Gray would have no one’s company on this day but Ruskin’s. He also knew how quickly his elder brother could advance in his purposes when he was of a mind to do so. The new cottages were now well and truly underway. What else had he decided to act upon? The question troubled him greatly. What difference would his presence make? He could not answer this last, but there was no answering it at all if he was not there.

Consequently David had returned by the earliest train, had entered the house to find all in unnatural silence. And then he had heard music. His mother could play to perform, but it was always a formal affair, no emotion, no feeling of any kind, simply a series of notes struck to too carefully measured time. This was not his mother’s playing.

He listened for a moment. Was that Miss Gray who could play like that? The question propelled him forward, through the entrance hall, through the drawing and dining rooms, and brought him to stand before the music room doors. They were closed, but there remained a gap between them. It was no more than half an inch, but it was enough. Yes, it was Miss Gray playing, and with the skill of an angel—or a siren. He had made up his mind already to the latter, but it was a determination that was daily losing merit. He watched her, listening to, rather than watching, her own occupation, playing as if she were in a trance. She was mesmerizing.

The spell was suddenly broken by a movement within. Ruskin was there. He had arisen from his chair to stand behind her. The look on his face was both comical and repulsive as he stood there, gazing down upon her as if she were some bauble in a jeweler’s shop. As if he were poised to grasp it, to put it in his pocket and hide it away where no one would ever see it. It was a passing fancy, or so David thought. But, no. It really did seem as if he meant to touch her. Did he dare? Could he not help himself? He did it, but the effect was so opposite of what David expected, he almost fell into the door before he could get it open. She had hardly received the gesture with pleasure. No. She had jolted as if stung, missed the keys and quit playing altogether. Her face was red, her look one of alarm. But when at last he had the doors thrown wide, her look was something else entirely. Shame. As if she had been caught in some compromising act. Had she, or had she not led Ruskin on to this?  He wanted an answer. He stood there, waiting for one, as though he thought it would be volunteered for his benefit.