Cry of the Peacock (16 page)

“But why?”

“So that you can marry Ruskin.”

Abbie laughed stiffly. “You are talking in circles, Katherine. I am to marry Ruskin to restore my family, but the restoration of my family qualifies me to marry Ruskin. Do Sir Nicholas and Lady Crawford truly support this? I think they must, but I don’t understand why they should.”

“Of course they do.”

“I’m afraid there’s no ‘of course’ about it.”

Katherine gave her a frustrated look.

“And what do
your
parents think of it?”

Katherine could no longer meet her gaze, and there was answer enough.

“You see? Now I know all I need to know. Your mother’s doubt in me, James’ skepticism, David’s disapproval, these are only a small sampling of what I must endure, and overcome, if I’m to make a success of this.”

“You have overcome James. You will—are, I think—overcoming David.”

“Is that so?” Abbie said and hoped her reply sounded of doubt rather than the hope she wrongly felt in the prospect. “I do not know, after all, Katherine, that I can be what they want me to be, that I can be what
he
wants me to be.”

Katherine had drawn off her own white lace scarf and was now arranging it in Abbie’s hair. “Don’t you think,” she said as she worked, “that it would be a wonderful thing to marry into this family?” Her smile was simply beaming, and Abbie knew she was speaking of her own hopes and wishes. “Can you think of anything in this world better than having the admiration and affection of such a man as Ruskin Crawford?”

Katherine turned her to look once more into the mirror and Abbie simply stood, looking at her own reflection. Divested of her black, dressed neither in her mourning clothes nor riding habit, clothed only in her white underpinnings and flounced petticoats, Katherine’s lace scarf draped over her brow like a veil, it was not so difficult a thing to imagine being a bride. Ruskin’s bride. She liked him a great deal. They had interests enough in common. She understood what he was offering her—a place in this house, on the estate that had been her home as long as she could remember, protection, station, security… None of these were trivial things. If he would just give her time to develop those feelings she felt were absolutely essential between two people who wished to unite themselves in marriage, she would gladly consider him. She was a woman of strong feeling, but those feelings must be developed in their own time. That his own had been formed so strongly and so quickly fairly astounded her.

She drew the scarf off again and returned it to Katherine. “I’m grateful to you for believing in me as you do,” she said. “And I will tell you what I have told him. I want time to be sure,  and an opportunity to earn my place.”

“You shall. Of course you shall! You will have that opportunity, too, next month when you come to London.”

“Next month? So early as that?”

“David wants to be there in time for the public opening of the… I don’t know. That underground train, or whatever it is. The Prince of Wales will be there, after all. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to allow you your trial?”

“Next month?” she said again, and remained fixed on that single idea, long after Katherine left her to join David for their late morning walk.

J
AMES, HAD INDEED returned to Oxford—a week late, it was true, but, with his usual efficiency and impatience for wasted time, he soon had everything in hand. After settling into his rooms, meeting his roommate, a singularly boring fellow, and collecting all the necessities required for student life, he found himself at the week’s end and without an occupation. Perhaps the occasion called for a short London sojourn. Of course many of the diversions London offered might just as easily be found in the University town, but he was feeling particularly serious at the moment. The spell had begun in a humble cottage on an estate in Hampshire. It reached its apex in one of London’s seedier public houses, where he was explaining to a buxom and very friendly barmaid—and while, admittedly, under the influence of some strong ale—that his eldest brother had set his heart and future happiness at the feet one of his family’s tenants.

Miss Buxom listened with apparent doubt, but by the time he had finished his story, that air of skepticism was replaced by one of cautious optimism.

His parents supported the match, she wanted to know?

“Oh, yes. And quite enthusiastically.”

Her smile broadened and she moved her chair a little closer to his. “But of course your family would not think of encouraging ‘er unless there were somethin’ in it fer them?”

To which James had no reply. The unsettled feeling in his stomach was soothed by another drink and Miss Buxom’s increasing proximity. He checked his watch. Did he have time for this? There was a card game at half nine he wanted a hand in. He returned the watch to his pocket.

Miss Buxom reached down to pick something up from the floor. “Is this wots waiting at home for you, then?”

James took the photograph and looked at it. The unsettled feeling returned.

“She ain’t your sister.”

“No,” James answered, and rose to his feet, only to find he needed to sit again.

“P’raps you’d like a room?”

“I think I had better.”

“Very well, then,” she said and disappeared. To reappear a moment later with a key.

James took it from her and, accepting a little help—thank heaven she was buxom!—was once more on his feet.

“Shall I show you the way?” she asked him with a knowing look.

“I can manage. If you’ll just point me in the right direction.”

She did, and led him as far as the staircase, where he bid her, and rather pointedly, good night. She took the hint with a ‘humph’ and went on her way. He found the room, and locked himself inside it. Mariana’s photograph was still in his hand. He laid it on the table beside the bed, then sat down to remove his boots. His belongings, his loose change, his watch he laid on the bedside table as well, then propped the photograph up. He lay down, looking at the image still.

Mariana Gray had been a mere child when he had last seen her. Time had altered her greatly. Circumstance more, it seemed. She had once been rather trivial and worldly. Of his own set, such was to be expected. Of one in her circumstances, however, it had been charmingly ridiculous. That was then, but a great deal had changed since. If she aspired still to a position so much higher than that which she had ever held, she was no longer so foolish to do it. Not with her sister poised as she was to make that leap, having, in fact, all but done it. The image before him now, however, was not that of a worldly woman. It was rather that of a world-wise one, posed seriously, only the hint of a smile on her face, and dressed to remind those who looked upon her that she was suffering from recent grief. What a difference three years could make! He looked at the portrait a moment longer, and then, with a breath of frustration, perhaps of self-castigation, he blew the candle out.

*   *   *

It was late the next morning when James awoke, and the photograph, the first thing he saw, reminded him of his musings of the day before, of his intent upon arriving here, to drink himself senseless and what else besides? But he was not the same man he was since Arabella Gray came into his life. She had reminded him what it was he had wished to be. She had reminded him that being a ‘gentleman’ had far more to do with birth and station. With all the obstacles so purposefully placed before him, he had never been tempted to fall in love with her, and yet there were certainly very fine qualities about her. Did her sister share these? And how did she fare in her present circumstances? Did she regret that she had not found herself included in his family’s plans? He wished to know. He wished to know her. Was this not, after all, the reason he had come? Not to travel all the way to London to seek diversions that could be found anywhere at all. No. Not hardly.

He arose, dressed and went out. He hired a cab, which set him down near the entrance of a nearby park, and there he stood for some time, observing the row of houses on the other side of the street. He wanted only a glimpse of her. He certainly had no hopes of being seen, himself. But when the door opened and a young woman and her companion stepped out onto the street, baskets in hand for the market, he was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was still a tad hung over and in need of a bath and a shave. This was not the impression he wished to make.

He turned on his heel and walked in the other direction. He had seen her. It was enough to tell him what he had already guessed, that the photograph was but a pale outline of the living breathing woman. It was enough. And yet it was not nearly enough to satiate the curiosity that now thrummed at a fevered pitch. He would go and come back. Yes, he would come back when he was fitter to be seen.

When he returned that afternoon, he placed himself once more at the park entrance. She did not reappear that day. Nor the next. All the while, Miss Buxom Barmaid’s question played through his mind. His parents had not only extended the hand of charity to Arabella Gray, but had gone another step more—Abbie was to marry Ruskin. His parents not only supported it, but wanted it, it seemed, and quite badly. What, then, was in it for them? It was not a purely charitable endeavor; he was certain of it.

The following day, the last he could afford in Town, James set up an early watch. His determination was immediately rewarded. He stepped from the cab, and when the carriage passed, the view it revealed was that of two figures emerging from a narrow house.

James crossed the street and followed, placing enough distance between them to avoid suspicion. For some time they walked in this way, he stealthily pursuing, careful not to give himself away.

When she stopped suddenly, he stopped too, and waited for her to continue on. She looked to her companion. A few words were exchanged. And then she turned to face him, her color high and her manner direct yet defensive. She was not afraid of him, but she was clearly not happy to find herself being followed.

“Is there something in particular you want of us, Mr. Crawford?”

For half a moment he was speechless. Then, recovering: “I see no introduction is necessary.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“I only wanted to bring you word that your sister is well.” He smiled a hero’s smile, which failed to have the desired effect.

“Have you not been in Oxford this past week?”

“You seem to know a great deal about me. I might ask how. But no, actually. I’ve been here, in London. At least for the three days past.”

“You mean, there, I think.” She nodded toward the park.

So he
had
been seen.

“In any case, I’ve heard from my sister more recently than you have done, I think.”

“I confess that’s possible.”

“And so you can have no news for me. Good day to you.” She turned again and walked on.

“Except to tell you what your sister will not.”

Mariana stopped once again. Slowly she turned to offer her profile, but she did not look at him. “And what, pray, might that be?” she asked apparently skeptical.

“She has perhaps told you of my elder brother’s intentions toward her. That he means to make her his wife.”

Her gaze was suddenly upon him.

“Has she not?” He had supposed Abbie might have omitted certain details of the courtship—that she had reservations, that she hesitated to accept him. He had not counted on her having omitted it altogether. “Does the news come as a surprise to you?”

“Not particularly, Mr. Crawford,” Mariana answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Neither can I consider it bad news.”

Hooking her arm in her companion’s, she prepared to move on, when James stopped her once more. “Does it not trouble you that she has not shared this news? It is rather momentous, I think.”

“Only if she accepts him. Perhaps that is the reason, after all, for her silence on the subject. My sister and I are not accustomed to keeping secrets from one another. I doubt very much your assistance was needed in the matter. Good day to you.”

“I might relay a message. Were you to entrust me with it.”

“Which would imply that I trust you.”

“You do not.”

“I do not, Mr. Crawford, now I beg you good—”

“Will you tell me what sin I have committed that has inspired such apparent disdain?”

She hesitated, then looked to her companion, who nodded knowingly.

“Miss Gray?”

She looked to him, hesitated only a moment longer, and then: “You are responsible, I believe, for the embarrassment of a young woman of our mutual acquaintance.”

Something hard settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you deny it?”

“It’s a serious allegation. I beg to be enlightened as to whom you refer.”

“Henrietta Summerson.”

“She has written to you?”

“She has come to live with me.”

He was shocked by this, and growing more confused by the moment. He looked for the first time at Miss Gray’s companion. He did not recognize the girl.

“Do you deny it, Mr. Crawford? She has come away from her family. They would not have her in her current state. Do you understand the consequences to a young woman, unmarried, alone, without family to protect her?”

Still he was silent. What explanation could he dare give on a public street?

“Are you responsible or aren’t you?”

“Possibly.”

She turned away and, taking her companion’s arm, began to walk on.

“But not in the way you suppose,” he said, attempting once more to stop her. He was desperate that she should understand, but he had no explanation that would suffice.

This time, she simply kept walking.