Cry of the Peacock (6 page)

“To be quite honest, Mrs. Summerson, I think it is the landlords’ intention to keep me indefinitely, not hired, you know, but as a guest.”

“So I supposed, Miss Gray. They wish to bring you up, and I’m not surprised, but you can’t expect us to think well on it. It seems a sort of betrayal after all we’ve suffered together.”

“How is it a betrayal to use my newly gained influence to do for you what I was never able to do before?”

Mrs. Summerson’s doubt was expressed in yet another look in James’ direction.

“It is my intention,” Abbie continued, “as I believe it is Mr. Crawford’s, to persuade Sir Nicholas, and Mr. Ruskin, too, toward making improvements that will be of the greatest benefit to you. It’s why we’ve come. If you will only trust us. You have done before, after all. Mightn’t you do it again?”

The woman studied them both for a moment. “What might those be, then?” she asked and began to pour out the tea.

“Your cottages to begin with,” Abbie said. “Something must be done. They’re falling down around you.”

“You’ll not hear me complain,” Mrs. Summerson answered as she smoothed her apron over her lap, which seemed to suggest she had complaints nevertheless.

“I, myself, would very much like to know what the general feeling is regarding the next season’s crops,” James added. “As you know, we intend to plow some of the fallow fields. We need the corn now, if not for the income alone, then at least to feed our own herds. And yet there is some concern that we’ve waited too long to do it. The plowing season is drawing to a close, if the winter wheat isn’t in the ground by the end of October, it’ll be too late to do it at all. Consequently there has been some talk at the Hall of engaging a mechanized plow to do the work.”

Mrs. Summerson’s eyes were suddenly very large. “Machinery? At Holdaway?”

“It would get the work done much faster, and would, I dare say, be a great deal easier.”

“I’m not sure it’s right,” she answered. “All that noise. All that smoke. The animals won’t like it. Some say it curdles the milk.”

“It will not curdle the milk, Mrs. Summerson,” James answered more patiently than Abbie would have expected.

“It ought to be done by sweat and muscle if it’s to be done at all, sir. It ain’t natural to think of doin’ it any other way.”

“If the men don’t want the plow, Mrs. Summerson, they shan’t have it, but they ought at least to weigh the benefits before they dismiss it out of hand. To my mind it would be one way of ensuring that the improvements we mean to employ will take hold a great deal faster, and with a greater chance of reaping lasting rewards.”

Mrs. Summerson considered a moment.  “Truly it’s my husband you should be speaking with,” she answered at last.

“He is not at home, I take it.”

She looked somewhat ashamed. “No, sir. I regret to say he’s in the village today, but if you’d care to return later this evening, I’ll be sure he’s prepared to receive you.”

‘Prepared’, Abbie surmised, meant sober. Since Mr. Summerson’s injury a few months ago, he’d been spending more and more time in the village public house and not enough in the fields. She had hoped he’d recovered and returned to work by now, but it was apparently not so. Was James, too, aware of it?

“How is his leg these days?” James asked her next.

“It’s mended, sir. But you know the work’s been hard to get, and now he’s been from the fields so long, there’ve been others who’ve taken his place.”

“Well, he’ll soon have work enough to keep him busy once more, and work he can take pride in, too. You have my word.”

Mrs. Summerson looked from one to the other of them alternately. At last she wiped her hands on her apron and proceeded to hand them their tea.

“I have biscuits fresh made. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

“If
you’ve
made them, Mrs. Summerson,” James answered, “then I’m afraid I can’t resist.”

Mrs. Summerson replied with a proud smile and arose to retrieve the refreshment, while Abbie and James were left to congratulate themselves—if not each other—now the ice had been properly broken.

This pattern was to repeat itself, too, as the morning progressed into afternoon. Their visits to the Halverson’s and the Smith’s went similarly, and when at last they came away from the lower cottages, they did so with hopes much elevated.

“Is it true Ruskin means to mechanize the plowing?” Abbie asked James as they returned to the spot where the groom was waiting with the horses.

“No,” James answered, to Abbie’s disappointment.

“That is,” he explained, “it isn’t Ruskin’s idea, it’s David’s. If he has his way the harvesting will be mechanized as well. By next year it’ll be nothing but chugging machinery and engine exhaust.”

“You don’t think it a good idea? But you said—”

“I don’t think it will happen,” he answered, and mounted his horse. “Where to now?”

“The Brownleys?” she suggested, but received no reply. “Well?”

“They’ve gone, I’m afraid.”

“Gone?”

“Mr. Brownley left the week his wife died.”

Abbie, speechless, simply stared at him.

“She’d had a difficult confinement, I believe. Caught a fever and did not recover.”

“And the child?”

“The child as well.”

Abbie looked down at her hands. “I delivered that child.”

“You?” It was his turn to sound surprised, but he quickly stifled it. “It wasn’t your fault if that’s what you think. Fever has been all too common of late. No doubt you took it with you to London.”

“Or perhaps I gave it to them instead,” she answered, and could bring herself to say no more. Was it her fault the child had died?

“I’m sorry for it,” he said at last. “If it’s of any worth to you.”

“Are you?” she demanded of him, and found herself angry with his pity, whether or not it was sincerely offered. But it was more than that. After a morning spent in the company of her former acquaintances, she found herself reacquainted with her old grievances as well. She was angry with the family once more, and with their years upon years of neglect, and with all their idle attempts to make improvements that were nothing more than empty gestures. Were James’ promises any more than that? Did the Crawfords care at all for the people who sweated and toiled, all to sustain them in idle luxury?

“There has lately been some unrest as well,” James went on without answering her question. She was grateful, at least, that he had not tried to lie to her. “It’s why you’ve not been allowed to venture out before now, and certainly not on your own.”

“Which is why you were enlisted to accompany me today? Ruskin could not have spared the time, I suppose.”

James sighed once more, and reined his horse toward the path that would lead them homeward.

“Tell me things will be different now your brother is to take charge,” Abbie said, following him. “Tell me there will be improvements that can be measured in the prosperity of those who make your prosperity possible.”

“Don’t tell me that is why you have come, Miss Gray. Not for them. Not alone, at any rate.”

“Yes, Mr. Crawford, it is. At least it is my hope to at last do something meaningful for them, something more than to sacrifice my life to a lost cause.”

James stopped, then turned to face her. “And what if my dear brother fails? What if nothing at all changes? What then? Will you not resign yourself to stay after all and enjoy the fruits of your failed labors?”

Abbie could not answer this. If Ruskin should fail… If nothing should improve, if things, in fact, grew worse, what would then be her solace? It was not the land she cared for. It was not Holdaway. It was its people, certainly, but they would not stay here indefinitely, not if their lives continued to be counted as insignificant. What then? It was a question she could not at present answer.

“We had better move on,” James said, waking her from her troubled thoughts.

“Are we going back already?”

James didn’t answer, but turned his horse once more toward the Hall and the road that led to it. Clearly he was ready to be rid of her. She was eager to be rid of him as well. She wanted, more than anything at the moment, to have a little time to herself, to think, to come to terms with the dreadful news of Mrs. Brownley and her poor child. She was not to get it, she knew. She would return to lessons and to Sarah and to James’ insolence. But she would not lose faith. She would succeed here. She would pay James no heed, and she would do all she could to encourage Ruskin, and Sir Nicholas, too, to make Holdaway the prosperous estate it once was and was meant to be still.

*   *   *

Abbie returned to the house to find Ruskin in the entrance hall, anxiously fingering his watch fob and apparently waiting for someone, or something

“Ah,” he said upon seeing her, and looking instantly relieved. “There you are. I’d heard you’d gone out for a long ride.”

Was it she he had been waiting for, then? “Yes, I did,” she answered, with as sincere a smile as she could summon in her exhaustion, and in the wake of the afternoon’s grim news. “I’m afraid it was much longer than usual.”

“Indeed,” he replied without hesitation. “You were out with James?”

“I was,” she answered, and found the way he smiled, while his jaw muscles flexed in apparent irritation, not a little discomfiting. “Certainly you do not mind. Your father arranged it, after all.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, as he unconsciously crinkled the letter he was holding in his other hand. “Do tell me James behaved himself.”

“He did, in fact,” she answered, and was surprised to find this seemed to cause him even more anxiety. Was it possible he was actually more comfortable with the idea of James’ enduring insolence than with their being on friendly terms? “He was civil, at least, which is as much as I’ve prepared myself to hope for. I would think you would be pleased to know he did not treat me ill.”

“Of course I am,” Ruskin said and stepped forward. She observed then the writing on the envelope of the letter he still held and had only just ceased to abuse.

“Is that for me?” she asked him.

“Ah, yes,” he said and presented it to her, but did not let it go. She was not prepared to fight him for it, and so, together, they held it between them.

“Will you tell me,” he said, “what you did? Where you went?”

“We rode out to the lower cottages. We spoke with Mrs. Summerson, the Halverson family… Now don’t be cross,” she said, observing his lowered brow. “I only did as I was bid. I asked you to take me, if you’ll remember, only you didn’t want to do it.”

“I didn’t want…”

And as he paused to contemplate the repercussions of his procrastination, she slipped the envelope from his hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect I will see you at dinner.” She moved, then,  toward the staircase, opening her letter as she did, for she was far too anxious to know its contents to wait until she had reached her room.

“Miss Gray,” Ruskin said, stopping her.

She turned to him, but he appeared still to be struggling for something to say. “I’ll be late for my piano lesson, Mr. Crawford, if I do not hurry. I will see you this evening.”

He nodded in agreement, and she ascended the steps as quickly as she could.

Dearest Abbie,

You have slowed in your correspondence and I lately find myself writing two letters to every one of yours. It does sound as though you are kept very busy with Lady Crawford and your lessons. How droll they sound. Does she not know what pains our mother took to make sure we were properly educated? Though certainly dear Mama never expected to be preparing you for this! What would she think if she saw you now, I wonder? I, myself, think she would be very proud, and would take hope as you take hope, that your endeavors will ensure better lives for those she dedicated her life to serving.

As for myself, I am not so lonely now as I have been. You will perhaps remember Miss Russell who came to us some weeks ago, and whose child died in her struggle to give him life. She is much recovered, and she and I are quickly becoming close friends. Her disappointment and heartache have made her a first rate champion of our aunt’s cause, and she is daily finding little ways to support us in our endeavors, which endeavors seem to grow more ambitious and far reaching by the day. She is an intelligent woman, as well, and is excelling in her tutoring. It gives me great satisfaction to see what good our aunt’s cause has done for her.

Mr. Meredith sends his regards, and asks me to wish you good health—and to remember your promise to him. He’s a good man, truly, and has a sincere concern for our wellbeing.

Enclosed you will find my photograph. Aunt thought that as we have never had them before, she would like to have them taken. I’m sending you one so you will not forget me. I tease, of course. Only do write, Abbie. I miss you sometimes more than I can bear. Please remember…

Your loving sister,

M.

Abbie laid the letter down on her dressing table and searched the envelope again. There was no photograph. Had Mariana forgotten to enclose it? She looked up in the reflection of the mirror to find Sarah standing over her, reading the letter.

“Sarah?”

The girl met her gaze, then reddened as she busied herself in putting away Abbie’s things. Abbie turned to watch her, but could make nothing more of her manner than embarrassment and guilt. Perhaps she had merely been curious, but it certainly did little to endear Sarah to her.

Abbie was not used to being served, it was true, but neither was she used to being watched and followed and guarded as Sarah seemed so bent on doing. To have a true companion, a friend, well, Abbie would have welcomed that. But this? It was possibly ungrateful, but she had begun to feel a little like a prisoner under constant watch by his keeper.

*   *   *

The piano instructor stood upon Abbie’s entrance, and with only a flourish of his hand, he urged her to take her place at the piano, where she sat and performed her exercises, and where she was reprimanded for her mistakes, which showed an obvious want of practice and, consequently, an apparent lack of appreciation for the opportunities given her. His accusations were a trifle unfair. Lady Crawford, and perhaps Sir Nicholas, too, had been keeping her so wholly occupied with either her lessons, or with their own particular needs and wishes that Abbie had not had as much time to practice as she required to play these more advanced exercises to her instructor’s satisfaction. She could already play a little—her mother had insisted on teaching her—but she required a great deal of practice in order to satisfy Lady Crawford’s expectations. She would have to do better. She determined do better.

At last her piano master released her, and she hurried once more to her room, anxious to get back to her letter, now secured in her writing desk drawer, and to write her belated reply.

Abbie had reached the second floor landing when she heard the outer door open and a great commotion in the entrance hall below. She peered over the balcony to find the footmen entering, heavily laden with bags and trunks. James was next to enter, boisterously issuing directions and demands. But he stopped suddenly to pick something up from the floor, which he examined briefly before placing in his pocket. He was addressed, then, by someone without, and so went to answer the summons, though by whom it had been issued, Abbie could not determine.

“There you are, miss.”

It was Sarah, faithful, watchful Sarah, come to escort her to her room.

“Perhaps a bath before dinner, miss? Lady Crawford wants you looking your best.”

“Are we expecting guests for dinner tonight?”

“It’s only a family gathering, miss.”

Confused by this, and the commotion below, she peered once more over the balcony. Still she could not see who it was that had caused the commotion. She turned back. “How long before dinner?”

“A little over an hour, miss.”

No time to write to her sister, then. She sighed in frustration. “Very well, Sarah.”

“Very good, miss,” she said, and led the way.

Entering her room, Abbie found that a bouquet of white roses had been delivered. A note was tucked within.

I beg you to forgive my rudeness this afternoon. I hope you will take it as it was intended, as sincere interest in your wellbeing. I’m glad to know your ride was enjoyable. I do hope it was uneventful, as well. If James was not on his very best behavior, I hope you will let me know it. He does occasionally require a good flogging, and I think I can just fit it in before dinner.

Your faithful friend,

R.

Roses from Ruskin? She was not so irritated with him, she supposed, that she could not find it in her to forgive him. His concern
had
been for her; that she could not doubt. She did admire him very much. She was certainly grateful to him. But roses? She fingered the white petals—white, not red—and considered the significance of the gift. Considered, too, the significance of his increasingly pointed attentions. What complications might be in store for her should his regard prove to be in earnest? Would his parents even allow it? Doubtful. She tried not to think of it more, and yet it was impossible not to think what great good might be accomplished with him at the estate’s helm and she by his side. If it was purpose she longed for most, was there any greater purpose than this? Or one that promised to accomplish more for the estate, for the people on it? For herself or even for her sister? The idea made her as dizzy as did the scent of the flowers before her. She steadied herself. It wasn’t possible Sir Nicholas and Lady Crawford meant to raise her so far. It was presumptuous even to entertain the thought.