Cry of the Peacock (5 page)

“I thought I did quite well, actually,” James answered, setting down his now empty glass.

“You cannot say you consider your efforts a success?”

“As they brought me back home, yes, I can, actually. I never wanted to go, you know. How is your aunt, Miss Gray? I imagine she’s written to you. Is she not simply longing for you to return to London?”

“I have not heard from her, Mr. Crawford, and to be quite honest, I do not expect to.”

He raised his eyebrows to this.

“My aunt was not pleased by my coming. It seems she fears the influence some may have over me.” She considered her words, and her audience. She glanced to Lady Crawford, who was evidently uncertain what to do or say in consequence of this exchange. “I’m afraid I have lost her good opinion, and her association, perhaps forever.”

“Oh, my dear,” Lady Crawford said. “I am so sorry to hear it. But she is a bitter and unforgiving old woman, and was always quick to make enemies.”

“Perhaps she has had reason. I know her life has been very hard. Her husband was a cruel, unfeeling and unprincipled man, and—”

“My dear Arabella. I’m shocked to hear such speech from your lips. No doubt your training is necessary and comes none too soon, but you should know that the first cardinal rule of good society is never to speak ill or uncomplimentary of
anyone
—though I do admit Mr. Newhaven was a scoundrel of the first order. Still, our speech must always reflect a charitable and Christian spirit.”

Abbie was struck dumb by this bit of hypocrisy, and simply stared at her benefactress in amazement. At last she chanced a look in James’ direction. The expression on his face was positively exultant. She looked to Ruskin, but he had taken no notice. He and his father were occupied in a hushed and earnest discussion of their own.

Abbie, for the sake of preserving her equanimity, chose to keep her thoughts to herself for the remainder of the meal, and, when at last it came to an end, and Lady Crawford suggested a withdrawal from the gentlemen, Abbie made her excuses and retired early to her room, where she wrote her sister a long and much belated letter, and tried, as well as she could, to relate in the most positive terms, all that had happened since her arrival.

Dearest Abbie,

How happy, and how relieved, I am to hear that you are at last well! I have been anxiously awaiting such news. I do hope, now you are so much better, that you will write often and tell me every little detail pertaining to your new life at Holdaway.

As for us, we are struggling on in our way. I confess I have found recent events very trying. Not only am I without my best friend and beloved sister, but this work of our aunt’s wears on me in a way I have no words to explain. What hardships these women have endured! What hardships they continue to endure as they struggle to make new lives for themselves! And when they fail, as they sometimes do, I despair for them. And when they succeed, as they sometimes do, what joy it gives me.

Do not worry for me. I
am
happy, I can assure you. I am certainly grateful for a cause and a purpose to give direction to my life.

Please do not spare me any and all good news you can send my way. I yearn for it desperately. In that vein, I expect to hear the first of your successes very soon. Is one of these perhaps Mr. Ruskin Crawford himself? Forgive my teasing, Abbie, but I’m quite certain the considerations he has shown you, and of which you were so good as to relate to me, are proof of what I have already come to believe. Do not scold me for saying so. You know I only want to see you well and happy. And your happiness must in turn bring happiness to—

Your ever affectionate sister,

Mariana

P.S. Do write to our aunt. I think it would make her happy to hear from you, and to know how well you are getting on.

Abbie set the letter down and thought over its contents. Perhaps it had been wrong of her to exaggerate, as she had done, Mr. Crawford’s attentions and the hopes she had for what was to come of the changes soon to take place on the estate. Her hopes were high, it was true, notwithstanding the restrictions placed on her visits. Her counsel had been sought, she had given it, and it appeared it was to be heeded. She was waiting, not quite patiently, to make those much anticipated visits. What news would she be able to share with Mariana then? Would it be good or bad?

Yet Abbie’s apprehensions were nothing beside those plainly expressed by her sister. Mr. Meredith had been right; Mariana could not remain in London. A place must be made for her, and as soon as it could be managed.

*   *   *

The ‘training’ to which Sir Nicholas had referred, and which Lady Crawford had arranged to provide, was very soon engaged upon. Though Abbie’s mother had taught her a great deal, had prepared her to dine at any table, to speak well, to play and dance and draw, Abbie’s skills required considerable honing. She was eager to improve herself, however, and set about it with as much enthusiasm as Lady Crawford exhibited in her ministrations. To aid her in her aims, tutors were provided. Abbie was to study dance, voice and piano, elocution and languages, and, under the direction of the head groom, she was to learn to ride. To these masters of their chosen arts, Lady Crawford relinquished Abbie, but when it came to the gentle graces of poise and etiquette, the good Lady took charge.

Abbie’s progress, or so her tutors declared—and Lady Crawford readily conceded—was promising, her obvious potential more so. And yet Abbie found the effort to be mindful of every little movement, every word, every breath, every look—all things she previously considered beyond her scope of observation—exceedingly taxing. The constant reminders to do this, and to never do that, to look this way when speaking, and never to sniff too loudly or close one’s eyes too long when in conversation, were all trivialities too tedious to endure.

“Only the commonest of people touch their hands to their faces, my dear Arabella,” Lady Crawford said to her on one such occasion. This after Abbie had been stung by a bee in the garden as she was smelling the late summer roses. They had taken a rare walk together, in even rarer sunshine, and Abbie had determined to make the most of it. “And one does not stick one’s nose into the center of a flower. One must hold the blossom aloft, like thus, and catch the faint sent as it is wafted to us on the breeze. Refinement, my dear. Refinement and restraint in all we do. Remember this.”

At dinner was worse, for it was then that Lady Crawford’s little reminders were offered for the benefit of an audience. “One must keep one’s elbows close while eating, my dear.” This because Abbie had lifted her arm in order to make the necessary room for Lady Crawford’s pet cocker spaniel, who had very unexpectedly appeared to beg at Abbie’s side, with his paws resting on her lap and his head nudging insistently at her elbow. Clearly Lady Crawford’s lessons in etiquette did not extend to her canine companions.

“Please, my dear, won’t you learn not to slurp your soup? And it’s this spoon,
this
spoon!” Only she was using the correct spoon already, and it was James who had slurped. His mother’s erroneous correction caused him to snort, and then to raise his napkin to disguise his fit of laughter.

“Oh, really, James!” Lady Crawford said, “You’re not much better, you know.”

Which, of course, he wasn’t. The family, having been born to privilege, were allowed a degree of license in the way of etiquette and deportment. It was Abbie alone who must live by every rule as if it were a law punishable by exportation. But did Cassell’s or Beeton truly caution against sacrificing one’s soup, and the dog, for the sake of properly placed elbows? Somehow she doubted it. And really, it was all a bit too ridiculous. She knew she needed improvement, but certainly she wasn’t so coarse as Lady Crawford seemed to believe. And the tedium of it! After a week, and then two—or was it more?—it had become so monotonous as to be almost unendurable.

The single joy of her training came in her weekly riding lesson. The groom was kind and patient with her, and perhaps it was for this that she rewarded him with her quick comprehension of the skills taught her. Perhaps it was simply for the joy of the exercise. Of course she had ridden before. Her father had been granted a horse for his own use, and there were times enough when haste and speed were necessary in the service of the Holdaway families, and her assistance equally desired, that her father had found it to his benefit that she learn to ride. Those early lessons had been rather informal, but they had served the purpose. Her father’s horse had been no very fine animal, but she had learned to control him, to stay mounted, saddled or unsaddled, under nearly any condition. Now, with a proper instructor, and an animal of the finest quality, she found the exercise exhilarating.

Perhaps it was a good thing she took to it so well, for her lessons were necessarily short and infrequent. Though she was now entirely well, she had some work to do yet to recover her former strength. Her doctor continued to insist that her days allow for a little rest and some time to herself. If she resented the directive for its habit of keeping her from her riding, she was grateful for it too, for it offered her equal respite from Lady Crawford’s well-intentioned but increasingly trying exercises in propriety and (un)conventional decorum. Lady Crawford, too, was used to enjoying a rest in the afternoon, and so these arrangements met with little resistance from her.

But what was she to do with her time? Certainly the novelty of spending her leisure hours in pampered idleness was wearing off. She had read everything there was to read in the music room, where the ‘light reading’ was kept. She wished to go out, to walk the Downs, to see her old friends. Ruskin had assured her they would go, and she was fit enough now to endure it, but still he continued to put her off. Would she ever be allowed to go out amongst the Holdaway people? Would she never have the opportunity so newly promised her to serve them?

James nudged his horse onward, leaving her to catch up.

“Y
OU WISHED TO see me?” James asked from the study door.

Sir Nicholas looked up from his work and beckoned him to enter, gesturing toward the chair before his desk. “I have something I want you to do for me.”

James sat and awaited his father’s instructions.

“I want you to make a friend of Miss Gray.”

He sat forward, almost arose again, but stopped himself short. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“You might not approve of your brother’s plans, but you nevertheless have an obligation to support them.”

“What are his plans, exactly? He means to marry her, I know that, but what I cannot understand is why you are so wholeheartedly supporting it.”

“My reasons are my own, and I will trust you to leave it at that for the time being. You’ll understand it all soon enough. And you’ll set your objections aside, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, will I!” James said and threw himself into the back of the chair.

“Do you mind telling me what your objections are?”

“Besides the obvious?”

“There is nothing obvious about it! She is of family. She has recommendations you do not yet appreciate. But you will.”

“Recommendations?” James asked incredulously. “Besides her face, I hope you mean. And I hope you don’t mean to suggest Mr. Gray was of ‘family’.”

“Her mother was Elizabeth Fairbourne.”

James swallowed hard. “Of Whiteheath?”

“Indeed.”

“How… How is that possible?”

“Miss Fairbourne made an unfortunate marriage, to be sure, but she was one of them. And that family was as great as our own. Once. I thought you knew all this. It’s no secret after all.”

“It may not be a secret, but I don’t remember it ever being a point of discussion.” James sat forward again. “What should it matter, to me or to anyone, what she was or might have been? It’s what she is now that concerns us. Or should. I imagine there is some great scandal at the heart of it, then.”

“Damn it, James! You
will
make her feel welcome here.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“She is though, and anything contrary to that is not within your authority to dictate!” Sir Nicholas calmed himself, took a drink from his glass and sat back in his chair, examining his youngest son. “I want you to spend some time with her.”

James laughed nervously but did not answer.

“She wants to see the laborers and their families, and you know she can’t go on her own. I promised to take her, or to have Ruskin do it, but for all the opportunities it might afford him, he won’t commit to going out among them. I fear he still considers the task beneath him. But if someone doesn’t take her, and soon, she’s likely to try it again on her own, and it simply won’t do. You know it won’t.”

James groaned and raked a hand through his hair.

“Perhaps if you were to take her, and to set the example with the workers and such, he might be encouraged to follow suit. If you were to show your brother the way, even if it were through her, you would be doing me a great service.”

“I really don’t—”

“You
will
take her, James,” his father insisted. “You’ll take her for a nice ride about the place, show her the best of everything and what we mean to do, and you’ll pave the way for Ruskin.”

“Is that all?”

“And you’ll be on your very
best
behavior or I’ll take a horsewhip to you.”

*   *   *

Abbie was at last to pay her visits. She awoke that morning to receive the news, and from Sir Nicholas’ hand, though she was rather surprised—and somewhat dismayed—to find that it was not to be he who would accompany her. Nor was it to be Ruskin, but James, of all people. Was he to resume his office as liaison between his father and the people of Holdaway? It made a certain amount of sense, she supposed. His previous efforts in that vein had not been without success. To ride out with him, though… Well, it was not a very happy prospect.

Once dressed, Abbie went downstairs to find James waiting in the courtyard. He greeted her with a nod and a “Good morning, Miss Gray,” and though his manner was not quite warm, it was at least civil. He mounted and did not watch as the groom, who was to accompany them, helped her into her saddle and then held the animal steady while she gathered up her reins and adjusted her skirts. James, however, did not wait, but nudged his horse onward, leaving her to catch up.

They rode for a time in silence. At last James slowed his horse, and so she slowed hers in like manner, maintaining a safe distance behind him.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, throwing the question back to her, where it carried on the breeze.

“Yes,” she answered, “if you want to know.”

He half turned to look over his shoulder and did not turn again in time to hide an amused smile. He rode on a few more paces, then turned his horse around and placed himself at her side.

Whole minutes passed without anything being offered in the way of conversation. But there were things she wished to know, and she wasn’t getting anywhere allowing him to intimidate her.

“Ruskin says there are improvements planned,” she said at last.

He didn’t seem to have heard her. His attention remained on the path ahead. Still, she waited for an answer.

“There is a parcel of fallow field,” he said eventually, “that is to be plowed and planted in an attempt to make up for last year’s shortages. What we intend to plant is still a matter of debate. In addition, some repairs have been made to the cottages; roofs and windows, that sort of thing.”

“Anything to keep them warmer and dryer will be appreciated, I’m sure.”

“It’s all a lot of wasted time and effort, to my mind,” he said rather bitterly, and urged his horse into a longer stride.

This time she rode to keep up with him. His manner, as well as his answer, chafed. Did he think they lived in wretchedness because they chose to do so? That it was their lot and befitted them? She wanted to ask him, but thought better of it, and they continued their journey in silence.

Upon reaching the lower row of cottages they stopped to examine them, surveying them from the outside, the condition of them, the land about them, the little garden allotments that accompanied them. Here alone was there evidence of plenty. The gardens, in fact, were extraordinarily well tended and bountiful. She examined James nervously. Would he approve of such a singular show of plenty? Or would he resent them for it as some landlords were known to do?

The look on his face surprised her. He was smiling almost proudly. “The vegetables are sold at market, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s how they make up the difference.”

She thought to ask him how he felt about their endeavors at independence, but she could see quite plainly it pleased him. Why, was what she wanted to know, but did not know how to ask.

It was his turn to examine her, and he removed his hat to rub at his wild blonde hair. “I knew how it would be,” he said somewhat abashedly. “I knew that when I left, all the reforms I put into place would cease to exist. Their allotments are theirs to do with as they wish. I merely suggested in what way they might make the most of them. I then made private arrangements to reserve a market stall and left the rest up to them. It rather proves their ability to be productive, to my mind.”

“To mine as well.”

He seemed to recall himself then. “Yes, well,” he said. “Who knows how long it will last.”

“Meaning?”

“You said you wished to stop, I believe? Where?”

“The Summersons are just here,” she answered him, nodding toward the next door opposite but one. She led the way, and when they arrived upon the stoop it was he who knocked. At length the door opened to reveal a worn woman, not old, but not young either, standing in the shadow of a low and narrow doorway.

“Miss Gray?” the woman asked in apparent, if mild, surprise. But there was not the opportunity to answer, for the opening of the door also served to release the three or four young children who were still at home, and whose lessons and household chores, the visitors had interrupted. A dog and a pair of hens were the last of the escapees to follow the rowdy bunch out of doors. For a moment Abbie watched the scattering mayhem, but a loud sigh from the open doorway recalled her.

“I’ll not get them back in the house today, you know.”

Abbie was sorry for the intrusion, but grateful for the opportunity to converse unhindered by the interruption of children. “Mrs. Summerson, how are you?”

“Tired,” she said. “And surprised to see you here. I thought you was gone to London.”

“I’ve returned,” Abbie answered. “I’m staying at the Hall—for the present.”

Mrs. Summerson’s brow furrowed heavily. “The Hall?”

“I’ve been ill, and could not remain where I was. The Crawfords were good enough to take me in, at least until I am fully restored.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a temporary arrangement,” James answered, somewhat sardonically.

She knew her answer was not quite honestly given, but she feared Mrs. Summerson’s resentment. She was not wrong to do it. “Might we come in?” she asked before Mrs. Summerson thought to ask any more questions.

The woman answered with an uncertain look, and then, wiping her hands on her apron, she held the door for them to enter. “I was just getting ready to have some tea. Will you take any?”

“Nothing to eat,” Abbie answered for the both of them. “But a cup of tea does sound lovely.”

Mrs. Summerson nodded in answer and looked over Abbie’s shoulder to address James. “I’m afraid tea’s as strong as I can offer you, Mr. Crawford. I hope you’ll find it satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory indeed, Mrs. Summerson, thank you.”

Abbie thought she detected some skepticism in the look Mrs. Summerson offered him, but he appeared to take no notice for himself. Their host offered them a seat as she went about collecting her nicest things so that she might offer a presentable service to her guests. Her occupation offered Abbie a moment to look about the cottage. Though the recent repairs were evident; patches in the roof, new glazing, even a new door in place of that which had warped and cracked and had grown accustomed to letting in the weather. It seemed, after all, it was just as James had said. None of it made much difference when the cottage itself was in such disrepair. There was little plaster left on the walls, and the chimneys sooted and drafted so that there was hardly any purpose for the new glazing and doors, save to keep the smoke within. The floor, too, was damp, and looked as if it had suffered from the recent rains and lack of proper drainage. Abbie regretted to see it thus, but she regretted more Mrs. Summerson’s reserved manner, which was more evident than ever once she had placed the tea leaves in the pot and had put the lid on to let it steep. Abbie could not blame her. Her own circumstances being so altered, it was impossible they could continue their same manner of intimacy, her sympathies having been built upon the foundation of their shared grievances. What followed was a full minute or more of tense and awkward silence.

“Your gardens are doing well,” James observed.

“As you see, sir,” Mrs. Summerson answered coolly.

“The market stall is more prosperous than ever, from what I hear in the village.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I suppose it is.”

“You are to be congratulated. I always thought we would do well to set aside some vegetable crops, besides the corn. You’ve made an excellent pattern of it. I think my father would do well to take your example.”

“Or your brother, Mr. Crawford. As it’s he who’ll be managin’ the estate now.”

“Yes, of course,” James answered. “A pleasant and necessary change for us all, I should think.”

The air of confidence with which he uttered this was too falsely worn to be convincing. It was plain, at least, that Mrs. Summerson saw through it, and Abbie found herself as irritated as her host that James offered no firmer assurance of the good that was certainly imminent. Mrs. Summerson’s impatience was further evidenced by the manner in which she checked the pot and then dropped the lid back down with a clatter, only to stare at them in silence as they waited another minute or more for the tea to be ready.

“Is Hetty not at home?” Abbie attempted next.

“Hetty’s gone out to look for work, but there’s not much ’round here for the likes of her.”

Abbie wondered at the implication, but dared not pry. “Has she asked at the Hall?” she suggested. “I’m sure something might be found for her there.”

“I doubt that very much,” Mrs. Summerson answered with a hint of a scoff. “And without any trainin’ all she can hope to get is a place in the scullery, and that’s only for keep, which she can have here and earn somethin’ besides as well.”

“I’ll speak to Sir Nicholas. I’m sure something can be done for her.”

“But if you’re only there for the present…” Mrs. Summerson said but didn’t finish. Abbie understood what her look, which darted ever so briefly in James’ direction, was meant to mean. Changes only lasted as long as those who implemented them remained to oversee them. Of course the market gardens were an exception, but as much of James ‘arranging’ had been done inconspicuously, they had no reason to suppose their success in that area was owing to anyone other than themselves.