Cry of the Peacock (14 page)

Abbie had secrets enough, she well knew, and determined to take this advice to heart.

“And you know,” Lady Barnwell continued, “how quickly one’s chances are lost. A wrong word in a seemingly innocent conversation, and it all comes crashing down. And because she is not one of your own, she must play the part better than you.”

Abbie had already conceded to this, but she was not ungrateful for the reminder, only for the apparent lack of confidence Lady Barnwell had in her.

“She has much to recommend her, as I said,” Lady Barnwell went on, “and her qualities will not go unnoticed, all the more so when she has spent a little more time under your direction, my dear Margaret. But care must yet be exercised, particularly where Society is concerned. Her mother was well respected, a lady as fine as any of our acquaintance, but that does not negate the fact that she married a man of very poor prospects, of lamentable origins—”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Abbie interjected, and immediately wished she had not. If she had meant to escape attention, this was not the way to do it. It was too late, however, to turn back. “Though it’s true my father had no family or fortune to speak of, he was nevertheless a gentleman. His greatest offense, I think, was in having the misfortune of being born the second son of a second son. And of having been employed as an overseer on a country estate.”

Lady Barnwell blinked before turning to Lady Crawford. “She speaks out of turn. What are you to do about that? One wrong word, as I said. But Ruskin will take her in hand. She will not speak out of turn when she is his wi—”

“My dear Lucretia, it’s a bit too soon to be speaking of—”

“I think she’s lovely,” Katherine said, interrupting the necessary interruption. “You speak as if you are quite certain of her flaws, when you have seen none. She spoke in defense of her father, which I think you would expect me to do, were I in a similar situation. I think if she were to have a trial run at Society,
our
Society, you would all find her quite capable.”

Abbie was stunned by this suggestion. Surely it would not be heeded. “A trial run?” echoed Lady Crawford. She was apparently quite struck with the idea and proceeded to contemplate it wide-eyed.

Lady Barnwell, who might ordinarily have stopped Lady Crawford before she had made too much of it, was still struggling with the former part of her daughter’s speech. “It is absurd to imagine you should ever find it necessary to defend your father, Katherine. Who would dare speak ill of such a man?”

Katherine, ignoring her mother, was prepared to encourage Lady Crawford. “I think she should come to London. As soon as may be. For Christmas, perhaps. There is hardly a social scene to be considered at Christmas. She could do little harm, even if she had it in her to do it, which I very much doubt.” This last she offered with a reassuring smile in Abbie’s direction. Abbie received it gratefully, though she was not quite certain this plan was a good one.

“The timing is convenient enough. Arabella is very nearly ready to enter half-mourning.”

“So soon?” Abbie inquired, surprised in her own right.

Lady Barnwell offered her friend a sympathetic look, as Lady Crawford took a breath and sighed.

“People will understand, my dear,” Lady Crawford assured her. “Your father died, yes, but you have a new family to care for you now. No one will dare think it anything but prudent. And respectful,” she added, “to both your father and to us.”

But Abbie thought it disrespectful, and that was what mattered. Was it not?

“If my husband could tear himself away from the estate long enough… And it might be a welcome break for Ruskin as well.”

Sir Nicholas cleared his throat. “I suppose I could appoint someone to oversee things temporarily. So long as work continues apace on the new construction and the corn is planted, I don’t see why we could not enjoy a short holiday.”

“It might be an equally propitious opportunity for you, as well, David,” Lord Barnwell added. “As there is a late session this year, you might meet with the other members of my prospective cabinet, and Katherine would not have to brave our Christmas ball alone. What do you say?”

“There is the opening of the City and South London to consider,” was David’s answer. Which won a dismissive look from Sir Nicholas and a scoff from Ruskin.

“The Prince of Wales will be conducting,” he added.

This time all were attentive. Lady Crawford was suddenly all enthusiasm. “You would have to work very hard, you know that, Arabella,” she said. “Every spare moment would have to be dedicated to preparing you.”

“Yes, of course,” Abbie answered, and wished to offer further objection, perhaps, too, a necessary reminder that, even if she worked very hard indeed, two months was hardly long enough to prepare her adequately for such an early debut. She thought better of it, however, and, apparently anxious to continue her planning, Lady Crawford led the ladies away from the table.

*   *   *

“Do you play?” Katherine asked Abbie as they entered the drawing room.

“Yes. That is, not so well as I’d like to. Do you?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered as if it were of the least significance.

“Will you?” It seemed the natural question.

Katherine looked, for a moment, as though she meant to demure, but then suddenly changed her mind. “Very well,” she said. “If you will turn the pages.”

“Happily,” Abbie answered, and both ladies took their places at the piano.

Abbie listened, or tried to, and found she was not a very attentive page-turner, for her mind was on other things–on London and balls and all it would take to prepare for such a holiday. She thought of her sister, who she might look forward to seeing, of Hetty who had this very evening arrived there. Of all that had taken place this day, and how dizzying it all was to think of.

The song had been played through, and Katherine had just begun her second when David entered.

“Are you finished already, dear?” Lady Crawford said to him.

“I’ve come alone, I’m afraid. They’re talking business and whatnot, and did not want me, and so I thought I’d take the opportunity of joining myself with more lively company.”

“Come sit down. Katherine is playing for us.”

“So I see,” he said with an approving nod, and took a seat near the piano, where he listened—or at least sat quite still—until the music trailed off and the ladies applauded. Only then did he look up to cast an appreciative and affectionate look upon Katherine.

Abbie found herself almost jealous in that moment. Not because David loved Katherine, but because it was so apparent that Katherine was loved. Is that how it worked? Was that the irony of a love seen but not felt? Surely Ruskin had cast similar looks upon her. Had she not been stirred by these? She had been encouraged to hope. She had been inspired to believe she might one day feel the love he meant to offer her, but she had yet to actually feel it. That Katherine felt of David’s love, however, was plainly to be seen. To witness David smiling upon Katherine, to see her react to that smile with blushes and smiles of her own, it was quite touching. Perhaps one must learn to love. Perhaps she might learn more from Katherine than she had supposed.

“You play wonderfully,” Abbie said to her new friend.

“Now it is your turn.”

She wished to refuse, but knew, with such an audience, it was impossible to do other than acquiesce.

Abbie and Katherine traded places, and Abbie played, very carefully and somewhat slowly. But she found that by concentrating her every effort on the notes a measure ahead, she could play the piece almost as well as Katherine had played hers.

The applause came, but it was certainly not as enthusiastic as had been offered for Katherine’s playing. Perhaps her disappointment showed.

“It is technically without fault,” David observed. “But it lacks heart.”

“Heart?” she said, and could have thrown something at him. The metronome, perhaps. A candlestick. Did he not realize the inhibiting influence of the pressure they pressed upon her? That
he
pressed upon her?

“I’ve heard you play before, remember,” he said. “You may have made a mistake or two, but the result was incomparable.”

She wanted to ask him if he were mad. Or drunk. “Yes, but then I was playing for Ruskin. Not you,” she added and immediately regretted it.

“Quite right, Miss Gray. I had not taken into account that your playing for him should make all the difference. I mistook your lack of passion on this occasion for something else entirely.”

If he had been sitting any closer she might have slapped him for that. How dare he refer to that episode in such a way? It was not passion she felt then, save for the music alone, and even then…

“You play for Ruskin?” Katherine asked her, recalling her from her own thoughts. “How much pleasure that must give him!”

“I said I have played,” Katherine. “It is not something I’ve made a habit of.”

“You might, though,” said Lady Crawford. “It would do you no harm. And as you insist that you cannot play for an audience, what better opportunity for useful practice than to play for someone in whose eyes, and ears,” she added, “you can make no mistake?”

It was kindly meant. It was an immense compliment, in fact. She was grateful to know, once more, that his family supported the match. That they meant to encourage her, however, made her a trifle uneasy. Would they be disappointed if she were to find herself unable to return his regard?

“What is it, Abbie?” Katherine asked. “Is something troubling you?”

Abbie, instantly recalling herself, smiled as sincerely as she could upon her friend and dismissed the notion. “Of course not.”

David arose, then. “Katherine?” he said, and held out his hand. “Will you walk with me?” It was nearly a demand. He did not seem pleased by the scene that had just played itself out before him.

“But the air is so cool tonight,” Katherine objected, and made as if to pull more tightly a shawl she did not wear.

He took one, Abbie’s own, which had been draped across a chair for the purpose, and placed it around her shoulders. “Precisely what a conservatory is for, my dear. Will you?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, and threw a beaming smile back to Abbie. “If Miss Gray will excuse us?”

“Most certainly,” she answered, and sat back down at the piano to play something petulant and brooding, and, in her rebellious spirit, without caring what mistakes she made, hoping, in fact, that she would teach Lady Crawford a lesson by playing so ill she would never be asked to play for company again. Of course, under such circumstances, with such wanton abandon, she played it perfectly—and quite movingly.

“Well,” Lady Barnwell said, fanning herself. “That does stir the blood, doesn’t it?” She arose to take Abbie’s place. “Do you mind, my dear? I think perhaps something a little more…cheering?”

*   *   *

The library was dark save for the fire burning low in the hearth. Such served David’s purposes perfectly.

“This isn’t the conservatory, you know,” Katherine said to him upon entering.

It wasn’t, but here, at least, they could be certain of their privacy. “I thought you might like to see what we’ve done.”

“How am I supposed to see anything with the lights off?” She reached for the key of the nearest sconce, but David took her hand before she could turn it. He drew her to the fire, where he held her close and quietly. “You have never said I play with heart,” she said at last. “Don’t I?”

“You play, and brilliantly, for an audience. She plays for herself.”

“You said she played for Ruskin.”

“
She
said she played for Ruskin. But I don’t think it was her intention to play for him anymore than it was to play for me.”

She drew herself a little away and looked at him. “She plays for you, too?”

“What is this, Katherine?” he asked with a laugh. “Are you jealous of Ruskin’s Miss Gray?”

“Of course not,” she said and reddened slightly.

She glanced up at him as he shook his head deprecatingly at her. She received the gesture with a smile and at last enfolded herself once more in his arms.

David kissed her forehead. She looked up and smiled at him. He kissed her cheek, and then her neck. He drew the shawl away and let it drop to the floor, warming her now with his arms and his breath. With his body. Trying, for all the world, to warm himself, to stir something within him. He kissed her shoulder, her throat, her chin. Then her mouth, long and intently. The desire came. As he had known it would. But what to do with it now?

She broke away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but did not mean it.

“I’m not the one drawing this horrid half-engagement out, you know. I begin to wonder if you want to marry me at all.”

“You know I do.”

“What are you waiting for, then? Will you tell me? It’s not for Ruskin to marry first, surely.”

“He has nothing to do with it. It’s for want of steady and reliable employment, if you must know.”

“So why won’t you accept my father’s offer?”

“I never said I wouldn’t.”

“Then do it. Do it tonight.”