Cry of the Peacock (18 page)

D
AVID REMAINED, ALONE and dumbfounded, as Ruskin had left him. If he’d ever had suspicions, they were now confirmed, by James’ letter, by his father’s unwillingness to answer the simple questions put to him, by Ruskin’s odd declaration and his bull-headed determination to have everyone and everything under his control. What in heaven’s name had Arabella Gray agreed to when she had accepted to take up residence with his family? And what responsibility did he hold as a gentleman, as a member of that family, in regards to the consequences he still deemed inherent in such a scheme, whether innocently adopted or otherwise?

The opportunity to answer these questions presented itself a few days later, when Ruskin and Sir Nicholas went out to make their usual inspection of the progress at the construction site.

The study door was not locked, though the cabinet that had contained the ledger was. With a hairpin he had taken in advance from Katherine’s hair, he applied it to the keyhole. At length the drawer was opened. The ledger was there still.

He removed it and examined it more closely than he’d been able to do on that first occasion. He noted, now, that many of the stocks the ledger listed, especially those involving the traditional rail lines, had been acquired, not by his father, but by his grandfather, Sir William Crawford, some twenty years ago. The City and South London, however, had been acquired more recently. Very recently, in fact.

The stocks were not, as had been observed before, all that was documented in the ledger. A trust had been established, also by his grandfather, into which was placed the entirety of all proceeds gained from those investments, and it had accumulated to a staggering sum. But for what purpose?
They’re ours, but not ours to use, if you see what I mean.
These were his father’s words, and they made no more sense now than they had a few days ago. If these remained untouched, then from where had the funds for the new projects come?

The books from Town were sprawled across the desk, yet these records told him little he did not already know. They were solvent, but only by careful attention to their expenses, would they remain so. Now that Ruskin was to be in charge of it all… David rather shuddered to think.

The estate books were here too. Of course the estate itself was in the red. It had been years since it had known anything of self-sufficiency. Only the earnings from their investments allowed them to keep up appearances.

David shifted the papers around, examining the figures, the receipts and bills. And stopped upon finding a contract for the procurement of a loan, and that of a size suitable to fund the recent undertakings. The money had been borrowed? Who had approved of this? To take on debt when the economy was so uncertain… It was far too great a risk. Would his father have done? It was hard to imagine, and yet here was proof of it. But, once again, these facts raised more questions than answers. It was answers he wanted, and which he was growing, minute by minute, desperate for.

He remembered the portmanteau he had carried from Town, that which had held the books and financial documents that recorded their dealings there. Might the information he sought be contained yet within it? He made a quick scan of the room, and then, with a more thorough search beneath tables and chairs, he found it, kicked aside and lying quite forgotten—and empty—beneath a side table. He placed the portmanteau upright beside the table. It was his, after all, and it might yet come in handy.

He sighed and turned around to examine the room. Where to look next? Map drawers, bookcases, cabinets, shelves, drawers, tables, chests…

It was this that arrested his attention. A chest, not large in size, but unusual, sitting atop a high bureau. It was locked, of course, but employing the hairpin once more, he soon had it open. He took it down and laid it on the table. Then, lifting the lid, he began to examine the contents. As the portmanteau was roughly the same size and shape of the chest, it provided a convenient receptacle. Carefully he placed the items from the chest piece by piece into the portmanteau, taking careful note of the order in which he removed each item, so that, when he had finished, he might replace it all as it had been found.

Mostly it was letters the box contained. Correspondence between Sir William and his eldest son—David’s late uncle Ransom. Letters between Ransom and a former sweetheart. He laid these aside without much thought. At the bottom he found a small wooden box, long and narrow. He opened it and found affixed to the lid a card, which read,
Last Will and Testament of Sir William Crawford, 1876
. The box contained a few letters, but the will itself was not there. Whether it was the conspicuous absence of the document or simply that the clues found and questions so far formed all pointed to a date contemporary with his grandfather’s last years it seemed apparent that it was the will he needed.

David searched the desk, all its drawers, every cabinet and cubby hole. And then did it all again. Without luck.

Prepared to give up, he threw himself into the desk chair. There he remained, meditating in a sort of half stupor for some minutes, when it suddenly occurred to him that, although he had thoroughly searched the desk’s drawers, he’d not given much consideration to the surface of the desk itself. He carefully lifted the books, the estate ledgers, the bills and paraphernalia, but there was nothing to be found. Carefully David laid the books and miscellany down again, but as he shifted the estate ledger back onto the desk, something fell from its pages.

The will! He took it up and read it as quickly, and as carefully, as he could. Finishing it, he read it again, then leaned forward and rubbed at his forehead, as if the action could somehow encourage his mind to comprehend all that he had now learned. It didn’t.

If he couldn’t understand it now, perhaps a copy of it, for future reference, might be wise. The document was lengthy, and he wrote as quickly as he could without allowing his hand to become too scrawling. He was finishing the last paragraph when he thought he heard voices in the courtyard outside. The voices of Ruskin and his father.

Quickly, David read over the last few lines and committed them to memory before placing the will back in its hiding place. All was silent. Had they entered the house? He did not hear them. Was it possible they had gone again? He quickly drew the pen across the paper in an effort to complete the final sentences. Footsteps now. Someone was coming. He arose, tucked the copied document in his jacket pocket and crossed the room to the table, where he closed and locked the now empty chest and put it back where he had found it. He stole, then, to a nearby chair, pulling a book from a shelf as he did and assumed the occupation of diligent study, just as the door opened.

“What are you doing here?” Ruskin demanded.

“I should ask the same of you.” David noticed the portmanteau which was still sitting open and on the floor beside him. He kicked the lid shut. “How is the construction coming?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” Ruskin drawled as he examined the desk. Did he suspect? “What are you doing in here?” he asked again.

“I was looking for a book I thought I remembered bringing here when we did over the other library for Miss Gray.”

“Did you find it?”

“You know, I’m not sure I did.” David flipped through the pages. “No, this doesn’t look like it.”

“Hmmm,” Ruskin answered with his brow lowered heavily, examining the desk still. “Ah,” he said, and withdrew a sheet of paper that lay amidst the scattered chaos. He looked up. “You really have no business in here, you know. Go, won’t you? I want to lock up.”

David hesitated. He’d come for answers. He’d only found more questions. It was then he remembered. “The portmanteau.”

“What about it?”

“It’s mine. You’re done with it, I believe,” and without waiting for the answer, he took it. “Surely you won’t mind, old man, if I have it back?”

Thankfully, Ruskin was too preoccupied with the idea of getting David out of the study to consider this bit of subterfuge. “Take it and go!”

“Right, then,” David said and quit the room, and, walking as casually as he could manage, he retired to his own.

Upon arriving there, he opened the portmanteau’s lid and looked within. Studiously, David laid, item by item, the contents out on the table. A few photographs, newspaper articles regarding the first attempts at automotive enginery, the advancements in electrical power…these were, ironically, of minor import to him just now. Save for his grandfather’s will, which was not here, and the box that was. But these mementos were not, in actuality, Sir William’s. They were his uncle Ransom's. What else did David have in common with his father’s late brother? They shared a name, one of those Puritan names he considered so ridiculous. They shared an interest in engineering and scientific advancement, and with the money his uncle had left him, David had invested in these. Perhaps he had more in common with his late uncle than David had supposed.

At last David arrived at the bundle of letters. As he lifted these from the portmanteau, a photograph fell to the floor. David picked it up to find that the image was strikingly familiar. Turning it over, he read the faded name:
Elizabeth Fairbourne, 1865
. What was a photograph of Miss Gray’s mother doing here? The will had hinted at a connection, at a debt owed, an attempt to repay… an inheritance that should go to one disenfranchised young woman if…

But why? And, more importantly, what did it mean to him—or even to his family—now?

David turned next to the letters still in his hand. These too bore her name. Was it possible his uncle and Miss Gray’s mother had once been something more than well acquainted neighbors? Growing increasingly anxious, he set these aside and reached once more within the portmanteau. The oblong box was all that remained. He opened it, withdrew the documents it contained, and sat down beside the fire to read them.

The first was a deed, indicating the acquisition in 1867 of a sizeable portion of land. Was this Whiteheath, then? The accompanying hand-drawn map confirmed it.

The next document was a list of companies in which shares might be purchased and held aside for some future purpose. A purpose Sir William’s will had revealed. A purpose for which his father and brother were presently preparing. So why were these considerations made? Why were they made for her, a young woman who was little more than a common tenant? Try as he might, David could not understand it.

In his contemplation, his attention turned once more to the small, engraved box. One more document remained. A letter, written in his grandfather’s hand. He removed the letter, opened it and read. Was this right? Could it be? He set it down to pace the room. It was too much. It was…impossible. Only… Only it made sense. It answered all the questions. It answered
the
question.

Arabella Gray, by some odd twist of fate, or history or…something…was somehow a beneficiary of his grandfather’s will. She was an heiress, or would be…if…

David was reeling, but he understood now why Ruskin’s scheme was so important to his father—to them all! Miss Gray stood to inherit. And yet the truth of her position had purposefully been kept from her. She knew only that she was here, that she was meant to remain, and that it was wished that she marry his eldest brother. But she could not know why and just what was at stake. Was it right she had been kept ignorant? Should she not know?

The answer was entirely dependent on the motivation behind the concealment. Was it simply so that she might be given the opportunity to choose Ruskin without the pressure of having to choose wealth and property over true affection? Or was it something else, entirely? And how was he to know? What was he to do with the knowledge that he now possessed and she possibly required? He considered a moment, and then, unable to bear the weight of the burden now upon him, he arose from his place and quit the room.

*   *   *

David tapped at the library door and entered. Miss Gray was standing with her back to him, looking up at the portrait of her mother. Had she heard him enter?

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked her.

She only glanced at him. “No,” she answered impatiently, and turned back to the picture.

Was there something wrong? “I thought I might come for some reading. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” she said, and sat down, taking up a book and pretending to read it.

He crossed to the shelves and examined the books, surreptitiously watching her all the while. Something was the matter, he could see it. He asked her if it was so.

She denied it at first, and then: “I’ve had a bit of a trying day, that’s all.”

He wished to know the cause. Would it help him to know how to proceed? It might. “Tell me of it,” he said.

She looked at him, apparently unsure, then sighed heavily. “I’ve begun to doubt myself, Mr. Crawford. I think you may have been right all along. At the moment I do not feel quite up to the task set before me.”

David crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite to her. Patiently he waited for her to go on.

“I’ve neglected my practicing again.”

“The piano?”

“Yes. I’ve been spending so much time with Katherine, and Ruskin, too, I suppose, that I’ve fallen behind. Ruskin has given me a new piece to play. It is too difficult for me. Even my piano instructor says so.”