Cry of the Peacock (3 page)

A
S THE CARRIAGE entered the park gates, and the landscape grew familiar, a sense of contentment swept over Abbie. Contentment and profound sorrow. Though this land had been her home for as long as she could remember, the happy days she had spent here in the warm companionship of her mother, gone a year ago, her father, dead these five months, and her sister, now living in London, were at an end. But then so too was her long felt frustration at the futility of her endeavors to do anything of real purpose for the people of Holdaway. Might she be allowed to serve them still? And might not her efforts prove more successful now she was to assume a place of intimacy and influence within the family circle? She thought of those she had served before, those with whom she had developed a bond of friendship. She looked forward to seeing them again.

Her thoughts turned once more to the present as the great Hall came into view. The vast Georgian structure, replete with columned and pedimented façade, was both beautiful and hideous, both art and ostentation, and stood as a symbol of all that wealth and breeding were obligated to accomplish and maintain—at the expense of the poor and the powerless. Would she ever overcome her resentment of these people? Well, she would have to try.

Just before the great house, a small crowd had gathered to welcome the newcomer. Sir Nicholas and Lady Crawford, and the eldest and heir, Mr. Ruskin Crawford, stood in a position of pride and authority before a perfectly assembled line of house servants and hired help, all dressed in their varying modes of uniform so that their positions within the household were instantly identifiable. Butler, first and second footmen, hall and page boys were all easily distinguished one from another, as was the head housekeeper from the chamber and parlor maids, and the kitchen maids beneath them.

Where was Abbie to fit in? Somewhere in between, she supposed. As a tenant, and the daughter of the late overseer, she was no servant, but having been raised in such humble circumstances as she had been, she found it difficult to imagine herself truly a part of her landlord’s family.

The carriage came to a stop, and Mr. Ruskin Crawford approached to hand her down.

“Welcome home, Miss Gray,” he said, his pleasure turning to concern as he looked upon her. “You are unwell. I had of course heard that it was so. I’m very sorry to see the proof of it. Was the journey terribly trying?”

“It was not so bad,” she said more for the sake of reassurance than honesty. “I slept most of the way.”

“Good,” he said. “At least we have the comfort now of having you here, and of knowing you will very soon recover.”

“Thank you,” she answered him. “With a little rest and fresh air, I expect I will be well again very soon.”

With a satisfied smile, he presented her to his parents. Sir Nicholas’ grizzled brow mirrored something of his son’s concern as he examined her.

“Welcome, my dear,” he said and rubbed her hand within his own. “It is good to have you home.”

Mr. Crawford then brought her to stand before his mother. Lady Crawford was a slightly rotund and sallow woman with a penchant for bright colors and larger than necessary circumferences. She greeted Abbie with a smile that was almost maternal, as her spaniel yipped and pawed, jealous for attention, at her side. With one hand at Abbie’s elbow, Lady Crawford escorted her past the row of servants, who bobbed and nodded their own welcomes, and up the great marble steps to the door of the house, which was opened for them by two towering footmen.

“I hope you haven’t suffered too much from your stay in London,” she said. “You should never have gone, you know.”

“I think you may be right, my lady. But I am here now and will recover quickly enough under your generous care.”

“Mark my words,” said Sir Nicholas, following closely behind, “you’ll be better than new in a week—a fortnight on the outside.”

Within the grand and echoing central hallway, the party stopped. While Abbie rested, she took a long look about her. This was to be her home now. The hundred eyes that represented generations of past Crawfords seemed to stare skeptically down at her from their gilt frames. However, it was the figure that stood, casually leaning within the white and pedimented doorway of the inner hall, that arrested her attention. His scrutinizing gaze was far more intimidating than any of those that lined the crimson walls surrounding her.

“Ah, there you are, James,” Lady Crawford said and turned to Abbie. “Of course you remember my youngest son.”

“Of course,” she answered. Though she had not been much more than a child when she had seen him last, there was no forgetting James Crawford. His glib arrogance and irreverent joviality stuck in one’s memory like a bad song. He wasn’t all bad, though, for she remembered him as the one member of the family who had ever shown an interest in the welfare of the estate’s workers. It was during his short foray as liaison between her father and his own, some three years ago now, that anything of real, if not lasting, benefit was accomplished in behalf of the workers. At nineteen, James was not exactly dedicated to the calling, and when his card playing and London weekends became too expensive, he was sent to university, where his reputation for high living and chicanery had blossomed into something almost legendary.

He watched her from his place between the hallway pillars as his mother presented him. His smile, almost a sneer, was hardly warm. He stepped forward and bowed. “Welcome, Miss Gray. I trust you’ll make yourself at home.”

His manner, a mixture of forced cordiality and thinly veiled spite, left her without a proper response. Hesitantly at first, and then determined to beat him, she put forth her hand. He looked at it, as if it were something he was not certain he wanted to touch, and then, at last, seemed to relent. Or would have done had Ruskin not intervened.

“That’s enough, James,” the elder brother said, taking her hand to place once more upon his arm.

“As a family,” Sir Nicholas said, “we would like to take this opportunity to formally welcome you to Holdaway Hall. We consider you as one of our own now. We have high hopes for you, I do not mind telling you. Very high, indeed.”

He paused in his speech. An approving nod was offered by Ruskin, and by Lady Crawford as well, who, appeared quite overjoyed to receive her.

“We hope you’ll consider yourself one of us. You might look to Lady Crawford and myself as your guardians, surrogate parents, if you will.”

Lady Crawford then approached to silently take Abbie’s hand in her own.

“And,” Sir Nicholas added, “you might consider our sons as your dearest friends, even as brothers—if you can.”

Abbie was here prepared to offer her thanks, but was interrupted by James, who released a scoffing breath of laughter.

Sir Nicholas cast a reproachful eye upon his youngest son, as Ruskin turned upon him with a spoken, if whispered, reprimand. The scene before her provided an interesting comparison. The formal Ruskin, dark and towering, did not bear much of a resemblance to his shorter, fairer, and impertinently casual brother. She was studying them still when Lady Crawford drew her attention to the maidservant who had just entered.

“Ah, there you are, Sarah,” Lady Crawford said and ushered the girl forward, presenting her to Abbie as though she were a gift of great significance. “Sarah’s sole responsibility is to see to your comfort. She is to be your personal maid, and to provide you with everything you stand in need of.”

“I’m grateful to you, ma’am.”

“I know you must be exhausted from your long journey,” Lady Crawford continued. “You will rest now, my dear, and regain your strength. You mustn’t trouble yourself about a thing until you are entirely well. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I thank you again,” she said, and allowed herself to be led away, not a little overwhelmed, to her bedroom.

Upon arriving there, she stopped to examine the sumptuously furnished bedchamber. The moss green damask papers and velvet curtains might have been dreary in another room, but the softly colored furnishings and bedcoverings added an airy lightness to it all that was at once homey and luxurious. How different it was from the musty and careworn rooms of her aunt’s house. She took in a deep breath of fresh country air as it poured in through the open windows, the gauze of the under-curtains billowing about her as she contemplated the view without, contemplated all that surrounded her, all that was before her, and all she had left behind.

Was she really up to this? She was conscious of a temptation to embrace it all, to make it hers and to rise to occasion. She was equally conscious that reservations had not yet been set wholly aside.

“I hope, Miss Gray, that you will find yourself quite comfortable here.”

She started at the sound of the voice and turned to see Mr. Ruskin Crawford standing within the doorway. The look on his face, earnestly concerned, reminded her in that instant of the stranger who had appeared at her aunt’s gate. It struck her now as it had struck her then, as something significant. But the stranger’s sentiments had not been entirely of kindness and sympathy. There had been something of James’ disapproval in them, too. Ruskin’s sentiments, however, were sincere, and she was especially grateful for it in light of James’ unwelcoming welcome.

She smiled and answered him. “I’m certain of it, Mr. Crawford. Thank you.”

“If there’s anything you need—anything at all—Sarah…or myself…will be more than happy to do what we may for you.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

“I’ll leave you. You’ll want to rest now. You shall want for nothing. Nothing is required of you…save to recover. I pray you will do it, too, and quickly.” He lingered a moment more, examining her still with that air of abject concern. At last he bowed and was gone, to leave Abbie to wonder at his attentiveness—and to rebuke herself for doing it.

“Perhaps something more comfortable, Miss?” Sarah asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Abbie nodded her approval of the proffered bedclothes, and before she knew it she had been undressed and dressed again and tucked comfortably into bed, where she rested, very nearly undisturbed, for those first few days. All the while Sarah, as had been promised, attended upon her every need. The family stayed away, allowing her the peace and quiet best suited to recovering in a new place under such very altered circumstances. The doctors came, but did so quietly and with as little disturbance as possible. Her frequent meals were delivered to her bedside with a regularity that anticipated, and often exceeded, her appetite. And while her body rested and healed, her mind continued its struggle to make sense of such exceeding good fortune. It was not long, however, before her invalid confinement outlasted its novelty, and the questions pressing upon her made it impossible to stay in bed, much less rest. With Sarah’s help, and feeling much steadier on her feet than she had done in some time, she dressed and prepared herself to face the family she had so newly become a part of. First and foremost, she wished to speak with Sir Nicholas. If anyone could explain why it was she had been singled out for this remarkable opportunity, it was he.

Abbie found the study to be a handsomely situated room lined with well-stocked bookshelves. On the farthest wall, a large bank of windows provided for a picturesque view of the park which lay to the north and west of the house and the fields and meadows beyond. Yes, this did indeed seem fitting headquarters for a bustling and prosperous estate. Was it not possible that it might be so again?

“Ah! My dear,” Sir Nicholas said, welcoming her into the room. “Come. Sit down. You are feeling much better, I see. I’m glad of it!”

“Yes, sir, very much,” she answered.

“Is something the matter, my dear?” Sir Nicholas asked, observing her reticence.

“No,” she answered. “Not exactly. Only…”

“Only? Come. Out with it,” he said coaxing her with a smile.

“I cannot say enough how very grateful I am to you for all the kindness you’ve shown me. And yet…well…it does seem a great sacrifice you have made in my behalf. Is there a reason I’ve been so fortunate as to find such very great favor with you? I do not mean to be ungrateful, sir, but you know as well as I do that this is not the sort of thing that happens every day.”

Sir Nicholas smiled but looked at her keenly for a moment or two before answering. “I wonder if you can tell me,” he said, “what you know about your mother’s history.”

“I know very little, indeed, sir. She rarely spoke of her former life.”

“What of your aunt? Did she tell you nothing at all during your time with her?”

“No. In fact she refused to speak of it. I’m afraid she bears a grudge, sir, even after all these years, but why she should blame you, I cannot comprehend.”

“Would you mind telling me what you
do
know?”

“Very little, as I said, apart from the fact my mother and her family were once neighbors of yours, and that she was disgraced upon marrying my father rather than the man my grandfather had chosen for her. More than that we were never told.”

Sir Nicholas studied her a moment, seemed to relax a little, and continued on. “Her family disowned her,” he said with a look of apparent regret. “This, of course, you are aware of, for it’s the reason for your recent difficulties, for the humble manner in which your life has, until now, been lived. And no doubt you also know that, shortly after her marriage, your mother’s family suffered their own financial ruin. Which is why your mother’s home stands empty as it does, why her family’s estate is now in our hands, and why, when you found yourselves alone, there was no one to turn to, save an aged and embittered aunt who was as good as a stranger to you.”