Cry of the Peacock (48 page)

“So they could take it again, is that it?” she asked, but in a tone free of bitterness or resentment. It was as if she were merely stating a fact. Perhaps she was, after all. “That is why you have come back.”

“Yes, Aunt, and I am here to stay.”

“I’m glad,” she said and patted Abbie’s hand once more. “So glad.” Her eyes closed again, and she seemed to doze for a bit. When her eyes opened again, she appeared a trifle anxious.

“What is it, Aunt? Are you in pain? Is there something I can get for you?”

Aunt Newhaven looked at her for a long minute, her brows knotted above her eyes. “Elizabeth?” she said at last.

Did her aunt not know it was she? Certainly she had understood a moment ago.

“Elizabeth, is that you? Have you come home?”

“No, Aunt,” Abbie said, alarmed now. “It’s your niece, Abbie.”

There were tears in Aunt Newhaven’s eyes. “Forgive me, sister,” she said. “It was too late, I know, but I have tried to make it up to you. I have tried to do what I thought was right.”

“Aunt,” Abbie tried again. “Elizabeth is gone. I’m here now. It’s me, Arabella.”

“Say you forgive me,” she begged, raising her head a little off her pillow. “I cannot bear it. Can you forgive me? Will you?”

There was clearly no convincing her, and she was in such apparent agony of conscience that there was only one thing to do. “I forgive you,” Abbie said.

Aunt Newhaven’s head fell once more onto her pillow. Her eyes closed and a long hissing breath escaped from her lungs.

“Aunt?”

There was no answer, no response at all.

“Aunt!”

But she was gone.

Abbie flew from her place at the bedside and ran to the door. “Mariana! Mariana, come quickly!”

Mariana came, as did Anne Russell and Mrs. Giles, and several others of the Magdalene’s. Together they gathered around the bedside. There was not a dry eye in the room. Abbie felt her heart would break. It was all too much.

Mr. Meredith entered then, and looking around understood the situation at once. He placed a hand upon Mariana’s arm, but said nothing. She merely smiled gratefully and nodded in acceptance of his kind gesture. It was the first Abbie had seen of him, for she had taken all her meals here or in her room, had remained in these rooms since nearly the moment she had arrived. Upon observing her, he made his way through the crowd of mourners to stand at her side. Once again, he said nothing, only offered his presence, and an arm for support. She took it, leaned against it, and soon found herself crying into the sleeve of his coat. And then, when it all felt too much to bear, she cried herself out against the lapel of his coat, as he held her there, held her safely against him.

“We should send for the doctor,” Anne reminded them. “Perhaps you will go, Mr. Meredith.”

“No,” Mariana said. “No. Send someone else. He is needed here.”

“Of course,” Anne answered upon observing in what manner he was presently fulfilling that need. “I’ll go.”

*   *   *

David stood before the gate. Melting snow was dripping from the eves. He was not certain this was a good idea, appearing here. It had been two weeks since Abbie had left them and he’d not heard a word from her. Ruskin had written to her. He had written every day. She had not answered a single one.

He was not certain he should have come. He knew he could not leave without saying goodbye. But what more might he say? What would he fail to say, and was it not better, perhaps, if he said nothing? If only he had James to counsel with, but James was at Holdaway, working hard to rescue what they could save of it and doing his utmost, and so far successfully, to unite the workers in the effort of preserving the estate.

Consequently, David was left to shift for himself. He’d written a letter. It was his final goodbye, a chance to say what he daren’t say before. But he would like to say the words in person if he might. He was not certain she would even see him. He was not certain that it was not for the best if she didn’t.

Upon the announcement that his understanding with Katherine was at an end, a new plan had quickly been formed.

“You can save us,” his father had said, and the words still rang in his ears, haunting him. “You might do what your brother failed to do.”

But he would not be a pawn in this game. There would be no more arrangements, no matrimonial machinations. He would not be used so. And he would not allow her to be used. It was unthinkable. Yet he could not leave without seeing her one last time, without at least trying to make himself understood. It was his last and only chance, for tomorrow he was to board a ship for America, to return he knew not when. Certainly, under such expedient circumstances, she would receive him. A minute or two, perhaps ten, was all he required.

He approached the door and knocked. It was opened by a somber looking woman in dullest woolen mourning.

“David Crawford,” he said, “for Miss Arabella Gray.”

“I’m afraid she is not receiving visitors, sir,” the woman answered. “You may leave your card.”

“If you would be so good,” he said, and instead of the card, presented the letter he had prepared in advance.

She took it without a word, and the door was shut upon him.

Yes, this was for the best. Facing her he would have said too much, and what would be the point in that? She was not for him, nor he for her, and they had always known it. If he had not always regretted it, he regretted it now. That much he wished for her to know. He wished for her to understand that, even if they should never meet again, she could consider him her friend.

Once it was all he had ever wanted, all he had dared to hope for. At the moment, it was the loneliest word he knew.

*   *   *

Abbie descended the stairs to find Mr. Meredith standing in the entrance hall, studying a letter that had apparently just arrived.

“Is it another from Mr. Crawford?” Abbie asked of him.

“Yes, it appears so,” and yet he did not hand it to her as she expected him to do, but held it, examining it still.

“You may toss it into the fire, or I will do it. It does not much matter which of us undertakes the task.”

“You will have to answer him eventually, you know,” he said, looking at her. “You could threaten to have the law on him if he continues to harass you.”

“Or I could ignore him for the rest of my life, which I have no qualms about doing, Mr. Meredith. Please?” and with her hand held out, she begged for the letter.

“You might at least open it,” he said as he followed her into the front parlor, where she tossed the letter onto the coals. “Just to be sure…”

“Just to be sure of what?” she asked, standing to face him once more.

“Well,” he said and hesitated, his eyes on the hearth rather than on her. “To be sure it was truly from Mr. Ruskin. You have friends amongst the family besides him, after all.”

She looked to the fire. The flames were licking the address. Was the hand the same? Yes. Yes, it was. Only… Only it was too late.

“It was from Mr. Ruskin, I’m sure of it,” she said, but felt a sort of sinking dread that she had been too hasty after all. Not that it could possibly matter. James would write again. David had no reason to write. They had said their goodbyes, as hastily and clumsily offered as they had been. But he was to be married. He was to make a brilliant career for himself. She would hear of him through James, or read of him in the papers. She expected no more.

“No doubt you are right,” Mr. Meredith said. “Are you feeling up to another walk today? I think yesterday’s outing did you good.”

“Yes,” she answered him. “I believe you are right. I’ll get my wrappings.”

She went to her room, where she retrieved her cloak, and where she followed Mr. Meredith’s advice, and took a moment to write a note of five or six lines.

Dear sir,

I am in receipt of your letters, though I have not read them. Please cease from writing. Your efforts are a waste of your time and of perfectly good stationary. I have been advised by my lawyer, who is also a very dear friend, that I might warn you that the law may be called upon you if you continue to harass me.

Go your way and be happy. I shall certainly do the same.

Most sincerely,

Arabella Gray

Abbie sealed the envelope and addressed it to the Crawfords’ London residence. Why had they not returned to Holdaway? And what did they risk in remaining? No matter. It was no longer any of her concern. She prepared the letter for the post, and prayed it would have the desired effect.

A
UGUSTA NEWHAVEN WAS laid to rest. The funeral was well attended; by the household; by those in alliance with the woman and her charitable endeavors; by her nieces, Mariana and Abbie; and by her trusted lawyer, William Meredith.

The days that followed allowed Abbie the opportunity to evaluate her altered circumstances. She had at last escaped the pressure of Ruskin Crawford’s unrelenting suit—he ceased to write. She had freed herself from the expectation to do and become so much more than she had ever been meant for, and she was reunited with her sister, safe in a place where she could at last do some good. Even Becky had returned to her. She was determined to be happy.

In many ways she was. Here she had a purpose, and she fulfilled it to the utmost of her ability, aiding Mariana, and Anne Russell, too, who had become her sister’s second in command at Newhaven House. Anne had certainly earned her place. She was bright, she was adept, and she was willing. And between the two they had the sanctuary running as efficiently and effectively as could be imagined.

Neither was Abbie bereft of friends here, besides her sister and Becky, there was Hetty, who was still recovering from the birth of her child. She had decided, after all, to give him up. If she wished for a new start, to establish herself somehow, somewhere, it would be far easier, both for her and the child, were she to separate herself from him. His life too would be made easier with a mother and father to give him a name and a home and all the care he needed and deserved. Hetty’s sacrifice was great, and Abbie felt it too, shedding tears alongside her friend and striving, in the days that followed, to cheer her and to assist her in her efforts to better herself.

It was thought by Anne that Hetty might train for a position as a nursemaid, or even as a governess, if she were prepared to work very hard at her studies. Hetty welcomed the idea. Perhaps, after all, caring for someone else’s child might help to fill the hole left by the sacrifice of her own.

Weeks passed and then months. Time marched on as it always did. Abbie found a sort of comfort in the quiet and predictable rhythms of the house, and when that quiet was disturbed by the sudden arrival of yet another Magdalene, Abbie was prepared to do what she might to ease the woman’s suffering. She was a capable nurse, and she found immense satisfaction in the work. She began to understand what it was that held her sister here, and it was not a feeling wholly novel to her. There was a sense of responsibility in this work, a feeling that one was doing something truly meaningful.

Yet there were other things Mariana might hope for. James, these many weeks, had remained at Holdaway. He could not leave it now, though he wrote very often. What he wrote, Abbie never asked. So far her sister had respected her right to keep her deeper thoughts and feelings to herself. Abbie wished to return the favor. Though Mariana had never confessed to having formed an attachment to James, his regard for her was quite plain. What would happen should he wish to marry Mariana? Would Mariana consider herself in a position to accept him? And how might such an event change Abbie’s circumstances?

After the rest of the family, Abbie did not ask. When news arrived of Holdaway, she was pleased to learn it. When it was of the family, of Ruskin or David, or even of Katherine, she absolutely refused to hear it spoken of. She knew at any time she would learn of David’s marriage. She wished them well, truly she did, but the event, once it occurred, would be a very final conclusion to those hopes she had once, if foolishly, dared to allow herself. She felt her folly now, and felt it keenly. In time she would recover from it. Until then, she was determined to occupy all her energy, every thought with Newhaven House, and to keep herself far removed from any temptation to look back. What purpose could that possibly serve but to remind her how utterly foolish she had been?

*   *   *

Abbie laid down her book with the ringing of the doorbell, and with the sound of a familiar voice in the hall. It gave her a bit of a start to hear it, but it was a welcome sound nonetheless.

“James!” she said upon observing that it was in fact him. “How long it has been!”

“Indeed! And look at you. You are out of mourning at last I see, and I’m glad of it, though I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, James,” she answered him. “You are very kind.”

He smiled warmly, sympathetically. “Is your sister at home?” he inquired. “I have some news to share with her. I trust you do not wish to hear it.” He gave her a coy look, but she was not in the mood for his teasing.

“If it is news of the estate, you know I’m more than happy to hear it.”

“I suppose it is…in a manner of speaking.”

“How does it do, James? Is it thriving under your care? Does Ruskin truly let you have your way?”

James offered her a narrow, questioning look. “I think it is about time you were brought up to date, my dear. But first I want to talk to Miss Mariana. Is she at home?”

“I’m here,” Mariana said, appearing then and looking flushed and a little out of breath. “Hello, James.”

James smiled broadly. “Have you a moment you can spare me?” he asked, and tilted his head toward the library door.

“Two, if you wish,” she said, and growing redder still, she led him into the room and shut the door upon them.

Anne immediately stood from the desk at which she had been writing some letters. “Excuse me,” she said. “Shall I leave you?”

“No, Miss Russell,” James said. “I want you to hear this. Perhaps you can advise us on one or two points of business.”

“Very well,” she said uncertainly, and sat again.

“Is it business that brings you?” Mariana said and appeared very confused, and perhaps a little disappointed.

“Yes, Miss Gray,” he answered. “I have come, in fact, to discuss a certain matter that you, on a previous occasion, refused to address quite satisfactorily manner.”

Perhaps it was the formality of it that made her look a little alarmed. Perhaps, after all, she knew what was coming.

“On the before mentioned occasion,” he continued, as formally as before, “you gave me three very particular, and I will admit very practical, reasons for refusing to consider my offer of marriage. I mean to address these, if you will be so kind as to listen to what I have to say.”

Mariana glanced toward Anne, who was looking very wide-eyed and uncertain still. “Go on,” she said to him, if somewhat cautiously.

“The first objection you offered to my former addresses concerned your aunt’s ill health—God rest her soul—and the constant care her infirmity required.”

“Yes, of course,” Mariana answered.

“I am sorry for your loss. I don’t mean to be insensitive to it, only to remind you that it was once an objection, and one that can exist no longer. Am I correct?”

“I suppose you are,” she answered haltingly.

“The second objection, I believe,” he went on, “regarded your inability to abandon your charitable endeavors. I have lately consulted with Mr. Meredith, and he has given me cause to believe that this point might merit some reconsideration. Is it possible?”

“It’s not possible. My responsibilities are here, perhaps more than ever. I cannot think of leaving.”

“This, Miss Russell,” James said, looking to Mariana’s friend and compation, “is where I was rather hoping I might benefit by your counsel. Mr. Meredith believes you capable of taking charge. You needn’t abandon it, entirely, Mariana. You might oversee it from afar. From Holdaway, in fact. Or your old home at Oak Lodge if you would prefer, while your family’s seat of Whiteheath is being restored.”

“Restored?”

“Why not? It’s a worthy investment, is it not?”

“James, if this is for me…”

“Of course it is,” he said laughing. “It’s for us. What did you think? Is it truly impossible?”

Mariana opened her mouth and closed it again. She then looked to Anne.

“Miss Russell?” James said to her. “Is it impossible?”

Anne took a moment to answer. “You can leave it to me, Mariana,” she said at last. “You’ve taught me everything you know. And I’m content here. You have things to look forward to, love, family, happiness beyond what this house can provide for you. Do consider it. It would make me happy to do this for you, and I think you know I’m quite capable.”

“I do know it, Anne. And I thank you.” She turned again to James. “This is a great thing you are asking, Mr. Crawford. I have never really considered it before today.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t very encouraging, Miss Gray,” James said.

“How am I to consider something that has never before seemed possible? And there were three objections. The last of which remains, I’m afraid. I cannot leave my sister here, and she certainly cannot return to Holdaway. You must see that.”

“Meredith has offered to her, I understand.”

“Yes, but she has not accepted him.”

“And what would prevent her from accepting a man like him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea.”

Mariana did not seem prepared to answer this.

“She is in love with someone else. Admit it.”

“I don’t know that, James. I suspect it, yes, but I cannot know. She will not speak of him, not to anyone. She will not let anyone speak of him, nor of your family. I regret it very much, but that is how it is, I’m afraid.”

“She must know he has not married Katherine, that he has gone abroad.”

“How can she?”

“David told her himself. He wrote to her.”

“Did he?” Mariana said and appeared once more confused. “If so she’s never spoken of it. Are you sure she received it?”

“You said she burned Ruskin’s letters. Perhaps she burned David’s as well. Is she that determined to be shot of us, then?”

“I don’t know, James. I don’t know what is going on in her head.”

“Then I propose we find out, and that we do it soon.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“He is coming home, and he means to see her if he can manage it. Can we prepare her to receive him? Perhaps our happiness, as well as hers, depends upon it.”

*   *   *

Abbie waited in the parlor for James and Mariana to emerge once more. She was anxious to know what they were discussing. She could guess easily enough. And though she wanted, more than anything in the world, Mariana’s happiness, that happiness, were it secured in the manner in which Abbie expected it would be, would leave her in something of a precarious position. Would she remain? Well, she would have to, wouldn’t she? Could she be happy here without her sister?

At last James and Mariana returned together, looking more anxious than blissfully happy. What
had
they been talking about in there?

“So it is news from home you want, is it?” James asked her and took a seat opposite her, while Mariana stood beside him.

“I want to know how the estate is doing, of course.”

“And of nothing—or of no one—else?”

“Of course I hope everyone is well and happy. But tell me, do, how are matters on the estate? Is all running smoothly? Is it beginning to prosper? I’m so very relieved to know it was not lost, after all. You cannot know how much.”

“Did David not write to you? It was the first thing he did, you know, when he learned that it was to be saved. He did not want you to worry. Did you not get a letter from him?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“You don’t know? How can you not know?”

“I may have burnt it. It was an accident. If there was a letter, then I must have thought it from Ruskin, and so threw it into the fire.”

James looked to Mariana, and then back to her. “You did not burn it on purpose?”

“No,” she answered, and wondered at his apparent relief. She ached. For the first time she allowed herself to admit, even to herself, what she had done—and she ached. “It was an accident. I swear it.” Still she was not certain she was ready to know all his letter had said. What would he have told her? That she need not worry about the estate? That they had not lost it, and she need not blame herself? Would he have thought to say anything more?

“How was Holdaway saved?” she found herself asking.

“Lord Barnwell put up the money to cover the debt.”

“David must be very grateful.”

“Not more grateful than Ruskin. David was relieved, certainly, and I’m sure he’s grateful in his way, but if the estate was lost, it might have been as much owing to his decision as yours.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t read the papers, either, I take it.”

She shook her head.

“Katherine and Ruskin were married a fortnight ago and have set up house here in London. In the townhouse, as luck would have it.”

Abbie’s mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed very hard, but the news would not quite be swallowed. “Katherine and… Ruskin?”

“Yes,” James answered. “And David has gone abroad.”

“Abroad?” she said, and tried very hard not to appear as disappointed and confused as she felt. “Where?”