Then Edith noted that among all those present, her father was the only one not applauding. In fact, he was scowling.
“Turn it off,” he barked, then softened his command, “please. Who built that?”
Sir Thomas inclined his head. “I built and designed the model myself.”
I’ll bet he could build a more sensible typewriter, Edith thought. Honestly, the arrangement of the letters makes no sense at all.
In the ensuing silence, the other businessmen regarded her father, whose cold smile bespoke his skepticism.
“Have you tested it? Full scale?”
“I’m very close, sir, but with the funding—”
“So all you have is a toy and some fancy words,” her father interrupted.
Sir Thomas’s face fell, and Edith felt a rush of protective indignation on his behalf. Carter Cushing had every right to question him, of course, but his tone was quite biting. Dismissive. Just like Ogilvie.
Her father picked up a document that had been lying at his elbow and scrutinized it before he spoke again. “You have already tried—and failed—to raise capital in London, Edinburgh, Milan.”
The Englishman raised his brows just a bit, obviously surprised. “Yes, sir. That’s correct.”
Her father stood. “And now you’re here.” His voice held a sharper edge, and Edith unconsciously pushed away from the wall. However, she was in no position to argue whatever point her father was about to make. This was Sir Thomas’s battle, and if she spoke up, it would only embarrass him.
“Correct again,” Sir Thomas replied.
“The men at this table, all of us, came up through honest, hard work. Almost all of us. Mr. Ferguson is a lawyer, but even he can’t help that.”
It was a tired joke, but the titans of Buffalo industry laughed anyway. They gave each other looks that indicated that Cushing had a point. They had “come up” through honest, hard work. By implication, Sir Thomas had not. The men in this room held the same inverted snobbery Edith had held herself until very recently—perhaps an hour ago at most.
The titled, very English Sir Thomas stood alone in a room filled with hardscrabble Americans who put stock in results and not in charming presentations. Edith sensed that the tide was turning in favor of her father and his disdain, though of what—Sir Thomas’s invention or the man himself—she wasn’t certain.
“I started out a steel worker, raising buildings so that I could own them,” her father went on. He approached Sir Thomas with raised hands. “Rough. They reflect who I am. Now, you, sir…”
He gripped Sir Thomas’s hands; the younger man’s back stiffened slightly, and Edith recalled reading that English people were more standoffish than their American counterparts. Perhaps he didn’t like to be touched. She wondered what it would be like, however, to touch his fingertips. Perhaps even his unsmiling lips.
And she should not be thinking of such things.
“You have the softest hands I’ve ever felt,” her father announced. “In America, we bank on effort, not privilege. That is how we built this country.”
But he is being unfair, Edith thought. Sir Thomas told him that he designed and built the model himself. It must have taken some doing to visualize and construct such a revolutionary device. It occurred to her that he was a creative person like herself—and he too was about to be rejected.
Her father moved away from Sir Thomas. The baronet’s deep blue eyes flared with passion, and he raised his chin.
“I am here with all that I possess, sir.” He spoke most respectfully and with humility, a counterpoint to her father’s patronizing, judgmental tone. “A name, a patch of land, and the will to make it yield. The least you can grant me is the courtesy of your time and the chance to prove to you, and these fine gentleman, that my will, dear sir, is, at the very least, as strong as yours.”
Well done, so very well said, Edith thought, and as Sir Thomas glanced toward her, she sensed that it was time for her to withdraw. Sir Thomas was intent on standing his ground, and perhaps he might feel his speech constrained by a lady’s presence. He was in total command of himself and fully prepared to stand up to her father. Many other men had withered in the attempt.
He is not going to wither. I can feel it. A shock jittered up her spine. I have strength of will, too. I am like him.
What she felt was more than that. It was something she had only read about, and before now, never believed in. She blushed and turned away. As she left the room, she began to tremble, and it took all her own strength not to turn back for one last gaze at Eunice McMichael’s suitor.
CHAPTER FOUR
EDITH LOOKED OUT on a great and dirty city. Dickens would have termed it thus, a city saturated with gloom and soot. Slanting torrents of rain turned the streets of Buffalo into fields of mud as thick as clay.
Huddled in their greatcoats, under umbrellas, pedestrians hurried past Cushing Manor, anxious to avoid the deluge, while inside the Cushings’ servants turned on the gas lamps. A warm glow emanated from the prosperous redbrick building, dissolving into the gloaming.
Edith wore a mustard-yellow dressing gown as she fondly regarded her father, while he scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. He looked dapper in his tails, and his waistcoat was her favorite gold one. His birthday was in a couple of weeks, and she had a wonderful surprise planned for him—a bound presentation book of watercolor sketches of his most important building projects. It was being completed now.
“I need a corset,” he said with a sigh as he appraised the slight girth of his middle.
His vanity touched her because of the vulnerability it revealed. She went to him and tied his bow tie.
“No, you don’t.”
“I wish you’d change your mind and come along tonight. Mrs. McMichael’s gone to a lot of trouble.” He grunted. “Little Lord Fauntleroy will be there.”
She almost chuckled at his choice of names, but didn’t. He had been too stern with Sir Thomas, and she didn’t want him to think she shared his contempt. Far from it.
“You mean Thomas Sharpe?” she said pointedly.
“Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet. Apparently he has taken an interest in young Eunice.”
And she wondered if Eunice appreciated him beyond the allure of his title and charm. He was an intelligent, innovative man who would thrive when matched with a partner who enjoyed the life of the mind. Eunice preferred shopping and dances. But perhaps that was all he expected from a wife. Her father had raised her differently. As an heiress, she could afford to be quite particular about what she wanted in a husband. In all honesty, she had very seriously entertained the notion that she might never marry. Were Sir Thomas free, she might consider it. But he was not.
Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from rising to his defense. “Was his proposal so outrageous as to merit such a harsh answer from you?”
“It wasn’t his proposal, my love, it was him. There’s something about him that I don’t like. What, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “And I don’t like not knowing.”
“You were cruel,” Edith insisted.
“Really? Maybe that’s how I conduct business, child.”
“What I saw was a dreamer facing defeat. Did you not notice his suit? Beautifully tailored—but at least a decade old. And his shoes were handmade but worn.” And I’m not sure I’m helping his case. My father is a successful businessman who deals with other successful people.
“I can see you observed far more than I did.” He quirked an eyebrow and she fought down her flush. “At any rate, he’ll have his chance. The boardroom wants to hear more about it. In spite of my reservations.”
That pleased her. She was about to say so as she helped him on with his jacket when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be young Dr. McMichael,” her father declared with real warmth. “He’s brought his new motorcar to collect me. Come and see it. Say hello to him. He’s just opened his new practice.” He headed toward the hallway. “He’s always been awfully fond of you.?
??
They descended the staircase together. “I know that, Father.” Alan had been her childhood playmate and had grown up to be her friend. She knew that there was no romantic spark between them. After all, she was about to welcome a visitor wearing nothing but her dressing gown. If he were a serious suitor, her father would not have permitted such a breach of etiquette.
Nonsense. He never even notices such things.
The door opened to pouring rain and Alan, who cut quite a figure in his formal wear. His blond hair was swept back and neater than usual, and his eyes shone when he caught sight of her. She grinned back at him, not at all embarrassed to be seen looking less than her best.
“Good evening, Mr. Cushing. Edith.”
“My, don’t we look smart, Alan,” she said easily.
“Oh, you like it? It’s just something I threw together,” he bantered.
“It’s Edith who should be the belle of the ball, don’t you agree, Alan?” said her father. A servant brought his hat and coat and Edith hoped his good mood lasted long enough for him to be a bit kinder to Sir Thomas.
“I was rather hoping it would be so.” Alan cocked his head. “But Edith takes a dim view of social frivolity.”
“As I recall, you’re not so keen on it yourself,” she shot back.
He made a face. “Tonight, I have no choice. Eunice would never forgive me.”
That’s true, Edith thought. If anyone can hold a grudge, it’s Eunice McMichael. She had watched Eunice shun former best friends for the flimsiest of imagined slights.
Edith regarded the two men fondly. “You lads enjoy yourselves.” Then she whispered sotto voce to Alan, “Please don’t let him drink too much.”
* * *
The door to Cushing Manor closed as firmly as Edith’s refusal to attend the soirée. As Alan held out an umbrella for Mr. Cushing and they walked toward his motorcar, he was disappointed but not surprised that she was staying home. He would have skipped the party, too, if it weren’t being held in his home, by his family. Still, if Eunice married the young aristocrat, she would leave home and perhaps then Edith would call on the McMichaels more frequently. He certainly understood why she kept her distance. He loved his sister, but she could be quite mean.
“So she’s not coming.” It wasn’t a question. It was an opening gambit to find out precisely why. He had his opinions, but it stung him a bit that though he was but newly returned, she had not found that sufficient reason to put on a pretty dress and take a turn on the dance floor with him.
“I tried,” Mr. Cushing said. “Stubborn to the bone.”
“And where does she get that from?” Alan jabbed playfully. “I like it.”
Her willfulness indicated that Edith had a mind of her own, and he did like her mind. She was a prodigious wit and very creative, too. He was a man of science, not given to flights of fancy such as hers. He’d loved hearing her read passages from her book so long ago, but had never known exactly what to say in response. “I like it” had always sounded so weak.
“So do I,” her doting father admitted.
They climbed in and Alan guided the car into the rainy street. Next stop: social frivolity. If only Edith had consented to attend. She would have brought a ray of sunshine into a tedious, rainy night.
* * *
I couldn’t go, of course. I had so much to do: I was busy reading about clay mining in the north of England. And about the Sharpes’ home, Allerdale Hall. One of the most elegant homes in Northern England.
* * *
Edith knew that she would never see Sir Thomas’s ancestral home, but she was curious about it. And about him. She had already decided to rewrite Cavendish so that he more resembled the inscrutable young man—a common practice of authors she had learned from her research about the literary life. After her father and Alan’s departure, Edith lay sprawled on her large bed and studied a thick book replete with maps of England and intricate engravings of daily life. Cumberland, England, was the location of the Sharpe clay mines and their “family seat”: an enormous, castle-like building. Carriages entered and exited via a porte cochère; ladies with parasols strolled alongside gentlemen in top hats carrying walking canes.
It was enchanting. She imagined Sir Thomas drinking tea and discussing his invention with beautifully dressed visitors in a room decorated with oil paintings of his noble ancestors and a coat of arms over the mantel. She had never been to England, although she had read all the important British authors and some of the popular ones as well. She liked Charles Dickens very much, and her secret guilty pleasures were the ghost stories of Sheridan Le Fanu and Arthur Machen. She and her mother had read the Shakespeare plays, of course. Her mother’s favorite had been A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But for her money, she would take Hamlet or Macbeth. Stories with ghosts in them. She could imagine Thomas taking her to see a Shakespeare play in London.
Sir Thomas, you twit, she remonstrated herself. And he’s practically engaged to Eunice. They’ll probably make the announcement tonight.
Which was the real reason, of course, that she was not attending the ball. One must be philosophical about these things. And while she had no hopes of being with him, she fully intended on escaping into the charming, mysterious man’s world, even if just for a few hours, by burying her nose in these books. The old world. Titles and privilege. So much depended on the accident of one’s birth. If you were the oldest son, you got everything. But if you were a younger brother, or a sister…
She wondered if Sir Thomas had siblings. She imagined him with doting parents. And a dog. Several. Hunting dogs, perhaps, though the notion of actual hunts repulsed her. What were they called? Blood sports.
Outside, raindrops spattered the windows. Thunder rumbled. The sky was unnaturally dark, and a sharp wind whistled down the lane. Father and Alan would be at the party soon, where there would be crackling fires and hot rum punch, and candles everywhere. She could just see Sir Thomas in his white tie and tails.
She smiled wistfully as she memorized the lines and angles of his grand family estate. Her father had visited many of the opulent homes of American tycoons, some even designed to look like English castles.
The handle to her door turned slowly.
Edith raised up on her elbow and watched it. It kept turning, as if by someone whose hands were too full to push open the door.
She rose from the bed, more curious than afraid.
“Father?” she called. “Did you forget something?”
She heard no reply. The handle kept moving, jittering wildly. Then suddenly the door swung open.
She jumped. No one was there. Wary and confused as long-buried memories bubbled toward the surface, she moved into the hall toward the upper-floor parlor, telling herself that she wasn’t afraid, that every chill down her spine was not an echo of something that had happened to her fourteen years ago.
When her mother—
She balled her fists and kept walking along the hallway.
Halfway down, she froze. She saw a shadow; she could see a woman in black, a dead woman, a thing of bones and decay and grave dirt—
No. I do not see her. I am not seeing this. I am asleep on my bed thinking of Macbeth.
But she was awake, and though the shadows were very deep, she was seeing something…
Gasping, Edith turned on her heel and raced back to her room, shut the door and held firm to the handle. She trembled, teeth chattering, trying to make sense of what she thought she saw, trying not to panic. Denial was her instinctive response.
I did not see that. It was my imagination, like that first time. It was—
Her heart pounded. There was no pressure on the handle. No sound on the other side of the door. She listened harder, ear pressed close to the wood.
Then came the rustle of silk…
And then… the turn of the handle once more, this time moving against her fingers.
Chills raced down her back as she held the handle with both hands, fighting to keep the door shut
. If the door opened—
If she saw—
“What is it?” she cried. “What do you want?”
Two withered hands burst straight through the door and grabbed her by the shoulders. They were burning cold blocks, sticks of ice, painfully strong. Then a horrible, blackened head that stank of the grave crashed through the wood, the figure’s features crushed, the face a ruin.
No, not crushed; the face was rippling, like water.
And the voice that had read her to sleep so many childhood nights, the voice that now rushed forth from long-dead lungs was likewise quavering, distorted almost beyond recognition.
“Beware of Crimson Peak!”
Edith fell backwards and scrambled away. The room tilted, then whirled. She couldn’t breathe, could only gape. There could be no doubt this time it was her mother, her long-dead and buried mother.
Then her face, her hands vanished. The door was unmarred. Edith heard herself gasping.
The door handle turned again, and Edith choked back a scream as Annie, one of the maids, cracked it open and leaned in.
Mute with horror, Edith could only stare at the girl.
“Are you all right, miss? Whatever is it?” the maid asked anxiously.
“Nothing. You—you startled me, that’s all.”
Oh, my God, I saw a ghost. Or else I am mad.
Annie did not press her mistress for further explanation.
“There’s a Sir Thomas Sharpe at the door,” Annie said. “He’s dripping wet and most insistent on coming in.”
“Thomas Sharpe?” Edith fought for composure. “At this hour? Did you tell him Father was out?”