Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization Page 4

  Annie bobbed her head. “I told him that, miss. He won’t go away. He wants to talk to you.”

  Edith was stunned. “It’s out of the question, Annie,” she said, forcing the quaver out of her voice. Beyond the impropriety of receiving a gentleman in her dressing gown and without her father in the house, Edith felt barely coherent. She had just seen a ghost.

  Had she not?

  “Send him away.”

  The maid shrugged helplessly. “I tried.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t go away.”

  Nonplussed, Edith found herself in a kind of fog descending the stairs. The situation was untenable.

  I saw a ghost. She was here.

  But she had no proof of that. Her door was unblemished. She had been working very hard on her novel—revising with a sharper, tougher eye since Sir Thomas had commented on it, she had to confess. A dream would have churned up horrific images, memories. She had read of the lengths to which her fellow author, Edgar Allan Poe, had gone to wrest the grotesque and phantasmagorical from the humdrum, mundane outer life he had endured as a magazine editor. And Samuel Taylor Coleridge had smoked opium to bring such deeply buried visions as the Ancient Mariner to life.

  So perhaps this simply means that I am digging into my own mine—into a rich vein of metaphors for my own loss, as I told Mr. Ogilvie. Perhaps this happened because I am changing. I thought never to leave Father’s side, as he would then be alone. I believed I had no interest in a husband of my own. I had assumed I would be content to serve as Father’s hostess for as long as he lived.

  Perhaps this is my fear that my father will not always be here. His birthday is coming, and he is growing old, no matter how he may try to disguise it. And I have a true calling to write. I cannot deny it. I should embrace these specters that I see. They are a gift.

  Still, she was quite shaken. But good breeding and manners took over as she saw Sir Thomas in the foyer, his long, wavy hair damp with rainwater. He was wearing a black coat, perfectly cut, a white vest and tie, trousers revealing the polished tips of a pair of leather dancing boots. No more elegant man had ever crossed the threshold of Cushing Manor in her lifetime, not even her father. She was confounded.

  He is spoken for, she reminded herself. Well, almost.

  “Miss Cushing, are you all right? You seem quite pale.” His deep-set eyes narrowed with genuine concern.

  If I summoned the courage to tell him what just happened upstairs, he would no doubt think me hysterical, or mad.

  “I am not all too well, Sir Thomas, I’m sorry to say. And Father’s not home.” She spoke in a clipped fashion in an attempt to maintain her control.

  “I know that. I saw him leave.” He paused and then added, “I waited in the rain for him to leave.”

  Despite her distress, she understood, with a shock, that he was calling on her.

  “Oh?” Edith managed.

  “I know he is going to the reception at the McMichael house,” he continued. “Which is my destination, too.”

  Now she wasn’t quite following again. Concentrating took a supreme effort. Too much had happened. Was happening.

  “But that’s Bidwell Parkway, sir. This is Masten Park. You are very, very lost.”

  “That I am,” he concurred. “And I desperately need your help.”

  “Help with what?” she asked cautiously.

  “Well, Miss Cushing, the language, for one.” His smile was rueful. “As you can plainly see, I do not speak a word of American.”

  At that, she mustered a small smile. He had a wit. The master of Allerdale Hall had come calling. He cut a breath-catching figure in his evening clothes. And yet…

  “Sir Thomas, I simply can’t.”

  “Please, am I to make even more of a wretch of myself?” he beseeched her. “Why would you want to stay here, all alone?”

  Why indeed? She gazed back up the stairs toward her room. Had that happened? Had it really happened? Perhaps she had dreamed it.

  I know that I didn’t. I know what I saw.

  Fear bubbled up.

  She swallowed it down.

  They are gifts, she reminded herself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  This party can’t get any worse, Alan McMichael thought as he gazed around at the glittering assembly of Buffalo high society. The ladies were dressed in the finest fashions from Paris, bare-shouldered, draped with pearls and glowing, the gentlemen in their tailcoats and gloves. Candles gleamed and a profusion of artfully arranged flowers lent an air of magic to the McMichael home. Poor Eunice.

  For his sister, the night could not get any less magical. Though she was holding her own, chin high, it was becoming quite apparent that the guest of honor, her suitor, Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet, had stood her up.

  She and Mother had presided over a frenzy of home preparation—the floor polished, the piano tuned, and the lavish midnight supper arrayed in all its splendor: caviar, truffles, snipe, partridge, oysters, quail, grouse, pressed beef, ham, tongue, chicken, galantines, lobster, melons, peaches, nectarines, and specially imported jams and biscuits. Champagne, of course, flips, toddies, and the punch Alan had learned to make in London while in medical school. Eunice had insisted that he recreate it in their sterling silver punchbowl, and the few sips he had taken to test it had set him back on his heels. Tea, coffee, lemonade, white wine, claret, and sweet Madeira were also going to be served, along with negus, orgeat, and ratafia, accompanying the proper courses. There were towers of fruit, sugared almonds, and marzipan, custards, and cakes.

  They had gone to all this effort and this expense, publicly declaring the regard in which the McMichael family held Sir Thomas and his sister, and the blackguard was not here. After having accepted the invitation Sir Thomas was duty-bound to appear. He had not sent his regrets—though nothing short of a death in the family would have excused him—and Buffalo society was left bearing witness that he was snubbing Eunice on the most special of evenings. It was the height of rudeness, and sufficiently hurtful to break even the flintiest of hearts. And Eunice was not precisely flinty. She was spoiled, yes, and jealous when it came to focusing attention on herself. And on occasion, less than sweet to Edith.

  But she did not deserve this humiliation.

  Alan had inquired of Lady Lucille Sharpe, Sir Thomas’s lovely dark-haired sister, where she thought her brother might be. Discreetly, of course, and phrased in such a way as to not embarrass her. Lady Sharpe had been unconcerned, nonchalantly assuring him that Sir Thomas would arrive soon. He knew he should not press, but he was angry. Then Alan’s mother had announced that Lady Sharpe had graciously consented to play some pieces on their piano, and any further conversation on the subject was terminated. Mercifully so, for it really was bad manners of him to put her on the spot.

  Lady Sharpe’s upswept hair was a rich chestnut; it was dotted with scarlet stones too impossibly large to be actual rubies. A similar gem graced her finger, a garnet, deeply red and rich. Perhaps it was real. Her green eyes were enormous, set in a porcelain face of striking features. As she seated herself on the piano bench, the rich folds of her antique gown seemed to shimmer, drenching the fabric in deeper shades of jewel-like crimson. She looked almost Elizabethan, the back of the dress elaborately laced, with a high-necked ruff the color of fresh blood.

  The lush, romantic strains of Chopin drifted from the keys beneath her fingers and the partygoers, most of whom were standing, drew a collective breath. The English beauty sat very straight, bending slightly toward the keyboard. Her musicianship was flawless and she played with depth between the swelling crescendos. Yet, surrounding the lady herself was an air of unapproachability, almost coldness. Alan knew from having lived in London that the upper classes of English society were raised to betray very little emotion in public, and perhaps that was what he was observing. It could be that she, too, furtively glanced at the gilt clock above the mantel and silently cursed her brother’s name.

  Lady Sharpe concluded the piece
with a flourish. Alan realized then that there was real passion in the soul of Lucille Sharpe, expressed through music. She was more than the decorous traveling companion of her brother. He wondered what she dreamed of, what she wished for. She was two years older than Sir Thomas and, apparently, unmarried; certainly she must have had chances. Perhaps she had been widowed? Would she welcome an American girl into the family, step aside as Sir Thomas’s hostess and allow his new wife to shine?

  As the assembly broke into applause, Lady Sharpe rose and dipped in modest acknowledgement. Then attention turned from her and murmurs rippled through the room. Like the others, Alan turned from the lady to see what the cause was, and his lips parted in surprise.

  Sir Thomas Sharpe, the hallowed guest, had arrived at last.

  And Edith, stunningly dressed in a gown of champagne satin that Alan had never seen before, was on his arm. Their appearance bespoke a couple, and Alan was bewildered. She had said she was not coming, yet here she was. He looked to Carter Cushing and found he too appeared astonished at his daughter’s arrival. What was Sir Thomas’s part in all this? Did they not see that this dramatic entrance was rather scandalous?

  I should see to Eunice, he thought. This will upset her, and she has every right. But he couldn’t stop staring at Edith. She was a vision, cheeks rosy, hair tenderly gathered up to reveal the slender column of her neck, the smoothness of her shoulders. The little girl who had wept at her mother’s grave had grown into a beautiful woman, and he could not help the way his heart played its own melody of yearning. He doubted, however, that her heartstrings were strumming a tune for him. He was still her childhood playmate, not a man who might win her affections. Certainly no match for the dark-haired aristocrat before whom the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses.

  Someone who, he feared, may have already won her affections. As they joined the party, Edith’s smile was mysterious, like the Mona Lisa’s. As if they had shared a confidence before crossing the threshold of Alan’s home and had sworn to keep it always to themselves.

  He swallowed his consternation as the pair approached. Edith regarded Alan gently as she and Sharpe faced him together. She said, “Alan, may I introduce Sir Thomas Sharpe?” Then she turned to Sharpe and said, “Sir Thomas, this is Dr. McMichael. The best man in town if you’re feeling poorly.”

  Perhaps she meant it as a compliment, but Alan felt damned by faint praise. Was that all he was to her? However, he said politely, “That’s quite a glowing presentation. I’m Eunice’s brother, sir. I’ve heard so much about you.” There. He had reminded Sharpe that the baronet had offered Eunice hope back in London, and politeness required that a gentleman treat her with decorum now.

  “A pleasure.” Sharpe bowed slightly.

  Sharpe gestured to his own sister, who joined them. Eunice and their mother approached on Sharpe’s other side, their faces carefully composed. “And, Edith, this is Lady Lucille Sharpe—my sister.”

  “Charmed, Miss Cushing,” Lady Sharpe said. “You’ve managed to delay my brother quite a bit.” She waited for that to sink in, and then she continued. “Eunice was growing awfully desperate. You see? She claims that no gentleman in America knows how to dance a proper waltz.”

  She kissed Sharpe’s cheek. “I trust you will oblige.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Alan saw his sister smile. So all was mended then. Good. He felt so relieved. And now Edith would be released to consent to a dance with him; he savored the prospect. The bright side was that she was here now, and that was delightful.

  “I will if you play it for me, dear sister,” Sharpe said.

  Lady Sharpe regally inclined her head. “With pleasure.”

  When Edith moved to stand beside Eunice, Alan noticed the distance she had put between them. Then Mr. Cushing stepped close.

  “Interesting development, don’t you think?” he said in a low voice.

  Alan heard the disapproval in his voice and wondered if he had missed something. He nodded. And then he tensed as his mother approached Edith. Her smile was forced, and her eyes were hard as diamonds.

  Mother, please don’t stir up a hornet’s nest.

  “Edith, what a surprise this is,” Mrs. McMichael bit off.

  Edith flushed, indicating that she knew that she was rather in the wrong. She had already sent her regrets, and to show up on the arm of Eunice’s suitor was an affront.

  “We were not expecting you for dinner,” his mother added, in case Edith did not fully understand the gravity of her social faux pas.

  “I know,” Edith said contritely, “and I am terribly sorry for this imposition. I am sure there is no place for me and—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, my child,” she interrupted her. “Everyone has a place. I will make sure you find yours.”

  Alan inwardly winced at the barb.

  Over at the piano, Lady Sharpe arranged herself and flashed a tiny, complicit smile at Eunice. With a theatrical sweep of his hand, like a magician, Sir Thomas took a candle from a nearby candelabrum.

  “The waltz,” he began, playing to the gallery. “Not a complicated dance, really. The lady takes her place slightly to the left of the leading gentleman. Six basic steps. That is all.”

  Alan’s sister and their mother were attentive, eager. What woman wouldn’t be, about to be swept into the arms of a true-life Prince Charming?

  “However, it is said that the true test of a perfect waltz is for it to be so sweet, delicate, and so smooth, that a candle flame will not be extinguished in the hand of the lead dancer. Now that requires the perfect partner.”

  Eunice, of course, Alan filled in. His sister would be so enthralled that he doubted her dancing shoes would touch the ground.

  Sir Thomas turned… and held out his hand to Edith.

  “Would you be mine?”

  Everyone in the room gasped. Edith’s eyes widened, and then she looked demurely down. Alan saw her lips move, but he could not hear her reply.

  * * *

  Edith looked at Sir Thomas’s outstretched hand and wondered if he had any idea of the scene he was causing. A brewing scandal, and the shame it would bring on her. There were murmurs among the guests, and she couldn’t make herself look in Eunice’s direction. In the heat of Sir Thomas’s gaze as he had challenged her to come with him to the party, Edith had thought of herself as a New Woman, freed from the strictures of the old century. But now that she stood before him with eyes downcast, wordlessly begging him to observe propriety, she realized she wasn’t quite as modern as she had supposed herself to be. These were her friends, and she wanted their good opinion… no matter how desperately she would love to dance with him.

  “I don’t think so, thank you,” she said in a voice meant only for him to hear. Ladies never refused a gentleman’s invitation to dance. However, this was beyond the pale. Yes, she had arrived on his arm, but she was not here with him. She had felt almost Bohemian, an artistic nonconformist making an entrance… but having anticipated that Sir Thomas would propose to Eunice tonight, she had fully expected to bid him adieu soon after. “But I’m sure Eunice would be delighted,” she added bluntly, further bolstering her awkward but nonetheless sincere desire to put right her foolish indiscretion.

  His smile did not waiver. “I daresay, but I asked you.” To the onlookers, he said, “Please make some space.”

  Somehow she found herself moving to the center of the ballroom. Which was worse? To stand there while he stretched out his hand for an eternity while everyone awaited the apparently inevitable outcome? Or to get it over with? Eunice and her mother were stricken, and Edith didn’t blame them.

  “Eunice is a very sweet girl, you know,” she murmured. “Kind and loyal. I am flattered, but—”

  “Is it so hard to accept that you’re beautiful?” he said softly. “As well as delightful and intelligent?”

  “I can’t do this, I can’t. Please,” she protested.

  Lady Sharpe put her hands to the keyboard. And Sir Thomas’s gaze was unwave
ring. Insistent.

  “I’ve always just closed my eyes to things that made me uncomfortable. It works wonderfully. Won’t you try it?” he urged.

  And she knew that she was going to waltz with Sir Thomas Sharpe.

  “I don’t want to close my eyes,” she replied. “I want to keep them open.”

  A sweeping melody rose from the piano as Edith’s fingers descended lightly into Sir Thomas’s outstretched palm. His touch electrified her, and the dance—their dance—began. Gliding, his hand firm on her back, he led her in the simple but majestic steps. Gazes locked, his face swimming before her, his expression confident and… joyous? He was finding real pleasure in waltzing around the ballroom with her. And she with him.

  The flame on the long white taper in his grasp fluttered but remained lit, attesting to his mastery as he traveled the floor with her. Her hand in his, his smile, the grace with which he moved and caused her to move. She felt so different. The connection she had felt in the meeting room held, grew, binding them as they glided together, perfectly matched. Faces blurred and the requirements of civility no longer took precedent; they had entered a private world where no one else existed. At least, not until the last notes of the dance drifted away and then, of course, it was over.

  The candle Sir Thomas held still glowed, and Edith, utterly transformed, made a wish deep inside her heart and blew it out.

  What that wish was, she would never say out loud, but Sir Thomas’s satisfied smile and courtly bow seemed to answer it with an unspoken yes.

  Then Sir Thomas’s sister rose from the piano and left the room. With one more gentle look at Edith, he took his leave and followed her out. He took Edith’s heart with him.

  Surely he knew that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CARTER CUSHING STOOD before the mirror in the shower room of his club. His shaving things and a fine breakfast of ham and eggs, coffee and a small glass of port were spread before him. The attendant, one Benton, had just hand-cranked the phonograph and it played an old sentimental tune that his dear, departed wife used to hum. Her voice had been so sweet; he had loved to close his eyes and listen to her singing lullabies to Edith. And reading to her. The nursery had been a refuge from the hard dealings of the male world—a world he had tried very hard not to deny his headstrong daughter, since she was determined to make her way in it. But in this instance, he must protect her if there was anything to protect her from.