Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization (3 page)

“And he has now crossed the ocean with his sister only to see Eunice again,” Mrs. McMichael continued, preening.

“Mother, he’s here on business,” Eunice protested mildly, but her words were only for show.

“Or so he
says
,” one of Eunice’s sycophants trilled, and Eunice blushed. If she’d been carrying a fan, she would have fluttered it like a butterfly to cool herself.

Mrs. McMichael pressed on. “It seems he’s a baronet.”

“What’s a baronet?” another of Eunice’s companions asked, and Mrs. McMichael shrugged with studied nonchalance.

“Oh, well, an aristocrat of some sort—”

“A man who lives off land that others work for him. A parasite with a title.” The sharp words tumbled out before Edith had a chance to hear herself. Alan grinned behind his hand. But Mrs. McMichael arched her brows.

“I’m sorry,” Edith began.

But Mrs. McMichael could clearly hold her own when any sort of challenge was raised regarding a matter close to her heart. Or more accurately, her pride.

“Well, this
parasite
is perfectly charming and a magnificent dancer. But that wouldn’t concern you now, would it, Edith?” she added with asperity. “Our very own Jane Austen.”

“Mother,” Alan remonstrated her gently.

“Though I believe
she
died a spinster.” Mrs. McMichael’s gaze was flinty, her mouth set in a tight, insincere smile.

“Mother
please
,” Alan said.

“It’s quite all right, Alan,” Edith assured him. She met the older woman’s gaze full on. “I would prefer to be Mary Shelley,” she said sweetly. “She died a widow.” Savoring her sally, she took her leave.

She found a space in the public library’s reading room and set down her manuscript, pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, took out her pen and ink, and set to making her changes. Her pen leaked and smudged her fingers, so that when she smoothed back tendrils of her hair, she unknowingly left her own fingerprints on her forehead.

She had no idea of her somewhat disheveled state when at last she made her way to Mr. Ogilvie’s office. Early. Which the great and powerful publisher pointedly mentioned as she took a seat before his desk. She churned with well-concealed anxiety as page by page he read her cherished magnum opus.

She could have sworn she heard a clock ticking. Or maybe that was her knees knocking.

He sighed. Not a good sign.

“A ghost story. Your father didn’t tell me it was a ghost story.” Each syllable was laden with disappointment.

She was determined not to give up hope. “It’s not, sir. It’s more like a story… with a ghost in it.”

She pointed at the manuscript with her ink-stained fingers. He pulled away. Undaunted, she said, “The ghost is just a metaphor, you see? For the past.”

“A metaphor.” He could not have sounded less enthusiastic. He read on a bit. “Nice handwriting. Firm loops.”

Oh, no. He hates it.

He put the manuscript down and rearranged it slowly, rather like a child’s nurse folding up a soiled nappy.

“So, Miss Cushing, how is your father?” he asked. “In good health, I hope?”

* * *

“He said it needed a love story. Can you believe that?”

Edith was incensed all over again. She leaned forward in her chair, which sat catty-corner to her father’s in the golden dining room of their home, where they were taking their evening meal together. It was sunset, and light spilled over the damask wallpaper and alabaster sconces. The silver serving dishes glittered.

“Everyone falls in love, dear,” he ventured. “Even women.” He was dressed for dinner, every hair on his head carefully combed, his beard immaculately trimmed. Though her father was nearly sixty, the pains he took bore fruit: he looked considerably younger.

“He said that just because I’m a woman,” she grumbled as the maids carried in elegant platters. “Why? Why must a woman always write about love? Stories of girls in search of the ideal husband—being saved by a dashing young prince? Fairy tales and lies.”

An expression she couldn’t read flittered across his face. Then he said, “Well, I’ll have a word with Ogilvie on Monday morning at the club.”

Edith huffed. “You most certainly will not. I will do this. Alone.”

The look he gave her was gentle, and she braced herself for his objections—which she had no doubt he would intend as fatherly concern and nothing more, but which could certainly not sway her from her decided course. Then he frowned slightly and leaned toward her, as if examining her under a microscope.

“When you met Ogilvie, were your fingers ink-stained like that?”

She grimaced, recalling the smudge on her forehead as well. She had only discovered it after her appointment. “I’m afraid so. It won’t come off.”

He brightened. “Aha.” Then he set a small package before her with a flourish. “I was hoping this would be a celebratory gift but…”

She opened it and lifted out a beautiful gold fountain pen. It was the most magnificent writing instrument she had ever seen, and evidence of his faith in—and support of—her ambition to become a writer. Deeply touched, she kissed his cheek. Though he was flustered, the color in his face assured her that he was equally pleased.

“I’m a builder, dear. If I know one thing, it’s the importance of the right tool for the job.”

“Actually, Father, I would like to type it in your office,” she informed him sweetly.

She almost missed his flash of disappointment as he regarded the gleaming pen, which was suddenly obsolete. “Type it?”

“I’m submitting it to
The Atlantic Monthly
,” she said. “I realize now that my handwriting is too feminine.”

“Too feminine?”

“It gives me away. I’ll sign it E.M. Cushing. That’ll keep them guessing.”

He looked pensive. “Without a doubt.”

T
HIS DAY IS
mine.

Despite yesterday’s rejection, Edith was light on her feet. Her hopes buoyed her on confident wings. Once she had a fair hearing—her work read by someone who was not prejudiced against her gender—she was confident that publication would be hers.

She almost—but not quite—imagined how proud her mother would be if presented with a book her own daughter had written. But she held that thought at bay, refusing it a place to land. The image of that blackened hand on her arm, that stench, that horrible voice—

It was only a nightmare. I was mad with grief.

No, you weren’t. You know exactly—

She had arrived at last at her father’s busy engineering offices. Dominated by huge models of buildings and bridges encased in glass, the airy rooms with their high ceilings proved a beehive of activity as engineers, clerks, and assistants examined miniature models, executed blueprints and measured drawings, and conducted the vast business of Mr. Carter Cushing. Her father had built some of the finest buildings in Buffalo, and in many other cities as well. Buildings of stone, brick, and iron that would carry his name and his vision down through the centuries. He was as much an artist in his world as she hoped to become in her own—in her case, the world of books and stories.

To that end, she sat ensconced in the chair of her father’s secretary, her manuscript at her elbow, as she peered through her small round glasses at the alphabet keys, which were arranged in no discernable pattern. Hunting for each letter, it took a span of time to peck the title and opening line of the story. Several spans more to fill a page. Then, with a bit of coaching from the secretary, she touched the return lever and the carriage zipped across the top of the contraption with thrilling speed. Edith was delighted.

“It’ll take me all day, but it does make it look rather handsome, don’t you think?” she said.

The secretary busied herself with hefting a box file onto a shelf. Edith settled back to staring at the odd arrangement of letters on the keys when she became aware that there was some sort of shadow being thrown on the typewriter. She squinted, the merest bit vexed.

“Good morning, miss,” said a voice. Male, English.

She looked up.

The bluest eyes she had ever seen were focused on her. She blinked, riveted. The visitor’s face was chiseled, his dark hair neatly arranged, yet some curls had refused to be tamed. Her writer’s brain conjured words to describe him:
astonishing, elegant, winning.
He was dressed in a blue velvet suit that had at one time been resplendent—yes, another good word—perfectly cut to mold his slim build, but was now nearly threadbare at the cuffs. His ensemble did not speak of poverty, precisely, but he was certainly not well off. Yet he acknowledged her look with a sort of courtly grace that did speak of good manners and a cultivated upbringing.

Other words sprang to mind:
uncommonly handsome
.

She revealed none of this as she waited to see what he would say next. For her part, the secretary was quite breathless. The man also carried a box, wooden and polished, under his arm. It looked heavy; he would have made short work of the task.

“Forgive the interruption,” he said, his upper-class British accent falling tantalizingly on her American ears, “but I have an appointment with Mr. Carter Everett Cushing, Esquire.”

Her father, in other words.

“Goodness. With the great man himself?” Edith asked, assuming a bland tone. She was rather taken with him, but it was not considered proper for a lady to behave too warmly to a man she did not know. And on occasion, Edith had been known to behave properly.

“I’m afraid so.” His smile was a bit tentative and she realized that he was nervous. That only added to his attractiveness, as far as she was concerned. Dashing as he was, he was still human. She kept her eyes fastened on him as he produced a business card and presented it to her.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet,” she read aloud. Then it dawned on her that this was Eunice’s aristocrat. Her
parasite
. Good Lord, she
was
a crotchety misanthrope. She was the Elizabeth Bennett of her day. In
Pride and Prejudice
, Jane Austen’s heroine had come to the exact same foregone conclusion about Mr. Darcy, who had been rakishly handsome and debonair—yet upper-class, and therefore worthy of Elizabeth’s middle-class contempt for a do-nothing snob.

“I will call him.” The secretary moved swiftly to do just that.

Sir Thomas Sharpe crooked his neck as he looked down at her desk.

“You’re not late, are you?” Edith asked. “He hates that.”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m a bit early.”

A man after my own heart. So to speak.

“Oh. I’m afraid he hates that, too.” She wasn’t certain why she was teasing him so. It didn’t matter; she was failing to get a rise out of him. His nervousness had dissipated. In fact, he seemed rather distracted. She was a bit crushed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. But—” he gestured at her manuscript, and she realized then that he’d craned his neck in order to read it “—this is a piece of fiction, is it not?”

She nodded, concealing her consternation. She wanted to explain that the ghost was a metaphor, and to assure him that she had already decided that it was just too silly for the heroine to fall in love with Cavendish on page one and she was going to change it back to the way it had been before Ogilvie had turned it down. She shouldn’t have listened to him, even if he was a famous publisher. Love stories
were
fairy tales and lies as far as she was concerned and… good Lord, he was reading more of it.

“Who are you transcribing this for?” he asked, genuinely interested. But she couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or horrified by the text on the page.

She decided to dodge his question. If he hated it, that would be altogether mortifying. “It’s to be sent to New York tomorrow.
The Atlantic Monthly
.”

He took that in. Read another page. “Well, whoever wrote this is quite good, don’t you think?”

Delighted, she tipped back her head, the better to read his reaction. “Is it?” she tested.

He shrugged as if to say,
Isn’t it obvious to you that it’s good?
“It’s captured my attention.”

He was being sincere. He truly liked it. He liked her book. Not since Alan had anyone read any of it… until Ogilvie. And Alan had listened carefully, but hadn’t provided commentary except to say things such as, “That’s a nice description of the countryside,” or, “I’m sorry, I’m confused. Is the ghost real or not?”

But Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet, had pronounced it
quite good.
No doubt he’d attended superior boarding schools and studied at a great university such as Oxford. He probably had a vast library in his castle and had read Virgil in the original Latin. How could her little book compare?

Favorably, that was how. He had said so himself. She was galvanized. Here was a kindred spirit.

Should she confess? Why not?

“I wrote it. It’s mine.” She heard the pride in her voice.

He brightened measurably. His lips parted and he was about to say something more when her father’s deep voice boomed out.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe. Welcome to our fair city.”

Carter Cushing approached. As he regarded the Englishman, a cloud crossed his face, then vanished when he turned his attention to her.