A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  “I almost hate killing it for them. The HRF tradition and fantasy. What will it do to them? Set them adrift? Not to mention the dents in the family tree—I know you don’t care, but they’re awfully proud of their ancestors.”

  “Don’t worry about them. They’ll be fine.” Gazing down at her, his eyes glimmered in the faint light as he tangled a hand in her thick hair, tilting her chin up. “As for me—I never believed in it. Not an iota. This resolution is as much a beginning and end for me as it is for them. You’ve done more that I can even begin to thank you for. You’ve changed everything for me.”

  Before objections—and the indefinable swell of whatever had been growing inside her and attaching itself to fears old and new—could break free, he was making love to her with such intensity, it was as if it were the first time. Or the last.

  It was much later when she slipped carefully from the bed as he slept. Moving to the window, she clung to a bit of curtain as she gazed out on the quiet neighbourhood, the breeze stirring the treetops, the light from streetlamps and the moon flickering in the swaying boughs.

  Turning, she looked to him to study him from afar; of their own volition, her feet carried her to the side of the bed and she looked down at him, fast asleep and sprawled at a decadent angle on his stomach, silk sheet rumpled over his lower back and hips. Only a sliver of moonlight remained, slicing across a bare calf and bent knee, touching his shoulder and stubbly jaw, catching the tip of his aristocratic nose.

  “Lucius,” she said softly.

  When he didn’t stir, she climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged facing him.

  “Luscious?” she inquired, checking the depth of his sleep.

  Nothing.

  She stroked a hand through the air a few inches above him, following the line of his body. How beautiful he was; how strong. With a brain to match; exceed. Was there ever such a man?

  And yet she suffered no illusions about him. He had moments of mercurial temper; he could be outrageously obtuse. A control freak. Dominating. Possessed of a need to have his own way to the point of running roughshod over others. Stubborn beyond belief. And an unrepentant bed hog.

  Yet he was kind and generous; gentle. Easily giving due credit, for it cost his ego nothing to illuminate the successes of others. No problems admitting when he was wrong—at least with her; well, most of the time. He made her feel special; important. He cared for her, and showed it with the same ease that he did everything.

  But no matter. Whatever he felt for her could not compare to what she had come to feel for him.

  “Lucius,” she whispered, still frightened. Always frightened. At least she knew the why of it.

  He had named it; labelled her childhood. Defined forever the reason why she was this bitter coward who didn’t believe in anything but money.

  Abuse. The thing she had never acknowledged, even though it was so obvious.

  The revelation should have helped. Instead, it reinforced her conviction—indeed, explained why she had believed from the very start that she and Lucius had no future. After all, why would a man, this man, ever choose to be with a woman of such insignificance that even her parents’ abuse of her had been oblique? Unworthy of the outright attention focused abuse would entail.

  He deserved better.

  She licked her dry lips and swallowed the lump in her throat, and said, so quietly that he couldn’t have heard it even had he been awake:

  “I love you.”

  ***

  There were mouths hanging open with excited interest as the Ransome clan was told of the messages of twelve of the Birds. Lucius stood in the back corner of the Falcontor boardroom, watching Callie’s presentation, a smile playing on his lips. Benedict stood beside him, intrigued, but otherwise as much an observer as he.

  “How did she find out all this?” Benedict muttered. “Freaking semaphore poetry!”

  “Guesswork, observation . . . who knows? I stood around being flabbergasted,” he chuckled.

  He was so proud of her it squeezed his heart. Dressed in a sweet little grey suit that enhanced the cloudiness of her eyes, the unruly curls today smoothed and loosened and gathered up in a clip, she still carried that air of innocence that intrigued him and always would.

  And now, seeing her in front of the boisterous Ransomes without a hint of nervousness—but of course, she was never nervous when imparting information in which she had absolute confidence—he couldn’t wait for the presentation to end. Today he would tell her he loved her, and wring a like confession from her—because she did love him; he didn’t doubt it. But she didn’t have the confidence to go first in those confessions; it was for him to do.

  “Lucy’s beside herself since Cal gave her credit, eh?”

  “Yeah. Shh, it gets better.”

  “. . . about the death of love, we made the assumption that there was someone other than Elizabeth in his life. That these paintings were all tributes to Neville’s lover,” Callie was saying. “But we still didn’t know who she could be.” The image on the screen changed to the falcons. “As I’ve noted, we didn’t know what the falcons’ letters were saying, but were convinced they must be key to the whole mystery. The fact that they did not spell out a bit of poetic tribute; the idea that Falcontor might have been named for this painting. In the meantime, Harry Hood sent me pictures that he thought would be of interest, one of which was this.”

  The image of the MNCW appeared.

  “We have that picture,” Charles said. “She’s a Venable.”

  “That’s what I guessed,” Callie concurred. “But she’s not. Her name is Wilhelmina Hood.”

  Blank interest met that . . . and so? The Ransome faces seemed to ask.

  “Her nickname was Mina.”

  Still not getting it . . .

  “That is what the falcons spell.” She had already told them, but told them again. “M-I-N-A. Mina Hood was Neville Ransome’s lover.”

  There were oohs and ahhs and subsequent chatter as the penny dropped. Callie held up a hand in an attempt to stem the noise, to no avail.

  “Quiet,” Lucius said firmly, and they immediately settled.

  She was right about that, too. They do listen to me . . . when they want to.

  But he didn’t think on it further as Callie continued. “It’s not the falcons or this photo that prove it, however—”

  “What more proof do you need?” Aunt Meryl asked in surprise.

  How Callie did not roll her eyes at that point impressed Lucius greatly; she was all about evidence, and assumed the rest of the world were the same. Silly girl.

  “I suppose,” she went on patiently, “that with the other Birds spelling out love and despair, and the falcons spelling the name, one would be justified in thinking they were lovers simply from that. It’s a good theory, but all it really indicates,” she stressed the word very strongly, “is that Neville loved Mina. It does not prove a physical relationship. However, this does.”

  All eyes went to the screen, where now a certified copy of a birth record was displayed.

  “Peter N. Hood. Born twenty-second of May, 1882. Mother, Wilhelmina Hood. Father, Neville Ransome.”

  “They had a baby!” Olivia squealed happily, and of course, the others were just as excited.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “But wait. Wait. They didn’t just have a child together.”

  The image changed again, showing a blow-up of a parish record of Peter’s christening from September 1882, a faint stroke through the name.

  There was silence. And then, from one of the cousins: “I don’t get it. That says Peter Neville Hood. What more does that prove?”

  “Nothing,” she agreed. “But see that stroke through the name? There was a correction, and this note was added in the margin.”

  They were riveted as the marginalia appeared on the screen, and Callie read it aloud:

  “Carlyle Peter Hood Ransome, son of Neville Ransome, gentleman, Chelsea.”

  “Carlyle!” someone exclaim
ed.

  “Look at Mina’s picture again. See how she has Gordon and Lucius’ eyes? Mina Hood is your ancestor. Not Elizabeth Venable.”

  “He was the bastard son of the housekeeper?”

  Well, didn’t they all agree that that was the most amazing thing! And as Callie iterated that this meant they were not related to the Venables at all, having descended from Mina rather than Elizabeth, they couldn’t have cared less! Nope, they loved the semaphore paintings, the story; the whole thing.

  “Tell us more!” they demanded.

  “More? But there isn’t more to the story! That’s it—all that can be proved.”

  But of course, they wanted more anyway, and she looked helplessly to Lucius.

  “Don’t worry about proof, doll,” he said. “Tell them what you think.”

  “O-okay,” she said slowly, fumbling now as she moved into guesswork rather than factual territory. “Um, from what Nathan Crawford told us, Neville and Elizabeth essentially had an arranged marriage, to save the Venables from financial ruin. Sometime after Lily’s birth, he made his residence in Chelsea—”

  “Were they unhappy? Is that why they separated?”

  “Did he meet Mina right away? How do you think they met?”

  “Did he hire her because he loved her? Or was it all an accident?”

  Romantic fools, was what Callie’s rather cynical expression said, but scanning their eager faces, she seemed to surrender to the Ransome spell . . . and started again.

  “I’ve shown you the portrait of Neville from Linchgate Hall, done shortly after the marriage. I was struck by his . . . his melancholy. Judging by the dates of the diary we found there, he stayed on at Linchgate until at least September 30, 1868. By 1871, he was in Chelsea. Mina—and her brother, Martin—were on that census with him, so must have been hired between October 1868 and April 2, 1871, when the census was enumerated. She was very young, then. At sixteen, almost twenty years’ Neville’s junior. When I look at her picture, I see . . . a sweet temperament. I imagine she made a nice home for him, ran things efficiently, perhaps eased that melancholy. Martin was the gardener, and judging from the gardens still at the Chelsea house, I imagine they were filled with flowers. Carlyle spoke of his mother’s love of gardens and flowers—we know now, he meant Mina, not Elizabeth. I think of Neville coming home from some business venture in Amsterdam or Paris, where he travelled often, coming home to warmth and safety. To people who loved him.”

  The Ransomes were enthralled.

  “But he had a wife and daughter. Looking at the Pike, how Linchgate is depicted—eerie and threatening . . . I think Neville hated it, and hated Elizabeth. Who knows how he felt about his daughter? But from Lily’s letter to Carlyle we sense that she grew up without Neville. And at some point, Neville—lonely and seeking love—found solace in Mina. Absolutely by late-August 1881, but it could have been earlier.”

  The interjected dates and piecing together of the available evidence were for her benefit, Lucius thought. She had to provide rationale; the Ransomes didn’t care about such things, but the rationale gave the story balance, keeping it from being too sentimental. Certainly there was a suggestion that she did not approve entirely of Neville’s infidelity. And yet, those wistful words of imagining Neville’s loveless plight told him that she empathised deeply with the lovers. And that there was a reason other than boredom for cheating.

  “There is no proof to say the affair continued beyond the conception of Carlyle,” she said firmly. “But the Birds evidence his love, a love he never publicly acknowledged. Mina—you can see she’s the informant on the birth record—likely wasn’t trying to force Neville into acknowledging his son, and so gave him her surname. And the correction to the parish record—I like to think that was Neville’s insistence that his son have his name. Still, Carlyle always went by the name of Peter Hood—according to the census records—at least until Mina’s death in 1906, and his almost immediate emigration to Canada. Perhaps a delay in legally changing his name. Perhaps out of respect for social norms; out of respect for Elizabeth and Lily.”

  She paused, taking a sip of water, glancing towards him for reassurance. He grinned, nodding at her to continue. Another sip, and she went on.

  “Did Elizabeth know about Mina? Lily knew, but when did she find out? Elizabeth died about six weeks before Neville, so if the reading of the will—wherein it is Carlyle named, not his alter ego, Peter—was the big reveal . . .” She shrugged. “Again, the letter Lily wrote Carlyle speaks of secrets learned late. I don’t know. No one can know for certain. But the legend of the HRF—that almost certainly was birthed from this secret that Carlyle kept his entire life, perhaps because, according to Gordon, Carlyle’s wife was rather a snob who wouldn’t have appreciated his humble roots. Maybe he meant to tell the story of his parents. But with his dementia . . .” She shrugged again, obviously uncomfortable with all this supposition. “And we can’t know if he knew the secret of the Birds.”

  “Do you think he did?” Christian asked.

  “Yes, I do.” On this she was emphatic. “His emotional attachment to them—that he passed on to future generations, to you—indicates he knew of Neville’s tribute to the woman he loved.”

  “A damned ugly tribute,” Gordon declared, grinning, resting both hands on his cane as he leaned forward in his chair. “So, sparky. There’s no hidden fortune.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” The screen flashed through photographs of Neville’s inventory. “Some of these pieces are very valuable. I advise having the collection appraised and sold.”

  Gordon smirked as the family objected to pawning their heritage.

  “You seek a pipedream in the HRF,” she said sharply. “This is real. This is practical. Sell your heritage and dump a few properties. And curb your spending. And, most of all, to listen to Lucius when he advises you.”

  He was astonished by her tone and the scolding words. All eyes turned to him, then away.

  “He doesn’t want to be part of Ransome Group,” Christian said quietly. “Not Falcontor or any of it. But we’ll be okay.”

  Lucius switched his gaze to his father, feeling distinctly confused as the patient sadness there, echoed in other faces as well, registered.

  “Did you ever ask him?” Callie snapped, though quietly. “You can’t hint around with him, you know. We know he’s the head of your family, for all practical purposes. But he doesn’t. All he knows is that you want a Fixer. Stop asking him to fix things that he didn’t break. Maybe that’s why he wants out. It must be hard to feel so used—”

  “Cal—” He stopped. Was that how he felt?

  “Brava, sparky,” Gordon chuckled.

  “Oh.” Benedict said. Then chuckled. “Of course,” as if all the solutions to the mysteries of the universe had fallen into place.

  Blushing and stumbling, Callie collected her notes. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Please help yourselves to a printout of my report.” She pointed to the neat stacks of her collected research on the credenza. “Excuse me,” and she left the room.

  Lucius stared after her, still stunned by the weight of anger behind her words—all on his behalf.

  Maybe that was what annoyed him about bailing the family out; the feeling that they used him when it was convenient, without regard to his convenience or desires. That he was their Fixer, but it had always been James they held onto, while they generally let him go.

  Did they understand James better than he believed? Had they encouraged James and—seemingly—loved him more in the hope of rescuing him? Kept him close to keep an eye on him? And, at the same time, let Lucius go his own way because he didn’t need rescuing?

  He knew his family loved him. And they loved him enough not to object or resent his constant pushing away.

  He’d been pretty rude to them over the years, now that he thought about it. And looking at them now, he felt ashamed for not having unravelled this puzzle of his life sooner.

  It took several minut
es for the family’s abashed apologies to register, but when he at last refocused on them, and apologised in return, it was to find a group of willing soldiers begging for a coup d’état.

  ***

  The key dropped on the hall table with a decidedly tinny sound, and she stared at its shiny shape, her mind blank.

  Another key grated in the lock and her entire body jerked, her leg knocking against the suitcase at her feet. She had hoped to be out of here before he came home!

  The door swung open; he was almost as startled by her presence as she was by his arrival, but he recouped much faster.

  “Your phone is off,” he said, his gaze devouring her.

  “The battery . . .” she said lamely and untruthfully.

  “You knocked their socks off,” he began, but even as he spoke his gaze fell to the suitcase.

  “I’m sorry about the last bit. I shouldn’t have scolded them. Not my place.” She glanced at the living room clock, just visible from where she stood.

  He stepped towards her. “We’re going out to celebrate. I have so much to tell you.”

  “Oh, I can’t! I have to go home. And my other work . . . I’ve fallen behind.”

  “Liar,” he accused mildly. “Don’t look so scared, Cal. I’m not mad about anything. Quite the opposite.” He stepped closer.

  “It’s over,” she said with all the coolness she could muster, chin tilting up and eyes meeting his. “The HRF solved, the family . . . well, I assume they’re falling in line.”

  He arrested his advance; she inwardly winced as his expression hinted an understanding of what she meant to do. “How do you know that?”

  “Sometimes, people just need to be told once. They’re reasonably clever; I could see that they didn’t know until that moment how you felt, and saw them . . . realising.”

  “Ransomes aren’t usually good at coming to understandings.” His voice was smooth still, but he was worried; she could see it. Or perhaps puzzled.

  “Well, I have to go. Thanks for everything. It was a wonderful summer for me. Really the best.”