Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization Read Online Free Page A

Cavendish in my novel
, Edith thought.
    “You leeched the life out of the land, is that what you’re saying?” her father asked sharply. “Bled it dry—”
    “No,” Sir Thomas protested, still quite calm. “New clay shales exist but have proved elusive to reach.”
    Well said
, Edith thought approvingly. Her father was even more intimidating than Ogilvie. She decided to observe Sir Thomas in action and learn what she could of the fine art of salesmanship. Authors often watched the world so that they could properly render it on the page.
    However, during her musings on the subject of being more observant, she had missed a portion of Sir Thomas’s demonstration. He had opened the larger wooden box and pulled out a scale model of what Edith recognized from her many days in her father’s office as a mining drill. He had connected the drill to a little brass boiler and with a theatrical hiss of steam, the burnished brass levels and gears started moving. The drill spun. The miniature was charming, and clearly also quite impressive, for the men leaned forward as they studied it. Little buckets crept upward and she could just picture them scooping out ruby-red clay and depositing it on a wagon.
    “This is a clay harvester of my own design,” Sir Thomas said. “It matches the output of a ten-man crew. Transports the clay upwards as it digs deep. This machine can revolutionize mining as we know it.”
    The men began to applaud, and Edith was pleased for the earnest young aristocrat. What a clever inventor he was. Clever and handsome, then. Eunice was a lucky girl… though Edith doubted her impeding engagement to this man had anything to do with luck and everything to do with her mother’s ambitions. If she knew Mrs. McMichael, the lady had lain in wait for Sir Thomas at the British Museum and “happened” to engage him in some way that, while perhaps somewhat forward, would not have been considered indiscreet or ill-mannered. And the hours Eunice had likely spent primping just in case the meeting was successful would have been time well spent. She
was
a very beautiful young woman.
    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