She swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that stuck there. "Nothing very much. I hardly heard. He seemed in a great hurry."
"Hmph. As always. Never a moment for polite conversation. I quite despair of him."
I am, if nothing else, straightforward in my purpose when I take pursuit.
It was ten years since anybody had seriously pursued Mary. Eight since her heart and pride were unceremoniously trampled. She had, as she was always telling Violet, resigned herself to her lot and her only hope now was to see her sister well and happily married. In the meantime she had her novels, the bookshop, and all those little things in which she took pleasure.
But was it enough for her?
You deserve much more than this.
Even when her father and brothers were alive, nobody had ever suggested she deserved anything special. Daughters were never as important as sons. Women took whatever chance they were given and made what they could of it. They did not carve out their own opportunities, or else they were accused of being forward. It was not dignified to grasp. Certainly Mary had never dared suggest she wanted more than she was likely to be offered.
Why would she, when she did not know what else she could have?
Suddenly the possibilities before her had expanded.
As she glanced through the window of the haberdasher's, pretending to examine the weather, Mary saw that Ransom lingered outside the shop, apparently caught in conversation with another man. He ran fingers back through his hair and laughed. People passing on the street turned to look at him, because he was too beautiful to be ignored. Men and women alike stumbled into each other, too busy wondering who he was to pay heed to their steps on the crowded pavement.
But suddenly the hammering beat of Mary's heart ceased again when she saw a face from her past. There, across the street, also watching Ransom, was a tall, distinguished gentleman in a fine grey coat. His hair was a little whiter than it had been the last time she saw him, and the skin had a few more folds, but there was no mistaking the hard, proud features of George Stanbury.
She moved away from the window, fearing he might see her.
Then, chiding herself for being so foolish as to think he could see her in the window from across a busy street, she peered out again. This time he had crossed the road and was walking toward the shop. But his steps slowed. He stopped, half turned, consulted his fob-watch. People did not look at George as they passed, for there was nothing especially interesting that drew their notice, but she saw how they instinctively gave him a wide berth. His forbidding air of grandeur kept them from any attempt at contact, even that of the eye.
Had he seen her?
No. He walked on, passing the shop, moving with the flow of people, just a few feet behind Ransom Deverell.
She could breathe again. George Stanbury had no idea how close he came to being beaten by Violet's shoe.
* * * *
He had called in at the law offices of Stempenham and Pitt, but Damon was not there. A visit to the boy's lodgings also yielded nothing.
Deciding he did not have the time to trudge up and down town looking for his brother, just to give him bad news, Ransom gave up. Damon would find him when he was ready. In all likelihood the boy was sulking over a bottle of brandy somewhere, licking his wounds.
And Ransom had other, more pleasant, subjects upon which to dwell. Sitting in his office at the club, thinking about the sensuous arc of Mary's waist under his palm and the perfume of her hair, he grew restless again and got up to pace around his desk.
Finally his gaze fell to the book, still sitting where he had left it after unwrapping the parcel and reading her note of apology.
If you ever get around to reading that book I sent you, Mr. Deverell, then we might have something to talk about.
He had expected to be over this fascination by now, but it was worse, spreading throughout his body. And seizing his mind like some sort of tropical fever.
With a heavy sigh, he tapped one finger to the cover and then walked around his desk in the other direction to pour a brandy and light a cigar.
Below, in the club, business was brisk. The sound of male voices and laughter echoed up from the main floor. Later he would go down and walk around, greet some of the regulars, ensure that all ran smoothly. But for now he had a moment to himself.
He sat and reached for the book. Miss Ashford, for all her clever insights, did not know that Ransom had an extraordinary ability to read a vast number of pages in a short time. Not only that, but his mind absorbed the words and kept them there, exactly as he read them on the page. This was yet another peculiarity of his that irritated tutors and fellow students, and from the first moment he discovered this talent he used it to annoy them even more.
But one had to make one's entertainment somehow.
Wouldn't do any harm to peruse a few pages of this book Miss Ashford thought he might enjoy. Slowly he opened it and began to read.
I am born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously...
* * * *
Ransom did not leave the club until much later. It was full night by then, but the rain had paused and a handful of stars speckled the cold, inky black sky. The air tasted like snow. By morning the ground would have its first crust of white, no doubt.
After a few words with Miggs, who would close up that night, he set off for the house and his bed. For once he was actually looking forward to sleep. His thoughts had lately been so full of Mary Ashford that there was no room for the ghost of Sally White.
Ahead of him, in a pool of gas light, a figure stepped off the pavement and raised a hand in greeting.
"Deverell! I knew it was you."
He slowed the horse, wondering who it was, not recognizing the voice.
That crisp glitter of starry night sky was reflected too in a puddle that stretched across the road.
Those stars— first the pattern on the ground and then, once again, those in the sky— were the last thing he would remember seeing that night, just after he dismounted and the first blow struck the side of his head.
* * * *
Hell was considerably colder than he'd expected. Once again somebody must have let the fire go out.
And once again Ransom Deverell felt certain the end was upon him.
Some would say, "Not before time considering the way he lived his life."
If only he had found a good woman to keep him out of trouble, but he was a man beyond redemption and everybody knew it to be so.
Distantly he heard a church bell ringing. It was midnight.
It was midnight on a Friday— the same day and hour that Dickens' Davy Copperfield was born.
If only he could begin all over again.
He knew what he would do, if given that chance.
Part Two
A Moderately Sensible Woman
Chapter Fifteen
Excerpt from the memoirs of True Deverell.
From the very beginning he knew he had already lost his son. The boy he named "Ransom" belonged to his wife, her creature, a weapon to be used against him in the war of their marriage. But even so, after thirty years of bloody battle, when the sudden end came and his son lay dying, the father was not prepared to say goodbye. In that dark moment, True Deverell's thoughts returned to birth.
To the moment it all went wrong.
This child was made where there was no love—much the same as True's own beginning. But he could have tried harder, he could have been a better father. Instead, his son had suffered as the consequence of an unhappy, unholy union that left him, by turns, neglected and abused.
Lacking maternal instinct, his mother, Lady Charlotte, was never happier than when she could complain about her
life, and her eyes lit up with glee when she told her eldest son of the "degradations" to which his common, uncouth father supposedly exposed her. She spared no details in her eagerness to win the boy over to her side.
But Ransom, unlike his mother, endured pain in silence. He was a withdrawn child, and a nervous, restless adolescent, all too cognizant of the seething hatred between his parents. He grew into adulthood learning to duck and run as thrown glasses flew speedily over his head. All the while knowing that his father looked at him and saw only the woman who had trapped him in marriage.
"You have your mother's eyes," he heard more than once and it was not meant in a kindly way.
By the time True realized the error he'd made in not fighting for his son, it was too late. The die was cast.
As soon as Ransom was old enough to talk, Charlotte had taught him that he was her only ally, the only one who could protect her from his father. And because Ransom wanted to believe he was needed by his mother—by anybody—he absorbed everything she told him, which meant that when her betrayal came it was worse than a dagger to the boy's heart. After that he trusted nobody.
The damage seemed irreparable, but as an adult Ransom did not want to be repaired in any case. He was, as he liked to say proudly to his father, irredeemable.
True understood, for that which was not made whole could never be broken again.
Now death came too soon and his son would never be mended.
But while True Deverell stood by the ailing man's couch and asked, "What do you need, son? What can I fetch for you?" a sign of spring's slender hope showed its face. A snowdrop sprouted.
For his son gestured him close, finally letting him near, and then he whispered in his father's ear...
Chapter Sixteen
She woke, for once, without the usual pinching pains of hunger, and as she lay there, staring up at the starlit cracks in the ceiling, Mary had the distinct impression that she had not come to the end of her natural dream, but that something had woken her. Quickly she sat up, her senses on alert, her breath forming a grey mist before her mouth. But all was still and silent.
Beside her in the bed, her sister snored on, limbs spread out to take up as much room as possible. It was very early, still dark out, a thin trickle of silver starlight falling through the threadbare curtains to trace her sister's form as she turned over, muttering in her sleep. Mary exhaled a heavy sigh that lingered before her lips again, taking ghostly shape not long after the last breath had faded. She did not relish the idea of facing the cold at this hour, but once awake like this she found it impossible to go back to sleep.
A half hour later, she was dressed and, with a gas lamp lit, had made her way down the narrow stairs to the parlor. The room still smelled of pine and cinnamon— good, comforting scents of the Yuletide. It cheered her spirits at once and made her smile.
Her gaze moved over the table, where the material for Violet's new gown, waited wrapped in paper. It was to be made up in a pattern selected by Lady Charlotte from one of her magazines and the material— a lush, deep raspberry silk— was chosen by Violet. They were all in agreement that it would suit her perfectly. Lady Charlotte had suggested a seamstress, which is where Mary and Violet would take the material today.
"This will be a wonderful Christmas," Violet had exclaimed last night, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
Mary, having over-indulged herself with an extra glass of wine, had briefly felt a similar state of elation. But in the back of her mind, when she went to bed, there was something worrying her, a nagging thought that would not be silenced.
As if she had overlooked something.
A sudden draft caught her ankles and made her shiver.
"Wake up, Mary, and get to work," she chided herself crossly.
First order of business was lighting the fire and then she could put the water kettle on to boil. She was still busy with that task when she heard a loud, frantic banging at the shop door.
"Miss Ashford. Miss Mary Ashford? It's a matter of urgency, miss!"
Good lord! What on earth...?
Taking her lamp in one hand, she went to see what was happening. A big, moon-like face peered in at her through the window, anxious and white. "Miss Ashford, come quick! It's Mr. Deverell, Miss. He sent me to fetch you."
Deverell. What was he up to now?
She set down her lamp and cautiously unlocked the door. A giant figure emerged through the whirling snow and stepped over the threshold. Cap in hand, his wide shoulders heaving under an inch-deep layer of snowflakes, crisp and glittering, he pleaded urgently, "Miss Mary Ashford, is it? Will you come?"
She backed up a step, reaching for her lamp, raising it to bathe his rugged features in the amber glow. "Sir, it is not yet daylight. What can you—"
"I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? My name's Miggs, Miss." He rubbed his flat nose with one red thumb that stuck through a hole in his leather glove. "You might remember, I opened the door to you last week at the club, when you delivered that parcel for Mr. Deverell the younger."
"Of course. I remember." His was not a face one could forget and if she had not known him she would never have unlocked the door.
"He's been hurt, Miss. 'Tis very bad." His words came out in a series of quick gasps, like hiccups. "He may not have long left, I reckon, but he opened his eyes at last and the only thing he could whisper to his father were your name and that you must come. So I were sent here to fetch you."
"Hurt? What do you mean hurt?" Her heart thumped unevenly as she closed the door behind him.
"He were set upon by thugs last Friday night on his way home from the club, Miss. Well, very early Saturday morning, I reckon it might have been. I heard a ruckus in the alley, but the cowards scattered when I came, and I found him there on the cobbles, cold as a corpse, beaten and bloody. Didn't even have time to get his knife out, so they must have jumped him. Three or four men it must have been. Now will you come, Miss? There's no time to waste."
"But what can I—?" Her mind spun. Friday. This happened Friday night and it was now Monday morning. And she had felt something amiss. "Why would he ask for me?"
"I know not, Miss. But he won't have nobody else. Only you. His father will be right mad at me, if I return without you."
Miggs looked hopeful and yet helpless at the same time, crushing his cap in both humongous hands, his eyes wide and watery. If Deverell was badly injured...
"I do not know what I can do for him," she muttered, as he followed her back to the parlor to get her coat. "But I suppose, if he has asked for me—"
"He said you're the only one he wants, Miss."
"What about a doctor?"
"Yes, Miss," he nodded slowly. "One o' them fellows came to the house, but, as Mr. Deverell the elder says, he were as much use as a sieve to keep out rain. He chased the fellow out again with a boot up the backside. Neither him, nor the master, hold much liking for sawbones."
By then Thaddeus Speedwell had come down in his slippers and nightcap, so she quickly explained where she was going and asked him to get a message to Dr. Woodley. If the Deverells would let another man of medicine in the house, he was the only doctor she knew and this was the one thing she could do to help. Dr. Woodley was surely trustworthy and always keen to give his learned opinion. On this occasion he could put it to good use.
"Are you sure you should go alone with this fellow, my dear?" Thaddeus glanced doubtfully at her giant chaperone. "Perhaps it is not proper."
"I daresay it is not, but I am a moderately sensible woman, of an age to bear the consequences, and I shall do so with as much equanimity as I can muster. Now, I shall entrust Violet to your care until I return. Do not be deceived into letting her out of your sight. Please tell her I have gone to tend a sick neighbor." It was more or less true.
Miggs had not come with a carriage, but rode on a dray horse the size of a barn. It had to be that large, she supposed, to carry a man of his size.
"You'll have to ride up with me, Miss
. Try not to mind the stench of me too much, but I haven't had chance to bathe of late."
She looked around for a box, or something to help her mount, and when nothing could be found, the big man took matters into his own hands. Literally. Mary found herself boosted upward at some sudden speed with those hands on her derriere. There was no saddle, so she was obliged to hold on to the horse's mane and hope for the best. A moment later Miggs was seated behind her and reaching round to gather the reins.
Again she thought how unreal it all seemed. Little more than a half hour ago she'd been in bed and now here she was on her way to who-knew-what.
She certainly could not say her life was predictable this morning.
It had begun to snow harder, fat, heavier flakes drifting in the wind, speckling the horse's mane. Probably doing the same to her own, for Mary realized she had left her hair in a braid over her shoulder, not sparing the time to pin it up before she left the shop. She had not even thought to wrap a scarf around her head, or find her hooded cloak.
Oh well, she supposed it wouldn't matter that much since this was an emergency. Although what on earth he wanted with her she could not imagine.
It was only just turning light out, but there were folk on the streets already going about their daily business, and some turned to watch the strange sight of that giant horse and its burden.
She imagined what anybody who knew her would say when they saw her like this: There goes Miss Mary Ashford, formerly of Allacott Manor, fallen on hard times and off to join the travelling circus.
* * * *
When Mary first set eyes on True Deverell she was ready to turn on her heel and storm out again, certain that this had all been a cruel jest and that Ransom was actually in perfect health. But after that first flare of surprise, she realized that the silver sprigs around this man's temples proved him to be the father, not the son. The gas lamps in the hall were turned down low so that too had aided in the illusion, making the similarity in looks quite remarkable, but once she was close enough, Mary saw that True Deverell's eyes were not so dark as his sons. They were cool pewter and cloudy with worry.
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