When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  “Mutton be damned! Can’t you see I’m busy!” Wilmott snapped.

  “Yes, I quite see,” Honoria said meaningfully, making Lissa color. “But, nonetheless, we must have some dinner.”

  “That cursed cook! That pilfering witch! I’ve given her the household allowance! How can she need more!” In his anger, Wilmott’s face turned beet red.

  “You don’t give her enough, Father, that is why we run out before the month is over.” Honoria was blushing furiously now and Lissa began to feel sorry for her. It seemed her father was even more of a skinflint than she was.

  “I’ll be right back, my dear,” Wilmott said to Lissa, resuming his pandering tone. He patted her hand and walked to the library with Honoria. Lissa could hear his lecturing until they disappeared down the passage, but long afterward, phrases like “the sinfulness of flagrant spending” and “the purity of the thrifty home” still made their way to the foyer.

  Thoroughly chagrined, Lissa sat in the huge marble foyer until the carriage arrived. When she heard the steely creaks of its wheels on the cobbles, she immediately stood and allowed the butler to help her to the conveyance.

  It was clear she was to wait for Wilmott to accompany her, but she had made no such promise. When the butler stepped back into the manor, Lissa leaned out the window and asked the driver to take her to Violet Croft cottage. She gave the elderly gent such an imploring look that barely five seconds passed before the carriage took off.

  That same morning, George Alcester stood by a pond and skipped acorns on its wavy surface. It was a splendid autumn day with a crisp breeze that rustled the brilliant oaks now at the peak of their glory. The little boy’s hair was ruffled, but he gave his appearance not a whit of concern as he hurled the acorns into the pond. A dark look was upon his face, and it became blacker still when he heard far away the Nodding Knoll school bell faintly peal the noon hour.

  From a distance, Ivan Tramore watched the little boy. George scowled, threw his last acorn, and settled himself upon a fallen poplar to brood. But then, as if from years of school-day discipline, the boy took out his dinner pail and began his midday meal. Seeing this, Ivan almost smiled.

  Tramore had been surveying the estate, having taken a glossy bay steed from his stables. He had just come into the pond clearing when he saw the lad. Concealed by a clump of yews, he now bent to his two mastiffs who sat obediently at his mount’s flanks.

  “Pups,” he whispered to them, “seek!” He nodded in the direction of the young boy. Immediately upon their master’s command, the two huge canines scrambled for the edge of the pond. They skirted the water and were upon their target almost before the lad had time to look up. Startled by the enormous dogs’ approach, George leaned backward, his dinner pail clutched to his chest. However, the mastiffs politely seated themselves at his feet, wagging their whiplike tails, their eyes glued to George’s delectable dinner pail.

  After giving the dogs several distrustful looks, George relaxed a bit. Once convinced they meant him no harm, he dipped into his tin pail and took out a piece of sausage. The mastiffs’ tails wagged furiously when he offered them each a morsel. As he went to give them another piece, the dogs tried licking his face. Soon he tumbled from the poplar and was on the forest floor squealing with laughter as the dogs playfully competed for a dry spot on his cheeks.

  “Good pups. Now sit.” From the forest, the mastiffs’ owner appeared on his steed. Hearing his voice, the dogs immediately complied and again sat in unison at the stallion’s flanks.

  George looked up at the tall, unsmiling man and scrambled to his feet. With his mouth open, he stared at the wicked scar on the man’s face. Caught in the act, he guiltily looked away, then darted uneasy glances at the intruder as he dismounted.

  “What are you doing here, lad?” Ivan asked, his dark gaze resting on the boy’s face.

  George wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. “I was having my dinner,” he answered.

  “I see.”

  “Is this your pond?”

  “Yes, it is.” Ivan crossed his arms in front of his chest disapprovingly. “I daresay, lad, you should be having your dinner in the schoolroom.”

  George looked away. “Are the dogs yours too?” he evaded.

  “Everything is mine. All that you see for miles on end. Now I ask you again, shouldn’t you be in school?”

  George scowled. “I’m never going back there again!”

  Ivan cocked one of his jet eyebrows. “If you don’t go to school people will think you’re stupid. Would you like that?”

  Taken aback by this statement, George scrutinized him. “I’m not stupid!” he exclaimed.

  “Perhaps, but the only way to prove that is in school.”

  “I’ll prove it another way!” he retorted.

  “The other way is far more difficult.”

  “Did you go to school?”

  The question took Ivan off guard. His face tensed almost imperceptibly. Slowly he answered, “No, I did not go to school.”

  Perplexed by this answer, George could only stare at him. Finally he asked, “Are you stupid then?”

  Ivan released a black laugh. “I say, lad, you’d best watch your tongue.” With that one statement, George appeared suitably chastised. But perhaps because he seemed so, Ivan felt compelled to answer him. “It may be that I’m not stupid now, but a long time ago, many people thought I was. Poor and stupid go hand in hand, I’m afraid.”

  George looked thoroughly confused now. “But you’re not poor either. You said you own everything for miles.”

  “I was poor then, and not going to school only made things worse.” He nodded his head to the tin dinner pail flung aside near the fallen poplar. “Go fetch your things, lad, and I shall take you back to school.”

  “I’m not going back there! I don’t care if people call me stupid! They call me worse things already!” George stomped away and once more took up skipping acorns across the pond. The mastiffs watched the acorns fly, their sad, ugly faces tilted to one side in fascination.

  “Think of your sisters, Alcester. Won’t they be upset to hear that you’re skipping school?”

  George spun around to face Ivan. “How—how did you know who I was?”

  “I know who everyone is in Nodding Knoll.” Now it was Ivan’s turn to skip acorns across the pond. His, of course, went farther and faster. George was visibly impressed.

  “What’s your name?” he finally asked.

  “Ivan.”

  George took in this bit of information, then he became wary. “My sister Lissa knows you.” He put his hands on his hips and brazenly stared up at the dark, awe-inspiring man. “But I don’t think she likes you.”

  “Oh?” Ivan said flatly. “And why is that?”

  “I’m not sure.” George scowled and skipped another acorn. “But I think it’s because she didn’t have any suitors.”

  “Anywhat?” Ivan asked, unable to hide the amusement in his eyes.

  “Any suitors. She said once that if she had some suitors then Ivan Tramore could go to the devil.” George looked hopeful. “Perhaps you aren’t Ivan Tramore?”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  The boy looked thoroughly disappointed. It was obvious he had begun to like this man who was skipping acorns with him. Reluctantly he said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be speaking with someone my sister wants to go to the devil.”

  “I suppose not.”

  He brightened. “But perhaps it would be all right because she has a suitor now.”

  “She does?” Ivan narrowed his eyes. “And who might that be?”

  “Old Moneybags Billingsworth. I don’t like him very much. He smells kind of musty, but Lissa says we won’t be poor any longer when she marries him.” George turned thoughtful. “I don’t mind being poor though. I’d rather Lissa not marry him, but she says it’s for the best.”

  “Old ‘Moneybags’ eh?” Ivan said, chuckling, and skipped his best acorn yet.

  George look
ed at how far the acorn went before sinking into the pond. “I think Lissa should marry you,” he said abruptly. “You skip acorns much better than old Mr. Billingsworth ever could, I’m sure.”

  The corner of Ivan’s mouth tipped in a smile. “We shall see, lad, but now you really should return to the schoolroom.” Noting George’s stormy expression, Ivan tempered it by coaxing “If you let me take you back and you promise not to miss school any more, I shall let you come to Powerscourt to visit the pups.”

  “Truly?” George seemed tempted.

  “Truly. You may come to the castle anytime—anytime, that is, when you’re not supposed to be attending class.”

  George thought upon the offer for a moment, then he finally succumbed to the bribe. He went to fetch his dinner pail and his books. As if they were his prize, he covetously patted each dog’s head. “The pups—what are their names?” he asked.

  “Finn and Fenian.”

  “What strange names . . .”

  “Not so strange to the Irish,” Ivan answered. “Finn was a most famous Irish king, and many a story has been told of the Fenians—they were legendary Irish warriors.”

  “And how can you tell them apart?” The boy looked at each dog. They were obviously brothers; even their black and gold fur seemed marked with the exact same pattern.

  “I tell them apart this way.” Ivan commanded, “Finn, down.” One dog immediately lay down. “Now you try.”

  “Fenian, down,” George said, and the other dog went down also.

  “Shall you have them escort you back?”

  George nodded.

  “Come, pups.” The mastiffs immediately went to their master and stood at his side. “Come along, Alcester.” Ivan gave him the reins of his stallion and they started back to Nodding Knoll, but before they left the pond, George couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking one last question.

  “How did you get that scar on your face?”

  The back of Ivan’s hand immediately went to his left cheek. He lowered it, and slowly he answered, “I got it in a fight.”

  “Did you win?” George asked.

  “That hasn’t been determined yet” was the only answer Ivan supplied before nodding his head toward the path back to town.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  George’s schoolteacher seemed truly concerned when she told Lissa the news later that week. “Miss Alcester, the entire situation is really quite puzzling. More tea?” The elderly widow held out the pot.

  “No, thank you.” Lissa covered her cup with her gloved hand. “However, I am curious as to why you asked me here.” She looked around at George’s classroom. The children were already gone for the day. Empty, the room smelled only of chalk and lavender—lavender water being Miss Musgrave’s favorite fragrance.

  “I really don’t know what’s been going on.” The widow indulged in another cup, then put the teapot back on the iron coal stove. “You see, George has been skipping school.”

  Lissa’s hand tightened around her teacup. She had suspected as much, but now she wished fervently it wasn’t true. How could George go to Cambridge as their father had if he was missing school? Without pondering the financial improbability of that thought, she became angry. George had lied to her! She’d known something was going on; she’d known it for weeks. But every time she’d questioned him about it, he had never indicated it was this bad. Now he was being truant. That little shameless liar had even told her what they’d been studying in school. Africa indeed!

  Hearing Miss Musgrave’s embarrassed cough, Lissa once more gave her her attention. The schoolteacher hesitantly continued, “I think the problem is, of course, that George is teased about your . . . situation.” The widow gave her a knowing, sympathetic look. “And because of this I’m afraid to admit that I’ve been hard-pressed to punish the lad. I almost don’t blame little George for wanting to skip class.

  “However”—the widow straightened—“we both know the boy must keep up. A brighter boy I’ve yet to meet. It won’t do for him to turn into a hooligan—and that’s just what boys become when they miss school; they become hooligans.”

  “He won’t miss class any more, I promise,” Lissa said. Already she was pondering his punishment.

  “Oh, I know he won’t. And that’s what’s so terribly odd about this situation.” Miss Musgrave took a tiny sip of tea. “You see, several weeks ago, he was missing school almost every day, then Tuesday he returned just after the dinner hour and hasn’t missed a minute since.” The widow smiled sheepishly. “You see, Miss Alcester, I would have informed you earlier about all this; however, for some reason I was led to believe that George was home helping you take care of your sister, Evelyn Grace.”

  “What made you think that?” Lissa asked.

  “Well, that’s what the little hooligan told me! He said he was helping you with Evelyn, and I didn’t want to press him for details for fear that your sister was terribly ill. But then, imagine my shock, Miss Alcester, when Mrs. Bishop told me today that Evelyn has been in the Mercantile nearly every day this week! I was absolutely astounded. That’s hooliganism for you!” Miss Musgrave lowered her voice. “We must stop it now, Miss Alcester. We cannot delay. For George’s sake.”

  Lissa stood determinedly. The lies had gone far enough. “He won’t miss another day. I shall see to it myself.”

  “But I still wonder what made him decide to come back on his own, don’t you? I suspected you had talked to him, but I see now—”

  “He probably imagined what a fury I would be in if I found out.” Lissa’s cheeks reddened with anger. How could George have done this to her? And worse, how would she punish him for it, when she understood better than anyone his reasons for not wanting to attend school? She clutched her silk purse in her hand and nodded to Miss Musgrave. “I do thank you for telling me. You’ve always been so fair and so kind to George. Now with all the trouble he’s caused, he hardly deserves your regard.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Alcester,” the elderly lady said, walking out of the schoolhouse with her. “George is a bright and handsome lad, and I daresay he has me quite under his thumb. But we must be firm here. The boy should go on to university, and he won’t unless he stays in the classroom.”

  “Thank you so much. You’re too kind. I shall speak to George as soon as I return home.” She squeezed Miss Musgrave’s hand and bid her farewell. With deflated spirits, she began the walk back to Violet Croft.

  She didn’t get far, however, before she spotted the subject of her ire walking ahead of her up the castle road. In the distance, she could barely make out his form through the elms, but she knew it was her brother. There was no mistaking his dark hair, nor his gait, which was more swagger than walk.

  The late-afternoon light was already beginning to fade and an icy wind swept through the countryside. A leaden sky had threatened snow all day, but even now all it produced was a few flurries. She pulled her dove-colored mantle closer to her neck, then quickened her step. Her eyes were trained on George but he never looked back. He seemed quite intent on going to the castle. She found this odd and would ask him what he was doing when she caught up with him. She would ask him a lot of things when she caught up with him.

  But how would she discipline the boy? Somehow, no matter how painful, she and Evvie would have to think of a way to do it. George had been indulged his entire life. His sisters had desperately tried to make up for the loss of their parents and for The Scandal that had occurred in the wake of their deaths. But now they would have to be firm, they would have to be—

  A cry escaped her lips. From out of the elms, two huge, terrifying mastiffs came galloping down the lane toward George. In the whipping wind, George didn’t even hear her cry of warning before the animals were upon him, knocking him down and mauling him.

  Numb from fright, she began running toward her brother, determined to save him from death, even if she had to pull the savage canines off of him with her own hands. Upon hearing George’s squeals, she found she had to sup
press the desire to faint dead away. Terrified, she ran without paying due attention to her cumbersome crinoline. Immediately it caught in her toe and tripped her up. She almost took a brutal fall before two strong arms went about her waist and lifted her up.

  In the back of her mind, she registered that it was Ivan who held her, but she was too intent on rescuing George to do anything but cry out, “Help him! Help him!”

  She tried to pull from Ivan’s grasp and continue running toward her baby brother, but much to her horror, Ivan not only did not help George, he refused to let her go. She reached toward her little brother and clawed at the steely arms around her, but they held her like manacles. Finally, in agony, she cried out, “Release me! They’re going to kill him!” She didn’t expect the soothing baritone response she received from her captor.

  “Only if affection is lethal.”

  “My God, what—what are you saying?” she cried, still terrified for her brother. But before her question was answered, George answered it himself. She watched as he scrambled from the road, his blue tweed jacket ripped at the shoulder, his checked trousers covered with dust. Yet he was laughing joyously nonetheless, and the two mastiffs bounced alongside as he ran farther up the castle road.

  “George! George Alexander!” She practically screamed at him. Hearing her voice, George spun around, but his brow turned stormy as he looked at his sister with Ivan Tramore’s arm wrapped intimately around her waist.

  “Come here at once!” she demanded before twisting to face her captor. When she met Ivan face to face, she gritted her teeth and said stiffly, “Unhand me, my lord, if you would be so kind.” He was holding her much too closely. She had gone to see Miss Musgrave without having donned a corset, and she was mortified to feel Ivan’s large, strong hands sweep down her unbound waist. His breath warmed her cheek and she could see every blue fleck in his irises and every taut movement of his lips. For one wild moment, she even thought that he might try to kiss her, but instead she was released and he allowed her to stumble backward on the road. She shot him a furious look for being so unchivalrous, then she hurried over to her brother.