Ransom Redeemed (17 page)

* * * *

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 He was a withdrawn child, and a nervous, restless a
dolescent, 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 beli
eve 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.

"Miss Ashford." He took her hand in his firm grip. "I regret we meet under these circumstances. My son told me nothing about you before this, but then, of course he has never been one to share his confidences with me. Or with anybody. We never know what he might do from one day to the next." He smiled crookedly and briefly down at her. His gaze quickly, thoroughly assessed her appearance, followed by the puzzled quirk of an eyebrow. "That boy never ceases to surprise me. This time, at least, the surprise is pleasant, even if it comes late."

The manner in which he held her hand within both of his and shook it so warmly, suggested that he thought her a close and dear acquaintance of his son's. Still unsure what she was doing there, Mary politely asked when he had arrived in London.

"I came down yesterday, meaning to persuade my son to ride back with me to Cornwall and spend Christmas with us at Roscarrock Castle." He sighed. "The boy insists upon staying alone in Town every year, but my wife thought he might agree to come if I asked in person and if it only kept him away from the club for a few days. When I arrived, I found him in this state."

"How dreadful. I'm sorry that I did not—"

"I hope you are not upset that you have only just been sent for. I'm afraid my son faded in and out of consciousness after he was attacked. His first sane words to me, when he finally spoke, were about you. Had I known, of course, I would have sent for you sooner. But nobody knew, it seems."

Before she could respond to that strange comment, he was escorting her into the drawing room, one hand under her elbow.

"My son has refused to be taken to a hospital or even to his bed above stairs. At present he lays on the couch. He says he doesn't want to get blood on his bed sheets and cause more work for the maids. While he is in this mood, he is an insufferable wretch. I can barely hold my temper, I don't mind telling you. He can be stubborn as a bull. And a martyr, like his mother."

Ransom Deverell was stretched out on the red couch before the fire, swaddled in blankets and with a bloodied cloth tied around his forehead. A bare foot stuck out at the end of the blanket, the heel resting on the arm of the couch. It was the sight of that naked foot which suddenly and unexpectedly caused a tear to spring up in her eye.

Must be the shock, she supposed, and the suddenness of all this. It was early and she had not eaten breakfast. Yes, she could find many excuses for a little tear. But there had better not be any others to embarrass her.

She must remember that bruises sustained in a fight often looked much worse than they truly were. So she prepared herself for what she might see.

"Ransom," said his father in a louder voice, "Miss Ashford is here, as you asked." He turned to the butler, who hovered by the door looking ashen. "Please bring some tea, will you— or," he looked at Mary again, "perhaps you prefer coffee? Or chocolate?"

"Coffee, thank you. That would be most welcome." Tea seemed too tame and ladylike for the occasion and chocolate too much of a treat.

The man on the couch moved finally to show he was still living and reached out his hand from the blankets. "Don't lurk where I can't see you, Mary," he wheezed.

His father took her coat and pulled up a chair for her beside the couch, angling it so she could face the sick man. "I'm sure your visit will do him some good, Miss Ashford." He lowered his voice again. "Perhaps you can persuade him that he will be far more comfortable upstairs in a proper bed."

"Don't fuss, sir," Ransom groaned. "The reason I wanted her here is because she
won't
fuss. There is nobody more level-headed than Miss Mary Ashford." And she caught just a very little glint of amusement from under his black lashes. "She won't take my nonsense, or be overcome with pity." Then his eyes opened wider. Or one did, for the other was too badly swollen. He tried to sit up, staring at her as if she might be a ghost.

She touched her braid, feeling self-conscious. "I'm afraid Mr. Miggs startled me this morning, and I completely forgot to put it up. I must look a sight." It all added to the dream-like strangeness of this situation. In fact, looking down at herself, she was only surprised not to see her nightgown.

"Yes. A very pleasant sight, all disheveled and not long out of your sleep." The corner of his mouth twitched in a pained smile, before he fell back to the pillows again. Someone had made the couch up, as best they could, with extra pillows and blankets to create a makeshift bed.

"I'm very sorry to see you like this, Mr. Deverell. What happened?"

"They sprung upon me in the dark. I got in a few punches of my own, but there were too many."

"You do not know who is responsible? It should be reported, surely."

"Better we handle the matter ourselves," his father growled. "Keep the peelers and the law out of it. I'll deliver the punishment."

"Could have been anybody," Ransom muttered, sullen. "I've been told I make enemies. Too many enemies."

His face was very bruised and puffy, his lip cut. She could tell from the way he moved and spoke that his chest and ribs must hurt too. "I have asked Dr. Woodley to call upon you. Will you see him?"

Pressing his head back into the pillow, he exhaled a low moan and a curse.

"You ought to be examined," she urged gently. "He could give you something for pain and help you to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep." Horror darkened his gaze. "I never want to sleep."

"But you must. It will help you heal."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead, which will be soon enough now, Mary."

She heard his father pacing back and forth behind her. Or prowling, rather, anxious as a caged leopard.

"I'm quite sure you're much more durable than that," she said with all the confidence she could muster, for his father's benefit as well as his. But she was rather alarmed at his appearance. Usually so tall and vital, so restless, he looked very different today— broken and bloody. Mary knew that the most dangerous wounds were often those on the inside, things that could not be seen. Sometimes they caused a slow descent into death; sometimes the end came suddenly, with no real warning. But when the worst peril was hidden from the human eye there was little to be done about it.

"I was assured recently that I would only see the error of my ways once I was on my deathbed," he said. "It turns out this was correct. I see things much clearer now, so that must be what it means."

Mary studied him cautiously, trying to ascertain whether he really believed he was dying or not. Ransom's expression would usually give him away, but with his features distorted and discolored he may as well be wearing a mask. His father was clearly concerned, although he appeared to be trying to hide it under a brusque temper. She had seen how upset Mr. Miggs was, and when Mary first arrived at the house she observed a stout lady by the door to the kitchens, sobbing into her apron. The mood in the house was definitely somber as the grave.

Much of the furniture in the drawing room had been rearranged around the couch, newspapers, handkerchiefs, pillows, dishes and brandy glass, all placed and piled within his reach, but in messy disarray that suggested it was all done in haste. The curtains were kept closed, the gas lamps low. Everybody, except his father, walked about as if on tiptoe, and she was surprised they had not yet put straw out in the street to quiet passing horses' hooves.

At that moment the butler brought in the coffee pot and cups, steering them carefully on a wheeled trolley. "Mrs. Clay hoped she might tempt you to eat something today, sir. To that end she's made a dozen delights— all your favorite. There is cinnamon toast
and
plain, Madeira cake with apple jam, pork pie, kippers, boiled eggs and porridge, to name but a few things, waiting in the dining room for the guests and I can bring you a tray in here, sir, if—"

"Good God, no. I couldn't eat. But Mrs. Clay's efforts must not go to waste. I daresay Mary might be hungry."

Why did he keep calling her by her Christian name? His father did not raise an eyebrow at the familiarity, but then they
were
Deverells and did things differently.

While the butler poured coffee, she looked at Ransom and said cautiously, "Why did you send for me? What can I do?" Perhaps he wanted her to take a message to his mother, she thought. He had enough people here attending to his every need.

His eyes narrowed. "Where else should you be but at my side at such a time, Mary? If you have something more important to do than bring comfort to a dying man, then don't let me keep you."

"You are not dying," she said firmly.

"You say that as if you have power over life and death. I ought to know whether I'm dying or not. If you start being argumentative, I'll send you home again."

"Feeling sorry for yourself is no excuse to be rude," his father interrupted, terse. "Although I daresay Miss Ashford ought to know what she's getting herself into. She must be able to manage you or she wouldn't be here."

She tried a sip of coffee, but it too hot and burned her tongue.

Getting herself into?
What on earth—

"I sent for you, Mary, because I knew you would not fuss, nor flinch at the sight of blood, nor be indiscreet and gossip. You are, in fact, the only decent and rational woman I could think of. Sensible," the wounded man gave another pained grimace, "to a fault."

His father, who apparently had as much ability to be still as the son, had walked out into the hall with the butler, discussing some matter of the house.

"And to think—I never believed I'd have much use for a woman like that," the injured man continued wryly. "But now I do."

"Ransom Deverell, I cannot be the only woman of good sense that you have ever known."

"None other came to mind, I assure you."

Mary understood why he wouldn't want his mother there— Lady Charlotte did not like to speak of blood and sickness, let alone see it, and did not know how to be sympathetic, invariably turning the matter to being something about herself. But surely..."Of all the other women you know—"

"I do not know them. Not the way I know you."

"In slightly less than a fortnight?"

"But I have
known
you longer." He poked a finger at the ceiling.

Having no idea what he meant, Mary could only assume that his mental state was disturbed. "I suppose some of the women you know are married and therefore could not be summoned," she muttered.

He looked at her, his eyes blank, as if he was thinking about something else and not listening to her at all.

Mary cleared her throat. "Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, for instance," she added.

"The icicle? She wasn't here for me. Well, not exactly."

She waited, eyebrows raised.

"That woman is one of my brother's problems. Not mine."

"I see."

"And I gave up Belle Saint Clair the same day I met you. Finding you was like walking into that lamp post, Mary Ashford. You both put a stop to me."

But there were others, probably. Or there would be, once he was back on his feet. Could a man like Ransom Deverell ever keep his gaze from wandering? He needed blinkers, like a plow horse, she mused.

As if he read her mind again, he huffed, head falling back to the pillow. "You won't believe me, so why bother? Besides, there have been other women, of course, and you know that. I'm no angel. But that's all in the past now. I'm starting again, for the time I have left."

"The time you have left? A good forty years at least."

"I fear not even forty hours, Mary. I can feel nothing from the waist down and breathing itself is a deuced struggle." He exhaled a frail sigh to demonstrate. "Will you fluff up my pillow, Mary?"

She put her coffee cup on the trolley and then, while he held his head up, she rearranged his pillow.

But he took advantage of the moment to grab her hand and press it to his lips, apparently less sleepy than he appeared. "It was a lucky day when we finally met in person, Contessa."

His father's footsteps were returning to the room and Mary tried to regain custody of her own hand, but Ransom held it tighter still.

"You're remarkably strong for a dying man," she noted drily.

"It is a strength born of desperation. I am determined to make the most of my last days."

True Deverell re-entered the room, strode around the couch and stood behind Mary, one foot tapping. "Will you stay to breakfast, Miss Ashford?"