Ransom Redeemed (18 page)

"Oh, I —"

"Please do. I should like to get to know more about the woman who has captured my son's heart. I promise I am not as fearsome as you might have been told."

Mary's first instinct was to believe her ears were playing tricks upon her. She did not turn to look at the man behind her, but kept her gaze fixed to Ransom's face. He had closed his eyes again, as if in great pain, but was he merely hiding from her? His hand still held Mary's in an unwavering grip. "Sir," her throat was dry, making her tongue feel awkward, thick and clumsy, "I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding—"

But his father had resumed that long stride back and forth across the carpet, not listening. "I began to think it would never be. Some men are simply not made for marriage. Nor are some women. It is always a business of chance and risk."

Her pulse was racing and Ransom Deverell's sly thumb was pressed hard to it, measuring the reckless pace.

He opened his eyes and said, "I think we should be married directly now, Mary. Under the circumstances. Since I do not know how long I have."

Surely she was dreaming. None of this had happened. She must still be in bed beside the snoring "Violette". It could be the only explanation for any of it. And by some trick of the mind, in this somnolent state of being, she was unable to move her tongue to argue, just as it was sometimes in a dream when she could not make her feet move forward.

Ransom's dark gaze held hers. She could not blink or look away. Slowly his thumb stroked her wrist.

"Mary is the only woman who can save me. I knew it the moment we met. She knew it too."

Save me
, he'd entreated her, with his strong hands clasped around her arms,
and I'll be in your debt.

Behind her, his father had picked up a newspaper and rustled it, while murmuring a distracted, "Hmm."

Mary mouthed anxiously at the man on the couch, "What is this mischief?"

But he ignored her. "To rephrase Mr. Dickens and Master David Copperfield—
Whatever she has
tried to do in life, she has tried with all her heart to do well; that whatever she has devoted herself to, she has devoted herself to completely...in great aims and in small, she has always been thoroughly in earnest."
He paused, his gaze searching her face. "I believe she will serve her husband with the same devotion as she takes on other tasks."

The quote she recognized from
David Copperfield.
So he must have begun to read it after all. Mary was
shocked into silence. When she thought she was a woman who had seen and heard everything, he still surprised her.

What other tricks might he have up his sleeve?

He had memorized that passage for her, to show her that he understood, that he could make an effort.

Mary felt another terrible tear threaten her composure, but she fought it back. Oh no! He would not make her fall in love with him more than the little bit she had allowed in already. He was unpredictable and everything bad for her. She ought to consider, for instance, her combustible petticoats.

If only she had not such a weakness for a good novel.

He squeezed her hand. "My future wife does not suffer fools gladly, or indeed, in any other way, sir. She let me know that from the start. If I can have her at my side for my last hours, I shall be content."

"Well, I see she has improved your bloody mood already," his father gruffly, tossing the newspaper aside. She felt a hand on her shoulder then and looked up. "You can give my son something to live for, Miss Ashford. Perhaps he will finally slow his horses, although it seems almost too remarkable to be believed."

Ransom looked away, wincing. "I knew it would be a trial for you to believe I could win the hand of a good woman, sir. I am the son least likely to make anything of my life, is that not the case?"

"That's up to you, boy. Man holds his own fate in his hands."

Now Mary was in a most awkward position. How could she speak? True Deverell had shown a tentative measure of relief at the idea of his son soon to be married, and with Ransom in the sorry state of an invalid, supposedly convinced he lingered at the threshold of death, Mary was reluctant to spoil the moment of fragile peace between father and son.

If Ransom currently amused himself with a wicked game at her expense, he was likely to grow bored eventually and give it up. And if his brain truly suffered from some momentary confusion which caused him to believe things had happened which had not, then he could soon recover, be back to his normal self, and remember that he was not the marrying kind. He did not like "leashes".

Finally she freed her hand from his, reaching for her coffee cup again. "We will talk
properly
of this matter later, when you have rested and recovered your strength." When they had all cooled down, like the coffee, and when she knew exactly what was going on inside his mind. As well as her own.

What if Ransom really was dying? How could she turn her back and walk away from someone in need? She'd lost too many people already. Life and its opportunities were so fleeting.

The truth was she
did
feel as if they'd known each another longer. Perhaps because of her long friendship with his sister? And she did...she did care about him. Very much. Far more than she should in light of their short acquaintance and his reputation.

"I had to find some way to keep her company, sir," he muttered drowsily, as his eyes began to close again, "and she is too respectable to dine alone with a man like me, so I had to ask her to marry me. It was the only thing to be done."

"Hmm." His father, while wearing a hole in the carpet with his booted feet, and turning the air blue with the curses he threw out under his breath, succeeded in producing only dust and bumping into the misplaced furniture, adding to the sense of chaos. He did not draw close to the couch, but on this circling, pacing guard, kept a distance from his son as if a line were marked on the carpet to show a boundary.

"What do you think of her, sir? Is she not a Renaissance Madonna?"

"Hmm. If you say so."

Mary decided that she had better take charge, since Ransom Deverell had put her in this unenviable position and everybody else appeared to be letting him get his own way, yielding to his every whim as if he were a spoiled prince. Girding her Ashford loins, she stood. "Why don't you let your father and Mr. Miggs help you up to bed? It will be much more comfortable there."

Behind her his father tripped to a halt.

"But this couch is red," the patient complained. "The blood won't show." His lips turned down at the corners. "I do not want to be a bother. Heaven forbid."

"Don't be foolish. Did you not send for me so that I could talk sense into you? Then you had better listen, otherwise I have had a wasted journey across town in the snow."

His eyes narrowed as he looked up at her, peevish.

She continued briskly, "You need a bath, or, if that cannot be managed, at least a once over with a wash rag. Then a warm bed." Walking to the end of the couch to adjust the blanket over his bare foot, she slyly pinched his big toe.

The patient jumped a few inches.

"It seems your numbness is wearing off," she commented wryly.

After a few more grumbles he agreed to being moved, "But only to please you, Mary dearest."

She watched as his father, Mr. Miggs, the butler, and a footman ferried the patient out into the hall and up the stairs, utilizing an old dressing-screen panel as a stretcher. It required shouting, grunting, and maneuvering that had probably not been witnessed since the construction of St. Paul's Cathedral.

When the front door bell rang, Mary was the only one with a free hand to answer it and so she did, to find a very perplexed Dr. Woodley waiting on the step, come in answer to her summons.

Chapter Seventeen

"He exaggerates his condition, no doubt— loves the drama, like his mother. But I was damned concerned when I arrived yesterday and found him barely conscious, unmoving..." True Deverell helped himself to kippers from the sideboard and sat across the table from Mary, tossing his plate down with a clatter. "Of all my sons he's always been the most trouble, of course. Blasted boy!"

He seemed angry with everything— even the salt-cellar raised his ire. But it was clear the man had endured a tiring few days. He was unshaven, his clothes disheveled, boots still spattered with dried mud from his journey. The way he speedily and ruthlessly dispatched that smoked kipper also suggested he had not eaten since his arrival.

"It must have been a dreadful shock, sir."

A slice of toast went to its fate immediately after the kipper. "Hmmm." He growled through a mouthful and shook his knife before pointing it at her, "And when I find out who is responsible I'll give them a shock too. One they shan't recover from."

Mary slowly spread butter on her own toast. "There is no idea who did this? Or why?"

"I'll find out, don't you worry. Luckily I came when I did, for he would never have sent word to me." He scowled hard across the room at some invisible foe and then drained his coffee cup. Finally he pulled himself back from dark thoughts, wiped his lips on a napkin, cleared his throat, and said, "But tell me— what is Miss Mary Ashford's story? You appear sane enough, but looks can be deceptive."

"I am a friend of your daughter's, sir. We have known each other for a decade."

"And Ransom?" He dropped his knife to the floor and swore lavishly, looking at his fingers as if he could not understand why they had failed him.

"We met but recently."

"What about your family?" he demanded brusquely. "They surely don't approve of my son."

She hesitated.

"Don't be afraid to tell me," he added with a smirk and a wink. "I am well aware of society's general opinion when it comes to me and my litter. You won't tell me anything I haven't heard before, but it will be useful to know where we stand in your case."

It occurred to Mary that he was wondering whether
she
might be the cause of this attack against his son. "I only have one sister left, sir," she assured him hastily. "A younger sister left in my care. In fact, she will be waiting for me, as we have an important errand today at the dressmaker."

"Just the two of you, eh? What happened to your parents?"

"My family once resided at Allacott Manor in Somersetshire, but—"

Getting up abruptly, he returned to the sideboard to fill a second plate.

"My father had to sell the estate." Mary left it there. The name had registered nothing on his face and he did not seem to be listening now anyway. No need to mention the gambling habits of her brothers, or their reckless decision to go off together to battle. Or of her father's unwise investments, the succession of poor harvests, his stubborn refusal to try new methods of farming, and the loss of many land laborers to war and to the factories. All the frustration of watching her father make bad decisions for the estate and having no power to intervene, because she was only a daughter. Only a woman who should be decorative and obedient, and preferably silent.

No reason to dig all that up again and let the bitterness seep through her veins like poison. She was a "meek little bookseller" now and adjusted to her lot. Or she had been until a certain Wednesday morning when a draft blew through her new life and brought a mischievous genie with it.

"Damned shame," he muttered, "but those old houses are a drain on any man's pockets. The world is changing. Mark my words, Miss Ashford, more of those old estates will crumble unless the old aristocracy learn to adapt, use their imagination, work hard. Stop sitting by and expecting other people to do it for them." Then he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. "I don't suppose that's much comfort to you now though, eh?"

She couldn't answer that and fortunately he didn't wait long before he continued spooning a mound of scrambled egg from a chafing dish onto his new plate. The way he addressed her was very familiar— like his son. He did not stand on ceremony and expressed himself, with a generous measure of curse words, as if he felt quite at ease in her presence. But it was a welcome change that he did not speak to her as if she was inferior, stupid or in any need of his pity.

"Any relation to the artist Hugo Ashford?"

Mary almost choked on her bite of toast. Nobody ever raised his name in front of her these days. "Yes," she managed tentatively. "He was my uncle."

Deverell nodded and moved along to cut a large slice of pork pie, then stabbed some plump sausages with the same knife, adding them to his overcrowded plate. "A great artist. Underappreciated I always thought."

Warm gratitude swept through Mary's heart at this unexpected praise for her uncle. In the blade of her butter knife, she saw a deep flush color her face. "Yes. He was a very special man and a fine artist." To be able to talk of dear Uncle Hugo openly with anybody felt like a wondrous treat, but at the same time rather naughty since it was a subject strongly discouraged by her father when he was alive.

"There are many folk who say I have no eye for art. How can I have any? An uneducated bastard like me?" He laughed curtly. "Those
cultured
experts think a foundling like me has no right to own any of it. I bought all the art in the house. My son would never buy art himself, for then he'd need a permanent abode of his own in which to put it all."

"This house is yours then, sir?"

He nodded. "Bought it thirty years ago or thereabout. My first real home. I never had a permanent roof over my head until then. This was my chance to show off the wealth I'd acquired. My first attempt at breaking the ‘Upper Crust’ and a most successful one."

"It is a very beautiful building."

"But it was never a happy home. All for show." Returning to the table, he shuddered and his eyes darkened. "There are too many memories of my first marriage. Sometimes it seems as if they cling to the curtains. Like smoke."

She knew what it was to suffer too many memories, whether unhappy or not. If she ever went back to Allacott Manor she was sure the ghosts that lingered would tear her apart and all these years of carefully built composure would shatter, revealing the silly, irresponsible, vulnerable girl who still dwelt inside her and occasionally came up with fanciful ideas.

"My son did not want the place, but when he took over at Deverell's I decided he ought to live here— have a separate house to escape to once in a while. Sometimes I think he would be more content living in a hayloft over a barn." He gave a little snort. "Ironic, considering how hard I worked to escape such humble dwellings."

Somehow she could not see Ransom, in his fine garments, living in a hayloft. But she stayed quiet and let his father speak, learning more about this man who had, like a cuckoo, invaded her life and tried to make himself a part of it. And True Deverell held nothing back. He did not speak in polite words, selected not to upset a lady; he spoke bluntly, as if to another man at his table.

"My son disdains permanency. He prefers to be the free, wayfaring, limitless bachelor running from commitment and his own shadow. Instead of investing in property that will appreciate in value, he spends his money on ephemeral moments— races, parties, champagne, and fancy curricles that will lose their worth the moment they've been ridden."

Was he telling her all this to warn her, or put her off? She looked at the crumbs on her plate. "But he...he is generous."

"Is he?"

"He has been to me, sir."

Deverell hunched over his second plate of food, both elbows on the table. "It
must
be love then," he muttered wryly. "He's always been more selfish than altruistic. Damn cub enjoys his devious pranks." Looking up at her, he added, "Indeed, I thought this sudden plan to marry was just another hoax. His idea of a jest. When he sent for you, I expected a strumpet with a backside fit to rest a tankard on, rouge troweled onto her cheeks, and bubbies hoisted up to her chin. The sort you can find, three for sixpence and a bottle of sherry-sack, down by the docks."

It didn't seem right to laugh while Ransom was in such a bad way upstairs, but Mary felt a smile threaten as his father painted that lurid image in her mind. No man had ever spoken so straightforwardly to her.

"Frankly, Miss Ashford, you were something of a mule kick to the whirlygigs," he added dourly.

Did that mean she'd been a disappointment, she wondered. Perhaps he didn't like to be proven wrong by his son.

While Mary struggled to hide her amusement, she watched him devour the second helping of food.

"So what can you possibly find alluring about that boy? The money, eh?"

She stared. "I can assure you, sir, I don't care about the money."

"Of course you do. You're not an imbecile, are you? Everybody needs money. The game of life requires money. If you haven't any you can't play the game."

Mary gathered her thoughts, rearranged the crumbs on her plate, and said, "When I first met your son I dismissed him as the typical rake about town, but I have since found that he has many more layers. I believe...I believe he wants to be different. Perhaps..."

She had surprised herself. Her voice trailed away.

If I had a good woman, Mary Ashford, to put me to rights, I might become a worthier man
.

Why did she even believe he meant that? The man was an accomplished, infamous seducer. He knew how to appeal to her weaknesses, just as he knew how to find any woman's soft spots.

But his words echoed inside her. It was as if, even before he ever laid a finger on her person, he had already touched her soul.

The fire in the grate crackled softly, and snow still tumbled against the tall windows.

Across the table, True Deverell spoke again through his food. "I have no right to advise you. You're not my cub, of course. But I hope you have your eyes open, Miss Ashford."

"I always do, sir."

"And I hope that this isn't just some momentary fancy on my son's part. Some prank. Forgive me if I seem harsh, but no woman has ever kept his interest beyond a month. Once he's had her she's usually swiftly forgotten."

What could one say to that?

"I shall be glad, of course, if this marriage comes to pass and I was cheerful to keep up my son's spirits, but one must look at the odds. You're a sensible woman, so you must know the risk."

Mary was amused to hear that True Deverell had considered his demeanor "cheerful".

This time she was saved the trouble of answering, when the butler entered to announce that Dr. Woodley had completed his examination.

Deverell scowled, exhaling a low curse. His gaze fixed Mary in a stern beam of silvery light. "You had better see to the sawbones. I might just bite his bloody head off."

"I hope you are not offended that I asked him to come, sir."

He shrugged. "That was up to you, Miss Ashford. My son could very soon be your responsibility completely so you may as well start now. I hold little faith in doctors and their leech-craft, but I shall defer to you on this occasion." He gave her a very brisk, crooked smile that left her wondering what he really thought of her, and immediately looked back at his sausages. "Tell the fool to send me his bill."

Mary curtseyed, although it did not appear to be expected, and followed the butler out.

* * * *

Dr. Woodley stood in the hall, putting on his gloves, hat tucked under his arm. "Miss Ashford! How astonished I was to receive your message this morning. I had no idea you were acquainted with the Deverell family."

Mary was in no mood for pointless chatter. "How is he, Doctor?"

He looked very dour and even greyer than usual as he shook his head. "Many of his wounds are cuts and bruises, the like of which need only time and patience to mend."

She clasped her hands together and felt hope lift her mood. For just a moment.

"However, he complains of severe pain in the chest. These things are not easy to diagnose, but I fear it likely the gentleman has a wounded lung," he added. "It could be a puncture to the tissue. I was unable to examine him fully, as Deverell was... most difficult." His countenance became very white and stiff, nostrils flared. "He refused to be handled."

"I see."

"Such injuries can, sometimes, heal themselves, but with such an injury there is a great risk of septic infection spreading throughout the body."

Hope fell like a bird pierced by an arrow. The flint blade of fear ripped through the flesh of her heart, and left a hollow that filled with sadness. Ransom Deverell had his faults— as did they all— but he did not deserve this. Such a vicious attack could never be justified.

"I cannot say it is certain, but from the location and intensity of the pain I would say a putrid effluvium of the lung is likely."

"And what...what can be done?"

He shook his head, eyes closed and lips pursed. "Very little unless the lung rebuilds naturally, which is doubtful, especially if there is a broken rib. His breathing is constricted now, and it will only continue its decline."

Mary thought quickly, searching her mind as if it were a shelf of books, each binding engraved with a memory of something she'd heard or learned. She suddenly remembered reading one of Mr. Speedwell's pamphlets extolling the virtues of pure air therapy administered through an inhalation apparatus. As a voracious reader, Mary devoured any written material at hand, however dry the subject matter, especially if it took her mind off hunger at breakfast. "If he struggles to breathe, doctor, could pure air not be applied to assist? I read that—"

"Oh, I doubt it could do any good in this case."

"But I read of it in one of Mr. Speedwell's medical journals."

He granted her a condescending smile and stopped just short of patting her on the head. "Leeches applied to the area will surely do more good. Tried and true remedies are seldom improved upon, Miss Ashford. It is best to leave these matters to learned men. Do not fill your brain with ideas beyond your understanding. The collection of those booklets is an amusing hobby for Thaddeus Speedwell, but for a young lady like yourself to study them...I fear, it can only be dangerous."

She tried to keep her temper, to steady her thoughts and be practical. To remember that he meant well.

Dr. Woodley advanced a step closer and lowered his voice to a deep, gloomy rumble. "I understand congratulations are in order, Miss Ashford. The gentleman tells me that you and he are to be married."

Mary's heart was beating far too quickly, the tiles under her feet spinning. Her head felt light, empty. Slyly, with both hands, she reached for the ankle of a statue behind her and held it tightly. The coolness against her damp palms was a welcome, soothing relief.

"I cannot imagine how this came to pass, but I wish you every happiness, of course," he went on in the same tone. "I have only myself to blame for being such a foolish old procrastinator."

Forcing herself to pay attention, she blinked and then frowned. "I do not understand what you mean, Dr. Woodley."

"For these past few years I...I had planned to ask you myself, Miss Ashford. Surely you were aware of my interest. Of my growing attachment."

"Oh." Her face felt very hot. She was embarrassed on his behalf and considerably shocked. Violet had often joked about the doctor's interest, but Mary never took it seriously as a possibility.

"Your blushes concede it to be so. You
were
aware." His lips bent in a tepid smile, but his eyes retained their usual limp, dolorous aspect. "Do not distress yourself, my poor, dear lady, for I will not press upon the matter. It would have been a comfortable match for you, even if I say so myself. A
respectable
match. However, I left it too late to ply my suit, while you waited patiently. The fault is entirely mine. I am a dithering old fool, and I let the chance slip through my fingers. I kept you waiting too long and now, out of desperation, you have resorted to this match. I fear I have wounded us both. Can you forgive me?"

She awoke slowly to the realization that, despite the severity of his patient's health, Dr. Woodley was still talking about himself. Now she could not deny the engagement to Ransom Deverell, or else the doctor might mistake it as a hint that he should make his offer after all.

Let him go now with some pride intact, she decided. Let him imagine that she might have said 'yes', if only he had asked in time.

So Mary released her grip on the marble statue, gave a sad smile and said, "Dr. Woodley, you have been a very good friend and I hope that will not change in the future."

"My dear Miss Ashford!" He clasped her hand and kissed it with more fervor than she had ever seen from him. "I will not turn my back upon you in the dark days to come, although others undoubtedly shall when they learn of this strange choice."

Apparently an engagement to Ransom Deverell was the first step in her descent to hell. After a pause to arrange her thoughts and calm her temper, she replied, "I must ask you to keep this matter a secret for now, Dr. Woodley. You are, in fact, the only person outside this house who knows."

As she walked him to the door, he promised not to speak a word of her engagement to anybody.

"What about the patient's head, doctor?" she asked. "Could he be suffering confusion?"

"He may have had a slight concussion, but he seems to have his wits about him now. Certainly knows where he is and who he is." He sniffed. "Had enough arrogance to give me short shrift."

Taking his bag from the footman, he was about to leave when Mary stopped him.

"But what can be done for his comfort while he heals?" She refused to think that Ransom Deverell might die.

Dr. Woodley paused as he waited for the footman to open the door. "Keep him rested, the head of the bed elevated. I shall send over some laudanum to help with the pain. But in all likelihood rot will set in and the lung will thoroughly flatten, unable to take in air. The tissue will continue the decay once it is begun." He exhaled a gusty sigh. "Unless, of course, he recovers."

"So in your
learned
opinion," she said with just one stubborn, wiry vine of anger creeping through her voice, "he might die. Or he might live."

He tipped his hat. "Precisely, my dear Miss Ashford. You see the lot you have taken on. I will send the bill to Mr. Deverell, shall I? The sooner the better, I expect." And he walked out into the snow.

She stood for a moment in the silent hall, watching the footman close the front door.

There was one final glimpse of Dr. Woodley pulling up the collar of his coat before he stepped into his carriage and then the outside world was shut out.

It felt significant to her in that moment— the deep thud of that door, keeping her here, in this strange world, while everything else she once knew went on as it always did on the other side.

Here, she had turned onto a new path, to walk in the unpredictable world of the Deverells, where men cursed freely in front of women and spoke to them as if they were equals. Where passionate tempers flared without any attempt to hold them in. Where orgies had been held— according to gossip. Where men declared they were going to marry women they hadn't even asked. And where "Peelers" and the law were not welcome. They dispensed their own justice, it seemed.

Well, she could not turn her back on Ransom now, could she? Whatever happened, fate had brought him to her and he had asked her to save him. Dr. Woodley called it the "lot" that she had taken on.

He might die, or he might live. But could that not be said of anybody, every single day?