Ransom Redeemed (7 page)

"I have enjoyed our time together and will always remember you fondly," he continued. "But as you said, I won't be ready to settle down until I'm on my deathbed. And I'm not dying today, or any day soon I hope."

"Ha! You do not finish with me!
I
finish with you!" She looked around— possibly for something to wound— and saw the brown paper parcel resting on the corner of his desk. With one swipe of her arm she sent it to the floor, whirled around in a satin flurry, and stormed out.

Ransom got up to retrieve the torn package of books from the floor. Now, through the shredded paper, he finally perused the titles Mary Ashford had selected for him.

Hints on Etiquette and the Uses of Society, with a Glance at Bad Habits
.

A Book of Good Manners for Boys and Girls.

A Gentleman's Guide to Proper Decorum.

He
laughed so loudly that Miggs came to see what was amiss.

Miss Ashford, like most people, underestimated him. Nothing new there. He liked to be underestimated, especially by women, for it kept him one step ahead of their natural cunning. And it kept an important distance, a buffer between the Deverell of myth and the real man.

But for once in his adult life, Ransom wished he'd left a different impression with a woman. A better one.

Chapter Six

Violet hunched her shoulders beneath a knitted shawl and gloomily surveyed the contents of her chipped tea cup. "I heard a man laughing earlier in the shop. Who was it?"

Mary was folding a letter she'd been reading before her sister came down. "Dr. Woodley came to collect his order."

"He doesn't usually have anything to laugh about. I believe he thinks laughter is akin to hysteria and bad for the digestion." Violet gripped her tea cup with both hands and sniffed. "I suppose he fussed all over you, as usual. I do not know how you can tolerate it."

"The gentleman means well, sister. He is very kind."

"He'd like to make you his next wife and workhorse. I daresay he needs someone to keep his house clean and cook his meals, and he knows he has no competition for your hand." Violet sneezed so violently she almost spilled her tea. "To be sure, he bides his time until you lower your guard, or we become even poorer. If that's possible."

"My guard?" Mary passed her sister a handkerchief. "What guard?"

"You must know how you are, Mary. You keep a barred gate between yourself and any man who shows interest these days. After that despicable cad, Stanbury, broke your heart and married another—" Violet clutched the handkerchief to her nose just in time to catch another sneeze. The cup wobbled in her other hand, tea splashing over the rim.

"Oh, Violet, that was
eight
years ago and I seldom give George Stanbury a thought now. Must we dig up this old bone again?" Mary took the cup from her sister and set it down safely in a saucer. "He made a wise decision, and I am grateful for it. I daresay he could have managed the matter a little differently, but—"

"You found out by reading of his wedding to another woman in the newspaper. I should say he could have managed the unsavory business quite a
lot
differently!" Violet punctuated her angry remark with a loud blow into the handkerchief.

"Nevertheless, it is done with now and we have both moved on with our lives. I wish him well. I hold no resentment."

Violet groaned, deflating against the back of her chair as if someone had stuck a dagger in her ribs and left a hole in her lung, "Must you always be so pious?"

"Pious?" Mary chuckled. "I suffer as many sins as anybody. Indeed, I could curl your toes with some of the wicked thoughts that plague me from time to time. But I am not a sad wisp of a thing whose life was ended by an aborted engagement. I'm sorry, Violet, but I cannot pretend to be expiring of a broken heart, just because that better suits your vision of how things should be." Mary knew her sister would be thrilled if she took to her bed in a paroxysm of maidenly grief, because then Violet could play devoted nurse, bringing her calf's-foot jelly and rice pudding.

Violet was very much the romantic heroine in her own melodramatic play, while Mary had only a supernumerary role. But since Mary preferred that to anything more conspicuous, she rarely complained. The only time she objected to Violet's stage direction was when her sister tried to make her show too much emotion. In her opinion it was gaudy, pretentious — to suppose anybody else cared about her feelings— and completely unnecessary, since it achieved nothing.

"Do sit up straight, Violet. Remember your posture! Granny Ashford may no longer be with us, but she would turn in her grave if she saw you slumping. She might even rise up out of it and come to set you straight."

Her sister, however, had few memories of their formidable grandmother and therefore could not grasp the frightening enormity of that suggestion. Off on one of her grand soliloquies, hands clasped to her bosom, Violet exclaimed, "George Stanbury threw you over just because papa had to sell the estate. Without any apology or even a letter, the villain broke off his engagement to you and quickly married another girl. If you feel no lasting pain from that betrayal then you cannot be human, sister."

Apparently Violet thought she needed a reminder of the details. In case she might have forgotten any.

"Of course, I was hurt when it first occurred, sister. I was a naive, giddy, sheltered girl of eighteen. But I am not that same girl now. My eyes are opened wider."

"And even now," Violet exclaimed in high-pitched frustration, "you do not raise your voice to let his wickedness be known."

"What good would it do to scream about my disappointment? I certainly do not want any more pitying glances sent my way. It will serve us far better if you quietly learn from my unfortunate experience and choose for yourself with a wiser head."

"So here we sit cold, hungry, but oh-so-much
wiser
. Meanwhile, thoroughly stupid George Stanbury gets away with his shocking behavior and leads a charmed life, untroubled by any concern for you, never having to pay any consequences."

Mary shrugged. "Whatever the depth of George's feelings for me eight years ago, apparently they could not withstand the first storm once dark clouds set in. Marriage is not all fair weather, so it is just as well he discovered the limitations of his regard for me when he did."

"Yet he misled you dreadfully for as long as he could. Can you deny that, sister?"

"Perhaps I was just as much to blame for expecting too much and holding out hope for too long, when the signs should have been obvious. I learned an important lesson."

Violet stirred her tea violently and vowed, "If I ever set eyes on that dreadful, wretched man again, I shall beat him about the head," she paused, searching for a suitable weapon and then raising her foot before the fire, "with my shoe."

Quietly amused by that idea, Mary replied, "I think that muffin might do a better job."

"I wouldn't waste food upon the blackguard."

"But we must remember, Violet, that when his father died, George Stanbury's most pressing need was money to keep the estate thriving. His choice was practical. We know the sadness of losing our home, and surely we would, neither of us, wish that on anybody."

"Yet you
loved
him, Mary. Does love count for nothing in this miserable world? I know I shall never marry without it!"

She sighed. "Was I in love? I cannot be as sure of that as you are, Violet. I can say with confidence that I
love
several things: finding another, unexpected
c
hapter at the end of a book; the shuffle of gravel under horse hooves on a crisp, frosty autumn morning; the satisfaction to be had from bursting a pimple, or beating a month's worth of dust out of a carpet; the smell of a good cigar, or of boot polish, newly applied; the thrill of cracking open a soft-boiled egg and spearing the glistening golden yolk with her spoon—"

"That is not the sort of love I mean." Her sister had drawn back and looked at her as if she might be addled. "I mean passionate love for a man. And I know you did love George Stanbury, even if you won't admit it. I heard papa talking about it once and he said,
'When Mary loves she does so with her whole being
'. He said it very sadly, I suppose because he knew George was your last chance and you would never recover from his betrayal."

Mary said nothing, but rubbed furiously at a small speck she'd just found on her sleeve.
Last chance
, indeed! How could a girl have her last chance at only eighteen? But suddenly her throat was very tight, her corset chafing, and she had the most dreadful sore head.

"Papa should have sued Stanbury for breach of promise," Violet grumbled onward like a cart with wheels that badly required oiling.

"And aired our humiliation in public?" Restless, Mary got up to sweep some fallen coals back into the fire. "We had enough dark cloud over us as it was at the time. Such things are best forgotten, left in the past. It is futile to dwell upon misfortune."

Violet set her cup down in its saucer with a
crack
. "You have become the most horribly sensible woman that ever existed, sister. You claim to hold no resentment and you make that pert face — yes, that one—as if you never felt tempted to curse, never wanted to scream at an injustice, never hated anybody, never
felt
anything. It is not a sin to show passion, you know."

"Perhaps not. It is also not very British."

"Well, I do not feel very British," Violet proclaimed angrily. "I swear I should have been born in the sun-drenched Mediterranean where nobody wears corsets and people are not afraid to express their feelings. Somewhere with fig trees, afternoon siestas and cicadas singing."

"Your skin is much too fair for such a climate and since you are rigid with fear if so much as a meek ladybird lands upon your arm, I dread to think how you would form any companionship with the larger, bolder insects of the tropics." Sitting down again at the table, Mary looked at her stale muffin, but still could not muster much enthusiasm for it. She pushed her plate away. "Besides, I'm certain the ladies there wear corsets too, even in that heat. They are accustomed to it, I suppose. People do adapt to their lot. We all must."

There followed a lengthy pause until Violet felt the need to express more discontent. It bubbled within her pot all day long and occasionally overflowed when the lid could no longer hold it in. "Oh, lord! It's so miserably cold!" She rubbed the tip of her nose with the bundled handkerchief. "I hate winter, and I hate this place."

"Hush! Mr. Speedwell might hear. If not for this bookshop and Uncle Hugo leaving me his shares in it, I do not know what we would have done. The portion father was able to leave for us is very small."

"Mr. Speedwell won't hear anything we say. He's deaf as the rag-and-bone man's old shire horse."

Yes, thought Mary, and how glad she was that he had not overheard her conversation with Ransom Deverell that morning. She looked down, hiding the sudden smile that threatened. If her sister saw her grinning stupidly she would want to know why. But the agitated twitching of her lips persisted so she got up, walked around the table and pretended to search for something on the dresser, rustling through Mr. Speedwell's medical pamphlets, tidying them into piles and opening drawers.

Behind her, still slumped in a chair, Violet yawned loudly. "To think that we have fallen to this. Existing rather than living. I wonder why I even get out of bed some mornings."

Mary struggled for something merry to think about. "Christmas will soon be upon us. Surely that will bring you cheer."

"Cheer? What shall we have to celebrate? I am almost twenty, half my life is gone and I have never been to a proper ball. Here I sit, wrapping my hair every night in curling papers, but for what and for whom? Any gentleman who smiles at me in the street receives a discouraging scowl from you."

She looked over her shoulder. "You wrap your hair in curling papers, Violet, because one must keep up appearances. And since it is now solely my responsibility to protect and guide you, sister, we will not encourage attentions from the wrong sort. We may not have much, but we still have our dignity. If they were respectable gentlemen they wouldn't leer at you in the street."

"You plan to keep me here with you forever, no doubt. Just because you do not want to be alone."

Mary turned her gaze back to the dresser and bit her tongue. Did she shelter Violet too much, afraid to lose her company? Although they daily complained about each other, it would be lonely without her sister, of course. She took a breath and managed a jaunty tone, "I shan't be alone. I could always take Dr. Woodley."

Her sister was aghast at the prospect. "Surely even you couldn't be such a martyr."

"He's a very kind, good gentleman. There would be no surprises at least."

"Neither would there be any joy," Violet muttered. "You used to be so merry and carefree, Mary. Even a little daring. Once you would never have settled for a man like that. But you've changed."

To which she replied, "I was once many things."

Her days of falling for a flattering comment and a handsome face were far in the past, along with that frivolous, reckless, selfish youth. Along with the girl who tossed cold water out of windows onto poor, harmless boys, and thought she had all the time in the world, plenty of opportunity to enjoy all the treasures— and cream pastries— that stretched before her.

All that had been put away in a bottle and corked, tucked away on a shelf, never to be got out again. She did not really know why she saved it there, unless it was to remind herself— a cautionary tale of pride before the fall.

Violet exhaled another listless groan. "Pass the butter, sister. I may as well eat that muffin if I can get my teeth into it, since that is the greatest pleasure I am to be allowed."

Mary thought again how fortunate it was that her sister had not witnessed Deverell's visit to the shop that morning. Out of sheer boredom she would probably have welcomed the rogue's flirting. Then where would they be? Deverell would make the most of her sister's vanity, tease her without mercy, buy her a few pretty things, seduce her without a second thought, and leave them all in a worse state than they were when he first blew through that door on a gust of icy wind.

Well, they would never see him again. That entry in the ledger would likely soon be marked with a large "PAST DUE", as several others were. Thaddeus Speedwell was not very adept at chasing down their debtors, always convinced they would pay when they could and never wanting to think ill of anybody who bought one of his books. And Mary was not allowed to collect on their behalf because it was deemed "unladylike" and he would not hear of it.