When Angels Fall (5 page)

“Yes, that’s a grand idea.” Evvie followed her.

The man named Jones remained in the store, ostensibly looking at cutlery displayed in an old mahogany case. Mr. Bishop was free at this point, however, and when he met Lissa’s eye, he immediately came up to her with their post.

“Came in good time, ladies. I suppose Old Sophie must be done with her travels for the year.” Mr. Bishop’s baby blue eyes twinkled. “What is she, ninety? Where does she get all that spunk?”

“She’s an Alcester, Mr. Bishop. You should know that!” Evvie laughed nervously and squeezed her sister’s hand. Gratefully Lissa squeezed back.

But behind them, the man named Jones was hardly finding the situation amusing. In fact, if anyone had bothered to scrutinize him, they would have seen his countenance turn grim. His gaze was pinned to the letter Mr. Bishop held so confidently, and he seemed to be hanging on to every word of their conversation.

“So what’s the old girl up to now, Miss Alcester?” Mr. Bishop handed Lissa the letter. “The tales you girls tell of her are the only excitement we get here in Nodding Knoll.”

Eager for some good news, Lissa smiled at him, then tore at the wax seal.

As if unable to watch, Jones abruptly turned his back to the group. He feigned an interest in a steel fish-boner, but all the while his eyes were closed as if he were in pain.

Lissa’s expression soon matched his. She read the letter and, with it, her entire world seemed to fall out from under her.

“Miss Alcester, whatever is the matter?” Mr. Bishop frowned as she forced herself to read the letter for the second time.

“Lissa? Is something wrong?” Evvie reached for her.

“There’s been a tragedy. Great-aunt Sophie is dead,” she uttered bravely. Though her voice shook with every syllable, she continued. “Mr. Fennimore, her London solicitor, says she died in her sleep in Vienna. He has enclosed one month’s pension for us, but after that, there is to be no more.”

“Oh, Lissa, no,” Evvie whispered. Behind them, unnoticed, Jones was shaking his head.

“Oh, my dears, not another tragedy! How unkindly life has treated you!” Mrs. Bishop cried out from behind a counter, obviously having overheard the conversation too.

“We didn’t know her well, Mrs. Bishop,” Lissa confessed. “In fact, we didn’t know her at all. We didn’t even know we had a Great-aunt Sophie until three years ago
. .
. but we owe her a great deal for our upkeep these past years.”

“Whatever will you do now?” Mrs. Bishop’s brown eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know,” she answered numbly.

“Let’s go home.” Evvie grasped her arm. “We’ll get along. We’ve always found a way before.”

“Yes, we’ll manage. Thank you, Mr. Bishop, Mrs. Bishop.”

Lissa grasped the letter in her gloved hand and they moved to the door. It was opened immediately by the man named Jones, but Lissa hardly noticed the concern on his face. Her mind was elsewhere, already looking ahead to a grim future.

“I must see him, at once.” Holland’s voice was firm as he pushed his way past Biddles. Agitated, he barely paused in the hall of Tramore’s London town house to demand, “Where is he?”

“His lordship is in the breakfast room finishing his coffee,” the majordomo said icily. “If you would be so kind—Mr. Jones!” he called as Holland started for the breakfast room.

Holland didn’t hesitate. He threw open the mahogany double doors just as a footman was serving the marquis another helping of black pudding. Shocked by the intrusion, the footman looked up.

Tramore did not.

Holland noted that he merely took another sip of coffee from an exquisite Wedgwood creamware cup. He then placed the cup back on its saucer and continued with his breakfast.

“I’ve come about the Alcesters,” Holland stated coldly.

“I don’t remember your being announced, Jones.”

Tramore let the words hang in the air before he finally looked up. With a nod he instructed the footman to retreat to the kitchens.

“Damn being announced. I was there, I tell you. I
was there when they got that letter and a damned bloody sight it was too!” Holland’s face reddened with anger. “Why must you cut them off? Couldn’t you have at least given Miss Alcester more time to adjust?” He took a bold step further. “Or did you want it to be like this? Do you want them to suffer all because of what happened in the past?”

“And what happened in the past? You tell me, if you’re such an expert on the Alcesters.” Powerscourt sent him a piercing stare.

“I don’t know everything that happened between you and Elizabeth. But I do know how you were treated in that village. And I suspect you have some twisted notion that if you wreak your vengeance on Elizabeth Alcester—set her up as example—you’ll have somehow gotten even with the whole of Nodding Knoll.”

The marquis was quiet for a moment, as if he were pondering his accusation. He then blithely announced, “You’re wrong, Jones. Go back to your tasks concerning Powerscourt. You’ve only two more weeks.” With that, he seemed to have finished his breakfast and the conversation. He stood and began to walk past Holland.

Holland wasn’t through, however. “I resign.”

“What?” Tramore shot back.

“I said I resign. I shall no longer work for the Powerscourts. You shall have to find another estate manager.” He turned to go.

“And what is it that has you so upset, Jones? You quit a position that has been in your family for centuries all because I’ve cut off a woman’s support that was not my responsibility to provide in the first place? I don’t understand your motives,” Powerscourt finished coolly.

“You’re the enigma, not I!” Holland shouted, his voice filled with frustration. “You do these inexplicable things, which will have tragic consequences. I will not continue on!”

“Ah, but you will continue on!” Tramore suddenly
commanded. His angry voice boomed across the room. “If only for the reasons that throughout your lifetime the Powerscourts have seen to it that you’ve been well fed and finely clothed; they’ve paid for you to attend Cambridge and they gave your parents a respectable burial. So you will remain my estate manager, Jones. You will stay because you owe it to me!”

Holland listened to this outburst, his face becoming as white and rigid as a piece of Roman sculpture. He wanted to throw the words back in Tramore’s face, but all at once guilt wouldn’t let him. He tried to stop himself, but the memory of his languid days at Cambridge came to mind, as did the memory of Tramore’s working in a stable like the meanest of paupers. Worse was the remembrance of his comfortable and pleasant childhood. As the son of the mighty estate manager of Powerscourt, he had wanted for nothing, while Tramore, the actual heir of the estate, had buried his mother along the roadside and scrounged for his very existence in the street.

Holland met Powerscourt’s dark stare, but not another word passed between them. After a moment’s pause, Tramore promptly quitted the breakfast room. In angry silence, Holland watched him go.

His conscience told him there was no way to avoid returning to Powerscourt and the disagreeable tasks that awaited him there. But as he made to leave the opulent London manse, Holland consoled himself with one thought. Perhaps by being at Powerscourt, he could change the marquis’s mind and avert disaster for the Alcesters.

Perhaps.

“We must sell Violet Croft, Lissa. That’s the only way,” Evvie stated as she bent over her knitting.

Lissa watched her purl and sighed. They’d been dis
cussing their future for almost two weeks now and not once had they agreed on what would be best.

It was a cold afternoon and the two women were sitting in the parlor, warming themselves before the peat fire. Lissa was too agitated to knit, so she sat on the sofa, tapping her fingers on the sofa’s worn, doily-clad arm. George was due home from the Nodding Knoll school any moment, and they both looked to his arrival to cheer them up.

“We cannot sell the cottage. We could never afford another. Besides, it’s all we have left of Mother and Father’s estate.” Lissa shook her blond head.

“But Violet Croft is what’s been keeping us here all along, and it’s been miserable. We’ve never belonged in Nodding Knoll, not since The Scandal.” Evvie’s needles stopped clicking. She grew quite sober. “I know how they talk, Lissa. I may be blind, but I’m not deaf.”

“It’s not been so bad,” Lissa refuted, though only halfheartedly.

“Not been so bad! It’s been torture and I know it!” Evvie looked toward her sister and implored her, “Don’t you think I know old Widow Tannahill crosses the street every time she sees us? You’ve been telling me she’s been nodding in greeting these days, but why don’t I feel her footsteps pass? Why don’t I hear her crinoline sway? Why do I feel you tense whenever she’s about?”

A tiny furrow lined Lissa’s brow. She’d always wanted to protect Evvie from the scorn of the little town, and she’d obviously done a poor job of it. “She’s never really said anything since the funeral. I can live with her avoiding us. In fact, I think I prefer it.”

“She said you’d turn out just like Mother.”

She couldn’t bear to hear Evvie’s words. Her hands shook with anger at the old widow’s cruelty. “But I haven’t. Isn’t that enough? Let’s not talk about it.”

“But she won’t let it go, Lissa. The town won’t let it go. So let
us
go.”

Lissa shook her head. “We can’t. We’d get a pittance for this cottage, and then live a mean existence indeed, for we could never afford to let another cottage for long.” She released a long, drawn-out sigh. The weeks of worry since they’d received Great-aunt Sophie’s post were beginning to show. Pale lavender smudges had appeared beneath her eyes, a sure sign that she hadn’t been sleeping well. “I do have another idea, however,” she mentioned hesitantly.

“And what is that?”

“Wilmott Billingsworth.”

Evvie let out a terrible groan. “I shall not listen to you speak that vile man’s name ever again! And to have you talk about sacrificing yourself to that—”

“He’s not so terribly bad,” Lissa interrupted. “And you know he’s always had a fancy for me . . .”

“A fancy for you! He’s a lecher, sister. Pure and simple. And his watch fob is made out of human hair.”

“You make too much of that. I shouldn’t have told you. Besides, it’s all the rage now. Even Arabella Parks wears earbobs made from her own red hair.”

“Delightful,” her sister exclaimed sarcastically. “That makes it all so much better. Now I won’t have to worry that you’ll marry him and wake one day to find yourself bald, and his two daughters wearing necklaces made out of your blond tresses. Oh, Lissa, don’t let’s talk about it!”

“But we must talk about it! That might be the only way to save ourselves from utter ruin!”

Lissa stood and began pacing, her heavy gray wool skirt swooshing as she walked. The whole situation was impossible. It was hard enough to think of marrying a man such as Wilmott without being forced to fight her sister all the way to the altar. She must get her support! Without Evvie holding her up she would never get through it.

“And if Wilmott Billingsworth isn’t bad enough just by himself,” Evvie continued, “there are his two lovely daughters. You remember Honoria and Adele?”

“Yes, and they will make fine stepdaughters.” Lissa bit her knuckle to keep from laughing.

“Fine stepdaughters! They’re both one hundred and fifty years old!”

“Oh, they are not.” Lissa finally giggled.

“They are, and I shudder to think how old that makes Wilmott. Lissa, you must stop thinking about marrying him. It’s all wrong.”

Lissa looked at her sister. Her smile disappeared. It certainly was all wrong. Wilmott was greedy, lecherous and altogether repulsive, and those were probably his better attributes. Besides, she had always dreamed that someday a strong, noble-hearted man would come for her; a man who she could give herself to with her whole heart; a man who needed her love as desperately as she needed his. Unwittingly she stared past Evvie and found the spires of Powerscourt through the mullioned window of the cottage. But what could dreams do for her now? The answer was all too brutally clear.

“I must do it, Evvie,” she whispered, all the while pondering her responsibilities. Her brother had to be raised. And Evvie had to be taken care of. The thought of losing either of them made her quake with fear. George and Evvie meant everything to her. It was up to her to keep the Alcesters together. And if she had to sacrifice her own happiness to do so, then so be it.

She released a brittle laugh and said, “Besides, what else is left for us? I have no other suitors.”

“You could write to Ivan.”

Lissa whipped around. “Why would I do that?”

“My vision didn’t go until I was sixteen, Lissa, remember?” Evvie said quietly.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I recall quite vividly how taken Ivan was with you.”

Lissa fought down the panic that always rose in her breast whenever Ivan Tramore’s name was mentioned.
And she beat down another emotion as well, one she refused to acknowledge.

Evvie took note of her silence but continued. “I just think that if you’re going to sacrifice yourself to a man, that Ivan would be the best—”