Ransom Redeemed (22 page)

"Of course. I did not mean to—"

"Until he's ready," he added in a kinder tone. "Let him tell you about Sally in his own time. Don't push him." With a self-deprecating grimace, he added, "One thing I have learned in my advanced years, Miss Ashford, is that one must have patience, particularly with one's offspring."

"Of course." In the meantime she would have to contain her imagination before it formed some very dark and bleak ideas.

Mary searched for a brighter subject. "I should tell you, sir, that my business partner has contacted a Professor Faraday at the Royal Institution in Mayfair— a learned gentleman with experience of breathing apparatus and oxygen."

"The Royal Institution? Yes, I know of it. Albemarle Street, is it not? Faraday lectures there, along with other great men of science."

She nodded eagerly. "He cannot see Ransom until tomorrow, but he has agreed to try treatment, for the purposes of scientific research, if...if you are in agreement, sir. The oxygen therapy— as he calls it— can help re-inflate the lung. It has been used with some success for patients with various diseases, such as consumption, asthma, palsy—."

"Miss Ashford, this is wonderful news." His brows rumpled and then straightened. He sat up. "I thought that sawbones you sent for had no hope of full recovery?"

"Dr. Woodley was of an adverse opinion in regard to any likely success from the treatment, but it does not hurt to try something new, does it? At least," she hesitated, watching his countenance cautiously, "that is what I believe, sir. It may have been forward of me to take these steps without consulting you, but you did say you would leave it in my hands."

His eyes gleamed. "Miss Ashford, I believe you
do
care about my son."

She was relieved that somebody believed it, but darkly amused that he sounded so surprised.

"Yet, you do see the risk in all this?" he asked. "I mean the risk to yourself. You know what I would warn you, surely, for I see you are a woman of intelligence and foresight."

Solemnly she replied, "Yes, sir. I know that once he recovers, there is a chance he will change his mind. Once returned to full function, he could decide that he does not need me at his side after all. I am aware of that risk and of the odds against me. But that is a chance I must take, to get him well again. It is all that matters. I cannot stand idly by and see him suffer. I must be active, and I am sure you feel the same."

"Of course. As my darling wife Olivia would point out to me, my solution is usually to throw money at any problem." He gave her a sheepish grin. "But in this case I did not know who or what to throw it at."

"And you were frustrated. It made you angry." Hence the pacing, swearing and dropping of knives. "Now, all we need to worry about is getting your recalcitrant son into the special carriage when it arrives to take him to the Royal Institute early tomorrow."

They both looked over at the bed and then at each other.

"He's not going to like it," Deverell muttered.

"No, but I am brave and just as stubborn as he."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, Mary Ashford, I believe you are. How did you say he met you?"

"He bounced off a lamp post."

"Ah. That sounds like him."

Chapter Twenty-One

Mary was not permitted to go in the carriage with him. Professor Faraday's manservant did not consider it proper. She might have protested, because she was Ransom's fiancée and therefore, surely, had a right. But no. Not this time. She stayed silent and let them take him.

They would give him the oxygen therapy for several hours, twice a day, and since it was not convenient to bring him back and forth so many times, he was to be a resident on Albemarle Street with one of the professors, until he showed marked improvement. True Deverell had promised the Institution a large donation. They would take excellent care of him.

Her part was done.

What she had said to his father last night was quite true. Once Ransom regained his full functions, he may, in all likelihood, change his mind and not want to marry her. Or anybody. In his desperate moment he had felt weak, almost a child again, needing...somebody...something to hold.

She was glad she had been there for him. No matter what happened next, she would always remember holding his hand. His kiss. What it felt like to be so needed, to be looked at as someone important and special, a person with opinions, feelings, and ideas that mattered. Especially to be looked at that way by a man of vim and vigor, a man who did not see her as somebody to be pitied at all.

The house was empty without him, grief-stricken.

"Why go back to that bookshop?" his father exclaimed gruffly, when he caught her in the hall, putting on her coat later that morning. "You can keep me company now."

She explained about her sister, and he shrugged. "Why not bring that sister of yours here then? There's plenty of damned room and none of it being used."

But when Mary arrived back at
Beloved Books
she discovered that her sister was already packing a trunk. She had been invited to Lady Charlotte's for the winter. Buzzing about like an addled bumblebee, and without Mary's calming presence, the girl had packed dirty walking boots atop delicate petticoats, crushed her bonnet under several heavy books and — on the verge of closing her trunk—had only just remembered more than half the things she must take.

"You do not mind that I go, do you, Mary? She has offered to let me have Raven's old bedroom, and she will take me to a concert. She has a friend with a box at the Drury Lane Theatre, and he is not in town to use it, so it is entirely at our disposal. I cannot find my better stockings and cannot think what became of them, so I shall take yours. If you do not mind? Mary?"

Belatedly realizing that her sister had paused for her answer, Mary nodded. "Of course. Take anything you need."

How could she stop her sister from indulging in all these promised delights? Her only worry was that once Lady Charlotte's circle returned for the proper social season she might not have so much time for "Violette" and could grow bored of her project, like a little girl casting a doll aside.

"Oh, and she says in her letter that you need not come again now. The weather is so very bad and I daresay...well, she and I will be too busy and you would never find us in when you came." Violet laughed merrily and high in her throat, as people do when they anticipate that what they have said is not particularly funny, but they have already started the sound so they must continue until it peters out, as unnaturally as it began.

So she was being usurped as Lady Charlotte's companion. Punishment, no doubt, for her engagement to Ransom, which must be seen as a betrayal of some kind. Well, she knew it would happen sooner or later, once the lady had better entertainment.

Violet paused again, a petticoat over one arm. "She says her son will never marry you."

Mary turned away, searching through her own drawer to see what she could give her sister.

"She said you are completely unsuited as a match," Violet added.

"Yes, well, I am only after his money, of course. And he wants my favors in return."

"Mary! Such a thing to say. I know you would never be a mercenary wanton."

"Thank you, sister, for your faith in me."

"You're much too dull, drear, and dignified."

Mary bent her head, reaching further into the drawer, hiding her smile.

"Are you truly engaged to him?"

"I know not, Violet. Perhaps I imagined it. I do sometimes fall prey to flights of fancy."

"You never do!"

"I just hide it better than some people." She offered her sister a fringed shawl which was, quite probably, the prettiest item she had in her possession. Far too nice to be worn, unless a person had somewhere very grand to travel in it. Uncle Hugo had bought it for her birthday, years ago, from one of his trips abroad. "You may take this with you, if you'd like."

Her sister looked at the shawl, wrinkling her delicate nose. "Good lord, no. Nobody young wears shawls like that these days. Unless they feel a draft." Again the laugh, but cut much shorter. Abruptly she gripped Mary by the shoulders. "
You
keep it, dearest," she exclaimed, her eyes big with sympathy.

Clearly, Mary was expected to feel a lot of drafts in her future.

* * * *

That evening she and Thaddeus Speedwell ate dinner in companionable silence, their table set before the fire, he reading a book, holding it in one hand and his fork in the other.

With none of Violet's chatter, the parlor felt even smaller and darker than usual.

"Shall I light more candles, Mr. Speedwell? I wouldn't want you to strain your eyes."

He looked up over his spectacles. "If you wish, my dear Mary. We have plenty now. No need to stretch them."

She got up and lit two more, placing them on the table in brass candlesticks from the mantle.

"I have been thinking, Mr. Speedwell, about the shop."

"What's that, my dear?" He put down his fork to turn a page.

"I have some ideas for the business. A few things I thought we might try, to encourage more customers."

That got his attention. "More customers?" He gazed bleakly through those smeared lenses. "Must we have more?"

Mary smiled. "If we mean to make this a viable, thriving business, we cannot continue to rely on the same few generous, elderly customers...and the occasional unexpected visit from somebody who only stumbles upon us. We must find and encourage new readers. Think of all the people who are missing out on these wonderful books."

"But Mary," his anxious breath pummeled the candle flames, "we manage well enough." Looking around the little room, he shrugged his narrow shoulders. "What more can we want?"

"We can
want
everything and anything, Mr. Speedwell. There are no limits, only possibilities."

"Oh, my dear, I do not like the sound of that."

She reached for the wine jug and poured for them both. "Someone— very successful in business— told me recently that we are not taking advantage of our potential."

"We are not?"

"Indeed. So there are just a few changes I'd like us to make in this bookshop. And if you ever feel it has gone too far, I shall stop."

Thaddeus closed his book. "You must be missing your sister, my dear."

"A little."

"Then that has brought this on?"

Mary chuckled. "No, Mr. Speedwell. A man has brought this on. Or rather, encouraged it out of me. Like a genie from a lamp."

His spectacles slipped down his nose. "I see. Then you must be in love."

"Love?" She sipped her wine. "You read too many novels, Mr. Speedwell."

Real life was much too messy, and nothing ever happened the way it did in novels.

* * * *

On Wednesday morning she returned to Deverell's house in time to greet Captain Justify's secret bride, who arrived promptly at the hour of nine. Smith was visibly relieved to hear her tell True Deverell that this visitor was a friend of hers and the gentleman, apparently satisfied with this explanation, returned to his study, leaving the ladies to talk in the drawing room.

Over tea and scones, Mary discovered that the lady's name was Anshula, which meant "Sunny"— a name that she preferred now she was in England, because "it makes people think of hope and summer, and they look less confused when I introduce myself". She was twenty-one years of age, could speak English rather well (but only when she wanted to), and she had been acquired by Captain Deverell at a bride sale.

"The Captain bought me for six pounds. Are you shocked?"

Mary had to admit it was not something she'd ever heard of, but Sunny looked respectable and her manners were polite— more so than those of many people who would consider themselves superior to a woman bought by a man for six pounds. She was well dressed in brilliantly dyed silk taffeta. Rather colorful for a winter's day, but quite beautiful.

"Captain Deverell purchased me out of pity. He has a kindness which is rare in men, so I find. But he had to go back to sea, so he asked his brother to look after me. I must come here once a week to let Ransom Deverell know that I am well. I am to tell him if I need anything, because he can then write to my husband for me. I speak the language, but I do not write it well."

"Ransom said you knew only a very few words."

She gave a guilty, but pretty smile. "Yes. I prefer it that way. Especially with the men. The less they know about me, the better."

Mary laughed.

"But this Ransom Deverell is a puzzle to me," Sunny tipped her head as she studied Mary. "I hear he is such a bad man, yet I do not see it."

"Quite. It is something of a riddle."

"And each time I come here, he gives me money." Her beautiful, deep brown eyes flared, the long black lashes sweeping languidly down and up. "It is most curious. Why does he do this?"

"Don't you need it? I thought it was to help pay rent for your lodgings."

"But I have money of my own." She drew back in astonishment. "He does not know this?"

"Apparently not. Neither does the Captain, if he asked his brother to pay your rent."

"I try to tell the little grey fellow who gives it to me." She pointed a gloved finger toward the door through which Smith had left them. "But he will not listen. He insists he has his orders and must follow them. And Ransom Deverell is often not here. Most often he is...away...here and there, I am told. Never in one place. He go here and he go there. But always the money is left for me. That he never forgets."

"Yes. That sounds very much like him."

Again Sunny's head tilted and she put a finger to her lips. "Now you are here, he will stay at home? You can tell him I do not need this money."

But Mary did not know what was going to happen, did she?

"I am glad you are here, Mary Ashford, for now we have met and I have someone to talk with when I come on Wednesday." The other woman leaned over and whispered, "Also you can tell the little grey fellow that he makes the tea too weak and his scones, they are dry."

"Ah, I do not think he is responsible for the tea and scones, he merely brings them to us. The cook is Mrs. Clay and she is usually very—"

"I should bring you
my
scones." she said firmly, nodding her head. "They are very good. The best scones. You will see, Mary Ashford!"

"Yes," she looked down at her tea, "but I don't live here."

"No?"

"I am a visitor. Like you."

Sunny's surprised voice was warm and rich, like a melting sauce of fudge and syrup, but with the sweetness cut by something hotter and spicier. "It is very strange that you do not live here. You look at home, as if you have always been here."

She thought of her portrait in his bedchamber. "In a way, I have."

* * * *

That bloody interring woman! Is this what happened to a man when he considered marriage to one of them? Suddenly she was taking over, making decisions, having him loaded into carriages and dragged off with complete strangers.

All Mary said to him was, "As you told me once, we must be forward-thinking."

He was furious for about twenty minutes.

Arriving somewhere in Mayfair, he was transferred from a canvas stretcher to a bed in what appeared to be somebody's study, full of wretched books and odd, unidentifiable equipment. He was offered food and drink— both of which he refused, demanding to be taken home again.

"But Mr. Deverell, our good friend Thaddeus Speedwell has asked us to look at your lungs."

"Why?" He seized the front of his nightshirt. "What are you going to do to them?"

He was poked, prodded and experimented upon by a group of fellows in wigs, who did a lot of talking to each other and very little to him. Indeed, when they addressed any remark at him, it was in a loud, hollow voice, as if he might be an idiot.

Oh, Mary Ashford would pay for this when he got his hands on her again.

"Where am I?" he demanded. "This is not a hospital."

One of the gentlemen explained, "We are professors of the Royal Institution, sir, and this is my study where I can administer advantageous
therapia
."

"I beg your bloody pardon?"

"Medical treatment, sir." He leaned closer and bellowed. "Therapy!"

"I don't want any of that, whatever it is." But when he tried to get up, they shoved him down again.

"Sir, we must auscultate your chest."

"You'll do no such thing. Whatever that is. Get your hands off me."

They calmly proceeded to ignore his protests, open his nightshirt, and listen to his chest through an instrument like an ear trumpet. He had not the strength he could usually rely upon, and some of his bruises felt worse today than they did yesterday, so in the end he lay rigid with anger and allowed these indignities to be committed upon his person.

Mary Ashford needn't think he'd let her get away with this. No indeed. He could imagine her watching over him, like that portrait, smugly enjoying herself with some private joke. At his expense.

There followed considerable discussion between them all, leaving him utterly out of it.

Eventually a mask was put over his nose and mouth and he was told that he would be inhaling a mixture of pure and common air— whatever the deuce that was— and that he should breathe normally.

Normally. He'd forgotten what that was.

For the past few days he'd been breathing as he would in a thick pea-soup fog. Suddenly now the struggle eased. Blessed peace. Blessed air.