by JayneFresina
Once he was recovered enough to speak again, he said, "Father, Mr. Deverell asked me recently about other noble families in the county. Do you know of any Grosvenors hereabouts?"
"Grosvenor?" the old man barked. "Not in this county. I'd know if there were any."
Damon was puzzled. His brother had distinctly told him that Elizabeth fled north to Whitby in Yorkshire, to stay with her relatives. Her maiden name, he knew, was Grosvenor. But nobody here had heard of Elizabeth Grosvenor, or Lady Elizabeth Stanbury.
Nonesuch leaned closer and whispered behind her napkin, "Have you ascertained yet that your lover lied when she told you she came here? Tsk, tsk, I could have told you that within less than two minutes. I hope you have better mysteries than that to entertain me."
Damon frowned and she gave him an arch look. Of course she could not stand his earlier victory. How did one manage such a difficult, battle-prepared woman? A reflection of oneself, but in petticoats.
His education had not readied him for Miss Piper, although his Latin tutor had done her best. Her lessons were only useful once he got a woman into bed.
"An outsider can often see clearer than one blinded by familiarity," she added smugly, firing his previous words back at him with effortless skill, and then turning away at once to chide her sister, "Merry, do stop feeding Grumbles Junior from the table."
Could it be that he'd been sent on a wild-goose chase? Ransom must have known he'd take off after her at once. Did he deliberately send Damon in the wrong direction, while pretending the information was forced out of him under duress?
Damon cursed under his breath as he considered this long journey he'd undertaken on a fool's errand. He should have known not to trust his brother's word, but he had been too blind with rage and when his father told him not to go after Elizabeth it only spurred him on even more. Stupid.
However, he thought, glancing at Nonesuch, he couldn't remain angry for long, could he? His journey had reunited him with an old friend. Something precious that once was lost.
A friend. Yes. Once again he promised himself that friendship would suffice. It must. He had this business with Elizabeth and his child to sort out before anything else might happen.
After dinner they played whist, with Damon and Epiphany as one team and Edwyn and Merrythought as the other.
"You must sit with me and help, sir," the young girl said to old Mortmain, urging that his chair be placed beside her. "I have only played once before and very badly. I need all the help I can get."
"I'm sure you'd do better without me, young lady."
"Certainly not! Please do sit here, your lordship. I tend to make silly decisions and give away all my best cards if I have nobody sensible at my side."
Edwyn, apparently, wasn't deemed "sensible", but he didn't seem to care. He was evidently glad to have his father's attention diverted from his faults, and occasionally he glanced at the youngest Miss Piper with shy gratitude.
As they went up to bed that evening, Epiphany said she knew now why he had wanted her to wear the yellow dress.
"You're trying to brighten this house up for Edwyn, aren't you? Mr. Deverell, I believe you have a soft heart after all, under that stern exterior. And you don't only do nice things for people when they pay you."
"That is not at all the case, Miss Piper. I wanted you to wear the yellow so that, with the candlelight behind you, I could see the outline of your figure. I'm a Deverell, remember?"
She arched an eyebrow. "I think you've seen enough ladies’ figures. Do not get any ideas about mine. And you most certainly could not see through this material."
He merely smiled. Slowly. "Anything you say, Nonesuch." And he left her at her door, her expression exceedingly uncertain.
A letter arrived for him that evening, sent post haste from Lady Roper. It confirmed for Damon that his brother's injuries were believed to have been caused by thugs hired by Lord Stanbury. It was not well known, but the rumor had begun to circulate in the seedier part of town from which he hired his "assistants". Stanbury would not, naturally, do the deed with his own fine hands. But Ransom life, Lady Roper's letter assured him, was out of danger. He would heal, largely due to the efforts of a young lady who had been staying at his house and causing quite a scandal.
As if they didn't have enough of those.
* * * *
Merrythought came to her room that evening as she was undressing for bed.
"Are you in love with Damon Deverell?" she demanded.
"Good heavens! Why would you say that?" Pip quickly turned her back so that her sister could help unbutton her gown. And so that she could also hide her expression.
"I suppose you will try to deny it. You're so stubborn."
"I am nothing of the sort."
"Oh, yes, you are. And I thought you ought to know that I heard him tell Lord Boxall to leave you alone. I heard him promise to pay off that dreadful man's debts. He did it for you, even though you're always so mean to him."
Pip turned, eyeing her sister cautiously. "When did you hear this? You were supposed to be sick in bed."
"I heard men's voices raised and I was curious."
"Merrythought Piper, it is rude to eavesdrop!"
"Nevertheless informative."
"You have become a sly child with a dark imagination."
The girl patted her cheek. "I'm not a child, Pip. How many times must I remind you all that I am eighteen?" With that she walked out, leaving Pip to struggle alone with the rest of her disrobing.
She sank to the bed and stared at her candelabra. Damon Deverell had offered Boxall money to go away. Did he have that much at his disposal, or had he ruined himself for her sake? Men could be very proud about the state of their finances— although some, like Bertie, were shameless.
Pip shook her head at her own stupidity. She should have known what he'd done to make Boxall run off so quickly.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They traveled to Thorford church the next day in the barouche box, Lord Mortmain permitting its use this time, since the horses were not merely being inconvenienced for Epiphany. When a Mortmain attended church he must do so in style— even if it was a somewhat tattered state of grandeur with ripped seats and chipped paintwork.
"I didn't think Deverells attended church," Merrythought exclaimed as Damon joined them for the journey. "Aunt Du Bois said they're too wicked."
Pip smiled and whispered back, "Hopefully the church roof won't fall in then."
She looked out of the carriage window, watching the wild moors fly by, thinking of how she had taken this road last week and, by chance, encountered Damon Deverell again. She'd been so pleased to see him, all feverish excitement. Every morning now, when she went to breakfast at Darkest Fathoms, she felt that same shiver of pleasure when she saw him seated at the table, or serving himself from the chafing dishes on the sideboard. But he could not remain in her life forever. They travelled in separate directions.
Perhaps that was what made his presence feel so valuable to her now.
He was seated across from her today, his back to the horses, his face grim, arms folded. She knew he came with them to the church, anticipating trouble, ready to be "of service" again. It would certainly be awkward when Serenity reappeared and, if she chose to do so today, the sermon should be enlivened greatly. For once Pip herself was not the center of the quake, but she must feel its tremors.
What would she find to say to Serenity, when she saw her again? It felt as if a lifetime had passed while she was gone. Pip had, after all, discovered what "love" meant during her sister's absence. That it was simple and complex at the same time. That it hurt and thrilled all at once. That she could not control it and had no cure for it, no witty remark to keep it at bay.
Her pulse hammered away at twice its usual pace, and Damon looked at her quizzically several times, as if he could hear the sound.
In her heart that day she was anxious to see her sister safe, but she was also angry at the furtive manner in which
this had all come about— Jonathan and Serenity, creeping away before dawn, like fugitives. She was also concerned for Edwyn and his father, who were the only two in their party still utterly in the dark about what they might encounter today.
Somehow Merrythought held her tongue during the carriage ride and said nothing about their sister and the vicar of Thorford, but never had Pip spent such a nerve-wracking hour.
It was a cold day, the air brisk and biting. There was still snow in places, hunchbacked drifts sweeping across the hills and valleys, but it was nowhere near as bleak as it had been on the day she took the mail coach to seek Jonathan's advice.
She looked for that black crow again, but he was nowhere in sight today. Really she wouldn't be surprised if Damon Deverell could transform himself from a man to a bird and back again if he wanted. He was extraordinary and full of surprises. The oddest man she'd ever known. And now her friend. She certainly needed one.
Somehow, without offending him, she would have to find a moment to ask him about that money he'd given to Bertie Boxall. It was not like her to worry about offending anybody, she thought glumly, but she had finally learned circumspection, so it seemed.
"That must be Mr. Lulworth," Damon murmured as they walked toward the church. "I thought you said he was handsome."
"No. I said he was kind. Your incredible memory has failed you."
"I'm sure you said handsome." He frowned.
"Perhaps that's just what you thought you heard."
Jonathan stood by the arched door, greeting parishioners as they entered. When he saw Pip and the Mortmains, he went as white as his robe, but then straightened his shoulders, as if he made up his mind to be brave.
He had better be, she mused, to take her sister on and keep her content.
But there was no sign of Serenity. As the Mortmains took to their pew, Jonathan came down the aisle and whispered in Pip's ear. When she got up again, Damon put his hand on her arm, but she shook her head. She would do this alone.
* * * *
Her sister was in the vestry, wearing a new, fur-trimmed coat in deep, rich maroon.
"I sold mama's brooch," she said. "I needed a new coat and hat. Do you like it?"
Pip stared at her sister's flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "You sold her wedding brooch?"
"After I'd worn it for my wedding day." Serenity twirled the hem of her splendid coat. "Our mama would have wanted me to make use of it. I could have taken the other jewelry, but I left it for you and Merry."
"That's good of you." She swallowed hard, determined not to raise her voice. "You left other things for us too."
Serenity looked blank. "I couldn't take all my clothes when I left, of course. But you can send them to me now. If there is some little thing you or Merry would like to keep—"
"I referred to the mess of a broken engagement. The Mortmains could sue us for breach of promise, you know."
"Well, that lawyer can take care of it, can't he? He's supposed to be good, and he might as well do something for the fee father paid him."
Her sister's carelessness took her breath away for a moment.
Then Serenity added, "Why shouldn't I cause a scandal for once? You're the one always having fun, not caring. Now it's my turn. I was tired of doing my duty and when Aunt Du Bois died, I realized...we don't have forever. I didn't want to be entombed in that place. Buried alive. I couldn't...I couldn't bear it."
"But all those lectures you gave me about marriage and survival—"
"I meant them. And then I met Jonathan. I suppose you thought you were the only one clever enough for him. Better educated, and informed, and oh, so witty. You have always thought yourself superior, smarter. The girl who knows everything."
"I certainly didn't know about you and Jonathan. You hid it well."
"Yes." Serenity was smug. "Jonathan said we should tell you, but I knew you would never be able to keep it to yourself. You would have told Aunt Du Bois."
"Then it began when our aunt was still alive? In the summer?"
"Of course. I knew him as long you did, Pip. At first I simply wondered what you liked about his company so much. Curious and bored, I took to visiting him without you, and I soon learned to appreciate his goodness. Did you think you were the only one of us who would? Then our aunt died and Jonathan comforted me. I began to realize that I couldn't marry Edwyn Mortmain. It would have been suicide for me, a slow death."
"I wish you had told me then."
"What good would that have done? Given us something else to fight over? Something else to quarrel about? We have never lacked for any of that, you and I. Odd, isn't it," she put her head on one side, "that we should both have fallen in love with the same man after all?"
Pip sat in a large carved chair, with cold blue light from the narrow window falling on her face. She took a deep breath of damp air and ancient stone. "I wasn't in love with Jonathan."
Serenity laughed softly. "Say that now if you must, to save face."
"I can assure you it's true. I know it now because I know what love feels like. I didn't know it before."
Serenity sniffed, tucking her hands into the fur muff that matched her hat and the trim of her coat. "Then you're not angry?"
"I'm angry only that you left us that way. It was wrong of you not to be open and tell Edwyn Mortmain. To finish one thing before you began another."
"I couldn't face it. How on earth could I have told him? You must tell him for me. You won't mind what you say. You never do."
For a moment Pip could only sit and stare at her sister, trying to think how to break this news to Edwyn and his father. Finally she said, "So you are married?" Better get that clarified, she thought. It couldn't be undone if it was contract signed, vows exchanged.
"Yes. We went to Gretna Green. It was splendidly romantic. Like one of Merrythought's novels."
She shook her head, still trying to imagine Serenity as a vicar's wife. In Thorford, no less, this wild place, so far away from ballrooms and cotillions. It was typical of Serenity that her first thought as a married woman had been her need for a new coat. A fancy, fashionable garment that would look out of place in her new husband's parish. How long would this thrill of doing something unexpected, of knitting her husband's socks and pottering about that small vicarage, last for her? Not long.
Serenity had given up on the idea of having a little coronet printed on her stationary, but it was not the only thing she had given up for Jonathan Lulworth.
"Then I must congratulate you." Pip stood and kissed her on both cool cheeks. "At least you married for love, after all, and as your sister I am happy for you."
What else could she say?
Love conquers all or, as they say in Latin: Amor Vincit Omnia.
* * * *
Together, Damon and Pip broke the news to Edwyn after they had returned to the house. Serenity had not shown her face in church that day, but had hidden away in the vestry in her new coat, waiting for her husband to wave off the last of his congregation. Slowly, of course, Jonathan would have to introduce his wife to the parishioners and hope for acceptance. If his housekeeper did not let the news out before he could do so. Serenity would have to manage that dilemma herself.
Edwyn had, it seemed, resigned himself to the idea of Serenity not coming back.
"I confess," he uttered gloomily, "that there will be considerable humiliation involved in my former fiancée marrying the local vicar instead. I must see them every time I attend church service, and my father will never let me forget how I failed."
Lord Mortmain threatened to burn Thorford church to the ground. "'Ow is my son to show his face about the county?" he roared. "I know it ain't much of a face, but he still needs to air it once in a while. Folk are going to laugh at my son, and I won't have it."
Damon suggested there could be a settlement and Pip, agreeing it would be for the best, asked him to undertake the negotiations on her father's behalf.
"I trust you to do what is right," she told him.
<
br /> With Merry's help she packed their sister’s remaining things and took them to the vicarage, where they were invited in for tea. A stilted conversation concluded with Merry exclaiming that she thought Serenity looked plump and ought to let her seams out before the stitches snapped.
"What did I say?" she complained as Merry hurried her out to the carriage.
"I think you just brought our sister back to earth. Back to the messy, unromantic reality of marriage. And imminent motherhood."
* * * *
"It is good of you to stay and help settle this matter," said Edwyn. "Surely you have other demands upon your time with Christmas fast upon us."
But Damon had no desire to spend Christmas anywhere else. Now that he knew Ransom was out of danger, family visits could wait, and he had written to Tobias Stempenham to let him know he was earning his fee from their client Prospero Piper. If there should be an issue taken with the sudden way he'd left London, he would deal with that on his return, but once he explained, in person, about the breach of promise, he felt certain his employers would understand. In Yorkshire he could fix the matter with the minimum of fuss and maximum of discretion, far less chance of any gossip getting into the London papers.
But after Christmas he must return to London and his usual routine. He had business to tend there, and life must go on. If only he could persuade Pip to go with him, but then what? Before he made such a major swerve in his road, he must plan. Couldn't simply fly by the seat of his breeches, not after so many years of orderly planning. If one wanted a thing to be done correctly, it had to be done with care and attention to detail.
She and her sister spent an entire day decorating Darkest Fathoms with chains of paper Christmas decorations, pine boughs and holly. Although Lord Mortmain complained of the mess, a few glasses of port and a song from Merrythought, on the newly mended and tuned pianoforte, soon put him in a better mood.
