Ransom Redeemed

by Jayne Fresina

  Lady Charlotte raised a hand to her pearl choker, and her eyes narrowed. "This is why you came today after staying away so long?" Her voice turned raspy as she seemed not to be able to catch her breath. "Merely to tell me that I am not welcome in my daughter's home?"

  "I also came to be sure you are in good health, of course."

  "You have a very strange look on your face, Ransom. Is there something more? You have more bad news for me, perhaps"

  "None that I can think of."

  Her face had crumpled slightly, her lips sagged at the corners. "I thought you came to tell me that your father's mousy young bride is about to give him yet another child."

  "No. As far as I know, Olivia has birthed only one son. John Paul. I know of none others on the horizon."

  She studied his face, as if she might catch him in a lie, then, satisfied, collected her breath, tightened her mouth and raised her chin. "Ha! Biblical names. How ironic! There will be more, no doubt, now that she has her feet under the table and him around her finger. I daresay she will produce a child a year and you will fall even farther in his order of consideration."

  After all this time her words should not have so much power to hurt, but despite the armor of scar-tissue they still wormed their way in. His mother knew how to crawl under his skin and she, unlike the ghost of Sally White, didn't have to wait until he fell asleep to do it.

  "I knew, the minute I saw that woman he married, that she had thoroughly pulled the fleece over his eyes. Never underestimate a quiet, drab woman," she added. "Those that pretend to be good and virtuous are worse than any."

  "Yes, mama." Too long in her presence made him hot and sick, so he was already making his way to the door. "I'll try to call in more often now that Raven has gone back to the country and—"

  "Don't put yourself out if you're too busy. I am not completely alone, you know." She flounced back to her warm fire, recovering her usual poise and carefully controlled nonchalance. "My own children may have deserted me, but I have a girl who visits several times a week."

  "A girl?" He stopped and looked back at his mother. "What girl?" Ransom was suspicious of any stranger forming a connection to Lady Charlotte. He knew his mother could be indiscrete and overly-familiar with only a slight acquaintance, especially if they made themselves "useful" to her.

  "A very old friend of your sister's, if you must know. A penniless spinster with no prospects, but well-bred. She is quite respectable, I assure you."

  Penniless, eh? So she was sniffing after some Deverell money, whoever she was. He frowned. "I'd like to know who this person is. Raven has never mentioned this friend to me." Or had she? He tried to remember. Raven was a sociable creature certainly, but he could not recall meeting any particular female friend in her company. If she was a "very old" friend, would he not have been introduced by his sister?

  "It doesn't matter who she is. When my own children are too busy to visit, I am grateful to have any callers." His mother now arranged herself gracefully on a Grecian chaise by the fire, her eyelids sleepily lowered, her long hands limp against the cushions. "This time of year is so dreary until the Season begins and any company is preferable to none. Well, be gone then about your wretched business. Far be it for me to keep you too long when you are needed to man the oars for your despicable father. You have done your cruel deed and cast your dagger into my heart, which you were no doubt sent to do. Now you may retreat, unless you want to watch me bleed."

  Ransom bowed to his mother and made a hasty departure, before he might be tempted to say something that was even less "tactful".

  * * * *

  Mary tapped lightly at the door to the suite and soon heard a weary, "Enter."

  She peeped in and saw Lady Charlotte draped elegantly upon the chaise with a handkerchief clutched over her eyes. "Bring me the ice-pack," she muttered. "It took you long enough, girl. I didn't realize you had to go to Antarctica to fetch the ice."

  "Lady Charlotte, it's me, Mary." She came all the way in and quietly closed the door.

  "Oh." The handkerchief was lowered, and two limp eyes surveyed her morosely. "I cannot think where the dratted maid has got to. My head feels likely to burst at any moment. It seems nobody cares for my health and I am left here to die alone."

  Mary smiled cheerfully as she crossed the room to the window. "But I am here now so you are not alone. And you look very well, Lady Charlotte, far from the shadows of death."

  The woman sighed heavily and dropped her handkerchief to her lap.

  "I'm sure the maid will return shortly," Mary added, "and in the meantime, I have bought a new book to read to you—"

  "Heavens, girl, I cannot hear you read today. Not one of those novels full of too many characters and too much plot! So many words! All those long names to remember! It is beyond me to concentrate. I am far too troubled."

  Mary set her basket down on the table by the window and was in the process of untying her bonnet ribbons when she noticed a gentleman's hat and gloves. "Oh. You have another caller, Lady Charlotte?" It was not rare for Raven's mother to entertain gentlemen occasionally in her suite of rooms at Mivart's Hotel, but she seldom allowed those appointments to overlap with Mary's afternoon visits.

  "My wretched son," the lady exclaimed. "In such haste to leave me that he left his hat behind I see."

  She felt her pulse skip. "I did not know you expected your son today." Perhaps it was another son. There were several, after all.

  But the next word snatched that hope away and the man she'd tried to avoid thinking about for two days was before her again. Or rather his hat and gloves were.

  "Ransom comes and goes as he pleases. I can expect him for weeks and see neither hide nor hair. Then, when I have abandoned all hope, he appears without the slightest apology for his absence, to pass on bad news and— on his father's behalf no doubt— to be sure I am behaving myself. To report my comings and goings like a spy. He cares nothing for my health and happiness. Just like his father."

  "He came to give you bad news, your ladyship?" She gripped the edge of the table.

  "He will not take me into Oxfordshire to visit his sister until next summer. Something he took ruthless delight in telling me."

  Mary's heart beat resumed a regular pace.

  But why would it matter if she encountered Ransom Deverell again? Really there was no need to make so much of it. She was in danger of giving their strange meeting more significance than it was worth, if she quaked in trepidation at the mere thought of seeing him a second time. She was turning into Violet— oops, Violette— with her unhinged imagination.

  Her gaze lingered over his gloves. Grey leather, very fine, folded over and tossed down beside his upturned hat. What if he came back for them?

  "Perhaps, if you have such a sore head and no need of me today—"

  "But you're here now and you might as well make use of yourself, Mary. I suppose you can read to me from Le Follet. It is there on the windowsill ,and I should like to hear about the new Parisian fashions. That is the only thing I can bear when I am ill. It might lift my spirits."

  Well, Deverell very probably had many hats and gloves at his disposal and no need to make a special trip back for those he'd left behind. If he was so eager to leave his mother's company, he would doubtless be in no rush to come back.

  Quietly celebrating her narrow escape, Mary finally released the edge of the table from her fierce grip, took the magazine from the windowsill and sat in a chair across the hearth from her ladyship's chaise. As usual there followed a short summary of all Lady Charlotte's most current aches and pains, while Mary listened patiently, giving what little support she could. Most of the time she suspected her quiet replies were not heard, and probably not needed, but she gave them anyway.

  Lady Charlotte was not the most likeable of people and could be very challenging when in one of her moods, but Mary felt some sympathy for her. She did seem to be rather deserted by her children, although the lady did nothing to encourage their compan
y. She was not the sort to apologize for past mistakes, forgive others readily for theirs, or hold out comforting arms. In fact, she was probably the most unmotherly mother Mary had ever known, and yet there was a proud, wounded sadness about her, which suggested that while she was aware of this failing she simply didn't know any other way to be.

  Mary knew what it was to harden ones shell out of necessity— for one's very own survival— and then to have others misunderstand.

  She had just opened the magazine and begun to read aloud when the door burst open.

  "Hellfire, I left my bloody hat behind, didn't I?"

  Chapter Ten

  He stopped short and stared, one hand still on the door, an ice pack in the other.

  "What the devil and his minions are you doing here?"

  Miss Mary Ashford sat there, just as prim as you please, by his mother's fire, with a ladies' magazine open on her lap. For the life of him he couldn't make sense of her appearance there at that moment. He even thought his eyes deceived him.

  But no, he was fairly sure he was not drunk or dreaming.

  It was three o'clock in the afternoon, or thereabouts and she was sitting in his mother's parlor as if it was the most natural place for her to be. There on the table beside his hat and gloves was her blue bonnet— the same one he saw her in the other morning, when she left that book for him with Miggs and he followed her to a pawnbroker's.

  "Ransom!" his mother exclaimed. "Bring that ice pack to me at once. I suppose you were flirting with the hotel maid again, which would explain her impertinent tardiness."

  He shut the door and crossed the carpet, keeping his eyes on Miss Ashford who closed her magazine and stood. But before she could speak his mother added, "This is Raven's friend who visits me. The one I told you about."

  "Ah." He smirked. "The penniless spinster."

  His mother, naturally, would not be at all embarrassed by the description she'd used. Neither, it seemed, was Miss Ashford, who gave a wry smile and a short curtsey. "Indeed, sir. That would be me."

  So she was Raven's friend. Is that where he'd heard her name before? What a tiny world it was, after all. He was still marveling over the coincidence, when his mother yelled again,

  "Ransom! The ice pack, if you please, before it all melts!" She flung out her arm as if it took all her strength to make the gesture and it might very well be her last. He finally passed the cold bag of ice to her, having crushed it quite severely in his hand.

  "Miss Ashford, you did not mention being acquainted with my family when we met on that recent Wednesday." No, she had teased him instead. Called him Mr. Drivel and claimed never to have heard of him.

  "It did not occur to me that you were one of the same Deverells." Her eyes were wide, clear grey pools. All innocence.

  "Really? What other Deverell might I be?"

  "Do fetch my son's hat, Mary. Let him be gone again so we can have peace, or my head will never recover."

  Miss Ashford quickly obeyed, collecting his hat and gloves from the table, but Ransom was no longer in great hurry to leave. He simply dropped his seat into the nearest chair and when she handed the forgotten items to him, he set the hat over his knee and exclaimed, "As you said, mama, I have not spent as much time with you as I should. Perhaps leaving my hat behind was an unconscious admission of guilt, ensuring I must return."

  "But I don't need you now. I have Mary. Sit, Mary! You know I don't like it when you hover. It makes the room untidy."

  Once again Miss Ashford calmly did as she was ordered without comment. Ransom was amused. "Yes, I can see she must be a vast improvement on my uncouth, disobedient company. Miss Ashford appears to be well trained." He knew there must be a reason behind this quiet compliance from a woman he knew to be quick witted, much too intelligent and opinionated to tolerate his mother's nonsense, and not in the least subservient.

  "Since when have you felt guilt?" his mother demanded sharply, rings and bracelets sparkling, as her clawed fingers clasped the ice bag to her brow. "You have no conscience, so don't pretend you're sitting there now because you feel sorry."

  "You've caught me, mama. Of course I have no conscience. I learned from the best." He smiled broadly. "As a matter of fact it's raining like billy-ho out there and I'd rather wait out the worst of it, so this delay is entirely for my own selfish convenience. But I suppose, in return for putting up with me, I can escort Miss Ashford home, when she is ready to leave."

  Those grey eyes turned to him with surprise. She looked younger and less sinister today, out of her usual grim habitat. Perhaps it was the light in his mother's suite. This afternoon she was neither shrouded in cobwebs nor drenched in rain.

  "It shouldn't put me out too much," he added with a sigh. "It's not too far out of my way. She needn't think I'll make a habit of it. Gallant gestures are hardly my province."

  After a slight pause to find her place again, his mother's obliging visitor resumed reading from the ladies' magazine. It was not long, however, before she was interrupted in the midst of a sentence, proving that she was not being listened to by Lady Charlotte, any more than she was by him.

  "Where did you meet my son, Mary? You did not mention it to me."

  She looked up from the magazine, but Ransom replied before she could. "I met Miss Ashford in the bookshop where she works."

  "A bookshop?" Lady Charlotte lowered her ice pack. "Works? I did not know this, Mary."

  "Indeed, madam. And I live there too."

  "You live. In. The shop?" Each word fell like a heavy weight.

  "Above the shop, your ladyship."

  "How ghastly!"

  "Not at all. We are quite cozy there, my sister and I. A dear friend of my uncle's offered us the rooms when our father died, and since my uncle had passed on to me his shares in the bookshop it made a sound solution to the problem of our living arrangements."

  "But that is very odd for two genteel, well-bred young women. I knew your family had fallen on hard times, but I cannot imagine why I did not know the very depths to which you are sunk."

  "I doubt you ever asked her," Ransom muttered.

  "It is not at all a bad place to live," the young woman said firmly, "and I prefer not to think of it as sunken depths, madam. We are still, currently, afloat." A very little smile tugged at her lips. "I do not believe anything is ever sunk beyond rescue."

  Ransom knew she referred to his mind, of course, because that is how he had described it in his note when he returned the books.

  That mercury gaze returned once again to the magazine, she read on.

  Cunning wench.

  He relaxed deeper into the chair with one leg stretched out, fingers steepled under his chin. He watched her thoughtfully, still trying to make sense of why she was there. Why she was really there. Surely nobody would voluntarily seek out Lady Charlotte's company and with Raven no longer in London, Miss Ashford had no other connection to the family. There must be an ulterior motive to her presence.

  His mother hadn't lost her appalled expression, her thoughts obviously stuck on the subject of Mary Ashford's living arrangements. Lady Charlotte was never comfortable around great poverty, perhaps because it reminded her of where she might be if not for her former husband's financial generosity. She liked to complain of being "poor" and hard done by, but of course she was not. Indeed she was fortunate that True Deverell had never cut her off, despite all the terrible things she said of him. So when faced with the evidence of real hardship she froze, became almost incapacitated.

  Miss Ashford pretended not to notice and read on in a low, pleasing voice, describing the latest hideous fashions of Paris, as if this was the most important news ever put to print.

  It might be quite pleasing to have her read to him too, he decided, for she could make the dullest of articles sound interesting. But he would enjoy it more if they were alone together. Although he'd be in danger of falling asleep, if he could take her calm, melodious voice with him into his dreams, it might not be so bad. Would she protect
him from Sally White too, as she saved him from Belle?

  No. She thought he should stand up for himself instead of running away from the demons that pursued him. Not that she'd used those particular words; it was what she meant. He could pretend to her that he didn't understand, but he could not pretend to himself.

  The fact that she had known who he was when they met, cast a thoroughly new light on their encounter and that conversation.

  Before too long his mother interrupted again. "I thought Lord Ashford left some provision for your living arrangements when he died, Mary. I cannot think he would approve of his daughters in a bookshop." She spoke the words as if they might be a euphemism for a brothel.

  "Whether he would approve or not, we had nowhere else to go. And I'm afraid he would have approved even less of the alternatives."

  "But you are a Baron's daughter and educated. A governess post with a good family would be far more respectable for you. Far better than to be in trade."

  "I would not like to be separated from my sister, madam. She has been left in my charge, and I promised to take care of her."

  "Surely you could find some distant relative or childless couple to take her in. Little girls are always wanted as they are less trouble than boys."

  "My sister is almost twenty, Lady Charlotte, not a child."

  "Goodness gracious! Then she can fend for herself. Can you not get her married off? I suppose you have nothing much in the way of a dowry to offer, but perhaps a dreary little clerk of some sort will take her for a small sum."

  "He very well might." Miss Ashford's lips drew another swift smile. "But she would never take him for anything less than love. I'm afraid my sister has romantic ideas."

  "Then she'd better come to her senses," his mother scoffed. "You're both too poor to have that luxury, and in another few years she will be in danger of losing her bloom too. Like you."

  Now he could see that Miss Ashford's unruffled demeanor was endangered, as if she was a hedgehog and his mother's questions and comments poked at her like a sharp stick. Her expression became very proud. Her spikes were up.