Ransom Redeemed

by Jayne Fresina

  "Yes." He pressed his head back against the pillow, feeling very tired. "The Indian lady will be here at nine on Wednesday as usual. There is money for her in the desk drawer in my father's study. Top right. And some in my boots, over there, by the fire. But you are quite correct— my father mustn't know about her. For pity's sake keep her out of his sight, will you? And if anything happens to me, you must get word to Captain Justify Deverell, wherever his ship might be."

  "Very good, sir."

  "As for Rush, if he needs another letter of complaint about his behavior signed off on, put it aside until I can sign it. Best not worry my father on that score either. For now."

  "Indeed." Smith turned to Mary and asked whether she required anything, but she replied that she was quite content. The butler bowed and left them alone again.

  Ransom waited for her to question him about the Indian lady. Nothing. She moved around his bed, adjusting quilts and blankets, and then returned to her chair. "Are you sure I cannot tempt you to try more of the broth?" she asked.

  Earlier she had managed to get him to eat a little, but he was too nauseous for much food and the broth Mrs. Clay had made mostly remained in the bowl.

  Finally he prompted, "You must be curious about my Indian lady visitor."

  She sighed and smoothed both hands over her lap. "Not particularly."

  "You must promise not to mention it to my father."

  Her hands stilled, her gaze returned to his face. "Why?"

  "She's my brother's wife. But nobody else knows. Justify is planning the perfect moment to share his news. In the meantime, he is at sea, and I am given the task of keeping her safe and provided for, until he returns."

  "Why should your father not know? Surely he must, sooner or later."

  He groaned sleepily. "You're right, of course, sensible Mary. I wish the folk in my family had your common sense. In any case, she'll be here at nine on Wednesday, if you would like to meet her. Not that she speaks more than a word or two of English. I promised Justify that I would keep his secret, just as I promised Damon to keep his."

  "And Rush. He is the youngest of Lady Charlotte's children, is he not? She has mentioned him sometimes. I understand he refuses to visit her."

  "In many ways Rush was lucky, for our parents were living apart before he was even born, so he never suffered the worst of the fights, as Raven and I did. It does not seem to have done him much benefit though. He spends a vast deal of his time in one trouble or another."

  She tilted her head. "A family trait?"

  He smiled, but it was interrupted by a yawn.

  Suddenly she reached over and took his hand. "Don't worry about that now. Don't worry about any of that. You must rest." Her thumb moved against his palm, shyly at first, then gaining confidence.

  Just like that he forgot it all.

  * * * *

  At last he seemed to be sleeping. Mary could not move her hand for fear of waking him and seeing those eyes open again. So she sat very still, only her thumb gently stroking his warm palm.

  It occurred to her that she had never touched a man's gloveless hand unless he was her father, her uncle, or one of her brothers. At balls, of course, men wore white gloves, as did she. George Stanbury's bare hand had never touched any part of her. He would not have dared try with her brothers always nearby, always in the same room.

  Ransom Deverell's hands were infamous for having shot at his father, seduced many women, dealt many winning cards. His knuckles were broad, scabbed and torn, his nails square, not well cared for. No surprise there considering the fight he'd been in.

  Three or four leaping upon one man. Thugs. It made her furious.

  She thought of everything she had just learned— about how he looked after his brothers. He took on their problems, better than he took on his own. He had even taken on hers.

  Yet people called him wicked names, thought him heartless, a man without a conscience.

  Ransom's forearm stretched over the quilt, muscular, covered with dark hair the same as his chest. His wrist was strong, thick. Beside hers it looked enormous, and blood still pulsed through it. Mary was determined to keep that blood pumping and all his parts working as they should.

  She glanced over at the letter from Thaddeus Speedwell and smiled.

  Dr. Woodley could study his ancient manuscripts, keep his leeches, and cling to his old-fashioned ways, manners, and ideas, if that made him comfortable. Like her father. But Mary was a modern woman, forward-thinking. And she was willing to try anything for the ones she loved. No more opportunities would pass her by.

  Her gaze returned to the sleeping man — the one she wanted to save, the one who assumed she was there for mercenary reasons.

  His eyelids fluttered but did not open, his lashes, dark, fluttering, crescent shadows on his cheeks.

  Must be dreaming.

  "Sally," he murmured. "Sally!"

  Sweat broke across his chest, dampening his nightshirt. With her free hand she reached for the washrag again and cooled his face.

  Sally? Was that another woman in his life, one he had yet to send on her way?

  Clearly, whoever she was, she meant a lot to him. But there was something sinister in his voice.

  His body tensed, his fingers rigidly gripping hers.

  "Sally!"

  Mary leaned over and kissed his brow.

  He whimpered.

  Gently she kissed each eyelid.

  His fingers loosened their grasp.

  She kissed his lips, and they parted to exhale a light snore.

  At last his face was peaceful, his body sunk into the bed with greater ease.

  The door opened, and his father came in. Mary hastily straightened her spine and pretended to check Ransom's temperature with one hand to his brow.

  "How is the patient?" True Deverell crossed quickly to the bed, although he came no closer than the chaise at the foot of it.

  "Suffering bad dreams, I fear. But I think it has passed."

  "You ought to take some rest, Miss Ashford. You've been at his side all evening."

  "I wouldn't like to leave, sir. What if he wakes? He was very adamant that I stay."

  "I'm sure he was. Spoiled boy." He shook his head. "But you can sit a while, eh?" Deverell motioned for her to join him by the fire in one of the chairs that stood on either side of the small hearth.

  "I'm glad you came up, sir, as I wanted to tell you that I saw Lady Charlotte this afternoon at the dressmaker's."

  He winced, dropping into a lazy sprawl in one of the chairs.

  "I thought it only right that she should know about her son's condition," she added hastily. "I have been acquainted with the lady for some years, and it would have felt deceitful not to tell her."

  With the tanned fingers of one hand he scratched his cheek, staring into the fire. "Yes, I suppose she ought to know. Thank you for saving me the onerous task of informing her."

  Relieved, Mary sat in the opposite chair.

  "Although I doubt Ransom will thank you," he continued. "Doesn't want her here making one of her commotions."

  "Well, she said she would not come unless he asked for her. She appeared upset, but thought it best to wait until she is invited."

  He looked up, eyes hard and cold suddenly. "Does she know I'm here?"

  Mary nodded, biting her lip, hands in her lap.

  "Then she'll stay away, if she knows what's good for her."

  Across the room, in the bed, Ransom let out a groan, but slept on.

  Deverell lowered his voice again. "You will know, I'm sure, about my marriage to his mother and how it ended."

  Again she nodded.

  He fell further back in the chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. "I often think Ransom had the roughest time of it. Raven too, although she soon learned how to play her mother and I against each other and used that to her advantage. Ransom was closer to his mother, had the fleece pulled over his eyes in regard to her...behavior." With a thin, frustra
ted sigh, he looked over at his son and added, "Ah, what do I know of these things? Who can say what goes on in any man's mind, eh? We should try to be more cheerful, should we not, for his sake?" But his voice was hoarse and ragged, torn with worry.

  "Yes, sir." She hesitated and then decided to plow forward. "Who is Sally, sir?"

  His gaze returned to her so swiftly and angrily she felt stung. "Sally?" he demanded.

  Oh, dear. Had she pried beyond her boundaries? "Your son mentioned the name as he dreamed."

  True Deverell covered his eyes briefly with one hand and then drew his fingers down. He looked more tired than ever then. "I knew he still dwelt on that girl," was all he said.

  Mary sat quietly, not knowing what else to say. Clearly, this was a sensitive subject and it was not like her to blunder in carelessly where she might cause pain, so she held her tongue.

  Finally he added, "The past is not always a good place to revisit."

  She agreed fervently. "I believe in looking to the future, not the past."

  "Good." He rested both hands on his thighs and regarded her steadily, intensely. Again he reminded her of his son. The resemblance was very strong, and in the firelight it was almost eerily so. "Then you'd do better not to talk of that," he snapped.

  "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."