When Angels Fall Page 4

  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 discussing 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 letus 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—”

  “And why would he want me? He cares nothing for us, and you know it. We haven’t seen him in five years,” Lissa stated, her voice painfully even. “He’s been living quite a luxurious life in London and, I daresay, he never gives us a moment’s thought. Nor should he,” she conceded, “for we’re peasants in his eyes now. Things have changed. And everything that once happened . . . was so long ago . . . and . . . everything’s different now . . .” Her voice trailed off. She became silent as she looked out the window at the brown foliage that had once been pink petunias in the window box.

  Ivan Tramore. She could hardly think the name, let alone say it. Damn him anyway! Why did he have to come back to Powerscourt just when they’d been cut off! Lissa closed her eyes. She could already picture his smug satisfaction at finding them destitute. If anything, he’d most likely be delighted to make their situation worse. And why was he coming back? Was it for her? Was it for revenge? She opened her eyes. Beneath her dark lashes, her blue eyes glittered with fear.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned him,” Evvie finally said.

  “No, it’s all right.” She turned to her sister once more, her face a beautiful mask of control. “He’s coming back. So we must deal with his presence eventually—though I doubt, because of our station, we will see much of the grand Marquis of Powerscourt.” Lissa let out a well-rehearsed laugh. “So perhaps our poverty is a blessing in disguise.”

  “You would have made a splendid match—”

  “Father was not about to see me married to my stableboy, especially one,” she said, lowering her voice, “who was born on the wrong side of the sheets.” Her brow furrowed. “So now let’s not speak of it further. It’s in the past. And Wilmott Billingsworth is in the future.”

  “No, Lissa, no,” Evvie groaned again. But this time their contentions went no further for George abruptly burst through the door, arriving home from school.

  Their little brother was a handsome boy. Lissa knew he would devastate the ladies once he became a man. Just nine years old, he already had Alice Bishop, the Bishops’ granddaughter, completely smitten with him. Alice was quite free with the horehound candy from her grandparents’ store whenever George was about. And though George tried to be manly and aloof, he was inevitably taken in by a sweet, toothless smile and the offer of candy.

  As if she were his mother, Lissa went to him and took his school bag. She ran her hand lovingly through his coal-black hair, so different from her own blond tresses and Evvie’s brunette ones.

  “So how was school today? Are you hungry?”

  “It was fine,” George answered glumly, then he brightened. “But I read about Africa. Did you know there are tribes there who can kill you with a poison dart? And they stretch their lips like this . . .” He walked to the tea service, pulled out his lower lip, and tried to place a tea saucer inside it.

  “No, George. Not with Mother’s Copeland Spode.” Horrified, Lissa immediately took the precious saucer from his grasp. “Eat something,” she ordered.

  She gave him some tea she and Evvie had made earlier. There were some scones on a plate, and he eagerly reached for two.

  “Any teasing today?” Evvie asked lightly.

  George scowled. His heavily lashed, dark-brown eyes darted to Lissa.

  “Well?” Lissa probed.

  “No.” He began swinging his legs.

  “No one said anything. Not even Johnny Miller?”

  “No.” His legs swung harder.

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Evvie began to knit once more. The clicking of her needles was soothing, but Lissa frowned, her gaze on George’s swinging legs. She looked him in the eye, but when she did, he sheepishly looked away.

  Brave child, she thought, then sighed and watched him devour a third scone.

  The next morning Lissa was out in the side yard hanging laundry. She was hurrying for she needed to go to Bishop’s to price fabric. Though they could hardly afford the expense—particularly now—she had convinced herself that she would need a new gown in order to call on Wilmott. Evvie was still in despair over her plan to marry the elderly man, but Lissa was determined to go forward.

  It was a blustery fall day that held the threat of storms. However, once washed, the linens had to be hung, so Lissa quickly pinned the sheets, all the while glancing balefully at the sky, as if she were daring it to rain.

  Without her crinoline, her long blond hair tucked in an old purple kerchief, and the sleeves of her faded pink calico pulled up to her elbows, she certainly felt as plain as an old washwoman. But the wind had chaffed her cheeks, making them a rosy pink, and her eyes sparkled vibrantly from their seductive azure depths. Many a gent had tipped his hat passing Violet Croft while she was in the yard. Unaware that they found her a fetching sight, Lissa merely nodded back demurely, uncomfortable with their attention.

  She was almost done with her task when a commotion drove her to the front yard. Down the lane, the Johnsons were all stepping from their cottage, excitedly pointing in the direction of town. Several travelers on the road bade their horses pause as they, too, watched the bustle.

  A coaching party, consisting of scarlet-liveried outriders, blue-and-silver bedecked postillions, satin-clad coachmen, eight Irish Thoroughbreds harnessed with silver fittings, and last, a gleaming black-lacquered coach bearing the silver-and-black Powerscourt crest on its door, made its way through town, ultimately heading for the castle up the knoll.

  Peering toward the main thoroughfare of the village, Lissa gasped at the magnificent sight. Then she felt her heart lurch in her chest when she realized what it meant.

  Ivan had returned.

  How she had dreaded his arrival—dreaded it like a specter that had haunted her for five years. And now he was here. That thought left her almost in a swoon, but as she continued to watch the glorious entourage wind its way up to the castle, she couldn’t help the small thrill of pride that ran down her spine. Her stableboy had come home triumphant. And somehow, by fate or simply b
y sheer dint of will, he had shown them all.

  Suddenly she had the urge to laugh. Her terror now seemed absurd. The man who possessed this elaborate conveyance was not likely to spend his time seeking the company of two pauperish spinsters.

  She thought of him sitting inside his coach as it rocked and swayed. Even now she found her imagination trying desperately to picture him. Was he still handsome? Did his eyes still twinkle when someone made him laugh? Did his face still bear—

  “What is all the bustle about?” Evvie called to her from the front door. “I could hear the Johnsons exclaiming in the parlor.”

  Lissa could hardly speak for the emotion caught in her throat. “Lord Powerscourt has arrived.”

  All at once she felt tears of panic and guilt spring to her eyes. Acting like a madwoman she rushed past her sister into the house. There she began to change her clothes for a trip to Bishop’s. Suddenly her courtship with Wilmott could not wait.

  It was several hours later when Lissa came trudging home from the Mercantile. Disheartened, she had looked at every bolt of silk Mrs. Bishop could dig out for her, but there was not a yard in one of them that she could afford. There was always linsey woolsey, or worse, hopsacking, but she needed something appropriate for tea or, perhaps, a quiet dinner at the Billingsworth estate. And even the least expensive machine-made horror was still beyond the price she could pay.

  So with this dismal revelation, she walked through the village, her mind all the while scouring her wardrobe in hopes of finding a gown that could be modernized with some lace or cording. When she turned the corner to go home, she had just decided that her gray-blue serge could be refashioned. Her thoughts elsewhere, she absently looked down the path to her cottage. There, to her horror, she saw the coach.

  She stumbled forward in disbelief. It had to be some terrible mistake! The coach in the distance could not be the same one she had seen hours earlier. But, running, she soon confirmed that it was indeed the same. There were the postillions sitting idly on the Thoroughbreds, their silver-corded coats glinting in the fall sunshine. Two coachmen were leaning on the back of the cab, polishing their silver buttons and laughing, no doubt over some bawdy joke.