Beautiful as the Sky

K.M. del Mara lives in the wilds of New Jersey, within spitting distance of the Delaware River, if the wind is in the right quarter.

Other books by K.M. del Mara

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From ' The Silent Grove':

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Willow Oak

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Whitebeam

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Passage Oak

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To my brothers, Buck and Chee Bird

Table of contents

THUNDERHEADS

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MOONBROCH

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MARES' TAILS

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THE BLUE DEEP

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BEAUTIFUL AS THE SKY

THUNDERHEADS

Heartbreak begins the moment we are asked to let go, but cannot.

−  David Whyte

NOVEMBER, 1829

PENZANCE, CORNWALL

RAFE

Sit at Life's table long enough, and one day Sorrow, with the grace of a cat, will slide into the chair beside you. She never waits to be invited, she doesn't leave until she's ready, and make no mistake – she spares no one.

Rafe Mesola was barely twenty-one years old when he realised that she was his near-constant companion. She was sitting beside him even now, though he appeared to be drinking alone in an inn in Penzance.

Tonight Sorrow plagued him with the usual litany of regrets, forcing him to consider all the bad decisions he had made over the years. Actually, he was not considering them so much as moping about them. When you realise that everyone thinks your heart is as black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat, it can be a little unsettling. Of course you tend to mope. There is no other obvious solution.

This was Rafe's belief. Or, more accurately, his excuse. This was why he had convinced himself not to go home tonight. There was no comfort for him there. He would stay in town, another of his bad decisions, as a cascade of events would prove. But tonight he did not see it as a choice. It was simply a matter of expedience.

Now, sitting apparently alone in the tavern, he watched a handsome young man come in, look around, and order a drink at the bar. Poise, self-assurance, he radiated both. Rafe had never seen him before. He watched the man rest the toe of a gleaming leather boot on the brass rail.

Christ, there was a time, Rafe thought, or started to think. He slumped back in his chair. Once, back in that buoyant time .... He sat up again and noisily sucked at his whiskey.

Look at the boots that fop is wearing! Rafe stuck out a foot and examined his own footwear. Serviceable, but not handsome. In better days, he wouldn't have worn these outside the stable. A symbol of something, he thought. Damn. He took another slurp of whiskey. There was a time ....

A flash of memory, unbidden. He and his best childhood friend running as hard as they could along a beach, hair flying stiff in the breeze, bare feet pounding the wet sand. Remember.

Stop it. Rafe swirled the last of his drink and up-ended his glass.

Remember. Pelting fistfuls of wet sand at each other, shouting with laughter, ankle deep in the surf.

Enough. He stood. He had better leave the tavern while he could still walk. He wasn't very drunk. Drunkenness was not his excuse for purposefully knocking against the young man standing at the bar. If asked, Rafe could not have said what made him do such a reprehensible thing to a total stranger. The man lurched, his drink flinging itself across the front of his starched shirt.

Sir! he cried to Rafe in protest, shaking drops of whiskey from his hands.

Rafe barely glanced back. He swung out onto the narrow, frosted street and pulled his collar up around his neck. He stood for a moment, his warm breath blooming in the icy night. He had no overcoat but it was only steps to Dora Darling's house of not-entirely-decent repute. He knocked and didn't have to wait long before Bart slid the panel aside, nodded his neckless head, and unlocked the door to let him in.

Good evening, Mr. Mesola, he growled.

Evening, Bart. Rafe saluted the shamelessly indecent Madame Darling. She acknowledged him with a wan smile and waved him up the stairs. Rafe leapt them two at a time. A graceful stallion he was, until the toe of that damnably unpolished boot caught, and sent him sprawling across the landing. He laughed without mirth. Maybe he was a little drunk after all. Bess, hearing a crash and a typically pathetic oath outside her door, tied her robe more tightly and came out to help him to his feet.

Rafe attempted a bow. May I have this dance, mademoiselle?

Laughing, she bent her forehead against his chest and he waltzed her into her room.

She stopped him with her hands on his shoulders. Rafe, I have been waiting half the night. Where were you?

Ah, so it was I who put this little pout on your pretty face? He kissed her. Splendid. You were pining for me. That's a good sign. The lace at her bosom dislodged his brain from its seat in his skull and dropped it straight into his nether regions. He pulled at her ribbons and they fell onto the bed.

I think you like making me miserable.

I'm sorry, Bess. I was busy. He paused long enough to torture her lovingly, then said, Actually, I was arranging a surprise for you. If you're very good, I may give it to you tonight.

You can't bargain with me, Rafe. I know where you keep your surprise. Her hand went to the very spot.

You do, don't you.

And I know exactly how to get it from you. She did have her methods, and they were well-practiced, to be sure. It was some time before Rafe sat up again.

I really do have a present for you, Bessie.

So you said.

Do you want it?

Maybe.

He grinned. I'm going to make you beg for it.

That's not possible. She covered herself with the sheet. I've never had to beg in my life.

We do have to make a little contract, though.

No. No bargaining. Lavish me with gifts or we can't do business. She lay back, flaunting her assets, and fanned her luxuriant hair over the pillow.

Rafe leaned over and bit her tenderly. Business? Is that what you call this?

Bess grabbed his head and held it to her. Then she pushed him away and propped herself on one elbow. Are we going to talk all night, or what?

I want to show you what I brought you. First, take off that necklace.

What? No, I like it.

But I need it.

You just gave it to me last week.

You have to give it back.

Why?

I stole it. It isn't mine to give.

Whose is it? Or was it, rather. Bess sat up and backed away to the other side of the bed.

It's my wife's, if you must know. I'll make a trade with you. Take that off and I'll give you something better.

Bess tossed her hair back. If your wife wants it, let her come and ask me for it.

Bessie, please. She'll be upset if she finds it gone.

Bess ran the sapphire pendant back and forth on its chain. Why are you so worried about her feelings? I have feelings, too. If she's to have it, I want her to ask me for it.

Don't do this to me, he warned her. Here, wait a minute. My trousers. Where are they? He stumbled to where they lay on the floor and pulled something from a pocket. He took her hand and turned it palm up. She brushed aside her tousled hair and looked at the key he had placed there.

What is this for?

Your new house.

Her mouth made a little round shape and she clutched the key to her breast. She shook her head.

Aren't you happy?

You bought me, again she shook her head, a house?

He stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head. I bought it. You can use it. It's small, a little cottage. I bought it for selfish reasons. I'm tired of coming here and always being scrutinized by Madame Dora. We need a place of our own. Now you'll be closer to me. And only for me.

But Rafe! Your wife!

Shut up. More gently he added, She won't find out, unless you do something foolish. He pulled Bessie close. We'll have to shop for some furniture.

Really?

First a bed.

Is there a garden? With flowers?

There can be, if you want them.

Oh Rafe, I can't think of any words.

I can imagine a worse state of affairs. He pushed her back down to the bed again.

I am going to have a house of my own?

Well, you have to share it with me occasionally. He gave her a tender kiss, his last to her, as Fate would have it. Suddenly, they both jumped, a thunder of pounding on their door.

Don't tell me you have another client.

No! hissed Bess. Of course not! She slid a hand under her pillow.

There was no need to wonder who was at the door because it was kicked almost off its hinges. Three men strode into the room, foul moods contorting their handsome faces. Rafe greeted them the way most anyone greets his brothers-in-law.

Well! The Parr brothers. What are you creeps doing here, wearing faces that would sour milk?

Get up, Mesola.

Insolent, Rafe propped his head on his hand. Gentlemen, I don't fancy sharing, and she, he leaned his head toward Bess, prefers a finer class of clientele.

All three brothers thumped heavy-booted across the room. Two pulled Rafe from the bed, naked as last night's chicken bones. George, the third brother, clamped hold of Bessie's arm. He dragged her, shrieking and clinging to her bed sheets, to the other side of the room and put a dagger to her throat. He turned so he could appreciate Rafe's reaction.

What the hell are you doing, George?

You have a lot of nerve, you piece of crap, George Parr snarled, each word an explosion of spit, coming to this wretched place and lying with this slut!

Speaking of sluts, how are your wives, boys? I don't know why you came all the way over here. You have sluts of your own at home.

Rafe's abdomen took several blows from one brother. The other stomped hard on each of his bare feet. Rafe straightened slowly.

How dare you come here and lie with this filthy whore? George demanded. Are you doing this on purpose to shame our family? Don't you move, you ball of slime, or she feels my blade. George dragged the knife slowly, provocatively across Bessie's body and poised its tip over her hard-beating heart. The sapphire pendant glinted up and down against her white skin.

Rafe twisted violently away from his captors and wrenched the arm of one brother behind his back.

I warned you, Mesola! cried George. Bessie's knees buckled and George pushed her to the floor.

Rafe started across the room, but was knocked to his knees. He crawled toward Bess but George kicked him in the head and ground his face to the floor with his boot. After that, Rafe did not even try to fight the brothers off. When their rage was finally exhausted, they dragged him, a bloody pulp, to his feet, and he heard rather than felt the punch that knocked him out.

He awoke slowly, groggy with pain. The room was empty, still in disarray. There was a long smear of blood on the floor. His or Bessie's? Pain was a vise clamped so tightly that he could only inhale the shallowest breaths. He lay still, waiting for the fog in his head to clear so he could struggle to a sitting position. His chin was wet with blood. He wiped it with the back of his hand. Where was Bess? What had they done with her?

He crawled over to the heap of clothing he had left on the floor. He managed to get himself dressed, though the studs on his shirt were impossible. These boots, he concluded, belonged to someone else. They were nothing he had ever had on his feet before, so difficult were they to pull on. He stumbled to the door of Bess's room, but returned to fling the bed sheets back. The key – she had thrust it, his gift to her, under a pillow. He jammed it into his pocket and limped into the hallway.

It must have been very late. There was a rhythmic creaking of bed springs from one room nearby, but otherwise, all was quiet. Bart the doorman had disappeared. Rafe wondered how much it had cost his wife's brothers to convince the guard to make himself scarce. Was there no such thing as loyalty in this world? No, apparently not. Well, he, of all people, should know that for a fact.

Where was he going? Where to look for Bess? He had no idea. Going home was not possible. First of all, there was the unsavory possibility of another confrontation with his brothers-in-law when he got home. Even worse, home was where his wife lived. He put a hand to his throbbing head and stumbled into the street. He felt responsible for Bessie's fate but could not formulate a plan to search for her. Sleep was a more attractive option, a form of death. Almost dead but not quite gone. Sleep. That sounded extremely attractive. He would spend the night, what was left of it, at Violetta's.

He looked up the street. No horse. My horse is gone, he told himself stupidly. He would never manage to walk as far as Violetta's. That carriage there. He squinted and began shuffling toward it. Ah, it was from his own stable, and there was his horse, Arrow, harnessed to it. Good old Arrow. Rafe hobbled over to the carriage and peered in. Bundled in furs and sound asleep on the seat was his handsome young valet.

Rafe roused him. Plew, help me up.

Iffey Plew nearly fell off the seat. He shook himself awake and blinked hard. Oh, Mr. Mesola! You give me a scare. Plew was studying to acquire decent grammar, but when rudely awakened, he sometimes lapsed. I coulda tooken you for a robber and blew your head off. His mouth fell open. What the hell happened to you?

Help me up, Plew. Ahh, don't pull on that. Be careful, I'm completely undone.

You're hurt bad this time. What happened? Plew tittered. Hard night in the old ...?

Tonight, Plew, I do not find you funny.

Sorry, Mr. Mesola. Plew tucked and re-tucked the fur blankets close around his master.

Rafe grimaced. Auggh! Enough! Carefully, he settled back against the seat. Damn! You are a godsend, though, Plew. As always.

Plew dismissed that statement as quickly as possible. Not really, he muttered. He climbed into his seat.

Can you drive me to Miss Mesola's house? Rafe called.

"Miss Mesola's?"

My sister's.

But she is....

Plew! Just take me there. I need sleep, not a lecture. I'll get plenty of that from Madame Mesola when I get home.

All right. If that is where you want to go. Plew picked up the reins and turned the carriage, his face grim.

By the time they turned into Violetta Mesola's lane, dawn was a pale blossom flowering over the bay. Plew helped Rafe limp slowly round to the kitchen. They stumbled through the door, surprising Mrs. Dimplet as she drank her morning cup of tea.

She looked Rafe up and down, shaking her head.

Mr. Mesola! she said. You look a terrible fright.

Rafe had trouble answering through swollen lips. He spoke slowly. I'm going to sneak into an empty bed here, Mrs. Dimplet. No need to disturb my sister.

But Miss Violetta, she's gone. Left yesterday, though we doesn't know where to.

I tried to tell him, said Plew.

Gone?

Mary is to pack her trunks and send them on soon's we hear where she's got to.

Trunks? he asked, dazed with pain and fatigue. Why? She gave you no hint of where she's going?

Not a single idea. She didn't go to her office today. That much I know.

Plew started to comment but Rafe interrupted. When will she be back?

I'm sorry. She never said. But you should get yourself to home, Mr. Mesola. Mrs. Mesola will be so worried. My sakes, but you look like something that washed up three days ago on the Bishop Rock Light.

I don't think I can make it home, Mrs. Dimplet. I'll sleep here.

Mrs. Dimplet had, away back when, been a wife herself, and she knew a wife's worries. She had also known Rafe Mesola since his childhood. She planted her fists on her hips and stretched up so her nose was level with his sternum. You'll do no such of a thing, Mr. Mesola. Mr. Plew will drive you straight home right now. No, you can't stay here. Now you listen to me. Shh! Tititt, shh, shush! There'll be no arguing. What must be done, must. You're a little suckling babe no longer, Rafe Mesola. No! You're expected at home and home is where you'll go. Take him, Plew.

Mrs. Rosalind Parr Mesola paced, grim-faced, to the window. Her husband had not come home again last night. His valet had not come home last night either. She wasn't sure which was bothering her more.

She threw herself into a chair. Finally, the sound of a carriage. So. Her husband, or at least his body, was returning to her sphere of influence. She rose and went into the hall to set things straight with him.

Common knowledge had it that Rosalind Parr had married Rafe Mesola, not for love, but only because their temperaments were equally tuned. Gossips gloated that a semi-permanent state of fiery hostility had already worn the luster off their romance, but then, a gossiping biddy can manufacture an entire novel out of one raised eyebrow and a flirtatious titter.

On this morning, Rosalind at first felt no special alarm watching Rafe totter, yet again, through their door. It was not unusual for him to come home so drunk he had to lean heavily on his valet. But when she saw his swollen, bruised and bloodied face, she stiffened.

Rafe was a mess. Rosalind Mesola held her arms tight across her body to stop herself from shaking. Nothing, nothing upset her more than physical violence.

So. You've been fighting, Rafe?

Why dear one! You noticed? Rafe groaned. I think my ribs are broken. Let me sit down a minute, Plew. Plew helped him to a hall chair. Rafe braced his hands on his knees to help ease the pain. When he looked up, he noted dimly how close his wife was standing to his valet.

Thank you, Plew, she was saying to him. Go ahead. We'll be up in a moment.

Plew bent his head to her and spoke softly. If you need me, .... His hand hovered near the small of her back.

Yes, I'll call for you. She watched him climb the stairs before turning back to her husband. He was looking at her intently. All right, Rafe. I'm listening.

His head throbbed. He was in no mood for discussion. What do you want me to say?

Who were you fighting with? she demanded.

As if you didn't know.

It could be any of a number of people. How am I supposed to guess?

"Your dear brothers, Rosalind, that's who.

My brothers? She narrowed her eyes. Her brothers had families. What would they be doing in town, in whatever places where Rafe hung out? Well. You gave them good reason, I suppose?

Reason to kill me? As if anyone in your family ever needs a reason to treat me with contempt. I take it they acted at your request?

Don't be a fool, Rafe. I know nothing about this. How did you manage to get into an argument with them?

Rafe was saved from going into detail when his sister Violetta hurried down the stairs. Ah, relief. Vee, my darling. You're here. I was looking for you.

Rosalind, ignored, shook her head and pressed her hand to her forehead.

I thought I heard a carriage, Violetta said. Good heavens, Rafe, what happened?

Her brothers, he glowered, tried to murder me. He shifted painfully on his chair.

Why? When? This morning?

It was here that Rafe knew he was approaching dangerous ground. Skillfully, he switched the focus of attention.

I stopped by your place on my way here, Vee. No one had any idea where you were.

Well, yes. I know. Violetta turned her head away. I am, you might say, hiding out here for a while. Why did you go to my place?

Who are you hiding from? It was possible to answer a question with a question. Rafe had practically invented that tactic.

And Violetta fell for it, for the hundredth time. I'm avoiding my fiancé, my former fiancé, .... Oh, dear. Who is this, so early? She peeked out the long window beside the door. Another carriage. I hope it's not Franklin. Were you expecting someone, Rosalind?

No, not this morning. Rosalind looked. Get Rafe upstairs, Violetta. I'll see to the door. Ill send Franklin away, if it is him."

Saved from his wife's probing, Rafe marveled at his good luck. Now if he could only get something strong to drink. Blissful oblivion was what he craved right now. He put his arm across Violetta's shoulders. Their dark heads touched, as like as two peas in a pod.

She staggered under his weight, pulling him toward the stairs. If that was her fiancé at the door, it would be most unpleasant. Rafe could barely hobble, but she urged him to be quicker.

Rosalind watched the two of them, frowning again. She didn't open the front door until they were both out of sight. She knew it was not Franklin waiting to be admitted.

George. Her eldest brother stood on her step. The trembling began again. Tell me it was not you who assaulted my husband.

Listen to me. This time I have proof, Rosalind. He pushed into the entry hall and planted his feet. Don't walk away. Stay right here! Listen to me, for once.

A sick feeling gripped her. She stumbled backward against a table. He towered over her, jabbing a finger in her face.

I'm doing this for your own good!

You stink, George. Have you been drinking? Go away. I don't need to hear your miserable drunken lies.

Wordlessly, he held up a delicate gold chain and pushed it toward her face. A dainty sapphire swung like a corpse from a gibbet. Rosalind pushed at her brother's arm. She bit her lip and looked away, trying to keep her breath even.

You recognize this, don't you?

So what?

It was Mother's.

It was a minute before she could speak her question. That question. The one she did not want answered. Where? she whispered.

Do you really need me to paint the details? George did and did not want to put her through this.

You're inventing things, trying to force my hand.

No, I'm not. All right, then. Since you're so stubborn, I'll make you listen to the truth. It was a whore, he spat. His whore was wearing our mother's necklace, Rosalind. We found it around the neck of a common whore.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she pushed George's hand away again, and turned to steady herself on the hall table. Suddenly, with one swipe of her arm, she swept it clean of vases and flowers, an antique tortoise shell box, candlesticks. Crash! She hardly heard it. She had been through a hell of her own in the last few weeks, and now this.

She began to shake so violently, George had to help her to a sofa in the library.

Upstairs, Rafe eased himself onto his bed.

Violetta came in with a decanter. Here. A little brandy.

Ah, Vee, precious angel.

What did they do to you?

Everything but slice up my liver and feed it to me. He gulped the entire glass and held it out for a refill. She poured.

I can hardly believe the Parrs would hurt you like this.

Rafe eased back onto the pillow without answering and crossed his arms carefully over his wounded face.

Why, Rafe?

Why what?

Why did they gang up on you?

How should I know? They're beasts. They never liked me.

Of course they like you. Everyone likes you.

Not any more.

Did you insult them? There must have been some reason. What started it?

I don't know, Vee! They were probably drunk.

Where did all this happen?

Can you just leave it for now? Just let me rest. God, I need sleep!

No, this is serious, Rafe. I'm not leaving until you tell me what happened.

Will you get out of here? Just leave me alone! He tried to roll away from her.

Violetta sat down on the edge of his bed and leaned against his back. Tenderly she put her chin on his shoulder. Tell me, Rafe. What happened? Come on.

He didn't answer for a minute. I can't tell you, he finally admitted, his voice cracking. It's nasty.

She sat up. All right. She rubbed an unwounded part of his arm. Go to sleep. We can talk after your nap. I'll get Plew to help you undress.

I don't want Plew.

I'll help you, then.

No, Vee.

Rafe! Don't be silly.

Where's your modesty? You're not even a married woman.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

What do you know about gentlemen's garments?

Pardon me. Is there a gentleman present? She began on his boots, prying them off gently.

You're very good at this after all. You should be married, Vee. Here was a fit subject to deflect her damn questions. You're what? Twenty-three years old? Christ! Ouch! That hurts! My ankle! Jesus! Don't pull so hard.

Sorry. Almost twenty-three.

So? Are you going to be engaged forever or are you finally going to marry Franklin?

I'm definitely not going to marry Franklin, as it turns out.

Good.

She helped him struggle out of his coat. He sighed and lay back. Wonderful news. Why not?

She shrugged. He is totally untrustworthy.

I could have told you that. So why the change of heart? Is there someone else?

No. I'll never find anyone. No one I ..., she shrugged again.

Don't tell me you still pine for that idiot Dickie?

Stop it, Rafe.

He knew he had hit a carefully guarded nerve. But really, Vee my sweet, it's been years now.

Well, who knows.

He is not coming back, if that is what you are thinking. He's dead, Vee. Can't you get that through your head?

You don't know that.

I know exactly what happened to him. He froze. Shit. Why had he said that? The brandy. The damn brandy had betrayed him.

Violetta had gone completely quiet. She dropped his coat. Slowly she turned to him. What did you say? She was panting. They stared at each other. Damn you to hell, Rafe.

He couldn't remember ever hearing her swear.

Tell me. And don't you dare leave anything out.

When Violetta came downstairs later, she went to where her sister-in-law lay on a sofa and sat down without speaking. Rosalind looked up. Violetta's face, so hurt, so pinched. Rosalind knew it was a mirror of her own.

I hate your brother, Rosalind said.

If I were in your place, I'd hate him too, Rosalind. In fact, I do hate him. I really do.

She seemed perfectly serious. Where were the usual excuses Violetta built so elaborately on his behalf?

Rosalind could not be so forgiving. Rafe would get no mercy from her. Why should she struggle, trying to forgive him? The effort would be all hers. It would cost him nothing. Not a thing. Besides, all those wounds he had inflicted on her, they would never heal. She refused, in fact, to let them heal. She would never give them up.

No, she had found a more suitable way of dealing with her husband's transgressions.

She had chosen to do something equally unforgivable.

ROSALIND

At the very moment of her birth, Rosalind Parr lost her mother, whose death left four children and one pig-headed husband. A terrible tragedy. But the baby girl, not knowing she had lost anything, did not at first seem adversely affected by it.

The woman closest to a mother for her was named Eve Raginnis. Eve, an unwed mother who had just given birth to a stillborn baby, was sixteen years old when they hired her as a nurse. She loved Baby Rosalind as if she were her own, and in return was first in the child's affections, until the ugly incident that forced Eve to quit their household.

Eve Raginnis was a little on the plump side, sparkly-eyed and pretty-faced. She amply filled the role of mother to the little girl for twelve years. She quite amply filled the rocking chair in her corner of the nursery too, though her toes barely reached the floor. There she sat in the mornings while the child amused herself with her toy horses, and there she sat sewing, of an afternoon, while little Rosalind napped. There she rocked and sang to her, for all the weeks the little child's body was wracked by a dread fever, and for the months she convalesced, Eve and her rocking chair hardly ever left Rosalind's bedside.

Evenings, when Rosalind's papa came home and before he had a chance to hit the bottle, Eve would take his daughter downstairs to see him, a little princess be-ruffled and be-bowed from head to toe. Her three older brothers were also paraded before their father. With great braggadocio they would regale him with tales of their day's triumphs while Rosalind sat ensconced in the throne of Papa's lap. When she was older, it was the boys who crowded around their father on the sofa, while Rosalind entertained them. She played her mother's small six-stringed guitar and sang, she recited poetry, or she dragged them all outside to watch her put her pony through its well-rehearsed paces.

During her long illness, they had feared her life was in peril, but after she recovered, her family took particular pains to make sure Rosalind never felt the slightest discomfort, never wanted for anything money could buy. Perhaps because of her illness, she failed to grow to a robust size, even when her health and strength returned. For all her life, she looked and seemed doll-like. She was extremely pretty, dainty and delicate-looking, but there could not be a doubt about it: she was definitely a force majeure in the Parr household. In spite of the fact that her brothers were young tyrants, and her father a man of some influence, powerfully built and full of bluster, it was out of the question for any of them to deny their princess her least whim. For her, the people in her world were her courtiers and life was a field of daisies in the summer sun.

Everything changed the night Rosalind's father, William Parr, came home late, even more bloated with alcohol than usual. He sneaked into the room next to where his twelve year old daughter slept. He was not lost and this was no accident. He had taken it into his head to get his hands on the curvaceous little Eve Raginnis, and not for the first time. But this was the first time she took it into her head to stand her ground and defend herself. She gripped him by his lapels and kneed him in the groin. Her maneuver didn't dissuade him in the least. He loved a fighting woman. He tore her nightgown and knocked her to the floor. He made a brutal but impotent attempt to force himself on her, then beat her senseless for thwarting his manhood.

Young Rosalind, awakening and hearing the racket, banged on Evie's door, screaming for her beloved nanny. The entire household collected, frantic, in the hall. When they finally persuaded Mr. Parr to unlock the door, the staff's first efforts were to try to shield their young mistress.