Tragmore hesitated.
“The final decision, of course, is yours.” Pierce shrugged, turning to his wife. “Do you need help collecting your things?”
“No. I’ll be just a few moments.” Taking Pierce’s cue, Daphne eased open the door.
“Good. By that time, your father will have made a decision. At which point I’ll know what to advise Hollingsby—whether he’ll be drawing up an agreement or arranging for a bankruptcy notice to be placed in the London Gazette.”
“You vile—”
Daphne closed the door behind her, cutting off her father’s expletive. Pierce could more than handle things from here. Now all she needed was to collect her few treasured possessions, locate Russet, and leave Tragmore forever.
She hastened up the stairs and to her bedchamber, leaning back against the closed door and taking deep, calming breaths. Looking down at her hands, she was stunned to see they were shaking. Evidently, the confrontation with her father had affected her more profoundly than she’d realized.
Soberly, Daphne forced herself to look about her bedchamber, to remind herself that she was leaving her sadness and fear behind, that the foundation for her dread was no more. It was over at last, and the only thing that remained was to gather her things and bid her past good bye.
Crossing over to the dressing table, Daphne scooped up her brush and comb, suddenly struck by how very little else she truly cared to take. Her clothing consisted of but a few modest day and evening gowns, her personal items only an ongoing needlepoint that made her sleepless nights easier to bear and a few favorite books.
And her two prized possessions.
Having packed all she intended to, Daphne hastened to the bed, sliding her hand beneath the mattress to retrieve her scrapbook: a collection of articles describing the thefts of the Tin Cup Bandit. With a fond smile, she slipped the scrapbook into one of her bags, then turned to her nightstand and her final remaining treasure.
Juliet.
Daphne’s gaze softened as she picked up the elegant doll who, so far as she was concerned, was as beautiful as she’d been a dozen Christmases before, when her mother had flourished her before Daphne’s enchanted eyes. It mattered not that her dress was worn in spots, nor that her golden hair had lost some of its luster. She was Juliet, the precious doll who had absorbed Daphne’s childhood tears, listened patiently to her loneliness and fear, and offered her the constancy and comfort denied to her by fate.
For the umpteenth time, an image of the little girl at the workhouse flashed before Daphne’s eyes, evoking the same aching sadness as always. Unexpectedly, the blanket of hopelessness that customarily followed in its wake never occurred. Instead came a startling and miraculous realization, one that spawned the wonders of faith and hope, rather than futility and despair.
She was no longer her father’s daughter, but Pierce’s wife.
Exhilaration surged through Daphne’s blood as she envisioned all she could finally do, how many people she could aid. Why, with Pierce’s influence and their mutual resolve, the possibilities were limitless.
Infused with newly born hope, Daphne tucked Juliet beside the scrapbook and took up her bags, casting a final look about the bedchamber. Devoid of her personal touches, it looked coldly austere, like Tragmore’s other rooms and like the man who owned them. The similarity wasn’t surprising. Neither her father nor his manor had a soul.
Without a backward glance, Daphne abandoned her childhood.
“Hollingsby will notify us when the agreement is ready to be signed,” she heard Pierce saying as she descended the stairs.
Her husband glanced up and saw her, instantly making his way to her side, relieving her of her luggage with a smoothly possessive motion that told the world and the marquis that she was his.
“That concludes our business, Tragmore.” Pierce guided Daphne to the entranceway. “I expect we won’t be seeing you anytime soon, except in Hollingsby’s office.” He tossed Tragmore a mocking grin. “And, of course, at the procession of Christmas houseparties next month.”
Daphne was still glowing with newfound optimism when, after a thirty-minute cajoling session in the woods, their carriage sprinted off toward Markham.
“Your fox is exhausting, Snow flame,” Pierce muttered, settling himself across from his wife. “I thought he’d never agree to abandon his den.”
“He is a bit stubborn,” Daphne agreed, stroking Russet’s fur with a reassuring hand. “Not to mention skeptical. But surely you can relate to those qualities.”
“Am I being likened to a fox?”
“In some ways, yes. You’re both fiercely independent and loyal.” She smiled, reveling in the unfamiliar sense of well-being. “I’m a lucky woman.”
A corner of Pierce’s mouth lifted. “I won’t argue, since I applaud your conclusion.”
The carriage swerved onto the main road, and Daphne glanced back at the rapidly receding mansion. “From what I overheard, I presume Father agreed with your stipulation that he sever ties with Mama.”
Pierce’s amusement vanished. “Did you doubt it? After all, I offered him the finest of incentives, the use of his bloody money without my noose around his neck.”
Daphne nodded. “I know. No, I assumed he’d prefer financial security even to castigating his wayward wife.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “I spent my entire life in that house and I felt nothing, upon leaving it, Pierce, not even a pang.”