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“Yes, you all got what you wanted,” Pierce spat. “And in your case that meant more than money, it meant blood. In between the visits you made with Markham, you made some on your own, for the pure pleasure of beating and taunting us.”
“I put you in your wretched place where you belong,” Tragmore snarled. “And when your father forgot his place, I did the same. In a more subtle manner, of course.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Let’s just say that when Markham’s interest waned, I rekindled it by pointing out the benefits of our association.”
Pierce’s lips thinned into a grim line of enmity. “You blackmailed him.”
“You must admit, I do it well.” Tragmore’s mocking words reminded him of the business at hand. “Enough,” he pronounced, dismissing Pierce’s upcoming question with a wave of his hand. “Our little reunion is at an end. Now, what is your answer? Will you meet my terms, or do I contact my barrister and begin divorce proceedings that will relegate your wife to the role of a bastard?”
“Don’t, Pierce,” Daphne said quietly, coming to stand by her husband’s side. “He’s inhuman enough when he’s destitute. How many lives will he destroy with wealth and power behind him?”
Pierce drew a slow, inward breath, looked from the vicar to Elizabeth to Daphne. “I’ll contact Hollingsby as soon as I return home tonight.”
“No!” Daphne grabbed his arm, shaking her head vehemently. “Don’t do this. I’ll feel less of a bastard if he denounces me than if he does not. I don’t want him as a father.”
Turning his head, Pierce stared down at his anguished wife. “I vowed to protect you. I intend to do just that.”
“You also vowed to destroy my father.”
An ironic light dawned in Pierce’s eyes. “At the time, I didn’t realize he’d already destroyed himself.”
“I agree with Daphne,” Elizabeth abruptly concurred. She raised her chin, drawing strength from the vicar’s loving nod. “Harwick can’t hurt me any more than he already has. But he can hurt others. Don’t allow it, Pierce.”
Contemplating Elizabeth’s heartfelt words, pondering the absolute selflessness demonstrated by both Daphne and her mother, Pierce felt a fierce, overwhelming surge of pride. “Take all my money, Tragmore. It matters not, for I’ll still emerge the winner.”
“What nonsense are you spouting?” Tragmore demanded. “Are you changing your mind? Are you refusing to—”
“Sir?” Prudence, who had slipped away, unspotted, tugged at Tragmore’s coat. “Don’t be angry.” Her voice was a whisper of sound over the shouts of the adults and the pounding construction.
“What?” Tragmore jerked around, staring down at Prudence as if she were filth.
“Don’t shout,” she murmured again. “ ’Specially not at Daphne. She’s a snowdrop.” Her little face brightened. “You can ’old my doll,” she offered, extending her flaxen-haired treasure to him. “She’ll make ye feel better.”
“How dare you approach me, you dirty urchin!” Tragmore bellowed, shoving Prudence and the doll away. “Remove your vile plaything from my presence.”
“Ye don’t understand.” Patiently, Prudence repeated herself, again proffering her beloved toy. “She’ll make ye feel less angry. She makes my sister stop cryin’—and me, too. Take ’er.”
With a roar of anger, Tragmore slapped the doll from Prudence’s hands, sending it tumbling, face down, in the dirt.
“My Daphne!” Prudence shrieked, snatching it from the ground. Her eyes widened with fear as Tragmore bore down on her.
“This will teach you to disobey me!” he roared, slapping her so violently he propelled her backwards directly into the plow horses.
Whinnying their protest, the horses reared, wrenching at their harnesses and stretching the connecting rope beyond its endurance.
Tragmore was oblivious to their frenzy. All he saw was the wretched child on whom he intended to vent all his pent-up rage.
His hand raised again.
“No!”
Daphne didn’t realize she’d screamed. The world converged into one scene: her father striking Prudence’s doll, thrashing Prudence, and it was twelve years ago again, at the House of Perpetual Hope, and Prudence was Sarah.
Back then, Daphne could do nothing.
Now, she could.
