Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  She could see again the glitter in his eyes when he had looked at her, both in the church and at the reception. And his hand, when he’d helped her cut the wedding cake, had been very warm. She had heard the expression, “blazing with passion.” Was that what it meant? Was she to be subjected to an orgy of unrestrained lust? Her spirits plummeted, and she was soon so depressed that her highest hope was to be so fortunate as to succumb at the birth of her first child. On second thought it did not seem quite fair to leave the poor mite without a mother. Perhaps it would be better did she instead contract some mysterious wasting disease and gracefully fade away until … Her heart bounced into her throat as a scratch came at the door. Shivering and overwrought, she called a faint, “Come … in…”

  She was unspeakably relieved when Denise tripped into the room, curtsied, and handed her a folded paper.

  Lisette smiled and thanked her, and, when the abigail had quietly closed the door, stared at the paper in her hand. It would be just like that wretched brute to have forgotten her altogether! Or to have gone merrily off to play cards with some of his vulgar friends to return at heaven knows what hour of the night, drunk and even more depraved than usual!

  She broke the seal, unfolded the page, and read the words written in a near-illegible scrawl.

  My dear wife—[”Hah!” she snorted impatiently]

  How you may ever forgive me, I dare not guess, but I am called away on a matter that it is beyond my power to ignore.

  Were you to turn your back on your unfortunate husband and go home to Portland Place, I could scarce blame you, and can only entreat that you not do so.

  Know that, however grieved you may be, my own regret is tenfold, and try to be patient until the return of

  Your contrite if absent husband,

  Strand

  One reading caused Lisette’s eyes not only to lose every last vestige of the terror that had so recently filled them, but to widen to a surprising degree. The second reading caused them to positively spark, while, quite forgetting the fearful trepidation with which she had awaited the coming of her lord and master, she now was possessed by a boiling fury by reason of his absence.

  “Oh!” she gasped inadequately. “Oh!” And lowering the hands that so tightly clutched the letter, she stared around the room as though it were filled with curious onlookers.

  “Can you credit this?” she demanded of the bedpost. “He is … called away?” The bedpost maintaining a wooden stupidity, she threw back the sheet, sprang tigerishly from the bed, and began to prowl up and down. “It is not enough,” she raged, “that he bought me! Not enough that he has—has dumped me here in this confounded desolation! Oh, yes! I said confounded—and meant it! It is not enough I have been wrenched from the arms of the man I love!” (A statement of somewhat dubious authenticity.) “He has been—called away!” Pausing before the mirror and catching sight of her flushed cheeks and wild eyes, she brandished the letter at her reflection and through gnashing teeth cried, “Look at yourself, Miss—Mrs. Justin Derwent Strand! Purchased like a slab of beef! And on your wedding night—your wedding night—abandoned by the wretched clod! Abandoned, humiliated, and made to look utterly ridiculous!”

  Seething, she ran to the wardrobe and hauled out her valise and a bandbox. “He cannot blame me, can’t he?” she panted, wrenching at the straps on the valise. “I am to—” She again had recourse to the letter, which was annoying since she was kneeling on it and, in retrieving it, tore it in half. Jamming the sections together, she snorted, “I am to—to be patient. Patient! Dear God! Relieved would be more apropos! Overjoyed! Delighted! May he never return! And when he does—” contradictorily—“when he does—I shall be gone!”

  She stood and began to stuff gowns and habits ruthlessly into the inoffensive valise, then turned to trot, panting, to her dressing table, and gather up hairbrushes, combs, hairpins, and pots of creams and lotions. Running back to the valise, she tossed them inside haphazardly, all the while calling down maledictions upon her absent bridegroom, until that worthy’s ears, wherever they were, must have fairly frizzled. “How dare he!” snarled Lisette, pouncing on a candlestick which had somehow found its way into the valise, and casting it from her with loathing. “How dare he treat me with such flagrant contempt?” Only then came the ultimate horror: “What will the servants think?”

  That was sufficient to give her pause, and she knelt there motionless, glaring into the chaotic valise. What would the servants think? What would everyone think? The fires of wrath began to yield to rationality once more. And slowly, she came to see how hopelessly she was caught. She could hear again her father’s exultant voice. “The settlement is magnificent! All our troubles are over, m’dear…” And Mama, ecstatic because she might at last buy some new furnishings, and draperies, and even—joy unbearable!—new carpets! In the face of such generosity, how could she leave Strand? The man had already had his father’s disgrace and Rachel’s ghastly reputation to overcome. For him to be abandoned by his bride on their wedding night must be the coup de grâce. No one would blame her, that was certain, for her name was without blemish, but they would be sure to imagine all kinds of horrible things about him. Not that she cared, of course. He deserved the worst fate imaginable. He had, in fact, deserted her! Only … wherever he had gone, she was assured it would be with discretion. Whereas, if she went home, all London would know.

  Lisette bowed her head, and wept bitter tears of chagrin, frustration, and—loneliness.

  * * *

  The sunlight poured into the bedroom and crept under Lisette’s lashes so that she blinked and yawned sleepily. In another moment the bedcurtains were pulled aside, and the housekeeper stood there, smiling with astounding warmth and holding a tray containing an enticing display of hot scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, an egg cooked just as she liked it, some rashers of bacon, and a pot from which emanated the delicious aroma of hot coffee. Memory returned with a rush. Sitting up, Lisette’s guilty eyes flashed from Mrs. Hayward to the abandoned valise. Everything had been whisked away, and her dressing table was as neat as though nothing had ever been displaced.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” beamed the housekeeper. “We wasn’t sure what you preferred for your breakfast, so it’s to be hoped as you’ll find something to suit. It’s a lovely day. So nice to see the sun again.” She settled the tray across Lisette’s knees, and glancing into the rather bewildered young face, still marked by tear streaks, her heart was wrung, and she murmured, “How very pretty you are, if I dare be so bold as to say so, Mrs. Strand. Poor Master Justin! I said to him, no matter how he was needed, there’s sometimes a ‘no’ must be said. But I don’t need to tell you that he’s not the kind to let people down who call on him. There now, I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast in peace.” And she was gone, leaving Lisette to stare after her, amazed at the changed demeanour.

  By rights, a lady caught in so unhappy a web of circumstances should have found herself without appetite and picked at her food only for the sake of appearances. At least, that was the way of it in the romances Lisette had read. It was rather lowering to find that she was ravenous. She ate far more breakfast than was her usual custom, attributing it to the pure country air. She rang for Denise at length and lay back, wondering if Strand meant to return today and whether this was to be the pattern of her life. Perhaps he had a mistress in keeping somewhere nearby and, despite Mrs. Hayward’s polite excuses, had actually rushed back to his peculiar once he had captured the mate who could restore some gloss to his tarnished name. The prospect of being abandoned in the country, while he amused himself elsewhere, brought such a surge of rage and self-pity that she was relieved when the door opened and Denise hurried in.

  Like the housekeeper, the little abigail was full of lighthearted chatter. She was so sorry she had not quite finished unpacking last night, so that madame had found it necessary to seek out some of her toilet articles, but all was made right now. Did madame intend to ride this morning? Would madame
wear the blue habit or the green? Was madame aware that there was in the house a water closet and that Monsieur Justin had had the entire building painted and refurbished? Madame had beyond a doubt been too weary to last night notice, but Mr. Fisher, the splendid butler, was of an anxiety to show madame about so soon as she was bathed and dressed. And Mrs. Hayward asked that if madame could spare an hour or so this afternoon, she might interview three women for the position of madame’s dresser applying.

  Suspecting that a determined effort was being mounted to prevent her from becoming lonely, Lisette was touched. When she went downstairs an hour later, clad in her green habit and a pert little hat with a matching green feather, her suspicions were confirmed. From the omniscient Fisher, who bowed and welcomed her, to the stableboy who eyed her with awed admiration as he led Yasmin from the stables, everyone seemed genuinely delighted to greet her. In return, she went out of her way to appear cheerful, her chin high, a smile never far from her lips and, however vexed she may be by the belief that she was the only resident of Strand Hall who did not know the whereabouts of its master, betraying no hint of that fact.

  One of the grooms, a vigorous middle-aged man with a shy smile, mounted up and rode at a respectful distance behind her. She was not sorry for his company, since the neighbourhood was strange to her, and after a short while invited him to ride with her and serve as guide. It developed that his name was Best and that he had been in the service of the Strands for twenty years and more. “If ye would care fer to look round now, marm,” he said in his soft Sussex voice, “ye can have a foine view o’ the great house.”

  It was a fine view, thought Lisette. Always provided one cared for the pretentious neoclassical architecture, which she did not. Certainly, with the sun bathing its white columns, the breeze riffling the branches of the trees, and the flower beds a mass of colour, Strand Hall was an imposing sight. It faced west, toward the rolling wooded hills where she now sat her horse. The park that surrounded it was spacious and well kept, and many would have considered it a most desirable estate. She tried to be objective, asking herself if her dislike of the place was born of her distaste for her husband. But she decided this was not so. Perhaps in her mind the ideal of country living must always be the farm the Van Lindsays had once owned, where she had spent many happy childhood summers. The residence had been more an overgrown cottage than a manor house, rather on the style of a rabbit warren, with odd little corridors and unexpected steps that were a burden to the maids, and where one always worried lest Grandmama might trip. But the grounds were deliciously uncultivated, there had been many obliging trees where one could climb or erect tree houses or swings, with no thought of offending, and the house itself, a nondescript brick structure, had always seemed warm and welcoming, its charm so informal and delightful a departure from London’s elegance.

  Watching her, a half-smile on his face, Best said, “A bit grand, bean’t it, marm? Would’ee care fer to see the Home Farm? It be a pretty—” He broke off with a shout of warning as a tawny shape hurtled at them from a clump of beeches, shot between the two horses, and raced for the house. Yasmin, the gentlest of creatures, was yet a spirited animal, and for a few moments it was all Lisette could do to keep her from bolting. Best’s gelding, being of a less tractable disposition, shied wildly, and thundered off with the groom coming perilously near to being unseated. Best soon regained control of his mount and, turning, was immeasurably relieved to find Lisette riding up to him.

  “I’m very sorry, marm. A foine help I’d have been if you had been thrown!” He glanced angrily to the house. “That worthless mongrel!”

  “I rather doubt he is a mongrel,” said Lisette, patting the still skittish Yasmin. “It was Lord Bolster’s bulldog, I believe.”

  “Ar. Brutus. A good name fer ’un. If ye don’t mind, marm, I’d better ride down to the road and see if his lordship be looking fer the beast.”

  They turned about and rode eastward until they approached the Petworth road. Lisette asked, “Does Lord Bolster live in the neighbourhood?”

  “No, marm. His lordship’s country seat is Three Fields, in Surrey. Likely he do be coming to see the master, and Brutus ran on ahead.”

  “Ran?” She smiled. “Flew, more like!”

  Best muttered something, the words inaudible, but the tone making it clear that Brutus was not highly regarded at Strand Hall. Reaching the road, they parted, Best saying he would ride on a little way, and Lisette returned to the Hall.

  It had become quite warm by the time she entered the yard. She saw no sign of visitors, or of Brutus but, deciding to walk around to the front in case he might be waiting there, spotted the animal in the shade of one of the pillars, lying on his stomach, panting cheerfully, with both back legs stretched straight out behind him. Lisette went over and bent to stroke him. He listened without apparent repentance to the admonition that he was a bad dog and had probably worried his kind master. His only response was an even wider canine grin and an apparent attempt to “shake hands.” This gesture, being essayed from a prone position, was disastrously unsuccessful, the powerful paw raking down the skirt of Lisette’s habit, one nail slicing the seam into a long tear.

  “Wretched brute!” she scolded, and reflected that it was as well she might be taking on a dresser this afternoon. She returned to the back of the house. There was no one in sight when she entered the open side door. It was cool inside, but she was hot and thirsty and, suspecting Brutus was in like condition, walked along the hall towards the kitchen to ask that a bowl of water be put out for him. The kitchen door was standing open, probably to catch the breeze from the outer door, and as she approached, Lisette could hear the housekeeper speaking. “… quite clear to see on her pretty face, and her eyes so sad it would break your heart! It’s not right, Mr. Fisher! She should be told!”

  “Before you take such a step, Mrs. H.,” Fisher responded dryly, “I would recommend you go down to Silverings and tell Mr. Justin what you mean to do.”

  “Very funny, I’m sure,” the housekeeper retaliated. “But he shouldn’t have gone. And she shouldn’t have gone with him! A fine set-to! I vow I feel so sorry for that lovely little wife of his, I could just hug the poor, brave soul!”

  The wind blew the outer door shut with a bang. Somehow gathering her scattered wits, Lisette fled.

  By the time she reached her bedchamber, shock had given way to a quite different emotion from that which had so shattered her the previous night. There had been room for doubt then. There had been the possibility that Strand had been irrevocably committed—that he would return with some logical explanation. Now, she knew an icy wrath; an indignation that went past mere anger to inexorable condemnation. Sooner or later, Mr. Justin Strand would come home. And when he did, he would learn to his sorrow the price of insulting a Van Lindsay!

  * * *

  “My husband is away, I am afraid,” said Lisette, walking across the saloon and extending a hand to Lord Jeremy Bolster. “He will be so sorry to have missed you.”

  Bolster sprang up, coloured hotly, bowed over her hand, and stammered out his apologies for having called at such a time.

  “Not at all, my lord.” Lisette seated herself and waved him to a chair. “I expect you have come in search of Brutus? He arrived this morning. I believe he is being—er—entertained in the stables, but Best will bring him to you when you are ready to leave.”

  “Oh,” said his lordship, glumly. “I had hoped—Justin is away, you s-s-say? Dash it all, I th-thought perhaps he m-might…”

  Lisette lifted her brows enquiringly. “Can I be of any assistance, sir? I am assured my husband would wish I do whatever I might.”

  Bolster explained painfully that he was soon to leave for Italy. “F-fraid old Brutus mi-might pine if I was to l-l-leave him. And I’d—hoped Justin m-might—er…” He checked, looking at her with his diffident, sideways glance.

  “Take him back? Oh, but that would be famous! I am very fond of dogs, and—well, it’s rather lone
ly here. I would be only too delighted to have Brutus.”

  Brightening, he said earnestly, “You are v-very g-g-good, ma’am. M-Mandy told me you was very k-kind, and I can s-see…” He gestured in a pathetically hopeless fashion, and finished forlornly, “D-don’t want to go. But—b-best I do. What?”

  “Perhaps it is, my lord,” Lisette said kindly. “Time heals—so they say.” Her own eyes became sad, and she sighed.

  Watching her, Bolster asked anxiously, “N-nothing wrong, is there, Mrs. Strand? I mean—old J-Justin’s not in queer s-stirrups or-or such like?”

  “How kind you are. No, he was called away on an urgent matter he could not postpone.”

  He gave a relieved nod. “And you are quite s-sure he won’t mind?”

  “Perfectly sure,” Lisette said with a smile.

  * * *

  Justin Strand did not appear at his ancestral hall that week. Surprisingly, however, Lisette entertained an unending stream of callers. Among these was her grandmother, who was as irascible as she was unexpected. She greeted Lisette with an almost fierce defiance and stamped about, grunting “Stupid!” from time to time, while rapping her cane violently on the highly polished floors. The architecture she viewed with a jaundiced eye; the lofty entrance foyer she found depressing, and she judged the splendidly restored tapestry which hung there an abomination. The lounges were draughty, the fireplaces probably smoked, and her bedroom was so vast she could scarce see across it. After one penetrating glance at her granddaughter’s calm smile, she did not enquire as to where Mr. Strand had gone, nor once comment on his absence. She seemed at times preoccupied and, having stared into the fire for half an hour on the evening of her arrival, responded to Lisette’s rather uneasy remark that she hoped the family was well, by saying testily that Judith seemed to be a shade improved and she hoped would grow up with more in her head than hair. “Not,” she added, “like Beatrice!”