Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  A thunder of hooves, a gloved hand closing over her reins and wrenching back with surprising power. Yasmin reared, neighing in panic. Recovering her wits, Lisette jerked her about.

  There was no time for Strand to do the same, besides which he had lost his own reins when he grabbed hers. He was leaning perilously from the saddle, but managed to pull himself upright. With his hand fast gripped in Brandy’s flying mane, his knees tight, his weight on the stirrups, he guided his horse into that impossible jump. They soared into the air. Lisette gasped as Brandy’s tucked-up back hooves skimmed an ugly splintered tree trunk. They could not hope to clear that deathtrap! They could not! But the chestnut landed on the far side. The earth crumbled away under his back legs. Strand had been flung forward and with a fluid leap was out of the saddle and tugging at the reins. For a breathless moment man and animal scrabbled and fought, then Brandy was clear and stood trembling, eyes rolling, and neck lathered with foam.

  Lisette closed her eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. “Are you all right?” she called anxiously.

  Having already satisfied himself that she’d not been thrown, Strand did not so much as deign her a glance, his full attention bent upon an inspection of his mount’s muddied legs. He patted the chestnut’s neck and spoke softly to him. “Wait there!” he called curtly, and led Brandy along the lane.

  Watching him disappear from sight through a break in the hedgerow, Lisette thought rebelliously that he had taunted her into essaying that gallop. The fact that he had shouted at her to stop conveniently escaped her, and she glowered at Yasmin’s ears, quite sure she was about to be chastised.

  Strand hailed her. He had circled around and, instead of having the common decency to rush to his shaken lady and determine if she was about to swoon, waited some distance behind her, gesturing impatiently. Her brows gathering into an irked frown, she rode back to him.

  “What in the devil did you think you was about, madam?” he demanded, not mincing his words. “Trying to prove what a bruising rider you are? Did you not hear me tell you to stop?”

  Unhappily conscious that his anger was to an extent justified, she lifted her chin and said with proud hauteur, “Tell me, sir? No man tells me what I may do! I do as I please!”

  “You did as you pleased, Mrs. Strand. From now on, you will be guided by me!” His eyes fairly sparked rage; his chin seemed to thrust out at her, and his lips were a tight, angry line.

  “How dare you address me in such a tone?” Lisette flared.

  “Oh, I dare! Never doubt it. And shall do more than scold if you ever again commit an act of such reckless folly! Had you forgot you are my wife?”

  Her lip curling, she retaliated, “I wonder how ever I might have come to do so!” She knew at once that she had erred, for the rage in his eyes was replaced by a dancing gleam of mirth.

  “I do not wonder at all,” he said, adding wickedly, “but I shall contrive to remind you of it. Just as soon as possible.”

  Her cheeks fiery, Lisette thought it best to ignore the vulgar boor.

  Chapter 9

  With wretched perversity the weather bore out Strand’s forecast. The sun burst through the clouds to bathe the rain-drenched south country in its brilliance, the air became pleasantly warm, and every bird in creation seemed determined to offer up a paean of thanks for this respite from the gloom. At any other time, Lisette would have been elated by so glorious a morning; under the circumstances, however, she was all but oblivious of the beauties about her. Strand’s one attempt at conversation was a banal comment on the improved state of the weather, to which infamous behaviour his bride responded with justifiably haughty courtesy. Had he cared even a mite, the wretch would attempt to be conciliating, instead of which he was so heartless as to utter not another word. Her own nerves ragged, she said nothing either, and a deep, unbroachable silence settled over them.

  It was almost nine o’clock when Strand turned into the yard of a quaint old inn drowsing comfortably beneath three great oak trees, its whitewashed walls somewhat weather-stained, but the mullioned windows gleaming and with smoke curling from several chimneys. The proprietor of the inn, which was rather inappropriately named The Pines, came hurrying out to them. “Back again so soon, Mr. Justin?” he beamed, adding a disastrous, “And I see you brought the little lady with—” His eyes, having travelled to Lisette, widened. “Oh,” he finished, lamely.

  “You must allow me to make you known to my wife,” Strand put in, betraying no trace of embarrassment at this faux pas. “This is Mr. Drye, ma’am,” and, as a fat little woman bustled out to join them, “and his lady, who is also the finest cook in Sussex.”

  Lisette summoned her most gracious smile. Strand assisted her to dismount and then went off to the stables with Drye, while Lisette was shown with much curtseying to a small chamber under the eaves. Viewing herself in the mirror, she was not surprised to find that the disastrous ride had reduced her hair to a windblown tangle, the collar of her habit was all awry, and her eyes looked red. She at once set about to correct matters, wondering what Strand must have thought of her appearance, and if the Other Woman ever allowed him to see her in such a state.

  The parlour-maid brought up a jug of hot water. Lisette poured some into the china bowl and glared at it. Applying soap to cloth rather savagely, she decided that her husband’s peculiar was likely an insipid blonde who laughed at every feeble joke he offered, and meekly agreed with whatever he had to say. The creature, whoever she was, had evidently visited The Pines a time or two, for it had been very apparent she was the lady Mr. Drye had expected to greet today. How infuriating, thought Lisette, that Strand would be so crude as to bring his wife to the same inn he had frequented with his mistress! But why should she expect anything else? He had not the slightest consideration for her feelings, or—

  Conscience jabbed at her as she saw again the image of a lean, strong hand reaching out to grasp her reins. Had it not been for Strand’s chivalrous intervention, she might have taken a very ugly toss this morning. He had, in fact, narrowly missed suffering such a fall himself. Apart from that, his fortune had been a boon to her hard-pressed family, and she had willingly entered a mariage de convenance. It would be shabby indeed to now require of him more than he had offered, or to fail to give credit where due. With this in mind, she completed her toilet, decided she looked passable, and hastened downstairs.

  The coffee room was empty and the aroma from the kitchen so enticing that she was tempted to request that her breakfast be served. Her anxiety about Brandy was of prime importance, however, and she decided to go down to the stables while she awaited her husband.

  She heard male voices as she entered the spicy dimness of the low building. Several men were gathered in a stall at the far end, and when she came nearer to them she was surprised to discover Strand was still here. He had discarded his jacket and was kneeling, carefully applying salve to Brandy’s back legs, both of which were badly cut and scraped.

  Aghast, as she perceived the extent of the animal’s injuries, Lisette cried, “Oh! I am so sorry! Is it very bad?”

  Strand glanced up. He looked dusty and grim and said wretchedly, “My own fault. How stupid that I allowed the mud to fool me. I should not have ridden the poor fellow.”

  She felt crushed by remorse and, perhaps because she had endured a good deal of nervous strain this day, was quite unable to cope with it. Not trusting herself to speak, she quickly left the stables and walked around to the side of the inn. Here, she discovered a pleasant garden enhanced by the rippling song of a little brook that meandered through it. She sat down on a wooden bench and strove to compose herself. Heaven knows she’d not intended to cause so bad a thing. Poor Brandy. If he was badly hurt, she would be responsible. Whatever had caused her so completely to lose her sense of propriety as to gallop about all over Sussex like some hoydenish gypsy girl? Whatever Timothy would think of her behaviour of late, she dared not imagine. He had been used to tease her because she was “always so
curst serene.” He had once said as much to Grandmama, and the old lady had remarked with her sly chuckle, “Still waters run deep, lad. If our ice maiden ever thaws, she may surprise us all!” Grandmama and her whims.… Lisette sighed. It was not to be wondered at that her temperament was suffering, considering all the sorrows and humiliation she had endured. She sighed again as one of those same humiliations slipped back into her thoughts. What was she like, his blond beauty? She was a beauty, beyond doubting, but was she of gentle birth, or nothing but a predatory opera dancer, or some—

  “My apologies, ma’am.” Strand’s grave voice disrupted her reflections. “If you would wish to come inside, our breakfast awaits.”

  He had washed, his fair hair had been carelessly brushed into a semblance of tidiness, and he had again donned his jacket and tucked his broken hand back into the sling from which it had been removed while he worked with Brandy. Standing, Lisette noted these things absently, for she was searching his eyes. She cried a horrified, “Oh—no! Never say he must be destroyed?”

  He took the hand she had reached out to him and looked at her keenly. “I shall most certainly say no such thing! I intend to leave him here for a few days. The head ostler’s a good man and will take excellent care of him. Brandy will make a full recovery, I have no doubt.” He frowned, and muttered, “Had I not made such a blasted mull of things, he’d have suffered less.”

  “Do not blame yourself,” Lisette said miserably. “I should never have galloped off, ventre à terre.” She looked down at the thin hand still clasping hers.

  Strand’s grip tightened. “Well, you would not have, had I not provoked you into doing so.” Surprised, she looked up into a smile that astounded her with its kindness. “I am the villain in this piece, you know,” he said.

  “Villain?” She was oddly confused. “No, indeed you were splendid. Had it not been for you, I would have likely broken my neck. How you managed that jump with only one hand and no reins, I shall never know. I am truly most grateful. I wish—I wish we might—” She stopped, her lashes sweeping down.

  Gazing at her, Strand breathed, “Might—what?”

  “Might—cry friends.” She felt him start and, glancing up, found him staring at her with an incredulous expression.

  “Friends…?” he echoed. “Friends—with my own wife?”

  She blushed and looked down. “Oh, I know ours is but a mariage de convenance, and—and that we do not care for one another, but…”

  Strand released her hand and turned away. After a moment, he said in an odd sort of voice, “A terrible basis for matrimony, was it not? Had your father not been temporarily embarrassed, I’d have had no chance of winning you.”

  He was mocking her, of course, but she quickly lifted her eyes. He stood with his back to her, looking out over the busy brook.

  “My father was not ‘temporarily embarrassed,’ as you so kindly put it, Mr. Strand. We were—I think my brother would say—‘properly in the basket.’”

  “And you were the price of the family reprieve.” He turned, smiling, but his eyes were empty. “I’m a regular Shylock, am I not?”

  The tension seemed to have eased. Relieved, she said gaily, “You may find you made a poor bargain, sir. You seem to possess an uncanny ability to rouse the worst in me.”

  Strand brightened, and with laughter dancing into his eyes again, said, “No, do I? How famous!”

  * * *

  They talked easily through the meal, so that Mr. Drye was convinced he served an ideally happy couple and was encouraged to contribute to the conversation when bringing food or coffee to the table in the recessed window bay that was, he informed Lisette, “Mr. Justin’s favourite spot.”

  “I can see why my husband comes here.” She glanced from the mellow homeliness of the interior to the colourful garden. “Truly, it is delightful and greatly to your credit, Mr. Drye. May I ask why it is called The Pines?”

  “Why, that were my grandfather.” He beamed. “There had always been oaks here, y’see, ma’am, but by the time he come into the property he’d travelled about the world a bit, being a seafarer, and he’d seen some pines in foreign parts what he was much taken with. The inn was called The Oaks in them days, but he sent for his pines and planted ’em at last, and then struggled with ’em all his life. They never took, poor old chap. Year after year, he’d put ’em in and watch ’em wilt. Never would change to Scotch pines, though many there were as told him they’d take all right. Bound and determined he were, even to the extent of changing the name of the inn. When he was dying, he used to lie in bed and look out at the last of his prize trees, one he had great hopes for. Well, it started to wilt, so me father, being a goodhearted soul, and very attached to the old man, took it out quick one night, brought in a Scotch pine in a tub, and they told Grandfather his foreign tree had took at last. He passed to his reward quite happy—looking at that there Scotch pine, and never knowing it didn’t come from Norway, like he thought. There it is, ma’am.” He bent forward, pointing into the garden where a fine tall tree dominated a spot beside the brook. “You can see how nice it growed.”

  Strand laughed. “I wonder he doesn’t come back and shake his fist at the imposter.”

  “No, but I think it very well done,” argued Lisette. “How kind your father must have been, Mr. Drye.”

  “Aye, well, we all got to do what we can, haven’t we, Mrs. Strand? Folks we love come and go, and sometimes we don’t never know how much we care about ’em till they’re taken and it’s too late for to do anything to let ’em know. So it’s best to be as kind as we may, whilst we may—if’n we don’t want to have to look back with regret for the rest of our days. A little bit o’ compassion is about the best investment a man can make, don’t you agree, sir?”

  Watching his wife’s rapt face and thinking a great deal, Strand said, “Yes.”

  “What a wonderful philosophy,” Lisette elaborated. “And is that why you never changed the name?”

  “Partly that, ma’am, and partly because folks had got used to it and thought it was a bit of a joke. Folks always like a little mistake. Take my name, for instance—that’s a funny one, ain’t it? Me, a tavernkeeper, with a name like Drye! Cor, luvvus!” He grinned and, with his eyes brighter than ever, murmured, “Me missus has been standing over there waving at me something dreadful these past five minutes ’cause I’m jawing, and you be newlywedded, so I’d best go ’fore she hauls me out by the ear!” He nodded and went cheerily off to where, sure enough, his good wife awaited him with total indignation.

  Her cheeks a little pink, Lisette glanced at her husband only to find him busily engaged in winding his pocket watch. “A little bit of compassion…” she said thoughtfully.

  He glanced up at her from under his lashes. “I can see I must be a great deal more patient.” At once Lisette’s proud head tossed upward, and he went on gravely, but with a telltale quirk tugging at his lips, “With Brutus, that is.”

  By the time they returned to the stables, Yasmin looked bright and rested. The tall grey mare beside her looked more than rested: she looked, in fact, all but asleep, and Strand’s decisive stride was checked at the sight of her. “Good God!” he ejaculated and, whirling on the apprehensive ostler, demanded, “What the deuce are you about? Where’s Thunderbolt?”

  “Sprained his hock, sir.” The ostler added a placating, “We do be a bit short now, Mr. Justin, bein’s a Lun’on gent come through and hired Sally-O and Pickles, and Mrs. Middle’s eyes be all swole. ’Fraid Dasher here is all we got ’vailable-like.”

  Strand grunted, swung into the saddle and, after a few minutes of hard work, succeeded in bringing Dasher’s head up so that they might leave the yard.

  By the time they had travelled two miles, Lisette was fighting to restrain hilarity, and Strand was equally occupied with curbing floods of profanity. Darting an irked glance at his bride as they sauntered up an inviting slope of the Downs—a slope created to be galloped over—he saw laughter brimming in her eyes
and gave vent to a martyred sigh. “You’ll note, ma’am, that I am moderating my speed?”

  “You are all consideration,” she nodded, the dimples beside her mouth peeping.

  He laughed. “I suppose I deserve this poor slug. She puts me in mind of one of the horses I had the misfortune to acquire on the night I was returning home through a rainstorm with a certain repulsive dog.”

  Lisette blinked innocently into his accusing glance, then cried, “Oh! I had quite forgot poor Brutus. I cannot even recall where we were when last I saw him.”

  “Not far from home, to which he doubtless returned with all speed.”

  “I wonder why? He usually wants to be wherever you are.”

  “Why, the breeze came up, you see, and our Brutus is not as hardy as he appears. That’s the reason—or one of ’em—that I palmed him off on that gullible dimwit, Bolster.” Strand at once perceived that he had offended his bride, for Lisette’s amused smile was replaced by a shocked stare. “Good Gad!” he groaned. “Now what have I done?”

  “It just so happens, Mr. Strand,” she said coolly, “that I like Lord Bolster.”

  “‘Mr. Strand’ again,” he mused. “Well, at least it wasn’t Sir Justin.” And failing to win a smile back to her eyes, said with a hint of impatience, “For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, don’t be so top lofty! I’ve known Bolster since we was in short coats. He’s as good a man as one could meet, but if you expect me to speak of him with reverence, I—”

  “I expect—Mr. Strand,” Lisette declared in frigid tones, “to be addressed by my name—not that revoltingly common abbreviation with which you choose to taunt me! And I further expect that a poor soul who is not quite, er—right mentally, will be treated with kindness, at the very least!”