Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  “Now. Scene One commences this very moment and will continue for as long as we are in the public eye.”

  True to his word, he maintained an air of devotion whenever they encountered other riders. He also held to a moderate pace, for which Lisette was thankful, since she was finding riding to be a somewhat uncomfortable diversion this morning.

  When they returned to the house, they breakfasted together, Strand apparently engrossed in The Gazette, and Lisette going through her letters. While the servants were in the room, they engaged in light conversation, but the moment they were alone, silence settled over them like a blanket. Rising to pull back his bride’s chair, Strand told her that he was leaving to take up Norman. “We visit Lord Wetherby this morning. This afternoon, you and I are invited to a musicale at Hilby House, and this evening we go to a small dinner party at the Moultons. I trust these engagements will not inconvenience you.”

  “Your trust is misplaced!” Lisette snapped. “I plan to shop with Judith this afternoon, and am in no humour for dining—even with John and Salia.”

  “Adjust your humour,” he ordered dryly. “I have already accepted. You may shop with Judith tomorrow. For an hour.”

  Lisette glared at him and went upstairs. Denise greeted her with awed timidity, and several times Lisette found herself being watched with such sympathy that she was sure the servants were aware of what had transpired the previous evening. She made a great effort to appear calm and, having changed her dress, went into the parlour to write letters. Alone, she sharpened a quill, but instead of writing her letter, drew small circles in involved designs all over a sheet of paper. Whatever, she wondered miserably, was to become of her? Although she had entered a mariage de convenance, an odd rapport had sprung up between her and Strand. She had begun to enjoy his cheery way of bustling them all about, his humourous grin coaxing them into whatever he wished. She had begun to feel comfortable with him, sure that whatever she attempted would win his encouragement, and that behind his teasing was kindness and an unfailing generosity. She had not dreamt he ever would visit so ferocious a temper upon her. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that she—one of the most nobly born debutantes in all England—would be brutally beaten! And so unjustly, for she had not been the one to spread those wicked rumours. Common sense said, “You should have told him the truth.” Pride said, “Why? If he was so base as to suspect me—let him suspect! At all events, the damage is done! Whatever understanding may have existed between us is gone forever, and besides, much I care what he thinks!”

  If she told Mama and Papa what he had done, they would insist that she leave him. It was a comforting thought, but brief. She dare not leave him; to do so would be a sure acknowledgement that the rumours sweeping the Town were absolute truth. They would all be disgraced, and Strand—Strand would be livid! He would come after her, beyond doubting! She shivered, but at once decided that if ever he again attempted to brutalize her, she would shoot him. Had she a pistol handy. She had never fired a pistol, but Timothy would teach her. He had returned to his Regiment after the wedding, but he certainly would come home on leave, sooner or later. She could not tell him why she wanted to learn how to shoot, of course. It might be rather awkward to ask for instruction so that she could murder her husband, but she’d be able to come up with some plausible reason, when the time came. Meanwhile, she could always use a knife if the need arose. But Strand, she thought broodingly, was so terribly strong: he would probably wrench the weapon from her before she’d had the chance to plunge it into him. Her circle went sadly awry, the contemplation of so dastardly a deed causing her hand to shake. Perhaps, if she did it at night, and did not look, she could manage it. But that seemed unsporting. And to wake one’s sleeping husband purely to inform him that he was about to be stabbed seemed to rather diminish the chances for success. She tried to wish that James had handled the business for her, but found it impossible to whip up much enthusiasm for a duel between the two men. She finally came to the conclusion that she would humour her husband—until the scandal had died down—and then get a Bill of Divorcement.

  It did not occur to her that this would create an even larger scandal and, satisfied with her decision, she wrote her letter and went downstairs. She was reading in the book room when Norman rushed in, highly elated, and proclaimed Strand to be a prince of brothers-in-law. “Such a splendid time we had!” he exclaimed excitedly, straddling a chair and beaming upon his sister. “Lord Wetherby—he was used to be Admiral Hawkhurst, you know—is the very best of men. I thought him rather gruff at first, but Strand explained my interest in shipping and we got to chatting, and we both agree upon so many things, including the great possibilities of steam, Lisette! And the end of it was, Strand and I are to refurbish an old yacht now in dry-dock at Silverings, before the weather turns, we hope! Is that not famous?”

  For Norman’s benefit, Lisette slanted a warm smile at Strand, who had wandered into the room and was half sitting against the reference table, swinging one booted foot and watching the youth’s enthusiasm with faint amusement. “Lovely,” she agreed. “But I was not aware the weather had ever settled into a summer style, and you certainly cannot work on a boat in the rain.”

  Undampened, Norman said, “Just like a woman to throw a rub in the way before we’ve even begun. The yacht’s shored up in the barn at present, Lisette, and we can do some of the work inside, before we have to—”

  He was interrupted as Judith rushed in, her eyes enormous and her bonnet still on her head. “Lisette!” she gasped, having entered the room at such speed she did not even see her brother-in-law. “I just heard! Oh, how monstrous it is! What Mama will say, I dare not think! And Grandmama! But how splendid of Strand to call out Mr. Garvey!”

  Norman sprang up, and exclaimed, “What? Justin—you never did?”

  “Oh, it’s all right, Norman,” Judith intervened, eyes sparkling. “Strand flung a tankard of ale in his face, but Garvey turned craven, and—”

  Strand, who had come to his feet when the girl arrived, said bleakly, “And that will be about enough, if you please, miss!”

  “What a bag of moonshine!” snorted Norman, his uneasy glance lingering on his brother-in-law. “As if a famous Buck like James Garvey would back down—even for Strand.” Strand said nothing, and Norman wailed, “Never say it is truth?”

  “No.” Strand gave a faintly apologetic smile. “I believe my glass contained wine, not ale.”

  “Oh … my God!” Norman groaned, clutching his dark locks.

  Strand’s smile faded. The topic heightened Lisette’s nervousness, and she interjected hurriedly, “Were I you, Norman, I would not offend Strand. He is quite capable of beating you.”

  Norman sat down, but he still looked troubled. Strand’s eyes fell. His scowl vanished, and he changed the subject.

  * * *

  The musicale at Hilby House was an ordeal Lisette would long remember. She had chosen to wear a new blue silk round dress with six rows of tiny frills at the hem, and despite the inclement weather, carried only a gossamer scarf looped across her elbows. Denise was admiring her beautiful mistress when Strand came in carrying a small, flat leather box. Slipping it onto the dressing table, he bent to kiss his wife’s temple and murmur lovingly, “I am glad you chose the blue today, my sweet.”

  The abigail sighed romantically, and left them. Lisette glanced to the closing door. “Bravo. A good touch, sir.”

  “So I thought.” He shrugged. “Wear this, if you please.”

  “As you command, my lord and master.”

  He opened the box savagely and took out a bracelet of gold filigree. Finely cut sapphires were set amongst dainty golden leaves and flowerets of tiny pearls, the workmanship so exquisite that Lisette’s breath was taken away. “Oh!” she gasped. “How very pretty it is.”

  “I brought it back from India,” he imparted grudgingly, “but thought it too large, so Rundell and Bridge have sized it for me.”

  So he had not bought
it purely for effect. Or perhaps he had intended it for his bird of paradise, and changed his mind so as to make a gesture in view of their present situation. Frowning, she watched him fasten it about her wrist and was struck by the thought that his thin fingers were so gentle now, whereas last night … She trembled involuntarily. Strand looked down at her in brooding silence, bowed, and went out.

  They were quiet in the carriage, but from the moment they walked into the magnificence of Hilby House he was every inch the adoring lover, the bewitched slave. Struggling to appear as infatuated, Lisette more than once caught a glint of amused appreciation in his blue eyes, and when she sighed audibly as he provided her with a chair, he bent above her and murmured with a doting smile, “Not too much syrup, m’dear—lest they suspect.”

  Patting his cheek, she cooed, “I strive only to be as cloying as you, dearest love.”

  He nodded, took up her hand, and kissed it.

  Each was aware of the many eyes that followed their every movement. Quite a number of those eyes surveyed Lisette with disapprobation. It was a new experience, and she apprehended with a distinct shock that Strand’s belief that she had been engaging in an affaire with Garvey was not an isolated one. She had refused to believe that others would accept the tale and for the first time appreciated her husband’s present strategy.

  The Duke of Vaille came over to remark on Lisette’s beauty and engage Strand in low-voiced conversation. His lovely fiancée, Charlotte Hilby, bending to Lisette’s ear, said softly, “Don’t be frightened, dear. Most of them do not really believe it. They will soon forget.” Lisette was so moved by this kindness that a lump rose in her throat and she could not speak. She squeezed Miss Hilby’s hand and blinked her thanks. The musicale began, and for a terrible few seconds she felt quite unable to face down all these critical, shallow people who’d not had the decency to know her above such despicable behaviour. She was shaking and, in her already overwrought condition, knew she would burst into sobs at any moment. Strand leaned to her and murmured with a tender smile, “Keep your chin high, best beloved. Concentrate on Leith—that should bring you safely through!” She was at first flabbergasted, then so infuriated that she did indeed come “safely through” the ordeal. But she did not concentrate on Leith. Instead, she dwelt with wicked delight on the scene in court when she should plead for divorce. And all the delicious things she would tell the judge.

  Intermission came, and everyone adjourned to the large dining room where long tables held a tempting array of delicacies, and many small tables and chairs were set about. Strand seated Lisette at a corner table and went off to fill a plate for her. Returning, he made his way through the knot of dashing young gentlemen that had formed about her, and sat down. Her admirers scattered. Lisette breathed, “What a vicious thing to have said to me! And you’ve no reason for jealousy—there has never been a romance between Leith and me.”

  “Perhaps.” He took up a macaroon and held it to her lips. “But you were, like Wellington’s rope, about to break. So I tied a knot. You shall not disgrace me again, madam wife.”

  Raging, she opened her mouth to retaliate, but he popped the entire macaroon into her mouth, then watched with revolting admiration as she struggled to cope gracefully, her indignation effectively silenced.

  The musicale ended, but for Lisette and Strand the masquerade had barely begun. Day after day their deception was enacted at dinner parties, routs, ridottos, and balls. They wined and dined and danced until the early morning, went home to snatch a few hours of sleep, then were up again and off to ride in the park. The days were a whirl of morning calls and callers, shopping or walks, luncheons, afternoon card parties, soirées, or concerts, and then home to put on their evening finery once more.

  Strand seemed tireless, turning his mocking grin on Lisette if she dared commence a yawn, so that she would open her sleepy eyes very wide and fight to conceal her exhaustion. After ten days of this, she was so tired that when he ushered her into her bedchamber one night, she murmured a numbed, “Thank you, my dear one,” and was mortified when he chuckled, “Oho, what a faux pas! We are quite alone, ma’am!”

  “Whatever the words, sir,” she said loftily, “my feelings remain the same. As do yours for me.”

  She stole a glance at him from under her lashes and saw a sadness come into his eyes. “What a pity it is,” he said slowly, “that we cannot deal together better than this.”

  Lisette shrugged and strolled over to remove her earrings. When she looked up, he had gone, and she sat there, her shoulders slumping, tired and dispirited. She no longer carried Garvey’s poem in her bosom, for she found of late that it was difficult to meet Strand’s eyes when she did so. Now, she went to the drawer where her handkerchiefs were kept, and unearthed it from beneath the pile. Once again, the words brought a deep sigh, a yearning for the might-have-been. Replacing it slowly, she wondered if James still cared for her, if he sat somewhere in the great city at this very moment, breaking his heart for her.…

  Her gaze drifted down the little column of handkerchiefs, all neatly ironed, their lace edges so daintily feminine. She did not at once discern the handkerchief Grandmama had fashioned for her—the last one she had crocheted before gout made it too difficult for her poor hands. Dear Grandmama had been used to make such exquisite lace. Because of her love for the old lady, that handkerchief was particularly dear to Lisette’s heart. She began to search, but without success. Surely she had not lost it? Upset, she started for the bell pull, but it was almost three o’clock, she could not disturb Denise at this hour. She would ask her about it in the morning.

  The next morning, however, all thought of the missing handkerchief was banished when Lisette awoke to a subdued murmur of activity. For a moment she lay drowsing, then it came to her that others were already stirring. She sat up with a start and snatched up the little porcelain clock from the table beside her bed. Half-past nine! With a gasp, she tugged on the bell pull and flung back the curtains of the bed. She was halfway to the window when the door opened and Strand strode in, booted and spurred. He marched past her, threw open the heavy curtains to admit a flood of sunlight, and turning to her said briskly, “So you’re awake at last, ma’am!”

  She drew herself up. She prided herself on not once having been late since her first initiation into his heathen custom of rising with the dawn. “I wonder you did not come and haul me out of my bed,” she said regally.

  His eyes flickered over the revealing nightgown she wore. “It would have been worth it, at that,” he nodded. “But I judged you needed your sleep since we return to Sussex today.”

  Scurrying for a wrapper, Lisette pulled it closer about her. “You might have had the common courtesy to tell me!” she expostulated. “There were things I wished to purchase before we returned to the Hall!”

  He frowned. “My apologies. I’d not decided until the day dawned fine. Can you send your maid for what you want? We can delay until eleven, but I would prefer to leave as soon as possible.” The door again opened, and Denise started in, then paused uncertainly. Strand added a gentle, “Will that suit, my love?”

  Lisette motioned to Denise to enter. “Of course,” she purred. “I can scarce wait to get back to the country again. I’ll be as quick as I can, dear.”

  He stared down at her, then suddenly bent, and pulling her to him, kissed her full on the mouth. For an odd moment, surprise had the effect of making Lisette feel giddy, so that she instinctively flung her arms about his neck, to keep from losing her balance. He released her, but his head remained down-bent, his lips very close as he gazed into her eyes with an ineffable tenderness. Then, the quirk touching his mouth for the first time since his confrontation with Garvey, he murmured, “How’s that for acting, ma’am?”

  Breathless, she answered, “Not … markedly amateurish, sir.”

  He nodded. “Probably out of practice.”

  * * *

  A few subsequent discussions with Lord Wetherby had caused Strand to entertain s
econd thoughts regarding the scope of their nautical undertaking. As a result, he’d sent an urgent letter round to Ryder Street, inviting the unsuspecting Bolster to accompany them back into Sussex. His lordship joined them shortly before they were to depart, and although Strand felt obliged to divulge the trap into which he had walked, Bolster was far from being dismayed and, in fact, welcomed the prospect of some hard work.

  They set forth, the men riding, Lisette and Judith occupying the chaise, and the servants and the luggage following in a large travelling carriage. The little cavalcade enjoyed good weather for as far as Croydon, where they stopped to take luncheon at the Red Griffin. Before they left the famous old posting house, a few dark clouds had managed to spread over the entire sky and it began to rain. The gentlemen therefore decided to complete the journey inside the chaise. Always the best of companions, Bolster started a round tale in an effort to entertain the younger occupants of the vehicle. He had become comparatively at ease with them, so that he stuttered less, and having quite a flair for comedy had them all chuckling at his first chapter. Looking around at their amused faces, he said, “Chapter Two!” and pointed at Judith. Delighted, that damsel indulged her flair for the dramatic so that from a light love story it became full of gloom, dungeons, and sinister figures slinking about, wrapped in dark cloaks. Norman was selected as the next story-teller, and he launched with gusto into Chapter Three, whereupon the principal Evil Tyrant, Baron Klug, became very evil indeed, pursuing a fair and innocent clergyman’s daughter, causing Sir Roderick, the gallant young hero, a great deal of misery, and bringing him at length into the very shadow of the guillotine.

  “Lisette!” ordered Bolster.

  “Oooh! Do hurry!” cried Judith eagerly. “I can scarce wait to hear what happens next!”

  Lisette decreed that the innocent clergyman’s daughter had not been standing idly by whilst all this was going on. She had, in fact, by means of an alluring disguise, gained admission to the dungeons where languished the hero’s brave friends, and had so captivated the gaolers that she was allowed to take water to the miserable captives.