The implications were inescapable. A lump came into her throat; she could not seem to think coherently, and stood there, her eyes wide and unseeing, until a call shook her from her trance.
“Lisette! Lisette!”
Mandy’s voice, and extremely agitated. Lisette started, folded the handkerchief with its small enclosed treasure, replaced it, and went into the hall.
Amanda waited there, her face white and frightened. “I must leave at once!” she imparted tremulously. “A messenger has come I heard him tell Mrs. Hayward that Lord Bolster sends his compliments and is delayed in Horsham but will come tomorrow if it is convenient, oh but I am so sorry and must leave at once!”
Nothing Lisette could say would move her. Thoroughly distraught, Amanda fled to her bedchamber, astonished her formidable abigail by snapping out sharp orders, and within the hour the carriage was rumbling down the drivepath carrying its shaken occupant back to London Town.
Lisette went back into the house, entertaining the distinct suspicion she dwelt in the midst of some strange dream. Adding to this impression was a sense of unfamiliarity in the hall, explained when she noted that the large tapestry had disappeared from the wall. Mrs. Hayward was summoned and all but burst into tears at the sight of the nude expanse of plaster. “Mr. Justin was so proud of it!” she mourned. “It was dreadfully shabby when he come home from India, ma’am, but he had it restored so lovely. Wherever can it have gone? I know it was here this morning, for I saw how the sun was hitting it and wondered if we should ought to draw the draperies over the east windows.”
Lisette thought absently that the sun’s appearance had been brief. The sky was clouded over now, and a brisk breeze had come up. “I am perfectly sure that Miss Hersh did not tuck it into her reticule,” she said with a faint smile. “Perhaps—oh, why did I not think? Mrs. Hayward—it is quite windy outside.”
The housekeeper blinked at her. “Brutus!”
“Yes. That wretched animal has made off with it!”
Together, they initiated a search for the Intrepid Watchdog, and he was located in the red saloon, quaking beneath the small mountain of the tapestry. Shaking her head, Lisette watched footman and housekeeper bear off the prized wall hanging and, leaving Brutus moaning his anguish over the treachery of humankind, returned to her room. She picked up her address book, intending to return it to the drawer, but instead stood gazing blankly at it, thinking of her handkerchief, and the little feather so betrayingly hoarded within it. Surely, a gentleman would behave in so tender a fashion for but one reason—that he was deep in love with the owner of the purloined articles. But Strand did not love his wife.… Did he? Her face was burning suddenly. She felt shy and restless so that she began to wander about the room, carrying her address book, alternately elated and disbelieving. Was it possible that he had wed her because he had fallen in love with her? Had he believed his suit so hopeless that he’d seized upon what he believed his only possible chance of winning her and concealed his inner feelings, fearing they would be repugnant to her? And even if this was true, why should it cause her heart to leap about so crazily? She came to an abrupt halt. She was forgetting that Strand had deserted her on their wedding eve: scarcely the act of a man passionately in love with his bride. She scowled at the andirons, gleaming in a brief ray of sunlight. How foolish she was to have become so enraptured and hopeful over a man whose heart belonged to another lady. His blond enchantress. She must not allow herself to lose her perspective. She was lonely, that was all.
Through her solitary luncheon she strove to think of other matters and failed miserably. Attempting to read that afternoon, her thoughts strayed constantly from the printed page. She found herself smiling at the recollection of Justin’s teasing, and the way his blue eyes tended to crinkle at the corners when he laughed. Her eyes grew sober as she remembered his livid fury when he thought she had betrayed him. And he really, she thought rather wistfully, had not spanked her very hard with the hairbrush. Not as hard as he might pardonably have done, under the circumstances. The memory of the afternoon when he had “shot” the tree drew a little gurgle of laughter from her.
“It must be a most amusing novel,” observed an unwelcome visitor.
Her cheeks scarlet, Lisette sprang up. “Beatrice!”
“Yes, love,” gushed her sister, hurrying to embrace Lisette while assuming her most charming smile. “I heard you was alone, and determined to come and cheer you—”
“I wonder,” Lisette interpolated coolly, “you would dare come here.”
A wary light crept into Beatrice’s hard eyes. She had put off her cloak and gloves and, moving to the fire, began to warm her hands, saying innocently, “Ah, you are in a funning mood, I perceive. Poor dear, how lonely it must be for you, with Strand away so much of the time.”
“I am not funning. I know that you were responsible for setting those wicked rumours about, and—”
“Oh!” gasped Beatrice. “How can you say such a thing of your own flesh and blood?” She tugged a handkerchief from her reticule and held it to her lips, sobbing a muffled, “You should be ashamed, Lisette. Oh, I vow I am quite shattered!”
“Nonsense! Very few people knew that Strand had gone to Silverings that first week of our marriage. And those who did know believed us deeply attached. You wormed the tale from Charity, and embellished it to—”
“Wicked! Wicked girl!” Beatrice wailed. “To accuse your own loving sister! Oh, it is too much. Everyone hates me and chooses to believe the very worst! I have done nothing! Nothing! If you had but an ounce of sisterly affection for me, you would know better.”
Lisette was beginning to tremble because of this bitter confrontation, but she said bravely, “It is because I know you so well that I understand what happened.”
“Never have you spoken to me so!” Beatrice wept her way to a chair and sank into it. “To think Strand should turn you against me in such a way! Oh, I know how it must have been, for he has never liked me, even as—” she sniffed, watching her sister covertly—“even as he never loved you.”
Unexpected strength surged through Lisette. She said calmly, “My husband has never sought to turn me against you, Bea. But he was much hurt by all this unpleasantness, and his well-being must now come first with me. Even as you would place William first in your life.”
Beatrice’s head jerked up. She demanded suspiciously, “What is that supposed to mean? Do you imply—”
Still standing, her hands loosely clasped before her, Lisette said a quiet, “I do not imply. I warn you openly that both Grandmama and our parents have heard you have taken a lover, and—”
Springing up, Beatrice gasped, “My heaven! Mama and Papa are back?” She shot a nervous glance to the door. “They do not stay with you?”
“No. They have left.”
“Thank heaven! I could not stay were they here.”
At this, a tiny frown puckered Lisette’s brow. “I wish I might ask you to stay. Unfortunately, I—”
“What?” With an expression of total horror, Beatrice faltered, “You will not allow me to overnight with you? But—but you must! You cannot turn me out, Lisette! You cannot. I—I have nowhere to go!”
“Fustian! You have your own home, and a loving husband waiting.”
“Loving husband! Pah! William has heard all the nasty little gabblemongerings, even as have you. And was so heartless and cruel as to believe them. I did not stay to hear his foolish recriminations, I do assure you! Surely, there never was a lady more ill-used by her family and friends!”
“My heavens! Do you tell me you have left him? Bea, you cannot! The scandal!”
Sinking down again, Beatrice sobbed, “Much you care. You married a man whose—whose sister is sunk … beneath reproach! That scandal did not … weigh with you!”
Reminded of how harshly Beatrice had berated her for hesitating to accept Strand, Lisette shook her head in exasperation. “That has nothing to say to the matter. You must go home. No, Bea, it is of no use t
o entreat me. To allow you to stay here at this time must offend my husband and embarrass me. Besides, I am invited to visit my sister-in-law Leith at Cloudhills, and leave tomorrow.”
Beatrice sat very still, an arrested expression on her face. Then, to her sister’s dismay, she ran to kneel before her, clutching at her skirts and weeping hysterically. “Please! Oh, please, Lisette! I dare not go home, to say truth. William is—is furious with me. And if Mama and Papa should come—oh, I could not bear it! I could not! And—and even were I to stay with friends, or—or my cousins, everyone would—would know. Please!” She raised a tear-stained and pathetic countenance. “You are my only hope. Oh, I know I am naughty sometimes … and—and vex you. But I did not mean to cause the talk about you and Strand. I swear I told only Jemima Duncan, and—”
“And might as well have announced it in The Gazette!” But Lisette was shaken, and took her sister’s upreaching hands, begging that she not kneel in such a way. “Whatever would the servants think? Come now, do be sensible.”
Beatrice was too unnerved to be sensible. She seemed so close to lapsing into complete hysterics that Lisette had no recourse but to coax her into a chair and insist that she sip a little brandy while she strove to calm her. Sir William, she pointed out, was very obviously devoted to her. Were Beatrice to agree to set up the nursery he so longed for, he would probably be more than happy to forgive her. Her response interspersed with gulping little sobs, Beatrice confessed to having been a fool. “If only—oh, if only I had not … been so utterly bored,” she choked. “But, William is too cross now, Lisette. That’s why I thought … if you would but let me stay—even a few days—he would have time to—to overcome his pride, and I could … beg his forgiveness.” She took up her sister’s hand and, nursing it to her cheek, begged, “Only say you will. Dearest, I promise never to trouble you again. Please say I may stay with you. Just for a day or so.”
And the end of it was, of course, that Lisette sighed and agreed Beatrice might remain, even though she herself must leave early in the morning. She was promptly hugged, kissed, and wept over. Her offer of dinner was rejected, however; vowing herself too overwrought to be able to do anything but repair to her room, Beatrice was ushered upstairs, delivered into the care of her abigail, and soon comfortably settled into bed.
Exhausted by the emotional scene, Lisette ate a light and solitary meal and retired early. She looked in on her sister before she went to bed. The room was dark save for the firelight. Beatrice, lying limp and wan against her pillows, was still awake, however, and professed herself quite unable to express her gratitude.
“Perhaps we have all learned something from this bumble broth,” sighed Lisette with a tired smile.
“You are too good … too sweet,” Beatrice acknowledged tremulously. “And never fear, dearest, does your husband return tomorrow, I shall tell him I must needs leave at once, for you are perfectly right, and my presence here could only distress him.”
“You will go back to Somerset and try to reconcile with poor William? You promise this?”
“Yes. Oh, I do! I shall be a good wife to him. You will see.”
Lisette pressed her hand, and left her. Once in her own bed, sleep eluded her, an endless succession of worries pressing in upon her. It dawned on her suddenly that her wickedness in having lied to Beatrice about visiting Cloudhills could scarcely be improved upon. Rachel and Charity would be there, and—was she very tactful, she might be able to learn something of Strand’s affaire de coeur. She did not give one thought to the fact that her admired Tristram Leith might also be in Berkshire; nor why her need to know more of her husband’s incognita had become a near-obsession. Drowsily considering what to wear for her journey, she fell asleep.
Her slumbers might have been less sound had she again looked in on her sister. A tray on the bedside table held the remains of a healthy supper. The room was a blaze of candles, and Beatrice, cuddled against her pillows, was writing a note. She looked smug, and not in the least contrite.
* * *
Denise was unhappy, Mrs. Hayward was troubled, and the coachman mumbled that weather was a-blowing up and Mr. Justin didn’t like his horses to be tooled in the rain. Lisette could do nothing about the admittedly heavy clouds, but she had not been schooled by her mama to no purpose. Her upraised brows and look of astonishment devastated Denise, silenced Mrs. Hayward, and defeated the coachman. Within the hour her portmanteau was in the boot, two bandboxes were in the carriage, the coachman was on the box, and a burly groom was riding guard. Beatrice was still fast asleep, and only a very uneasy Mrs. Hayward stood on the porch to wave goodbye.
“There,” said Lisette, settling back against the squabs. “It is only nine o’clock and we are safely on the road. And there is not a drop of rain falling.”
“No, madame,” Denise agreed glumly. And added under her breath, “Yet…”
She was right. By the time they reached Horsham a light drizzle had begun to fall. They passed Chiddingfold in a steady rain and, while eating luncheon in a private parlour of the Pease Porridge inn at Farnham, Lisette was cowed by a blinding flash and an earth-shaking bark of thunder. She tried to appear nonchalant when the coachman scratched on the door to suggest respectfully that so soon as the storm had “blowed itself out a mite” they should return to Strand Hall. “You must resign yourself to the fact that I have no intention of doing so,” she said coolly. “When the rain eases, we will continue to Berkshire.” She ignored the small wail from Denise and became engrossed in a novel she had brought with her, hoping her trembling would not be too noticeable as thunder clamoured overhead.
It was half-past one o’clock before the storm lifted to the point that they dare resume their journey and, although preserving an air of assured calm, Lisette was inwardly shaken to hear an incoming traveller remark to the host that it had thundered like the Waterloo cannon when his coach had passed through Horsham. With a sudden pang of anxiety, Lisette turned to the gentleman’s stout wife and said, “Your pardon, ma’am. Are you of the opinion the bad weather is widespread? Could it, do you suppose, have extended throughout Sussex?”
“I’m afraid it very well might have, ma’am,” replied the lady. “What do you say, Mr. Gresham?”
Her spouse echoed her fears, pointing out that he’d encountered a friend in Horsham who had driven up from the coast and experienced heavy weather all the way. “Were I you, madam”—he nodded to Lisette—“I would terminate my journey so soon as is possible. Certainly before the light fails. Looks as if we’re in for a bad night!”
Lisette thanked him, and hurried out to the coach, Denise moaning behind her. Settling into her seat, Lisette tried not to worry, but Strand was so determined to finish that wretched boat. It would be just like him to pay no heed to the weather, and press on! But she was being silly; likely he was not outside at all, for the Silvering Sails might still be in the barn. With a lift of her chin, she thought it very possible that his occupation had little to do with either boats or weather!
The rain lightened and then ceased, but their progress was slowed by the condition of the roads that was not good at best and had now deteriorated to a degree that caused the coachman to curse fluently, if softly, as he attempted to guide his team through a sea of mud. The surface improved when they approached Aldershot, but Denise’s timid plea that they overnight at that old city was gently but firmly refused. An odd unease was driving Lisette, and she had no intention of being balked in her desire to reach Cloudhills that day. She was not a foolish girl, however, and told the coachman that they would not proceed if it was unsafe to do so. “By all means, make enquiries as to what conditions lie ahead of us.”
The enquiries resulted in an assurance that the roads were perfectly passable as far as Basingstoke, at least, where there were several fine posting houses in the event the storm should roll back again. They reached Basingstoke at half-past four, and again stopped. Even as they pulled into the yard of a busy inn, the Oxford to London stage arrived wi
th a great trumpeting of the guard’s yard of tin, a scrambling of ostlers, thunder and splashing of sixteen muddy hooves, snorting and blowing of wet horses, shouts of passengers, and bellowed commands of the driver. Lisette’s coachman clambered down from his perch and, waiting his opportunity, slipped a florin into the stagecoach driver’s ready palm and was graciously informed that the Newbury Road was passable so there wasn’t no cause for to suppose as the road to Aldermaston wouldn’t be likewise. This piece of optimism was unhappily ill-founded. By six o’clock they not only were engulfed in a veritable downpour, but the road had all but disappeared beneath the mud so that with every lurch of the carriage, Lisette expected them to overturn and land in a ditch. Denise began to sob with terror. Calming her as best she might, Lisette watched the skies darken, her heart leaping when a distant rumble of thunder announced the return of the storm. She had seldom been more relieved than when the coachman opened the trap to shout that they were now on Lord Leith’s preserves, and the gatehouse just ahead.
Soon the carriage slowed and then stopped. An individual crouched under a piece of dripping sacking hove into view and waved urgently at Lisette. Denise let down the window, admitting a rush of colder air and a flurry of raindrops. Pulling her hood closer, Lisette leaned to the window.
“Sorry I be to tell ye, ma’am,” called the lodgekeeper hoarsely, “but the great house do be closed. The family is away just now, and workmen be painting the whole downstairs.”
Denise whimpered. Her own heart dropping into her shoes, Lisette gasped, “Away? Is—is there no one at home at all?”
The lodgekeeper shook his head and replied lugubriously that the Colonel was gone off somewhere, to London, he thought, “And Mrs. Rachel and Miss Charity be gone too. Ain’t no one up there, saving only the housekeeper and a couple of parlour-maids, ma’am.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, why did you not say so? Certainly the housekeeper will not turn us away on such a night!”
Married Past Redemption Page 27