Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  Chapter 19

  “Dashed if ever I saw such a scaly set-out!” Norman proclaimed, his indignant tone belied by the twinkle in his dark eyes. “What I went through! Soaked to the skin; fording raging floods; slogging through mud up to my knees; tossed onto my head when my blasted animal balked at a puddle he could have stepped over! I was forced to detour fifteen miles out of my way because two stupid bridges had been washed away! A lesser man would have given up, eh? But no, I persisted, got to the village, and sought out that cantankerous old midwife. I had to roust her out of a room where a lady was shrieking her head off because she—”

  “My heavens!” said Lisette, her amusement giving way to consternation. “You never made Mrs. Rousell leave a confinement?”

  Straddling a chair in the kitchen while he watched her prepare a breakfast tray for the invalid, he grinned. “I thought the same, but it turned out it was only her daughter, objecting to having her locks cut into a short style. Lord! And after all that misery, I arrived back here, bedraggled, bruised, battered, half frozen, and exhausted, bearing your beloved his vital draught, only to find you both cuddled up as snug as—”

  “Norman!” Lisette exclaimed, blushing. “What a thing to say!”

  “What a thing to see,” he countered, adding gruffly, “and never have I been more happy, I’ll allow. But after my heroic efforts, to come and find them all for naught, and the medicine no longer needed! Gad!”

  Her cheeks hot, Lisette nonetheless met his eyes squarely. “It is needed. He is not out of danger, although this long sleep has worked wonders, I do believe.”

  “You both slept the clock around.”

  “Never look so smug, brother. You did, too, so Green tells me!”

  He chuckled. “From sheer frustration, no doubt.”

  “There is no cause. Justin is much improved, but we—we almost lost him, Norman. We still could, though we’ve a better chance with the medicine you brought. I will never be able to tell you how grateful—”

  “Oh, pooh! Nonsense!” He stood and made for the door. “Do you mean to talk such fustian I’m off. Cannot bear it. May I look in on Strand?”

  “For a minute or two only, if you please. I so dread lest the fever come back. Green says it could. And until the doctor has come, I’ll not rest easy.”

  “Get away with you. What you mean is that you want to keep him all to yourself! If ever I saw such a pair of lovebirds!”

  “Horrid boy!” she said, but she laughed and her eyes were sparkling as he had never seen them sparkle, for his remark was not so far removed from the truth. Lisette’s burgeoning affection for Strand had come to full flower during her desperate battle for his life. She knew now that her heart was for all time given to the husband she had married with such reluctance, and that knowledge lent her a glow and a tenderness that immeasurably heightened her beauty.

  She had looked in on Strand the moment she awoke and had been elated to find his fever broken and his eyes clear again. He had been too weak to do more than lie and gaze at her, and she had quickly left Green alone to care for him. How much did he remember, she wondered. Would he speak now of his love for her? She knew beyond doubting that he loved her just as she loved him, but it would be so wonderful to hear him say it.…

  Green came busily into the kitchen. Their shared vigil of terror had brought them to a closeness that would last through many years to come, and almost unconsciously the valet had slipped into the way of longtime retainers, his demeanour towards Lisette never less than respectful, yet containing the faintly proprietary tone that one might use to a beloved child. “I’ll take that, Mrs. Lisette,” he said, deftly appropriating the tray. “Just the gruel, eh? I’d thought I would bring up some tea later. Not too strong, mind, but you and the master might like to take a cup together, being as he’s feeling so spry today.”

  Norman left the bedchamber as they entered. He said nothing, but threw an amused wink at his sister. When she walked in, she saw why. Strand was propped up by several pillows. He had been shaved, and his thick hair brushed into the careless style she had come to think very becoming. He was drawn and pale, his eyes sunk in deep hollows, and he lacked the strength to stretch out his hand to her as he tried to do, but Lisette’s blush was intensified by the awed look of worship in his eyes.

  Stifling a smile, Green drew up her chair and placed the tray on the table beside it. “Here’s your lady come to give you a spot of breakfast, sir,” he said cheerily. “Do you see how much better our invalid looks, ma’am?”

  “He does, indeed.” Lisette concentrated upon arranging a napkin across Strand’s chest. He did look stronger. Perhaps, when Green was gone, they would be able to talk a little.

  The valet plumped up his master’s pillows, hovered about for a minute or two, then took himself off. Lisette began to wield the spoon, guiding it carefully to her husband’s lips, very aware of the fact that his adoring eyes never for a moment left her face.

  He behaved dutifully for a while, but at last sighed and shook his head. She put down the bowl and lowered her lashes, waiting.

  “Lisette,” Strand murmured.

  “Yes, Justin?”

  “I—I—want—I wish—I mean—er—what became of Garvey?”

  With only a trace of wistfulness, she thought, So much for romance … Then, seeing his hand lift very slightly but fall back onto the coverlet, she took it up in her own vital clasp, and smiled, “Gone, I’m afraid, love.” The thin fingers tightened a little at the term of endearment, and his eyes were saying everything his lips apparently could not speak. She forced herself to be sensible and said, “Constable Short was no match for the likes of James Garvey, and when he went to the gaol yesterday morning, he found his prisoner flown. Even so, Garvey will have to leave England, I am assured. Grandmama has vowed to set about the word of his infamy, and I doubt he’ll ever dare show his face to the ton again.”

  “Good,” said Strand.

  Lisette restored his hand to the coverlet, but when she made to draw back, he clung to her fingers. With her heart beginning to beat faster, she looked down and again waited. He was still very ill, of course, but … “Justin,” she prompted in a shy little voice, “is—is there, that is, do you remember—anything?”

  He made no answer. Looking up at length, she sighed. He had fallen asleep once more. Shaking her head, she gently disengaged her hand and bent to kiss him lightly on the brow. “Odious, odious man!” she murmured.

  Strand smiled contentedly.

  * * *

  So long as Strand was within a stone’s throw of death’s door, weak as a kitten, and still racked by the effects of the fever and the head injury, his behaviour was exemplary. He never complained, always obeyed those who cared for him, and when he occasionally spoke, it was to utter such faint words of appreciation for their tender solicitude as touched their hearts. Within a very few days, however, he was on the mend and, like most energetic individuals, proved a dreadful patient. He demanded from Norman a complete inventory of the damage resulting from the storm, and then fretted and fumed because he was not allowed to get up and at least supervise the necessary repairs. He insisted that Best ride to the Hall as soon as the roads were passable and send a groom to Bolster’s lodgings in Town, or to Three Fields, to determine his lordship’s present state of health. He became exceedingly irate over his diet, terming it pap, or slops, and eventually threatening to hurl at Green’s head the next bowl of broth that was presented him. Green, nobody’s fool, had noted that with one person his master was meek to the point of slavishness, and mercilessly using that weapon, the valet murmured that he would speak to Mrs. Lisette in the matter, though it was by her orders that the food was prepared.

  “Oh, never mind,” Strand grumbled, accepting the despised offering. “And that’s another thing—I want some help brought here. Send down a couple of housemaids from the Hall, and the cook. The roads must be safe by this time and there’s no reason why René cannot man the stove instead of you and De
nise doing all the work. My poor wife must be damn near exhausted, fetching and carrying for me!”

  Aware of the fiery René’s opinion of the tiny kitchen that had been installed at Silverings after the fire, Green glibly resorted to his infallible remedy and murmured that he would talk to Mrs. Lisette.

  “You will do as I say!” snapped Strand irately. “My wife has enough to concern herself with and— Where is she, by the way?”

  “She is with Dr. Bellows. He just arrived, sir.”

  Strand groaned. “That old fidget? He’ll be reading her a fine Jeremiad, poor girl.” His eyes softened. He sighed, “I wonder she puts up with me, Oliver.”

  “I—ah—venture to think madam does not find that task—er—entirely reprehensible,” murmured Green, his eyes twinkling.

  “Do you, by God!” flashed Strand. “You impertinent scoundrel! Wait till I’m up out of this blasted bed! I’ll show you what’s reprehensible!”

  * * *

  “He must not get up yet,” decreed Dr. Bellows, accepting a refilling of his glass and knowing he should leave this beautiful lady and get to his patient. He ran a tidying hand over his thinning sandy hair and crossed his short legs as he observed that malaria did not thrive in England’s cold climate. “Does Strand only give his system time to repair and recover from its effects, he may well go thirty or forty years without another attack. I’ve known such cases. But I know your husband also. A walking volcano, ma’am! Always must be up and doing. It would surprise me did his man not have to tie him to the bed to keep him from wearing himself out before he’s had a chance to recuperate.”

  Sitting opposite the small physician in the sunlit parlour, with Norman perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, Lisette said worriedly, “We shall contrive to keep him quiet, doctor. But he was so terribly ill. I never saw such a violence of fever and delirium, and I have often helped Nurse when one of the family was sick. If it should recur, Dr. Bellows … it—it will not…” She bit her lip, watching the doctor with an anxiety he thought enchanting, and that brought to mind the remarks of certain of his learned acquaintances, to the effect that the Strand marriage was solely one of convenience. When next he encountered those individuals, he would advise them with considerable vehemence that if Justin Strand had entered into a mariage de convenance he wished he might have undertaken such a liaison! Meanwhile, he said kindly, “Will not carry him off? I pray not, dear lady. Your husband’s problem—and it is a major one—is that he refuses to follow an ancient and wise Chinese maxim, ‘Exercise moderation in all things.’ You would be amazed at how nicely it works. Strand, however, has a boundless enthusiasm, a passionate interest in his people and estates, a driving need to be always changing something for the better. Admirable traits, but unless harnessed to a common-sense understanding of human frailty, well calculated to wear down health to the point—” He pursed his lips. “Strand, ma’am, has no patience with the simple needs of the body. He eats if the notion strikes him; he rises at dawn and works till all hours; he forces his physical form to keep pace with his plans and ambitions, and—” he shrugged and spread his stubby hands expressively—“it simply cannot be done.”

  “I see,” said Lisette, her brows knit. “But if he did live at a—a somewhat less hectic pace? If he were—er—persuaded to be more moderate in his pursuits, could I then hope not to be an early widow?”

  The doctor stood, took up her hand, and saluted it reverently. “My dear, with you at the helm, I predict Justin Strand will live to a ripe old age!”

  * * *

  Walking with her sister-in-law into the small saloon at Strand Hall, Rachel Leith’s lovely face reflected stark astonishment. She sat in the Sheraton chair next to the green brocade sofa and said in aghast tones, “Justin has left you again? I cannot credit it! I thought he must be ripe for Bedlam when I learned he had believed such evil of poor Bolster, but—”

  “You must not forget that Strand was desperately ill at that time,” Lisette defended reproachfully.

  Encouraged by this unexpected reaction, Rachel said, “Yes. And you saved his life, for which I shall never be able to thank you enough.” She reached out to squeeze Lisette’s hand affectionately. “Charity stays with Amanda now, and is having such a lovely time helping her choose her bride clothes. As for Bolster, he is in transports. I do not believe the dear man has come down to earth for weeks. Have you seen his idiocy?”

  Lisette smiled and nodded. “He came to see us soon after we returned here. Strand was delighted, but was at first so humbly apologetic for having doubted his dearest friend that poor Jeremy was fairly appalled.”

  “It was an appalling business.” A frown touching her eyes, Rachel lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  “Yet—could have been so much worse.” Lisette hesitated, then said, “Rachel, who is Claude Sanguinet?” Her sister-in-law’s startled face turned to her, and she added, “Oh, I know he is a Frenchman of great wealth, to whom you were once betrothed, but that is all I know. How is he so powerful?”

  All mirth was gone now from Rachel’s face. She said in an odd voice, “He is horrifyingly powerful. You know that Tristram helped me get away from that terrible … magnificent château near Dinan?”

  “I know very little. But Justin once said you had been told not to speak of it. I saw Monsieur Sanguinet once. He did not look very terrible.”

  “No.” Rachel’s hands gripped tightly and her wide eyes were fixed on events that only she could see. “But he is,” she half whispered. “He is a savage. A cruel madman. He befriended me at a time when we were in most desperate straits. I did not know … what he was really like. Few people do. But I am afraid. Someday—” She shivered and bowed her head. “I must not say more, but, as for me, if it had not been for Tristram…”

  Dismayed, Lisette stammered, “Oh, my! I am terribly sorry. I had no idea it was so bad. I have upset you.”

  “No, no!” Rachel looked up and smiled brightly. “Only, I try not to think of those times. They were bad—and yet, that was when I met my dear husband, so you see there were happy moments, too. Enough of that. Now you must tell me of my brother. If I know Justin, he has been a most intractable patient and quite driven you out of your senses.”

  “Oh, dreadful,” Lisette agreed, laughing. “As soon as he began to get better, he was impossible!”

  “Poor girl. You must be very glad he is gone away.”

  Lisette looked down at her hands and managed a rather scratchy, “Yes.”

  Rachel Leith was a most warm-hearted girl. She had always thought this beauty pretty-mannered and charming, but a shade too self-possessed. When her brother had fallen so desperately in love with her, she had encouraged his hopes outwardly, and inwardly had despaired of his chances of ever having his affections returned. Intrigued now, she said, “I can tell that you have had a dreadful time. Justin is so hopeless about resting, or taking care of himself. Even so, I would not have supposed him capable of being so unfeeling as to abandon you again, after you were so good as to nurse him day and night, when we all know you did not—” She caught her breath, her eyes horrified because of what she had almost said.

  Looking up through a veil of tears, Lisette sniffed. “Did not care for him? Well, you are right. I did not—when I married him.” She dried her eyes, aware that Rachel had stiffened. “It was supposed to be a mariage de convenance,” she imparted miserably. “Is it not the height of stupidity for the bride of such a match to—to have fallen madly in love with her own husband?”

  “No!” Rachel moved impulsively to hug her and say in her winning, eager way, “I think it wonderful, for Justin has been in love with you since first he set eyes on you.”

  “So I—I thought. But ever since he was ill, he—he has not … not so much as … kissed me!” She raised tragic eyes and went on, “And now he has gone away again and I know Charity was not his Fair Paphian, but I cannot help but wonder if there is one after all.”

  Stifling a smile at this naïve muddle, Rachel
commiserated, “He is the outside of enough, and no mistaking! I wonder you do not leave him.”

  “Leave him? How could I, when he is the dearest, kindest, most gallant, and unselfish man who ever lived?” Lisette’s lower lip trembled, and she added a forlorn, “Only, I do not think I can endure it, does he mean to be endlessly coming and … g-going like this.”

  “The wretch! Did he say nothing? Did he leave no word at all?”

  “Only this.” Lisette drew a very wrinkled note from her pocket and handed it over.

  “‘Dear Ma’am,’” read Rachel aloud. She flashed an irked upward glance at her sister-in-law’s woeful countenance. “Typical! So very romantic! ‘Dear Ma’am, I am called away on a matter that must be completed with all possible speed. By your leave I shall call upon you next Thursday afternoon at three o’clock. Please receive a man who is—yours forever, Strand.’” She looked up and said with incredulity, “Call on you? Today? In his own house? Good God! Did Leith write me such a note I would have him put under restraint at once! Though I am glad to see my brother’s writing is improved. When he is ill his hand shakes so he can scarce form the words. And, do you know, dear, the ending is rather—”

  She stopped as Fisher entered. He presented Lisette with a large, beribboned box, and at once trod his stately way from the room without uttering a word.

  Intrigued, Rachel said, “Good gracious, how theatrical! Is there a card, love?”