Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  Untying the pink velvet ribbons, Lisette said, “No. Perhaps it is inside, but— Oh! Rachel, look! Is it not exquisite?”

  At first Rachel saw only a charmingly arranged posy of pink roses and maidenhair fern, but in the centre was a velvet cushion containing a large diamond set in an intricately wrought gold filigree pendant. Lisette jumped up, ran to take a small pair of scissors from a drawer, and began carefully to snip the stitches holding the chain in place. Rachel assisted then in fastening the chain about Lisette’s white throat, and clapped her hands when she finished. “Oh, you must see it! Here—in the mirror. It is adorable! I would not have thought Justin had the sense!”

  Lisette admired her reflection, then ran eagerly back to the box. She found a note inside. Unfolding it with hands that trembled, she uttered a shocked little cry that brought Rachel hastening to read over her shoulder:

  I saw a maid who set my soul to dreaming

  Sweet, tender dreams of love that haunt me yet.

  A girl with eyes like dusky velvet, seeming

  To make my heart a shrine just for

  Lisette.

  Her hair a cloud of midnight, richly glowing.

  Her voice a silvery peal I can’t forget.

  Her lips curved in a smile, as if she’s knowing

  Deep is the love I bear for my

  Lisette.

  I’ll gather all my courage and pursue her.

  I’ll kiss away her sorrows and regret.

  I’ll worship and adore and gently woo her,

  And win myself an angel, named

  Lisette.

  Astounded, Rachel breathed, “Why, it is beautiful…”

  “How dare he!” raged Lisette, tearing at the clasp of the pendant. “Oh, that wicked, wicked man! After all the pain and grief and suffering he has brought on us!” She was panting, so deep was her disgust and chagrin. “Rachel, help me! Help me get this wretched thing off!”

  “Do not! Please, do not! You will break it. And I am sure Justin did not mean to offend. I—I do not understand. You said you loved him, yet—”

  “This horrid diamond did not come from my husband! Garvey sent it, just as he sent the other poem! To think he would dare—” She succeeded in opening the clasp, tore the offending pendant from her throat, and hurled it across the room.

  “Garvey?” Rachel echoed in bewilderment. “No, but—but this is Justin’s hand, dearest. Surely, you must know it.”

  Shock drained the high colour from Lisette’s cheeks. She stared at Rachel blankly. Justin? Justin had not writ that poem. He could not have done so. Justin’s writing was atrocious. Would she ever forget that first dreadful note he had sent, telling her he was leaving her on her wedding night.… Like a physical blow, she thought, But he was ill that night! And Rachel said when he is ill his hand shakes so that he can scarce form the words!

  Regarding her anxiously, Rachel held out the note Justin had written to say that he would call today. Numbly, Lisette looked from one to the other. The writing was identical! She gave a gasp, remembering the note Grandmama had received from Strand. Why ever had she failed to notice the difference in the writing? “My God!” she moaned. “It cannot be … it cannot…!” And to Rachel’s bewilderment she suddenly fled, in a most ill-mannered abandonment of her guest, flinging open the door and running down the corridor with a flutter of draperies and a rustle of the two letters she held.

  Following at a less precipitous rate, vastly entertained, Rachel informed a bowl of chrysanthemums that while this household had never been of an exemplary nature, it had of late deteriorated into total insanity. She climbed the stairs, marvelling at the progression of events, gleefully anticipating sharing them with Tristram and Charity. But she hastened her steps when she heard sobs coming from Lisette’s bedchamber. Entering, she found her sister-in-law kneeling on the carpet, weeping over three letters spread before her. “Oh, my dear!” Rachel cried, running to kneel with her. “Whatever is it?”

  “They are … the same!” sobbed Lisette, a glory shining through her tears. “Oh, Rachel … all this time, I thought him so … so unromantic. All this time I thought that wicked Garvey had writ my first poem! How I—I longed for Justin to speak such beautiful words! How I yearned over them … never dreaming my … my own beloved husband— Oh, Rachel!” And clasped in her sister-in-law’s arms, she dissolved into floods of happy tears.

  * * *

  Well before the appointed time, Lisette was seated in the drawing room, her hands clasped in her lap, her face pale with anticipation. She wore a new gown of pale orange velvet, the low square-cut neck edged with tiny scallops, the skirt falling in a slim, straight line from beneath the bodice, and the puff sleeves also edged with the embroidered scalloping. An orange velvet ribbon was bound through her glossy dark hair, and her only jewellery was the diamond pendant that had been joyously reclaimed (luckily intact) and reverently replaced about her throat. She was quite alone, for Rachel, overcome with wonder that her loved but prosaic brother should have hidden such a flair for the art of flirtation, had vowed she’d not stay like a marplot in a house where a man obviously meant to court his own wife. She had summoned up her carriage and her maids and been swept away, fairly beside herself with eagerness to share all this deliciousness with her husband.

  The clock on the mantel suddenly chimed the hour. Lisette jumped. Strand had said three o’clock. Oh, how she longed to see him! How did he intend to “pursue and woo” her? Had he stayed away so as to make plans for—

  Fisher swung the door open. “Mr. Justin Strand,” he announced, his face commendably enigmatic.

  Lisette’s heart was pounding as though it must break through her ribs. She could not know how brightly her eyes shone, how charming was the blush on her smooth cheeks, how becomingly the orange gown flattered her slender loveliness. Strand, having schooled himself to walk steadily, checked on the threshold. He was elegant in a coat of blue superfine and pearl grey unmentionables. A sapphire gleamed amid the folds of his cravat, and if that cravat was somewhat less than the perfection Green had created, by reason of a nervous finger having been run around beneath his collar several times on the way here, Lisette saw only the worship in the deep blue eyes of the man she loved. She was not conscious of having stood, but suddenly Strand was clasping both her hands. Neither spoke for a moment, each drinking in the adored face opposite. Leaning to him, lips parted for his kiss, Lisette was a little taken aback when he bowed, and instead kissed her fingertips.

  “How very kind in you to receive me, ma’am,” he said primly. And thought, This time I shall do the thing properly! This time, by God, I will woo her with such poise she will fairly fall into my arms! Waiting until she had sat down, he seated himself in a nearby chair, his eyes straying to the pendant that sparkled on her bosom.

  Her fingers lifted to touch the gem. “Justin, it is so beautiful. Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

  “I am most pleased it—er—pleases you.” He bit his lip in irritation. How clumsy. And he must be smooth and assured. But she looked so unspeakably lovely.… He knew he was staring, and blurted, “Have you been well? Er—not lonely, I hope?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said with a demure smile, “I have been a little lonely. My dear husband, you see … was away.”

  Strand’s grip tightened on the arm of his chair. “He had much to do. What I mean is, if you’re going to talk of your husband when you receive a caller, ma’am, I must protest.”

  His eyes danced. Meeting them, Lisette said softly, “There is no one else I had rather speak of.”

  Again, one thin finger was passed nervously about Strand’s collar. He sprang up and took a turn about the room. Lisette smiled to note that quick imperative stride, and thought, How very dear he is … But he was obviously set on wooing her, and she must not spoil his plans. And so she said, “Justin…”

  He turned to her and corrected with a twinkle, “Mr. Strand.”

  “I did not know, Mr. Strand,” she said m
eekly, “that my own husband writ those magnificent verses for me.”

  He marched up to frown into her face, his eyes a blue blaze. “Well, who in the devil,” he demanded, quite forgetting his romantic mission, “did you think wrote them?”

  “Garvey,” she confessed.

  “Garvey!” He sat beside her. “The deuce! Why should you suspect so revolting a thing?”

  “Because I did not recognize your hand, my dear one. You had only ever written me one note, and that was when you were taken ill on the night we were wed. Your writing was atrocious, and I thought it your usual hand. I could only think the poem came from Garvey, and when I mentioned it, he did not deny it.”

  “That damnable rogue,” he murmured and, mesmerized by her beauty, traced the curve of her dewy cheek with one finger.

  “Yes,” she sighed, swaying towards him, her voice a caress. “Oh, Justin, your poem was so beautiful. If you did but know how I wept over it, believing it to have come from the—wrong gentleman.”

  He stammered eagerly, “Do you mean it? I’m—I’m so wretched when it comes to—to putting my feelings— Well, I never can seem to say—”

  “No. You do not say, dearest. Rather, you do. All the sweet, dear—” And she drew back, startled, as Strand gasped, “By George!” and sprang up, rushing to open the window that looked onto the rose garden. He glanced out, coughed twice, then proceeded to pour a glass of ratafia and carry it to his bewildered lady.

  Lisette accepted the glass, wondering why he did not look at her, but instead scowled at the window.

  The sweet notes of a violin arose in the strains of a gypsy love song, soon joined by mandolins and a soft chinking of castanets. Amused and delighted, she thought, In the middle of the afternoon? but said, “Oh, how lovely!”

  Strand sat beside her, took the hand she held out and murmured an adoring, “Beloved, will you—”

  His words were drowned as the musicians were augmented by a tenor who apparently deemed it vital he should be heard in Brighton. Strand’s lips tightened, but persisting, he dropped to one knee beside his love. “Lisette,” he said, “you know—”

  She cupped a hand about her ear. “What?”

  “Lisette!” he roared.

  “Yes, dear,” she answered, a dimple peeping as the serenade increased in volume.

  Strand whipped around to glare at the window and knocked over the glass of wine Lisette had just set down. “Blast and damnation!” swore the ardent lover.

  Lisette clapped one hand over her twitching lips, but her mirthful eyes betrayed her.

  Strand groaned and clutched his fair locks in frustration. “Dammit all! Why don’t they stop?”

  Instead, a new note was added to the uproar: The deep, fierce barks of a large dog preparing to protect his property. The tenor’s stentorian tones became a shriek. Violin and mandolin were abruptly replaced by voices raised in alarm. Whether from determination or because of the speed of their departure, the castanets could be heard until they, the shouts and the barking faded into the distance.

  Strand slanted a woebegone glance at his lady.

  Lisette struggled but, overcome, leaned back, dissolving into helpless laughter.

  “Wretched girl!” he expostulated. “And that abominable hound! No, how can you laugh so? You must know I shall have to pay those pseudo-serenaders three times the exorbitant price they demanded for that caterwauling, to say nothing of possible doctor bills!” But he was not proof against the ridiculous and, sitting at his wife’s feet, succumbed and laughed with her until they both were gasping for breath.

  A tambourine sounded outside.

  “Oh, no!” moaned Strand.

  Brutus jumped in through the window, the considerably tattered instrument between his jaws. “Idiotic creature!” his master declared, standing. Brutus shook his prize enthusiastically. Astonished by the resultant clamour, he hurriedly dropped it, leapt back, then barked fiercely at it.

  Strand took up the tambourine, tossed it into the garden, and ruthlessly closed the window on the pursuing dog. Returning to aid Lisette to her feet, he sighed, “You see how it is? I cannot even attempt to be the romantical type. Everything goes wrong.”

  “Well,” she said helpfully, “how had you meant it to go?”

  “Why, I would arrive, to find you awaiting me with maidenly blushes and bated breath.”

  She nodded. “You did.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it, and still holding it, stepped closer. “And after some small talk, I would give the signal to the musicians (if you could call ’em that!) and they would play soft, sweet love songs, whilst I dropped to my knees and—er—did the pretty.”

  Her lashes were lowered at this rather clumsy summation. “And what,” she murmured, “would you have said—had everything gone properly?”

  He sighed. “All the beautiful and expressive things Leith says to—” He broke off, biting his lip and furious for having mentioned his rival. “God!” he gritted. “What a gudgeon I am!”

  “Yes,” confirmed Lisette, smiling up at him, her eyes very tender. “A gudgeon indeed to speak such fustian, sir! What other wife has had more beautiful words said to her than you have written to me? What other husband would spend so many patient, caring hours with a troubled boy, as you did with Norman; or be kind to an awkward girl and help her move more graciously into young womanhood, as you did with Judith? No!” She placed soft fingers over his lips as he bent worshipfully towards her. “Let me finish, if you please. I think I know what you have heard, and so I will admit to you that as a young girl I built an altar in my heart to manliness and gallantry. I put a splendid soldier on a pedestal, endowed him with godlike qualities, and childishly fancied myself in love with my impossible creation. Until I grew up and was besieged by a fierce, brusque, demanding, and—altogether adorable gentleman. And then…” Her lashes swept down at last, concealing the glow in her great eyes, and a rosy blush swept up from her throat to warm her cheeks. “Then—I really fell in love,” she finished shyly. “Totally, and for all time, with my own—”

  Strand’s control broke. He pulled her into an embrace that was fierce indeed. Lisette was kissed as he had never kissed her before, so that she was dizzied and exhilarated and trembling when he suddenly released her and stepped back. Holding her at arm’s length, he scanned her face intensely. “Are you sure, my dearest beloved? Are you perfectly sure you can endure me? I swear I will be as good a husband as I know how.”

  “And you will never again doubt me or call out any man you suspect of admiring me?”

  “Never!”

  Caressing his still gaunt cheek, she said tenderly, “And you will try to be more restrained in your activities and not rush about wearing yourself to a shade even when you are not entirely well?”

  “I will be a veritable sloth!”

  “And should we…” she looked away, blushing, “should we be blessed with children, you will be patient with them and not fly into the boughs do they not achieve as much, or as rapidly, as you would have them do?”

  The thought of her giving him children brought a dazed look to his eyes. Pulling her close once more, he breathed, “My dear blessing … I vow I will do none of those things.”

  She laughed merrily. “Oh, what a Canterbury tale! You will do them all, and I shall constantly have to watch over and guard you from yourself. And—oh, my very dear, how I shall love that precious task!”

  There was nothing for it, of course, but to kiss her again. Having done which, he said briskly, “Hurry and get your cloak. I am taking you on your long-delayed honeymoon! Never argue, wife. Denise knows exactly where we go and has already packed for you. Hurry now!”

  Her eyes full of stars, Lisette answered, “Yes, Mr. Strand.”

  Chapter 20

  The afternoon was not particularly pleasant, for the sky was neither blue nor sunlit, the air held a blur of mist and was quite chill. On the box, Mr. Best grunted to the guard, “At least it bean’t raining.” And the gu
ard, jerking a thumb at the carriage, grinned, “Much they’d notice!”

  He was quite correct. Had it been blowing a blizzard, Lisette would have thought it a golden day, and Justin, his love fast cradled in his arms, was in a joyous daze of contentment. He turned her chin with one gentle finger and bent to kiss her yet again, and snuggling her head against his chest, Lisette thought that never had she dreamt to be so blissfully in love.

  They had been travelling for some time before she awoke to the fact that she had paid no heed to their route. “Justin,” she asked, “where are we going?”

  He kissed her ear, making her shiver deliciously. “Wait and see.”

  She nestled closer. They came to the river and drove along beside it for a long way, the birds swooping and calling over the water, and an occasional gleam of late sunlight drawing sparkles from the ripples. After some while, the river curved to reveal a fair prospect where sweeping meadowland gave way to neatly scythed lawns. Far off, a great old house sprawled, smoke curling from several chimneys, the latticed windows gleaming in the reddening glow of sunset, the whitewashed walls and half-timbering warm and immaculate. Woodland hid the sight, but Lisette sat straighter. “Did you see that lovely old place? It reminded me so of Silverings.”

  “Foolish little love.” Strand smiled. “It was Silverings.”

  “What? But it cannot be! How on earth—”

  He chuckled and would only say again, “Wait and see!”

  Lisette leaned to the window in a fever of impatience, and they came at last to a familiar curve in the drive, lodge gates, and a small cottage where the gardener and his wife hurried out to wave a welcome.

  “It is!” cried Lisette, clapping her hands like a little girl. “Oh, it is!”

  The carriage swept along through the park, and the house again came into view. Scanning it eagerly, Lisette said, “Oh, how beautiful it is! Is this where we spend our honeymoon, dearest?”

  “No, my blessing. I only wanted to show it off a little, on our way.”

  She leaned back in his embrace and, her eyes fixed on the rebuilt structure, murmured, “How wonderful that you could get it all finished so quickly. You must have had lots of people working.”