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 a 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 good-hearted 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 te
lltale 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!"
Mystified, Strand echoed, "Not quite—what? Oh, d'you mean because he stutters? Well, that buys him no special privilege."
"You know perfectly well what I mean. Poor Lord Bolster's mental impairment is—" She stopped, frowning her displeasure as her husband succumbed to a shout of laughter. "Well! Really!" she said with considerable indignation.
Strand was so hilarious that Dasher woke up and turned to survey her rider with drowsy curiosity. "Oh," moaned Strand, wiping tears from his eyes. "How wretched of you to—to tease me so! And I properly believed you!"
Lisette blinked. "Tease you? But—isn't Lord Bolster—deranged?"
"Oh, my God!" And he was off again, his mirth so infectious that a slow answering smile softened her irate expression. "Is that," he sighed at length, "why you were so generous as to take Brutus for him? Oh, my poor wife! You have been properly hoaxed. Whoever told you so ridiculous a tale? Jeremy's blue-devilled just now because of his romantic muddle, but I do assure you he has every one of his wits intact.''
"But—but I heard Badajoz had left him… er—"
At this, the laughter vanished from his eyes. "Bolster was badly wounded and buried under a pile of the dead. He was found barely alive and in deep shock. But there is nothing wrong with him mentally. Only try to get the best of him in any transaction! I wish you may succeed, in which case you will be the first one to do so! Why anyone would tell you such a rasper I cannot think. Everyone likes old Jerry!"
"Well!" she proclaimed wrathfully. "I think it positively disgraceful! Who would say such a thing if it were not true unless…" She paused. James Garvey had said it, she was sure. And he had not been funning, which must only mean that James had really believed it. He was certainly not the man to—
They came over a rolling hill, and she gave a little cry of admiration. "Oh, look! Is it not beautiful?"
Below, a river wound sparkling towards the sea, its course forming a wide loop about the ruins of a once noble house set amid lush lawns that sloped down to the riverbank. The grounds were well kept up, for flowers were everywhere and there were many fine old trees dotted about the spacious park. Whoever had dwelt here must have maintained a boat, for there was a small dock, just now in sad disrepair.
Watching her expressive face, Strand murmured, "Pretty, isn't it? But it burnt, as you can see."
She scanned the rambling old structure appreciatively. "Not all of it—see, at the western end the roof is still intact. And the owners have kept up the place; they must love it. What a tragedy."
He shrugged indifferently. "Would you care to go down?"
How insensitive he was, she thought, and asked, "Does someone live there? Do you think they would mind?"
"I suspect they'd be delighted that anyone was interested."
He led the way down the gentle slope and along a winding drivepath which was also well kept up and marked by the wheels of a carriage. The closer they came to the old house, the more Lisette was charmed. It must at one time have been quite large; a rambling half-timbered Tudor. Strand dismounted, tied Dasher— rather unnecessarily—to the charred remnants of a window frame, and turned to aid Lisette from the saddle. He shouted a "Hello!" to the livable end of the house, but there was no sign of life. They wandered through the burnt-out shell, crossing various thresholds until they entered what must have been a spacious chamber.
"What a lovely prospect they must have had," said Lisette, looking to the river. "Do you think this was the drawing room?"
"Main dining room," he murmured.
"Hmmnnn, then over here would—" She paused, noticing the soft dancing light that flickered all about them.
"The sun on the water," he explained. "It's a peculiarity of this particular spot, and is how the estate got its name."
"Silverings!" She turned to him in surprise. "Odious man! This is your house!"
"Our house," he corrected smilingly. "I'm glad you like the old place."
"Like it! I think it pure delight! But what a terrible loss it must have been."
"Yes. To my sisters and me. My father never cared for the house and would not have it rebuilt even when he could afford it.
I've restored the grounds, at least." A nostalgic light came into his eyes. "We had some happy times here when I was a boy."
"I can well imagine. It has such a friendly, welcoming air, even now. May I see the other part?"
"Of course." Pleased by her interest, he led her to a half-open Dutch door at the side of the undamaged structure, peered inside, and called, "Mrs. Ogden? Is anyone here?" There being no response, he reached over to unlatch the lower portion of the door and stood aside, explaining as Lisette entered, "The gardener and his wife live in a cottage on the estate, and she comes every day to put the house in order. She may have gone to the village."
The room they entered was a good size, the walls whitewashed and the floors of random-width planks, dark and glowing with the patina of the years. An old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked companionably in one corner, and a fine carpet was spread before the wide hearth. Latticed windows were deep-set in thick walls, the seats below piled with thick, brightly coloured cushions. And through those windows came the pleasant light from the river, to dance over the large marine oil painting
that hung above the mantel, and brighten the blooms of a bowl of spring flowers which graced a side table. The furnishings had clean lines and were luxurious without being ornate, and there were many books in the several bookcases placed against the west wall.
Entranced, Lisette wandered about, exclaiming over this or that, while Strand watched her. "You really are pleased with Silverings," he observed at last.
She swung to him, eyes alight. "Oh, yes. It reminds me of the farm we once owned. It was a funny old place, but we passed such wonderful summers there. May I see the rest?"
He assented readily and took her through a small dining room and up what had apparently been the back stairs, to a pair of bedrooms, in one of which Lisette's eyes were at once drawn to a small bottle of scent on a dressing table.
"This area originally constituted the butler's quarters," Strand explained with a touch of pride. "And the room we first came into downstairs was used to be the servants' hall."
Forcing her eyes from that betraying little bottle, Lisette said, "Oh. Well, you have restored it very nicely."
He glanced at her, surprised by the changed tone and more surprised by the sudden flush that warmed her cheeks. "Thank you. If you really like it, I thought perhaps… well, we could—all—"
"Come down here?" she said eagerly. "Oh, I should love it! How nice to wake up in the mornings and look out at the river. So much more agreeable than—" She bit her lip, embarrassed.
"What's this?" He grinned. "Are you quite disenchanted with the Hall?"
"Oh, no! It is—er—very impressive. But—I prefer this."
He gave an exclamation of delight. "How famous! I was afraid you'd prefer our more dignified residence. For myself, I never could abide the place. And Tristram tells me that when first he saw it, he's sure he must have turned pale!"
Amused, she agreed, "Leith is not the type to be impressed by…"
"Pretension?" he prompted. "Never hesitate for my sake." He glanced to the window. "However, in view of my intrepid Dasher, if we're to be home by dusk I think we should be starting now, ma'am."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption Page 15