Instinctively drawing a breath at the end of this scrambled sentence, Lisette asked, "Why? Do you not like the Hall? If you prefer, we can go into Town. Or should you like to journey to Berkshire, perhaps? My sisters-in-law are there, and I have been intending to visit them for some time."
"Please do not suppose me ungrateful of your hospitality for indeed I am and I love the country save only that—" Amanda hesitated and said shyly, "You are trying not to laugh so I have said something silly but we have become such special friends I need not mind only Jeremy is also your friend."
Both touched and amused, Lisette said teasingly, "And you fear I may nurse a tendre for him?"
Amanda burst into a peal of laughter. "Of course not for how should you when you have such a wonderful marriage, it is that I fear he may come here he will not do you think?"
Lisette concentrated on straightening her wedding band and said that she was sure they would have plenty of warning did his lordship decide to do so. "Meantime," she went on, able to meet Amanda's trusting eyes again, "I promise you shall not be bored, for I have so many invitations, and more callers than you could believe. I am become slightly—er—notorious, you see. We shall have a lovely time, Mandy."
And they did. After the few sunny days, the weather became inclement again but this deterred few hostesses, only a proposed boat party having to be cancelled. Since it was redesigned into a masquerade requiring that all guests wear nautical costume, it became, instead of a failure, one of the hits of the summer. The hostess, Lady Salia Moulton, decorated her charming old house to suggest the interior of a packet and drew a large and enthusiastic crush of guests. Lisette and Amanda were escorted to this party by Jocelyn Vaughan, who had become a frequent visitor to Strand Hall and was always an attentive and charming companion. It was but one of many social events that filled their days, and since they each were blessed with a rich sense of humour and in their various ways suffered the pangs of romantic afflictions, their friendship deepened and they dealt so well together that time passed swiftly. One thing marred this period for Lisette: the fact of her husband's continued absence. When she had blithely told Amanda he would be gone for a week or more, she had uttered the remark more as a safeguard against that remote possibility than from a belief he would really stay away. She had to struggle to keep from animadverting on the likelihood that he was with his Fair Paphian and, being convinced that they would see him over the weekend, had to exercise considerable restraint not to betray her vexation when they did not.
On Sunday afternoon they attended a church bazaar and later dined with the Vicar and his family, spending a delightful evening at the Vicarage. Monday was their first comparatively quiet day, and after luncheon they sat together in the lounge, Lisette writing to Timothy and Amanda struggling with some beading on a reticule. That this task was not proceeding satisfactorily eventually penetrated Lisette's absorption, and she glanced up to see her friend squinting at the finely set stitches, her little face contorted into an expression of frowning concentration. At once offering the services of her dresser, Lisette was told that Miss Wallace had already been so good as to volunteer to repair the sadly torn lace flounce of the gown Amanda had worn to the nautical masquerade party. "Besides," Amanda remarked, "I really love to work my designs only I sewed this one so well I simply cannot see the stitches and I do want to replace the beads with those pretty French ones we bought at the bazaar yesterday.''
Lisette's attempt to help was as ineffectual. Amanda was a fine needlewoman, and her stitches were practically invisible. "If only we had a magnifying lens," Lisette murmured, blinking. "Oh, I have it! Strand's quizzing glass!" She stood, waving away Amanda's protests that she not put herself to so much bother. "I've got to go upstairs at all events, for my mama particularly desired me to send Timothy the direction of a friend of hers in Paris, and I cannot recall it. I'll see if I can find the glass while I am up there."
She found the Parisian's direction neatly inscribed in her address book, but did not fare so well in her husband's bedchamber. Strand was not the type to affect such things as fobs and seals, and possessed but one quizzing glass that was brought forth only occasionally. Lisette's hurried scan through his chest of drawers unearthed such unlikely objects as a collar obviously purchased for Brutus, a solitary spur and several whip thongs, a small brass-mounted pistol, and an old map of East Anglia—but no quizzing glass. The dressing room was equally unproductive, and Lisette was about to admit failure when her eyes fell upon the small table beside Strand's bed. There was one slim drawer, but since Green was either very indulgent of his master or of an equally haphazard nature, it was possible the missing glass might be there. Lisette opened the drawer carefully. She moved aside a folded letter inscribed in the writing she had come to know as Rachel's, but could see no sign of anything resembling the quizzing glass. Preparing to close the drawer, she paused. A dainty handkerchief, trimmed with lace, had been beneath Rachel's letter; a lady's handkerchief, surely? Her hand trembling, she took up the neatly folded square and uttered a shocked gasp. The lace was unmistakable—it was the handkerchief grandmama had fashioned for her. But why on earth was it here in Strand's drawer? Something dark showed through the fine cambric. Unfolding it, her heart began to thunder. A small blue feather had been carefully placed there; a feather from a bonnet that had found particular favour with her husband. He had once casually remarked, in fact, that she had been wearing that same bonnet when first he had seen her.
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 St
rand 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 to 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 tremulousl
y. "And never fear, dearest, does you 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.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption Page 26