Lissa

by Mira Stables

“My knowledge, Madame, was the merest supposition, until you so obligingly confirmed it,” said the Marquis, grim-faced. “I could think of no other explanation that fitted the facts.”

  “But what are the facts?” demanded Jervase.

  The Marquis’s grim visage relaxed. Almost, he smiled. “Told you I knew that house, boy. Found it right away. There’s a sketch of that very frontage in the guide book. Kentsmere House. That’s where I’ve been, this past sennight, and heard a queer garbled tale from every gossip in the place. Even the children have it by heart, though it’s fifteen years old. So then I went to the parsonage to get the truth. And when I showed the old fellow the painting—” he set the Comtesse’s portrait of Lissa on the mantel shelf—“he said at once that it was a likeness of the Lady Angela in her girlhood. His version of the story was more restrained than the others I had heard, but shocking enough for all that.”

  He turned to Lissa, who was listening, white-faced, stealing occasional glances at the Comtesse, who, since the Marquis’s arrival, had never once glanced her way. “Come here, child,” he said gently.

  She went to him slowly. He took her face between his hands and went on, “You have been an orphan since you were three years old. Your parents died together when the yacht in which they were crossing from France was lost with all hands. You were left to the guardianship of your aunt—Madame la Comtesse, here—” and the harsh note was back in his voice as the fierce old eyes turned again to the Comtesse. “Of what followed immediately I have no knowledge, save that within the year the child, Alicia Kentsmere was lost. The village had several versions; stolen by gypsies—drowned in the river that fed the mere—these were the most credible. At about the same time the child, Lizzie Wayburn, answering in every particular to the description of the missing Alicia Kentsmere, was brought to Stapleford by Mr. Jonathan Whitehead. No doubt the Comtesse could fill in the details for us.”

  The Comtesse glanced at Mr. Whitehead and nodded. “You may read that part of my statement which describes these events,” she said quietly. “But first I would have you understand that Mr. Jonathan Whitehead was no party to the fraud. He thought the child was mine—an indiscretion that I would fain hide before I sailed for France—and marriage.”

  The lawyer sighed his relief and unfolded the document that he had all this time been holding. He turned over a page or two and then read on.

  “From the time of my sister’s marriage I had lived alone at Storey Court. Upon her death I did not change my domicile but I formed the habit of driving over to Kentsmere House several times a week to ensure that all was well with my niece. On this occasion I entered the grounds by the South Lodge which had stood empty for some months, so that no one knew of my presence. I had driven only a little way when I caught sight of the child herself playing, apparently unattended, on the river bank. That is very dangerous, I thought. Alicia saw me and came scampering up to the gig, bubbling with laughter because ‘Nurse had fallen asleep.’ I went over to the woman to rebuke her for her carelessness, and saw at a glance that she was dead. It was later stated at the coroner’s enquiry that she had died of an apoplexy. I did not want the child to be frightened so I suggested that she should come with me for a turn about the grounds. It was after I had lifted her into the gig that the sudden temptation came. If I could carry her off, unseen as I had come, then her heritage would pass to me—and I could marry Gilles. If I chanced to be seen, then no harm was done. My actions could be easily explained.”

  Mr. Whitehead turned the page. The Marquis said, “So simply done. And in the confusion that arose when the nurse’s body was discovered, it was some time before the child was missed. Everyone assumed that she was in the care of some other member of the household. But it defeats the imagination. That a woman, gently bred and close kin to that pathetic scrap, should so succumb to the lure of gold.”

  The Comtesse’s tragic eyes looked him over dispassionately. There was a touch of disdain in the curl of her lip. “You would not understand,” she said. “The child will—even if she cannot bring herself to forgive. She loves your grandson as I loved Gilles. Do you think I wanted her fortune for its own sake? I wanted only to be Gilles’s wife. I, a Protestant, and near penniless—he, scion of one of France’s oldest Catholic families. And poor. Desperately poor. His parents would not hear of marriage between us. And in France it is the parents who decide.”

  She fell silent a moment, thinking of what was past. “I paid,” she went on wearily. “Do not think that I escaped unpunished. Gilles never knew of my crime, but always in my heart there was the guilt, the remorse. My lord Marquis deems me a monster of iniquity. But I had been fond of the child—and I dare not even provide for her as befitted one of gentle birth. Had she been placed with people of quality there must have been more enquiry into her antecedents—as indeed happened. And then I, too, had a child. A son, tawny haired, like Alicia. He died when he was four—at much the same age that—” She pressed a clenched fist against quivering lips, but went on almost immediately, “I knew then that full payment would be exacted, but still I would do nothing that might harm Gilles. And then he, too, was taken from me—and so terribly.” She shivered. “Well—it is done now. I have made what amends I can. I strove to escape the final punishment—that I should bring dishonour on the name I bear—Gilles’s beloved name. But it was not permitted. Even I—” she rounded on the Marquis—“steeped in infamy as you think me, would not rob these children of their chance of happiness. So it is all set down—and you may do with me as you will.” She raised one hand slightly, indicating the document in Mr. Whitehead’s grasp, then folded both in her lap, her face closed, impassive, awaiting their judgement.

  The Marquis cleared his throat in embarrassment. Damn the woman! Guilty as hell—and yet she touched even him to pity. Jervase’s eyes were soft with it. Though he grieved for Lissa’s lost girlhood, yet it would be his delight to make up for the stolen years. And dimly he perceived how the Comtesse’s desperate action had started the chain of events that had brought them to the present moment. She had sent Lissa to Stapleford. Today she had given Lissa to him as surely as though she had given her in marriage.

  There came a soft rush of muslin skirts and Lissa was kneeling beside the Comtesse’s chair, her warm young hands clasped over the fragile cold ones.

  “They shall not, Madame,” she said simply. “They shall not dishonour his name. I will not permit it. It is for me to say. And I do, indeed, understand. Tempted as you were I might well have yielded as you did, if it had been for my lord. As it stands now you have given me back my name and the right to marry where I love.”

  She rose, a glory of happiness in her face as she held out both hands to Jervase, though still in voice and bearing was the note of determination, gentle but inflexible. “My lord, if it is still your wish, I may come to you with an honourable name and a love that matches yours. Will you choose to take me, as I am, or will you rather choose to punish a sin that has been more than atoned?”

  It was only a stride for Jervase to reach her. He dropped on one knee and kissed her hand. “My lady,” he said softly, “your honour is mine. As you will soon bear my name, so I will pay due tribute to yours. No slur, however remote, shall fall upon it. What has passed within this room shall be forgotten.”

  He swung to his feet, eyes challenging his grandfather to argument. Lissa’s hand still clasped in his.

  “Very sensible, my boy, very sensible,” said the Marquis gruffly. “Bygones—eh?”

  Mr. Whitehead heaved a great sigh of relief and bent over the Comtesse, offering his arm to help her to her feet and support her from the room. The Marquis crossed swiftly to open the door for her and, as she passed, dropped one hand on her shoulder in a pressure that left blue finger-bruises for nigh on a week. Lissa was held close in his lordship’s arms. He said, “A month, my child. No more. I have waited too long already. Besides if we wait longer the holiday will be at an end—and you must have those Miller brats for your brides-m
aidens. It was they, after all, who restored my little lost love to my keeping.”

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