Strand stood staring after the departing carriage for quite some time. Brutus returned from having assisted the horses to negotiate the drivepath and went panting in search of his bone. He found it, made his ponderous way up the steps, and paused for a minute or two beside the quiet man, but Strand did not address him so he went on about his business, carrying the bone into the house for burial. Van Lindsay’s words seemed to roar in Strand’s ears: “Lisette would say nothing … she’s the soul of loyalty…” His clenched fists tightened until the nails drove into the flesh. It had been Beatrice, all the time! Beatrice must have pried a few confidences from Charity and then flitted about, spreading her mischief. He could have groaned aloud, so searing was his remorse. He had captured the loveliest girl in England for his reluctant bride; he had even begun to fancy she no longer quite despised him. And then, tricked by that bastard Garvey, he’d allowed hurt pride to rule him, to the extent that—His head bowed under the weight of guilt. He’d spanked that glorious girl for no reason! Dear God, how could he have been so stupid? So lacking in faith? Lisette had been so good as to conceal the truth about poor naïve little Charity, and in return he had beaten her. And cherishing his sense of ill usage, had since made no slightest effort to apologize—to try to heal the breach between them. The memory of several slights he had dealt her returned to lash him until they were magnified out of all proportion. How she must loathe him. How she must despise the man who had so selfishly claimed her, and then mistrusted and maltreated her like some feudal savage.
A less sensitive man might have run into the house, fallen to his knees before his love and, confessing his contrition, begun to win his way into her affections. Despite his bride’s impression of him, however, Strand was an extremely sensitive individual, too sensitive to be easily able to express his deepest feelings. Therefore, he instead wandered down the steps and across the lawns, hands deep-thrust in pockets, and frowning gaze on the ground before him. There was, he knew, only one reason that she had not left him: she considered herself to have made a bargain and, no matter how repulsive it might be to her, she was too honourable to fail to live up to it. The thought made him writhe, but the prospect of giving her up, of stepping out of her life and permitting her to seek a Bill of Divorcement was even more harrowing. It would be an example of perfect love, and she would have a chance to find happiness with someone she could really care for.… He gritted his teeth and knew he could not do it! Not yet, at all events. Such unselfishness was surely more of angels than of mortal men, and Justin Strand was very mortal.
The sun sank lower in the sky, the golden light of afternoon began to warm into a roseate sunset, and still Strand wandered blindly, striving to reach a decision. He concluded at last that his best course would be to keep his promise to Norman and finish the renovating of the boat. In his heart of hearts he knew that his decision was a craven one. It would be simple enough to engage a shipwright to effect the repairs. The truth was that he shrank from facing the accusation in the lovely eyes of the girl he had so wronged. He argued defiantly that he had given Norman his word and that he alone was responsible for seeing that the work was properly completed. And perversely, hoped that while he was away and his presence not a constant reminder of his brutality, Lisette might begin to forget. She might even welcome him with a kindlier attitude. But if he stayed away too long, if he came back to find the great house bereft of her gracious presence, the halls lacking the sound of that quick light step and rippling little laugh, the air not holding the haunting perfume that was so uniquely Lisette … it did not bear thinking of! And it would not happen, by God! He’d tell Connaught to send the four new men down to help, and it should all be done in jig time. He would come home then, and woo his bride with every ounce of ardour he possessed. He would make himself utter the phrases that burned in his soul but froze on his tongue.
He squared his shoulders and, looking up, was startled to discover that he had been wandering for hours, and shadows were lengthening across the meadows beyond the Home Wood. Turning about, he strode briskly towards Strand Hall.
* * *
With Strand busied at Silverings, Lisette decided that this would be the perfect time to take inventory of all the household linens and chinaware, both of which items she felt needed replenishing. This domestic task was deferred before it was properly begun, however, when Amanda Hersh arrived with her abigail and so many bandboxes and portmanteaux that it was clear she intended to make a long stay. Lisette was delighted to have such pleasant company and touched when she learned that Strand had despatched his groom to London armed with a request that if at all possible, Miss Hersh accept an invitaion to join Lisette in Sussex. Peering at her hostess narrowly, Amanda exclaimed, “Good heavens you did not know!”
“No. And could scarce be more pleased!” Thinking to detect a trace of apprehension in the sweet face, she added, “Unless—my husband did not cause you to feel obliged to come?”
“Good gracious, no! Strand was most polite as he always is with me though I can readily see he must be a great trial to you for he is not the most robust of men and to be working outside in every weather must worry you even if you are very brave and I wish I was but I was quite afraid to come and wonder that I did at all.”
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 he 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 Strand 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 tremulously. “And never fear, dearest, does your 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.
“There,” said Lisette, settling back against the squabs. “It is only nine o’clock and we are safely on the road. And there is not a drop of rain falling.”
“No, madame,” Denise agreed glumly. And added under her breath, “Yet…”
She was right. By the time they reached Horsham a light drizzle had begun to fall. They passed Chiddingfold in a steady rain and, while eating luncheon in a private parlour of the Pease Porridge inn at Farnham, Lisette was cowed by a blinding flash and an earth-shaking bark of thunder. She tried to appear nonchalant when the coachman scratched on the door to suggest respectfully that so soon as the storm had “blowed itself out a mite” they should return to Strand Hall. “You must resign yourself to the fact that I have no intention of doing so,” she said coolly. “When the rain eases, we will continue to Berkshire.” She ignored the small wail from Denise and became engrossed in a novel she had brought with her, hoping her trembling would not be too noticeable as thunder clamoured overhead.
It was half-past one o’clock before the storm lifted to the point that they dare resume their journey and, although preserving an air of assured calm, Lisette was inwardly shaken to hear an incoming traveller remark to the host that it had thundered like the Waterloo cannon when his coach had passed through Horsham. With a sudden pang of anxiety, Lisette turned to the gentleman’s stout wife and said, “Your pardon, ma’am. Are you of the opinion the bad weather is widespread? Could it, do you suppose, have extended throughout Sussex?”
“I’m afraid it very well might have, ma’am,” replied the lady. “What do you say, Mr. Gresham?”
Her spouse echoed her fears, pointing out that he’d encountered a friend in Horsham who had driven up from the coast and experienced heavy weather all the way. “Were I you, madam”—he nodded to Lisette—“I would terminate my journey so soon as is possible. Certainly before the light fails. Looks as if we’re in for a bad night!”
Lisette thanked him, and hurried out to the coach, Denise moaning behind her. Settling into her seat, Lisette tried not to worry, but Strand was so determined to finish that wretched boat. It would be just like him to pay no heed to the weather, and press on! But she was being silly; likely he was not outside at all, for the Silvering Sails might still be in the barn. With a lift of her chin, she thought it very possible that his occupation had little to do with either boats or weather!
The rain lightened and then ceased, but their progress was slowed by the condition of the roads that was not good at best and had now deteriorated to a degree that caused the coachman to curse fluently, if softly, as he attempted to guide his team through a sea of mud. The surface improved when they approached Aldershot, but Denise’s timid plea that they overnight at that old city was gently but firmly refused. An odd unease was driving Lisette, and she had no intention of being balked in her desire to reach Cloudhills that day. She was not a foolish girl, however, and told the coachman that they would not proceed if it was unsafe to do so. “By all means, make enquiries as to what conditions lie ahead of us.”
The enquiries resulted in an assurance that the roads were perfectly passable as far as Basingstoke, at least, where there were several fine posting houses in the event the storm should roll back again. They reached Basingstoke at half-past four, and again stopped. Even as they pulled into the yard of a busy inn, the Oxford to London stage arrived with a great trumpeting of the guard’s yard of tin, a scrambling of ostlers, thunder and splashing of sixteen muddy hooves, snorting and blowing of wet horses, shouts of passengers, and bellowed commands of the driver. Lisette’s coachman clambered down from his perch and, waiting his opportunity, slipped a florin into the stagecoach driver’s ready palm and was graciously informed that the Newbury Road was passable so there wasn’t no cause for to suppose as the road to Aldermaston wouldn’t be likewise. This piece of optimism was unhappily ill-founded. By six o’clock they not only were engulfed in a veritable downpour, but the road had all but disappeared beneath the mud so that with every lurch of the carriage, Lisette expected them to overturn and land in a ditch. Denise began to sob with terror. Calming her as best she might, Lisette watched the skies darken, her heart leaping when a distant rumble of thunder announced the return of the storm. She had seldom been more relieved than when the coachman opened the trap to shout that they were now on Lord Leith’s preserves, and the gatehouse just ahead.
Soon the carriage slowed and then stopped. An individual crouched under a piece of dripping sacking hove into view and waved urgently at Lisette. Denise let down the window, admitting a rush of colder air and a flurry of raindrops. Pulling her hood closer, Lisette leaned to the window.
“Sorry I be to tell ye, ma’am,” called the lodgekeeper hoarsely, “but the great house do be closed. The family is away just now, and workmen be painting the whole downstairs.”
Denise whimpered. Her own heart dropping into her shoes, Lisette gasped, “Away? Is—is there no one at home at all?”
The lodgekeeper shook his head and replied lugubriously that the Colonel was gone off somewhere, to London, he thought, “And Mrs. Rachel and Miss Charity be gone too. Ain’t no one up there, saving only the housekeeper and a couple of parlour-maids, ma’am.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, why did you not say so? Certainly the housekeeper will not turn us away on such a night!”
“Belike she won’t,” he agreed dubiously. “But it bean’t fitting, it do stink so drefful of paint!”
“A deal more fitting than this horrid storm,” said Lisette, and required that her coachman drive on.
Cloudhills hove into view like a great and welcoming refuge, then suddenly became a monstrous black shape against a vivid flash of lightning. The coachman’s blast on the horn was answered by a lackey who came running out to hold the horses, and as thunder bellowed deafeningly, the front doors opened wider to reveal a brightly lit interior and a motherly woman fumbling with a large umbrella. The guard opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Lisette was greeted by the housekeeper, the umbrella, and a stifling reek of fresh paint. The back of the house, explained Mrs. Keene, when the unexpected guest had identified herself, was “not nearly so bad.” Hurrying Lisette and Denise into the great hall, she said firmly that Mrs. Strand and her servants must not think of journeying on, smell or no smell. Another booming roll of thunder caused the buxom housekeeper to jump and remark with a grin that she could scarce be more pleased to have company arrive, for thunder and lightning plain terrified her.
The sprawling and luxurious Tudor house, set, as its name implied, on the rim of a hill, commanded a wide view of the surrounding countryside, and was renowned for its beauty and comfort. Today, however, it presented a bleak appearance, for the view was shut out by the grey curtain of the rain, and most downstairs rooms were either empty or had their furnishings encased in Holland covers. Offering profuse apologies for the state of the house, Mrs. Keene bustled her beauteous charge upstairs. Mrs. Leith and Miss Charity, said she, would be oh, so sorry to have missed their sister-in-law. Were there any more in Mrs. Strand’s party? Another coach following, perhaps? Well, it was as well, for there was only one guest room made up on this floor, which would do nicely, however, and madam’s maid could have a room in the servants’ quarters. No call to worry over the coachman and guard for there was plenty of room for them. Mrs. Stand could likely do with a cup of tea before dinner, and she should have one quicker than the dog could wag his tail!
The chamber to which Lisette was conducted was spacious and comfortable. Velvet draperies were quickly drawn against the lowering dusk, and the glow of candles brought a warmth to the heart, if not to the room. The fire was already laid, and Mrs. Keene had it flickering merrily in no time. Within half an hour Lisette was seated at a small table before leaping flames, an ample meal set before her, and several books and periodicals brought in for her pleasure. Mrs. Keene stayed for a few moments while two soft-footed maids hovered about. The weather looked to be clearing, she thought, but if Mrs. Strand cared to remain until the family returned in a day or two, no effort would be spared to ensure her comfort. Meanwhile, madam’s bed was ready with a warming pan tucked twixt the sheets, and she’d only to give a tug on the bell pull did she need anything.
By the time the hospitable lady left, Lisette was beginning to feel drowsy. Between the tiring journey, the pleasant meal, and the warmth from the fire, she no sooner started to leaf through one of the periodicals than her head was nodding. She rang for Denise and an hour later was in bed and fast asleep.
* * *
At about the same time that Lisette had been leaving Farnham that rainy afternoon, a light travelling chaise splashed up the drivepath and stopped before Strand Hall. The panelled door bore the crest of its noble owner and, upon the groom jumping down to swing it open, Lord Jeremy Bolster alighted, smiled his thanks, and ran lightly up the steps. Fisher admitted him and swiftly put him in possession of the fact that Mr. Strand was still down at Silverings, and Mrs. Strand had driven up to Berkshire to visit her sisters.
“Good God!” exclaimed Bolster. “In th-this weather? You noddicock, you should not have allowed her!”
“Madam was quite determined on it, milord. In fact—”
“Bolster! Why, how delightful to have callers in this lonely old place!”
If his lordship shrank inwardly at the gushing tones, he nonetheless bowed with unfailing courtesy over Beatrice’s hand. “Lady W-William. Didn’t expect to f-f-f- see you here.”
“Why ever not? Lisette is my sister, you know. Do you mean to stay? I hope you do. It is a crushing bore here alone, and I must say I think it shabby that I no sooner arrive than Lisette goes jauntering off to Berkshire!”
Bolster, however, thought Lisette had employed shrewd tactics indeed and, having every intention of emulating them, smiled and was silent.
“She said she was promised to her sisters-in-law at Cloudhills,” Beatrice swept on, walking back with him to the drawing room. “I think she must have mistaken the date, and she will be provoked with me not to have remembered until I arose this morning that Mrs. Leith and her sister are in Town. I saw them on Bond Street only the day before yesterday, and Rachel said they mean to pass a few days with the Mayne-Warings.”
“You’d think she’d have reme-membered that,” said Bolster, frowning a little.
“Well, of course she does, you silly boy,” teased Beatrice, rapping his arm with her fan. “The Mayne-Warings are Tristram’s aunt and uncle and were at his wedding, even if very few of the ton were in attendance. I believe Rachel and Lady Mayne-Waring hit it off famously, in spite of—er—everything.”
“I m-meant that if L-Lisette was promised to Mrs. Leith, she don’t seem the type to f-f f-forget the date.”
Beatrice’s brow puckered. “No,” she said slowly. “For she has the most excellent memory in all things, and—” She stopped. One shapely hand drifted to her cheek in an aghast fashion, then she said a little too hurriedly, “But there is a first time for everything, no? Oh, there you are, Fisher!”
The butler slanted a rather affronted glance at her as he carried in a silver tray on which were decanters and glasses. Beatrice gave a trill of nervous laughter, causing the frown in Bolster’s honest eyes to deepen. Pouring ratafia for Lady William and Madeira for his lordship, Fisher murmured an enquiry as to whether my lord would be overnighting with them.
“Came down to help Mr. S-Strand,” said Bolster, accepting his glass with a nod of thanks. “Still at it, is he?”
“He is, indeed, sir,” sighed the butler and, with a troubled glance at the rain-splashed windows added, “I only hope he may not be working outside.”
“Hmmnn. I’d best get d-down there. Ask Best to find me a suitable pair, w-would you?”
“Best is at Silverings with the master, sir. But I am sure your own man can select the horses he wishes.” He bowed, took himself off, and paused in the doorway to enquire how soon his lordship wished to be on his way.
“At once,” said Bolster, an unusually firm set to his jaw.
Beatrice began to chatter about his kindness in having come all this way to assist her brother with “that silly old boat,” complaining that Norman should never have plagued “poor Justin” until he agreed to restore it. Bolster scarcely heard her. He was thinking that Lisette was a glorious Fair, no doubt of it, but it was rather painfully obvious she was not deep in love with her husband. Already there had been one unpleasant scandal. If she’d gone trotting off to see Rachel or Charity and they was away, she would be alone at Cloudhills. Unless Leith was there. He scowled down at the amber wine in his glass. Perfect gentleman, Tristram Leith. Totally besotted over his lovely wife. But there was an ugly little rumour drifting about to the effect that Leith had enjoyed more than a casual acquaintanceship with Miss Van Lindsay and that the girl had, in fact, expected to become his bride. Nothing to it, probably. Still, if word should get out she’d gone running up there as soon as her husband’s back was turned, and with the two girls away … gad!
“Is something amiss, my lord?” asked Beatrice, innocently.
Bolster jumped. “Eh? Oh, no! Why?”
“You were frowning so.”
“Oh. Well, it’s—er—it’s a d-deuced n-n-nuisance to have to g-g-g- drive all the way down to S-Silverings in this rain, ma’am! I’d better leave before I ch-change my mind.”
In point of fact, his lordship had already changed his mind. Hurrying to the stables, he informed his groom that he would not be needed past the first stage, and could bring Mr. Strand’s horses back as soon as they were rested.
“First stage, sir?” echoed the groom. “What—between here and Silverings?”
“No, you hedgebird. Godalming.”
“Godalming, sir? But I thought as your lordship were going to help Mr. Strand with his boat.”
“Just remembered,” Bolster said nonchalantly. “Pressing engagement in Oxford.”