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 guard, 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.”
“A small army. I gave Connaught the task the very day we returned to the Hall. Please do not be disappointed when we go inside. Save for a few rooms, it is not furnished. I thought we would enjoy to choose the pieces together.”
“Yes! I should like that.”
Best halted the carriage before the wide, arched doors. Strand jumped out, and Lisette was handed down as though she were fashioned of sheerest crystal. His leathery face wreathed in smiles, Best drove around to the side yard. Lisette did not see that merry look, for she stood with hands clasped, drinking in the restored splendour of Silverings. “How I wish we could live here,” she sighed.
“We shall. I am closing the Hall but shall keep it maintained in case Charity might someday wish to dwell there. She has a fondness for the old place.”
Her eyes alight, Lisette clung to his arm. “Do you really mean it? Oh, but how splendid! Justin, must we leave?”
He laughed. “Would you really give up the delights of London, Paris, and Copenhagen for an almost empty house in the country?”
“I would! For a while, at least. Dearest one, would you mind terribly?”
He said nothing but, bending suddenly, swept her up in his arms and carried her to the steps.
Oliver Green, who had happily watched their coming, opened the door, keeping well out of sight.
On the threshold, Strand paused, looking down at his wife’s beauteous and cherished face, his heart in his eyes. “Lisette,” he said huskily, “I—I still cannot believe that you love me.”
“You will learn to,” she asserted. “For I mean to do just as you wrote, most beloved of husbands.”
Uncertain, he raised one brow questioningly.
Lisette leaned her cheek against his shoulder and, whispering, for she was not quite sure who had swung open the door, quoted, “‘To with happiness surround you, for as long as I may live.’”
For an enchanted moment Strand was silent, standing there, gazing at this slip of a girl who was his dream, his love, his way of life. Then he bent and kissed her, and was still kissing her as he carried her across the threshold and into the true beginning of their marriage that was, most decidedly, past redemption.