A shout went up from the crowd when the carriage came in sight, and a louder shout arose when the bride stepped out. Lisette had chosen a gown as romantic as her wedding was not. Copied from the one in which her grandmother had said her vows, the high-necked bodice of white lace rose demurely over a low-cut silk under-dress. The waist was tiny, and below it the skirts billowed out over moderate hoops in a cloud of silk and lace, caught up here and there by clusters of seed pearls. Her veil was also her grandmother’s, descending to a twelve-foot train that her attendants lovingly guarded from contact with the wet flagway. She looked like a fairy princess, and the crowd cheered her dark beauty with enthusiasm.
Forcing her stiff lips into a smile, Lisette clutched Timothy’s hand. The veil between her and the world on this rainy morning that should have been the happiest day of her life seemed to heighten a sense of misty unreality. This was not the culmination of her dreams, surely? She was not really marrying a man rich, but infuriating, alternately kind and brutally brusque, of inferior birth, and certainly not in the least in love with her. She could, she supposed wearily, become accustomed to his driving energy; to that eager look as if he expected always that something of import was about to happen; to the thin face and restless, nervous hands. If only he would show a little tenderness. If only once he had told her how beautiful she was, or expressed some affection for her. James Garvey had spoken, often and fluently, of his undying devotion. “Until death, my vision of perfection,” he’d said yearningly. But, aside from that one half-heard suggestion at the betrothal ball, he had proven to be as loath to take action as he was eager to speak. Certainly not galloping to her window some night and riding triumphantly away with her across his saddle bow. Foolish thoughts. And she would not marry James Garvey today; nor would she marry the darkly handsome Tristram Leith, as she had done in so many happy dreams. For this was not a dream. This was grey reality.
They were inside the lovely old church now, and Papa came up and pulled her cold little hand through his arm, told her not to be nervous although his own hand was none too steady, and led her forward. The organist was playing; the church was filled. Heads were turning, kindly faces smiling, as with trembling knees she walked down the aisle. She hoped that Beatrice and Judith and her cousins were behind her, hoped that Strand would not attempt to hurry the priest through the ceremony. It was too much to hope that she would wake up and find it had all been a bad dream.…
Such the reflections of a bride on her wedding day.
Vaguely, she saw Strand watching her approach. The bachelor party must have been wild indeed, for he looked positively haggard. The priest was speaking, kindly but interminably. Music again, and the angelic voices of the choirboys ringing sweetly through the noble old sanctuary. More talk, and then Strand was making the responses in an odd, uncertain voice, stumbling over the words, but getting through it at last. She heard her own voice as from a great distance, clear and calm. “I, Lisette Hermione, take thee, Justin Derwent…” Unfaltering. Incredible. But it went on and on while she stood in that strange, trancelike state, hearing everything as though she were very far away. He was putting the ring on her finger, his hand hot and trembling. She stared down at it, reacting mechanically, waiting, while Strand put back her veil. He stared at her, his eyes reflecting a sort of awed confusion, as though he, too, were a captive in this dream. He kissed her perfunctorily, and they moved on to sign the register. Having somehow contrived to write her name, Lisette heard a sudden muffled snort beside her. What was he doing now? Surely he did not mean to disgrace them all? She glanced up in dismay. Strand took the quill from her hand, grinned, and winked at her. Bewildered, she looked down again and thought an appalled, My heaven! How could I have done so stupid a thing? But—there it was. Instead of “Lisette Hermione” she had written “Lisette Heroine”! She could have sunk and felt her face burn.
Strand pulled her hand possessively through his arm. “What a slip!” he chuckled. “Poor ton, m’dear! Or did you mean it?”
Poor ton, indeed! Facing the assembled throng, she smiled sweetly, and whispered, “But, of course! I deserve a medal, do not you think?”
“A small one, perhaps,” he quipped. “But—you will likely earn a large one … as we go along.”
* * *
The wedding breakfast was held at the Clarendon and was a whirl of gaiety and embraces, champagne and magnificent food, music and laughter and nostalgic tears. Much of the time the bride and groom were side by side, but sometimes they were parted, and a laugh went up when someone addressed Lisette as Mrs. Strand and she made no response. An extremely handsome young man came over with Charity Strand, who introduced him as Alain Devenish, a good friend of Colonel Leith. He was fair, with curling hair and features so perfect it was all Lisette could do not to stare at him. Fortunately, he possessed a cheerful, impudent manner so that one soon forgot his looks and was enabled to enjoy him for himself, and in a very short while he and the bride were on the best of terms.
Coming up behind them, Strand said, “So you have met my heroine, have you, Devenish?” and Lisette knew she would not soon hear the end of that slip. She joined in the laughter when her insensitive bridegroom told the story, and she was still smiling when a touch on her elbow caused her to turn and look straight at Rachel Strand Leith. The lady was small and fine-boned, with hair of a very pale dusty brown, great blue eyes, a straight little nose, and a beautifully shaped mouth just now curving to a rather wistful smile. Not all the accounts of how lovely she was had prepared Lisette for a girl so angelically fair; not all the defamatory remarks and vitriolic gossip could prevail against so sweet an expression. Struggling to ignore Tristram’s magnetic presence, Lisette knew that Strand, who had been comparatively restrained today, watched her, and that Grandmama, leaning on his arm, was glaring at her.
For her part, Rachel Leith thought her brother’s bride ethereally lovely, with the delicate lace framing her shining hair, her dusky eyes still lit by the smile that had faded from her lips. “Oh, Justin,” she breathed. “How did you ever manage to win her?”
Lisette glanced with a trace of cynicism to Strand. He was regarding her gravely, but with an element of pleading at the back of his eyes that startled her. This notorious lady was his sister and, insofar as was possible for so cold a nature, he might be fond of her. Quite apart from that consideration, to even slightly snub the beauty would be to give the gabble-mongers grist for their mills. Therefore, she inserted at her most gracious, “I might well ask Leith the same thing.”
Rachel laughed, reached out her hand impulsively, then withdrew it, as though anticipating a rebuff. Why Fate must be so fiendishly contrary, Lisette could not guess, but she felt a warm liking for this girl she had determined to loathe, and at once reached out to embrace her.
The two young husbands locked glances. “What lucky dogs we are,” said Leith. “Did you ever see two such lovely creatures, Justin?”
Strand murmured an agreement, but his tone was cool, and there was no answering smile for his handsome brother-in-law, seeing which, the shrewd old eyes of Lady Bayes-Copeland grew troubled.
* * *
For quite some time after Denise left her, Lisette sat at the dressing table, staring blindly at her mirrored reflection. Mrs. Hayward had hired the petite maid to wait on her new mistress, but had said she’d thought Mrs. Strand would prefer to interview personally for a dresser. Lisette was pleased with her abigail. Denise was tiny and vivacious and blessed with a cheerful nature. The housekeeper was congratulated upon her choice and accepted these kind words with only a nod, no spark of liking warming her cold eyes. That the plump, impeccably neat woman adored Justin was very obvious, and equally obvious the fact that his bride was viewed with, at most, a deferral of judgement. It would be unfortunate, thought Lisette, if her first task at Strand Hall was to dismiss an old family retainer! And as to hiring a dresser—that seemed the height of absurdity. What on earth would she need with a dresser, out here miles from anywhere?
She had not known until they were in the carriage, waving goodbye to the merry crowd of well-wishers, where they would spend their honeymoon. When Strand told her in his offhand way that they were bound for his country home, she’d been aghast, and had said sarcastically, “I must have misheard you, sir. This is my honeymoon, is it not?”
“And mine,” he had pointed out. “I truly do apologize, but there are matters I have neglected too long. In a week or so I shall take you wherever in the world you wish, but for now, it must be Strand Hall, I’m afraid.”
It was all of a piece, thought Lisette, standing and discarding the soft cloud of tulle that was her peignoir. A fitting start to this miserable marriage! She heard approaching footsteps and in a sudden surge of panic glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Despite her aversion to her bridegroom, womanlike, she’d been unable to resist the temptation to make herself as alluring as possible. Her nightgown was a diaphanous drift of light orchid, through which the graceful curves of her body were mistily apparent. She was pale against that rich colour, her eyes looking scared and enormous, but she knew she was pretty. Would her husband think her pretty? She began to shake as the footsteps came closer, then relaxed with a little sigh of relief as they passed by and faded into silence.
She extinguished the lamp, crossed to the great bed, and stood staring at it. Clenching her small fists, she prayed for courage, clambered in, and folded the sheet back tidily over her waist. She blew out all but one candle in the branch on her bedside table, clasped her hands, and waited. And, inevitably, her fears grew with each long moment. Mama had told her very little of what was expected of a wife, save only that she must be conformable, not hang upon Strand’s sleeve (how utterly ludicrous!), and be willing to look the other way when he indulged in his “little affaires.” Naturally, he would expect her to provide him with an heir, but he seemed a reasonable sort of man, and would likely not want a very large brood. Lisette gripped her trembling hands tighter. Beatrice had been less restrained. From her had come a warning to be prepared for sadistic brutality—for the lustful violation of every concept of maidenly modesty that had ever been inculcated into her mind, and for pain and savage degradation. Dear God! she thought, tears stinging her eyes. And to be thus shamefully handled by such as Justin Strand, who already considers me no more than a heifer purchased on the auction block!
She could see again the glitter in his eyes when he had looked at her, both in the church and at the reception. And his hand, when he’d helped her cut the wedding cake, had been very warm. She had heard the expression, “blazing with passion.” Was that what it meant? Was she to be subjected to an orgy of unrestrained lust? Her spirits plummeted, and she was soon so depressed that her highest hope was to be so fortunate as to succumb at the birth of her first child. On second thought it did not seem quite fair to leave the poor mite without a mother. Perhaps it would be better did she instead contract some mysterious wasting disease and gracefully fade away until … Her heart bounced into her throat as a scratch came at the door. Shivering and overwrought, she called a faint, “Come … in…”
She was unspeakably relieved when Denise tripped into the room, curtsied, and handed her a folded paper.
Lisette smiled and thanked her, and, when the abigail had quietly closed the door, stared at the paper in her hand. It would be just like that wretched brute to have forgotten her altogether! Or to have gone merrily off to play cards with some of his vulgar friends to return at heaven knows what hour of the night, drunk and even more depraved than usual!
She broke the seal, unfolded the page, and read the words written in a near-illegible scrawl.
My dear wife—[”Hah!” she snorted impatiently]
How you may ever forgive me, I dare not guess, but I am called away on a matter that it is beyond my power to ignore.
Were you to turn your back on your unfortunate husband and go home to Portland Place, I could scarce blame you, and can only entreat that you not do so.
Know that, however grieved you may be, my own regret is tenfold, and try to be patient until the return of
Your contrite if absent husband,
Strand
One reading caused Lisette’s eyes not only to lose every last vestige of the terror that had so recently filled them, but to widen to a surprising degree. The second reading caused them to positively spark, while, quite forgetting the fearful trepidation with which she had awaited the coming of her lord and master, she now was possessed by a boiling fury by reason of his absence.
“Oh!” she gasped inadequately. “Oh!” And lowering the hands that so tightly clutched the letter, she stared around the room as though it were filled with curious onlookers.
“Can you credit this?” she demanded of the bedpost. “He is … called away?” The bedpost maintaining a wooden stupidity, she threw back the sheet, sprang tigerishly from the bed, and began to prowl up and down. “It is not enough,” she raged, “that he bought me! Not enough that he has—has dumped me here in this confounded desolation! Oh, yes! I said confounded—and meant it! It is not enough I have been wrenched from the arms of the man I love!” (A statement of somewhat dubious authenticity.) “He has been—called away!” Pausing before the mirror and catching sight of her flushed cheeks and wild eyes, she brandished the letter at her reflection and through gnashing teeth cried, “Look at yourself, Miss—Mrs. Justin Derwent Strand! Purchased like a slab of beef! And on your wedding night—your wedding night—abandoned by the wretched clod! Abandoned, humiliated, and made to look utterly ridiculous!”
Seething, she ran to the wardrobe and hauled out her valise and a bandbox. “He cannot blame me, can’t he?” she panted, wrenching at the straps on the valise. “I am to—” She again had recourse to the letter, which was annoying since she was kneeling on it and, in retrieving it, tore it in half. Jamming the sections together, she snorted, “I am to—to be patient. Patient! Dear God! Relieved would be more apropos! Overjoyed! Delighted! May he never return! And when he does—” contradictorily—“when he does—I shall be gone!”
She stood and began to stuff gowns and habits ruthlessly into the inoffensive valise, then turned to trot, panting, to her dressing table, and gather up hairbrushes, combs, hairpins, and pots of creams and lotions. Running back to the valise, she tossed them inside haphazardly, all the while calling down maledictions upon her absent bridegroom, until that worthy’s ears, wherever they were, must have fairly frizzled. “How dare he!” snarled Lisette, pouncing on a candlestick which had somehow found its way into the valise, and casting it from her with loathing. “How dare he treat me with such flagrant contempt?” Only then came the ultimate horror: “What will the servants think?”
That was sufficient to give her pause, and she knelt there motionless, glaring into the chaotic valise. What would the servants think? What would everyone think? The fires of wrath began to yield to rationality once more. And slowly, she came to see how hopelessly she was caught. She could hear again her father’s exultant voice. “The settlement is magnificent! All our troubles are over, m’dear…” And Mama, ecstatic because she might at last buy some new furnishings, and draperies, and even—joy unbearable!—new carpets! In the face of such generosity, how could she leave Strand? The man had already had his father’s disgrace and Rachel’s ghastly reputation to overcome. For him to be abandoned by his bride on their wedding night must be the coup de grâce. No one would blame her, that was certain, for her name was without blemish, but they would be sure to imagine all kinds of horrible things about him. Not that she cared, of course. He deserved the worst fate imaginable. He had, in fact, deserted her! Only … wherever he had gone, she was assured it would be with discretion. Whereas, if she went home, all London would know.
Lisette bowed her head, and wept bitter tears of chagrin, frustration, and—loneliness.
* * *
The sunlight poured into the bedroom and crept under Lisette’s lashes so that she blinked and yawned sleepily. In another moment the bedcurtains were pulled aside, and the housekeeper stood there, smiling with astounding warmth and holding a tray containing an enticing display of hot scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, an egg cooked just as she liked it, some rashers of bacon, and a pot from which emanated the delicious aroma of hot coffee. Memory returned with a rush. Sitting up, Lisette’s guilty eyes flashed from Mrs. Hayward to the abandoned valise. Everything had been whisked away, and her dressing table was as neat as though nothing had ever been displaced.
“Good morning, ma’am,” beamed the housekeeper. “We wasn’t sure what you preferred for your breakfast, so it’s to be hoped as you’ll find something to suit. It’s a lovely day. So nice to see the sun again.” She settled the tray across Lisette’s knees, and glancing into the rather bewildered young face, still marked by tear streaks, her heart was wrung, and she murmured, “How very pretty you are, if I dare be so bold as to say so, Mrs. Strand. Poor Master Justin! I said to him, no matter how he was needed, there’s sometimes a ‘no’ must be said. But I don’t need to tell you that he’s not the kind to let people down who call on him. There now, I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast in peace.” And she was gone, leaving Lisette to stare after her, amazed at the changed demeanour.
By rights, a lady caught in so unhappy a web of circumstances should have found herself without appetite and picked at her food only for the sake of appearances. At least, that was the way of it in the romances Lisette had read. It was rather lowering to find that she was ravenous. She ate far more breakfast than was her usual custom, attributing it to the pure country air. She rang for Denise at length and lay back, wondering if Strand meant to return today and whether this was to be the pattern of her life. Perhaps he had a mistress in keeping somewhere nearby and, despite Mrs. Hayward’s polite excuses, had actually rushed back to his peculiar once he had captured the mate who could restore some gloss to his tarnished name. The prospect of being abandoned in the country, while he amused himself elsewhere, brought such a surge of rage and self-pity that she was relieved when the door opened and Denise hurried in.
Like the housekeeper, the little abigail was full of lighthearted chatter. She was so sorry she had not quite finished unpacking last night, so that madame had found it necessary to seek out some of her toilet articles, but all was made right now. Did madame intend to ride this morning? Would madame wear the blue habit or the green? Was madame aware that there was in the house a water closet and that Monsieur Justin had had the entire building painted and refurbished? Madame had beyond a doubt been too weary to last night notice, but Mr. Fisher, the splendid butler, was of an anxiety to show madame about so soon as she was bathed and dressed. And Mrs. Hayward asked that if madame could spare an hour or so this afternoon, she might interview three women for the position of madame’s dresser applying.
Suspecting that a determined effort was being mounted to prevent her from becoming lonely, Lisette was touched. When she went downstairs an hour later, clad in her green habit and a pert little hat with a matching green feather, her suspicions were confirmed. From the omniscient Fisher, who bowed and welcomed her, to the stableboy who eyed her with awed admiration as he led Yasmin from the stables, everyone seemed genuinely delighted to greet her. In return, she went out of her way to appear cheerful, her chin high, a smile never far from her lips and, however vexed she may be by the belief that she was the only resident of Strand Hall who did not know the whereabouts of its master, betraying no hint of that fact.
One of the grooms, a vigorous middle-aged man with a shy smile, mounted up and rode at a respectful distance behind her. She was not sorry for his company, since the neighbourhood was strange to her, and after a short while invited him to ride with her and serve as guide. It developed that his name was Best and that he had been in the service of the Strands for twenty years and more. “If ye would care fer to look round now, marm,” he said in his soft Sussex voice, “ye can have a foine view o’ the great house.”
It was a fine view, thought Lisette. Always provided one cared for the pretentious neoclassical architecture, which she did not. Certainly, with the sun bathing its white columns, the breeze riffling the branches of the trees, and the flower beds a mass of colour, Strand Hall was an imposing sight. It faced west, toward the rolling wooded hills where she now sat her horse. The park that surrounded it was spacious and well kept, and many would have considered it a most desirable estate. She tried to be objective, asking herself if her dislike of the place was born of her distaste for her husband. But she decided this was not so. Perhaps in her mind the ideal of country living must always be the farm the Van Lindsays had once owned, where she had spent many happy childhood summers. The residence had been more an overgrown cottage than a manor house, rather on the style of a rabbit warren, with odd little corridors and unexpected steps that were a burden to the maids, and where one always worried lest Grandmama might trip. But the grounds were deliciously uncultivated, there had been many obliging trees where one could climb or erect tree houses or swings, with no thought of offending, and the house itself, a nondescript brick structure, had always seemed warm and welcoming, its charm so informal and delightful a departure from London’s elegance.
Watching her, a half-smile on his face, Best said, “A bit grand, bean’t it, marm? Would’ee care fer to see the Home Farm? It be a pretty—” He broke off with a shout of warning as a tawny shape hurtled at them from a clump of beeches, shot between the two horses, and raced for the house. Yasmin, the gentlest of creatures, was yet a spirited animal, and for a few moments it was all Lisette could do to keep her from bolting. Best’s gelding, being of a less tractable disposition, shied wildly, and thundered off with the groom coming perilously near to being unseated. Best soon regained control of his mount and, turning, was immeasurably relieved to find Lisette riding up to him.
“I’m very sorry, marm. A foine help I’d have been if you had been thrown!” He glanced angrily to the house. “That worthless mongrel!”
“I rather doubt he is a mongrel,” said Lisette, patting the still skittish Yasmin. “It was Lord Bolster’s bulldog, I believe.”
“Ar. Brutus. A good name fer ’un. If ye don’t mind, marm, I’d better ride down to the road and see if his lordship be looking fer the beast.”
They turned about and rode eastward until they approached the Petworth road. Lisette asked, “Does Lord Bolster live in the neighbourhood?”
“No, marm. His lordship’s country seat is Three Fields, in Surrey. Likely he do be coming to see the master, and Brutus ran on ahead.”
“Ran?” She smiled. “Flew, more like!”
Best muttered something, the words inaudible, but the tone making it clear that Brutus was not highly regarded at Strand Hall. Reaching the road, they parted, Best saying he would ride on a little way, and Lisette returned to the Hall.
It had become quite warm by the time she entered the yard. She saw no sign of visitors, or of Brutus but, deciding to walk around to the front in case he might be waiting there, spotted the animal in the shade of one of the pillars, lying on his stomach, panting cheerfully, with both back legs stretched straight out behind him. Lisette went over and bent to stroke him. He listened without apparent repentance to the admonition that he was a bad dog and had probably worried his kind master. His only response was an even wider canine grin and an apparent attempt to “shake hands.” This gesture, being essayed from a prone position, was disastrously unsuccessful, the powerful paw raking down the skirt of Lisette’s habit, one nail slicing the seam into a long tear.
“Wretched brute!” she scolded, and reflected that it was as well she might be taking on a dresser this afternoon. She returned to the back of the house. There was no one in sight when she entered the open side door. It was cool inside, but she was hot and thirsty and, suspecting Brutus was in like condition, walked along the hall towards the kitchen to ask that a bowl of water be put out for him. The kitchen door was standing open, probably to catch the breeze from the outer door, and as she approached, Lisette could hear the housekeeper speaking. “… quite clear to see on her pretty face, and her eyes so sad it would break your heart! It’s not right, Mr. Fisher! She should be told!”
“Before you take such a step, Mrs. H.,” Fisher responded dryly, “I would recommend you go down to Silverings and tell Mr. Justin what you mean to do.”
“Very funny, I’m sure,” the housekeeper retaliated. “But he shouldn’t have gone. And she shouldn’t have gone with him! A fine set-to! I vow I feel so sorry for that lovely little wife of his, I could just hug the poor, brave soul!”
The wind blew the outer door shut with a bang. Somehow gathering her scattered wits, Lisette fled.
By the time she reached her bedchamber, shock had given way to a quite different emotion from that which had so shattered her the previous night. There had been room for doubt then. There had been the possibility that Strand had been irrevocably committed—that he would return with some logical explanation. Now, she knew an icy wrath; an indignation that went past mere anger to inexorable condemnation. Sooner or later, Mr. Justin Strand would come home. And when he did, he would learn to his sorrow the price of insulting a Van Lindsay!
* * *
“My husband is away, I am afraid,” said Lisette, walking across the saloon and extending a hand to Lord Jeremy Bolster. “He will be so sorry to have missed you.”
Bolster sprang up, coloured hotly, bowed over her hand, and stammered out his apologies for having called at such a time.
“Not at all, my lord.” Lisette seated herself and waved him to a chair. “I expect you have come in search of Brutus? He arrived this morning. I believe he is being—er—entertained in the stables, but Best will bring him to you when you are ready to leave.”
“Oh,” said his lordship, glumly. “I had hoped—Justin is away, you s-s-say? Dash it all, I th-thought perhaps he m-might…”
Lisette lifted her brows enquiringly. “Can I be of any assistance, sir? I am assured my husband would wish I do whatever I might.”
Bolster explained painfully that he was soon to leave for Italy. “F-fraid old Brutus mi-might pine if I was to l-l-leave him. And I’d—hoped Justin m-might—er…” He checked, looking at her with his diffident, sideways glance.
“Take him back? Oh, but that would be famous! I am very fond of dogs, and—well, it’s rather lonely here. I would be only too delighted to have Brutus.”
Brightening, he said earnestly, “You are v-very g-g-good, ma’am. M-Mandy told me you was very k-kind, and I can s-see…” He gestured in a pathetically hopeless fashion, and finished forlornly, “D-don’t want to go. But—b-best I do. What?”
“Perhaps it is, my lord,” Lisette said kindly. “Time heals—so they say.” Her own eyes became sad, and she sighed.
Watching her, Bolster asked anxiously, “N-nothing wrong, is there, Mrs. Strand? I mean—old J-Justin’s not in queer s-stirrups or-or such like?”
“How kind you are. No, he was called away on an urgent matter he could not postpone.”
He gave a relieved nod. “And you are quite s-sure he won’t mind?”
“Perfectly sure,” Lisette said with a smile.
* * *
Justin Strand did not appear at his ancestral hall that week. Surprisingly, however, Lisette entertained an unending stream of callers. Among these was her grandmother, who was as irascible as she was unexpected. She greeted Lisette with an almost fierce defiance and stamped about, grunting “Stupid!” from time to time, while rapping her cane violently on the highly polished floors. The architecture she viewed with a jaundiced eye; the lofty entrance foyer she found depressing, and she judged the splendidly restored tapestry which hung there an abomination. The lounges were draughty, the fireplaces probably smoked, and her bedroom was so vast she could scarce see across it. After one penetrating glance at her granddaughter’s calm smile, she did not enquire as to where Mr. Strand had gone, nor once comment on his absence. She seemed at times preoccupied and, having stared into the fire for half an hour on the evening of her arrival, responded to Lisette’s rather uneasy remark that she hoped the family was well, by saying testily that Judith seemed to be a shade improved and she hoped would grow up with more in her head than hair. “Not,” she added, “like Beatrice!”
“Has my sister returned to Somerset, ma’am?” asked Lisette.
“No, she ain’t!” barked my lady, with another rap of her cane upon the carpet. “She enjoys her freedom with the Haines-Curtis gal, who I doubt is any better than she should be, and given entirely too much credit for being responsible, which she ain’t! Dwyer should take a stick to his wife! And not wait too long about it, neither!”
The old lady remained for three days, and although she was unimpressed with Strand Hall, the staff pleased her, and for one occupant she developed a passionate fondness. Brutus, who fawned upon her slavishly, was, she proclaimed, a splendid guard, a magnificent specimen, and a credit to his breed. Nobody’s fool, he seldom left her side, even slithering into the forbidden dining room to accept tit-bits from my lady’s hand whilst he hid under the table, and in general taking shameful advantage of the situation. When Lady Bayes-Copeland left, he was devastated and moaned for a full five minutes before discerning a visiting cat that must be chased from the premises.
The bulldog had, by this time, formed the habit of sleeping beside Lisette’s bed. He snored, which was annoying, and his snores were broken by snufflings that were at times followed by a long silent pause. When Lisette first experienced this phenomenon, she jumped up in bed, convinced he had died, only to be shattered by a cacophonous explosion of snorts, snuffles, and grunts before the snoring rhythm was restored. Each time she was awoken by such a performance, she gritted her teeth and vowed never again to endure such a night. After several weakenings, she was driven to insist that Brutus sleep outside her door, but this was worse, for not only did he whine and tear at the panel but soon demonstrated that he was a dog of many parts. Lying sleepless and fuming, Lisette heard a new sound and correctly deduced he had seized the handle between his jaws and was wrenching at it. He’ll catch cold at that! she thought, contemptuously. Brutus, however, did not catch cold; whether by accident or skill, the door suddenly opened. He raced in, leapt onto the bed, and bounced about in triumph until Lisette abandoned her enraged commands and broke her candle over his muzzle. He licked her face to show her that he held no grudge, then abandoned the bed, to settle down smugly beside it. The snoring began within seconds, but gradually Lisette became accustomed to the uproar and was able to sleep through it all.
On the morning after her grandmother’s departure Tristram Leith and his wife paid a call. Despite her efforts, the sight of Leith’s tall, athletic figure and handsome countenance made Lisette’s heart contract. She was invited by Rachel to return with them to Cloudhills, but the prospect of being so close to Tristram—of seeing their happiness—was not to be borne, and with grace but firmness she declined, saying that she was sure her husband would return momentarily. She did not miss the swift, meaningful glance that passed between the two. From the moment of their arrival she had noted that Tristram seemed a trifle grim, and now the worry in Rachel’s blue eyes, so like her brother’s, was pronounced. Lisette guessed that they were pitying her, and her sense of ill usage was intensified. She stood on the front steps for a long time after they left, her wistful gaze following the carriage until it was lost to her sight, envying them the devotion that had manifested itself in so many small ways, and longing to be the fortunate lady now being happily carried off to Cloudhills. A large head was thrust under her hand; a snuffling bark dispersed her useless dreams. She petted Brutus gratefully, then sent a lackey to request that Yasmin be saddled, and went inside to change into her habit.
She enjoyed a long ride, Best guiding her to the Home Farm, which was a very pretty and orderly establishment, presided over by a cheerful, ruddy-faced farmer and his shy wife, who bobbed a curtsey each time she addressed the bride. Lisette, who had immediately won her admiration, now captured her heart by asking that each of the children be presented to her. She dutifully admired them all, kissed the baby, and left, thinking with a pang of her own brothers and sisters.
The house seemed awesomely quiet when she walked into the foyer. Upstairs there was no sign of Denise in either the parlour or her bedchamber. Walking to the bell pull beside the bed, Lisette’s upstretched hand checked. A great white rose lay on her pillow, dewdrops still gleaming on the petals. Staring at it, her heart jolted. She frowned and did not pick up the bloom, but crossed to the dressing table where she sat down and started to tidy her hair. He was back! And he was watching her, she knew. She affected ignorance until her trembling eased, then glanced around, her brows arched enquiringly.
Strand leaned in the open door to the balcony, arms folded, regarding her with grave speculation. That he had been indulging in some very riotous living was evidenced by the pallor beneath his tan and the shadows under his eyes. How often had she seen that same look on Timothy’s face during the Long Vacation, when he’d spent the night in that peculiar pastime the young Bucks and Corinthians called Boxing the Watch; or when he’d come home at dawn after a night of play (usually disastrous) at Watier’s or White’s. Resuming her task, she battled the urge to stroll over to her husband and claw his wretched face. Instead, “Good morning, Strand,” she said politely.
His head lowered a little. Glancing up at her from under his brows, he murmured, “You are very angry. And rightfully so. But—”
“No, why ever should I be? You are perfectly at liberty to come and go as you choose. With whom you choose. Truly, I have had a lovely time.”
He watched as she dusted a hare’s-foot across her dainty nose, and said in a reluctant, halting fashion, “You are entitled to an explanation, and—”
“Oh, pray do not fret over so insignificant a thing. I thought it most considerate in you to give me a time to settle down. In fact—” she opened her jewel box and peered inside, saying carelessly, “I had thought you might not return for several weeks. Would you mind if—”
The door smashed open. Brutus flung himself across the room. Caught by surprise, Strand was sent hurtling back onto the balcony.
For a very brief instant Lisette’s heart leapt into her mouth. Then she heard the muffled explosion of swearing and, amused, hastened to survey the victim and the prancing delirium of his pet.
“Blast your ears!” Strand roared, fighting off the ecstatic dog. “Down, sir! Down, I say! No—not on me, curse you!”
Succeeding at last in extricating himself, he clambered to his feet, glared at his bride’s smile, and demanded, “What in the devil is he doing here?”
“He was a gift,” Lisette said sweetly, bending the truth a little. “Lord Bolster came and was—a trifle shocked, I suspect. To find me here all alone, you know.” Glancing obliquely at Strand, she saw his lips tighten, and added, “He thought Brutus might protect me.” She raised limpid eyes to her husband and purred, “So thoughtful.”
“And quite unnecessary. You are safe here. I will return Brutus this afternoon.”
“It is kind in you to offer. But if you do not object, Strand, I shall keep him. I doubt it is as safe here as you may think. And besides, when you are away on your—er—affairs, he will be company for me.”
Frowning into that angelic face, Strand’s fists clenched. “I do object. He goes back. This afternoon. Do you feel the need of a dog, ma’am, I’ll buy you one.”
“But, sir, one cannot buy love. Or loyalty.”
The barbs went home. Strand thought, She marshals a strong counter-attack, and he bowed, saying nothing.
Lisette shrugged and turned away. “However, if you must—you must. Now, will you please pardon me whilst I change for luncheon?”
He walked over to the door, and was about to open it when she called gently, “Shall you be home for dinner, sir? I only ask because the Vicar and the Misses Hepplethwaite are to dine here and play some whist afterwards, and I possibly should warn them you will join us.”
The prospect was not enthralling. “I doubt I shall be home,” he said, opening the door. “It’s a long ride to Three Fields.”
And a pointless one! she thought jubilantly.