Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  “And I—I suppose, am not? I, in fact, am a heartless wanton, conducting a torrid affaire behind my poor husband’s back! With—with a man I scarcely—know!” The last word was a martyred wail, and the tears began to flow again.

  “If you scarcely know him, dear,” Lisette pointed out, striving for patience, “surely it was unwise to be alone with him in the alcove?”

  “Oh—base!” flashed Beatrice, sitting bolt upright and fixing her sister with an indignant, if watery, eye. “A fine thanks for my efforts in your behalf! I risk my marriage; my reputation is … dragged in the mud! And all for a sister who only berates me for—for my sacrifice!”

  Suddenly wide awake, Lisette exclaimed, “In my behalf? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well you may ask.” Beatrice dabbed at her eyes and, watching her sister from under her lashes, murmured, “Truth to tell, some rather odd rumours came to my ears. Rumours concerning you and—a certain gentleman. When I learned Mr. Garvey was courting you—well, I know how splendid is his repute, so I made so bold as to ask his advice.”

  Apprehensive, Lisette said, “I wonder you did not take this tale to Papa and allow him to deal with it, rather than seeking counsel of a comparative stranger.”

  “Much good that would have done! Papa is hand in glove with the man in question—besides being deep in his debt! You may be sure I would have got my ears boxed for interfering”

  Suddenly very cold, Lisette stood. She faced her sister, chin high, and with a bleak look in her eyes that reminded Beatrice of her grandmother. “Very well,” she said. “Have done with the drama, or let us go to Papa together.” Raising one hand to quiet her sister’s frightened squeal, she demanded, “Name this gentleman who speaks ill of me.”

  “Not ill,” Beatrice grumbled sulkily. “Only confidently.”

  “What? Then Timothy must come home and deal with the cur! His name!”

  Her dark eyes blazed with passion; her gentle mouth was tightly compressed, and for the first time in her life, Beatrice was afraid of this quiet sister for whom she had always secretly felt scorn. “His name is—is Justin Strand,” she stammered. “He says he has paid off all his papa’s creditors and can restore his family name by simply marrying any lady of noble birth. He boasts his gold can buy any woman he chooses, and—and that he has already put a—a down payment on—you.”

  It should not have come as such a shock, God knows! Nor was there any reason why she should suddenly see Strand smiling down at Amanda Hersh in that quiet ante-room. Lisette stood for an instant, rigidly still. Then she whirled and, ignoring Beatrice’s frightened cry, ran to wrench open the door, rush down both flights of stairs and along the hall. To how many people had Strand dared bandy her name? Had he, in fact, actually spoken to Papa, without so much as a word to her? She gave a strangled sob as she burst through the study door, but then she froze, her impassioned demands dying unspoken. Her father was crumpled over his desk, his shoulders heaving, while his wife bent above him, her own cheeks streaked with tears.

  Horrified, Lisette gasped, “Oh—my dears! What is it? Whatever is it?”

  “You have no business coming in … like that, Lisette,” said her mother, turning swiftly away to dry her eyes. “Leave us, if you please.”

  Despite those brave words her voice was cracked and trembling. Lisette ran to put her arm about the bowed shoulders. “No, Mama. I am not a child. Whatever the trouble, I belong here, beside you and my father.”

  Keeping his face averted, Mr. Van Lindsay stood and strode to the fireplace to stare down at the logs, his handkerchief busy.

  Philippa leaned against her daughter, reaching out to grip that comforting hand. “You’re a good child. Very well, you should know. It is finances, of course. We have for some time been quite desperate. You cannot know how often I have—have gone to your grandmama, which makes Papa feel so degraded. He could not bear it, and so he took a desperate chance and—and invested in one of the new canals.”

  “It could very easily,” Mr. Van Lindsay croaked from the fireplace, “have made us all rich!”

  “Yes, indeed it could, my dear,” agreed his wife. “But unhappily it was a disaster. The rain this year—and it has stayed so damp. There were too many delays, you see. They ran out of funds, and no one else would invest, so those already having money in the concern had to—to add more, or lose everything.”

  “But—but if you had no more…?”

  “I borrowed,” said Mr. Van Lindsay, hoarsely. “And now the canal company has gone bankrupt. God knows how I ever shall be able to—to repay!”

  “My God!” whispered Lisette, her eyes a dark blur in her white face. “Whatever shall we do?”

  “Sell. Everything. House, furniture, carriages, horses—everything!”

  There was a brief, heavy silence, as they each envisioned this grim prospect. Her mouth dry and parched, Lisette asked, “And—if we do? Shall we have sufficient to start afresh? To buy a small house, perhaps, and live together still?”

  “We might,” said Mr. Van Lindsay heavily, “have enough to repay the man who holds my notes—who has kept me going through all this, with never a word of complaint, nor ever pressed me for payment.”

  Lisette gripped the back of a chair with both hands. “Justin Strand…”

  Humphrey swung around. “You knew?” he gasped. “Never say he told you?”

  “No. He did not tell me,” she said, thinking bitterly: Instead, he bragged of it to his friends! But she dared not further humiliate her father—not with him looking suddenly so old and drawn. Clinging very tightly to the chair, she wet her dry lips and croaked, “Perhaps I can help. Mr. Garvey is, I think, quite interested. Were he to offer—and I accepted—”

  “Much good that would do!” her mother said tartly. “Oh, we thought at first it would be a splendid match, but now we hear the gentleman is not near so plump in the pockets as we had supposed. As Timothy would say,” she added hastily. “There is a way, however, in which you could bring us about, Lisette. I, as you are aware, have excellent expectations of my Uncle Ian. The poor old gentleman cannot have many years left to him. If we could just keep our heads above water until then—but for these wretched debts.… At all events, another gentleman has expressed a deep interest in you, and has already spoken to your papa in the matter. He is—not quite of our class, I own, but—”

  Lisette threw one hand to her trembling mouth. “No, Mama!” she sobbed. “Not Justin Strand! Oh—please! To wed into that shamed family! To have to name Rachel Str—Rachel Leith my sister! I could not. Oh—I could not!”

  “Good God! What a Cheltenham tragedy!” snorted her father with considerable irritation. “The boy’s not that repulsive! He may not come near to young Leith in looks—or gallantry. Certainly not in lineage, sad to say. But, by gad, he’s a cut above—er—some.”

  “I would think,” Mrs. Van Lindsay put in coldly, “that any loving daughter would be glad of the power to rescue her family from ruin! Not act like some weak-kneed blancmanger when offered the chance.”

  “Ah, I do not, ma’am,” Lisette whispered, reaching out one hand in poignant appeal. “You know how I love you and Papa. How grateful I am for the m-many kindnesses you have shown me.”

  “Much you show it!” sniffed Philippa. “Years of uncomplaining self-sacrifice for the sake of our children! And—for what? Rejection! Abandonment! Oh—what bitter fruit!” And she dissolved into her handkerchief.

  Anguished, Lisette sobbed, “Mama—I beg of you—do not. Papa, there must be someone else? Suppose Mr. Vaughan should offer. Or—or Galen Hilby? They are both wealthy, and—”

  “A dozen men might offer,” said Mr. Van Lindsay, with barely repressed impatience, “but who could hold a candle to Strand? He’s come home as rich as Golden Ball, I collect. Besides, we cannot wait, Lisette. It must be soon. Strand will keep a quiet tongue, I am assured.” He added despondently, “If Garvey knew, then Prinny and all the Court would know I’d had to allow a nabob from an infer
ior house to tow a Van Lindsay out of the River Tick! I—I should never be able to hold my head up again!”

  Lisette looked prayerfully from one to the other. “Was it so dreadful to have borrowed from him?”

  Mrs. Van Lindsay muttered a miserable, “His mother was well born, but his sister Leith is of very low repute. And his papa was caught … cheating at cards!”

  “Yes! Yes!” said Lisette, gripping her hands in her eagerness. “Assuredly you would not wish me to marry into so wretched a house!”

  “Oh, he’s a good enough catch,” asserted Mr. Van Lindsay, hurriedly mending his fences. “Half the ladies in the ton are dropping the handkerchief for him!”

  “And it is quite a different matter to accept so eligible a bachelor as a bridegroom than to have it known he made us loans,” Philippa decreed regally. “His lineage is not so bad, I expect—just that wretched father. And his sister, but you’d likely seldom see her.”

  “I hear the Leiths reside in Berkshire pretty much all year round,” said Humphrey, treading closer. “Strand’s not a muckworm, m’dear, I’ll give him that. Likely he’d agree to a magnificent settlement!”

  Her brief hope shattered, Lisette stared blankly before her. Whatever had happened to all her hopes—her dreams of becoming the bride of a splendid fighting man like Tristram Leith? Camille Damon’s quiet words seemed to echo in her ears: “There is a time for pride…” For the sake of her loved ones, she must swallow her own. But she would not think of it now. Surely something must happen to save her. Surely some valiant gentleman would appear to rescue her from this horrid fate. Meanwhile …

  “Very well,” she said dully. “If Justin Strand offers, I—I will accept.”

  Chapter 4

  Justin Strand did not call in Portland Place next day, nor did he appear during the following week. Lisette’s nervous fears eased a little; to all outward appearances she was bright and happy, delighting the beaux who had sorely missed her during her “indisposition.” The most assiduous of these was James Garvey. He called at least once each day and was quick to notice that his reception, at least from the senior Van Lindsays, was cooler than had been accorded him previously, and that his fair Lisette occasionally seemed a trifle preoccupied. Mr. Garvey was a shrewd gentleman; he had waited a considerable time before contemplating so binding a step as matrimony. In Miss Van Lindsay, however, he thought to have found the ideal mate, and heiress, for everyone knew that her penny-pinching grandmama was rich as Croesus. He had thought to have a clear field, but the changed attitudes in Portland Place caused him some unease, and he proceeded to pursue his chosen bride with single-minded determination. Judith formed the habit of waiting for the florist’s cart to arrive on the street each day, whereupon she herself would bear the current offering to her sister. It was usually impressive, and on the following Wednesday morning consisted of an enormous bouquet of white roses.

  “Just like a wedding,” she sighed, delivering the flowers to Sanders and the card to Lisette. “I doubt you’ll need a shawl, dearest. It’s warm out.”

  Tying the pink satin ribbons of her fetching little bonnet, Lisette admired the roses, smiled at the message Mr. Garvey had inscribed on the card, and said, “How lovely. And how nice to see the sun. Have you your books? Is Norman to accompany us?”

  “No.” Judith giggled. “Mr. Worth is taking him to see the Elgin Marbles. He was grumpy as a bear when he heard Miss Lovell has a bad cold and will not come for my lessons today.”

  “If you was to ask me,” Sanders volunteered, “Miss Lovell should have never been allowed to go daily. A young lady needs a governess until she has made her come-out.”

  They all knew that Miss Lovell now lived at home and only came from ten until four each day because the Van Lindsays could no longer afford a resident governess. With a pang, Lisette thought that when she was wed Judith would be able to have a proper governess again. Aloud, she said, “I would think Mr. Worth might have offered to take you with them, dear.”

  “Go to a history lesson with my brother and his tutor?” squeaked Judith, incensed. “I should rather turn up my toes!”

  “And I suppose your brother taught you that vulgar expression! Come along, then. Do not forget your box.”

  Judith glanced at the box she had dropped on the bed. “Oh, it’s not mine. Another offering from one of your admirers, I suppose. It was on the hall table.”

  Lisette opened the small box. Inside was a simple bunch of violets. Again the card bore no message, only the name, Justin Derwent Strand. A coldness touched her, and she stared blankly at the fragrant blooms.

  Peering over her shoulder, Judith gave a scornful snort. “Strand! Who wants his old flowers? And if he is as rich as people say, one would think he could do better than that!”

  “If you was to ask me,” said Sanders, who had taken Mr. Garvey in dislike, “they are in better taste than some of the floral offerings that is brought here. And what’s more, it’s in very poor taste for a lady to look down her nose at a gift.”

  “Exactly so.” Lisette passed her the flowers. “Would you please put them in water for me, Sandy? Come, Judith.”

  It was indeed a bright morning, and their walk to the circulating library was enlivened by Judith’s account of the novel she returned. This gruesome tale delineated the horrors besetting a young girl who was taken from her convent by her indigent father and forced to marry one Sir Montague Knaresworth, a villain of such depravity as would freeze the blood. “You could not believe what poor Fiona endures at his hands!” said Judith dramatically. “In the end a brave gentleman befriends her and they run away together.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Lisette. “Does Mama know you read such things? It sounds most improper.”

  “Oh, but it is enthralling. If you would but read it, Lisette. Sir Montague must have been a veritable monster. I cried and cried. It was lovely. Poor Fiona! A lady is so helpless when she marries, is she not? I kept thinking of how fortunate Beatrice is to have wed someone as amiable as William.”

  Lisette’s smile faded. For a depressing moment she saw herself in Fiona’s role—forced into marriage with a man she despised.…

  The porter was swinging open the library doors, and they entered to find the large rooms redolent with the fragrances of coffee and perfumes, and humming with conversation. Deciding to exchange their books first and perhaps have some coffee afterwards, they proceeded to the counter and handed in their returns, then went to the bookcases at the side. The library was enjoying a thriving business. Quite apart from the convivial groups gathered about the tables enjoying their coffee or tea, many patrons browsed among the bookcases, and Lisette soon found herself separated from Judith. Moments later, she was hailed by a familiar voice and found the dashing Earl of Harland at her elbow. Harland, who was always willing to chat with a pretty girl, spent some moments discussing the recent marriage of his son, Viscount Lucian St. Clair, and the charm of the Damon ball. They were considering the merits of a new book of verse that had been highly recommended to Lisette, when she became aware of a hovering presence and glanced around to meet a pair of shy hazel eyes and a rather flushed young face. “Lord Bolster.” She smiled, holding out her hand. “How do you do? I see you have not brought your dog this time.”

  “Br-Br, Br-Br- He’s outside,” he gulped, shooting a glance at Harland’s impassive features. “V-v-very n-nice to me-meet you again, M-Miss Van Lindsay.” Even more flushed, he persisted doggedly. “H-he-hear he m-made himself a c-c-blasted nuisance of himself in y’house. Humble apol-apologies.”

  She assured him Brutus had been no trouble at all. “I imagine he would be a perfectly splendid watchdog, sir.”

  His lordship appeared gratified, but about to essay another speech, was dismayed by a sudden wild outburst of barking and a few assorted shrieks from outside. Paling, he stammered an apology and left them.

  Lisette turned amused eyes to the Earl. “I hope he may not be hauled off by the Watch.”

 
“I hope not, poor fellow. He has trouble enough. But, I suppose you know about him.”

  “I knew he was wounded at Badajoz. And that he seems a very nice young man.”

  “Oh, Jeremy’s a splendid fellow. One of my son’s closest friends, I’m happy to say. He was speaking quite well again until recently. But when he and Amanda ended their engagement…” He sighed. “When Jeremy is upset, his stammering intensifies.”

  “What a pity. Indeed, I think it the saddest thing, for they would make such a delightful couple.”

  “Not sad, ma’am. Ridiculous. The only thing keeping them apart is my niece’s totally unwarranted sense of unworthiness. One fails to convince her that people hold her blameless. The people who matter, at all events.”

  An even louder burst of barking sent Harland’s worried glance to the door. “Your pardon, Miss Van Lindsay. I’d best go. Bolster may need a spokesman.” He bowed over her hand, and departed.

  It was time for her to leave also, but there was no sign of Judith. Suspecting her sister had been lured outside by the commotion, Lisette collected her books, went to the counter, and thence to the outer doors. Sure enough, Judith and Bolster were standing on the flagway, engaged in earnest conversation, Judith caressing the dog’s unhandsome head while he panted at her with a decidedly crocodilian smile. Several elderly ladies inched past uneasily. Of Lord Harland there was no sign, but as she came up with them, Lisette was mildly surprised to hear Bolster extolling the virtues of his pet with scarcely a stammer.

  “Oh, there you are, dear,” said Judith. “I’ve been waiting this age. You know Lord Bolster, do you not? And is not Brutus delicious? I am permitted to hold the leash while we walk home.”

  Recalling Judith’s previous reaction to the “delicious” canine, Lisette blinked, but said with a smile, “How kind in you, sir. I fancy we will go quite unmolested, for no one would dare steal our books with you and Brutus guarding us.”