Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  The old lady gave Charity a gentle push, and she came to her feet and went shyly off with him.

  “That was indeed kind,” said Lady Bayes-Copeland. “I make no doubt Hilby knows of their reputation. Were you really unaware of her history, child?”

  “Totally. Poor little thing, how frail she is. Grandmama, did you know?”

  She was not destined to receive a reply, for Strand was bearing down on them. She had quite forgotten her plot to evade him, and, chagrined, viewed him with bleak eyes.

  “I collect you’ve come to take her away from me,” grumbled the old lady.

  “In point of fact,” he said gravely, “I’ve come to beg your granddaughter to hold me excused.”

  He would! The sly beast! “A more alluring partner, sir?” she said, in a tone that sent the old lady’s glance flashing to her.

  “If the lady will so honour me,” he said, bowing low.

  “G-Grandmama?” gasped Lisette. “She certainly cannot—”

  “Speak for yourself, gal!” My lady held up one hand. Strand took it and assisted her to her feet. “Here!” She thrust her cane at Lisette and threw a saucy grin up at her gallant, murmuring as she slipped her hand onto his arm, “It had best be a very slow waltz, lad.”

  “I shall likely have my work cut out to keep up with you,” he answered, and summoned the nearest footman. He sent the man off to the leader of the orchestra, and a few seconds later a fanfare preceded the introduction to a waltz. My lady Bayes-Copeland groped for her train, and one mittened hand lifted to Strand’s shoulder. “Come on then, you young devil,” she breathed.

  He said belatedly, “I should perhaps have warned you that I am not a very good dancer.”

  “All you have to do,” she said reassuringly, “is to take it slowly. And hold me up.”

  So he did. The orchestra played at a measured tempo that at first baffled other dancers. The Duke of Vaille, seeing Strand and his partner, at once left the floor and others followed, moving back to join the gathering onlookers until only a thin young man and a very old and regal lady, who had not been known to dance for years, waltzed before them all.

  A lump came into Lisette’s throat. How tiny was the dear little soul, but with what proud grace she moved. Strand held her as though she were fashioned of finest porcelain, but he was smiling and talking to her, and once she laughed merrily.

  They circled the floor once and then slowed, and the maestro at once ordered a final majestic chord. Amid a storm of applause, Strand made his bow, then steadied his partner as she rose from a rather wobbly curtsey. Fanning herself and vowing breathlessly she’d not enjoyed herself so much in an age, and why people should get into such a taking she could not comprehend, Lady Bayes-Copeland was escorted in triumph to a sofa, where Mr. Van Lindsay awaited her, holding a glass of wine.

  Once more the orchestra played the introduction to the waltz. Strand glanced to Lisette. She moved smilingly towards him. Her unwanted fiancé had brought happy stars to the old lady’s eyes; almost she could feel a fondness for him.

  “La!” Beatrice sniggered. “But how monstrous clever he is. He has won his Lizzie back again!”

  * * *

  Life at the imposing house on Portland Place took on the aspects of a miniature Bedlam. Wedding gifts began to arrive, and notes of thanks must be written; the flowers selected for the bouquets were suddenly unobtainable due to the cold weather, and others had, at the last minute, to be ordered; Lisette’s jewelled slippers were found to be a size too large, and another last-minute substitution was necessitated; the flower girl fell ill with measles, and her frock did not fit the child who happily took her place. And on top of all the countless and inevitable frustrations that have ever bedevilled brides and their families, Timothy Van Lindsay had not come home. He arrived only two days before the wedding, a typical Captain of the famous Light Bobs; sturdily built, with broad shoulders, muscular legs, the dark colouring that characterized his house, and calm eyes that, like those of his friend Harry Redmond, were inclined to narrow as though still countering the glare of the Spanish sun.

  Norman spotted his hackney from the drawing room windows, and his shouts of excitement roused the house and sent the occupants running out onto the front steps to welcome their soldier home. Several neighbours also hastened to join the celebrants, and it was quite some time before the joyous tumult quieted to the point where Timothy was able to steal upstairs and lounge comfortably in the chair in Lisette’s bedchamber, as he’d been wont to do whenever he was at home.

  He pulled a cheroot from his case and held it up enquiringly. Receiving her permission, he lighted it, leaned back luxuriously, and invited, “Come along, child. Tell old Tim the whole story. Why Strand?”

  Perversely, for she had longed for this moment, she countered, “Why not?”

  “You ain’t exactly deep in love. A little bird told me you was only recently being courted by James Garvey. Was Strand aware?”

  She gave a minuscule shrug. “Much he cares! Do you know him, dear?”

  “Very slightly. He was at Harrow a year behind me. He seemed a decent enough sort, in spite of—” He paused, contemplating the glowing end of his cheroot. “He’s the last type I’d have thought you would choose. And if you do not love him—”

  “Love him!” she interposed. “He is the most odious, managing, braggadocio individual I ever met!”

  “Good God!” he expostulated with a grin. “You really don’t love him! Must I go and convince him to withdraw his offer?”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping forlornly. “Heaven forbid.”

  “I see. No, I do not see. Best tell me.”

  So she did. It took some time and, before she was halfway through, she had made herself feel victimized to the point that she was fighting tears.

  Her brother listened without interruption, then muttered, “Egad! I’d no idea my father was in so deep. I wish I could help. I must say I think it jolly noble of you to sacrifice yourself. Only…” he hesitated.

  “Only—what?” Lisette sniffed, blowing her nose.

  “Only, you know, I cannot help thinking that—er—that Strand is being sacrificed, too.”

  Raging, she whirled on him. “Oh! He is getting what he paid for! Our unblemished name to restore his own shamed one. Which is all he wants. And how typical that you would care more for a—a stranger than your own sister, just because he is a man!” Timothy blinked his surprise at this vehement outburst, but Lisette rushed on, “Does it mean nothing to you that he cares not a button for me? And that Rachel Leith is his sister?”

  “Which brings us to another point,” said Timothy, dryly. His tone of voice was not unfamiliar to his men, but Lisette had never heard it before. Deflated, she watched him in sudden apprehension. “Where does Leith fit into all this?” he asked.

  A dozen evasive answers sprang to mind, but there was a deep affection between them; too deep for her to attempt to pull the wool over his eyes. She turned away and, gazing out at the city, said quietly, “He will become my brother-in-law, of course. Is that not delicious, Tim?”

  He was briefly silent, then stood to rest a large hand comfortingly on her shoulder. “I’ll have a word with Papa and with Strand. We will get you out of this, somehow.”

  “No.” She nestled her cheek against his hand. “It’s no good, do you not see? And at all events, Leith is married now. Happily, I gather.”

  The Captain scowled and returned to his chair, wondering why people always loved the wrong people. Leith must have been blind not to return the affection of this beautiful girl. Lisette might be a little high in the instep, but she’d a heart of gold for all that and, properly handled, would make some lucky man a splendid wife. “I like Leith,” he grunted. “But, by God, if I thought…”

  “Do not. He never by the slightest inference suggested a betrothal. If I was so foolish as to—to attach more importance to our friendship than he intended, I have no one to blame but myself. It just seems a singularly bitte
r twist of fate that I must now acknowledge his wife as … as my sister-in-law.” She saw sympathy come into his eyes and added, “Never mind. Grandmama said I may yet find my own true love—quite apart from my marriage. As Emily Cowper has done. Now why do you glower, sir? This is 1816, after all.”

  “True,” nodded Van Lindsay. “But, do you know, little sister, were I in your shoes, I do not think I’d try that game on Justin Strand.”

  Chapter 7

  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!