Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  With an exaggerated shudder, Shell retaliated, “Lor’! I’m all of a quiver. You best run back ’ome wi’ yer dainty bruvver wot hides a’hind bein’ Quality so ’e don’t ’ave ter face up ter the likes of us.”

  Strand regarded him thoughtfully.

  “Ar,” put in another youth with protruding teeth and a bitter expression. “Run orf an’ ’ide—like y’been doin’ all week. Scared t’set foot off’n yer big brother’s land, ain’cha!” He spat perilously close to Strand’s arm. “Quality!” he jeered, and donated a profane assessment of the aristocracy.

  A little light began to dance in Strand’s eyes. He dismounted and walked over to tie Brandy’s reins to a branch. “You will recall,” he reminded them, “that I said I would hear you out were you courteous. You are not courteous. Norman, d’you think we can beat some manners into the heads of these clods?”

  To their credit, not one of them attempted to rush him until Norman had fairly leapt from the saddle. Then, the four toughs sprang into the attack.

  It seemed, for a while, an uneven battle, heavily balanced in favour of the trespassers. Strand, however, had an odd way of fighting, for he sprang in and out, blocking and feinting with his left, unleashing his right only occasionally, but to astonishing purpose. Shell was the first to feel the power of that deadly right, and he soared backwards to lie groaning on the turf. Norman’s stringent diet, taxing walks, and early rides stood him in such good stead that he was inwardly amazed. So were his opponents, and as another man reeled from the fray, Strand laughed cheerily. “Even odds, Norm. Good work!” Even as he spoke, his boot slipped on the wet turf, and he staggered, momentarily off balance. Unversed in the rules of The Game, the burly young man in the tattered brocaded waistcoat rammed home a solid left that smashed Strand to his knees. With a cry of rage Norman jumped forward, decked the waistcoat, turned back to his own challenger, and was in turn levelled by a flush hit to the jaw. As Norman went down, Strand got up, and the last survivor was neatly folded in half by the edge of Strand’s left hand whipping across his midsection. His right cheekbone lurid, Strand bent over Norman. “You all right, old chap?”

  Panting, Norman tried to sit up and fell back again. “Jove…” he gasped happily. “What a—jolly good—scrap.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Strand manipulated his jaw carefully, decided it was intact, and went over to the sprawled Shell. “Your trouble, friend,” he vouchsafed, “is drink. Too much of it. You’d do quite well, otherwise.” He extended a hand. Shell took it and pulled himself to a sitting position.

  “Guv’nor,” he groaned. “Where’d you learn to ’it like that? A skinny gent like you?”

  “Harrow,” Strand grinned. “You would be surprised how miserable life can be for a boy who’s not all brawn. If you’re to survive, you learn fast.”

  “That last ’un,” moaned Strand’s final opponent, massaging his painful middle, “didn’t come from no ’arrow! More like a chap I see in Singapore once.”

  “I say!” cried Norman. “Was you in the Navy, Bill?”

  Bill allowed as he had been, but had been demobilized. “Is that where you learned that trick, sir?” he asked, eyeing Strand in awe.

  “No. India. Are you all ex-servicemen?”

  Shell got to his feet. “I was a rifleman, sir. Jim and Bob was artillery.” Still rubbing his chin, he muttered bitterly, “Kicked us out, they did. No pension. No work. Can’t even afford ter get ’itched up—wot girl’d ’ave us?”

  Strand said, “I cannot answer for the girls, but it happens that I need some men. What kind of work can you do?”

  At once they were crowding around him, their previous hostility forgotten, their eyes eager at this new hope. In very short order Strand had taken on four new men, who were instructed to report to Mr. Connaught at nine o’clock next morning. “One thing,” he cautioned, mounting up and wheeling his horse, “I’ll not tolerate a drunkard. Do your drinking in the time you do not work, if you must. But let me catch you gin-raddled on my property, and you’ll never work for me again. Norman, have you anything to say to these men?”

  Norman said earnestly, “I honestly did not get that buss, Shell.”

  The big man grinned. “Know y’didn’t, Mr. Van Lindsay. We was just tryin’. A man gets a bit desprit when ’e’s allus ’ungry.”

  Riding off beside his brother-in-law, Norman said fervently, “I know just what he means!”

  * * *

  Dinner that night was the merriest meal they’d yet enjoyed together. The battle had melted away all barriers between Strand and Norman and, rather typically, the admiration the boy had been fighting for some time now sprang to full flower and he became so enthused in his description of Strand’s prowess in the noble art of fisticuffs that his exasperated brother-in-law was at last compelled to warn him to desist else he’d take him out to the barn next morning and demonstrate some of the “art” he’d held back from employing today. The girls, who had watched the fight from a stand of trees, were also full of admiration for the warriors, and, Lisette approving, Strand had permitted his frustrated chef to prepare an excellent meal, requiring only that Norman and Judith deal with it sparingly.

  Afterwards, they played jackstraws in the lounge, Strand’s thin fingers proving amazingly nimble at the game, although Judith won, her steadier hand prevailing in the last taut moments. It had been a close match, taking longer than they’d anticipated. By the time it was done, the teatray was brought in and within half an hour Strand was lighting Lisette’s candle for her while one of the maids assisted Fisher to extinguish the lamps and lock up for the night.

  Humming as she went into her bedchamber, Lisette was abruptly silenced. A great red rose lay on her pillow. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat as she stared blindly at the glowing bloom. Behind her, Denise giggled and spread her prettiest negligee on the bed.

  By the time the maid left her, Lisette was gratified by the knowledge that she looked charmingly in the pink nightgown, her dark hair waving softly beside the dainty lace cap. Denise had extinguished all the candles and the flickering light from the fire played softly about the great room. Lisette leaned back against her pillows, hands clasped as they had been once before when she awaited her unwanted husband. She was not quite so nervous tonight. Strand had been more than kind—more than patient. Although, she thought defensively, he had only himself to blame both for having left her on their wedding night, and for rushing into her boudoir in such a rage he’d tripped and broken his hand. She smiled faintly and glanced to the side. Brutus was noticeable by his absence.

  Time passed, and her apprehension began to mount. Strand would be gentle with her, of that she was quite sure, but to hope for a little romance, a few ardent words of love, was to ask too much of so matter-of-fact a gentleman. Only, how precious it would be to be approached with adoration … with words holding even a trace of the sweetness poor James Garvey had penned.

  The door opened softly. Strand came in and closed it behind him. The long dressing gown he wore was dark red and made him look very pale. He walked to the end of the bed and stood there for a moment, staring at his beautiful bride, his expression veiled by the shadows. Her breath fluttering in her throat, her palms damp, Lisette could not know how his heart thundered or how his fine hands trembled with nervousness. She waited hopefully for a word of affection.

  Strand untied the sash of his dressing gown. “You must,” he said in a casual tone, “think me a sorry bridegroom only now to be able to—to come to you.”

  Lisette swallowed, and managed, “N-no. And—thank you for the rose.”

  He went over to blow out the solitary candle he had brought with him. Climbing into the bed, he paused, leaning on one elbow and gazing down into his bride’s huge, terrified eyes.

  As he bent to kiss her, a desolate and distant howling arose from the direction of the stables.

  Justin Strand smiled grimly. “Not this time, Brutus,” he murmured. “Not this time!”

  Cha
pter 11

  In anticipation of the visit to London, Judith and Miss Wallace, Lisette’s rather formidable dresser, put their heads together over periodicals and pattern cards, spending hours closeted together while Judith was instructed as to which fabric might be purchased for which style. Her experience at the wedding with the plain gown Strand had selected and the compliments it had won her had taught her much. Now, with Judith’s figure much improved, Miss Wallace said they could afford to be a little less spartan, and Judith plunged happily into a glorious world of India muslins, cambrics and gauzes, ribbons and frills and laces, French knots and rosettes, and all the delicious accessories for which Strand appeared perfectly willing—as a disgusted Norman phrased it—“to stand the huff.”

  Norman, meanwhile, having discovered that Strand was fairly knowledgeable in matters of ships and shipping, buttonholed his brother-in-law to the extent that sometimes an entire day would pass during which Lisette saw neither. One rainy afternoon, having been thus abandoned, she was writing a letter in the book room, with Brutus snoring deafeningly before the fire, when the abrupt cessation of all sound attracted her attention. She glanced around. Brutus was sitting bolt upright, staring out of the low window that gave onto the front drivepath. Even as she watched, he crouched and began to creep backwards in obvious terror. Frightened, Lisette came to her feet. A firm hand touched her shoulder, and she gave a gasp of relief to find Strand beside her. “Thank heaven!” she whispered. “He sees something! Justin—I’m afraid.”

  He slipped one arm about her and, with his free hand, slid open a drawer and took up a small brass-mounted pistol. Norman, coming in behind him, said an alarmed, “What is it, sir?”

  “I’m not sure,” Strand answered quietly. “Brutus has spotted something. Look at him.”

  “By Jupiter! He’s scared to death. What d’you mean to do?”

  “There’s been someone hanging about of late, I think. Take care of your sister. I’m going to have a look.” He deposited his trembling wife in her brother’s arms and took a stride towards the window.

  “No!” Lisette rushed to throw her arms about him. “Please! Do not!”

  Touched, he looked down at the top of her glossy head, pressed against the lapel of his jacket. Then he said, “Better to find out now, love,” and gently detaching her, flung open the window.

  A bluster of wind and rain swept the draperies inwards and sent Lisette’s letter fluttering to the rug. She ran forward, but Norman restrained her. Astonished, she glanced up. There was a new purpose to his eyes, a new set to his jaw, and by heaven but he was strong, his hands holding her in a grip there was no escaping. Her eyes flashed to Justin’s straight, lithe figure as he jumped down from the porch and sprinted across the lawn. My God! she thought, he is a perfect target!

  The thought had no sooner flashed across her mind than Strand checked, crouched in an attitude of intense concentration, then flung up his arm and fired. She uttered a small shriek of fright and, tearing at her brother’s restraining hand, implored, “Go to him! For pity’s sake! Go to him!”

  Norman hesitated. “He’ll have my ears,” he muttered but left her and clambered through the window. He was about to run into the rain when Strand, who had walked towards a clump of aspens, began to hurry back to the house, the smoking pistol in one hand and a small branch in the other. He brushed aside Norman’s anxious enquiries and swung easily through the window.

  “Now I shall have to clean the stupid thing,” he remarked, tossing the pistol onto the reference table.

  Lisette quavered, “Are you all right? Who was it?”

  “I’m perfectly all right.” He shot her a grateful, if wet, smile. “Thank you for being concerned.

  She stiffened. “Concerned? What on earth would you expect?”

  “Brutus,” called Strand. “You may come out now.”

  The only response was a faint whimper from a periodical that the wind had also deposited on the carpet. Brutus, having succeeded in burying his head under this, apparently believed himself securely hidden and made no attempt to come forth. Strand bent down and raised the periodical while Norman and Lisette exchanged baffled glances. Strand held the branch in front of the dog’s craven eyes. “Look,” said he. “It is quite dead.”

  Brutus glanced at the “defunct” branch, gave a yelp, and tried to hide under Strand’s shoe. Strand sighed, shrugged, and replaced the periodical.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Norman closed the window and chortled, “What the deuce…?”

  Strand waved the branch. “He won’t believe it’s dead,” he said solemnly, ignoring his wife’s indignation.

  Norman took up the branch. “By thunder, but it is!” He held up one leaf, a bullet hole squarely through the centre. “Look here, Lisette! Jolly fine shooting, Strand. Do you seriously tell us that great leviathan is afraid of leaves?”

  “Oh, no. He employs a certain amount of selectivity. Only aspens—when they flutter. And the wind came up, you see. He really is terrified of ’em. That’s why I had to send him to Bolster, in town. Fewer aspens.”

  Norman went off into peals of laughter, and Lisette, trying not to smile, said sternly, “I collect you care not that you frightened me—us—to death?”

  He looked at her, his eyes dancing. “I tried to tell you about our craven canine after I broke my hand, but I could see you would not believe me. And, as a matter of fact—” he hesitated, then added awkwardly, “I care very much.”

  For a moment Lisette could not seem to tear her eyes from his steady blue gaze. Then, a horn summoned imperiously, the sound breaking a hush that seemed to have held them all mute. “You see?” she said. “He did hear something! How you malign that poor animal! If the truth be told, sir—”

  “Justin,” he murmured whimsically. “Plain Justin.”

  She chuckled, then a familiar voice was upraised in bitter complaint. “It is Grandmama!” she cried joyously, and ran to the front door, Strand following.

  Secure in the knowledge that several humans were before him, Brutus boldly left his refuge and rushed into the hall, barking furiously. Norman picked up the periodical and stared down at it unseeingly, his eyes troubled. He had dismissed Judith’s notions as being the babblings of a romantical schoolgirl, but dashed if he wasn’t beginning to think she had the right of the situation. He sighed and put the periodical on the table. “Pity,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Comfortably settled before the drawing room fire, Lady Bayes-Copeland damned the weather, the deplorable state of England’s roads, and the fact that it had been necessary for her guard to fire a shot over the heads of several unsavoury looking customers who had attempted to stop her coach.

  Strand had already noticed that the old lady, despite her usual ferocity, looked rather pale. She had suffered quite a shock, he realized, and therefore said lightly, “A mistake, I fancy, ma’am.”

  “Mistake?” she bristled. “What d’ye mean, Strand? They saw my coach, and—”

  “And probably thought it was the Royal Mail,” he said with a twinkle.

  Norman and Judith laughed, but Lisette regarded her husband apprehensively. Her grandmama did not give him the setdown he justly deserved, however. “You may jest,” she said angrily, “but with all this riffraff littering the country and turning their hands to violence and thievery rather than honest work, we are none of us safe!”

  For once, the laughter that invariably lurked at the back of Strand’s eyes disappeared. He said with respect but firmness, “Your pardon, my lady, but that same riffraff fought and died by the thousands for England. That same riffraff has been cut off by an ungrateful government with neither pension nor hope, and how many of the poor devils have died of their wounds in want and misery, I shudder to think. They are the greatest potential resource England has. If the government would offer them work, or—”

  “Work!” the old lady snorted ferociously. “Who’s to pay for this work? Who can pay wages for thousands of shiftless vagrants in t
hese bad times?”

  “Had Bonaparte invaded as he threatened, ma’am,” he argued quietly, “none of us would have a roof over our heads, and perhaps not a head to cover! They preserved our way of life, yet how many will now lift a hand to help them? And we’ve no guarantee of safety in this little island. There are still fanatical despots willing to plunge us into another bloodbath, as my sister and brother-in-law can attest!”

  Lisette turned a startled face to him, and Norman asked, “What’s this, sir? Another Gunpowder Plot?”

  “You are not so far wrong,” Strand nodded. “Tristram says little of it. I suspect he’s been ordered to remain silent, but I do know that he and Devenish escaped France by the skin of their teeth. Dev, in fact, will likely limp for the rest of his life by reason of one of Claude Sanguinet’s crossbow bolts.”

  “Good heavens!” gasped Lisette. “Was not Claude Sanguinet the gentleman to whom Rachel was betrothed?”

  “He was. And a more vicious fanatic has not been born. Leith risked his life to bring Rachel safely away. It has all been kept very quiet, but we’ve not heard the last of Sanguinet, I’ll be bound.”

  “Very likely,” said my lady irascibly. “But I did not come all this way to be scared by your tales of some puffed-up Frenchman. I understand you’ve a pianoforte, Strand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But—”

  “Do not ‘but’ me, young fella! I have been compelled to leave hearth and home and journey all this way to your ridiculous Grecian atrocity, so as to see my grandchildren. I demand some recompense!”

  He hesitated, stood, and crossing to her side, bent to drop a kiss on her withered cheek.

  With a cackle of laughter she shook her cane at him. “Naughty rogue! That was not what I meant.”

  “Why then, I shall take it back,” he grinned, bending again.

  She seized him by both ears, pulled him close, and bussed him heartily. “Lisette,” she said, still smiling up at Strand, “I like your husband. Now, no more excuses, sir. After dinner—I will have music. Do you hear, Lisette?”