The valet’s bushy eyebrows lifted, and his lips tightened. It was comment enough.
“Oh!” groaned Strand. “Had I but known in India that you were going to be such a confounded mother hen! You are angered because I did not give over yesterday when you bade me, is that it?”
“You were soaked, sir.” Since it was now out in the open, the valet applied more lather to his master’s upper lip with rather unnecessary vehemence, so that Strand sneezed. He then bent a grim stare on his victim and nodded, “Quite so, sir. You’ve took a chill is what.”
“Damn you! You splashed soap up my nose is all!”
The indignation in the blue eyes brought a softening to Green’s brown ones. “Sir, your skin is very warm, and—”
“Aye. I’m alive! Not the bloodless corpse you will make of me do you not cease brandishing that razor about! Have done, man! I feel splendid. Besides, I mean only to see Silvering Sails varnished and I’m off! I’ll not wait to have the sails fitted. I’ll send my amateur shipwrights to convey them here, but we’ll allow the professionals to attend to that business. There, does that suit your Finickyness?”
Green bowed, and his demeanour became of polar propriety. Aware that he was in disgrace, Strand cursed him roundly, teased him, and finally, unleashing the brilliant grin the valet was never able to withstand, brought him neatly around his thumb. He agreed to a request that he at once return to the house should it start to rain again, and even submitted to having a wool scarf wrapped around his throat. Whistling cheerily, he then strode outside, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his head ached annoyingly.
Watching that jaunty stride, Green pursed his lips. “I doubt,” he muttered, “that scarf will stay in place above five minutes.”
He was right. However, since the sun now smiled down on drenched Sussex, awaking the dancing light of the river and bringing a welcome warmth to the damp air, Green ceased to be quite as concerned and went about his own affairs.
With his customary zeal, Strand threw himself into the final sanding and varnishing of the rails, so that he was soon very warm indeed and his jacket was shortly tossed down on the deck beside his scarf. The work went along well, and the final brush stroke was applied shortly after noon. The little crew gathered up their materials and repaired to the dock, turning back to survey the results of their labours. Strand mopped perspiration from his brow and joined the men in a cheer. The battered and burnt old hulk that had occupied the barn was now, to his eyes at least, a splendid sight, the cabin rebuilt and bright with white paint trimmed in yellow, the decks immaculate, the masts tall and proud and, thanks to a talented village artist, the name tastefully emblazoned on bow and stern.
Strand told Shell and the men to report back to Mr. Connaught, who would instruct them in the matter of transporting the sails, and they moved off, passing Best, who came up and, surveying the craft with a less loving eye, suggested that she appeared to lean to the right a bit. “Just a teensy bit, mind.”
“There is,” said Strand loftily, “a deal of work remaining to be done.”
“Ar, fer ye got to get something to hang on they masts,” observed the groom knowledgeably. “Ship cannot sail ’thout sails. Not nohow.”
“But she can drift, blast it!” Strand exclaimed, and sprang quickly to secure the aft mooring line that had worked loose, probably by reason of the surging of the rain-swollen river invading even this quiet inlet. By the time he finished, he was considerably warmer and irked by reason of having forgetfully rested his hand on the newly varnished rail. Straightening, he was dismayed by a sudden chill that caused him to shiver violently. He groaned and cursed his frustration. Green had been right as usual. He’d spent altogether too much time in the rain, but—
“Pssst! You deef, or wot is it?”
Turning sharply at this, Strand discovered a small but very pugnacious-appearing personage who scanned him narrowly.
“I’ll be gormed if you ain’t shot the cat!” observed this youthful apparition with considerable righteousness. “And ’fore noon, too! ’Ere, you best take care, my cove! You’ll be proper lurched if old swivel nose catches you wiv a ball o’ fire!”
Not unfamiliar with cant, and aware he also presented a most inelegant appearance, Strand grinned and vouchsafed the information that, contrary to the belief held by his visitor, he was not in the least over the oar.
“Garn!” scoffed the boy derisively. “You’re clean raddled, you is!” He ran a shrewd eye over Strand’s dirty and occasionally varnished shirt and ragged old breeches and shoes and, concealing his incredulity, stepped closer, and lowering his voice asked, “Want to earn a borde? Good clean work. Nuthink smoky. All y’got t’do is take a writing to ’er nibs up in the palace yonder.”
Something in Strand’s eyes became very still. “Do you mean Mrs. Strand?”
“‘Course! Didya fink I meant the Queen o’ Sheba? ’Ere”—a grubby, folded paper was thrust out—“take it. And you wanta be cagey-like. It’s—er—” the small countenance twisted into a leering smile that was ageless, “It’s from ‘A Friend’ as they say. See?”
Strand’s gaze travelled from the wizened face that had seen too much of evil to the paper he held. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I see.”
“Orl right.” The boy dug into his pocket, unearthed a shilling, and handed it over reluctantly. “I bin ’anging about all mornin’. Tried to get it ter the ’ouse, but ol’ swivel nose—Mr. Green to you, my cove—was allus about. Don’t ferget now. Cagey-like. Fer the lady, and no one else, eh?”
Strand nodded and, the smile quite gone from his eyes, agreed to be cagey.
When he reached the Dutch door, Green swung it open for him. “Good gracious, sir! You’ll be wanting to bathe. I—”
“Tell Best to saddle Brandy,” Strand interposed shortly, and strode past.
Staring, Green protested, “But—”
“At once!” Strand flung over his shoulder. “I must return to the Hall. Follow me as soon as you’ve packed.”
Green knew the tone and scurried for the stables. The cat, he thought, was in with the chicks. Though why, he could not guess.
Strand washed hurriedly. Green came to him then and silently assisted him to change clothes in record time. One look at that bleak expression had frozen the valet’s final attempt to reason with his master, nor did he request to rush with the packing and accompany Strand back to the Hall. He knew he would be refused.
Once in the saddle, Strand rode out at the gallop. He avoided roads and by-ways and headed straight across country, violating several warnings anent trespassing as he sent Brandy to the northeast. He had been riding for some time when he felt the chestnut stagger. Appalled, he reined up. The horse was lathered and breathing hard. Enraged with himself, Strand dismounted and walked until the pleasant structure that was The Pines hove into view. He handed Brandy over to the ostler, flushing slightly because of the amazement in the man’s eyes. The parlour of the usually cosy inn was positively frigid. Mr. Drye, hastening to welcome his favourite customer, was checked by the jut of the chin and the thin, hard line of the mouth. “Alone today, sir?” he said mildly. “If you’d care to sit here at the window, Mrs. Drye will have some—”
“I’ll take the table by the fire,” said Strand. “It’s blasted well freezing in here, Drye.”
The host blinked. He had lit the fire only because the walls were almost two feet thick and tended to be clammy of a morning. Already, two travellers had complained of the heat in the low-ceilinged room. Showing Strand to the table he had requested, Drye poked the logs into higher blaze and went into the kitchen, fanning himself
Left alone, Strand contemplated the hearth. It would, he told himself, be despicable to read the letter he carried. It would be utterly disloyal to pay heed to the insinuations of that grubby little boy with his too-wise eyes and leering mouth. If Garvey still pursued Lisette it was only to be expected, was it not? And he had, after all, not yet begun his own campaign to win his bride. He had
no right … no right at all.…
He drew a hand across his eyes, wishing his confounded head would stop aching so. How the letter came from his pocket to the table, he could not have told. But it was there. Creased and none too clean. Mocking him. Daring him to read it. Tempting him to dishonour.
He was relieved when Drye came back to set soup and bread before him. The hot soup warmed him a little, but the bread seemed to stick in his throat. And ever as he ate, the greyish edge of the letter peeped from beneath the breadboard as though it whispered, “Take me up. See the message I have for her. Take me up—if you are man enough!” But he would not. He was not that base. Not yet, by heaven!
“Oh, your pardon, sir!” The serving maid set down a tankard of ale at the same instant Strand reached for the salt. “Now look what I’ve gone and done!” she gasped, using her apron to wipe the splashed table. “Oh! All over your letter it do be! Let me…” She dabbed anxiously at the paper, Drye running over to add his own efforts and apologies.
“Oh, it is nothing! Nothing!” said Strand pettishly. “Have done, man!”
Drye caught the girl’s surprised eye and jerked his head meaningfully and they retreated to the kitchen.
His fingers trembling, Strand took up the letter. It was not very wet, but the ink might smudge. He would dry it at the fire. The blasted seal was already loosened and, perhaps, did he spread it, it would dry faster.
He unfolded it and held it to the flames, resolutely keeping the writing turned away from him. But he could not keep his eyes from that horribly tempting page, and with the glow of the fire behind it, the words began to be clear. One word fairly jumped out at him … Leith. Leith! Muttering a curse, he snatched up the page, and read:
Dearest beloved—[Strand swore]
You married Strand reluctantly, and knowing you had my heart. Nor did I feel constrained from pursuing you, since I held his “courtship,” if one can call it that, to be dishonourable.
I cannot condone what you now mean to do (and do not ask how I learned of it, for I’ll not betray a confidence). I entreat you to abandon your plans. I know you have long nourished a tendre for Tristram Leith, but do not, I beg of you, go to him! To do so can only bring heartbreak upon the Leiths, more and perhaps fatal rage from your unpredictable husband, and grief to—
Yrs, forever,
Garvey
* * *
Lisette’s original intention to go straight to her parents’ home on Portland Place was abandoned when she realized this must necessitate further delays. Her need to talk with Charity had become of such importance that all else must be set aside, and to that end when they at last came into Mayfair late next morning, she directed her coachman to drive straight to Berkeley Square and the residence of Tristram Leith’s uncle, the Earl of Mayne-Waring.
Being a well-bred individual, with long years of experience in his profession, the butler who opened the door of the impressive mansion evinced not the slightest surprise upon discovering a morning caller upon the porch, with behind her an extremely muddied travelling coach complete with coachman, groom, and what appeared to be an abigail peeping from the rain-beaded window. He bowed deferentially to Mrs. Strand and imparted his regret that neither Mrs. Leith nor Miss Strand was in Town, they and Lady Mayne-Waring having gone down to spend a week or two with Lord and Lady Moulton in Sussex.
Lisette could have wept her frustration. Greenwings, the Moultons’ lovely old country home, was not above five and twenty miles southeast of Strand Hall! These three miserable days had been wasted in searching for a girl who had all the time been only three hours’ drive from home! She thanked the butler, returned to her carriage, and instructed the coachman to proceed to Portland Place.
* * *
Lord Jeremy Bolster was despondent. For three days his frenzied pursuit of Lisette Strand had all but banished his own problems from his mind. This morning, however, he had reached Town and learned from his valet, an unfailingly reliable source, that only an hour since Mrs. Justin Strand had called briefly at the mansion of the Earl of Mayne-Waring, and then proceeded to the home of her parents. The danger was, it would appear, past. Bolster was nothing if not thorough, however, and so it was that he strolled up Stratton Street, his heart as heavy as his steps.
The porter admitted him to number 15, and he climbed the stairs to Devenish’s rooms. The door was opened by an impressive valet who advised that his master was not presently at home, but expected to return before noon so as to change his clothes for an afternoon engagement. Since it was then half-past eleven, Bolster accepted an invitation to wait, rather than again venture into the rain in search of his quarry. He bestowed his long drab coat upon the valet, tossed hat, gloves, and cane onto an already littered sideboard, and settled himself in the comfortable chair beside the fire of the cosy parlour. He was scanning The Racing Calendar when he heard a carriage rattle at a spanking pace along the street and stop nearby. A moment later, someone pounded on the door, and voices in the hall were followed by a quick, light step that Bolster knew all too well. His heart sinking, he sprang up to confront the man he was least desirous of beholding.
“S-Strand!” he said nervously. “You here?”
Strand carried his hat and whip and was still wearing a many-caped drab coat. He looked haggard and grim, and returned a pithy, “Evidently. Have you seen Leith?”
“Leith?” Bolster echoed, his voice squeaking a little. “N-n-no. Not here, dear old b-boy.” To which he added a reinforcing, “I come to s-s-see Devenish. D-Devenish lives here.”
“So I understand.” Strand passed his hat and gloves to the hovering valet, but retained his whip. He then flung himself into the one remaining armchair and glowered at the fire.
Bolster thought he looked ripe for murder. “Catch cold in here with your c-coat on, old fellow. Want to walk? I’ll come with you.”
“Thank you,” Strand muttered. “But I shall wait for Devenish. He may be able to tell me where I can find a filthy snake that calls itself Tristram Leith.”
Anguished, Bolster thought, He knows! But springing to his feet, he tried to look shocked, and expostulated, “Confound you, Justin! Here you go r-rushing off half-cocked again! What is it this time? Tristram’s a spl-splendid fellow.”
Strand leaned his head back against the wing chair and with a curl of the lip observed, “The kind of ‘splendid fellow’ who marries my sister and within a year seduces my wife!”
“No, no! That ain’t so! I swear you are quite out there!”
“Devil I am!” Strand uttered a mirthless bark of laughter and stood to take off his greatcoat and toss it over the table. “I chance to have intercepted a letter warning my devoted bride against going to Leith. I reached home to discover she had already done so!” He paused, his face turned away, and added as though the words scourged him, “I traced her as far as Cloudhills.”
“Yes, but she d-did- did not st-stop there.”
For moment Strand was very still. Turning his head, he looked at Bolster enigmatically. “She didn’t?”
“No, no, old fellow. Saw her m’self. In Oxford.”
“Did you now?” said Strand in a soft, almost caressing tone. “How very remarkable. I was told the road to Oxford was flooded and that the military was turning back all travellers.”
“Oh … well, I must have dr-dr- passed through b-before that.”
“Indeed you must,” Strand said dryly. “And come away by means of a rowboat, eh? Do you mean to explain away the letter also?”
“Er—likely it was more of Garvey’s no-no-nonsense is all.”
“And he tricked Lisette into driving to Berkshire also, no doubt? Good try, my friend, but…” He stood, rummaged under his coat, retrieved his whip, and sat down again.
Bolster eyed the heavy whip uneasily. “Wh-what d’you m-mean to do?”
“Call Leith out,” Strand grated. “The sneaking, lying cur!”
“Good God! You mustn’t talk like that, Justin! He’s wed t-to your sister!
”
“The more reason to slaughter the—” Strand paused, listening intently.
To Bolster’s horror, wheels sounded outside, followed by a sudden burst of male talk and laughter.
Strand came to his feet in a fluid, pantherish movement. Jumping up also, Bolster gripped his arm. “Justin! For the love of God! Do not!”
“Stand clear, Jerry.” Strand wrenched free. “I’d not have you hurt.”
“You’re m-mad! C-consider Rachel! Consider Lisette!”
“Consider the marriage vows! Consider honour and decency!”
“Aye, but if—”
Footsteps were in the hall. Devenish’s voice said laughingly, “… but it was his wife, eh?”
Strand’s lips pulled back and from between gritted teeth came a low, menacing growl.
Attempting to seize the whip, Bolster pleaded, “Give over, man! You will never b-be able t-to—”
Strand shoved him away. “I shall kill the swine who was with my wife last week-end!”
“But—I swear it w-wasn’t Leith!”
Strand caught his breath. His eyes, turning to Bolster, put that earnest young man forcibly in remind of two sabres. “Then … who…” he breathed, “was she with?”
The door was flung open. Desperate and thinking only to prevent the impending tragedy, Bolster cried, “Me!”
Alain Devenish and Marcus Clay paused on the threshold, struck to silence by the dramatic pose of the two before them: Bolster’s hand clutching Strand’s wrist, Strand, pale and rigid, every inch of his lean frame reflecting restrained fury.
For Strand, time seemed to stand still. A series of cameos flickered through his mind with blinding speed: Lisette, saying so casually that Bolster had visited her during that first horrible week of their marriage—ostensibly to leave Brutus in her care. Bolster, usually so painfully afflicted with shyness at the presence of a female, yet conversing merrily with Lisette. The two of them, standing very close together before the weeping willow at Silverings, and on Bolster’s face that almost ludicrous expression of guilt. Lisette’s deep concern when Bolster had wrenched his arm while working on Silvering Sails … the way they’d sat together on the sofa later, whispering so softly, so secretively … Lord! How could he have been so blind!
Married Past Redemption Page 29
