Lissa

by Mira Stables

  LISSA

  Mira Stables

  © Mira Stables 1974

  Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1974 by Hale.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media.

  For

  Alexa, Jessica, and Mira Joanne

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  “Your wild extravagance, your reckless risk of life and limb in every crazy start that your so-called friends can invent for their entertainment, even your dangerous dabbling in the muddy waters of dubious political philosophy I have tolerated, in the belief that sooner or later your blood and breeding must bring you to your senses. You are not, after all, the first young idiot who has raised riot and rumpus the moment that he was thrown on the Town. But this time you have gone your length. It is not so much your ridiculous politics—though I may say in passing that it is only thanks to my intervention that you are not facing trial for seditious utterances—as the fact that you have made a laughing stock of yourself and of our family name. We have numbered some consummate villains among our ancestors but I cannot call to mind a single one so simple as to have fallen to such a man-trap—such an obvious man-trap as seems to have be-glamoured you out of your senses. A pair of bold black eyes, red lips and honey-sweet words—and a heart more greedy for gold than Judas Iscariot’s. And you to dream of marrying the strumpet! Why! I tell you her favours have been for sale to the highest bidder, so he be wealthy and discreet, any time these past five years. Young Hartdale was the last fool she cozened before she set her dainty little claws in you, and a pretty penny it cost his father to be rid of her. And you, my grandson, must needs season your puling love letters to the doxy with sickly maunderings about the wonderful re-birth of liberty and equality across the Channel. As though the price of your green-sickness were not high enough, you furnish her with proof of your treasonable beliefs. I suppose it has escaped your notice that we are at war with those very blood-swilling rascals that you praise so high. There are your letters, though God alone knows why I should be at such pains to save your silly neck. Burn them, now, and make an end.”

  A wooden image might have shown more reaction to the scathing tirade, he thought bitterly, watching Jervase pick up the bundle of letters in which he had poured out a young man’s dreams of a noble and rapturous future spent with the woman whom he had believed to be as pure souled and high minded as she was beautiful. Almost absently he dropped them into the library fire and stood watching them shrivel to ashes as dead and grey and useless as his dreams. As the brief glow died away he turned quietly back to face the old autocrat who had sheltered his boyhood and guided his youth and then, in default of the Grand Tour which had completed the wordly education of the boy’s father, which the present European ferment rendered ineligible, had thrown him upon the Town with complete freedom and ample resources to satisfy his smallest whim.

  The Marquis of Wrelf could see no fault in his own conduct. The boy had enjoyed every advantage that wealth could provide. He had been given a sound classical education and had enjoyed his time at Oxford even if it was distinguished more by sporting achievements than by academic brilliance. And, indeed, apart from the shattering débâcle of his first love affair, the Marquis was not ill-pleased with the way his heir was shaping. He was a first-rate swordsman and a useful shot, while the horse was not yet foaled that he could not master. A little recklessness was allowable, even desirable, in hot, young blood. He was generally well-liked, did not gamble more than was socially desirable and his cronies were a lively set of wild young scamps who shared his sporting tastes. Why then this inexplicable streak of maudlin sentiment? My lord was much inclined to lay the blame on the boy’s long-dead mother. Impeccably bred and educated as she had, of course, been, since he himself had selected her for her exalted role, she had nurtured an odd taste for poetry had even gone so far as to write the stuff herself. His lordship, who had no patience with such effeminate stuff, wondered if it was this poetic streak that was showing itself in her son. Certainly those letters—! He pressed a fine linen handkerchief to his lips. He had been obliged to scan them—not being such a simpleton as to pay handsomely without inspecting the goods he bought.

  Since the culprit seemed to have nothing to say for himself, the Marquis resumed the attack. “It is clearly necessary that you leave Town until the scandal has had time to die,” he said austerely. “You will betake yourself to Wrelf or to Stapleford, whichever you prefer, and concern yourself with the care of our estates until such time as some bigger fool becomes the target for Society’s sly whispers and raised eyebrows.”

  For the first time there came a hint of animation into Lord Stapleford’s rigid face. “With your permission, my lord, I would rather journey overseas. I have long wished to travel in the Americas and this would seem to be my opportunity.”

  Despite his present justifiable anger the Marquis had no desire to expose his heir to the unknown dangers that such a journey might hold. Apart from shipwreck, plague and violence and such other hazards as were commonplace in any journey abroad, he was being asked to accept the boy’s sojourn among a pack of pesky rebels, traitors to their king, men who had had the infernal impudence to defeat Britain’s might and to compel the surrender of whole armies in the field. Moreover he would be subjected to the attentions of as treacherous and bloodthirsty a native populace as ever sharpened tomahawks. No one would ever convince the Marquis that his notions of the Americas were distinctly biased, but he knew that a warning of possible danger would be no deterrent. He must be a little devious.

  “So you are a poltroon, as well as a simpleton,” he said softly, more in resignation than in anger.

  That was better. The boy’s head came up with a snap, the dark eyes flashed fiercely. But he spoke gently enough. “No other man has ever called me so, my lord. Your age and our close relationship give you leave.”

  “But do not excuse my insolence, eh? Very well, my boy. Your point is taken. Now, tell me. How else would you describe one who, when under something of a cloud, chooses to—er—travel abroad, leaving an aged relative to endure as best he may the sniggers and the innuendoes which he is too feeble openly to resent?”

  He had overplayed his hand. Jervase grinned. “As to that, Sir,” he riposted, formality going by the board, “you would be reaching for your sword hilt before the first word was even breathed. However, I will forgive you for ‘poltroon’ and will confess myself, if not yet exactly grateful, at least much obliged to you. If it will please you better I will consent to retire to one of our rural fastnesses to sit out my exile. Which one shall it be?”

  The old man shrugged. “As you wish. It is a matter of indifference to me.”

  “Then I shall choose Stapleford and bear Mary company for a while. Wrelf is too familiar. It would be all too easy to slide into a melancholy there,” he pronounced mockingly. “And that, I take it, is no part of your plans for curing me of my youthful folly. No, do not protest, Sir. I know you too well, you see. Tell me what you have in mind for my ultimate reformation.”

  The Marquis’s scowl relaxed a little and the keen g
rey eyes gleamed approbation. There was even the hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he replied coolly, “Since you choose Stapleford, you may make yourself useful. Pursey must soon retire—indeed he is long past active service—but his head is stuffed with invaluable knowledge about the place and the tenantry. You will do well to learn of him and you may deal with any slackness that his infirmities have permitted to creep in.”

  His grandson bowed politely. “An enlivening prospect,” he said gravely. “Would it be troubling you too far to ask for the truth?”

  The Marquis had never been famous for his control over a quick temper that combined ill with his masterful disposition. “Certainly you shall hear,” he snapped. “Not to wrap it up in clean linen, it’s time you had more experience with women, Stapleford. You were never one for the petticoats, and I’ve been glad of it, until you showed me how easily such innocence is brought to disaster. Had your knowledge of the sex been wider, you had never fallen for the cheap charms of Millicent Girling. Go down to Stapleford. Seduce some village wench—or half a dozen if that is more to your taste. These little affairs are understood in the country. The wenches are willing enough so long as you provide for them generously, and in Stapleford you will need some form of entertainment. The society of your sister will scarcely suffice to beguile your boredom. Go and learn about women, boy, before you again think of marriage.”

  Viscount Stapleford met his grandsire’s eyes levelly. His expression was calm, almost bland. He said, “I will so far accede to your wishes, my lord, as to betake myself to Stapleford and turn diligent apprentice to Pursey. For the rest—permit me to inform your lordship that for the first time in our acquaintance I find you shockingly ill-bred.”

  Without waiting for any reply from the fulminating Marquis, he bowed again and went swiftly from the room.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Wayburn bustled about cheerfully, setting her pleasant kitchen to rights. A sense of pleased anticipation informed her movements. She always looked forward to Thursdays when she went up to the Place to sew. Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, was her closest friend, and the two of them would enjoy a comfortable cose while Annie Wayburn set her fine stitches in such articles of household linen as stood in need of attention. They were never very many. Stapleford Place was rarely visited by its noble owner, who seemed to prefer the magnificence of Wrelf with its endless facilities for sport of every kind. Only the Lady Mary, with her governess resided permanently at Stapleford, the air of Wrelf not suiting her delicate constitution.

  But from what Mrs. Wayburn had heard this state of affairs would soon be changed. Not the Marquis himself but young Viscount Stapleford was expected, and, it was understood, for a prolonged stay. This afternoon she would hear all about it. It would be good to have another of the family in residence. Bring a bit of life about the place. She gathered up her sewing basket, cast a final glance at the smouldering fire to see that all was safe, and then clicked her teeth in annoyance at the sound of a rather hesitating knock. Who could be wanting her at such an inconvenient hour? Everyone knew that she went out on Thursday.

  Perhaps this importunate visitor did indeed know and wanted to be assured that she had not already left home, for next the latch was tried and then the door itself opened a little way to allow a head to peep round it. “Lizzie!” exclaimed Mrs. Wayburn, surprise and pleasure in her voice, and then, more doubtfully, “But what are you doing here?”

  The caller now seemed to take courage to come into the kitchen, and it was seen that she was carrying a large straw basket, a basket which was only too familiar to Mrs. Wayburn. An expression of dismay appeared on her plump and kindly countenance. “Never say you’ve been turned off?” she said sharply.

  Her visitor nodded, put down the basket, and ran to throw warm young arms about her ample waist in an affectionate hug, saying as she kissed her, “Yes, I have. Don’t be cross, Nanty. Indeed it was not entirely my fault—well scarcely at all, really—and anyway I hated it and am glad to have done with it.”

  “That’s as may be,” declared Mrs. Wayburn, trying to harden her heart against the child. “But good places don’t grow on every bush and you know very well that you’ve your own way to make in the world now that the money’s stopped coming. And on a Thursday, too, when I can’t stay to hear the full tale. You know it’s my sewing afternoon.”

  The girl’s face filled with wistful longing. “Can’t I come with you, Nanty? It’s ages since I’ve been up to the Place. Perhaps Mrs. Graham will let me look at the pictures.”

  Mrs. Wayburn hesitated. But a desire to hear as soon as possible how her fosterling had come to lose a desirable post worked strongly in the culprit’s favour and she gave consent. The girl could be sent to amuse herself in wandering about the great silent rooms and galleries as she loved to do if she and Aggie wanted to talk secrets.

  They set out at once, the girl carrying the sewing basket and pouring out the tale of the misadventure that had procured her dismissal. “Truly it was Bertha’s own fault, though both she and Mrs. Williams said I’d done it on purpose. I think Bertha really hates me. She was jealous when the Vicar offered to give me lessons after I was done with school and didn’t ask her to come too. I’m sure she persuaded her mother to employ me just so that she could order me about and get her own back. You’ve no notion how spiteful she was, forever pinching and slapping me and knowing very well I couldn’t slap back. And though I was supposed to be a sewing maid I had to wait on her and help her to dress and even put on her shoes and stockings as though she was a fine lady. Nothing I did was ever right. It was all grumbling and scolding. And then she started about my eyebrows.”

  Mrs. Wayburn looked puzzled, as well she might. “What’s wrong with your eyebrows, lovey?”

  “It was because they were dark. Bertha said I must have dyed them, because everybody knew that redheads always had white eyebrows and eyelashes. She wanted to know what I used. It seems she’d heard somewhere that dark beauties are all the crack, and you know how fair she is. She kept on and on about it until there was no bearing it and so at last I said that if I wanted to dye my hair—and goodness knows I often did want to when I was small—I’d use walnut oil. Well, she bought some and tried it on her eyebrows and was so pleased with the result that she went and got lots more and tried to dye her hair as well.” An irrepressible chuckle bubbled up. “I wish you could have seen her, Nanty. She’d shut herself up in her room all day to do it, because her very best beau was coming to take her to the Fair and then when he called for her she wouldn’t come down. The oil had made brown streaks all over her face and neck where it had trickled down and her hair looked more green than brown. Mrs. Williams was furious because she favours the match with Bob Shorthouse who owns his own farm and now he’s taken the huff because Bertha wouldn’t go to the Fair with him after he’d put himself to the trouble of driving over for her. Of course they couldn’t tell him the real reason and nothing they’ve tried will take the dye out. So then Mrs. Williams said it was all my fault. Bertha would never have thought of doing such a thing if I hadn’t put her up to it and she wouldn’t have me in the house any longer.” She stopped, the mischievous laughter fading from face and voice as she went on slowly, “She said a lot more things, too. About my parents. And about bad blood coming out.”

  Mrs. Wayburn squeezed her hand in silent sympathy. There was nothing she could say to comfort. The child’s birth was as much a mystery now as it had been on the day that she had first been brought to the cottage, a mischievous three-year-old with red-gold curls and big grey eyes and an imperious way with her that betrayed her breeding as clearly as did the sweet pure little voice that insisted that her name was Lissa. Mrs. Wayburn had taken that to be Elizabeth. The little girl presently accepted the shortening of this name to Lizzie and soon picked up the slow rustic speech of the other children. Her looks marked her out as different, of course. Slender and finely boned she looked like a thoroughbred, thought Nanty, as the child c
alled her, this being her version of Auntie Annie. Nanty sometimes grumbled that for all the good food she gave her the child looked half starved beside the sturdiness of her playmates. Money had come regularly for her keep and there had also been occasional surprise presents. Once an exquisitely dressed doll had arrived—French, Nanty reckoned—and a pretty penny it must have cost. There had been a necklace of seed pearls, too, and a beautifully bound prayer book. Surely someone loved the little girl, someone of wealth and good taste. Nanty was inclined to think that it must be her mother. A man would scarcely have thought of the doll. Privately she suspected that the child was the result of some secret liaison between two persons of quality rather than the infant born to a female in humble circumstances who had allowed herself to succumb to the wiles of an accomplished rake. Nanty had been brought up in good service until she had married her sailor and she knew the ways and looks of the quality when she saw them. There was no base blood in the child she was prepared to swear and she had done her best to bring her up properly. There had been money enough to pay for the dame school and then the Vicar and his wife had taken a hand, childless themselves and pitying the little one’s forlorn condition. There had even been a tentative suggestion of sending her to one of the charity schools so that she might receive an education that would fit her for a post as a governess, but this had been scotched by the lawyer who had first placed the child with Nanty and who sent the money each month. If needful, money would be provided to send her to a respectable seminary at the proper time.

  And then the payments had suddenly stopped; no warning, no message of explanation; just stopped. The lawyer could tell them no more. He suggested that his client might have fallen on hard times—might even be dead. Nanty was a widow. She owned the cottage in which she lived and she could find plenty of sewing work. But it was poorly paid. She could not afford to support a grown girl in idleness. To be sure she had been frugal. She had put by a nice little sum during the years when the money had arrived regularly. But that was intended for the time when her darling should wish to marry. She had come to love her foster child as dearly as she might have loved her own, had she been so blessed. There might be difficulties to be faced in marrying off a girl of unknown parentage, even if she were pretty which Nanty could not honestly say that she was, difficulties which a dowry might smooth over. So the money must not be touched and a respectable post must be found. She had welcomed the offer of employment at the Williams’s farm as sewing maid. The Williams family was respectable, Lizzie would be well looked after and would have the company of her old schoolmate, and as Bertha was an only child there would be no young men to complicate the situation. So she had thought in her own natural kindliness. And now it was all to do again. Perhaps Aggie Graham would be able to suggest some post that would suit Lizzie. Such things were often settled by a good recommendation from one in Aggie’s position. She relaxed and decided to make the most of Lizzie’s company while she had it. The cottage had seemed a lonely place, lacking that bright young presence.