Lissa

by Mira Stables

  A sympathetic Mrs. Graham had seen to it that the early dinner which had been ordered was as simple as possible. Indeed the chef had been positively shocked by its miserly nature and she had been put to some pains to coax him back to good humour.

  “A first course of no more than five dishes with only three in the second course, and no more than four side dishes? His lordship will think we are trying to starve him!”

  Mrs. Graham had spoken soothingly of the Lady Mary’s delicacy, saying that they must not have the poor child’s digestion upset by too many rich dishes, while as for his lordship, he never seemed to care what he ate, for not once since his arrival had he seen fit to compliment the artist who created all these palate-tickling delights for his delectation. However, if Jacques felt so strongly about it, he might add a whim-wham to the second course. The young ladies, at least, would appreciate that.

  So dinner was not such an ordeal after all, especially as his lordship told the servants that they might withdraw after bringing in the second course and allowed the girls to serve themselves with such items as they fancied while he finished his wine in leisurely contemplation. There was a slight set-back when he idly suggested that they had better both take lessons in carving, but the two horror stricken faces that lifted to his so touched his sympathies that he hastily added that there would be plenty of time for that later. Much relieved, the young ladies returned to the discussion of the whim-wham, which had met with their entire approval. The rest of the meal passed in amicable discussion of the art of riding and an argument as to how soon Lissa might hope to dispense with the ignominy of the leading rein.

  Nevertheless, after the tea tray had been brought in, and both girls in turn had tried their prentice hands at dispensing that stimulating fluid, Lissa, at any rate, was thankful to obey the dismissal to bed which followed. In all her short life she had never been so tired. Even pig killing at the Williams’s, when everyone had been pressed into service to reduce the great carcasses to the several forms of pork products, had not been so exhausting as this, she decided, with a shudder of revulsion for the memory. Yet she had done nothing that was recognisable as work. All she had done was try to avoid falling into the social pitfalls that she sensed all about her. His lordship had been right when he said it would not be easy. It was very difficult indeed. But it was exciting, challenging, and with every scrap of her being she was determined on success. She tucked the neat braids of hair into the dainty cap that Nanty had so lovingly embroidered, climbed into bed and blew out the candle.

  Chapter Four

  It was a month before Miss Parminter capitulated. When she did, her surrender was whole-hearted, though the only outward change was a slightly increased gruffness in such remarks as she addressed to Lissa.

  Edith Parminter had never been loved or wanted. Born to parents who had eagerly desired a son, she had been handed over to a succession of nursemaids who supplied her material needs and, so long as she gave them no trouble, largely ignored her. She was a plain little girl, silent and withdrawn, with a secret adoration for her handsome, heedless father who was carelessly kind to her if he chanced to notice her presence. By the time that she was ten she had lost both her parents and had passed into the charge of a great-uncle who, on finding that his nephew had died deep in debt, accepted the legacy with grudging resentment, and, on the assumption that such a sour little piece was unlikely to marry with no dowry to sweeten the dose, had seen that she was given a good education, found her a respectable post as a governess and washed his hands of all further responsibility. It said much for Miss Parminter’s sense of fairness that she did not blame anyone for the bleakness of her life and was, indeed, grateful to her Great-uncle Carnforth for putting himself to so much expense on her behalf. She was genuinely fond of the Lady Mary and extremely conscientious in the discharge of her duties, but it never occurred to her that the child would have responded ardently to a more open affection.

  She had viewed the irruption of Lissa Wayburn into their well regulated days with considerable doubt and had watched, hawk-eyed, for any sign of presumption in the girl. She found her shy, but not timid, eager to learn and to do all that was asked of her. Her understanding was good though she was not in any way bookish unless one counted a marked taste for history, a preference which developed into positive fervour when the theme touched on Stapleford Place. It seemed to be an obsession with her, thought the governess curiously. She was already far better acquainted with its fabled past than was the Lady Mary, and on one occasion, when taken to task for day-dreaming when she should have been practising her penmanship, had apologised frankly and then explained, with that disarmingly candid smile of hers, “I was thinking how wonderful it is that I am actually living here in this lovely place. Sometimes I still cannot believe that I am not dreaming.”

  Miss Parminter had been touched by the simplicity, the utter lack of pretension in the girl’s attitude. She had already accorded her respect to the determination with which Lissa struggled to overcome her difficulty in speaking correctly. Her embarrassment was plain to see, yet she never resented the frequent request for repetition, accepting correction quietly and then practising until she had it right. She was fortunate in having a quick ear, thought Miss Parminter; less fortunate in her sensitive spirit. A coarser fibre would have laughed over the mistakes she made. Lissa flushed, set her lips, and tried again. She bore no malice, accepting the humiliation as the price she paid for her many advantages.

  At this stage Miss Parminter allowed her natural sympathy for a girl even less wanted than herself to soften her strict impartiality. She, at least, had a name to which she knew herself entitled, and even a blood relation—such as he was. Lissa had nothing save what she could win for herself. Keeping a firm restraint on undue sentimentality, Miss Parminter continued to watch her two charges far more closely than they guessed. She saw that Lissa was genuinely fond of Lady Mary, tender to her physical weakness, encouraging her in all her interests, delighted when these were mildly mischievous and perfectly ready to accept all the blame. That was wrong, of course, but funnily enough it had the right results, for Lady Mary refused to shelter under Lissa’s protection, stoutly asserting her own responsibility for her own misdeeds.

  There came a day when the morning’s lessons had chanced to include the tale of how the then Lord of Stapleford—long before the acquisition of the Marquisate of Wrelf—had held by the House of York, dying on Bosworth Field in a vain attempt to bring succour to his rightful sovereign. Lissa had been enthralled, her great eyes almost black in her absorption, and, at the end of the lesson, unusually silent. Having waited in vain for the usual eager question or comment, Miss Parminter dismissed her pupils to tidy themselves for luncheon. A minute later Lissa had come back, walking slowly, still half a-dream, and had put out both hands towards her, saying, “Thank you. It was wonderful. You made him live again.” And then, as though there was no more to be said, had turned abruptly on her heel and walked out of the room.

  Miss Parminter had been quite taken aback, but no one could help being flattered by so sincere a tribute. She had immediately acquitted the girl of any deliberate attempt to please. The outburst had been too natural, too abrupt. Nor had she waited to see the result of her words. She had felt impelled to say them—had done so. But it was at this point that Miss Parminter abandoned her impartial attitude and decided that Lissa Wayburn was an honest and lovable creature and that the Viscount had indeed chosen well when selecting her to companion his sister.

  This favourable opinion was confirmed by an incident which occurred two or three days later. The schoolroom at Stapleford Place had modern sash windows instead of the small-paned casements that had so delighted Lissa in her turret room, and Miss Parminter, who had a most unfashionable fancy for fresh air, always insisted on these being opened as soon as lessons were done so that the room might be thoroughly “sweetened,” as she termed it. Lissa, coming into the room in search of a book to read because heavy rain had caused the r
iding lesson to be abandoned, found the windows still open and the rain driving in over a table piled with books and soaking the curtains and floor covering. She ran across to the window to close it only to find that the sash had jammed and she could not move it. It had not previously happened that she had needed to summon any of the servants to her assistance but in this case there was no option and she pulled the bell without a second thought and then hurried back to the table to rescue the books before they were quite ruined. She heard the door open but did not look round until an aggressive voice said, “It’s you, is it, Miss Smarty-boots? Ringing for the servants as though you were a lady born and making me run up all those stairs. Think yourself wonderful, don’t you, cocked up over us all and living as high as a coach horse, and you not so much as born in wedlock. Why, my mother wouldn’t have you in our house, as well you do know. And I suppose if I speak the truth about your fine job here you’ll run to old Graybag telling tales and get me turned off. Well—what do you want, seeing as how I’m here?”

  Miss Parminter, who had suddenly remembered the open window and hurried from her room to close it, heard this vulgar diatribe with shocked disgust and deliberately waited to see how Lissa would deal with it.

  She heard the girl say, with quiet dignity, “I am sorry to have put you to any trouble, Kate, but I could not close the window and as you may see for yourself the rain is spoiling everything. Perhaps we could manage to shut it between us.”

  A contemptuous snort was the only answer that Kate vouchsafed to that. Miss Parminter heard the window crash down with a force that must have come near to shattering the glass. “There, Lady Lily Fingers! Too genteel even to shut a window. You, that’s the laughing stock of the village, with your high and mighty airs, as though everyone didn’t know all about you! My mother says you’ll go the way of the light-skirt that bore you—and you may be starting high with one of the nobs but it’s in the gutters you’ll end when his lordship tires of you.”

  Even Miss Parminter was stunned by the virulence of the servant’s attack. And to dare to speak so of his lordship! She drew herself up to her full imposing height and was about to march into the room to annihilate the insolent wretch when she realised that her help was not needed. Lissa’s voice was perfectly steady and gentle but there was an icy determination in it that carried complete conviction, even to the recalcitrant Kate.

  “You may say what you please about me, Kate, if it gives you any pleasure. It does not hurt me. And even in our school days you will recall that I was no tale bearer. But if you ever dare to repeat your foul insinuations against Lord Stapleford, or if I have cause to believe that you are spreading your disgusting tales to smear the name of an honourable man, it is not to Mrs. Graham that I shall carry my story but to his lordship himself. I give you this one plain warning. You may go. But remember what I have said for I mean every word of it.”

  “There will be no need for you to go to such lengths, my child,” said Miss Parminter, sailing into the room to confound a deflated Kate. “I heard every word that passed between you, and I do not subscribe to your delicate scruples about tale bearing—at least not in such a case as this. I think that you may safely start packing your box, Kate, for I am sure that when Mrs. Graham hears of your outrageous insolence she will not have you in the house a moment longer. Nor need you hope for a reference.”

  Kate tried to brazen it out, tossing her head impudently and swaggering out of the room with her nose in the air. Inwardly she was already quaking at the thought of what her mother would say when she heard that her daughter had been dismissed without a character. Mrs. Stucker had been delighted when Kate had been taken into service at the Place, the first of their family to achieve that distinction. Such posts were generally limited to the small coterie of families that had served the Wyncasters in one capacity or another for the past two hundred years. Only the fact that the ladies Bell, Wood and Truby had produced eight sons between them and never a daughter had given Kate her chance. And now she had made a fatal error and lost it. Her mother would never get over it, after the way she had boasted around the village. And it was all the fault of that horned stuck-up Lissa Wayburn, whom she had always detested. Well—she would not forget. She would find some way of getting her own back on the girl who had caused her downfall, thought Kate, now working herself into a righteous indignation and mentally rehearsing the version of the tale that she would present to her mother.

  In this design she was frustrated by the forethought of Mrs. Graham who had been dissatisfied from the outset with the girl’s attitude to her work and her employers and was further incensed by Miss Parminter’s report of the conversation that she had overheard. “Old Graybag, indeed,” she said grimly. “Leave it to me, Miss. I’ll see that the impudent baggage gets her comeuppance. I’ll take her home myself, this very afternoon, and I’ll see that Bab Stucker hears the truth of the matter.”

  The Viscount did not concern himself greatly over the domestic organisation of the Place, assuming that Mrs. Graham would continue to exercise that benign autocracy which ensured his comfort and drew a discreet veil over the means by which it was achieved. He was therefore much intrigued when the unobtrusive ruling deity of his establishment suddenly requested an interview with him and even more so when she asked that Miss Parminter should be present. He heard their story with a mixture of mild disgust and some satisfaction and willingly endorsed the action taken by both ladies. Since they had agreed together beforehand that all reference to Kate’s shocking insinuations about his lordship should be tactfully omitted from their account, her offence figured as “insulting remarks about Miss Wayburn’s birth, parentage and morals”. This sort of thing he had foreseen and was pleased to learn that his protegée had met it with more tact and dignity than might reasonably have been expected. But on voicing this opinion to Miss Parminter after Mrs. Graham had withdrawn he was rather taken aback by that lady’s firm shake of the head and the indulgent smile that she might have bestowed on a rather backward pupil.

  “She behaved exactly as I would have expected, my lord. Whatever the truth of her birth no one who knows her would dispute the fact that she is unquestionably a lady in the best sense of the word.”

  Lord Stapleford was quite overset by this unexpected encomium. He wondered how the miracle had been achieved. To have the strict, difficult Miss Parminter, the stickler for correct form, taking up the cudgels on behalf of a village brat of questionable ancestry was something he had never hoped to hear. It inspired him with a sudden interest in Lissa’s history. No doubt she had told him all that she knew but very probably her foster mother was better informed. It would be interesting to try what he could find out about this rara avis.

  But Nanty, tactfully approached, denied all knowledge, and he was brought to believe that she spoke truth. She had answered an advertisement in the columns of a newspaper, asking for a respectable motherly woman to take charge of a child. Agnes Graham had brought it to her notice, just at the time she was mourning her husband who had been killed in action between the Serapis and the Bonhomme Richard. It had seemed to her like an answer to prayer, providing her with a reason for living and the means to go on living in her own small home. Her application had been successful. The lawyer, a Mr. Whitehead, had travelled into Wiltshire to assure himself that the accommodation and the care that she could offer were adequate and had pronounced himself satisfied. She told, in voluble detail, of Lissa’s arrival and of the infrequent but magnificent presents; of the regular payments and the sudden cessation of all communication. Finding him a sympathetic listener, she even confided her own speculations as to the child’s history. He nodded thoughtfully and thanked her for her frankness, but went away disappointed and more than ever curious.

  To add to his frustration he now perceived a new reserve in Lissa’s attitude during their evening lessons. Once her first agonising self-consciousness had been conquered she had actually begun to enjoy these, defending herself vigorously when she had mispronounced s
ome word and roundly declaring that English was the most ridiculous language, not near so sensible and logical as French, creating rules only in order to make exceptions to them. When his lordship solemnly suggested that in the present state of war between the two countries such an opinion was tantamount to treason, she chuckled—a delightful little gurgle of merriment that he enjoyed provoking. Since he himself was responsible for it, he found her naive enjoyment of her new life subtly flattering and also highly educational. His own liberal beliefs had been the lofty ideals of youth. He had proclaimed the equal rights of all mankind, but he’d never dreamed of a world in which warm water was a luxury to be attained only by considerable toil and then to be savoured appreciatively, while books to read and a candle to read them by were such self-indulgence as to verge on the sinful. And this was a girl who had been well cared for—who had never gone hungry or cold. He found himself enjoying his own comfortable existence with greater zest, seeing each small luxury through Lissa’s eyes and valuing it accordingly.