Lisette (15 page)

“I wish there was more I could do.” Haven
confessed sighing.

Lisette wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure there
is anything I can. He has never been a man easy to talk to, or one
who confides. I cannot imagine at this moment, what I will do if he
truly won’t see me again.”

“I pray otherwise,” Juliette said. “And if it
counts for anything, I think—he does love you. I suspected so the
first time I saw him watching you. Perhaps you’ll have to fight a
bit harder for what you want this time, my friend.”

When they left her, Lisette walked with no
real destination, but needing to, because she had been tempted to
climb in that coach and hold him—make him release some of the
torment she’d seen in his eyes. Whatever it was, that past, that
darkness, it was deeply tied to his mother and sister, she
knew.

But would he ever trust her enough to share
it?

She feared not. She would need help. She
would get it. She was sure, from her Mama and her friends. She
would fight even him, Lisette decided—because deep down in her soul
she had to believe that, he wanted her to.

Chapter Seven

Four months later

London…

The rain was coming down in thick sheets,
with lightening accompanying the fierce August storm. Having run
out of options, time and answers, and growing tired of looking at
the pile of returned, unopened missives from Marston’s
townhouse—Lisette rode there in her father’s coach.

She did not knock politely when alighting,
but beat on the mansion door, uncaring if her boots were as soaked
and rain drenched as her smart blue suite and hat. There had been
next to nothing in the papers on his Mama’s passing, and what had
been printed had been a delayed announcement that the dowager had
passed away peacefully. Nothing like the detailed reports of other
funerals of the well to do and titled. Nothing—for her to glean
anything of Elisha from.

She had tried—honestly, to get on with life.
She partook of London’s social offerings—all the while secretly
hoping she would hear something, anything, from him. She had
not.

It had been the Duchess who told her, “You
are miserable, my love. Do something. This charade of parties and
nights at the opera, is fooling no one. And it isn’t helping your
heart, or your cause.”

So here she was—doing something—and likely to
get her heart broken even worse. However, she had heard from the
servant boy she had asked to go daily and watch the mansion that
Smith was there.

She banged again.

Finally, it opened,

Mr. Smith stood there. His expression said he
already knew why she was there. He stepped back and invited her
in.

“Where is he?” Lisette asked

“He’s not here. You will need to get dry.
Then, we will talk. I promise.” His expression appeared
resigned.

Once in the foyer, he called out for a maid,
who appeared and escorted Lisette up the stairs. Although she had
other things on her mind, it struck Lisette that the house was
yawning and cold. It had dark furnishings, depressing hangings—and
not enough light anywhere. There did not seem to be a butler or
anyone besides the maid that she had seen.

“Here, my lady, take everything off and I’ll
dry it by the fire.” The maid handed her a toweling and flannel
robe. “Won’t take but a moment.”

Lisette stripped, removing even her chemise,
stockings and shoes. She drew on the robe and used the toweling on
her hair.

She was shown into a sitting room and could
tell it had not been used in years. It was a woman’s obviously but
it had the most discomforting aura to it. She stood by a fireplace,
rubbing her arms and looking around, feeling as if there were
shadows lurking in the chamber.

She muttered, “Lisette, don’t be silly.”
Somewhere in the house, Marston had rooms. They were likely the
only ones with any life to them. There was not any here. It felt
unwelcoming and cold.

“Here you go.” The maid came in and brought
her tea.

“Thank you.” Lisette smiled. “Have you worked
here long?”

“Only a year, my lady.” She curtsied and
left.

Lisette had the feeling it was to avoid more
questions.

She sipped her tea, absorbing the atmosphere
of the house. It was not a good one. She could not explain it. The
whole structure seemed—unwelcoming. This feeling disturbed her
still as she later dressed in her now dry and pressed clothing, and
headed down the stairs. What on earth had happened here? What kind
of place was this for anyone to exist or thrive in?

Shuddering, Lisette reached the lower floor
and told herself to be prepared for anything. Here everything was
well done, marble foyer, dark polished wood floors, gothic
artwork—but there no life in any of it—no energy, save a negative
kind.

She was thankful, frankly, to reach the
library/study. Upon her entry, she immediately felt the difference.
Here at least, there was soul—some sense of light.

Smith arose from his seat by the hearth and
stood, turning to watch her enter. His smile was passive, his voice
kind though. “Come, join me.”

“Where is he?”

“At his country estate. I will give you
direction, but first, you have questions. I suppose it is time they
were answered. And I have one of my own.”

Walking over to him, Lisette took the chair
opposite and regarded him. He wore dun trousers and white shirt
with wine boots. His hair was tucked behind his ears. She had known
the moment she met him he was no secretary or servant. The bond he
had with Marston was very strong and deep.

Rain battered the windows. The fire was not
much of one, but added warmth and light where the rest of the house
was so….grim.

Seated now, Smith propped elbows on the chair
arms, hands lax at his waist whilst regarding her. When he began to
speak, his compelling eyes showed the truth, and emotion, behind
the words…He said, “Marston did not always look as he did when you
met him. As a young lad, he was tall, gaunt, to the point he looked
hollow. Though some called him cold, to me, he seemed a—shell.”

He looked away and over at the rain-bathed
windows, his hand coming up to rub his cheek. “We attended the same
school. He was an easy mark for ridicule, being quiet to the
extreme. As I was also. I observed him for a long time before I
approached him in friendship. Elisha did not respond for the
longest time. I wanted to know why—since he did not have an
abundance of offers. And I wanted to know the why of—everything
about him.”

Smith looked at her again. “I noticed that he
had a servant with him. Not so unusual for the titled and rich, but
I would later discover that servant would remove the mattress from
Marston’s bed, so that he had to sleep on the bare slats.”

“Why?” She was horrified.

“It was a mandate of his fathers. That’s why
the servant was there, to report to Elisha’s father.” Smith waved a
hand. “It’s a difficult thing to explain. Shall I tell you his
story, and if you like, my own?”

“Please.” She nodded.

He regarded her for a heartbeat and murmured,
“Do you love him, Lisette?”

She looked him in the eye. “Yes. I do.”

He smiled softly.

She returned it. “It means much to me that
you believe that. I know you love him too.”

He nodded but drew in a breath and let it out
slowly, his arms once more relaxed, his eyes down on the low table,
as yet looking into the past. When he spoke, it was obvious too
that he was trying to keep his emotions in check, “Marston’s father
was a cold and cruel man, who doubtless got the trait from his own
sire, and he likewise. There was none of them known for their
warmth. Elisha came into the world, experiencing his father’s
cruelty from his youngest age.

The Viscountess likewise was ill-treated and
not allowed to interfere. A man given to dark thoughts will devise
ways to hide them from others on the outside, and making young
Elisha sleep on a board or the floor—was the least of it. He once
had the servants hold his head underwater, until Elisha nearly
drowned, simply because he’d done his buttons up wrong.”

“My God.” Lisette stared at him, her stomach
feeling a pain of such terror.

However, Smith went on, “It was a constant
thing, the verbal and physical abuses. As he grew old enough to
hear his mother’s cries and screams, Elisha would deliberately
cause some distraction—so that his father would turn on him
instead.

As to his state, when I met him, it came from
his father depriving him of food, making him stand in one spot for
days without it. If he collapsed, he was revived by the blows from
a cane on his legs.”

“Oh Christ. Wait.” Lisette closed her lashes
already feeling the tears in her eyes, having the inability to
breathe. She bent over, hand to her stomach.

Smith said softly, “Are you sure you want to
know, now?”

“I must.” She sucked in air and released it,
sitting back and wiping her eyes. Nodding for him to go on, but
feeling herself brace. Abuse, cruelty, my God, she would never have
guessed that…

“This all came out to me years later, after I
forced myself into Elisha’s hell. I would take every opportunity to
talk with him at school, and,” Smith confessed, “I told him why
everyone avoided me. Why they harassed and mocked me. My father,
you see, his name was Aivers. He was a medical doctor, who worked
in many of the asylums. His methods were published, and more often,
controversial. He was eventually removed from his position, and
declared as insane as his patients. In time—he took his own life.
He did so after stripping, tying a rope around the bedpost, the
other end around his neck—and jumping out the window of one of the
London Hotels. I began to use Smith only the last year of
university. But, I would have nothing—if not for Elisha.”

Lisette nodded, feeling utter sadness for
him, and horror for them both.

“I had read all of my father’s publications,
as well as his private journals. Perhaps I was seeking the why in
his life and death. Nevertheless, rumor was wild that he was insane
and that he had killed my mother after I was born. He did not. She
died of fever.” He sighed. “In any event, I suppose I was obsessed
with understanding him, and in some strange way, that is why I was
drawn to Marston’s pain and darkness. It was evident the moment I
looked at him, that he was not present—not really living in the
moment. He lived in the hell that became real to him when he was
here—he was tormented by what his sister and mother went through,
when he was away.”

“His sister…”

“Yes. Pamela. She was more a ghost than he
was. I hesitate to be so blunt, but 'tis vital to everything that
you will understand about him, to know that he loved her on sight.
He both loved her and wished her not born, because he knew his
father would not spare her. Forced to attend school those months,
he would not be here, you see, to deflect the worst from them.”

Lisette grasped the edge of the chair arm,
dreading what was to come.

Smith said quietly, “It was far worse than he
imagined. She had a broken arm that she swore happened during a
fall. But that arm was broken by her father—to keep her from
warding off his….visiting her bed.”

Smith shuddered. He looked up and finished.
“It eventually happened that she was of age to bare children and
did find herself in such a condition. Pamela knew no other world,
no existence outside this house. She was cut off from anything
normal, and born into the same nightmare; the Viscountess had
completely withdrawn into herself by then. Taking the abuse doled
out—knowing what her children suffered, but unable to stop it.

Marston’s are wealthy, extremely wealthy, due
to their miserliness, and respected, on the outside. Servants do
not cross them easily either. In any case, I thought Elisha would
go mad during that time. The Viscount had gotten some quack to
purge her of the child, and nearly killed her. Not that he cared;
it was simply a way of covering what he had done.”

“She lives still?”

“Yes. Though calling it living is a stretch.
She was not out of the world the way the Viscountess was. Who, by
the way, passed after taking laudanum. A mercy, considering her
memories and guilt, which were a kind of unrelenting torment for
her. Pamela is... too thin and too detached from herself. The only
way she could survive what happened though, was to become so. She
loves Elisha… and myself, to some degree.”

He smiled. “But her world was so skewed that
she had no notion how to live normally. And if she did, she has
shame.”

“She should not. It isn’t her fault.”

“True.” He nodded, but told her, “I must skim
over details of what Elisha went through, but suffice it to say
that any distraction he caused earned him punishment. At times, he
was locked in cellars. Others, he was taken to the estate and made
to stand out in the cold and rain. His father’s favorite act—was to
make him kiss his feet and beg forgiveness and tell him how he
deserved a better son.”

“Dear God in Heaven.” Lisette covered her
face with her hands and shook her head. “Tell me the bastard died a
cruel death?’’

“After the incident with Pamela—I helped him
plan it.”

She dragged her hands down.

He was regarding her without regret or guilt.
“I helped Elisha get them out of the house and safely to the manor
they have since been living in. We did it, the both of knowing how
enraged the Viscount would be. By then, I had been assuring Elisha
had full meals, and we had devised ways to get around his
servant—so that he could build up his strength. I worked at earning
Marston’s trust, and chipping through the wall of shame and
guilt.

It has been an ongoing thing—Lisette, getting
Elisha to believe that hell is behind him, and the shame is not his
anymore than it was Pamela’s. He did what he did out of terror, and
later for the love of them both.”