Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (36 page)

Unexpected strength surged through Lisette. She said calmly,
"My
husband has never sought to turn me against you, Bea. But he was much
hurt by all this unpleasantness, and his well-being must now come first
with me. Even as you would place William first in your life."

Beatrice's head jerked up. She demanded suspiciously, "What is
that supposed to mean? Do you imply—".

Still standing, her hands loosely clasped before her, Lisette
said a
quiet, "I do not imply. I warn you openly that both Grandmama and our
parents have heard you have taken a lover, and—"

Springing up, Beatrice gasped, "My heaven! Mama and Papa are
back?"
She shot a nervous glance to the door. "They do not stay with you?"

"No. They have left."

"Thank heaven! I could not stay were they here."

At this, a tiny frown puckered Lisette's brow. "I wish I might
ask you to stay. Unfortunately, I—"

' 'What?'' With an expression of total horror, Beatrice
faltered,
"You will not allow me to overnight with you? But—but you must! You
cannot turn me out, Lisette! You cannot. I—I have nowhere to go!"

"Fustian! You have your own home, and a loving husband
waiting."

"Loving husband! Pah! William has heard all the nasty little
gabblemongerings, even as have you. And was so heartless and cruel as
to believe them. I did not stay to hear his foolish recriminations, I
do assure you! Surely, there never was a lady more ill-used by her
family and friends!"

"My heavens! Do you tell me you have left him? Bea, you
cannot! The scandal!"

Sinking down again, Beatrice sobbed, "Much you care. You
married a
man whose—whose sister is sunk… beneath reproach! That scandal did not…
weigh with you!"

Reminded of how harshly Beatrice had berated her for
hesitating to
accept Strand, Lisette shook her head in exasperation. "That has
nothing to say to the matter. You must go home. No, Bea, it is of no
use to entreat me. To allow you to stay here at this time must offend
my husband and embarrass me. Besides, I am invited to visit my
sister-in-law Leith at Cloudhills, and leave tomorrow."

Beatrice sat very still, an arrested expression on her face.
Then,
to her sister's dismay, she ran to kneel before her, clutching at her
skirts and weeping hysterically. "Please! Oh, please, Lisette! I
dare
not go home, to say truth. William is—is furious with me. And if Mama
and Papa should come—oh, I could not bear it! I could not! And—and even
were I to stay with friends, or—or my cousins, everyone would—would
know. Please!" She raised a tear-stained and pathetic countenance. "You
are my only hope. Oh, I know I am naughty sometimes… and—and vex you.
But I did not mean to cause the talk about you and Strand. I swear I
told only Jemima Duncan, and—"

"And might as well have announced it in
The
Gazette!"
But
Lisette was shaken, and took her sister's upreaching hands, begging
that she not kneel in such a way. "Whatever would the servants think?
Come now, do be sensible."

Beatrice was too unnerved to be sensible. She seemed so close
to
lapsing into complete hysterics that Lisette had no recourse but to
coax her into a chair and insist that she sip a little brandy while she
strove to calm her. Sir William, she pointed out, was very obviously
devoted to her. Were Beatrice to agree to set up the nursery he so
longed for, he would probably be more than happy to forgive her. Her
response interspersed with gulping little sobs, Beatrice confessed to
having been a fool. "If only—oh, if
only
I had
not… been so utterly
bored,"
she choked. "But, William is too cross now, Lisette. That's why I
thought… if you would but let me stay—even a few days—he would have
time to—to overcome his pride, and I could… beg his forgiveness." She
took up her sister's hand and, nursing it to her cheek, begged, "Only
say you will. Dearest, I promise never to trouble you again.
Please
say I may stay with you. Just for a day or so."

And the end of it was, of course, that Lisette sighed and
agreed
Beatrice might remain, even though she herself must leave early in the
morning. She was promptly hugged, kissed, and wept over. Her offer of
dinner was rejected, however; vowing herself too overwrought to be able
to do anything but repair to her room. Beatrice was ushered upstairs,
delivered into the care of her abigail, and soon comfortably settled
into bed.

Exhausted by the emotional scene, Lisette ate a light and
solitary
meal and retired early. She looked in on her sister before she went to
bed. The room was dark save for the firelight. Beatrice, lying limp and
wan against her pillows, was still awake, however, and professed
herself quite unable to express her gratitude.

"Perhaps we have all learned something from this bumble
broth," sighed Lisette with a tired smile.

"You are too good… too sweet," Beatrice acknowledged
tremulously.
"And never fear, dearest, does you husband return tomorrow, I shall
tell him I must needs leave at once, for you are perfectly right, and
my presence here could only distress him."

"You will go back to Somerset and try to reconcile with poor
William? You promise this?"

"Yes. Oh, I do! I shall be a good wife to him. You will see."

Lisette pressed her hand, and left her. Once in her own bed,
sleep
eluded her, an endless succession of worries pressing in upon her. It
dawned on her suddenly that her wickedness in having lied to Beatrice
about visiting Cloudhills could scarcely be improved upon. Rachel and
Charity would be there, and— was she very tactful, she might be able to
learn something of Strand's
affaire de coeur.
She
did not
give one thought to the fact that her admired Tristram Leith might also
be in Berkshire; nor why her need to know more of her husband's
incognita
had become a near-obsession. Drowsily considering what to wear for her
journey, she fell asleep.

Her slumbers might have been less sound had she again looked
in on
her sister. A tray on the bedside table held the remains of a healthy
supper. The room was a blaze of candles, and Beatrice, cuddled against
her pillows, was writing a note. She looked smug, and not in the least
contrite.

Denise
was unhappy, Mrs. Hayward was
troubled, and the
coachman mumbled that weather was a-blowing up and Mr. Justin didn't
like his horses to be tooled in the rain. Lisette could do nothing
about the admittedly heavy clouds, but she had not been schooled by her
mama to no purpose. Her upraised brows and look of astonishment
devastated Denise, silenced Mrs. Hayward, and defeated the coachman.
Within the hour her portmanteau was in the boot, two bandboxes were in
the carriage, the coachman was on the box, and a burly groom was riding
guard. Beatrice was still fast asleep, and only a very uneasy Mrs.
Hayward stood on the porch to wave goodbye.

"There," said Lisette, settling back against the squabs. "It
is only
nine o'clock and we are safely on the road. And there is not a drop of
rain falling."

"No, madame," Denise agreed glumly. And added under her
breath, "Yet…"

She was right. By the time they reached Horsham a light
drizzle had
begun to fall. They passed Chiddingfold in a steady rain and, while
eating luncheon in a private parlour of the Pease Porridge Inn at
Farnham, Lisette was cowed by a blinding flash and an earth-shaking
bark of thunder. She tried to appear nonchalant when the coachman
scratched on the door to suggest respectfully that so soon as the storm
had "blowed itself out a mite" they should return to Strand Hall. "You
must resign yourself to the fact that I have no intention of doing so,"
she said coolly. "When the rain eases, we will continue to Berkshire."
She ignored the small wail from Denise and became engrossed in a novel
she had brought with her, hoping her trembling would not be too
noticeable as thunder clamoured overhead.

It was half-past one o'clock before the storm lifted to the
point
that they dare resume their journey and, although preserving an air of
assured calm, Lisette was inwardly shaken to hear an incoming traveller
remark to the host that it had thundered like the Waterloo cannon when
his coach had passed through Horsham. With a sudden pang of anxiety,
Lisette turned to the gentleman's stout wife and said, "Your pardon,
ma'am. Are you of the opinion the bad weather is widespread? Could it,
do you suppose, have extended throughout Sussex?"

"I'm afraid it very well might have, ma'am," replied the lady.
"What do you say. Mr. Gresham?"

Her spouse echoed her fears, pointing out that he'd
encountered a
friend in Horsham who had driven up from the coast and experienced
heavy weather all the way. "Were I you, madam"— he nodded to Lisette—"I
would terminate my journey so soon as is possible. Certainly before
light fails. Looks as if we're in for a bad night!"

Lisette thanked him, and hurried out to the coach, Denise
moaning
behind her. Settling into her seat, Lisette tried not to worry, but
Strand was so determined to finish that wretched boat. It would be just
like him to pay no heed to the weather, and press on! But she was being
silly; likely he was not outside at all, for the
Silvering
Sails
might still be in the barn. With a lift of her chin, she thought it
very possible that his occupation had little to do with either boats or
weather!

The rain lightened and then ceased, but their progress was
slowed by
the condition of the roads that was not good at best and had now
deteriorated to a degree that caused the coachman to curse fluently, if
softly, as he attempted to guide his team through a sea of mud. The
surface improved when they approached Aldershot, but Denise's timid
plea that they overnight at that old city was gently but firmly
refused. An odd unease was driving Lisette, and she had no intention of
being balked in her desire to reach Cloudhills that day. She was not a
foolish girl, however, and told the coachman that they would not
proceed if it was unsafe to do so. "By all means, make enquiries as to
what conditions lie ahead of us."

The enquiries resulted in an assurance that the roads were
perfectly
passable as far as Basingstoke, at least, where there were several fine
posting houses in the event the storm should roll back again. They
reached Basingstoke at half-past four, and again stopped. Even as they
pulled into the yard of a busy inn, the Oxford to London stage arrived
with a great trumpeting of the guard's yard of tin, a scrambling of
ostlers, thunder and splashing of sixteen muddy hooves, snorting and
blowing of wet horses, shouts of passengers, and bellowed commands of
the driver. Lisette's coachman clambered down from his perch and,
waiting his opportunity, slipped a florin into the stagecoach driver's
ready palm and was graciously informed that the Newbury Road was
passable so there wasn't no cause for to suppose as the road to
Aldermaston wouldn't be likewise. This piece of optimism was unhappily
ill-founded. By six o'clock they not only were engulfed in a veritable
downpour, but the road had all but disappeared beneath the mud so that
with every lurch of the carriage, Lisette expected them to overturn and
land in a ditch. Denise began to sob with terror. Calming her as best
she might, Lisette watched the skies darken, her heart leaping when a
distant rumble of thunder announced the return of the storm. She had
seldom been more relieved than when the coachman opened the trap to
shout that they were now on Lord Leith's preserves, and the gatehouse
just ahead.

Soon the carriage slowed and then stopped. An individual
crouched
under a piece of dripping sacking hove into view and waved urgently at
Lisette. Denise let down the window, admitting a rush of colder air and
flurry of raindrops. Pulling her hood closer, Lisette leaned to the
window.

"Sorry I be to tell ye, ma'am," called the lodgekeeper
hoarsely,
"but the great house do be closed. The family is away just now, and
workmen be painting the whole downstairs."

Denise whimpered. Her own heart dropping into her shoes,
Lisette gasped, "Away? Is—is there no one at home at all?"

The lodgekeeper shook his head and replied lugubriously that
the
Colonel was gone off somewhere, to London, he thought, "And Mrs. Rachel
and Miss Charity be gone too. Ain't no one up there saving only the
housekeeper and a couple of parlourmaids, ma'am.

"Well, for heaven's sake, why did you not say so? Certainly
the housekeeper will not turn us away on such a night!"

"Belike she won't," he agreed dubiously. "But it bean't
fitting, it do stink so drefful of paint!"

"A deal more fitting that this horrid storm," said Lisette,
and ' required that her coachman drive on.

Cloudhills hove into view like a great and welcoming refuge,
then
suddenly became a monstrous black shape against a vivid flash of
lightning. The coachman's blast on the horn was answered by a lackey
who came running out to hold the horses, and as thunder bellowed
deafeningly, the front doors opened wider to reveal a brightly lit
interior and a motherly woman fumbling with a large umbrella. The guard
opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Lisette was greeted by
the housekeeper, the umbrella, and a stifling reek of fresh paint. The
back of the house, explained Mrs. Keene, when the unexpected guest had
identified herself, was "not nearly so bad." Hurrying Lisette and
Denise into the great hall, she said firmly that Mrs. Strand and her
servants must not think of journeying on, smell or no smell. Another
booming roll of thunder caused the buxom housekeeper to jump and remark
with a grin that she could scarce be more pleased to have company
arrive, for thunder and lightning plain terrified her.

The sprawling and luxurious Tudor house, set, as its name
implied,
on the rim of a hill, commanded a wide view of the surrounding
countryside, and was renowned for its beauty and comfort. Today,
however, it presented a bleak appearance, for the view was shut out by
the grey curtain of the rain, and most downstairs rooms were either
empty or had their furnishings encased in Holland covers. Offering
profuse apologies for the state of the house, Mrs. Keene bustled her
beauteous charge upstairs. Mrs. Leith and Miss Charity, said she, would
be oh, so sorry to have missed their sister-in-law. Were there any more
in Mrs. Strand's party? Another coach following, perhaps? Well, it was
as well, for there was only one guest room made up on this floor, which
would do nicely, however, and madam's maid could have a room in the
servants' quarters. No call to worry over the coachman and guard for
there was plenty of room for them. Mrs. Strand could likely do with a
cup of tea before dinner, and she should have one quicker than the dog
could wag his tail!