Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (21 page)

"Well!" she proclaimed wrathfully. "I think it positively
disgraceful! Who would say such a thing if it were not true unless…"
She paused. James Garvey had said it, she was sure. And he had not been
funning, which must only mean that James had really believed it. He was
certainly not the man to—

They came over a rolling hill, and she gave a little cry of
admiration. "Oh, look! Is it not beautiful?"

Below, a river wound sparkling towards the sea, its course
forming a
wide loop about the ruins of a once noble house set amid lush lawns
that sloped down to the riverbank. The grounds were well kept up, for
flowers were everywhere and there were many fine old trees dotted about
the spacious park. Whoever had dwelt here must have maintained a boat,
for there was a small dock, just now in sad disrepair.

Watching her expressive face, Strand murmured, "Pretty, isn't
it? But it burnt, as you can see."

She scanned the rambling old structure appreciatively. "Not
all of
it—see, at the western end the roof is still intact. And the owners
have kept up the place; they must love it. What a tragedy."

He shrugged indifferently. "Would you care to go down?"

How insensitive he was, she thought, and asked, "Does someone
live there? Do you think they would mind?"

"I suspect they'd be delighted that anyone was interested."

He led the way down the gentle slope and along a winding
drivepath
which was also well kept up and marked by the wheels of a carriage. The
closer they came to the old house, the more Lisette was charmed. It
must at one time have been quite large; a rambling half-timbered Tudor.
Strand dismounted, tied Dasher— rather unnecessarily—to the charred
remnants of a window frame, and turned to aid Lisette from the saddle.
He shouted a "Hello!" to the livable end of the house, but there was no
sign of life. They wandered through the burnt-out shell, crossing
various thresholds until they entered what must have been a spacious
chamber.

"What a lovely prospect they must have had," said Lisette,
looking to the river. "Do you think this was the drawing room?"

"Main dining room," he murmured.

"Hmmnnn, then over here would—" She paused, noticing the soft
dancing light that flickered all about them.

"The sun on the water," he explained. "It's a peculiarity of
this particular spot, and is how the estate got its name."

"Silverings!" She turned to him in surprise. "Odious man! This
is
your
house!"

"Our
house," he corrected smilingly. "I'm
glad you like the old place."

"Like it! I think it pure delight! But what a terrible loss it
must have been."

"Yes. To my sisters and me. My father never cared for the
house and would not have it rebuilt even when he could afford it.

I've restored the grounds, at least." A nostalgic light came
into his eyes. "We had some happy times here when I was a boy."

"I can well imagine. It has such a friendly, welcoming air,
even now. May I see the other part?"

"Of course." Pleased by her interest, he led her to a
half-open
Dutch door at the side of the undamaged structure, peered inside, and
called, "Mrs. Ogden? Is anyone here?" There being no response, he
reached over to unlatch the lower portion of the door and stood aside,
explaining as Lisette entered, "The gardener and his wife live in a
cottage on the estate, and she comes every day to put the house in
order. She may have gone to the village."

The room they entered was a good size, the walls whitewashed
and the
floors of random-width planks, dark and glowing with the patina of the
years. An old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked companionably in one
corner, and a fine carpet was spread before the wide hearth. Latticed
windows were deep-set in thick walls, the seats below piled with thick,
brightly coloured cushions. And through those windows came the pleasant
light from the river, to dance over the large marine oil painting that
hung above the mantel, and brighten the blooms of a bowl of spring
flowers which graced a side table. The furnishings had clean lines and
were luxurious without being ornate, and there were many books in the
several bookcases placed against the west wall.

Entranced, Lisette wandered about, exclaiming over this or
that,
while Strand watched her. "You really are pleased with Silverings," he
observed at last.

She swung to him, eyes alight. "Oh, yes. It reminds me of the
farm
we once owned. It was a funny old place, but we passed such wonderful
summers there. May I see the rest?"

He assented readily and took her through a small dining room
and up
what had apparently been the back stairs, to a pair of bedrooms, in one
of which Lisette's eyes were at once drawn to a small bottle of scent
on a dressing table.

"This area originally constituted the butler's quarters,"
Strand
explained with a touch of pride. "And the room we first came into
downstairs was used to be the servants' hall."

Forcing her eyes from that betraying little bottle, Lisette
said, "Oh. Well, you have restored it very nicely."

He glanced at her, surprised by the changed tone and more
surprised
by the sudden flush that warmed her cheeks. "Thank you. If you really
like it, I thought perhaps… well, we could—all—"

"Come down here?" she said eagerly. "Oh, I should love it! How
nice
to wake up in the mornings and look out at the river. So much more
agreeable than—" She bit her lip, embarrassed.

"What's this?" He grinned. "Are you quite disenchanted with
the Hall?"

"Oh, no! It is—er—very impressive. But—I prefer this."

He gave an exclamation of delight. "How famous! I was afraid
you'd
prefer our more dignified residence. For myself, I never could abide
the place. And Tristram tells me that when first he saw it, he's sure
he must have turned pale!"

Amused, she agreed, "Leith is not the type to be impressed by…"

"Pretension?" he prompted. "Never hesitate for my sake." He
glanced
to the window. "However, in view of my intrepid Dasher, if we're to be
home by dusk I think we should be starting now, ma'am."

By the time they reached The Pines, the wind was rising and
the
clouds looked so threatening that Strand decided to take luncheon at
the old tavern. Over the meal they enjoyed a long discussion regarding
the possibilities of restoring Silverings, a venture with which Lisette
was thoroughly in accord. She was mildly surprised when her husband not
only encouraged her to voice her opinions regarding the reconstruction,
but seemed sincerely interested in what she had to offer. When they
were ready to leave, Strand was able to exchange his steed for a
somewhat less somnambulistic animal. The storm had drifted away, and
they started out in fair weather. Again, Strand proved a pleasant
companion. He had taken quite a liking to Lisette's family and she was
pleased when he suggested that she invite Norman to spend a week or two
with them during the summer. All in all, she felt amazingly
light-hearted by the time they rode into the yard at the Hall, and was
more in charity with her husband than she'd been since first she saw
him.

Best and another groom hastened to take their mounts. Strand
responded to Best's anxious enquiries about Brandy, but it seemed to
Lisette that the groom was not reassured. Glancing back as they walked
away, she surprised a furtive anxiety in the man's eyes and, turning to
her husband, realized belatedly that he looked tired. It must have been
a wearing day; that jump especially had been taxing, and she knew a
twinge of guilt that she'd not previously considered that his arm might
be paining him. "Strand," she said, "are you—"

"Lisette!"

"Surprise! Surprise!"

"Look who has come to pay a bride call!"

The shout, the squeal, and the amused, high-pitched cry
brought
Lisette running to embrace Norman and her two sisters. Judith looked
plumply pretty and overjoyed, Norman was genuinely glad to see her, and
Beatrice was a picture of elegance in a robe of green sarsenet over a
slip of palest green cambric. She kissed her sister sweetly but not so
unaffectedly as had Judith, taking care not to ruffle her coiffure.

"How lovely you look!" Lisette exclaimed. "And, oh, how very
glad I am to see you all."

"I had supposed you might be," murmured Beatrice with a
sidelong glance at Strand. "Which is precisely why we came."

Flustered, Lisette suggested they all return to the house, and
in
they went, Judith and Norman both talking at once, Beatrice's arm
twined in Lisette's, and Strand quietly bringing up the rear.

Happily, the Van Lindsay party had arrived sufficiently early
that
the chef had been granted time to prepare his usual excellent meal. The
dining room rang with chatter, and Lisette, delighted by this visit
from her loved ones, was animated and—so thought Strand—glowing with
happiness. The conversation swept from the wedding, to Strand Hall,
which Beatrice thought enchanting, to Brutus, whom Norman thought a
jolly fine dog, to Charity Strand and what a very charming girl she
was. Strand wholeheartedly agreed with this, contributing his longest
sentence thus far when he said that both his sisters were "rare human
beings."

The faintest breath of unease touched Lisette. Her brows
arching, she asked, "Did you meet Charity in town, Beatrice?"

"No, love. Here. Today."

"She came back?" Strand said sharply. "But she only left here
yesterday afternoon. She was not ill, I trust, Lady William?"

"No, no," Beatrice answered, putting down her wine glass. "But
it seems they encountered such bad road conditions between
here and Godalming that they were compelled to put up at an inn for the
night, and then your sister recalled something she had promised to take
to Mrs. Leith, so she turned back." Her eyes sliding to Lisette, she
smirked, "I could not have been more pleased, for we had such a
delightful cose."

Lisette smiled. Inwardly, however, she was dismayed. Charity
was so innocent and naive; she would be no match for Beatrice.

"Well, I'm sorry we missed her," said Strand. "But we are
fortunate
to have more company. May we hope you mean to spend some time with us,
ma'am?"

"Alas, but I cannot," sighed Beatrice. "Indeed, I should not
have come at all, save to bring the children to you."

Lisette stared at her blankly. Amused, Strand raised his
eyebrows and waited.

Looking from one to the other, Beatrice said, "Well, you must
have got Mama's letter by now, surely?"

Lisette had received no such letter, but an enquiry to Fisher
elicited the information that one had arrived this morning and would be
brought at once. Lisette requested it be delivered to her in the
drawing room, and they left Strand to his port.

Excusing herself, Lisette read her letter as hurriedly as her
mother's flourishing hand would allow. Dear Great-Uncle Ian had, it
would seem, received notice to quit and had sent word that he desired
his near and dear to be around him at the end. Since "dear Great-Uncle
Ian" was of a dour and reclusive nature and dwelt on one of the
Scottish islands, this entailed quite a journey, but since he also was
said to be an extremely wealthy old gentleman, Mrs. Van Lindsay had
undoubtedly undertaken it without hesitation. Norman and Judith would
benefit by a change from the London scene, she wrote, and since summer
was almost upon them it would not do any incalculable damage for them
to leave their studies now and spend a few weeks with Beatrice—at least
until their parents returned, when they might possibly all remove to
Worthing for a time. The rest of the letter was of small consequence
and Lisette folded it and said thoughtfully, "Poor Uncle Ian."

Beatrice sniffed. "About time, was you to ask me. I vow I
thought
the man would live forever! Oh, never look at me in that silly, fusty
fashion! You know he had his three score and ten at least a decade
since. He's rich as Croesus and Mama was always his favourite, so
perhaps she will now stop expecting me to open
my
purse each time they are in the basket. I declare, poor William has
been
more
than generous. And patient? My dear
husband is the very
soul
of patience, but there comes a limit, and you'll own Norman and Judith
have not been strictly reared and their behaviour is not what one might
wish."

It was at about this time that Judith and Norman were jointly
overtaken by the effects of the long journey and in a rare display of
weariness elected to go early to bed.

"I am not at all surprised," said Beatrice, receiving a
dutiful
good-night kiss from each. "Had you not felt it necessary to explore
the entire estate with that horrid animal the instant we arrived, you
might be less fatigued."

"We might," Judith retaliated, hugging Lisette. "But only
think how
it gave you the chance to worm as much as you could out of poor Charity
Strand."

Beatrice uttered an enraged screech and sprang to her feet,
and the
younger Van Lindsays fled, Norman's whoop echoing after them as he
closed the door.

"Do you see what I mean?" Beatrice asked angrily, sitting down
and smoothing her robe. "They are not to be borne!"

"From what Mama writes, dear, you could not have borne them
longer than three or four days."

Lisette had spoken mildly, but Beatrice fired up at once. "And
I collect you meant me to carry the
whole
burden—as usual! I vow it is so unfair. With Timothy away,
everything
falls on my head, only because I am the eldest. Nobody stops to
consider that
I
might have plans! Or cares if
poor William is reduced to a nervous wreck."

Since Beatrice had never been known to offer the least
assistance in
time of crisis and would, in fact, go to considerable lengths to be
suddenly "called away" in the event of illness in the family, Lisette
found it difficult to summon much sympathy for this tale of woe. She
knew "poor William" a good deal better than her sister imagined and was
well aware that he both loved children and longed to set up his
nursery. He was the most amiable of men and would, she had no doubt,
have been delighted to host his niece and nephew on an indefinite
basis. The truth of the matter was, she suspected, that Beatrice did
not want to remain in the country, but had no wish to be cooped up in a
town-house with a sister and brother who were, admittedly, rather a
handful.