Miss Trent dwelt in one of the loveliest homes in the land. She had probably not once in her life known what it meant to have to pinch pennies to pay the bills and the servants, or to lie awake at night wondering what was to become of her loved ones. And yet Miss Trent had looked at the shocking Mrs. Burke Henley with—envy!
Longhills faced northwest and in the far southeastern corner of the first floor, behind the conservatory, were the two large and charmingly irregularly shaped chambers that constituted Valentine Montclair's study and music room. It was towards the latter that Sir Selby Trent now made his way, frowning because of the angry voices and sounds of strife that emanated from within.
He opened the door to a bright airy room, its tall mullioned windows open to the warm afternoon air. Although it was cluttered, it was a comfortable chamber, dominated by the harpsichord set in one of the two deep bays on the east wall; a magnificent double keyboard instrument, long and graceful, the case intricately carven and gilded. Across the room, several armchairs and occasional tables were grouped around an impressive marble fireplace. A long reference table piled high with musical scores in various stages of completion stood in the second bay and nearby was another grouping of a sofa and chairs, one of which crashed over as the two young men locked in combat plunged past.
"Stop this at once!" the baronet commanded.
He was ignored. Junius Trent broke from his cousin's strong hands and sent his muscular fist in a deadly jab to the jaw. Montclair swayed nimbly aside and his right rammed home under Junius's ribs, neatly doubling him in half.
"Have done!" shouted Selby Trent.
Breathing hard, Montclair stepped back. A head shorter and of far more slender build than Junius, his hair had tumbled untidily over his forehead and the amber flecks in his dark eyes flamed with wrath. "The— next time," he panted, "you feel moved to… vent your spleen on something, dear cousin—"
Sir Selby raised the top of the harpsichord an inch or two and let it fall.
The resultant reverberating crash brought Montclair's head jerking around.
"Might one enquire as to the reason for yet another vulgar brawl?" enquired Sir Selby.
Montclair glared at him and crossed to lift the top of the instrument and peer anxiously at the quills.
Junius laughed breathlessly and contrived to straighten up, leaning one hand on the reference table. "Et tu… Brute?"
His father regarded him coldly. "Should I interpret that to mean you also have laid hands on your cousin's harpsichord?"
"Not—er—hands exactly, Papa."
"A dead bird," said Montclair, throwing a look of disgust at Junius.
"Anything—to muffle the sounds of your… cacophonous efforts, dear coz."
Sir Selby was not amused. "You outdo yourself, Junius. First, that fiasco at Highperch, and now you must upset your cousin, and engage in fisticuffs, well knowing he is ill and—" He paused, then finished acidly, "I almost said unable to defend himself."
Junius flushed. "My attention was diverted when you arrrived, sir," he said sullenly.
Montclair snorted with contempt and carefully lowered the harpsichord top. "This house is sufficiently large and well built that the sounds of my playing do not carry very far, especially since a harpsichord lacks the volume of a spinet. Your quarters are in the south wing where they cannot be heard at all. One might hope you would confine yourself to that wing. Or better yet, remove from Longhills altogether."
"Ah, but I would purely loathe to give you that much pleasure," sneered Junius.
"Then you may give me the pleasure of picking up that chair before you remove yourself from this room," said his father. "I have business with Montclair."
For an instant Junius hesitated, then he shrugged, restored the fallen chair, and sauntered out, leaving the lackey to close the door after him.
"Val, dear lad," murmured Sir Selby, "I am sorrier than I can say, but—"
With a peremptory gesture Montclair said harshly, "What's all this about Highperch?"
"Alas," Trent's plump shoulders drooped. "You are impatient. As ever."
Montclair sat on the bench of the harpsichord. "I have been patient these five years since I came down from University, uncle."
"And I longer than that, Valentine. My own estates are neglected whilst I administer Longhills as—"
"Then by all means don't let 'em languish an instant longer, sir!"
Trent shrank before the sardonic tone and his head lowered. He wandered to the window and with his back to the room said in a voice that quivered with emotion, "You know very well that it was your dear Mama's wish I should—"
"My mother set you up as administrator until Geoff reached the age of five and twenty. He passed that four years since."
"How true. And if only he would come home to relieve me of my task! But I'll not betray my trust whilst my brave nephew is off fighting for his country."
"Pshaw! We are three years past Waterloo, and Geoff's been in India these two years and more. If he could be bothered to answer my letters I might know what the lamebrain's about, but I'll relieve you of your task, sir. And willingly!"
"Yes. Dear boy, I know how gallantly you would take on such a burden. Even though your health—"
"Health be damned! I can manage."
Sir Selby turned and said with a rueful smile, "Aye— to run the estate into bankruptcy!"
"The devil!" Montclair sprang to his feet, gave a gasp and clutched at the harpsichord, then sat down again. "If you mean…" he said unevenly, "because I refused to sell Highperch to… your bosom bow…"
Trent moved closer, eyeing his nephew's suddenly white face uneasily. In a gentler tone he said, "Another attack? Poor lad, poor lad. My fault—though I had no desire to upset you. But it's more than that single matter. I know how well you mean, but your plans are too grandiose, Valentine; your ambitions too costly for the estate to bear. I've managed to keep us in good financial colour all these years, despite rising costs, and—"
"You've hoarded every damned farthing, is what you mean! You cannot just—" Montclair paused, and drew a trembling hand across his eyes. "Damn this… confounded dizziness," he whispered.
Trent hurried to rest a consoling hand on the bowed shoulder. "Poor boy. I should never have scolded you." Sorrow came into his eyes as his nephew jerked away from his touch, and he said with a smothered sigh, "Dr. Sheswell says you must be calm. I'll go."
"No." Montclair pulled up his head and peered into his uncle's martyred smile. "Tell me what you meant about—Highperch."
Trent occupied the dark green velvet sofa and smoothed a crease from his sleeve. "Perhaps I should not bother you with it, dear lad, but—"
"For the love of God," snarled Montclair, "stop calling me 'dear lad' or your 'poor boy'! I am nigh seven and twenty. Say it and be done!"
For the space of a single breath the chubby hand was very still on Trent's well-clad arm. Then he said softly, "If my son ever dared use such a tone to me…"
"You are to be congratulated, sir. I am neither your son nor any blood relation."
"No." Trent drew a breath and smiled kindly. "You are the child of my dear wife's beloved brother. And as a good Christian, I must make allowances for your—"
"Mental lapses?"
"No, no! Never describe it thus. You have been ill and the symptoms linger—no more, no less. Now, let us talk of less grievous matters. The fact is, Valentine, that— well, not to beat about the bush, Burke Henley's widow has moved into Highperch, and—"
"What?" roared Montclair, rising from the bench like a rocket. "Were our keepers and gardeners asleep? How the hell did she manage it?"
"I've no least notion, but it is an isolated piece of land. Perhaps she moved overnight. She might even have had her effects shipped by way of the river. The—er, worst of it is, she claims her papa-in-law never received his funds from the resale of Highperch, and—"
"By God, but he did! Old Ferry's got Ezra Henley's signed receipt locked in his sa
fe!" Montclair began to stride about the room. "When I think of how that wretched old humbug bothered my mother! From the moment he bought the property he did nothing but complain. He never would keep to the public road, but insisted on driving clear across Longhills to reach Highperch. When Mama learned the description on the Deed was at fault, it was her chance to declare the sale invalid, which she did promptly enough, I can tell you."
"I knew the sale was voided, of course. But how was the description at fault?"
"The property was described as being in Gloucestershire whereas in point of fact that small parcel is across the county line. That's why it was never included in the entail. A few years before her death my Grandmama decided she wanted Highperch for a Dower House. Lord knows there was no need, and none of us wanted her to go, but she persisted, had the entire place redecorated, lived there about a year, and then declared it too lonely." Smiling nostalgically, he sat down again, then drove an impatient hand through his hair. "Lord— why did I tell you all that? You know it as well as I!"
"With your papa and my dear wife having been estranged for so many years, I had little opportunity to know the old lady." Trent shook his head. "She always was eccentric, I understand."
"Then your understanding is at fault," snapped Montclair.
"I had intended no criticism," said Sir Selby with a crushed air. "I merely thought it a sad waste of money." He saw the immediate spark of anger in his nephew's dark eyes, and added hastily, "After my brother-in-law died I wonder your mother did not simply have Highperch torn down."
"That was her intent, but I always liked the house and begged her not to level it. She agreed, with the proviso it should never be a charge on her, and made it over to me." Montclair's face darkened. "Dammitall, had I restored it and moved in, as I meant to do, this wretched widow would never have been able to slither into possession!"
"Instead of which, you were too busy guarding Longhills from the depredations of your unworthy uncle," said Trent wryly. His nephew merely glaring at him, he added, "I had hoped to persuade Mrs. Henley to leave, but she is a brazen hussy and—"
"You've met the lady?"
"There is a great difference my b— Valentine, between a lady and a woman. She called here this afternoon. Alone, if you can believe such boldness."
"Blast it! Why wasn't I told?"
"We were unable to find you." Trent added with a bland smile, "Perhaps you were discussing wedding plans with my daughter."
Montclair flushed but met his eyes steadily.
"At all events," went on Sir Selby, "Madam Henley is full of threats and says she means to bring suit against us for every crime imaginable, and drag your name through the mud. The vulgar harlot! I'll tell Ferry to have an eviction—"
"Thank you—no. It is my house, sir. I'll ride over to Highperch first thing in the morning and have a little discussion with our avaricious widow. She'd as well learn as soon as may be that she must practice her chicanery elsewhere!"
Susan guided the team mechanically, angered because she was trembling and shaken by the ugly encounters in the great house. It was cooler when they entered the woods. The sunlight danced through the leaves, painting a roof of varying greens above her, the lazy shifting of the branches creating an ever changing pattern on the broad backs of Pennywise and Pound Foolish—a pattern Susan viewed through the blur of tears.
She groped for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes fiercely. She would not cry! She would not be defeated! Not now. It had been so hard to keep them all together after Burke died. Andy and the Bo'sun had tried to help, and together with the money she'd raised by selling her jewellry, they'd been able to stay in the house in Town until the lease expired. It had been a necessary but not happy arrangement. Priscilla, innocent of any wrongdoing, was shunned by the neighbourhood children until, bewildered and hurt, she'd invented her own little excuses for her unpopularity. Not one of those viciously virtuous matrons who dwelt in the Square would so much as pass the time of day with the widow of a man who had gambled away a fortune, been dishonourably discharged from the Navy, and had then so disgracefully ended his own life. To make matters worse, Andy had brought them more notoriety by calling out a gentleman who had sneered a little too openly.
When they'd gone through Burke's papers and come across the Deed to Highperch Cottage, it had seemed the answer to their prayers. Only, the next day further investigation had disclosed that the Deed was clouded. She and Andrew had laid the whole matter before the aging solicitor who had handled all Grandpapa's affairs. The old man had glanced through the various papers, examined the Deed, and said that certainly there would be a battle to prove that Mr. Henley had never been refunded the purchase price on the cottage. Well aware of their circumstances, he'd cocked a shrewd eye at Andrew and said, "Incidentally, it's my understanding no one has lived at Highperch for several years. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, was you to slip in there, Lyddford… under cover of darkness perhaps…"
Andy had laughed delightedly, but Susan had been shocked and had said with considerable indignation that she had no intent to do anything illegal. It was the Montclairs who were behaving in an unlawful way, argued Andy, by having failed to make proper restitution to her late father-in-law. "Besides," he'd added thoughtfully, "the cottage sits on a bank right above the Severn. Be jolly fine for The Dainty Dancer." And, with a gleam of mischief in his grey eyes, "Seems almost as though it was intended for us, don't it, Sue?"
The phaeton left the trees and plunged into warm sunshine again, following the ribbon of the road as it wound across the fragrant meadows towards the last low hill, aesthetically crowned by the little belt of ash and elm, that sheltered Highperch Cottage. Susan's throat tightened when at last the gables of the house came into view. She'd loved the poor old place the instant she saw it standing in proud if rather forlorn dignity on its eminence above the river, the widespread inverted U-shape of the two-storey building so much too large for the term 'cottage,' the red sandstone walls a burnished glow in the light of the full moon. It had been shamefully neglected, and she'd fancied it was lonely, waiting for the warmth of a loving family to make it feel wanted again.
Well, it was wanted. But Lord Montclair was a rich and powerful man and she was only a disgraced widow. If the courts ruled in the baron's favour, she and her little 'family' would have to move again. Wherever would she find so perfect a home for them all?
Pennywise and Pound Foolish slowed as they plodded up the drivepath. The scent of roses drifted from the weedy flower beds. The front door burst open and Priscilla hopped down the steps and danced joyously to meet the phaeton, Wolfgang prancing at her heels. Edwina Starr, dainty despite her dusty apron, walked onto the terrace and waved a greeting. Beyond the sprawl of the old house the great river wound its sparkling way to the estuary, and far away loomed the unchanging hills of Malvern.
An invisible hand clamped around Susan's heart and her throat tightened. She thought achingly, 'We cannot lose it! We cannot! He has so much—must he cheat us out of this dear old place, when he never even cared enough to keep it in good repair?' And she knew she would fight with every weapon at hand to prevent High-perch Cottage being stolen from them.
Chapter 3
The morning was windy but warm. With much to think about, Montclair rose early and having advised Gould that he would be walking over to Highperch later, was dressed in fawn breeches, a green nankeen jacket, and topboots.
Gould, a tall middle-aged man slightly stooped from rheumatism, was a rather dour individual, and seeing the frown in his master's eyes made no attempt to engage him in conversation. Valentine Montclair would have been a disappointment to any Town valet with aspirations to rise in his profession. He was, thought Gould, a perfect representation of the artistic temperament: impatient with the demands of Fashion and anything that smacked of the dandy; impatient with the inanities of snobbish small talk and gossip; impatient with the lovely young ladies who fluttered their lashes and their fans at him, and whose vapi
d giggles and flirtatious chatter had been known to drive him to a precipitate retreat from the parties his aunt so delighted to preside over.
Not an easy young man. But oddly enough, Montclair never quite disgraced his valet. In the throes of composition he might wrench at his neckcloth until it was all awry, or drive his long sensitive fingers through his dark locks until they tumbled untidily over his high forehead, yet with not the least inclination to do so, he always looked well turned out. Mr. Junius Trent, who spent a small fortune on his wardrobe, invariably found himself in some inexplicable fashion cast into the shade by his cousin, with the result that Mr. Trent's man was forever dodging boots or bottles hurled at him in a frustrated fury.
Aware of some of the crushing burdens carried on those slim shoulders, Gould had a deeper sympathy for his employer than Montclair would have dreamed. To sympathy was added another emotion. Prior to entering Montclair's service, the valet had enjoyed hearing the band play in the park, and he'd even gone to Covent Garden once or twice, mostly to see the opera dancers, of course, but paying more attention to the music than many in the audience. When first he came to Longhills, he'd soon learned that Sir Selby and Lady Trent had only disdain for Mr. Valentine's musical talents, and that Mr. Junius Trent was revolted by them. When guests came to dine, however, my lady invariably pinched at "dear Valentine" until he agreed to play. It was said with much amusement in the servants' hall that this was a mixed blessing to Lady Trent, for her attempts to talk throughout her nephew's performance were all too often ignored, and she had once actually been "shushed" at. The applause and the praise showered on Montclair were gall and wormwood to her, and on the evening when a grande dame was moved to tears and embraced Valentine, saying he was a true master, hilarious footmen relayed the information that my lady's smile appeared to have been applied to her face with rusty nails. Intrigued by all this, Gould crept one night to where he could hear his employer play, and since then he eavesdropped as often as he dared and was frequently so moved that he could scarcely refrain from expressing his admiration. Had anyone suggested that he was deeply fond of his unpredictable master, he would have scoffed, but had he been offered twice his already generous salary, he'd have given not one instant's consideration to leaving Valentine Montclair's service.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 4