"How regrettable," he drawled. "It is evident, ma'am, that to prolong this discussion would be pointless. I give you good day."
Bowing, he started off, but glanced back when she called, "One moment, if you please. We have another matter to discuss."
He scowled, hesitating. But he was curious to see what outrageous ploy she would next present, and thus went back to the bench once more.
Susan sat down and ordered her skirts. "When my brother attacked you—"
"After I molested your daughter," he interpolated, stiffening.
"Mr. Montclair, permit me to say that your manners are atrocious. Did no one ever teach you that it is very rude to interrupt? I was about to explain that it was no more than a simple mistake, and—"
He was rude again. "Simple! Many sins I consider forgivable, Mrs. Henley, but the man who abuses a helpless little child is utterly despicable. To have been judged capable of such conduct is not my notion of a 'simple mistake'!"
"You know perfectly well, sir, that my brother misunderstood what Priscilla said."
He shrugged irritably. "It is of no consequence. What is done, is done."
"That is nonsensical! You might just as well say that if a carriage wheel comes to rest on my foot I must not move because it 'is done'! Or that if I should accidentally set light to the curtains, I must not put out the fire because it 'is done'!"
"I am sure you can dredge up countless inappropriate similes, Mrs. Henley. The fact remains that Lyddford struck me in the face. And the Code of Honour does not permit—"
Forgetting her scold about interruptions, she threw up her hands in exasperation. "You men and your stupid Code of Honour!"
"Yes," he sneered. "I can well imagine you would find it stupid."
Susan flushed darkly. "Your imagination at least, cannot be faulted, sir. I suppose you are a crack shot and look forward eagerly to ridding the world of a man who dared defend his little niece!"
"I believe I know one end of a pistol from the other, madam. And if I may point out—since I did not instigate the duel, your argument is ill taken."
The horrid man had a point. She bit her lip, but persisted. "Were my brother to apologize… ?"
"Hah! I wish I may see it! Lyddford did not impress me as being either a fool, or the type to apologize for his errors."
"If you knew him better—" she began angrily, but stopped when she saw the pitfall.
Montclair was in no mood to allow a poor move. "I would know he is a fool?" He clicked his tongue. "Perhaps you are right, but I think he would not appreciate your putting me in possession of that fact, Mrs. Henley."
'Wretch!' she thought, and said loftily, "The mistake was mine, for supposing I might appeal to your better nature."
"'Appeal to my better nature,' is it? Jove, but you're a rare optimist, ma'am! You illegally occupy my house; attack me like any fishwife—"
"Fishwife . . ." she spluttered, outraged. "How dare you?"
"—make perfectly vile aspersions on my character; your brother has the confounded lack of sportsmanship to knock me down when I'm looking the other way; you mean to render my house hideous by splashing scarlet paint all over it—and you seek to appeal to my better nature? By God, madam! If you hoped to turn me up sweet so as to grant you a stay of eviction, you could scarce have played your cards in worse fashion!"
Springing up, Susan gathered the train of her habit with so sweeping a gesture that she revealed the tops of her riding boots. She saw Montclair's glance flash to the embarrassment, and yearned to scratch him. "Certainly," she said, her voice quivering with rage, "I have wasted my time by attempting to reason with an ill-tempered boor. Good day, Mr. Montclair."
Having thus dismissed the obnoxious creature, she turned her eyes away and waited for him to depart.
He gave her the sketch of a bow and stood firm, coldly immovable.
It dawned on her then that this was his summer house. Discomfitted, she walked past, and down the steps, but as she approached the mare, was again discomfitted. Pewter was not a tall horse, but the stirrup was rather too high to permit a graceful mount without assistance.
Montclair watched her predicament with wicked enjoyment. Still, she had played fair in their dispute, resorting to neither tears nor hysterics, as so many of her kind would have done. Besides, she was a female and his breeding prevailed. "Allow me, Your Majesty." He handed her the reins, and bent, cupping his hands for her foot.
'Sooner,' thought Susan, 'would I perish!' Made reckless by anger, she flicked the reins over the pommel, and in a trice was atop the first step. It was just a little jump to Pewter, and once she had a grip on the pommel… She launched herself at the saddle.
Startled by such unfamiliar antics, Pewter danced away.
Bewildered, Montclair half turned, making a grab for the stirrup. Unfortunately, Susan was quite unable to stop in mid-air, and with a shocked squeal she crashed unchecked into him.
Winded, flattened, and extremely surprised, he heard faint feminine moans, and found that he was enveloped in a cloud of black hair.
Dragging herself to her hands and knees, Susan snatched the obstruction from his eyes. "Give me my hat. At once!" she demanded, kneeling over him scarlet faced, and all but weeping with chagrin. "And just for your—your information, Mr. Amberval— Oh! I mean—" His wheezing and unsympathetic laughter was typical of the brute. Between gnashing teeth, she finished sobbingly, "For your information, you are—without"—she blew a lock of hair from her eyes—"without doubt— the—the most odious creature I have ever met!"
He sprawled there. Howling.
She all but flew to Pewter, and heedless of propriety, got one foot into the stirrup and dragged herself up. Jamming the hat onto her head, she resorted to the spur she never employed, and the mare was away at the gallop.
It was no use. For what seemed miles she could still hear his loathsome laughter.
Chapter 7
The day after tomorrow was Saturday. Walking in aimless distraction among the trees, Barbara 'thought how marvellous it would be to be a milkmaid or a governess. Anything but a lady of Quality, who must be forced into wedlock, only because the gentleman was very rich. Surely milkmaids and governesses were allowed to wed whomsoever they wished. Or perhaps, not forced to wed at all.
She had come to the little secluded glade to which she sometimes crept when deeply troubled, and she sank gratefully onto the stump of the big elm tree that had been the king of this glade until last November's great storm had wrought such havoc in the woods.
The day after tomorrow… Mama and Papa were determined, beyond doubting. Her tears and pleadings had only made them angry. And Junius thought it all a great joke. Val understood, and wanted this no more than did she, but even if she found the courage to follow his suggestion it would only land him in great trouble, and as it was, the expression in Junius's eyes when he looked at his cousin sometimes made her fear… She shivered.
So there was no hope. Unless perhaps she could do as the poor lady of the Folly had done, and jump off the roof. Or would she be too lacking in courage to commit that awful sin? Oh, how ghastly it all was! She bowed her head into her hands and wept with soft but racking sobs.
The deadly and unmistakable crack of a gunshot shocked her from grief and all thought of self. She whispered, horrified, "Val! Oh, my God!" And she was running.
Montclair strode through the copse, the reins loosely held, Allegro thudding amiably beside him. The warmth of the afternoon was increasing and there was a sultriness in the air that spoke of bad weather to come, but he scarcely noticed these things, his mind preoccupied with the Widow Henley. What a hoyden the woman was! Whoever heard of a lady flinging herself at a horse in so abandoned a fashion? He chuckled. Gad, but how dear old Geoff would have laughed to see him smashed to the ground by a flying female! An unscrupulous female, who was no better than a thief.
The smile faded from his eyes, and his jaw set. So they challenged Ezra Henley's signature, did they? Much goo
d might it do them! After all these years any self-respecting judge would laugh at their case. If they really meant to bring a case. More likely they'd moved into Highperch well knowing they'd no legal claims at all, relying on using legal manoeuvrings and the slow-grinding wheels of justice to protect them for as long as possible, thus ensuring they would have a free roof over their heads. A free roof with a garish red trim… ! He ground his teeth.
'My innocent little girl ostracized because her father was a suicide… !'
Those words, so fiercely uttered, disturbed him. It was very likely true enough. People could be cruel. But that was the way of the world. Certainly, it was not his problem. Old Ferry's proofs of the resale were indisputable, and the noxious Henley clan must be made to vacate Highperch. Still, it was a damnable thing to have had a lone woman terrorized and her brother clubbed down on Longhills property! Papa would turn in his grave! Once again the Trents had—
Allegro snorted nervously. There was a sudden great rustling nearby; someone was riding at reckless speed. Montclair's hand flashed to the pistol in his pocket. A fine bay horse burst from the trees and charged straight at him. At the last instant the rider pulled up his animal, then sprang from the saddle in an impressive if unnecessarily dramatic demonstration of horsemanship.
Montclair thought with a silent groan, 'Oh Gad! It's the Spanish lunatic again!' but relinquished his grip on the pistol.
"Chew I foundling," declared Señor de Ferdinand exuberantly.
"Most astute," drawled Montclair at his haughtiest. "Since I live here."
"Chess." De Ferdinand directed an approving glance over woods, park, and gardens to the distant loom of the house. "Very nice small 'state. Chew theses sell?"
Speechless, Montclair stared at him.
"Chew wish 'state selling," said the señor earnestly, "I interest to buyings have."
'Good God!' thought Montclair. "Longhills," he explained, keeping his patience with an effort, "has been in my family for centuries. It is not for sale. If it were, however, the figure involved would be extremely high."
The Spaniard waved a hand airily. "Mices elves high figures havings. Meece buying Longhills."
Montclair tightened his grip on the reins and took a pace forward. "Señor Angelo—er, et cetera—de Ferdinand, I will say this as slowly and carefully as I can. Item—Longhills is not, will not be, and never has been for sale! Item—if this is more of Mrs. Henley's nonsense, you waste your time and mine. Item—if that is all you came here to say, you have said it. I have replied. Now be so good as to take yourself off our property."
Señor Angelo, who had followed this exposition with parted lips and extreme concentration, suddenly jerked his shoulders back, bowed low, and said, "Chew say mices elves lie telling. Chess? Very good. Now we shootings." He whipped a long-barrelled and richly gilded pistol from his saddle holster, and twirled it recklessly around one finger.
"Hey!" cried Montclair, drawing back. "Have a care! That's no way to handle a duelling pistol!"
"Chew with mices elves shoot. Now. Hereupon—once at!"
Montclair, although no great hand with a pistol, had early been taught a healthy respect for such weapons. "I am engaged to fight Mr. Lyddford," he pointed out, eyeing the Spaniard's flourishings with alarm. "Put that thing down, you block, before—"
"Chew forget into chaw mouths mices hat were hoved." Señor Angelo laughed. "First mices—"
The pistol eluded his suddenly frantic clutch and swung sideways.
With a shout, Montclair leapt away and in the same instant the pistol roared deafeningly.
There was no impact; no stab of pain.
The smoke cleared, and he saw that the Spaniard had fallen to his knees and was bowed forward.
"Good God!" Montclair sprang to bend over him.
A pallid, sweating face was lifted. Dazedly, de Ferdinand gasped, "Caramba!… mices elves have… Angelo shootinged."
"Of all the stupid—" Montclair slipped an arm about him. "Here—sit back. Let me have a look."
Already, bright crimson stained the snowy shirt. Montclair unbuttoned and removed the coat, moving as quickly and carefully as possible. He glanced up and was given a faint twitching smile. The fellow was raving mad, but he had bottom, thank heaven. "Good man," he muttered, and spread the shirt.
"Val!" Barbara ran across the turf, holding up her gown to facilitate her tempestuous advance, her face pale with fear. "Oh, Val!" she panted. "Are you—"
"I'm all right, Babs." Montclair tugged at his handkerchief. "I'm afraid this fellow has been hit, though."
Unspeakably relieved, she took in the injured gentleman who sat leaning back on his hands and gazing at her in white-lipped silence.
Montclair had fashioned his handkerchief into a pad which he placed firmly over the wound in the Spaniard's left side. Watching the hurt man's face, he increased the pressure until the steady stream of blood stopped. De Ferdinand became whiter than ever, but did not flinch.
Barbara did. "How d-dreadful!" she faltered. "W-why did you shoot him?"
De Ferdinand murmured, "Mices elves dyings was?"
For some reason Barbara appeared to have no difficulty with the gentleman's unique way with English, and she knelt beside him also and said shyly, "No, sir. I am sure you are not badly hurt." Then, with an anxious glance at her cousin she added, "Is he, Val?"
"Just a deep groove across the side of his ribs. You're extreme fortunate, señor. I— Blast! Babs—I hate to ask, but I can't hold this and get his shirt off, and I need it for a bandage. Could you—-?" He looked at her doubtfully. She was such a timid little mouse and this brave but crazy Spaniard had bled like fury. To his surprise, her little hands came at once to hold his handkerchief tightly against the wound.
"Brave girl," he said, relieved, and managed to detach the hurt man from his shirt. Tearing it into strips, he said curtly, "Babs, this is Señor Angelo de Ferdinand. Senor—my cousin, Miss Barbara Trent."
Barbara threw a quick, shy glance at the Spaniard's drawn, intent face.
"Chaw incestual eyes must rest not mices decentless selves upon," he murmured, faint but gallant.
Barbara looked startled.
Beginning to wind his improvised bandage around the lean, olive-skinned body, Montclair explained, "I think that roughly translates to a request that you not cast your innocent eyes upon his indecent self."
"Oh," said Barbara, blushing, and lowering her gaze.
"And I did not shoot him," added Montclair. "Hold tight now, Babs. Ah—here we go. The fact is that Señor de Ferdinand was—" He caught the Spaniard's look of desperate entreaty, and amended hurriedly, "was—er, showing me his new pistol, er, thinking it empty, you know. Hang on, señor, I'm going to have to tug this."
"Oh dear," murmured Barbara sympathetically as the wounded man gave a gasp. "Val—do you suppose a rib may be broken?"
De Ferdinand had managed to continue to prop himself up, but now he began to sag. Barbara moved quickly to catch him and he sank into her lap. "Dios!" he whispered.
"Poor soul." She took up a piece of the rendered shirt and dabbed it at his sweating face.
"I think I'll leave the rest to old Sheswell," said Montclair, wiping his hands on another remnant of the shirt. "We're closer to Longhills than to Highperch, so I'll take you there, Señor de Ferdinand, if—"
The dark eyes opened. Gazing up at Barbara, Angelo sighed, "Madonna… chew kindly… most. Mices heart—words no havings. Montclair—mices thanks ways all, but chew bring the Highperch, pliss. Put horse on meece."
Their protests were unavailing. Weak and shaken he might be, but he was also—as Montclair lost no time in telling him—stubborn as any mule. Surrendering, Barbara said that she would stay with Señor de Ferdinand while Montclair rode for a carriage. In the middle of a tangled sentence denying the need for anything but his own horse, the victim checked and stared to one side.
Montclair turned his head. A man lay propped on one elbow a short way up the slope, watching th
em. "Well, of all the bare-faced—" Montclair began. "Hey! Get down here!"
The man stood and ambled down the slope, a piece of grass between his teeth. "Thought I'd stay near, sir," he said lazily. "Not meaning to intrude, as they say. 'Case you might need a spot o' help like."
He was tall and thin and clad in work garments that had seen far better days. A battered straw hat, perched on a mop of curly and untidy brown hair, shaded a face notable for bushy eyebrows, a jutting chin, and a pair of heavy-lidded drowsy eyes of a very pale blue.
"I should have thought it would be dashed well obvious I needed a 'spot of help,'" snapped Montclair. "You're the new gardener, I believe? I've yet to see you standing up while you work! If all your hard labour hasn't worn you out, you can bring the horses over here."
The gardener's thin lips twisted into a grin. He cast an amused eye over Señor Angelo. "Dropped yer gun, didya, mate?" he murmured innocently.
Barbara's eyes widened. The Spaniard glared at him.
"What is your name?" demanded Montclair.
"They call me Diccon, sir."
"Do they? Well that's not what I'd call you if there weren't a lady present. Get the hacks. Now!"
"Right you are!" Diccon went shambling off.
Señor de Ferdinand was eased into his coat again. When Diccon returned with the horses, Allegro stood firm, but the smell of blood sent the bay prancing in fright. Montclair pulled him down and quieted him, and Diccon all but lifted de Ferdinand into the saddle, and asked, "Would ye want as I should come with you, sir?"
Montclair refused this offer, requiring instead that he escort Miss Barbara home and that a groom be sent to Bredon immediately, to fetch Dr. Sheswell to Highperch. Señor Angelo managed to convey the information that Mrs. Henley's staff included a man of medicine. 'I wish I may see it,' Montclair thought, cynically, but rescinded his order without argument.
The ride to the cottage was accomplished with some difficulty. The Spaniard seemed to get his second wind, and jauntily proclaimed himself "a perfect fit," which caused Montclair to grin, but a few minutes later he barely caught the man in time as he started to slide from the saddle.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 12