Using the stick as a probe she found the next step cluttered with leaves and pieces of rock, and she poked the debris away, hoping it was not falling on Montclair, but knowing that if she turned her ankle it must be disastrous. On she went, from step to step, until she had descended to the point where she must make a great decision. If she was to lower herself any farther, she would no longer be able to hold the top of the pit. And suppose there were no more steps? 'Well,' she thought doggedly, 'then I shall have to sit here like a bird on a twig and at least let him know someone is near. No one should have to die all alone in such a place. Even if it is his own silly fault.' She took the next step, pressing against the wall for support, still not daring to look down.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The rough rock stairs were built against one wall. She could see the bottom now, littered with branches and leaves and chunks of rock, and among them, Montclair, lying sprawled on his back. If he had landed on one of those chunks of the Folly, he must be gravely injured. Praying he was not dead, she started to edge down to the next step.
Threads tickled her face. She thought in horror, 'A web!' Something with many legs scuttled across her cheek. A spider! She let out a shriek, missed her footing, and was falling.
Chapter 9
Montclair awoke to find that he was still lying in the Folly; still alone. He had dreamed that
'Someone came, and that whoever it was had promised to return with water. And then he'd sunk back into the dark again. He felt crushed by disappointment, but made no further attempt to try to get up. He was too weak now, and that last horrible effort had convinced him that both his leg and his right hand were broken. He was quite incapable of climbing out, even if he could stand. He wondered dully if he ever would be found and given a Christian burial.
His eyes were dim, but something seemed to be moving against the wall. He blinked, peering, and was able to discern a pale female form floating down through the darkness. A gasp of shock escaped him. An angel! So his life really was done. It was a sad realization, but at least it would mean the end of this awful pain and thirst. He watched the angel, wondering even in his anguish what he should say when she reached him. She seemed to be rather new at the business, for she kept dislodging rocks and stones that came clattering down, several actually striking him. Now she had stopped. Perhaps she couldn't see where he was.
He tried to call to her, but suddenly a shriek rang out and she was hurtling down.
Angels didn't shriek. In which case she must be human. And there was only one lady who would risk her neck to try and help him. Horror-stricken, he clawed at the slab with his left hand, dragging his battered body up with a strength born of frenzy.
"Babs! Babs! Oh… hell! Are you—"
Bruised and battered, Susan said breathlessly, "I am not… Miss Trent, sir." She struggled to her knees and made her weaving and uncertain way towards him.
"You!" gasped Montclair. "Good God!" He sagged onto his side and lay crumpled across the slab, panting.
Susan knelt beside him. His beard-stubbled face was liberally streaked with blood. She peered at his head, and recoiled in horror.
He croaked faintly, "Is… my skull crushed… can you tell?"
"Not crushed, I think, but it's a nasty wound." She did not dare touch that great gash. "I would bathe it for you, but I could only bring lemonade."
"Lemonade…" he echoed, stupidly. "Are you… really Mrs. Henley?"
"Yes." Shaken, but trying not to reveal that, she said briskly, "I don't wonder you are surprised. Alas, I am not a very efficient rescuer. Neither rope, nor water!" Summoning a smile, she went on. "Now I think we must declare a truce. If I help to prop you up, can you drink a little?"
Her arm was around his shoulders. With all his strength, he tried, but was unable to hold back a groan of agony as his leg twisted…
He roused after a while to the scent of violets. His smashed head was resting against a soft and kinder pillow. A bottle was being held to his lips. He managed to drink the stale brackish liquid, sighed in ecstasy, and croaked out the "thank you" that was so hopelessly inadequate. "You fell, I think? Are you all… right?"
A pause. He peered upward, trying to see her. Her face was blurred, but he could see the long grey eyes, full of pity; the vivid mouth drooping with sympathy. The dark curtain of her hair was brushing his cheek very softly. And it was so astounding—so past belief that this of all women had come to help him.
"Yes," Susan answered rather huskily. "A bruise or two, perhaps. But you do not seem to have got off so lightly, sir. Are you hurt anywhere else than your head?"
"Leg broken… I think. And—right hand… bit of a—nuisance."
Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she could see that he looked very bad. She had no knowledge of how to set a broken bone and judged it best not to try. Angelo or Deemer would probably send word to Longhills, and they would summon Dr. Sheswell so that the injured man could have expert treatment as soon as he was carried home. However, just in case he was dying she should try to find out what had happened. She said gently, "Help is coming. They should be here very soon. Sir—did you fall?"
"No." He sighed. "Attacked… Been here… long, long time. Very good… of you…" The words faded away.
Appalled, Susan bent nearer. "Mr. Montclair—did you see who did this?"
She had to repeat the question before he answered in a whisper. "Giant—giant shadow…" And after a pause, "Would you mind…"
"What?" she asked anxiously.
"Could you… hold my hand—just for a minute… ?"
But even as she moved quickly to gratify that request, his blood-spattered head sagged back loosely, and he was very limp and heavy in her arms. She thought, 'He has died, then.' He was too young to die. And especially at the bottom of this horrid Folly. It was his own Folly, in more ways than one, but a lump came into her throat and tears stung her eyes.
"Well, well," drawled a mocking voice. "Beauty and the—er, music master."
Junius Trent's handsome face looked down at her, with Pollinger looming behind him, and Angelo was calling, "Missue! Missue! Findings we having!"
"Thank heaven!" cried Susan fervently.
Trent swung his legs over the side, then checked, his eyes narrowed. "Jove—these steps look crumbly. Doubt they'd support our combined weight was I to haul him out. Can he walk up, ma'am?"
"No, he cannot walk up," she retorted indignantly. "He is unconscious at the moment. The steps supported me, Mr. Trent, and I am no light weight."
"Just the right weight." He laughed, and glancing behind him said, "D'you hear that, Poll? I made a rhyme! Mrs. Henley says—"
Susan could have struck him. "Mr. Trent—your cousin may be dying! Do you fancy you could hurry?"
"Your wish, m'dear, is my command!" Even so, he trod very warily, both hands clinging to the top of the wall until he was obliged to let go. "Egad, what a bloody mess," he said, reaching the foot of the steps and coming over to peer down at Montclair. "Can it be that my beloved coz has expired? Dear me. Well, we cannot live forever, and—"
"He has not expired, and I trust will not do so unless he dies of old age before you carry him out of this horrid place!"
Trent chuckled, and bent to stroke her hair. "Much you would care, sweet shrew. So I'm to carry the dolt, am I? As you wish." He bent and gripped Montclair's arm, swinging him upward.
Susan uttered a shriek. "Have a care! His arm may be broken, and his leg most certainly is!"
He clicked his tongue. "What a mournful inventory." He dropped to one knee. "Never say I failed in my duty." He pulled his cousin up and then swung him over his shoulder, cutting off Susan's protests by saying, "Now do not rail at me, fairest. I cannot carry him in my arms and negotiate that narrow stair. Do you go first." Susan declining the honour, he said with a grin that if she chose to follow she would be crushed was he to drop Montclair.
"I cannot believe," she said, "that a big strong man like you, Mr. Trent, wo
uld be unable to manage such a burden."
This seemed to strike the right chord. Trent climbed up the steps quite well, lowered Montclair to the ground where Deemer and Señor Angelo waited, and turned back to assist Susan to clamber over the edge.
Watching anxiously, Deemer said, "We brought the phaeton, ma'am. And Mrs. Starr sent medical supplies." He opened a valise full of linen strips, flannel, salve, basilicum powder, a pair of scissors, and an earthenware bottle of hot water.
"Thank heaven," said Susan. She knelt beside the victim, and began to bathe the blood from his face.
Trent, who had been quiet and thoughtful, now mounted up. "Well, we'll be off. I expect you can—"
"Be—what?" She jerked around, looking at him in alarm. "Surely you should wait and escort your cousin home?"
"You never mean—all the way back to Longhills? In his condition? My dear ma'am, he'd be much better off was you to take him to Highperch."
Aghast, she cried, "That is not possible! I am not able to care for an invalid! Besides, I refuse to take the responsibility! He must be cared for by his doctor, and—"
"But I understood you'd a doctor on your staff," he countered with a sly grin.
"Bo'sun Dodman is away with my brother. And Montclair needs competent medical help at once! No, sir. You must take him to Longhills!"
Montclair moaned faintly.
Sir Dennis said in a shocked tone, "You surprise me, Mrs. Henley, begad but y'do. Poor fella lying here in misery, and you refuse him house room. Cruel."
"Cannot blame the lady," said Trent. "Montclair has treated her badly, and she takes her revenge."
"What a horrid thing to say," Susan flared, wrapping her bandage tightly around Montclair's heavy head. "Hold him up a little please, Deemer. What do you think, señor?"
Angelo trod closer and looked down at Montclair with lips pursed. "Very not goodly," he declared. "Mostly dyings is. Angelo say—"
"Be bled white by the time we get him to Longhills," put in Sir Dennis gloomily.
"I am afraid that the long journey," said Deemer, "and—" He checked, glancing at Trent. "I fear it might indeed be the end of him, Mrs. Sue."
Susan bit her lip. "You could use our phaeton, Mr. Trent," she offered hopefully.
"If you insist, ma'am." He shrugged. "But it had as lief be a hearse."
'Oh, Lord!' thought Susan. 'Whatever am I to do?'
Dr. Sheswell was a big untidy man somewhere between forty-five and fifty, with puffy blue eyes and a squat nose that seemed too small for his face. His brown receding hair was brushed forward but had fallen into clumps which revealed his bald head. He came stamping into the withdrawing room of Highperch Cottage on this foggy evening, put down his bag, and scanned the larcenous widow. She wore a rose muslin gown that became her willowy figure. A dainty lace cap was set on the thick black hair that fell straight and shining behind her shoulders. He thought it as alluring as it was unconventional. She had risen when he entered the room and stood watching him, tiredness in her face, a scrape on her chin, but her eyes cool and unwavering before his bold stare. He thought, 'No simpering miss, this one. Old Selby's got a fight on his hands!'
Susan wished Andy was at home, and wondered why she so disliked this man. "May I offer you a cup of tea, doctor?" she asked courteously.
"You may, ma'am," he answered in his loud voice. "But I'd as lief have something stronger."
She looked at him sharply, then moved to the credenza, poured sherry into one of the glasses on the tray, and carried it to him. The doctor sat on the old brown sofa and raised his glass. "Here's to a speedy resolution of young Montclair's problems."
"You think he will recover, then?" she asked, returning to her chair.
"Not a doubt, m'dear ma'am," he said with a firm nod. "Terrible thing, I grant you. Terrible. Young fella struck down. Nigh murdered on his own brother's lands! Devil take me if ever I heard of such a thing! But—he's young. Resilient. Strong-willed chap, y'know. Type who heals fast. Up and about in no time, I'd not be surprised!"
Susan stared at him. When she'd left her bedchamber so that Sir Selby and his wife could be private with their nephew and the physician, it had seemed to her that Montclair was very ill indeed. The shock of the blow to the head was of itself enough, she'd thought, to have put a period to the poor man, and when one added the fracture of his left leg just above the ankle, and the despair he obviously felt due to his broken hand, she would have been less than surprised had the doctor warned her to prepare for the worst.
"But—I had understood—" she began in a rather confused way.
"Must confess I admire you, ma'am," he boomed. "Yes, by Jove! Admire's the only word." He sampled his wine again. His brows rose and he held the glass up and looked at it with lips pursed. "Damme if I don't admire this sherry as well!" He slanted a narrowed glance at her. "D'ye chance to know where y'brother buys it?"
At such a time the question seemed so trite and irrelevant. Impatient, Susan replied, "I could not say. And why you should admire us for taking in a badly hurt gentleman when our home was nearest to—"
"Come, come, pretty lady," he intervened with a jocose grin. "Everybody knows there's a—ah, dispute 'twixt y'brother and the Montclairs. To climb down into that hell-hole as you did was passing brave! And then to bring the unfortunate fella here was a splendid thing to do, so it was." He gave her a knowing wink. "I'm very sure Sir Selby and his lady are damned near overcome with gratitude."
She stiffened, resenting the implication. Besides, they had not seemed at all grateful. In fact, when they'd swept in at the door an hour ago, Lady Trent had looked through her as though she'd not even been alive, and they'd both followed Deemer upstairs without so much as one word of thanks. "We did as best we could, but—"
"Did damned well," he interposed, not bothering to curb his language before this scheming adventuress. "Montclair would have died before the night was out had you not found him. And you did right not to try and set his leg."
"Well, so I thought, but Sir Selby and his wife did not seem—"
"Ah, you must not mind their manners." He leaned to pat the hand on her knee and said confidingly, "Just their way. Worried, you know. Fairly dote on the boy."
Of course they would have worried. And she had not been very polite to Lady Trent when they'd met on the stairs at Longhills; she could hardly expect the woman to fall on her neck now, especially if they really judged her claim to Highperch to be fraudulent.
She drew her hand away. "I quite understand," she said, wondering if they meant to move Montclair tonight. "It must have been a great shock. And to see him in such pain—but I expect you will have given him laudanum."
"Don't hold with it," he said sternly. "Saw too many young fellas fall under its spell during the war. Drugs. Bad business."
Taken aback, she said, "But—surely it must have been very trying when you set his broken limbs. Anything that would give him some relief—"
"Tush, ma'am. D'ye take the boy for a weakling? Do assure you he ain't. Now don't you worry your pretty head. You ain't responsible."
His cunning little eyes reminded her of a bird of prey. Her bruised knees ached; indeed, she seemed to ache all over, and she was very weary. She thought, 'You're overtired and being silly. Dr. Sheswell takes care of most of the best families hereabouts and is a skilled physician who knows what is appropriate for his patient.' Even so, she said, troubled, "I found him, sir. I feel responsible."
"Very commendable of you, Mrs. Henley!" Sir Selby was coming down the stairs, one arm about his wife who looked distraught and held a handkerchief to her eyes.
Susan and the doctor stood and Lady Trent left her husband and flew to throw her arms about Susan and embrace her amidst a torrent of tears and thanks. Mrs. Henley was the bravest creature in the world! She had, single-handedly, saved their beloved nephew! She had risen above petty disputes and arguments, and gone like a Good Samaritan to the aid of the afflicted.
Embarrassed, Susan drew back, on
ly to have her hand taken, bowed over, and kissed by a much moved Sir Selby. "My very dear lady," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "There are no words! But we will find some—ah, tangible reward for your courage and generosity, I do assure you!" He turned away, and blew his nose.
"Whatever we did," said Susan, irritated, "was not done with an eye to reward, sir."
"Spoken as a true Christian," trilled my lady, clasping her hands and regarding Susan with a misty smile. "And to have put poor dear Valentine into your very own bedchamber! Compassion! Self-sacrifice! Oh, you are too good—too forgiving, my dear!"
"Yes, indeed," affirmed her spouse, mopping at his brimming eyes. "I hope you will not hesitate to call on us, dear ma'am, should you find yourself short of beds or bedding. Meanwhile, we will make every effort to see that the least possible burden falls on your shoulders. The good doctor will arrange for nurses around the clock, and—"
"But—but," gasped Susan, appalled, "you will want to take Montclair home, sir."
"Take him—home?" Lady Trent regarded Susan as though she'd said something sacrilegious. "You cannot mean it!"
"No, no. Not to be thought of," interjected the doctor, his face suddenly very grave. "He is in no condition to bear the move. Not for a day or two, at least."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 16