Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart

by Veryan, Patricia

  "Yes, Mrs. Sue. Mrs. Bentley was trying to feed the gentleman, I 'spect."

  Susan nodded, and went upstairs, her eyes sparking. Montclair had taken practically no solid food this past week, little more than the brandy and water Dr. Sheswell prescribed. From the look of the dishes on Martha's tray, the nurse had not been stinting herself.

  She went into the bedchamber without knocking, and halted.

  Mrs. Bentley stood by the bed, measuring medicine into a glass. She was humming some unidentifiable air that made up in volume for what it lacked in melody. Smiling at the spoon, she set it aside, and bent over the bed. "Here we goes, poor fella," she crooned and slid her left hand under Montclair's shoulders, jerking his head up.

  Susan heard his choked gasp, and exclaimed indignantly, "Oh, do be more careful!"

  The nurse uttered a small cry and straightened, allowing the sick man's bandaged head to drop back onto the crumpled pillows. Susan saw Montclair's mouth twist with pain and the thin left hand clutch convulsively at the coverlet. A soaring wrath possessed her.

  "Oh! 'Ow you did's'prise me, M's Henley," wailed the nurse, one hand flying to her throat and the other slopping the medicine over Montclair. "Bl-blest if ever'n'm'borndays I was more s'prised! M'poor heart's beatin' like—like a kettledrum, M's Henley, I'm that's'prised."

  "Stand aside," demanded Susan, and not waiting to be obeyed, pushed the woman from her path and bent over Montclair. The bedclothes were untidy, the pillowslip creased and damp with perspiration, and he looked desperately ill. She felt his forehead and turned, saying angrily, "He is very hot and uncomfortable. Have you bathed him yet?"

  Mrs. Bentley drew herself up. "Doct' Sheswell don't hold wi' bathing when there's fever presh—"

  Montclair whispered pleadingly, "If I… might have—water…"

  "Of course."

  "That's f'me't'do, ma'am." Mrs. Bentley made a belated snatch for the glass Susan had already taken up. "Now y'mustn't int'fere w'me patient," she added, attempting to force her way between Susan and the bed.

  "Nonsense." Susan circumvented this manoeuvre with a jab of one elbow. With great care she raised the dark head very slightly and held the glass to Montclair's cracked dry lips. He took a sip, choked, groaned, and his left hand lifted in a weak gesture of repugnance.

  "I'll take—" began Mrs. Bentley with another abortive grab at the glass.

  "I think not!" Susan lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. Her eyes flashing, she stepped closer to Mrs. Bentley's aggressive but slightly swaying figure. "Be so good as to explain why there is gin in this glass, ma'am."

  "Med'cine," declared the nurse fiercely, but losing her balance for a second. "Y'got no b'sness, M's—"

  Raging but keeping her voice low, Susan declared, "You—are—intoxicated!"

  "Ooooh! Wotta awful thing t'say!" The nurse darted for the glass.

  Susan fended her off, marched to the window, and emptied the contents onto the lawn below. She was greatly relieved to see masts bobbing beside their dock, and the Bo'sun carrying a crate up the back steps.

  "M'med'cine!" wailed Mrs. Bentley, peering tragically after it. She turned on Susan in a flame. "Oh, you're a wicked woman, you are! Jesslike they said! I was warned, I was, and—"

  "Out!" commanded Susan, flinging one arm majestically in the direction of the door.

  Mrs. Bentley stared at her, and began to look frightened. "You can't do that," she blustered. "Doc't Sh-Sheshwell says—"

  Susan tugged on the bellpull. "You may inform Dr. Sheswell that you were discharged for laziness, drunkenness, ineptitude—"

  "Oooh! Now she's a'swearin''t me! A good woman I is, not like th'likes of her an' she swears—"

  "And—" Susan finished, wrinkling her nose in distaste, "dirtiness!"

  "Well, I never!"

  "Your hands are filthy, and your garments little better! As a nurse, madam, you would make a good dustman!"

  "If ever I—!" Defiantly at bay the nurse threatened,

  "I'll have th'law onya, see if I don't, fer inf'mation o'character, an'—"

  "Ah—Bo'sun," interrupted Susan loftily. "Mrs. Bentley is leaving us. Be so good as to drive her to Dr. Sheswell's house in Bredon, and inform him we were obliged to dismiss her."

  Mrs. Bentley folded her arms across her chest, and with narrowed hate-filled eyes and flushed cheeks declared, "Well, I won' go an' y'can't—"

  "I can require the Bo'sun to forcibly eject you," said Susan, paying no heed to Dodman's horror-stricken and paling countenance. "But I warn you that unless you leave quietly and at once, Mrs. Bentley, I mean to instruct the constable to bring charges against you for impersonating a qualified nurse! I fancy your credentials would bear some investigation!"

  For a moment longer Mrs. Bentley glared at the haughty young face and elevated chin of the notorious Widow Henley. Then she suddenly took refuge in noisy weeping, and with a relieved grin Dodman conducted her from the room.

  Susan flew to the water pitcher, took up another glass and filled it, then bent again over Montclair. His eyes were full of pain, but there was a gleam of amusement also.

  "She is gone," said Susan, contriving gently to lift his head a little. "From now on, my people will tend to your needs, Mr. Montclair. I am only sorry that you were subjected to such a disgraceful scene."

  He drank gratefully, then whispered, "Wouldn't… have missed it!"

  Montclair drifted now in a strange trancelike world, sometimes fathoms deep in a blank emptiness, sometimes dreaming distressing and involved dreams that troubled him greatly. After a very long while, one of his dreams was of a forest wherein he sat watching a forester saw down a tree. But although the forester worked hour after hour, he seemed to make no impression on the tree, which stood there as proud and unshaken as ever. Montclair grew tired of waiting to see it fall and he walked away, but the noise of the saw followed.

  He could still hear it when he opened his eyes and discovered an indistinct little scene that blurred into a haze around the edges. A blue canopy billowed over him, edged by dainty lace-trimmed ruffles. He frowned at the matching silken bed-curtains. His bed had a plain red velvet tester with a battlement trim, and red-and-gold bed-curtains. No ruffles. No lace. If Uncle Selby had been meddling again… ! Irked, he shifted his gaze in search of the noise. It seemed to be coming from his bed. He tried to raise his head, which was a horrible mistake. After a while, the wavering images settled again, and he peered downward and discovered a small, curled-up shape. Wolfgang snored, evidently…

  He lay there, staring at the dog, wondering how it came to be at Longhills, and what they'd done to his bed. It was all very perplexing, and the pain in his head prevented him from remembering properly. He'd better get Gould in here. He tried to reach for the bellpull, instinctively using his right hand…

  After an unpleasant interval, an authoritative voice came through the mists. "Here. Drink this, my poor fellow."

  He sipped obediently.

  Alain Devenish's face materialized, hovering over him. The usually carefree blue eyes held a rather worried look.

  With an amazing effort he was able to say, "Hello— Dev," and heard a faint croak. Good God! Had that been his own voice? "What've they done… to my bed?"

  "Ain't your bed." Devenish spoke very gently. "Mrs.Henley's. You're at Highperch, my tulip. Go back to sleep now."

  He had a very vague and indistinct recollection of the widow helping him—somehow, somewhere. And he seemed to remember her bending over him, and speaking to someone in an imperious way that had made him want to laugh. But why he thought, confused, should Mrs. Henley have helped him? And what was he doing at Highperch? He whispered, "How… long have—"

  "About ten days, give or take a day."

  "Ten days!" He started up in dismay.

  His head seemed to explode. The room swung and dipped sickeningly. From a great distance, he thought he could hear Dev calling someone…

  A slender white hand was pressing a wonderfully cold c
loth to his brow; the mellow voice that held such incredible kindliness was with him again, repeating over and over again that it was all right; that he was quite safe now. The shadow was gone. If he would just lie still and stop tossing about, he would be easier… He tried to concentrate on the voice, and gradually he was able to breathe without panting…

  His eyelids were very heavy, but he managed to open them. It was night. He knew he'd been dreaming, but he did not want to remember the dream and thrust it away with determined desperation. A candle was flickering somewhere nearby. Closer at hand, two searching grey eyes in a tired but lovely face scanned him with concern.

  "Are you feeling a little better now?" Susan asked.

  He smiled at her, and wondered if she always smelled of violets. "Yes, thank you—but… I don't—understand."

  "You had—an accident, and were brought here. You suffered a slight relapse, but you are doing much better now. Is that what you mean?"

  "No. I don't know why—you are so… kind to me…" But he fell asleep before she could answer.

  It seemed a very long time before he heard her voice again, and it was difficult to hear because she was speaking very softly, almost in a whisper. Gradually, he realized that she was talking with Mrs. Starr who sounded very agitated and kept moaning that they "should never have done it! Never!" He wondered idly what "it" was, and tried to open his eyes but was too drowsy to accomplish this.

  "You know perfectly well why we did it," said Mrs. Henley with a trace of exasperation.

  "Yes. But—but the awful risk, dear Mrs. Sue! If you should be found out! Oh dear, oh dear!"

  "What could they prove?"

  "You know what they would say! And the Runners can be clever. If they should even suspect— Suppose his family should put two and two together? It is such a dreadful thing to do! I never dreamed you capable of such ruthless—"

  Decidedly irked, Mrs. Henley interrupted, "For goodness' sake, stop being so melodramatic, Starry! And keep your voice down, do. He might hear us!"

  The discussion continued, but the voices were now so low that Montclair could no longer discern the words. Vaguely troubled, he sank back to sleep once more.

  The next time he awoke something was nagging at the edges of his mind; something he had dreamed perhaps, and that was quite important, but he couldn't remember what it might be. It was still dark, but he thought it not the same night. For one thing, he felt less discomfort; the aching in his leg and hand was unremitting, but not quite as brutal, and although his head throbbed, it was so bearable by comparison with his earlier awakenings that he could actually think. He lay there quietly, the flickering candlelight and the faint fragrance of violets telling him that he was still in Mrs. Henley's bed. Questions began to form. So many—so unanswerable. And chief among them the dread puzzle of who wanted him dead. Whom had he so antagonized that they were willing to put their own life at risk so as to end his? Had Junius decided to strike again? No, that terrible shadow in the woods had not been Junius. It had been too enormous… The very thought of it made Montclair break out in a sweat of horror, and he decided that the solving of the puzzle would have to wait until he regained more of his strength. Meanwhile, he had a great deal for which to be thankful. He was warm and safe. He was also very hungry, which likely meant he was starting to mend, and—

  Something was moving in the room. Something or— someone. He tensed and lay completely motionless, straining his eyes through the dimness to that vague, oncoming shape. A man. Creeping towards the bed. He watched the crouching figure draw ever nearer, dark and unidentifiable against the candlelight, but ineffably menacing. The lack of sound was remarkable—not so much as one squeak of a floorboard. He was very close now, and Montclair's heart gave a lurch as the candlelight awoke a glitter on the dagger in the man's right hand. So the would-be murderer had come right inside Highperch and meant to finish what he'd started! Anger scorched through him. He was weak as a cat, but—dammit, he'd not lie here and be butchered without a fight!

  With all his strength, he managed to get an elbow under him and heave himself upward a little. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, "No! Get away, you skulking coward!"

  His voice was weak, but the intruder uttered a shrill yelp and jumped into the air. The knife clattered to the floor.

  "Hell and damnation!" gasped Andrew Lyddford, straightening and tottering to steady himself against the bedpost. "Don't—don't ever do such a frightful thing!"

  "I—apologize…" faltered Montclair, sinking back, exhausted by his great effort.

  Lyddford mopped a handkerchief at his face. "I should rather think you might," he said severely. "I wonder I didn't fall over in a fit!"

  "I really am sorry. Only… well, I saw the knife, you see, and—"

  "That's because I was polishing it, but you were so still I got the idea you'd cocked up your toes, so I came creeping to see if you had, and what must you do but let out a yowl like a bloody damned banshee! Jove, if it ain't enough to put the fear of—" His tone changed abruptly. "What the deuce d'you mean—you 'saw the knife'? If you've the confounded gall to suppose I come slithering over to cut your throat, sir, by George but you'll answer to me for it!"

  "I am already engaged to meet you, Mr. Lyddford. And you were against the light. I could only make out a silhouette, and the knife."

  "Oh." Some of the resentment went out of the proud young face. Lyddford stooped, retrieved the knife, and went over to lay it on the table. "Yes. I suppose it could have looked like that. Sorry if I gave you a nasty turn, but I'd say we're even on that score, at all events." With a grin he came back to bend over Montclair and peer at him critically. "You look somewhat alive. Be damned if I don't think Susan's right and you're going to pull through after all!"

  "Your sister has been more than kind, and I'm very sure I've been a great deal of trouble. I believe you've been burdened with me for ten days already, and—"

  "Three weeks."

  Montclair stared at him. "But—Devenish just said—"

  Lyddford settled himself on the end of the bed and interrupted, "That was a week and a half ago. And—before you ask me again—no, they didn't have to amputate your hand."

  Montclair wasn't quite ready for shocks like that, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  "Oh Gad," groaned Lyddford, jumping up and causing the bed to lurch. "I'm as much a disaster as Devenish! I'll go!"

  "No. Please." Montclair managed a smile. "I'd be most grateful if you could rather… tell me what's been happening."

  Lyddford eyed him doubtfully, but the smile was encouraging. He had noted the effect of his earlier sudden movement, and so sat down with care. "You'd not believe the bobbery! When my sister found you, and your cousin hauled you out of there—"

  "My—cousin… ? Trent?"

  "Yes. Don't wonder you're surprised. Nasty slug, but strong as an ox." Lyddford grinned boyishly. "Mixing my metaphors a bit, ain't I? At all events, there's been betting in all the inns and alehouses on when you'd snuff it. I wanted to ship you back to Longhills, but you took such a downturn we did not dare move you. You were out of your head for days on end. Raving about music, and birds in harpsichords, and shadows and giants and— Devil take me, I've done it again! Are you all right?"

  Weakness was causing Montclair to tremble. He fought it, and said rather inaccurately, "I'm quite all right, thank you. Please go on."

  "Well, it's just that from what you were gabbling at, it—er, seemed you hadn't fallen into your silly Folly. Not of your own volition, at least." The long grey eyes (so much like hers) were scanning him curiously. "D'you remember now? What happened, I mean."

  "Not much. Just—that I was… struck down from behind." His mind was trying to see the shadow. He shut it out. "They believed me, did they?"

  "At first they thought you were delirious, and you were, of course. But then you kept on about the East Woods. So a couple of the Runners—"

  "Runners?"

  Lyddford nodded. A frown darkened his
brow and he said rather grimly, "You're an important man, you know. Heir to a title and a great estate. Jehoshaphat— if you'd seen all the comings and goings! Writers from the newspapers; Bow Street; even a couple of high-ranking officers from the Horse Guards."

  "Good… God!"

  "Quite. The upshot was that two of the Runners went to the East Woods and it seems—er, well, they found the place where you'd been hit. Not—much doubt, I gather."

  Montclair's brows knit. "But—if I was attacked in the East Woods, why go to all the trouble—"

  "To haul you to the Folly? Hmmn. That's what we wondered. I suppose they thought you were finished— Lord knows, you looked it! Horrid sight!—and wanted to tuck you safely away."

  It was a puzzle, but he was too tired to worry at it. He asked wearily, "Does my family know?"

  "Yes. Your aunt and uncle came when my sister found you. It was at their wish in fact that you stayed here. I do not scruple to tell you I was against it."

  "Yes, of course." Montclair said humbly, "I am very grateful to you."

  "Mutual, old boy." With breezy tactlessness Lyddford added, "Jolly good of you not to have cocked up your toes. We'd have been in a proper treacle pot! Though to say truth it was our own fault for letting you stay. Bad enough we had to put up with you, Montclair, but I'll not mince words in telling you that you've a weasel's wart for a doctor."

  Amused, Montclair said, "Sheswell's been the family physician for years. But—wasn't there another doctor? A red-headed fellow?"

  "Right. Our Bo'sun is an apothecary of sorts. He's worked wonders with you."

  "I must thank him. I'm afraid I have caused Mrs. Henley a great deal of trouble." His dreams had become so entangled with reality that it was hard to separate them. He half-recalled an odd conversation between Susan Henley and Mrs. Starr, but the memory was so hazy it was likely just another dream. He said haltingly, "I seem to recollect that she was with me often when I woke up. You must all be wishing me… at Jericho."