"I will like to see her, certainly. I am greatly worried about her, you see. She is so terribly alone."
Susan rose, picked up the almost empty water pitcher, and trying not to so dislike Miss Trent, murmured, "What—in the bosom of her family? And now safely betrothed? I would have thought—"
He gave a gasp, and his emaciated hand clamped onto her wrist. He said sharply, "What do you mean? Betrothed? They've never announced it?"
How aghast he looked. Had he hoped to keep the betrothal a secret? She removed his clasp, then wandered over to look down at the river again, and The Dainty Dancer low in the water, with Andy, Senor Angelo, and the Bo'sun busily unloading Monsieur Monteil's goods, despite the drizzling rain. "Senor Angelo went over to Longhills to see you," she explained. "But you were— well, it was the morning after you were attacked. He had a—a little chat with Miss Trent."
"And she told him she was betrothed? My God!"
One must not be harsh with an invalid, but it was all Susan could do to keep the contempt out of her voice. "You do not seem overjoyed by the announcement, sir."
"Gad, but I'm not," he groaned. "I told her to say no! I might have known she'd not have the courage! Poor little goose."
Susan blinked and wandered back to his side. There could be little doubt but that he was deeply fond of Miss Trent. He desired her, but not as his wife, perhaps. Disgraceful. Yet—the lady did not seem to yearn for wedded bliss either. What a lumpy gravy it was, to be sure! Could it be that Mr. Montclair had been forced to make an offer? Curious, she said, "Surely, if you objected to the match, it was your responsibility to speak to her parents to that effect?"
"I did speak to them. Much good it did. I offered to run away with her, and had I been there I might have persuaded her…"
"Run—away with her… ?" gasped Susan. "But—but where could you have taken her?"
"To the home of a friend in London."
Fascinated by the outrageous schemes of this gentlemanly-seeming young rake, she asked, "And—would your friend have let you stay?"
Montclair's eyelids were getting heavy. "Oh, yes," he murmured. "She is very understanding."
Her own eyes very round, Susan whispered, "Indeed she must be!"
Montclair had drifted into slumber. She stared at the quiet face for a moment, then went over to close the window curtains before she tiptoed out.
At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Deemer who welcomed her warmly. "Such a sad disappointment for the young gentleman, that his lady did not come," he murmured. "How is he taking it, ma'am?"
"Most—remarkably," said Susan dryly.
After Montclair had breakfasted and been shaved next morning, he sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, as had become the daily ritual. Then the great experiment with the crutches began. Dodman watched while the invalid struggled manfully, but it was clear the crutches were not as easily used as one would have thought. When Montclair wavered and almost fell, the Bo'sun ran to steady him and lower him onto the chaise longue by the window. "You did very well, sir," he said with his bright grin. "I reckon it'll take a little time to get the mastery of 'em."
Panting but impatient, Montclair said, "Then let's try again."
"This afternoon perhaps, Mr. Valentine. But for now, you'd better rest for a little while."
Montclair's fuming protests were ignored. The Bo'sun covered his legs with a blanket, laughed at his indignation, and left him.
Scowling across the gardens towards Longhills Manor, Montclair wondered when Babs would come. He brightened when he saw Mrs. Henley walk in the direction of the stables, an umbrella over her head, and her cream gown rippling in the wind. How gracefully she moved, and the silk of her hair blew so softly and seemed the very essence of femininity. That he could ever have thought it anything less than exquisite was— He frowned and sat up straighter. Two men had come to meet the lady and now stood talking with her. Two of the most down-at-heel, disreputable-looking individuals he ever had laid eyes on. Their hats sagged over bearded faces, they both stood in dire need of a barber, and their garments—if they could be called such—were dirty and tattered. Mrs. Sue could have nothing to say to such vagrants and would send them packing quickly. But minutes passed and they did not seem to be leaving.
Barking shrilly, Wolfgang ran up, then began to prance around the strangers. One of them reached down to stroke him. Currying favour, thought Montclair angrily. A fine brother Lyddford was! Why the deuce did the clod not protect his sister from such unwholesome intruders?
The Trents had promised that their daughter would visit Montclair this morning, but when by one o'clock she had not appeared, Susan climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. With one hand on the door, she paused. Why she should care whether the wretched girl came, escaped her. They were the strangest pair of lovers she ever had seen, preferring to run away in disgrace than to wed, and yet apparently devoted! One could only think they deserved each other. Unconvinced and decidedly downcast, she opened the door softly, uttered a faint shocked cry, and ran inside.
Montclair, struggling frantically with the crutches, all but fell into her arms, and she fought to keep her balance as she guided him back to the windowseat.
"Of all the… idiotish… !" she panted, as he hopped, clinging to her. "Will you be so good as to sit down?"
"I was going to try and come to you." He laughed breathlessly. "But only think how… clever I am… Have I not managed to—lure you into my arms… ?"
She was indeed in his arms. His thin pale face was smiling down at her; he was holding her very close. Gazing up at him, she saw the smile fade from the dark eyes. An intent look succeeded it. The amber flecks were suddenly and devastatingly ablaze. His left hand might be thin but it was like a vise on her arm.
'La, but I am a prize fool!' she thought, and terrified, wrenched away so determinedly that he staggered, half collapsed onto the windowseat, and uttered a small gasp.
"Well, I am very sorry if you have hurt yourself," she said tremblingly. "But the fact that we allow you to stay here, sir, does not—does not give you the right to—to maul me!"
Maul her! Was that how she thought of him? "Thank you," he said, his voice glacial. "One supposes Imre Monteil does not rate such a set-down!"
Susan caught her breath and stood very straight. "I think that is not your concern, sir," she said, and walked quickly to the door.
"Think again, Susan!"
She halted and glanced over her shoulder.
Grim-faced, he was struggling with the crutches. Hesitating, she said, "You have done enough today, surely."
In a swift change of mood, his wry half-smile flickered. "Yes, but if I fall, there is always the chance you may rescue me again."
"Surely, the reward would scarce justify the cost, sir."
"Most assuredly—it would, ma'am."
She regarded him steadily, wondering why she was so weak-kneed that she could not resist that tentative smile.
His good hand was stretched out imploringly. "Forgive. Please. I had no right to say that about Monteil."
In some magical fashion she floated back to sit beside him. "He has been very kind in finding work for my brother," she explained. "The income means a great deal to us. Now why do you scowl so?"
"I was thinking that I am an additional charge on you. I hope that my uncle has—"
"He has, so do not fret on that account."
His hand found hers. He asked softly, "About what may I fret, ma'am?"
Staring down at their clasped hands, she felt dreamily content, and answering a foolish question as foolishly, murmured, "I don't really know. But—you said you were coming to seek me."
"So I was! And it is a decidedly fretful matter! Whatever is Lyddford about, to allow you to be accosted by every passing ruffian?"
She knew she should free her hand. While thinking about it, she blinked at him and said, "Whatever do you mean?"
"I saw you talking to two gooseberry bushes on the drivepath. It made me
positively uneasy to see you bothered by such unsavoury creatures."
Laughing, she recovered her wits, drew away, and said, "Oh, you must mean my two new workmen."
"Good God! You were never bamboozled into hiring those two rogues?"
"Those two rogues, sir, are veterans wounded on the Peninsula while fighting for their country."
It was a sore point with Montclair that he had been unable to join up. He said irritably, "And I suppose they gulled you into believing they are starving and unable to find work."
"I am not easily gulled," she said, a frown coming into her eyes. "And if you doubt there are such men, sir, you should have a closer look at those who tramp the roads these days."
He well knew the bitter fate of many soldiers and sailors who had fought gallantly for England and returned to face rejection and starvation, but he argued contrarily, "Even so, there have been many kind souls robbed and murdered by ex-servicemen. If Lyddford needs more men, he should have the sense to appoint Deemer to handle the matter, not expect a woman to know how to deal with such fellows."
Bristling, she retorted, "I have been obliged to deal with the world for some years, Mr. Montclair, and am quite a good judge of character, I promise you!"
"You certainly summed me up fast enough," he countered with a grin.
She chuckled, and somehow he was holding her hand again. He said softly, "Perhaps it is a good idea to have some more men about, so long as they're reliable. I cannot like you being left so short-staffed here when Lyddford is away on his boat. If any unsavoury varmints should come prowling—" A troubled look came into her eyes. His own narrowed. He demanded, "What is it? Have there been such occurrences?"
She hesitated, then told him of the man who'd been watching the house in the middle of the night. "I'll own," she admitted, "I was quite frightened. You may be sure we lock the doors now."
"Good God," he muttered. "I'd best leave here as soon as maybe."
"Why? You cannot know that he was here because of you."
"I'll warrant you did not have such spies hanging about before I came."
"Did you have them at Longhills?"
"We've a small army of servants there to make short work of any intruders." He brightened. "There's the answer, by Jove! I'll send for some of my people. You need inside help as well, with all the extra work I bring you. Only look at these poor fingernails."
Susan snatched her hand away, and well aware of what Andy would have to say to all this, said, "I enjoy working in—in the garden. And we will require no more help, thank you just the—"
"Fustian! Do you say you would prefer to have those two grimy vagrants loitering about the place rather than allow me to bring my well-trained servants here? Now that is plainly ridiculous!"
She stiffened. "I must ask that you abide by my decision, Mr. Montclair."
"It is a foolish decision, and I most certainly will not be bound by it! You shall have extra help, madam, so pray put your pride in your pocket."
Unaccustomed to such high-handed intervention, and knowing she must put a stop to this at once, her chin tossed upward. "You do not rule here, sir! And since you find me ridiculous, foolish, and prideful—"
"Er, well—I didn't mean that exactly, but—"
"—you will doubtless prefer to make arrangements to be taken from such an unpleasant atmosphere, as—soon as may be." And with her head high, her hair swinging behind her, and her heart heavy, she left him. "Women!" snorted Montclair.
Susan gazed blankly at the book, not seeing the little house and the elves climbing cheerfully in and out of the many windows. Outwardly, she was calm. Inwardly, she trembled still. Never with Burke had she felt that wild surge of excited anticipation. Never had Burke's touch made her skin shiver; never had that glow come into his eyes that made her heart feel scorched so that she longed to be hugged closer… to be kissed and caressed.
A tremor raced through her. She could deny it and hide it from others, but she could no longer deny it to herself. She was falling in love with a man who could only bring her heartache. Of all the men she'd known she had been so foolish as to single out Mr. Valentine Amberly Montclair, who was hopelessly far above her socially, and far too proud to marry beneath his own rank. A man who had at first been overwhelmed by gratitude, but who was fast recovering his quick-tempered arrogance as well as his health, and had now very obviously decided to amuse himself by flirting carelessly with the notorious widow while awaiting the arrival of his highly born love. If she did not overcome this weakness it would surely destroy her every happiness. Montclair must leave! One word breathed to Andy, and he would be gone, and she would be safe. Yes, that was her only hope. She would speak to her dear brother. Soon. But—not today.
She thought wistfully of how gallantly Valentine had borne his suffering. How seldom he had complained, or asked the smallest consideration. How inexpressibly dear had been the light in his dark eyes just now, the tenderness in the deep voice… Tenderness from a man who had wanted to run away with poor deceived Miss Trent.
Priscilla said plaintively, "Hasn't you done lookin' at them yet, Mama? You been lookin' an' lookin' and you get drearier an' drearier, an'—"
"Oh!" gasped Susan, returning to the warm and fragrant kitchen, and her patient little daughter sitting beside her at the immaculately scrubbed table. "I am so sorry, darling. Mama was sleepy, I expect."
"You din't look sleepy, Mama. You looked drearier an'—"
"Yes." Avoiding Mrs. Starr's sharp eyes, Susan said hurriedly, "Er, well. Where was I? Oh—this is the tale of five small elves…"
Chapter 12
With typical inconsistency the weather reversed itself. Sunday morning dawned fair and bright, the sun beaming down upon the drenched meadows, flooding Highperch Cottage with radiance, and turning the river into a diamond highway. Montclair awoke refreshed from a good night's sleep, cheered by the feeling of reviving strength, but in a black humour. Deemer came to tend to his needs and shave him. The mild little man was agreeable but, as usual, uncommunicative. Montclair thanked him profusely for his kindness, and Deemer left, murmuring shyly that he was only too glad to help anyone in trouble. "Always provided," he added with a sudden sharp look, "that they don't bring trouble down upon those I care about."
Montclair smiled, and said nothing, but he was irked. He'd gone out of his way to express his gratitude, and the fellow had turned on him. If these people didn't have enough gall for an army! Here they were living in his house illegally, and they had the confounded brass to set him down when he'd done nothing. Only look at the widow, sulkily avoiding him yesterday and again today, having chosen to behave as if he'd attempted to rape her, rather than simply just holding her for a minute… Her hair had felt like cool silk, now that he came to think of it… And her skin was so clear and fair… And very likely she was Imre Monteil's fancy piece. He scowled. The sooner he was back at Longhills, the better. At least, he knew where he stood there.
He reached for the crutches. It was difficult to fasten the strap about his right arm, but he struggled stubbornly, and at last was hobbling about. Twice he almost fell, and after half an hour he was not only worn out, but both his head and his leg were aching fiercely. Still, he lowered himself awkwardly onto the chaise longue before the windows with an exclamation of triumph. He had managed alone. He had got himself across the room and back, having had to bother no one!
Exultant, he leaned back, catching his breath. The breeze blew the curtains inwards, and brought with it the fragrance of blossoms. A swift flashed across the open windows and a blackbird was singing a glorious Sunday hymn. Montclair's ears perked up to those liquid notes. He wondered who played the organ in church on Sundays these days. For the past ten years, since he'd turned seventeen, it had been his pleasure to perform that small duty whenever he was in Gloucestershire. He looked down at the splinted and bandaged right hand, wondering if he would ever again be able to play competently. Once more he tried to move the fingers, but they were stiff and u
seless. Surely, after all these weeks—
"It's not p'lite to pay no 'tention to a lady when she comes calling," announced a prim little voice.
Priscilla stood at the foot of the chaise longue. She had come straight from church and wore her Sunday best. Her dress, of mid-calf length, was a primrose yellow muslin with a yellow satin sash and three frills at the hem, and under it she wore ankle-length cambric pantalettes trimmed with lace. Her poke bonnet was tied under her chin with a broad yellow ribbon, and on her hands were dainty white mittens. At least they had once been white, but were now rather soiled, probably because of the very large bouquet of spring flowers she carried.
"Especially, such a very pretty lady," said Montclair with a smile.
She looked at him doubtfully. "Am I pretty? Even with my specs?"
"You are indeed pretty. And your dress, Lady Priscilla, is charming."
"Thank you, Mr. Val'tine. Would you like to know 'bout my dress? Mama made it. An' she sewed my bonnet, too." She edged closer and stuck out one leg. "These," she whispered confidingly, "are called pan'lets!"
"They're very dainty," he whispered in turn. "Did you pick the flowers?"
"Yes." She thrust them at him, then dumped them in his lap. "For you. Mama says you want cheering up 'cause your lady din't come." She sat on the edge of the chaise longue, and Montclair thanked her for the flowers and moved aside to allow more room.
"Why din't she come?" asked Priscilla, watching him gravely. "Doesn't she love you?"
"Certainly she loves me," he answered. "All the ladies love me. I am so very dashing you know. Especially just at the moment."
Priscilla stared at the white, haggard face, then burst into laughter. "You look awful, sir," she told him, with the unaffected candour of childhood. "But when you're well, you're nice to look at. Are you going to pick Miss Trent for your wife?"
He chuckled. "She will be a lovely wife for some lucky gentleman. But I think she doesn't want me for a husband."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 21