"Good. Then I'd like to know, please, what your lady likes are."
"Do you mean," he asked experimentally, "which ladies I particularly like?"
She pursed her lips. "That might do, but if I don't know them it won't help much. I mean—d'you like fair ladies or dark ladies? An' must they be fat or thin? And are you in a great big hurry to get yourself marriaged, or d'you think you could wait a bit? Like ten years, or 'bout. And—'sides all that," she added with sudden anxiety, "if it would fill you up with 'gust to marriage a lady with specs."
Touched, Montclair took up her hand and kissed the grubby mitten gently. "Do you say you want to marry me, Lady Priscilla?"
She sighed and burst his bubble. "Not really. To marriage is silly and only for old people. But I'll sac'fice myself for Mama, if it will help her to stop crying in the night." She added kindly, "But I do like you, Mr. Val'tine, and I speshly like your eyes, and the way your mouth sort of nearly but not quite smiles sometimes."
"Why don't you just call me Mr. Val," he suggested. "And perhaps, if I knew why your Mama was crying, I might be able to help without your having to—er, sacrifice yourself. Is it, do you suppose, something to do with your Uncle Andrew?"
Priscilla shook her head, setting her bonnet sliding. "It's the same old thing," she said lugubriously. "Money. You have got lots of money, haven't you, Mr. Val?"
"I'm afraid not."
She looked aghast. "But—you live in that great big house! And Uncle Andy says your coat's from a wizard, and it must cost lots 'n lots to buy a wizard's coats!"
"Well, you see the house belongs to my brother," he explained apologetically. "I just live there. Er, how much money do you need?"
"Oh, tubs an' tubs! A hundred guineas, at least, I 'spect. So Mama can pay the bills and paint the house and have the roof mended. It leaks in Uncle Andy's bedchamber you know, and makes him shout bad words in the middle of the night." She added in a reproachful voice, "I never would've thought you'd be a big dis'pointment, Mr. Val, but you are. A hugeous one."
"I'm very sorry, my dear. But—perhaps by the time you're old enough to get married I might be able to find a hundred guineas. Would that serve?"
The small shoulders shrugged. "No, I'm 'fraid. I need it now. People make promises 'bout marriaging sometimes, years 'fore they really do, and I was hoping you and me could make that kind of thing, and then I could have the money. But—I s'pose I'll have to find somebody else."
He gave one glossy curl a gentle tug. "I wish you wouldn't, Lady Priscilla. Can't you possibly wait for me?"
She looked glum. "I'll try, Mr. Val. But Mama said only yestiday that things was getting des'prit, and if it keeps on like that, I'll just have to sac'fice to somebody else!"
It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Susan shook hands with Miss Barbara Trent at eleven o'clock the next morning, and ushered her into the sunlit withdrawing room. With uncharacteristic malice she had been prepared to dislike the affianced bride and find in her not one single redeeming feature. Confronted by a pale, troubled little creature with a soft, shy voice, and the expression of a frightened doe, Susan experienced a contrary and irritating urge to hug her.
"I know how anxious you must be," she said kindly. "But pray do not be in a pucker. Mr. Montclair is much better. I wish you could go up at once, but Dr. Sheswell is with him at the moment, so instead I shall offer you a cup of tea." She glanced in sudden apprehension to the door. "Is your mama come with you, ma'am?"
Lady Trent having announced resoundingly that she would sooner be seen dead in a ditch than to again be under the same roof with "that shameless hussy," Barbara had escaped that fate. "Mama was unable to come. I brought my personal footman, of course, and your—er, I think it was your housekeeper—took him to the kitchen."
Susan stifled a sigh of relief. "May I tempt you to a cup of tea, Miss Trent? I realize it must be distasteful to you to be here, but—"
Barbara blinked at her. "Because your husband shot himself?"
Susan's jaw dropped a little.
"I can see that must have been very sad for you," said Barbara. "But I do not perceive why you should be held in contempt because of it. Unless you drove him to it. And you do not at all look like a harpy, or—" She stopped, one hand pressed to her mouth, and said in horror, "Oh! I do beg your pardon!
Susan laughed helplessly.
Barbara stared at her and thought she had never seen a lady who was more fascinatingly beautiful. And that silvery trill of laughter… How long had it been since she laughed… ? "It is—is just," she stammered, "that I have been so very—distraught of late. And—and so worried about Valentine. I fear my poor mind…" She lifted a hand to her brow in distracted fashion.
"No, please," said Susan. "Such candour is refreshing.I assure you I did not drive my poor husband to his death. At least, I hope I did not." She busied herself with the teapot and handed her guest a full cup complete with sugar and milk as requested. "And of course you have been distracted. I wonder you did not fall into a decline. So newly betrothed and to have Mr. Montclair almost killed on the selfsame day!"
"Yes," said Barbara, beginning to forget her nervousness under the spell of such warm kindliness. "It was frightful. Papa and Mama have told me he is past the crisis now, of course, but one cannot help but worry, and—they would not let me come."
'Because of the notorious widow and this house of infamy,' thought Susan, irritated. "Well, I'm glad you have come now."
"Thank you. My abigail told me Valentine almost died, and—and that you saved his life. How brave you must be."
"No, no. I was merely the one who chanced to find him."
Barbara said quaveringly, "I believe his head was broken. Is—is his mind… ?"
"Good gracious—no! He suffered a bad concussion, and when he was thrown into the Folly his leg and some bones in his right hand were broken."
"Oh! Poor Val! He must be frantic! He is a musician, you know."
She looked as if she was about to cry, and Susan pointed out hurriedly that it could have been much worse. "Fortunately he did not suffer any major injuries or compound fractures. The breaks are clean and our Bo'sun says will heal nicely. The gentleman has had a very bad few weeks, I own, and it will likely be a little while yet before he is well again. But his mind is not affected, I promise you!" She was astounded that the poor little creature had known none of this, and impulsively patting her hand, said, "Oh, my dear, how dreadful that you have worried so!"
Sympathy, so generously offered, was a rare commodity in Barbara's life, and in her present frame of mind, was devastating. The tears overflowed. Susan spread her arms, and with a choking sob Barbara collapsed into them. She wept unrestrainedly; great racking sobs accompanied such floods of tears that Susan's shoulder was soon drenched. Scarcely the reaction of a girl Angelo had thought would be a reluctant bride. Which was not too surprising—Angelo so often got everything wrong. She held the girl close and spoke softly, and felt wretched, until at last the storm eased.
Barbara reached shamefacedly for her reticule and was surprised to find Welcome in it. That made her smile, and finding a tiny handkerchief she dabbed at her red and swollen eyes while expressing her shaky apologies for such deplorable conduct.
"Never mind about that," said Susan in her serenely matter-of-fact way. "I will not offer my friendship, for I know that I am not quite respectable, whereas you are very respectable indeed, but—"
"Oh," gasped Barbara, clinging to her hand and looking up into her face in a pathetic pleading. "How very much I would like to have you for a friend… I have none, you see. I hoped to make some when it was decided I should be sent to a young ladies' seminary. But Mama investigated, and found that the teachers were of questionable morals and if The Twig is Bent by Faulted Hands, One Grows a Faulted Tree."
"But—surely you must have some friends. Have you no sisters?"
"No. Only Junius. And he—" She closed her lips and gazed miserably at her sodden handkerchief. "I did have a friend once. Ou
r neighbours in Surrey have three daughters; two are married and much older than me, but the youngest is crippled and the dearest thing, with the sunniest disposition, despite her affliction. We used to meet secretly in the spinney that divides our estates, but Mama's dresser (a most disagreeable woman!) caught us, and told Mama, and I was not allowed to meet Hannah again. Papa said that if the Lord had seen fit to visit an infirmity upon her there must be evil in the family, and that I was not to associate with such people."
"Good… heavens…" breathed Susan. "I fancy Sir Selby would judge that my daughter's poor eyesight is a Divine punishment because of my own sins!"
"Yes, and because of the bad blood she inherited from her father."
"What?"
Barbara jumped at that ringing exclamation, and quavered a terrified apology.
Susan took a breath. "It is I who should apologize," she said, her blazing eyes making that statement of questionable veracity. "I found it difficult to believe that anyone could say such things of a sweet innocent. But— I should not speak so of your parents."
"No. You shouldn't. Nor should I. But then—I'm doomed to hellfire at all events." The sensitive lips quivered and another wayward tear crept down the pale cheek.
"Oh my! What horrid sins have you committed?"
Barbara's eyelashes lowered. She said painfully, "I am f-fat. And—and ugly."
Stunned, Susan gazed at her. Small wonder she was so crushed and colourless. Indignation deepened the flush in her cheeks. Before she could stop herself, she said tartly, "Dear me. And even if that were true, which I assure you it is not, from whom do you suppose your evil tendencies were inherited?"
Barbara peeped up at her. Slowly, a gleam brightened the reddened eyes. "Ooooh!" she whispered. "I never thought of that!" She giggled, and then they laughed merrily together.
"You will think me evil indeed," sighed Barbara.
"I think we are both being rather naughty. But it was worth it to see you smile. You seemed so very unhappy at a time in your life when most girls are full of joyous plans."
All the animation that had so brightened Barbara's face faded away. "How can I be joyful when I am forced into a marriage I do not want?"
Bewildered, Susan said, "But—I thought you were fond of your betrothed. And he is"—she forced herself to be objective—"wealthy, and—and a fine-looking young man."
Barbara stared at her curiously. "Do you find him so? Mrs. Henley—could you be joyful were you to marry such a man?"
It was a home question. Susan's cheeks blazed. "W-well, I— That is—"
"Of course you could not," said Barbara bitterly. "Not if you know of his reputation! But it is too late now. I am betrothed! And only because I am so weak. Such a spineless creature! But what hope have I? My first and only Season was a disaster. Mama says I am most fortunate that such an eligible young man should offer for me."
Searching for something diplomatic to say, Susan pointed out, "Your betrothed evidently does not find you plain and fat."
"Truly, I cannot understand why he wants to marry me." Barbara heaved a deep sigh. "But Val says he supposes that I will be a conformable wife and not interfere with—with his… little—affaires."
'The villain!' thought Susan, outraged.
Dr. Sheswell came booming along the hall then, and Susan excused herself and went to meet him. He was hugely jovial, and told her that Montclair was making great strides. "A leetle concerned by the colour, y'know. And the pulse. But the silly fellow has likely been overtiring himself with the crutches, and fretting to know who wants to provide him a sod blanket." He fixed her with a suddenly hard stare. "Sufficient to give any man pause, ma'am, ain't it?"
Susan managed to hide her vexation. If this pompous bore fancied there was a conspiracy afoot at Highperch Cottage to rid the world of Valentine Montclair, he was welcome to indulge such nonsense. One might have thought the invalid's improved state of health would have told him otherwise, but Sheswell impressed her as a singularly foolish man who saw no farther than the end of his nose. "Well, Mr. Montclair can rid his mind of such depressing worries for the moment," she said with a forced smile. "As you see, Miss Trent has arrived. He has been extreme anxious to see her."
A grunt was his only reaction to that, and he expressed a wish to consult with Mr. Dodman. The Bo'sun was in the stables with Lyddford, and Susan was far from willing to allow the physician to wander unescorted about the grounds. She considered ringing for Deemer or Martha Reedham, but their sometime butler was busied in the cellar, and Mrs. Starr and Martha were hard at work on the week's washing. She hesitated only momentarily before begging Miss Trent to excuse her for a moment while she showed the doctor the way. The dispassionate lovers had waited this long, another minute or two wouldn't be disastrous surely.
Left alone in the withdrawing room, Barbara glanced around curiously. Val had only brought her here once, but she remembered how shocked she had been by the dreariness of the old house, and horrified to think he would wish to live in such a dowdy place. Hers was not an imaginative mind, and she had been quite unable to picture Highperch thoroughly cleaned, curtains washed, windows sparkling, the furniture taken out of holland covers and polished until the fine old woods gleamed.
Her attention fixed on the painting that hung above the mantel. Lacking so many of the accomplishments her mama had hoped she would acquire, Barbara had a genuine flair for art. She was very shy about her gift, and kept her sketches hidden, dreading lest they be mocked, but she knew enough of the subject to recognize excellence, and was so impelled by interest as to leave the sofa and wander over to the fireplace.
Gazing up at the painting, she murmured admiringly, "Oh, my goodness."
"Theses truth mostly," came a sighful voice behind her. "Goodness. Chess!"
She spun around, and a becoming blush brightened her sad face. "Senor de Ferdinand! How do you do?"
Rushing to take her outstretched hand and hold it with the greatest reverence, he said fiercely, "Mices-elves whats you wishes will do. Mostly beautiful lady saying herses-elves 'mire theses. Angelo, he give. Here's and now!" He reached up and began to struggle to remove the picture from the wall.
"No, no!" cried Barbara. "Oh, pray do not! Truly, you are very good, but it belongs to Mrs. Henley, and—"
"Chew like. Chew havings!" he declared, by now having succeeded in tipping the picture so that it hung sideways.
"No—really! Oh dear, let me help…"
She hurried to stand beside him, but being not even as tall as he, could reach no higher, and the painting, large, heavy, and now considerably out of balance, defied their efforts. The ormolu clock, jolted by de Ferdinand's elbow, fell with a crash into the hearth.
With a dismayed cry Barbara stepped back. "Oh, no!" she wailed. "Whatever will they think of me?"
"Of chew?" cried the Spaniard, his dark eyes flashing. "Of chew thinkings they theses lady was beautiful mostly of anys other! Not moment one chew must griefed being! Angelo—mices-elves—he picture buyings!"
That Barbara understood this mangled speech was evident. Her lashes fell, her bosom began to rise and fall in agitation, but the shy smile that curved her mouth so wrought upon the Spaniard that he was emboldened to again seize her hand and press it to his lips.
"Oh, you m-must not," she said, trying without much force to free herself.
"Chew sayings chew not marryings wish," persisted de Ferdinand. "Chaw minds changes its elves?"
"No." She raised suddenly tragic eyes to his ardent ones. "But—it is done now. I am betrothed, do you see?"
He stepped closer. "Lovely lady chew Angelo listen chaw nice ears with! Chew no wish marryings with theses mens, then Angelo—mices-elves—he marryings stopping!"
Awed, she whispered, "You will stop the marriage? Oh, if only you could! But—alas, it is too late."
Even as he began an impassioned denial, she heard quick light footsteps approaching. At once she ran back to the sofa. De Ferdinand sprinted after her. Barbara halte
d abruptly as a thought occurred. Swinging around she was startled to find the Spaniard coming at her with all speed. They collided violently and fell onto the sofa. Not normally quick-witted, but inspired by desperation, Barbara hissed into his nose, "Tonight at ten, by the summer house!"
Hurrying into the withdrawing room, the apology on Susan's lips died. She received the incredible impression that the man her brother sometimes fondly referred to as "the little Spanish gamecock" had attacked Miss Trent, and that the girl she'd thought to be shy had just bitten him on the nostril. Feeling decidedly out of her depth, she blinked from Miss Trent's pink countenance to de Ferdinand's now upright and rigidly defiant stance.
"I w-was… faint," said Barbara. "And—and Senor Angelo, er—helped me."
"Oh." Vastly titillated, Susan added an equally nonsensical "I am glad." Her gaze encompassing the painting, which now appeared to stand on one corner, and the shattered clock on the hearth, she asked an astonished "Whatever happened?"
"Mices-elves wishing to theses buyings for mostly beauti—" began Angelo.
"I-I was admiring the painting," interjected Barbara desperately. "I fear I must have disturbed the wire. We—er, tried to straighten it again, and the clock fell. Truly, I am very sorry."
"It was an ugly old clock," Susan declared with commendable grace. "The painting is rather pretty, isn't it? Would you wish to come upstairs now, Miss Trent?"
She led Barbara up the stairs, mulling over how becomingly the girl's cheeks had glowed, and how bright had been the formerly lacklustre blue eyes. And Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand had brought it all about. 'Well now, Mr. Rake Montclair,' she thought, 'you had best look to your laurels, or your betrothed may run away with the 'little Spanish gamecock'!
The afternoon breeze was freshening, setting the leaves of the old oak tree to flutter whisperingly, and ruffling Montclair's dark hair. He moved slightly on the chaise longue they had carried into the back garden, and Susan looked up quickly from her mending to see if he was uncomfortable. Dispensing with protocol in these trying circumstances, he wore only a shirt and pantaloons, the left leg slit to the knee to accommodate the splints. He was still too thin, but the slight pucker between his dark brows that always betrayed one of the violent headaches he still occasionally suffered, was not apparent today. In fact, aside from the arm that was carried in a sling and the splinted leg, he looked almost well again.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart Page 22