Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  She laughed and waved the book at him. “Well, in this one everybody swoons!”

  “So you’ve read it, you little varmint.”

  “Yes.” She sank to her knees beside him. “Did you keep count of all the bodies thudding to the boards? I thought it so diverting. Even Lord St. Orville swoons!”

  “True. Still, it’s a ripping good tale for all that. I especially liked—” He stopped, a faint frown tugging at his dark brows as his sister glanced again to the window. She was not one to fret for nothing. He tugged gently at a strand of glossy hair that had escaped the mob-cap. “What are you worrying at? I’ve my pistol loaded and ready in case those clods should come back. And when we have our day in court we’ll send Montclair to the rightabout soon enough.”

  “I’m sure we will,” she said. But she spoke absently, and her troubled gaze was still on the window.

  Lyddford watched her, his eyes sobering. If ever a girl deserved the good things of life, it was his Susan. No man could wish for a better sister; nor, he thought loyally, a lovelier one. But poor Sue’s path through life had been far from easy. With the best will in the world to provide for his family, Papa had been a younger son with no expectations other than what his Navy pay and the possibility of prize money would bring him. After his death they’d been all but destitute, existing on the begrudging charity of Papa’s brother, Sir John Lyddford, surely the worst piece of clutch-fisted snobbery ever created. Grandpapa Tate, as different an article to mama as could have been imagined, had left the merchantman he’d commanded for the East India Company, and come home to, as he put it, steer his daughter’s children “through the shoals to the Isle of Dreams.” It was Grandpapa who had moved them into decent lodgings and seen to it that they were able to enter the fringes, at least, of Polite Society. It was Grandpapa who’d presented Burke Henley to Susan, and had said he was a “fine young gentleman with a comfortable fortune behind him.”

  Lyddford had never really known whether Sue married the dashing Henley because she loved him, or for the security a wealthy young man could offer. Wherever their ‘Isle of Dreams’ was, however, Burke Henley had not possessed the chart to it. Good-natured and easy going, deeply in love with his bride, always full of fun and high spirits, he had willingly paid his brother-in-law’s University expenses for two years. But in the third year of his marriage he had come home from sea and been stationed at the Navy Board in London, with easy access to the clubs and theatres he’d patronized before entering upon a naval career. It hadn’t taken long for him to fall in with some old friends. When Grandpapa had pointed out that they were now part of a very fast crowd, Henley had only laughed at the old gentleman for his “sanctimonious preaching.”

  Not his wife nor any member of his family could make Henley listen to reason. After Grandpapa’s death, he had been even less restrained, and had very soon whistled his fortune down the wind. Perhaps it was guilt that had made him turn to drink, or perhaps that weakness had always been there too. At all events, bad had led to worse, and now poor Henley’s honour was clouded and he was dead this year and more. Susan was disgraced and rejected by the haut ton, and they were reduced to living in a neglected rundown old barn of a house, miles from anywhere.

  Lyddford followed his sister’s gaze to the window and observed, “Weather on the way, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is that what bothers you? The Bo’sun knows what he’s about, never fear.”

  She nodded, then stood. “But Priscilla doesn’t.”

  “The deuce! Has she gone wandering off again? That little minx! Well, she’ll stay away from the river, at least, after the whipping I gave her yesterday morning.”

  Susan glanced at him and suppressed a smile. He was exceeding fond of his small niece, and the fear for her safety that had led him to actually deposit one half-hearted spank on her little bottom had left him pale and stricken. Priscilla had been devastated, and for a while Susan had scarce known whom to comfort first. She had no doubt that her daughter would not go near the crumbling riverbank again, which was a weight off her mind. Still …

  “I cannot have her roaming like this,” she muttered. “Angelo has gone to try and find her. I thought he’d be back by now.”

  “Oh, I think there is no cause for alarm. We’re miles from the village, and very few people use the lane. I fancy she took Wolfgang with her, and Angelo’s probably gone on with them. She’ll be all right.”

  But after his sister had gone back upstairs to help Mrs. Starr in the linen room, Lyddford detached his tall figure from the sofa and made his way to the window. The river was a pale silver snake winding through a peaceful green and gold patchwork. It was true that they were isolated here, but one never knew where evil would rear its ugly head, and a man who would send two bullies to terrorize a helpless woman was capable of anything.

  He darted a quick look at the door, then raised the window, climbed through, and started around the side of the house and southward towards the woods.

  * * *

  Montclair crossed the park, paying little heed to the mischievous wind that tossed his hair about, or to the great billowing sails of the cloud ships that were beginning to gather high above him. Normally, he would have been appreciative of his surroundings, for he loved this beautiful part of Britain, with its rolling hills and verdant meadows, its darkly mysterious woodland, the ever changing voice of the mighty River Severn, the timeless serenity of the proud old estate that had been his birthplace. But serenity had gone. For six years and more Longhills had been under siege, with Geoffrey—a pox on his irresponsible self!—cavorting about all over the globe because he couldn’t abide the Trents, and not even coming home now that he was of an age to end his uncle’s administration of the estates. Montclair scowled, hoping there was nothing wrong with the madcap brother he loved dearly. He’d tried to keep things in good case for Geoff, Lord knows. Now, Dr. Sheswell was insisting that he must rest more. But how the hell could he—

  A twig snapped behind him. He halted abruptly and jerked around. He had come into the fringes of the Home Wood, and had the strongest impression that someone followed, but his keen gaze saw only the trees, calm and stately; the dappled light flirting with ferns and shrubs; a rook cawing at him from a high branch. ‘Imagining things again, you dolt,’ he thought, and walked on. If his health failed—now of all times—with this wretched betrothal business to be dealt with, and Babs so frantically opposed to it. Though she’d do what she was told, if—

  A low growl interrupted his frowning introspection. The small clearing before him was occupied by a dog. Part Alsation and part Great Dane, it crouched with fierce eyes fixed on him, a bone gripped between its jaws, the menacing rumble of sound coming from deep in its throat.

  Montclair stood still. “Soldier! Go home!” he said firmly.

  The dog dropped the bone. The hair standing up all across its powerful shoulders, it presented a fearsome picture as it charged.

  Montclair had neither pistol nor cane, but he knew that to back away, or run, would be fatal. He raised his voice and his fist. “Down!” he bellowed. For a second he really thought his only chance was going to be to grab for the throat. Then, two yards from him, the savage attack halted. The dog dropped to a crouch again, barked fiercely for a minute or two, then turned, retrieved his bone, and trotted off, still growling around it.

  Montclair took a deep breath. “Damned ugly brute,” he grumbled, and just to be on the safe side, took up a hefty fallen branch before walking on.

  His attempts to think of a way to convince Barbara seemed doomed. He had journeyed only a short way after his encounter with Soldier when another meeting disrupted his concentration. His gaze was on the ground before him and he paused when a pair of small, highly polished boots came into his field of vision.

  “Mices foots chew mire?” said a tenor voice enquiringly.

  A small dapper gentleman sat on a fallen tree trunk, his high-crowned beaver hat beside him. Very black hair sprang in thick glistening waves from his ra
ther sallow but unwrinkled brow. Equally black eyebrows arched over bright dark eyes. His skin seemed to stretch over the high cheekbones, his nose was a large thin arch, his chin long and pointed. He was impeccably clad in a brown riding coat over moleskin breeches, the only incongruity being the outmoded foam of lace at his throat and wrists. Montclair guessed him to be anywhere between thirty and forty, and that he was foreign was obvious, but the language had been unfamiliar. He made an attempt. “Pardon-nez moi, monsieur?”

  “Angelo have say,” the dapper one explained, looking irked, “chew mices foots mire. Plain is not?”

  ‘Plain is not!’ thought Montclair, but said a baffled, “Right.”

  “Right!” The little man beamed, stuck out his right leg, and admired it. “Very much spense. Chew know goods, chess!”

  Struggling, Montclair said, “Your—feet?”

  “Chess. Foots.” He stood on them. “Very good very nice chew mire.”

  “Ah. I admire your boots, is that it?”

  “It? Ay! It what?”

  “I mean—did you ask if I admired your boots?”

  A haughty frown drew down those black brows. “Chew make the funny thing, but Angelo laugh ha-ha no! Many time this we talk. Chew say right. Now chew say it what. Theses I know about no much. Splain pliss chew doing what in trees.”

  ‘Saints preserve us,’ thought Montclair. “I am walking through the woods to visit someone,” he said with slow and careful enunciation. “May I be of help to you?”

  “Poor cove very bad chew English spoke. Meece, Angelo, comprende mucho.”

  Montclair gave a sigh of relief. “Ah! Se habla espagnol, señor?”

  A thin hand was flung up autocratically. The dark head tossed high. “Inglés, por favor! Angelo speak now goodly. But better spress mices elves soon will.” He grinned broadly and put out his hand. “Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand is mices elves. Service your hat.”

  Preserving his countenance gallantly, Montclair shook his hand and responded, “I am Valentine Montclair. At your serv—”

  Señor de Ferdinand whipped his hand back as if he’d been stung. “Bandido!” he howled, thrusting his face at Montclair’s chin. He sprang back, lifted both fists in a prize-fighting attitude, and began to dance around the astonished Englishman at great speed, his head tilted far back, his legs fairly twinkling as he advanced and retreated, his fists flailing madly about, and all the time shouting variously, “Sapristi!” “El Diablo!” or similar uncomplimentary epithets. Abandoning these aggressive tactics, he snatched up his hat, and flung it in Montclair’s face. “Chew dog dirtness!” he declared, and suddenly all stately languor, stood very straight and still, his arms folded as he enquired with a bored smile, “We with the pistolas shoot. Mañana—er, threemorrow, chess?”

  “I think you have escaped from Bedlam,” gasped Montclair. “I’ve no least intention to fight a lunatic! And the word is tomorrow. Not threemorrow.”

  Señor de Ferdinand’s black brows rose and an eager light brightened the dark eyes. “Ay, bueno!” He bowed with a great many flourishes. “Tomorrow! Thankschew, señor! Mices hand shoot it will true. Chew nothing feel very much!” He struck himself on the chest. “Angelo he say theses!” He clapped the beaver at a jaunty angle onto his head, and gave it a rap on the crown, whereupon it fell off. He grabbed for it, juggled it an embarrassed second or two, and then dropped it. With a rather guilty look at the fascinated Montclair, he snatched it up and hurried off.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Still incredulous, Montclair shook his head, and went on his way.

  Not until later did it occur to him to wonder what the small Spanish birdwit had been doing on Longhills land.

  * * *

  The Montclair Folly had been built to house a madwoman. In 1362 Sir dePuigh Montclair, grandfather of the first baron, had stolen the enchanting young girl who had dared to reject him, and dragged her to Longhills to become his bride. The poor girl had been in love with the man he’d slain while capturing her; shock and grief had caused her mind to give way and her abductor had found himself saddled with a raving lunatic. A belatedly awoken sense of guilt had kept him from doing away with her. He kept her locked in an improvised suite in Longhills’ second cellar for a year, while he built a tower for her in the deepest part of the forest. His wretched victim only dwelt there for eight months, however, before escaping it and life by the simple means of jumping off the roof.

  Years later, when the tragic story at length began to be whispered abroad, the Montclair Folly became an object of curiosity for lovers of the macabre, and inevitably with such a background came the rumours that it was haunted. In 1624, when much of the tower was destroyed in a lightning-caused fire, the superstitious villagers said the devil had claimed his own, and after that even the family members avoided the Folly. For over a century the windowless walls still stood. But rain and mould took their toll, the insidious roots of creepers, the invasion of insects proved once again their superiority over the works of man, and early in the eighteenth century the rugged walls of the Folly at last began to crumble away. Now, all that remained were two ivy-covered half walls and assorted stone blocks scattered around the yawning pit that once had been the cellar.

  Lost in thought, Montclair had not noticed his proximity to the Folly, and might have wandered past it had he not begun to be annoyed by something that felt like a stone in his boot. He was still carrying the branch he’d taken up when Soldier came at him, and he tossed it on a small heap of the blocks, sat beside it, and began to pull off his boot. He stopped abruptly when he heard a woman singing. The voice was thin and high pitched, the words indistinguishable, the melody set in a minor key and having some resemblance to a monastic chant.

  The hairs on the back of Montclair’s neck started to lift and a chill crept over his skin. With a pang of dread he thought that it was probably his illness plaguing him again, causing his mind to play him false, but he picked up his branch, tightened his grip on it, and walked slowly towards the great glooming ruins.

  4

  The singing faded away. Had it ever really been a sound outside his own head? Was he getting worse? Perhaps his family would soon be building a Folly for him … Revolted by this lapse into self-pity, he gritted his teeth and decided to have a closer look, just in case there was something more substantial than his erratic mind. He gave a gasp as the song rang out once more, much closer now, and accompanied this time by another voice raised in an unearthly wailing that turned his bones to water.

  “Woe, woe, woe, woe.

  I will go

  And when I’m dead

  He’ll hang his head

  And wish that I

  Am here instead

  Woe, woe, woe, woe!”

  He hadn’t imagined all that! He felt the blood drain from his face. “Dear God!” he whispered, and stood motionless, quite incapable of taking another step.

  The dark walls towered above him. The mournful wind wailed softly and set the branches rustling. The air seemed to have become icy.

  An oddly penetrating voice wailed, “Who comes to my tower?”

  He sent a swift glance around the clearing. He was quite alone. So there really was a ghost! He knew he was behaving like a spineless coward, but his one thought was to run. He obeyed the impulse, spun about, took a long stride, collided with something, and a piercing screech rang out. The trees seemed to ripple before his eyes.

  “Now see what you’ve gone and done!”

  The voice came from the ground at his feet. He looked down and relief was overwhelming.

  A small girl lay sprawled on her back, looking up at him reproachfully.

  “Oh—Jupiter…” he gasped.

  Her solemn little face was framed by a lopsided sunbonnet from which untidy dark brown curls strayed erratically. A bent pair of spectacles hung from one ear, and two big grey eyes frowned at him. “I ’spect you’re prayering to be forgived,” she said. “While you’re talking to the angels you better ask
my papa to help me. You hurt me. Very bad.”

  “I’m so sorry.” He knelt beside her and retrieved the spectacles. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Yes you did. You heered me singing and comed. I creeped round and hid ’hind you, just a’case.”

  She seemed remarkably self-possessed for such a small girl. “Just in case—what?” he asked.

  “Just a’case you were bad. Are you bad?” She hooked the spectacles around her ears and scanned him, her head tilting, her face anxious as she awaited his reply.

  He thought, ‘She can’t be much more than five or six.’ “I don’t think so,” he answered, smiling at her. “At least, I try not to be. Sometimes, I’m afraid, I don’t try hard enough.”

  A moment longer those grave eyes searched his face, then all at once she beamed sunnily. “I know,” she said, sitting up. “When you hasn’t tried hard enough to be good, you have to make ’mends. So I’ll rest here and be brave, and you can mend my toe. But you better wait while I make myself ’spectable.”

  She leaned forward, arranging the skirts of her pretty pink muslin frock with great care, then ruining the effect by sticking her foot in the air and directing the beam at him once more. “Mend it now, if you please,” she commanded.

  The dress, he noted, was of excellent quality and workmanship, and when he removed her little shoe he found that it also was of fine leather and design.

  “You’ve got pretty hands,” she remarked.

  “Thank you.” The toe of her shoe was caved in, and her stocking was torn. He set the shoe aside, and touched her foot gingerly.

  “Is my toe all broke into hund’eds ’n thousands of pieces?”

  “I certainly hope not.” He looked up in alarm. “Does it feel like it?”