Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  And now here he was, seated as his brother’s representative at the head of the table in the small dining room, with one fire quite unnecessarily adding more heat to the warm room, the flames awaking flickering shadows in the fine plasterwork of the ceiling, the candlelight playing on snowy napery and reflecting in sparkling crystal and silverware.

  From the third chair on his left, the slumberously inviting eyes of the much admired the Honourable Jemima Merriman-Jones turned frequently to Montclair’s damaged features. Lady Spindle, her vast aunt, had just concluded a long-winded and stern homily on the deplorable frequency with which some young men (of whom one might have expected better things!) engaged in vulgarities such as fisticuffs, this having afforded Junius his excellent opportunity to snipe. And from both sides of the long table, amused faces turned to Montclair.

  “Noticed you was a trifle battered, Valentine,” bellowed Colonel Ostrander, seated next to Lady Spindle. “Whatya say happened? Didn’t quite hear the details.”

  “And I’ll wager dear Valentine don’t mean to relate ’em,” whispered Junius in the ear of Mrs. Rodenbaugh, the colonel’s perpetual companion, this witticism causing the amply endowed widow to giggle hilariously.

  Montclair said, “A slight difference of opinion, sir. With a fellow I found on my lands, and who had no business being there.”

  “Is that so, begad,” piped Lord Spindle in his piercing falsetto. “Think it was one of these curst smuggler fellas, Montclair? They’re becoming a confounded plague! Ought t’be took out and shot, every last one! And what do the authorities do? I ask you. Nothing! When’s Geoffrey going t’put a stop to it, that’s what I’d like to know? He’s the Squire, after all.”

  “You must have forgot, my lord, that Geoffrey is out of the country at the moment,” said Lady Trent with the gushing sweetness she reserved for anyone above the rank of baronet.

  Montclair sprang at once to his brother’s defence. “Besides, I doubt there’d be anything for him to do, sir. There’s not much smuggling up here. That’s more along the south coast, surely.”

  “Beg to differ,” put in Lord Thornleigh, his volume rattling the glasses. “They’ve expanded, by what I hear. Quite a surge of activity in the west country of late. I believe the authorities suspect a distribution centre somewhere between Bath and Bristol. Right, Spindle?”

  His lordship agreed, said it was a scandal, a national outrage, and that there was a deal more to it than smuggling brandy and the like. “Probably all part of this Masterpiece Gang,” he added gloomily.

  Montclair’s ears perked up. In Town the Bow Street Runner had spoken of that criminal band. He tried to insert a question, but was overridden by his aunt’s shrill voice, which was in turn obliterated by an imperative demand that the guest of honour be informed of the thieves.

  It was the first time Valentine had ever seen Lady Trent shouted down. Amused, he caught Barbara’s awed glance and sent a sly wink her way while my lord Thornleigh launched into a lengthy history of the Masterpiece Gang and their depredations.

  “And everything they’ve stole is irreplaceable,” growled Ostrander. “Priceless old jewellery. National treasures. Robbed Britain, is what the dirty bounders have done! Curst revolutionaries, mark my words! Selective da— er, rascals too. Cannot recall exactly what they’ve made off with this year, but—”

  Spindle inserted, “They took a Bellini from poor old Jacob Chalfont just after Christmas. Broke the fella’s heart!”

  “And a couple of Tintorettos from the British Museum—Montague House, you know,” said Lady Thornleigh. “Not likely to find them again, now, are we?

  “Gad, no,” agreed Spindle, allowing his wine glass to be refilled. “Last month they broke into Castle Gower in broad daylight while everyone was occupied with a garden party. Took the dowager duchess’s ruby tiara. Most beautiful trinket. Seventeenth century, I think. Prinny always held it should’ve been kept at Windsor. He’s fairly beside himself and blames the duke, instead of putting the blame where it lies—at Bow Street! And there have been other treasures too: diamonds, emerald necklaces—you’ll recollect last year the Viscountess Chepstow was robbed at gunpoint in her carriage.”

  “And they took some fabulous early crystal from…” began the Count di Volpe.

  Montclair did not hear the rest of the stout Italian’s remark, for Madame la Comtesse de Bruinet, who had tired of the subject, enquired of him as to Geoffrey’s whereabouts. He had heard much of the formidable Frenchwoman. Small but big-bosomed, she was rumoured to be five and sixty and looked ten years younger. Refusing to speak English and incredibly haughty, she was a leader of Polite Society. She had escaped Paris just before the Revolution, bringing trunks crammed with gold louis and jewels, which Montclair suspected had been acquired rather than inherited. She still showed traces of what had once been a dazzling beauty, but now her raddled cheeks were jowly, her eyelids had an almost perpetual droop, and her lips pulled down sneeringly at the corners. Once or twice during this interminable meal, however, her shrewd eyes had met his, and he’d thought to glimpse a lurking twinkle in their depths. A sense of humour would win his regard as no amount of wealth or social stature could do, and, intrigued, he warmed to the lady. If, as he suspected, she had been a highly successful courtesan, she would have reason to be amused both by her prestige in England, and by the adulation of the simpering snobs around his table.

  Lady Trent was ranting on about “the late dear princess,” and how deeply afflicted she had been by that young lady’s tragic death in childbirth. All England had been stunned by that profound tragedy, but Montclair could recollect very clearly his aunt’s screaming rage because she had been obliged to cancel a dinner party. Her remarks about the princess’s folly in marrying “that prim German boy” had been so vitriolic that one would never have suspected her to be anything but vexed by Princess Charlotte’s having chosen to die at so inconvenient a moment.

  It chanced that by the unfailing route of the servants’ hall, the tale of my lady’s fury had reached the comtesse’s ears. Disgusted by Lady Trent’s present show of hypocrisy, she glanced at Montclair and surprised his lurking smile. With a soft chuckle she leaned to him, lifting a hand that was heavy with gems.

  “Bien sûr embrasse-moi, mon petit.”

  Very aware that Junius’s pose had slipped and that his cousin was looking daggers at him, Valentine said gravely, “Avec le plus grand plaisir, madame,” and saluted her fingers.

  Junius tittered audibly.

  Madame la Comtesse put up her lorgnette fan and surveyed him through a hushed and awful moment from which he was rescued when his mother rose hurriedly and led the ladies from the room. Demurely in the rear of the august train, Barbara’s face was brightened by silent laughter.

  The gentlemen lingered over their port and nuts, but at last Montclair was able to conduct the small male group across the great hall, into the south hall and thence down the steps, through the conservatory, and into the gallery where the ladies had gathered. This was not Montclair’s favourite room, perhaps because of the half-a-hundred ancestors who stared down from their ornate frames. Since impromptu dances were often held in here, a fine piano-forte stood in the deep alcove midway between the vast central hearth and the rear wall, and Madame la Comtesse lost no time in observing that she had agreed to come to Longhills because she had heard that Montclair played divinely. Fixed with a basilisk stare, my lady Trent swallowed her fury, and in a voice that shook slightly implored her nephew to oblige them. “Why don’t you play that new little thing you writ, dearest boy,” she said, her lips curling back as though she yearned to bite him.

  ‘That new little thing’… Gritting his teeth, Montclair made his way to the piano-forte. The instrument had far more power than the harpsichord; at least Aunt Marcia would be quite unable to make herself heard. The Honourable Jemima promptly volunteered to turn the sheets for “clever Mr. Montclair,” but he foiled that ploy by saying with pseudo-regret that he needed no music, and
thus was spared the young lady’s way of pulling her chair very close, edging ever closer and flirting in the over-coy but determined way that was so appalling.

  He launched into his music, losing himself in it until the roar of applause greeted the final chord. The Honourable Jemima rushed to take his hand and declare that she was “all admiration.” Madame la Comtesse was ecstatic, his cousin Barbara was reduced to tears, the other guests, who wouldn’t know an Irish jig from an oratorio, applauded to please the comtesse, while Junius, who admired the Honourable Jemima, seethed.

  Another hour dragged by before Madame la Comtesse decreed that she had been here long enough, and departed, expressing her thanks with cold hauteur to Sir Selby and Lady Marcia, but patting Montclair’s cheek, and murmuring, “Charmant, Maestro! Le plus charmant!” The Spindles also left, bearing the Honourable Jemima with them. The remaining guests, the Trents and their son, were avid gamesters. They settled down to their cards and since they would likely play until the wee hours, Barbara was sent off to bed, and Montclair was able to slip quietly away.

  Before going upstairs, he went out onto the terrace for a breath of air. He was very weary, but the evening had not been a complete loss. Because the mighty comtesse had apparently taken a liking to him, his aunt’s nose was properly out of joint, and Junius could cheerfully have rent him limb from limb.

  Chuckling to himself, he glanced to the left. Deep in the shadows at the far end of the terrace, something had moved. One of the servants, likely. “Hello,” he called. “Who’s there?”

  Save for a cool night wind that whispered among the shrubs, the silence was absolute. Montclair tensed. His eyes were very keen, and he was sure he could distinguish a darker shape, standing very still. “The devil!” he muttered. “Hey! You there!” Grabbing a flower pot he sprang forward. Perhaps his weariness and then the sudden movement set it off, and dizziness struck hard, the terrace swinging under his feet so that he weaved drunkenly. Candlelight glowed at an open upper window. Barbara’s voice called a vaguely anxious, “Val? Is that you?”

  Montclair had managed to reach the deeper darkness under the beech trees. He was sure that someone stood mute and still, very close to him. His vision was blurring, and he drew an impatient hand across his eyes. When he looked up the dark figure was drifting away. “Stand!” he gasped, waving his flower pot.

  An arm was about him. Gould’s voice, sharp with concern, asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Somebody … here…” he managed thickly.

  Barbara called, “What is it? Is he ill again?”

  Gould looked up at her. “A little too much wine I think, Miss Trent.”

  “I—tell you,” mumbled Montclair, “there was … somebody…”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gould soothingly. “Let me give you a hand, Mr. Valentine. Here we go, sir. Have you in bed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  * * *

  On this sunny morning Susan had awoken to the strains of some Castilian ditty, sung regrettably off-key as usual. When she descended the stairs forty minutes later, the howls had ceased, and the perpetrator was standing on the front steps throwing his arms wide and breathing deeply.

  “Good morning, Señor Angelo,” called Susan.

  He bowed, then announced he was “riding forego!” and marched off stablewards.

  Bo’sun George Dodman came along the corridor, carrying a large painting. He greeted her in his shy way, the sunlight waking his red hair to a flame, the usual cheerful grin brightening his square sun-bronzed face and deepening the laugh lines that edged the green eyes. “You’re up early, ma’am, and looking mighty trim a’low and aloft, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you, Bo’sun. What are you going to do with that monstrosity?”

  He turned the painting and viewed it without delight. “Horrid, isn’t it, Mrs. Sue? But”—his voice lowered—“the little widow wants it cleaned. So—cleaned it must be. I only hope she won’t be disappointed when I’ve done.” Suddenly despondent, he sighed heavily. “I’d like to please her, ma’am.”

  Susan smiled. In this house of widows she was invariably referred to as ‘Mrs. Sue,’ while Edwina Starr was ‘the little widow.’ The painting looked like nothing more than a collection of dark brown swirls, but as the Bo’sun swung the kitchen door open she said encouragingly that there might be a pretty picture under all that dirt, in which case Starry would indeed be pleased.

  The kitchen was bright with sunlight and fragrant with the aromas of bacon, freshly baked scones, and coffee. Priscilla, sampling a scone, turned from the stove and ran to collect her morning kiss.

  “Mama! I’m so glad you waked yourself up at last! Uncle Andy has almost finished mending my doll house an’ it’s just ’dorable, an’ I want to paint it. He said I could if I liked, but the Bo’sun won’t let me have any paint. Will you make him get some out of his pot for me, Mama? Just a teensy scrinch? There must be enough for a tiny little house if there’s enough for that hugeous big boat!” She looked sternly at the miser. “He’s just being uncoproff’tive.”

  “Now Miss Priscilla, don’t bother your poor mama the moment you see her,” scolded Mrs. Starr, studiedly unaware of Dodman’s admiring gaze. “Come and sit here, Mrs. Sue, your breakfast’s all ready. Did you sleep well? Such a chilly night for this time of year. Never stand there like a lump, Bo’sun. I’ve cut you a raw potato, it’s in the bowl over there. You’ll likely want to take it into the Hall where you’ll have more room to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He collected the potato and proceeded with lagging steps towards the door that led into the Servants’ Hall.

  Her eyes very round, Priscilla asked, “Aren’t you going to cook it for him, Starry?”

  Susan laughed. “Bo’sun George had his breakfast already, darling. He is going to clean the picture, and the potato is a—a sort of paint soap.”

  “Unless,” said Mrs. Starr, who had timed to a nicety the closing of the door, “the Bo’sun would care to work at the counter by the sink, and have another cup of coffee.”

  His eyes lighting up, Dodman fairly shot back into the room.

  Susan stirred cream into her cup. “Real coffee, Starry? Can we afford it?”

  Her colour somewhat heightened as she carried a cup over to the industrious man at the counter, the little woman answered with a wink. “Depends upon where we buy it, dear ma’am. This pound wasn’t weighted down with government taxes, you may be sure.”

  Susan’s brows lifted. She said innocently, “Free Traders, Starry? Here? You surprise me.”

  Dodman joined in the laughter, caught Mrs. Starr’s eyes, reddened, and hurriedly restored his attention to the canvas.

  “I’m s’prised that with all that paint, the Bo’sun can’t spare a teensy scrinch for my doll house,” sighed Priscilla, standing on tiptoe to watch the results of his efforts. “It seems very mean an’ unkindly to bedredge a little child a drib of paint when she needs it so drefful bad.”

  “That should be ‘begrudge,’” said Mrs. Starr, buttering another scone. “Come and sit down at table with your mama, now.”

  Priscilla clambered onto the chair beside her mother. “Don’t you think the Bo’sun is a greedy great hog, Mama?” she enquired. “He’s got so much paint and all I want—”

  “Is a lesson in manners,” said Susan. “Little girls do not call grown-up men greedy great hogs!”

  “But, Mama, the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness’ an’ if the Bo’sun reely is a—”

  Mrs. Starr turned away, a hand over her smile, then scowled and removed Welcome from the sink.

  “The Bible also says ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’” And seeing that pretty little mouth start quite predictably to open, Susan added, “Which means friends as well. And also it says, ‘Thou shalt not covet.’”

  “I don’t, Mama! I wouldn’t never do that ’cause I don’t know what a covet is.”

  “It’s wishing you had something that belongs to someone
else. And the Bo’sun has very little paint. Oh, I know it seems a lot to you, dear, but really it may not even be enough for all the work he has to do on The Dainty Dancer, and we can’t afford another big pot. Besides,” she spread some raspberry jam on her scone, “I think, if it was my doll house, I wouldn’t want white paint. Have some jam, my love. Did she eat her egg, Starry?”

  “Yes, I eated it all up,” said Priscilla, “and Wolfgang eated his breakfast too, din’t he, Starry? An’ has we got some other paint, Mama? I’d ’ticlarly like red, if poss’ble.”

  “Red!” said Mrs. Starr, with a furtive smile at Susan. “Whoever heard of a red house?”

  “The elfs did,” argued Priscilla. “In that book you read me, Mama. ’Member? The elfs lived in a little shoe house an’ it was all bright and red an’ cosy. Red’s a cosy colour, don’t you ’gree, Bo’sun George?”

  Dodman glanced uneasily at Mrs. Starr’s bright eyes, which were immediately averted. “Can’t say that I do, Miss Priscilla. Red’s a colour that doesn’t please some folks, who think that red hair, for instance, stands for bad temper.” Mrs. Starr emitting a small snort, he went on innocently, “Not in my case, of course, for everyone knows that I’m a very peaceable man and like a quiet life, y’see.”

  Priscilla squealed delightedly, Susan could not restrain a laugh, and although Mrs. Starr tried to look indifferent, she was won to a smile. She often remarked in Dodman’s hearing that she could not abide a man who was forever brawling. It was well known that the Bo’sun had often resorted to fisticuffs in the taverns near their London home. And however often Andrew would explain that Dodman was only defending the honour of the family name, and that someone had ventured a disparaging remark about Burke Henley’s suicide, the ‘little widow’ would doggedly hold to her opinion that there was never a need for violence.