Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  They crossed the long gallery toward the steps that led down into the side hall. “Oh yes they can,” moaned Barbara miserably. “Are you sure my cousin is gone out?”

  “Rid into the village, miss, so that starched-up Mr. Gould says. And he should know, being as he’s Mr. Valentine’s valet, though one might think from the airs he gives hisself as he was valet to the Pope o’ Rome, at least!”

  This criticism went unnoticed by Barbara whose entire unhappy concentration was on the forthcoming interview with her formidable parents.

  A footman flung open the door that led to the south wing, and they passed through.

  “They likely chose this time, knowing he was gone,” Barbara whimpered. “May God help me! I am quite undone! I can never face them down alone!”

  A lackey froze to attention in the broad panelled hall leading past the ballroom, and Winnie was discreetly silent until they had passed another lackey whose mission in life appeared to be to repel the attempted invasion of a small butterfly. Then she asked softly, “What could Mr. Valentine do, miss? He can’t hardly tell your parents the marriage is not right for you.”

  Three steps up and past double doors that stood open, revealing the sun-splashed magnificence of the Venetian drawing room in which two maids were polishing busily. Barbara whispered, “I know, but he doesn’t like this any more than I do. He would tell me what to say. Oh, Winnie! I’m—so scared! If only Mr. Valentine was back! They will make me marry him! I know it!”

  “Just don’t promise anything, miss. You mustn’t!” Winnie glanced sympathetically at the pallid and drawn young face beside her. Much chance the poor little thing had with them two! “I s’pose it could be worse, miss,” she pointed out, trying to make the best of a bad thing. “What if it was that there Mr. Monteil they wanted you to marry?”

  Barbara shuddered.

  They started up the main staircase now, the great stained-glass window on the half landing bathing the beautifully carved panelling with colour. A slim young footman, carrying a large Chinese urn down the stairs, stepped aside respectfully as Barbara passed, then gave Winnie a grin and a wink.

  “Owdacious flirt,” she muttered, her big brown eyes sparkling.

  “Is that you, Barbara?” The high-pitched, rasping voice heralded the appearance at the top of the stairs of Lady Trent. She wore a morning dress of apple-green silk with forest-green velvet bands about the bodice and the short sleeves, and a green velvet fringe above the hem. Her coiffure was of the latest fashion, but vindictiveness and suspicion radiated from her; nothing could make her look charming, and her very presence at the top of that fine old stair seemed to cast a pall over its beauty.

  Certainly she cast a pall over her daughter, who jerked to a halt, became even paler, and gripped her hands together. “Yes, M-Mama,” she faltered.

  “We have been waiting this age,” scolded my lady, fixing Winnie with a frigid stare. “Well, never stand there as if you’d taken root, child! Hurry up, do!”

  Barbara’s imploring glance at her abigail was ignored. Winnie had encountered my lady’s temper before, and she fled.

  Quaking, Barbara followed her mother.

  The study was large, bright, and airy. The curtains were thrown back, and warm sunlight slanted into the luxuriously appointed room, painting a golden bar across the dark wine carpet. Fine paintings graced the walls, and tall display cases between the windows contained a prized collection of antique weapons. Sir Selby rose from behind the graceful Hepplewhite desk and hastened to draw up a chair for his wife, who at once launched into an irked denunciation of her bold and disobedient daughter.

  “N-no, ma’am, I beg you,” said Barbara, perching nervously on the edge of an adjacent chair. “I came at once when Winnie told me—”

  Trent murmured, “I think I did not give you my permission to be seated.”

  His daughter fairly sprang to her feet. “Oh! Your pardon, Papa,” she gasped, wringing her hands.

  “Accepted.”

  “You are too lenient, Sir Selby,” said my lady with her toothy smile. “Insolence must be punished or there is no telling where it will end. Therefore, Miss Trent, that piece of ill manners will cost you your dinner this evening.”

  Barbara hung her head and yearned to be peacefully in her grave.

  “You knew perfectly well you should have notified your dear papa of your acceptance long before today,” Lady Trent went on.

  Summoning every vestige of her courage, Barbara forced her stiff lips to obey her. “But—but Mama … Papa,” she croaked. “I—I do not … w-wish to m-marry him.”

  There was a moment of tingling and terrible silence.

  “Do … not … wish…” gasped Sir Selby, lifting his quizzing glass and through it scanning his shivering offspring as though she were some rare and repulsive insect.

  My lady sprang to her feet. “How dare you flout your parents’ authority, wretched child? The boy is well born, not unattractive, and very rich! Are you gone quite mad to balk at such a chance?”

  “Never upset yourself, my dear.” Sir Selby turned to his daughter, his eyes a little narrowed, his words spaced and distinct and ineffably menacing. “Barbara will obey us as a well-bred Christian girl should do. I promised that she would accept this offer, and I never break a promise. You—do understand me, I trust, miss?”

  Pierced by his grim stare, able to feel her mother’s anger, Barbara shook visibly, and tried with dry lips to respond. The words came in a sudden rush. “I—oh, please, Papa! I cannot care for him in—in that particular way. I beg of you—do not force—”

  “Heavens above, has the chit never looked at herself?” Her eyes sparking, her voice piercingly shrill, Lady Trent said, “All your life, Miss Barbara, you have received the very best of instruction and guidance. Much you chose to benefit from it, never regarding what a pretty penny you have cost us! Can you suppose you are a credit to your unfortunate parents, fat and drab and ugly as you are? That you should receive an offer from any eligible gentleman is little short of miraculous, as you would realize were you blessed with the faintest degree of Godliness and humility!”

  Incapable of speech now, Barbara felt physically sick. She was painfully aware that the door was not quite closed, and had no doubt but that the lackey outside had heard every word of her chastisement and that it very soon would be giggled over by every servant at Longhills. She stood with head bowed, tears of humiliation creeping silently down her white cheeks.

  “Look at your daughter, sir!” cried my lady, exasperated. “She has received an offer from a well-bred and well-to-do young gentleman, which is a sight more than I dared to hope for the silly chit, even though it was likely only made out of pity. She should be down on her knees giving thanks. And—look at her! Only look at her!”

  “Alas, my love. How sharp is the lash an ungrateful child turns upon its parents…”

  “No,” sobbed poor Barbara. “Truly, I—I am g-grateful, sir, but—”

  “There are no buts,” interpolated Sir Selby in a quiet and awful voice. “At half past eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, you will present yourself in the great hall. You will accept with maidenly modesty and gratitude the honour that has been offered you.” He lifted one hand in a regal gesture, halting his daughter’s feeble attempt at speech. “There is nothing more to be said. You may go and meditate upon your outrageous behaviour.”

  Taking her weeping daughter by the arm, Lady Trent pushed her to the door. “Stop your snivelling, do,” she commanded, tightening her grip cruelly. “And furthermore, my girl, you had best not appear on Saturday with a face like an expiring bloodhound, else you will be sorry, I promise you. Very sorry!”

  * * *

  The hills were emerald, the sky intensely blue, the breeze playing like a frolicsome kitten; now quiet and hidden, now darting from concealment to dance with the treetops and riffle the grasses and run flirtatious fingers through Susan’s long soft hair. The little mare tossed her pretty head and picked up he
r hooves as lightly as thistledown. And Susan rode with anxiety for a companion, and her thoughts on the letter that now resided in her pocket.

  Had the cottage really been sold back to the Montclairs? Was it possible that she really was trespassing, and that the young nobleman who had so contemptuously sent his friends to drive her away had right and the law on his side? She bit her lip, frightened. What court would believe her if she said that Burke Henley may not even have known about the cottage, and had certainly never mentioned it to her? Or that, even as Sir Selby Trent had implied, Mr. Ezra Henley’s mind had been clouded during the final few years of his life and he had kept many things secret and hoarded his papers, fearful of trickery, so that even Burke had known few details of his father’s affairs?

  If they were trespassers, it might take some time to dispossess them. Grandpapa Tate’s solicitor had said something about possession being nine-tenths of the law. If things went along as they were, within just a little while they would have their feet on the ground again, but it could not be accomplished within ten days as demanded by the letter in her pocket. What was needed was something to delay the evil baron …

  Deep in thought, she paid no attention to her route, allowing the mare to choose her own path. How angry Montclair had been about the paint. She brightened. He’d been fairly white with rage. As if she would put a red trim on the dear old cottage! She giggled, picturing it. The pot of paint, much larger than she’d thought to buy, had proven too heavy and bulky to be slung from the pommel, especially on such a warm day, so she’d asked the boy who’d held Pewter to take it back to the Ironmongery and tell Mr. Mundy she would like it delivered to Highperch, as he’d kindly offered. Priscilla would be so—

  She glanced up and gave a shocked gasp. Pewter had slowed to little more than a walk. They were following a trail beside a long line of tall birch trees, and beside her rode the object of her thoughts. With an involuntary jerk at the reins, she exclaimed, “Oh! Lord Montclair!” And she thought, ‘He thinks I have the paint in my parcels and has come to try and wrest it from me by force!’

  “Now what has he done?” he asked in the cool drawl that was so infuriatingly provoking.

  “What has who done?”

  “I thought you spoke of Lord Montclair?”

  “Oh. Well, I was shocked to—to find you riding with me.”

  “I’d have thought you would have expected such a development.”

  That sounded sinister, and Susan eyed him uneasily. His mouth looked hard and cruel. Was she going to have to fight him off…?

  “And I’ll own myself dense,” he went on. “But for the life of me I cannot see what my brother has to do with my riding beside you.”

  All thought of red paint left Susan’s mind. She was seized by a horrible sinking feeling, and stammered feebly, “Your—br-brother?”

  “Lord Geoffrey DeBrant Colwynne Montclair.”

  She paled. “D-do you say—that you—aren’t…?”

  “No, ma’am. I am Valentine Amberly Montclair. The younger brother.”

  “Oh—no!” wailed Susan, horrified. “How perfectly dreadful!”

  Despite himself, his lips twitched at this. “To be a Montclair? Or to be a younger son?”

  “I thought you were Lord Montclair!”

  “Did you? Dear me, I must warn my brother!”

  Susan’s brain reeled. So he was not the Beastly Baron who meant to force them from Highperch! ‘Heavens! What have I done? I struck the wrong man!’ Struggling to regain her equilibrium in the light of this shocking disclosure, she said, “Then we owe you an apology. You see, Lyddford thought—”

  “I am aware, ma’am.” The words fairly dripped ice. “Your brother is extreme hot at hand. But I assure you I do not molest small girls. Even if they trespass on our estate.”

  How coldly aloof he was. He wouldn’t even let her apologize properly. Irritated, she snapped, “No, you merely so terrify them they cannot sleep at night!”

  “If that is so, I am sorry for it, but—”

  “If it is so? I do not tell falsehoods, sir!”

  He gave her a long measuring look. “Do you not, Mrs. Henley? How admirable.”

  “More admirable than for your brother’s friends to forcibly invade my home, bully my servants, and beat my brother into unconsciousness because he tried to protect me from being mauled!”

  Inwardly appalled by this litany of abuse, Montclair frowned at the riding whip in his hand. Then he said slowly, “My brother is out of the country, ma’am. And has been for several years.”

  In which case she’d been right, after all. “So you act for him, I take it.”

  They had come to the end of the trees and were approaching a stretch of high level land with a fine view of the surrounding countryside. Charmingly flanked by two weeping willow trees, a summer house stood in the centre of the turf, the bright faces of lupins, daisies, and stocks bobbing around it.

  Montclair drew rein. “It will be easier to talk inside, madam.”

  Belatedly, Susan asked, “Where are we?”

  He had, she discovered, a perfectly horrid way of regarding her, saying nothing, but the upward twitch of one dark brow speaking volumes. His slim hand moved in a graceful but mocking gesture to the right. She yearned to strike it, and with considerable irritation glanced where he indicated.

  Distantly, the chimneys of a great house peeped above the trees. Susan felt her face grow hot. “Never say that is Longhills? But—it cannot be! I started out the other way. Oh, how vexing! I suppose I did not pay heed to where I was going and must have ridden in a circle.” It sounded so lame that she was not surprised by his scornful stare. Much chance she had of convincing this icicle that her trespassing had not been deliberate.

  “It would appear to be a family failing,” he drawled sardonically. “Your later father-in-law had the same—ah, tendency.”

  He dismounted in a lithe swing and tethered Allegro to a branch of one of the trees. He had fully expected an angry response to his barbed remark, but when he turned he found Mrs. Henley with hands prayerfully clasped before her bosom and eyes closed. Heaven forbid she was about to make good her earlier dastardly threat and swoon into his arms! He scanned her uneasily. “Are you well, madam?”

  “And grateful,” she said, blinking down at him. “I was thanking a merciful Providence. Only think—a few centuries ago had I dared set foot upon your property you might have punished me by providing me with an iron collar!” She gave a realistic shudder.

  Montclair’s lips quirked. Iron collar, indeed! With all her faults, the widow had spirit and a sense of humour. He drawled, “Have no fears, madam. Even were I so inclined, I own no serfs at present, and will provide nothing more threatening than an offer to help you down.”

  ‘Even were he so inclined?’ The conceit of it! And his eyes glittered at her in a most unpleasantly piercing way, the strange amber flecks in startling contrast with the near-black iris. She contemplated refusing his help, but that would mean a clumsy dismount, and so she leaned to him. The hands that received her were strong, but held her as briefly as possible. Susan, who would have been infuriated if he’d held her longer, thought with perverse resentment that he must be afraid of contaminating himself.

  The summer house was constructed on the open plan, with several wooden benches grouped under the graceful pagoda roof. Susan found it delightful, but refused to give him the satisfaction of saying so. She was surprised to find his hand supporting her elbow as she mounted the three shallow steps. The noble gentleman very obviously despised the scheming widow, but at least he remembered his manners.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, unbending a little, “it is as well you followed me, for there is something I must discuss with you.”

  “I did not follow you, Mrs. Henley. In point of fact, I was surprised to find you here. And if you wished to speak to me, I cannot but wonder why you—er, ‘started out the other way.’”

  She drew a deep breath. It served her
right for addressing him as though he had been human. What a pity that she had hit him with the brush. She might better have used the broom! “I had intended to apologize,” she said coldly, refusing to allow his sarcasm to fluster her.

  “For invading my cottage? Or for your hideous scheme to redecorate it?”

  “Oh, neither. For being a—just a touch put out when you came to my house.”

  “Just a—‘touch’…?” Montclair fingered his bruised forehead. “It would be diverting to see you when you are really vexed, ma’am.”

  She smiled at him in the way that so exasperated Andrew and which he referred to as her ‘Sphinx grin.’ If Montclair was exasperated, he gave no sign of it, watching her enigmatically for a moment, then turning away to dust off one of the benches, and bow her to it.

  Ignoring the overblown gallantry, she sat on an adjacent bench and contemplated the view. How beautiful it was, all green and blue and gold; neat and peaceful, typical of the west country she loved so well.

  There could be little doubt, thought Montclair, scanning the widow obliquely, that her reputation was well earned. She had behaved with disgraceful abandon at the cottage yesterday; she probably hoped to wound him by using that ghastly paint on the dear old place, and she had a way of meeting one’s eyes that was decidedly unmaidenly. Besides, who ever heard of a lady wearing her hair so long and straight? That style was quite out of fashion—and had been for about two thousand years. She was a shapely creature, though, and was clever enough to achieve an air of tranquillity. The way her hands were folded in her lap, for instance; the graceful disposition of her body … The breeze riffled her hair. It was, he noticed, very thick and silky-looking. He wondered if it felt silky. She turned her head so suddenly that she caught him watching her, which made him long to give himself a hard kick.