Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  The pistol eluded his suddenly frantic clutch and swung sideways.

  With a shout, Montclair leapt away and in the same instant the pistol roared deafeningly.

  There was no impact; no stab of pain.

  The smoke cleared, and he saw that the Spaniard had fallen to his knees and was bowed forward.

  “Good God!” Montclair sprang to bend over him.

  A pallid, sweating face was lifted. Dazedly, de Ferdinand gasped, “Caramba! … mices elves have … Angelo shootinged.”

  “Of all the stupid—” Montclair slipped an arm about him. “Here—sit back. Let me have a look.”

  Already, bright crimson stained the snowy shirt. Montclair unbuttoned and removed the coat, moving as quickly and carefully as possible. He glanced up and was given a faint twitching smile. The fellow was raving mad, but he had bottom, thank heaven. “Good man,” he muttered, and spread the shirt.

  “Val!” Barbara ran across the turf, holding up her gown to facilitate her tempestuous advance, her face pale with fear. “Oh, Val!” she panted. “Are you—”

  “I’m all right, Babs.” Montclair tugged at his handkerchief. “I’m afraid this fellow has been hit, though.”

  Unspeakably relieved, she took in the injured gentleman who sat leaning back on his hands and gazing at her in white-lipped silence.

  Montclair had fashioned his handkerchief into a pad which he placed firmly over the wound in the Spaniard’s left side. Watching the hurt man’s face, he increased the pressure until the steady stream of blood stopped. De Ferdinand became whiter than ever, but did not flinch.

  Barbara did. “How d-dreadful!” she faltered. “W-why did you shoot him?”

  De Ferdinand murmured, “Mices elves dyings was?”

  For some reason Barbara appeared to have no difficulty with the gentleman’s unique way with English, and she knelt beside him also and said shyly, “No, sir. I am sure you are not badly hurt.” Then, with an anxious glance at her cousin she added, “Is he, Val?”

  “Just a deep groove across the side of his ribs. You’re extreme fortunate, señor. I— Blast! Babs—I hate to ask, but I can’t hold this and get his shirt off, and I need it for a bandage. Could you—?” He looked at her doubtfully. She was such a timid little mouse and this brave but crazy Spaniard had bled like fury. To his surprise, her little hands came at once to hold his handkerchief tightly against the wound.

  “Brave girl,” he said, relieved, and managed to detach the hurt man from his shirt. Tearing it into strips, he said curtly, “Babs, this is Señor Angelo de Ferdinand. Señor—my cousin, Miss Barbara Trent.”

  Barbara threw a quick, shy glance at the Spaniard’s drawn, intent face.

  “Chaw incestual eyes must rest not mices decentless selves upon,” he murmured, faint but gallant.

  Barbara looked startled.

  Beginning to wind his improvised bandage around the lean, olive-skinned body, Montclair explained, “I think that roughly translates to a request that you not cast your innocent eyes upon his indecent self.”

  “Oh,” said Barbara, blushing, and lowering her gaze.

  “And I did not shoot him,” added Montclair. “Hold tight now, Babs. Ah—here we go. The fact is that Señor de Ferdinand was—” He caught the Spaniard’s look of desperate entreaty, and amended hurriedly, “was—er, showing me his new pistol, er, thinking it empty, you know. Hang on, señor, I’m going to have to tug this.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Barbara sympathetically as the wounded man gave a gasp. “Val—do you suppose a rib may be broken?”

  De Ferdinand had managed to continue to prop himself up, but now he began to sag. Barbara moved quickly to catch him and he sank into her lap. “Dios!” he whispered.

  “Poor soul.” She took up a piece of the rendered shirt and dabbed it at his sweating face.

  “I think I’ll leave the rest to old Sheswell,” said Montclair, wiping his hands on another remnant of the shirt. “We’re closer to Longhills than to Highperch, so I’ll take you there, Señor de Ferdinand, if—”

  The dark eyes opened. Gazing up at Barbara, Angelo sighed, “Madonna … chew kindly … most. Mices heart—words no havings. Montclair—mices thanks ways all, but chew bring the Highperch, pliss. Put horse on meece.”

  Their protests were unavailing. Weak and shaken he might be, but he was also—as Montclair lost no time in telling him—stubborn as any mule. Surrendering, Barbara said that she would stay with Señor de Ferdinand while Montclair rode for a carriage. In the middle of a tangled sentence denying the need for anything but his own horse, the victim checked and stared to one side.

  Montclair turned his head. A man lay propped on one elbow a short way up the slope, watching them. “Well, of all the bare-faced—” Montclair began. “Hey! Get down here!”

  The man stood and ambled down the slope, a piece of grass between his teeth. “Thought I’d stay near, sir,” he said lazily. “Not meaning to intrude, as they say. ’Case you might need a spot o’ help like.”

  He was tall and thin and clad in work garments that had seen far better days. A battered straw hat, perched on a mop of curly and untidy brown hair, shaded a face notable for bushy eyebrows, a jutting chin, and a pair of heavy-lidded drowsy eyes of a very pale blue.

  “I should have thought it would be dashed well obvious I needed a ‘spot of help,’” snapped Montclair. “You’re the new gardener, I believe? I’ve yet to see you standing up while you work! If all your hard labour hasn’t worn you out, you can bring the horses over here.”

  The gardener’s thin lips twisted into a grin. He cast an amused eye over Señor Angelo. “Dropped yer gun, didya, mate?” he murmured innocently.

  Barbara’s eyes widened. The Spaniard glared at him.

  “What is your name?” demanded Montclair.

  “They call me Diccon, sir.”

  “Do they? Well that’s not what I’d call you if there weren’t a lady present. Get the hacks. Now!”

  “Right you are!” Diccon went shambling off.

  Señor de Ferdinand was eased into his coat again. When Diccon returned with the horses, Allegro stood firm, but the smell of blood sent the bay prancing in fright. Montclair pulled him down and quieted him, and Diccon all but lifted de Ferdinand into the saddle, and asked, “Would ye want as I should come with you, sir?”

  Montclair refused this offer, requiring instead that he escort Miss Barbara home and that a groom be sent to Bredon immediately, to fetch Dr. Sheswell to Highperch. Señor Angelo managed to convey the information that Mrs. Henley’s staff included a man of medicine. ‘I wish I may see it,’ Montclair thought, cynically, but rescinded his order without argument.

  The ride to the cottage was accomplished with some difficulty. The Spaniard seemed to get his second wind, and jauntily proclaimed himself “a perfect fit,” which caused Montclair to grin, but a few minutes later he barely caught the man in time as he started to slide from the saddle.

  “I’ll say this much for you,” said Montclair, hauling him up again. “You may be bats in the belfry, and ‘perfectly fit’ you’re certainly not—but you’re a game one, señor.”

  * * *

  Susan reined Pewter to a halt before they left the woods, and made an effort to restore her appearance. She had shed tears of rage and humiliation, and was still breathing too fast, and had no wish to alarm her family. She had only to recall Montclair’s heartless laughter when she’d—er, fallen, and she began to seethe again, which would not do, so she sat quietly for a moment, closing her eyes and trying to compose herself. Since she spent several minutes thinking instead of what she would like to do to the wretch, composure was not at once achieved, but it was cool and quiet and peaceful among the trees, the silence broken only by the drowsy twittering of the birds, and gradually her tumultuous heart quieted. She had decided to continue on her way when she heard a man laugh.

  It was not her brother’s merry peal, nor the rather shrill bray of Señor Angelo’s amusement, or the Bo’
sun’s boom. There was, furthermore, something sinister about the laugh, if only because it was obviously restrained.

  The peaceful woodland glade began to seem lonely and menacing. She was quite alone and too far from Highperch for screams to be heard. If that horrid laugh belonged to Mr. Junius Trent … Her heart began to pound again. She stifled the impulse to spur Pewter to a gallop and make a run for safety. It was difficult to tell from which direction the laugh had come, and she had been sufficiently foolish today without capping it off by rushing straight at the very man she sought to avoid. She urged the mare forward at a walk.

  She heard voices then, again low pitched. Two men, and quite nearby. Why were they talking so softly? How silly she was, imagining all this drama. They were likely nothing more threatening than a pair of poachers. Heavens, but her imagination was running away with her. And then, like the crash of doom, a horse whinnied. Poachers did not ride!

  “D’ye take me for a flat?” demanded an irate and cultured voice. “We’ll have to keep a very careful watch on the lot of ’em, as he said, or—”

  A horse whickered, and Pewter whinnied a response.

  A startled exclamation. Rapid hoofbeats.

  With a squeal of fright Susan drove home her heels, and the mare jumped into a gallop.

  Someone shouted, “That way!”

  Susan bowed to avoid a low-hanging branch. From the corner of her eye she saw the shrubs to her right violently disturbed and her heart jumped into her mouth.

  Then Pewter burst from the trees and was thundering across open country towards Highperch.

  It was a few minutes before Susan dared glance behind her. Half expecting to see two villains riding her down, she beheld only the golden afternoon and no sign of pursuit. She gave a gasp of relief, but just the same, she galloped the mare all the way home, slowing to a canter only as they came to the drivepath.

  Wolfgang ran from the open front door, barking a shrill welcome, and Priscilla came dancing out, Bo’sun George following her.

  “Mama, oh Mama! You’ve comed back!” Unable to wait for her mother to dismount, the child hugged Susan’s riding boot and cried ecstatically, “Thank you so much for my paint! It’s eggs-whizzit! Oh, but my doll house will be the bestest in the whole county. And England! Slap up to the knocker!”

  “Priscilla,” said Susan, trying to be stern, “you know Uncle Andrew doesn’t like you to use such terms.”

  “No, but that one must be all right, Mama, ’cause he said it his own self. I heard him!” She drew back to beam up at her mother, then went skipping back inside again, Wolfgang howling after her.

  Dodman lifted Susan down and took the reins.

  “So the boy came already,” she said. “I didn’t expect he’d be so prompt. Has my brother seen the paint, Bo’sun?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The green eyes twinkled. “He was a bit surprised by the colour.”

  Susan’s smile was rather grim. “He’ll be more taken aback when I tell him of the matter. Where is he?”

  “Down to the boat, Mrs. Sue. A gentleman’s come.” He glanced to the house and leaned closer. “Business, I think. They—”

  “Here you are at last!” Mrs. Starr came onto the steps and hurried to take Susan’s parcels. “Oh do come quickly, my dear. You’ll never believe what our clever Bo’sun has done!” She beamed approval at Dodman, who promptly became very red in the face and so flustered that he led Pewter around to the wrong side of the house.

  Intrigued, Susan followed the little woman indoors. “Whatever has transpired, to win poor George such lavish praise?”

  Mrs. Starr turned along the hall towards the withdrawing room. “I vow you’ll not credit it. This has been quite a day for paint and paintings. Speaking of which, we were fairly astonished when the boy brought that great tub of paint, Mrs. Sue, after your lectures about economies! Here we are.” She turned, her eyes bright with excitement. “Close your eyes now. I want this to be a real surprise. Take my hand. Slowly, dear ma’am…”

  Groping her way, Susan proceeded obediently, halting when told.

  “Now—only look!” cried Mrs. Starr, all but squeaking with excitement.

  Susan looked, and her eyes opened very wide indeed.

  The painting now adorning the wall above the mantelpiece was a far cry from the one Dodman had worked on this morning. The dirty old frame had been polished and was transformed into a richly carven thing of beauty. The raw potato had banished the brown swirls of encrusted grime to reveal a riverbank scene at sunset, the turquoise skies, streaked with crimson, reflecting on the smooth water. A little grove of trees provided a rich background for some carefree picnickers—young men clad in tunics and hose, girls wearing flowing gowns of silk and brocade, their long tresses contained by jewelled nets; while amid the branches and from behind trees, wistful-eyed nude nymphs and dryads peeped at the merrymakers.

  “Oh!” said Susan admiringly. “What a good thing you asked the Bo’sun to clean it, Starry. It’s very pretty, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed I do,” agreed Mrs. Starr triumphantly. “I suppose it cannot be of any value, else his lordship would not have left it in an unoccupied house. But it does seem a shame it was allowed to come to such a pass.”

  “And quite typical of that revolting creature,” said Susan grimly. “Has Andrew seen it yet?”

  “No, but he cannot but be pleased.” The little lady sighed wistfully. “What a pity. I suppose we shall have to give it back to Lord Montclair.”

  “Why? He doesn’t deserve it. And at all events, he’s abroad, so I understand.”

  Mrs. Starr stared at her. “Abroad? But—how can that be when you hit him with the brush only yester—”

  “It appears that was his brother,” said Susan, rather hastily. “Oh, I have so much to tell you, Starry, but I am fairly perishing for my luncheon and a cup of tea.”

  “Of course you are, my love. I’ll put the kettle on at once. Little Priscilla is so excited with her paint, but why ever did you buy so much?”

  “Well, actually,” began Susan as they started down the hall to the kitchen, “it was quite a bargain, although—” She checked, turning to the gentlemen who came in at the rear door and walked towards them.

  “Oh, you’re back, Sue,” said Lyddford with breezy redundancy.

  A little chill crept between Susan’s shoulder blades. Their visitor was the foreign gentleman who had been with Sir Selby Trent during her unhappy interview at Longhills Manor.

  “I hope you have not mislaid me in your memory already,” said Imre Monteil, smiling at her. “Me, I am most delighted by this opportunity to meet you again, Mrs. Henley.”

  She murmured a polite response, and glancing to her brother, was the recipient of an urgent jerk of the head. Reluctantly, she extended her hand.

  It was taken in a clammy white clasp. Monteil bowed to kiss her fingers. Her sense of revulsion was as intense as it seemed unkind and unwarranted, and she had to force an answering smile. “I had not realized you were acquainted with my brother, monsieur.”

  “We wasn’t,” said Lyddford. “But”—he gave her a mischievous wink—“we are now.”

  “How—nice,” murmured Susan, freeing her hand from the clasp the Swiss was obviously unwilling to relinquish.

  “One hopes ours will be a long and mutually—ah, beneficial association,” purred Monteil, his eyes not wavering from Susan.

  ‘Heaven forfend,’ she thought, and introduced him to Mrs. Starr.

  The little lady dropped a slight curtsy. The Swiss however, bowed low, advanced upon her, and kissed her hand also. “Enchanté, madame,” he said with patent admiration.

  Blushing furiously, Mrs. Starr excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen area. Susan yearned to depart also, but manners must be observed, and if Monsieur Monteil really was able to throw some commissions their way, it would not do to offend.

  “Come and have a glass of Madeira,” offered Lyddford, leading their guest to the withdrawing room
. “I’m glad you finished your shopping in time, Sue. You were gone such an unconscionable time I began to think you’d popped over to Baghdad or some such place. And that awful paint you bought would bear me out! What on earth possessed—”

  They had walked into the long sunny room by this time, and Lyddford paused, glancing at the Swiss, who had uttered an odd hissing sound. Monteil came to an abrupt halt, and stood with shoulders slightly hunched, staring fixedly at the mantelpiece.

  “Oh, it’s our confounded cat,” said Lyddford apologetically, removing Welcome from the mantel.

  “I think Monsieur Monteil admires our painting,” said Susan. “And I agree with him. Do you like it now that the Bo’sun has cleaned it, Andy?”

  Lyddford shrugged. “Oh, I suppose it’s all right. I rather liked it the other way. Bit of a challenge to guess what it was.”

  “Never heed my brother, sir,” said Susan with a rueful laugh. “He is hopeless with either art or music; indeed, I think he scarce knows one from t’other!”

  “Well, I do,” declared Lyddford with a grin. “One’s noisy.”

  Monteil wandered closer to the hearth. “It is most interesting. Did it hang here when you—ah, moved in?”

  “No, it didn’t,” said Lyddford emphatically. “There was another picture here. And why anyone would want to paint a dead partridge slung on a table with its head upside down is more than I can comprehend! Most awful thing! Be dashed if I want to sit in the withdrawing room with a dead partridge! I mean, enough is enough, what? So I dug this one out.”

  “What do you mean, you ‘dug it out’?” asked Susan. “Where was it?”

  “In the cellar. All kinds of old rubbish down there.”

  Monteil said in his soft voice, “If this is the sort of ‘old rubbish’ in your cellar, Mr. Lyddford, I should very much like to look at it.”

  Susan eyed him curiously. “Oh dear. That sounds as if you think the picture might be valuable. Is it?”

  He spread those long white hands and shrugged. “I think it is a fair copy, madame. For just an instant when first I entered I thought it might be an original, but I see now that the style is not quite as fine as it appeared, and the paint is scarcely aged.”