Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  “Valentine, Valentine,” sighed the baronet. “You never will understand that these things take time. And there is the expense to be considered.”

  “Expense be hanged! It’s a downright disgrace that we—”

  “How dare you, sir?” shouted Lady Trent, jumping up in one of her swift rages. “And who are you, I might add? A snip of a lad who has not yet seen thirty summers! A younger son with no authority, who has travelled little about the world and has accomplished nothing save for a babble of useless music! I am aware you and your brother both were indulged as children and allowed to sauce your parents! Certainly your lack of proper unbringing has never been more apparent than when your spleen is turned on your poor uncle who strives with patience and loyalty to safeguard Geoffrey’s estates from his brother’s hare-brained irresponsible schemes. Apologize at once!”

  White with wrath, Montclair attempted a response, but his dizziness had increased to the point that he was instead obliged to clutch at a chair.

  “Bravo, Mama,” laughed Junius, applauding. “Only look, you’ve frightened the gudgeon so that he is weak in the knees!”

  “You know—damned well—” gasped Montclair furiously.

  Quick to seize his advantage, Junius pretended outrage. “Do not swear in front of my mama, you clod,” he cried, leaping at his cousin and giving him a shove that sent the weakened man reeling against a table.

  Montclair could see two Junius Trents. He knew he was being baited because Junius fancied him too dizzied to give a good account of himself, but he managed to push himself away from the table and clench his fists. Before he could raise them, Junius struck hard.

  Sir Selby leapt to steady Montclair as he staggered back. “Have you forgot what I told you, Junius?” he demanded, barely hiding a grin.

  “I was but defending my mama ’gainst his naughty language, sir,” said Junius primly. “You cannot blame me for that, surely?”

  Montclair’s head was clearing a little. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his bloodied mouth and said in a steadier voice, “You are a brave man, cousin.”

  “Now only look—you have cut him.” Sir Selby clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Could you not see that he was suffering one of his attacks?”

  My lady tittered. “Poor Montclair. I vow I must give you a pity party.”

  Junius howled with laughter.

  Montclair’s breath hissed through his teeth, and the look in his narrowed eyes caused his aunt to draw back in sudden alarm.

  “Now, now—do not lose your temper, dear boy. They were just funning,” said Sir Selby.

  “We have come to a sorry pass,” said Montclair harshly, “if that is—” But he broke off. He was too angry, and a gentleman did not frighten a lady. Even a Lady Marcia Trent. He turned and stalked out of the room, his cousin’s mocking laughter following him.

  * * *

  Lord, but she was a merciless harridan! And he was a fool for having allowed the pair of them to make him so angry, for certainly he knew what they were. Striding rapidly across the park towards the summer house, Montclair thought of a hundred ways he might better have handled the matter, a hundred things he might better have said. Still, it was as well he’d left when he had, or he might have said something awful that one does not say to one’s own flesh and blood.

  ‘I vow I must give you a pity party…’

  Her harsh voice echoed in his ears. He scowled and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. If only Geoff would come home. Gad, but he missed the old cawker! They could get rid of the Trents then, and life would be bearable again.

  When he entered the little copse of beeches at the top of the rise, the sun was going down, sending an occasional beam through the lowering clouds. Homeward-bound birds swooped and chattered, settling noisily into their own particular trees. The air was beginning to be chill, the eastern horizon already darkening to dusk, and a clammy mist was beginning to writhe up from the wet grass. He thought absently, ‘It will be foggy tomorrow…’ and hurried his stride in case Babs in her distraught state had neglected to bring a shawl.

  Lost in troubled thought, he roused to the awareness of a faint rustling behind him, and jerked his head up. A lone ray of sunlight followed him and painted his shadow on the grassy ride, but it painted another shadow: a grotesque figure towering high above him, one mighty arm raising a great cudgel high.

  Montclair spun around, throwing up his left arm to protect his head. He was too late. Before he had a chance to see who—or what—menaced him, the shadows, the fading light, the woods, were riven into countless whirling fragments. There was pain, brief and terrible. Then, nothing at all.

  * * *

  “Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand,” repeated Señor Angelo, and started to rap himself on the chest but thought better of it. “Mices elves.”

  The footman deigned to lower his eyes to a point just above the top of the Spaniard’s dark head. ‘No card; talks very odd; no hat; untidy hair; cravat horrid.’ Concluding this regrettable silent inventory he restored his gaze to the cloudy skies once more, and intoned sonorously, “Was Mr. Montclair expecting you this morning … sir?”

  The footman tended to run his words together. Señor Angelo, who should not really have ventured forth on this chill foggy day, found the singsong utterance incomprehensible. He also began to feel rather wobbly on his feet. The stableboy was experiencing some difficulty in controlling the visitor’s spirited horse and, amused, the footman turned to watch the contest. Señor Angelo seized his opportunity, ducked past the footman, and occupied the marble bench just inside the front doors. He was a small man and nimble even in adversity, and the footman, tall and secure in his dignified might, did not see the swift manoeuvre and continued to ignore the visitor while enjoying the stableboy’s efforts.

  Señor Angelo decided that while he waited for Mr. Montclair, he would inspect the premises. With this in mind, he rose, wandered across the great crescent of the entrance hall, and went up a pair of stairs to the landing, from which point the stairs divided into two flights.

  The footman, restoring his view to ground level and finding the caller had vanished, wandered out onto the steps and peered about.

  “The señor was also peering about. “Charmed theses,” he beamed, and chose the left flight.

  Thus it was that, humming a little despite his smarting side, he wandered along the east corridor and passed the main staircase just as a lady descended from the upper regions. He halted, glancing up smilingly into the saddest little face he had ever seen. His smile died. He abandoned the bow he had been prepared to make even if it caused his side to split like a sausage, and stepped forward with hand outstretched.

  “Señorita Trent! Bad somethings was? Tears Angelo de Ferdinand have not can! Must chew splain!”

  Despite the garbled English, his eyes held a kindly anxiety that warmed Barbara’s heart. She rested her cold fingers in his hand and blinked mistily. “Oh, Señor,” she gulped, “I don’t want to m-marry him, but—I have no choice! I wish I were dead!”

  “Whose marries? What peoples says chew marriage?” Swelling with indignation, he demanded, “Not loving chew theses mens?”

  “No, no!” She gripped his hand frantically. “But you see he is very rich, and—” Overcome, she pressed a handkerchief to her lips. “And my cousin—”

  “Montclair?” he snarled, bristling. “Chew wanting marriage him, not?”

  “No. Val knows how I feel, but he says—”

  “Barbara Trent! What on earth are you doing?”

  Barbara gave a whimper of terror and whirled around.

  Lady Trent, all chin and frown, was coming rapidly along the hall. “Have you quite taken leave of your senses, Miss Care-for-Nobody? We have been waiting this age!”

  Angelo inserted, “Madam—mices elves—”

  My lady drew herself up and regarded him with disgust. “What in heaven’s name…? Albertson—who is this?”

  The footman, breathless and irritat
ed, hastened to them. “Slipped past me at the door, m’lady. I been searching all over! Said he wanted to see Mr. Montclair!”

  “Nonsense! Mr. Montclair has no wish to see anyone who cannot speak English! Show the person out.”

  “Madam!” said Angelo, indignant. “Angelo Francisco Luis—”

  “This way—sir,” growled the footman, taking his arm.

  “Hand-un mices elves, oncely at!” cried Angelo, striving rather feebly to escape. “Lagunes de Ferdinand,” he shouted after the ladies, completing his introduction. “Meeces wishing—”

  Having reached the door, the footman ejected Señor de Ferdinand. Head first.

  * * *

  His ship had gone down in a great storm and he was at the bottom of the sea. Far above him, moonlight shone through the green waters, and the seaweed rippled and swung to the pull of the tide, but down here it was dark. The urge to swim up to the surface grew upon Montclair. He tried to move but pain sank its teeth into him so sharply that he lay still again. He couldn’t think very well. Something bad had happened at home … And then for some reason he’d been in the woods … But where he was now, or why, eluded him. He had awoken several times before this, but the pain had been so excruciating he’d felt sick and had drifted into the shadows again. He sighed wearily. If only he had some water …

  When he opened his eyes again it was light. A pale murky light. He could smell fog. The birds were singing busily. There must be hundreds of birds. All twittering at once. Such a lot of noise for such tiny creatures … And oh Lord, but his head was hell, and he was so damnably thirsty! His left hand was cold. He moved the fingers. They seemed to touch stone. A stone slab …

  He knew then, and he gave a gasp and his eyes opened very wide.

  He was in the Folly! With the shock of it came complete recollection. He’d quarreled with the Trents, and then gone to meet Barbara. But he’d been struck down in the woods by a monstrous creature who had evidently thrown him into the Folly and left him to die. And he would die, for no one would think to look for him here. He wondered vaguely who had tried to kill him, but it seemed unimportant. The important thing was that he must get out, or even if his head wasn’t crushed, he’d die of thirst and starvation. He tried to sit up, but there was something horribly wrong with his left leg, and his desperate efforts carried so terrible a price that he was very glad to let himself sink into oblivion.

  After a long time he awoke again. He was still in the Folly, and he was much weaker. Unless he was willing to just lie here and politely die he must try once more to get up. He lay still, gathering his strength.

  Somewhere, very far away, a dog was barking shrilly …

  * * *

  Priscilla tiptoed into the clearing. Her fine new friend Mr. Val’tine had told her she must never come here. He’d said it was a bad place and that the lady Fury would boil Wolfgang and eat him all up. She had told Wolfgang about this, but he was in one of his adventuring moods and it was just like him, bold and terrible as he was, to never mind about the Fury. She scanned the drifting mist nervously. If Mama or Uncle Andy caught her she’d really get spanked. Only you didn’t leave your friends just ’cause they was naughty. If she ran off and let Wolfgang get eaten up by that horrid Fury, she’d never forgive herself.

  She saw him then and gave a gasp of fright. He was right at the edge, his tail waving furiously, barking down into the pit.

  Priscilla gripped her small hands before her mouth and whispered, “Oh dear, oh dearie me! Wolfgang! Come here at once!”

  But her whisper went unheard, and the dog barked louder than ever.

  She must be brave. Mr. Val’tine wouldn’t leave his dog for a Fury to eat up, she was very sure of that! Trembling, she crept forward, calling to the dog, but ready to run for her life if the Fury’s terrible face should drift out of the pit. And at last, when she was much too close and her knees were shaking so that she didn’t think she could take another step, Wolfgang heard her and ran to prance about her in great excitement, then dart back again.

  “No!” she quavered. “Bad dog! Come away from—”

  “Priscilla…? Is that … Priscilla?”

  Half fainting with terror, Priscilla screamed shrilly and ran as fast as her little legs would carry her. The Fury had heard her! And Mr. Val’tine had been wrong. It was a gentleman Fury, not a lady! And he’d known her name and prob’ly had a cooking pot ready, and a list like Mama and Papa had brought home once from a great dinner they’d gone to, with lots and lots of fancy things to eat writ out on it, all in French. Only the Fury’s list would say Boiled P’scilla and Wolfgang pudding! Wolfgang was coming now. Howling. She gave a sob of gratitude, but daren’t look back lest the gentleman Fury be close behind her with his long terrible teeth and great claws reaching out to take her and pop her into his cooking pot.

  She ran almost all the way home.

  * * *

  “He most certainly is not here!” Standing on the front steps with Deemer on one side of her, and Mrs. Starr on the other, Susan frowned into Junius Trent’s bold grin, and demanded, “Why on earth should you fancy Mr. Montclair would visit us? One might suppose he’d have sufficient sense to know he’d be unwelcome.”

  Trent leaned forward in the saddle, taking in the widow from the hem of her pale yellow muslin gown to the shine on her proud dark head. “You’re fair and far out there,” he said. “My cousin ain’t one for sense. Nonsense—yes. Sense—very little, alas.”

  Sir Dennis Pollinger uttered a bray of laughter at this witticism, startling the fine grey horse he bestrode so that he was hard put to it to keep his seat. “Gone and got himself lost, silly cawker,” he imparted when he had quieted his mount. “So we’re all out looking for him, d’ye see?”

  Mrs. Starr tightened her grip on the rolling pin in her hand. “If a grown man cannot find his way about his own estate, he is either ripe for Bedlam or a slave to Demon Rum,” she observed tartly.

  Junius, not one to waste his time with menials, gave her a bored glance. “Your cook has a point,” he said to Susan. “You may take your pick, ma’am.”

  “I prefer to take my leave of you, sir,” she said frigidly. “No such individuals have passed this way this afternoon, I promise you. Good day.”

  “If you should see him—” began Junius.

  Susan curtsied and with one finger under her chin, promised, “I shall spank the wayward boy, and send him home.”

  They could still hear Pollinger’s braying laugh after the door had closed.

  Deemer said, “What do you suppose it’s all about, Mrs. Sue? Two grooms came looking for Mr. Montclair this morning, whilst you was saying goodbye to Mr. Andrew.”

  Mrs. Starr’s eyes widened. “You never think—there’s been murder done?”

  “I do not,” said Susan. “The man was probably in his cups and is snoring in a ditch somewhere. Quite typical of his unpleasant self.”

  Panting happily, Wolfgang ran in from the back door. Following, also panting, Priscilla saw them, and ran to plead that Mama keep her promise and take her riding this afternoon. “You said we could go ’smorning, but then you talked an’ talked with Uncle Andy, and now the day’s almost gone!”

  “But—darling, it’s getting foggy and cold. I think it would be better if we waited ’til tomorrow, and—” The beam vanished from the hopeful eyes and the small face became resigned. Susan relented. “Oh, all right, you rascal. Martha will help you change into your habit. Hurry now.”

  * * *

  Very much the little lady as she guided her pony across the meadows, Priscilla said happily, “Only look, Mama. The sun’s coming through the clouds. Will we get a rainbow, d’you s’pose? I like rainbows.”

  “I don’t think so, darling.” Susan glanced at the trees that loomed ghostlike through the misted air, and wondered if unpleasant Junius Trent had found his cousin.

  “Uncle Andy says rainbows are good luck. Why, Mama?”

  “I expect because God painted one in the sky af
ter the great Flood we read about at prayers, do you remember? It was His promise to us not to send quite so much rain again.” Priscilla looked solemn, and Susan added on a lighter note, “And there is also a legend that tells of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  The big eyes widened. “Ooh! Then Mr. Val’tine’s found it. The rainbow yesterday had one foot right on his house! Oh, how monst’ous grand! I’ll have a very rich friend!”

  “Priscilla,” said Susan thoughtfully, “you haven’t seen your new friend today, have you?”

  The brown curls danced under the neat little blue hat as Priscilla shook her head briskly. “I pro’bly won’t never see him again after Uncle Andy was so dreffully savage to him. An’ I was hoping very bad to see him, ’cause I must tell him as he’s mistakened about the Fury.”

  “Mistaken, dear.” Susan frowned in irritation. “And—there are not such things as Furies.”

  “But, Mama, you told me if I had my teeth filed to points I would look like a Fury, and—”

  “Yes, but Furies are only in fairy stories really, darling. We make up stories about them for fun, but there are none in real life.”

  “But there are, Mama! There’s one in the Folly! I heard it! Honest and true, I did, Mama!”

  The little face was so earnest. Heaven forfend whatever she’d heard should cause her to have nightmares again. That wretched Montclair—to frighten her so! Somehow, thought Susan, she must put a stop to this horrid business. She said, “Well—if you’re sure, perhaps you’d best take me to see this Folly.”

  “Oh, no, Mama! I promised Mr. Val’tine I wouldn’t never go there again, and I wouldn’t have, only Wolfgang made me!”

  “Pris—cil—la…!”

  “He did! He did, Mama! I telled and telled him how we wasn’t to go there no more, but Wolfgang is so foxed in his ways, you know, and—”