Susan repressed a smile. “You mean—fixed in his ways, I think.”
“Do I? Uncle Angelo said ‘foxed.’ Anyway, whatever it is, Wolfgang is it. A very naughty doggie, I told him. Very stern I said it, Mama. Only, I knew Mr. Val’tine wouldn’t leave his best friend in hidjus peril, and Wolfgang was hanging right over the edge and barking and barking.”
“Edge? I thought you said it was a Folly, dear?”
“Yes, Mama. It was. A long long time ago. But it’s all falling down now, and there’s a hugeous hole in the middle what goes right through to China, I ’spect!”
It sounded most unpleasant. “So you had to go and drag that naughty dog away, did you?”
“No. I called him, only he’s so brave he wanted to fight that Fury. But the Fury woke up, and that’s when I found out Mr. Val’tine had made a mistake, ’cause he said it was a lady Fury, Mama, and it isn’t. It’s a gentleman Fury.”
With a fond smile, Susan asked, “Did he come out and chase you?”
Priscilla shivered and turned pale. “I don’t know. When he shouted my name, only soft and creepily you know, I was so frighted! I ran and ran all the way home!”
A dreadful suspicion began to raise gooseflesh on Susan’s skin. She reined up, and the child halted her pony. “Dearest, when did this happen?”
“This morning, Mama. When you was saying goodbye to Uncle Andy.”
“I see.” It was silly, of course, but—“Mama wants you to think very carefully now. Did you really hear a voice? Or was it just a make-believe voice?”
Again the determined shake of the little head. “No, Mama. I din’t make it up. Not this time I din’t. But I’ll never go near there again, I truly won’t.”
Susan hesitated. Valentine Montclair was despicable, and from what Angelo had said the wretch was determined to force his unhappy little cousin to the altar. But whatever he was, whatever he had done, he was a human being, and if there was any chance he had fallen into this Folly of his, he must be helped. Thus, she said quietly, “I just want to—to make sure of something. Come along, sweetheart, show me your Folly. The Fury won’t come if I’m with you, I promise. This is a—a real adventure, and I need your help. Do you understand?”
“Oooh…” said Priscilla, ecstatic.
* * *
Susan took up the train of her habit and trod carefully across the littered clearing. She had left Priscilla and the horses in the trees, just in case there might be something the child should not see. She thought, ‘Which is ridiculous, and I’m just being foolish!’ But she went on.
As she drew closer it seemed that the normal sounds of the woods faded and an unnatural stillness enfolded this macabre clearing. The weak sun had gone into hiding once more, and the mists were thickening. There was not a breath of wind, the trees were completely motionless, and the Folly hove up lonely and forbidding against the darkening skies.
The place was positively ghoulish! To think of Priscilla coming here all alone! She found herself holding her breath as she picked her way among the great mossy slabs and then went with careful steps inside the broken walls. The pit loomed before her and she gave a gasp. “Dear God! Small wonder he chased her away!”
It would seem the man had done them a great service. And in return … Guilt scourged her but she told herself that, basically, he still was at fault. Such a gruesome hole in the ground should never have been left open. If he had one single ounce of concern for others, he’d have had it sealed up long ago! Anyone might fall into the beastly place! She found herself reluctant to go any nearer, and stood staring uneasily at those sad and broken ruins. What nonsense! There was nothing to be afraid of. In a few seconds she would be laughing at herself because that ancient cellar contained only dampness and—rats? She pushed her qualms aside, ventured to the brink, and peered down.
Heavens, what a pit! It was too dark to see anything much. “Hello?” she called, feeling a perfect fool. “Is anybody there?”
Silence.
She gave a sigh of relief, and turned back to where Priscilla waited.
“Hello…?” The cry was faint and croaking, but she halted and stood as if frozen, an icy hand touching between her shoulder blades. “Oh … my heavens!” she whispered, and flinging around, was at the brink again in a second.
“Mr. Montclair? Is that you?”
This time the response was almost immediate. “Yes. Please … get help.”
He was down there! And he sounded so weak. She thought, aghast, ‘Small wonder! All this time!’
“Are you hurt?” she called.
A pause, then a feeble, “A trifle. Please … water…”
“I’ll fetch some! I must send for help, then I’ll come, I promise!”
She ran to where Priscilla waited. The small face was pale, the eyes behind the spectacles enormous with fright.
“Mama! I been so scared! Did it chase you? You shouldn’t of—”
“Darling, listen—there is nothing bad to chase me. But your friend, Mr. Valentine, is down there, and he’s hurt a little bit, I’m afraid.”
It would have been hard to tell whether the mouth or the eyes were the roundest. “Oh, poor Mr. Val’tine! We better help him, Mama!”
“Yes. We must. Only, we’re not strong enough to get him out by ourselves. I think I should stay with him. Could you ride home and fetch someone? I know the Bo’sun and Uncle Andy are away, but—tell Uncle Angelo or Deemer; they’ll know what to do.”
The child whimpered. She looked so little and frightened on the back of her pony, and she was only five. She was, she revealed, afraid to leave her only mama where the gentleman Fury might come back at any minute and eat her all up.
It was quite understandable. Poor Burke had been all tenderness with his child, and Priscilla had adored him. She’d been shattered by his sudden death, and it had left her with the obvious fear that she might lose the other people she loved. It took a moment, but when Susan painted a picture of a great heroine riding bravely for help, the child’s active imagination was fired. Beaming, she pushed the spectacles higher on her little nose, and took up the reins.
“Dearest,” said Susan. “Mr. Valentine has had no food or water for a long time. When you were here before did you see a stream nearby?”
“No, Mama. But—our picnic might still be there. Starry made one for me and Wolfgang to take in the garden on Wednesday only we earned here ’stead, so we put it in our larder, but then we met Mr. Val’tine and I forgot all ’bout it.”
Today was Saturday. Still, it might be usable. Susan enquired as to the location of the “larder,” and then sent her daughter off, urging her to hurry but ride carefully.
The larder was a narrow space between two of the great stone slabs which had tilted against each other. Gingerly Susan reached inside and pulled out the small covered basket. Ants had found the cake and bread and jam, but the bottle of lemonade was corked just tightly enough to have kept them out. She snatched it up and ran back to the pit.
Her call brought only a feeble croak in response. Poor Mr. Montclair must stand in desperate need of water, but if she threw the bottle down it might break, or he might be too weak to reach it. She was so near—and she might as well have been a mile away. Fretfully, she thought, ‘Surely I can do something?’
She began to prowl around the edge. If this horrid pit had really been a cellar, then there must have been stairs, but she could discern only the sheer wall, and she couldn’t possibly get down that. And then she saw a slight dip in the far edge that looked too even to have formed by chance. She hurried to it, and knelt, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to pierce the gloom and uttering an exclamation of excitement when she discovered the remains of a flight of steps, the first usable one being about four feet from the top. It looked horribly narrow and crumbly. She bit her lip but there came again a faint pleading cry. “Water … please … water…” All thought of his infamy was gone now, and her kind heart was wrung.
She called, “I’m going to b
ring it down to you.”
“No! Too … dangerous. Just … lower it and…” The weak voice trailed into silence.
Trembling, Susan sent a swift prayer heavenwards. Then she tucked the precious bottle into the pocket of her skirt, turned onto her tummy, and groped downward with her feet. If Mr. Montclair was conscious, she thought grimly, he would have a most excellent view of her pink pantalettes. Her right boot touched the step, and she could feel pieces of debris. The thought of rats recurred. She reached out and was able to grasp a long fallen branch, then she let herself down, resting more and more of her weight on the step until she was reasonably sure it would not crumble under her. She lowered herself gradually, holding her breath, her heart thundering, trying not to think of the black void below. The step was wider and deeper than she’d at first supposed, and she was able to turn sideways. She made her left hand let go, and gripping her branch, lowered that arm slowly, still clinging with her right hand to the top of the pit. She pressed desperately against the wall, grateful that she’d often climbed trees with Andy in her tomboyish younger days, and had a good head for heights.
Using the stick as a probe she found the next step cluttered with leaves and pieces of rock, and she poked the debris away, hoping it was not falling on Montclair, but knowing that if she turned her ankle it must be disastrous. On she went, from step to step, until she had descended to the point where she must make a great decision. If she was to lower herself any farther, she would no longer be able to hold the top of the pit. And suppose there were no more steps? ‘Well,’ she thought doggedly, ‘then I shall have to sit here like a bird on a twig and at least let him know someone is near. No one should have to die all alone in such a place. Even if it is his own silly fault.’ She took the next step, pressing against the wall for support, still not daring to look down.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The rough rock stairs were built against one wall. She could see the bottom now, littered with branches and leaves and chunks of rock, and among them, Montclair, lying sprawled on his back. If he had landed on one of those chunks of the Folly, he must be gravely injured. Praying he was not dead, she started to edge down to the next step.
Threads tickled her face. She thought in horror, ‘A web!’ Something with many legs scuttled across her cheek. A spider! She let out a shriek, missed her footing, and was falling.
9
Montclair awoke to find that he was still lying in the Folly; still alone. He had dreamed that someone came, and that whoever it was had promised to return with water. And then he’d sunk back into the dark again. He felt crushed by disappointment, but made no further attempt to try to get up. He was too weak now, and that last horrible effort had convinced him that both his leg and his right hand were broken. He was quite incapable of climbing out, even if he could stand. He wondered dully if he ever would be found and given a Christian burial.
His eyes were dim, but something seemed to be moving against the wall. He blinked, peering, and was able to discern a pale female form floating down through the darkness. A gasp of shock escaped him. An angel! So his life really was done. It was a sad realization, but at least it would mean the end of this awful pain and thirst. He watched the angel, wondering even in his anguish what he should say when she reached him. She seemed to be rather new at the business, for she kept dislodging rocks and stones that came clattering down, several actually striking him. Now she had stopped. Perhaps she couldn’t see where he was.
He tried to call to her, but suddenly a shriek rang out and she was hurtling down.
Angels didn’t shriek. In which case she must be human. And there was only one lady who would risk her neck to try and help him. Horror-stricken, he clawed at the slab with his left hand, dragging his battered body up with a strength born of frenzy.
“Babs! Babs! Oh … hell! Are you—”
Bruised and battered, Susan said breathlessly, “I am not … Miss Trent, sir.” She struggled to her knees and made her weaving and uncertain way towards him.
“You!” gasped Montclair. “Good God!” He sagged onto his side and lay crumpled across the slab, panting.
Susan knelt beside him. His beard-stubbled face was liberally streaked with blood. She peered at his head, and recoiled in horror.
He croaked faintly, “Is … my skull crushed … can you tell?”
“Not crushed, I think, but it’s a nasty wound.” She did not dare touch that great gash. “I would bathe it for you, but I could only bring lemonade.”
“Lemonade…” he echoed, stupidly. “Are you … really Mrs. Henley?”
“Yes.” Shaken, but trying not to reveal that, she said briskly, “I don’t wonder you are surprised. Alas, I am not a very efficient rescuer. Neither rope, nor water!” Summoning a smile, she went on. “Now I think we must declare a truce. If I help to prop you up, can you drink a little?”
Her arm was around his shoulders. With all his strength, he tried, but was unable to hold back a groan of agony as his leg twisted …
He roused after a while to the scent of violets. His smashed head was resting against a soft and kinder pillow. A bottle was being held to his lips. He managed to drink the stale brackish liquid, sighed in ecstasy, and croaked out the “thank you” that was so hopelessly inadequate. “You fell, I think? Are you all … right?”
A pause. He peered upward, trying to see her. Her face was blurred, but he could see the long grey eyes, full of pity; the vivid mouth drooping with sympathy. The dark curtain of her hair was brushing his cheek very softly. And it was so astounding—so past belief that this of all women had come to help him.
“Yes,” Susan answered rather huskily. “A bruise or two, perhaps. But you do not seem to have got off so lightly, sir. Are you hurt anywhere else than your head?”
“Leg broken … I think. And—right hand … bit of a—nuisance.”
Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she could see that he looked very bad. She had no knowledge of how to set a broken bone and judged it best not to try. Angelo or Deemer would probably send word to Longhills, and they would summon Dr. Sheswell so that the injured man could have expert treatment as soon as he was carried home. However, just in case he was dying she should try to find out what had happened. She said gently, “Help is coming. They should be here very soon. Sir—did you fall?”
“No.” He sighed. “Attacked … Been here … long, long time. Very good … of you…” The words faded away.
Appalled, Susan bent nearer. “Mr. Montclair—did you see who did this?”
She had to repeat the question before he answered in a whisper. “Giant—giant shadow…” And after a pause, “Would you mind…”
“What?” she asked anxiously.
“Could you … hold my hand—just for a minute…?”
But even as she moved quickly to gratify that request, his blood-spattered head sagged back loosely, and he was very limp and heavy in her arms. She thought, ‘He has died, then.’ He was too young to die. And especially at the bottom of this horrid Folly. It was his own Folly, in more ways than one, but a lump came into her throat and tears stung her eyes.
“Well, well,” drawled a mocking voice. “Beauty and the—er, music master.”
Junius Trent’s handsome face looked down at her, with Pollinger looming behind him, and Angelo was calling, “Missue! Missue! Findings we having!”
“Thank heaven!” cried Susan fervently.
Trent swung his legs over the side, then checked, his eyes narrowed. “Jove—these steps look crumbly. Doubt they’d support our combined weight was I to haul him out. Can he walk up, ma’am?”
“No, he cannot walk up,” she retorted indignantly. “He is unconscious at the moment. The steps supported me, Mr. Trent, and I am no light weight.”
“Just the right weight.” He laughed, and glancing behind him said, “D’you hear that, Poll? I made a rhyme! Mrs. Henley says—”
Susan could have struck him. “Mr. Trent—your cousin may be dying! Do you
fancy you could hurry?”
“Your wish, m’dear, is my command!” Even so, he trod very warily, both hands clinging to the top of the wall until he was obliged to let go. “Egad, what a bloody mess,” he said, reaching the foot of the steps and coming over to peer down at Montclair. “Can it be that my beloved coz has expired? Dear me. Well, we cannot live forever, and—”
“He has not expired, and I trust will not do so unless he dies of old age before you carry him out of this horrid place!”
Trent chuckled, and bent to stroke her hair. “Much you would care, sweet shrew. So I’m to carry the dolt, am I? As you wish.” He bent and gripped Montclair’s arm, swinging him upward.
Susan uttered a shriek. “Have a care! His arm may be broken, and his leg most certainly is!”
He clicked his tongue. “What a mournful inventory.” He dropped to one knee. “Never say I failed in my duty.” He pulled his cousin up and then swung him over his shoulder, cutting off Susan’s protests by saying, “Now do not rail at me, fairest. I cannot carry him in my arms and negotiate that narrow stair. Do you go first.” Susan declining the honour, he said with a grin that if she chose to follow she would be crushed was he to drop Montclair.
“I cannot believe,” she said, “that a big strong man like you, Mr. Trent, would be unable to manage such a burden.”
This seemed to strike the right chord. Trent climbed up the steps quite well, lowered Montclair to the ground where Deemer and Señor Angelo waited, and turned back to assist Susan to clamber over the edge.
Watching anxiously, Deemer said, “We brought the phaeton, ma’am. And Mrs. Starr sent medical supplies.” He opened a valise full of linen strips, flannel, salve, basilicum powder, a pair of scissors, and an earthenware bottle of hot water.
“Thank heaven,” said Susan. She knelt beside the victim, and began to bathe the blood from his face.
Trent, who had been quiet and thoughtful, now mounted up. “Well, we’ll be off. I expect you can—”
“Be—what?” She jerked around, looking at him in alarm. “Surely you should wait and escort your cousin home?”
Logic of the Heart Page 16