Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  “A Mrs. Bentley is here, sir. Says she was sent by Dr. Sheswell.”

  “Oh, thank heaven,” murmured Susan.

  “It’s past time,” grunted Lyddford. “Come on, Bo’sun George. We’ll get as much work done as we can this evening. I’ve another cargo to ship day after tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Bentley, a short rather square woman, waited in the servants’ hall. Susan’s first impression of her was of greyness. Her hair was grey, her eyes were pale and watery, the shawl pinned over the dun-coloured coat was grey, and there was a musty air about her. But she bobbed a curtsy and said respectfully that Dr. Sheswell sent his apologies for the long delay and that she would do her best to help the “poor gent.”

  There was an air of tragedy to the last two words. Susan eyed her uneasily and asked for her experience. It was broad and her references were excellent. It was silly to be prejudiced against the woman only because she seemed of a rather mournful disposition. Sheswell obviously thought highly of her, and besides, it would be a relief to be able to get a good night’s sleep for a change. She summoned Martha to conduct Mrs. Bentley to the small room they’d readied for her arrival, and went up to look in on Montclair.

  He lay as she’d left him, thin and bearded, bearing little resemblance to the man she’d struck with the dustpan brush. His right hand and left leg were splinted, his head heavily bandaged. Somewhere between sleep and waking, his eyes were closed, but his left hand plucked restlessly at the coverlet and he muttered unintelligibly, his head moving in a feeble but endless tossing.

  Mrs. Starr, seated beside the bed, took a cloth from the bowl of lavender water and bathed his face.

  Susan whispered, “Does he seem any better to you, Starry?”

  The little woman hesitated. “If you was to ask me, Mrs. Sue, he was doing better last Sunday.”

  “So I thought, though I dared not tell my brother that. Well, at least a nurse has come, so the responsibility is off our hands, thank goodness.”

  * * *

  The thought of an uninterrupted night’s sleep was luxury, and after saying her prayers, Susan snuggled down gratefully. The fog had come up again, and a profound silence enveloped the old house, blotting out even the slap of the water against the dock. The hush invited slumber, and she was so tired that she fell asleep immediately after blowing out her candle.

  She could not tell what woke her, but she was suddenly, heart-stoppingly, wide awake, and listening. The quiet was so intense it was almost a sound in itself. She sat up, holding the bedclothes around her, her eyes trying to pierce the dark. Had Montclair cried out, perhaps? But, of course, if he should, Mrs. Bentley was here now. Martha slept next to the nursery, and would go to Priscilla at once if the child suffered one of her nightmares. Perhaps, she thought, it had just been a bad dream … Another moment, and she would lie down again and—

  A horse neighed loudly.

  Susan’s heart leapt into her throat. Pennywise and Pound Foolish were elderly and seldom woke at night. Priscilla’s pony, Deemer’s old cob, and the Bo’sun’s chestnut gelding were in the paddock on the other side of the house. Andy’s big grey, Ghost, was in the stables, as was her own little mare, Pewter. And the neigh had sounded as if the horse stood on the front lawn. Who could possibly be calling at this hour of the night?

  She slipped from bed and ran to peep through the window curtains. The three-quarter moon shone through a veil of mist, but there was sufficient light for her to see if anyone was outside. There was no horse on the drive. Nor had she heard the hoofbeats of a departing rider. But there was no doubting she’d heard that neigh.

  The minutes crept past. Her feet were very cold and she began to shiver and wish she’d put on her dressing gown, but she would not leave the window to get it. Perhaps it had been one of the horses in the paddock. All this worrying must have made her nerves—

  The mists on the drive swirled. She gave a gasp as a dark shape rose, seemingly from the ground. Only a glimpse she had—then he was gone, but she was sure it was a man, and equally sure that he’d been watching the house. She flew to the bed, snatched up her dressing gown, and was in the corridor in an instant. A dark figure loomed before her, and she came near to fainting from fright.

  Fully dressed, Lyddford said cheerily, “What’s to do?”

  “Oh, how you … frightened me!” she gasped.

  “Who did you think I was?” he said, grinning. “Attila the—”

  “I saw someone,” she panted. “On the drive. A man. He—he was watching the house, Andy!”

  “Damn,” he grunted and ran to the stairs, Susan following.

  Flinging open the front door, Lyddford sprang down the steps, pistol in hand. He ran a short way, stopped in a listening attitude, then came back. “Nobody,” he muttered. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  He restored the pistol to his coat pocket. “Didn’t recognize him, I suppose?”

  “No. But he was tall. Oh, Andy, you don’t think whoever tried to kill Montclair—”

  He put an arm about her. “Don’t be a peagoose, Mrs. H. There are a dozen possibilities. Have you forgot those varmints you saw in the woods? Old Selby Trent might have set ’em to see if we’re murdering his precious nephew. Or some thief might be after our boat; a gypsy might be after the horses; some bird-witted traveller might have become lost and mistaken the cottage for a tavern … Back to bed for you, my girl!”

  But Susan noticed that for all his bantering tone, he shot the bolts on the front door for the first time since they’d moved here, and as she walked up the stairs, she heard him repeat the process with the back door.

  10

  Mrs. Starr removed Welcome from her shopping basket and adjusted her left mitten. “I shall try if I can borrow Mrs. Edgeworth’s new book so that you can read it to us tonight, Mrs. Sue. I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” she added worriedly. “I don’t like leaving you alone, with poor Mr. Montclair doing so poorly. And—That Woman…!” Her lips tightening, she threw a grim look at the stairs.

  There was no love lost between her and their new nurse. It had taken Mrs. Starr less than a day to pronounce that Mrs. Bentley was lazy. The next morning she had complained that not once had she seen the nurse do any more for her patient than to give him the medicine Dr. Sheswell had sent along with her. “There he was at nine o’clock last evening, poor gentleman, tossing and turning and so hot and uncomfortable,” she’d told Susan indignantly. “And her, snoring in the chair! A fine nurse she is! I declare Señor Angelo could do better!”

  Harbouring her own doubts, Susan had spoken to Mrs. Bentley, who had at once dissolved into tears. “The poor gent keeps me awake all night, marm,” she whined. “I got to get some sleep some time. I mean, I can’t go on working me fingers to the bone four and twenty hours out of the twenty-four, now can I, marm? Only huming I is. Only huming!”

  A trundle bed had been set up in Montclair’s room, and Martha and Mrs. Starr took shifts during the day so that the nurse could rest. Martha was up there now, in fact, sitting beside the sick man.

  Susan promised to keep an eye on matters while Mrs. Starr was gone, and watched Pennywise and Pound Foolish trot away down the drivepath. The afternoon was overcast and blustery. She glanced up at the building clouds and wondered how Andy was faring at sea with The Dainty Dancer. She was not worried, however; her brother had been taught seamanship by Grandpapa, and knew his business.

  In the kitchen, Priscilla very proudly presented the composition on which she had been working so hard all morning. It was a pleasant little tale about a lonely rabbit who finds a friend in a kindly but rather domineering hen. Susan marvelled at the warmth of the story, but was touched by the rabbit’s loneliness. She praised the work, and Priscilla went off happily with the faithful Wolfgang prancing at her heels. ‘Bless her heart,’ thought Susan fondly. ‘She has a truly remarkable gift with words, but how nice it would be if only she had some little friends to play with.’

/>   A sniff interrupted her fond musing, and Martha wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, carrying a tray of dirty dishes.

  “Martha?”

  The girl lifted her plain, pale face. There were tears in the brown eyes and her lips trembled.

  “My goodness,” exclaimed Susan, alarmed. “Whatever is it?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Sue,” said Martha in a sort of gulp. “Just me. I’m silly about … things.” Her attempt at a smile a disaster, she started past.

  Susan put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “You are not silly. You may not be clever with arithmetic or writing, but lots of people aren’t. You are very good with sick people; you’re a hard and steady worker, and you have taught Miss Priscilla how to knit beautifully. Now tell me what has happened.”

  It was very easy to crush Martha and her bowed head did not lift despite the kindly words. She said with dreary resignation, “She—she says I’m slow and stupid. And I am, I know. But … I was—just trying for to help the poor gentleman. He was so thirsty and he tried to reach the water glass and hurt hisself. I ran to get it for him, but—I didn’t mean to interfere, honest, Mrs. Sue! She—she was so cross … I do everything wrong. Everything. I d-don’t know why you put up with me.”

  Susan was enraged, but rage terrified Martha, so she controlled it and gave the drooping girl a little shake. “What fustian you do talk, indeed. You’re one of us and as for putting up with you—goodness! I don’t know how we could go along without you! Now you just—” She checked, frowning at the piled plates and glasses. “Are all these from my—I mean, Mr. Montclair’s room?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sue. Mrs. Bentley was trying to feed the gentleman, I ’spect.”

  Susan nodded, and went upstairs, her eyes sparking. Montclair had taken practically no solid food this past week, little more than the brandy and water Dr. Sheswell prescribed. From the look of the dishes on Martha’s tray, the nurse had not been stinting herself.

  She went into the bedchamber without knocking, and halted.

  Mrs. Bentley stood by the bed, measuring medicine into a glass. She was humming some unidentifiable air that made up in volume for what it lacked in melody. Smiling at the spoon, she set it aside, and bent over the bed. “Here we goes, poor fella,” she crooned and slid her left hand under Montclair’s shoulders, jerking his head up.

  Susan heard his choked gasp, and exclaimed indignantly, “Oh, do be more careful!”

  The nurse uttered a small cry and straightened, allowing the sick man’s bandaged head to drop back onto the crumpled pillows. Susan saw Montclair’s mouth twist with pain and the thin left hand clutch convulsively at the coverlet. A soaring wrath possessed her.

  “Oh! ’Ow you did s’prise me, M’s Henley,” wailed the nurse, one hand flying to her throat and the other slopping the medicine over Montclair. “Bl-blest if ever’n’m’born-days I was more s’prised! M’poor heart’s beatin’ like—like a kettledrum, M’s Henley, I’m that s’prised.”

  “Stand aside,” demanded Susan, and not waiting to be obeyed, pushed the woman from her path and bent over Montclair. The bedclothes were untidy, the pillowslip creased and damp with perspiration, and he looked desperately ill. She felt his forehead and turned, saying angrily, “He is very hot and uncomfortable. Have you bathed him yet?”

  Mrs. Bentley drew herself up. “Doct’ Sheswell don’t hold wi’ bathing when there’s fever presh—”

  Montclair whispered pleadingly, “If I … might have—water…”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s f’me t’do, ma’am.” Mrs. Bentley made a belated snatch for the glass Susan had already taken up. “Now y’mustn’t int’fere w’me patient,” she added, attempting to force her way between Susan and the bed.

  “Nonsense.” Susan circumvented this manoeuvre with a jab of one elbow. With great care she raised the dark head very slightly and held the glass to Montclair’s cracked dry lips. He took a sip, choked, groaned, and his left hand lifted in a weak gesture of repugnance.

  “I’ll take—” began Mrs. Bentley with another abortive grab at the glass.

  “I think not!” Susan lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. Her eyes flashing, she stepped closer to Mrs. Bentley’s aggressive but slightly swaying figure. “Be so good as to explain why there is gin in this glass, ma’am.”

  “Med’cine,” declared the nurse fiercely, but losing her balance for a second. “Y’got no b’sness, M’s—”

  Raging but keeping her voice low, Susan declared, “You—are—intoxicated!”

  “Ooooh! Wotta awfu’ thing t’say!” The nurse darted for the glass.

  Susan fended her off, marched to the window, and emptied the contents onto the lawn below. She was greatly relieved to see masts bobbing beside their dock, and the Bo’sun carrying a crate up the back steps.

  “M’med’cine!” wailed Mrs. Bentley, peering tragically after it. She turned on Susan in a flame. “Oh, you’re a wicked woman, you are! Jesslike they said! I was warned, I was, and—”

  “Out!” commanded Susan, flinging one arm majestically in the direction of the door.

  Mrs. Bentley stared at her, and began to look frightened. “You can’t do that,” she blustered. “Doc’t Sh-Sheshwell says—”

  Susan tugged on the bellpull. “You may inform Dr. Sheswell that you were discharged for laziness, drunkenness, ineptitude—”

  “Oooh! Now she’s a’swearin’ ’t me! A good woman I is, not like th’likes of her an’ she swears—”

  “And—” Susan finished, wrinkling her nose in distaste, “dirtiness!”

  “Well, I never!”

  “Your hands are filthy, and your garments little better! As a nurse, madam, you would make a good dustman!”

  “If ever I—!” Defiantly at bay the nurse threatened, “I’ll have th’law onya, see if I don’t, fer inf’mation o’character, an’—”

  “Ah—Bo’sun,” interrupted Susan loftily. “Mrs. Bentley is leaving us. Be so good as to drive her to Dr. Sheswell’s house in Bredon, and inform him we were obliged to dismiss her.”

  Mrs. Bentley folded her arms across her chest, and with narrowed hate-filled eyes and flushed cheeks declared, “Well, I won’ go an’ y’can’t—”

  “I can require the Bo’sun to forcibly eject you,” said Susan, paying no heed to Dodman’s horror-stricken and paling countenance. “But I warn you that unless you leave quietly and at once, Mrs. Bentley, I mean to instruct the constable to bring charges against you for impersonating a qualified nurse! I fancy your credentials would bear some investigation!”

  For a moment longer Mrs. Bentley glared at the haughty young face and elevated chin of the notorious Widow Henley. Then she suddenly took refuge in noisy weeping, and with a relieved grin Dodman conducted her from the room.

  Susan flew to the water pitcher, took up another glass and filled it, then bent again over Montclair. His eyes were full of pain, but there was a gleam of amusement also.

  “She is gone,” said Susan, contriving gently to lift his head a little. “From now on, my people will tend to your needs, Mr. Montclair. I am only sorry that you were subjected to such a disgraceful scene.”

  He drank gratefully, then whispered, “Wouldn’t … have missed it!”

  * * *

  Montclair drifted now in a strange trancelike world, sometimes fathoms deep in a blank emptiness, sometimes dreaming distressing and involved dreams that troubled him greatly. After a very long while, one of his dreams was of a forest wherein he sat watching a forester saw down a tree. But although the forester worked hour after hour, he seemed to make no impression on the tree, which stood there as proud and unshaken as ever. Montclair grew tired of waiting to see it fall and he walked away, but the noise of the saw followed.

  He could still hear it when he opened his eyes and discovered an indistinct little scene that blurred into a haze around the edges. A blue canopy billowed over him, edged by dainty lace-trimmed ruffles. He frowned at the matching silken bed-curtains
. His bed had a plain red velvet tester with a battlement trim, and red-and-gold bed-curtains. No ruffles. No lace. If Uncle Selby had been meddling again…! Irked, he shifted his gaze in search of the noise. It seemed to be coming from his bed. He tried to raise his head, which was a horrible mistake. After a while, the wavering images settled again, and he peered downward and discovered a small, curled-up shape. Wolfgang snored, evidently …

  He lay there, staring at the dog, wondering how it came to be at Longhills, and what they’d done to his bed. It was all very perplexing, and the pain in his head prevented him from remembering properly. He’d better get Gould in here. He tried to reach for the bellpull, instinctively using his right hand …

  After an unpleasant interval, an authoritative voice came through the mists. “Here. Drink this, my poor fellow.”

  He sipped obediently.

  Alain Devenish’s face materialized, hovering over him. The usually carefree blue eyes held a rather worried look.

  With an amazing effort he was able to say, “Hello—Dev,” and heard a faint croak. Good God! Had that been his own voice? “What’ve they done … to my bed?”

  “Ain’t your bed.” Devenish spoke very gently. “Mrs. Henley’s. You’re at Highperch, my tulip. Go back to sleep now.”

  He had a very vague and indistinct recollection of the widow helping him—somehow, somewhere. And he seemed to remember her bending over him, and speaking to someone in an imperious way that had made him want to laugh. But why he thought, confused, should Mrs. Henley have helped him? And what was he doing at Highperch? He whispered, “How … long have—”

  “About ten days, give or take a day.”

  “Ten days!” He started up in dismay.

  His head seemed to explode. The room swung and dipped sickeningly. From a great distance, he thought he could hear Dev calling someone …

  A slender white hand was pressing a wonderfully cold cloth to his brow; the mellow voice that held such incredible kindliness was with him again, repeating over and over again that it was all right; that he was quite safe now. The shadow was gone. If he would just lie still and stop tossing about, he would be easier … He tried to concentrate on the voice, and gradually he was able to breathe without panting …