Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  His eyelids were very heavy, but he managed to open them. It was night. He knew he’d been dreaming, but he did not want to remember the dream and thrust it away with determined desperation. A candle was flickering somewhere nearby. Closer at hand, two searching grey eyes in a tired but lovely face scanned him with concern.

  “Are you feeling a little better now?” Susan asked.

  He smiled at her, and wondered if she always smelled of violets. “Yes, thank you—but … I don’t—understand.”

  “You had—an accident, and were brought here. You suffered a slight relapse, but you are doing much better now. Is that what you mean?”

  “No. I don’t know why—you are so … kind to me…” But he fell asleep before she could answer.

  It seemed a very long time before he heard her voice again, and it was difficult to hear because she was speaking very softly, almost in a whisper. Gradually, he realized that she was talking with Mrs. Starr who sounded very agitated and kept moaning that they “should never have done it! Never!” He wondered idly what “it” was, and tried to open his eyes but was too drowsy to accomplish this.

  “You know perfectly well why we did it,” said Mrs. Henley with a trace of exasperation.

  “Yes. But—but the awful risk, dear Mrs. Sue! If you should be found out! Oh dear, oh dear!”

  “What could they prove?”

  “You know what they would say! And the Runners can be clever. If they should even suspect— Suppose his family should put two and two together? It is such a dreadful thing to do! I never dreamed you capable of such ruthless—”

  Decidedly irked, Mrs. Henley interrupted, “For goodness’ sake, stop being so melodramatic, Starry! And keep your voice down, do. He might hear us!”

  The discussion continued, but the voices were now so low that Montclair could no longer discern the words. Vaguely troubled, he sank back to sleep once more.

  The next time he awoke something was nagging at the edges of his mind; something he had dreamed perhaps, and that was quite important, but he couldn’t remember what it might be. It was still dark, but he thought it not the same night. For one thing, he felt less discomfort; the aching in his leg and hand was unremitting, but not quite as brutal, and although his head throbbed, it was so bearable by comparison with his earlier awakenings that he could actually think. He lay there quietly, the flickering candlelight and the faint fragrance of violets telling him that he was still in Mrs. Henley’s bed. Questions began to form. So many—so unanswerable. And chief among them the dread puzzle of who wanted him dead. Whom had he so antagonized that they were willing to put their own life at risk so as to end his? Had Junius decided to strike again? No, that terrible shadow in the woods had not been Junius. It had been too enormous … The very thought of it made Montclair break out in a sweat of horror, and he decided that the solving of the puzzle would have to wait until he regained more of his strength. Meanwhile, he had a great deal for which to be thankful. He was warm and safe. He was also very hungry, which likely meant he was starting to mend, and—

  Something was moving in the room. Something or—someone. He tensed and lay completely motionless, straining his eyes through the dimness to that vague, oncoming shape. A man. Creeping towards the bed. He watched the crouching figure draw ever nearer, dark and unidentifiable against the candlelight, but ineffably menacing. The lack of sound was remarkable—not so much as one squeak of a floorboard. He was very close now, and Montclair’s heart gave a lurch as the candlelight awoke a glitter on the dagger in the man’s right hand. So the would-be murderer had come right inside Highperch and meant to finish what he’d started! Anger scorched through him. He was weak as a cat, but—dammit, he’d not lie here and be butchered without a fight!

  With all his strength, he managed to get an elbow under him and heave himself upward a little. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, “No! Get away, you skulking coward!”

  His voice was weak, but the intruder uttered a shrill yelp and jumped into the air. The knife clattered to the floor.

  “Hell and damnation!” gasped Andrew Lyddford, straightening and tottering to steady himself against the bedpost. “Don’t—don’t ever do such a frightful thing!”

  “I—apologize…” faltered Montclair, sinking back, exhausted by his great effort.

  Lyddford mopped a handkerchief at his face. “I should rather think you might,” he said severely. “I wonder I didn’t fall over in a fit!”

  “I really am sorry. Only … well, I saw the knife, you see, and—”

  “That’s because I was polishing it, but you were so still I got the idea you’d cocked up your toes, so I came creeping to see if you had, and what must you do but let out a yowl like a bloody damned banshee! Jove, if it ain’t enough to put the fear of—” His tone changed abruptly. “What the deuce d’you mean—you ‘saw the knife’? If you’ve the confounded gall to suppose I come slithering over to cut your throat, sir, by George but you’ll answer to me for it!”

  “I am already engaged to meet you, Mr. Lyddford. And you were against the light. I could only make out a silhouette, and the knife.”

  “Oh.” Some of the resentment went out of the proud young face. Lyddford stooped, retrieved the knife, and went over to lay it on the table. “Yes. I suppose it could have looked like that. Sorry if I gave you a nasty turn, but I’d say we’re even on that score, at all events.” With a grin he came back to bend over Montclair and peer at him critically. “You look somewhat alive. Be damned if I don’t think Susan’s right and you’re going to pull through after all!”

  “Your sister has been more than kind, and I’m very sure I’ve been a great deal of trouble. I believe you’ve been burdened with me for ten days already, and—”

  “Three weeks.”

  Montclair stared at him. “But—Devenish just said—”

  Lyddford settled himself on the end of the bed and interrupted, “That was a week and a half ago. And—before you ask me again—no, they didn’t have to amputate your hand.”

  Montclair wasn’t quite ready for shocks like that, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  “Oh Gad,” groaned Lyddford, jumping up and causing the bed to lurch. “I’m as much a disaster as Devenish! I’ll go!”

  “No. Please.” Montclair managed a smile. “I’d be most grateful if you could rather … tell me what’s been happening.”

  Lyddford eyed him doubtfully, but the smile was encouraging. He had noted the effect of his earlier sudden movement, and so sat down with care. “You’d not believe the bobbery! When my sister found you, and your cousin hauled you out of there—”

  “My—cousin…? Trent?”

  “Yes. Don’t wonder you’re surprised. Nasty slug, but strong as an ox.” Lyddford grinned boyishly. “Mixing my metaphors a bit, ain’t I? At all events, there’s been betting in all the inns and alehouses on when you’d snuff it. I wanted to ship you back to Longhills, but you took such a downturn we did not dare move you. You were out of your head for days on end. Raving about music, and birds in harpsichords, and shadows and giants and— Devil take me, I’ve done it again! Are you all right?”

  Weakness was causing Montclair to tremble. He fought it, and said rather inaccurately, “I’m quite all right, thank you. Please go on.”

  “Well, it’s just that from what you were gabbling at, it—er, seemed you hadn’t fallen into your silly Folly. Not of your own volition, at least.” The long grey eyes (so much like hers) were scanning him curiously. “D’you remember now? What happened, I mean.”

  “Not much. Just—that I was … struck down from behind.” His mind was trying to see the shadow. He shut it out. “They believed me, did they?”

  “At first they thought you were delirious, and you were, of course. But then you kept on about the East Woods. So a couple of the Runners—”

  “Runners?”

  Lyddford nodded. A frown darkened his brow and he said rather grimly, “You’re an important man, you know. Heir to a title and
a great estate. Jehoshaphat—if you’d seen all the comings and goings! Writers from the newspapers; Bow Street; even a couple of high-ranking officers from the Horse Guards.”

  “Good … God!”

  “Quite. The upshot was that two of the Runners went to the East Woods and it seems—er, well, they found the place where you’d been hit. Not—much doubt, I gather.”

  Montclair’s brows knit. “But—if I was attacked in the East Woods, why go to all the trouble—”

  “To haul you to the Folly? Hmmn. That’s what we wondered. I suppose they thought you were finished—Lord knows, you looked it! Horrid sight!—and wanted to tuck you safely away.”

  It was a puzzle, but he was too tired to worry at it. He asked wearily, “Does my family know?”

  “Yes. Your aunt and uncle came when my sister found you. It was at their wish in fact that you stayed here. I do not scruple to tell you I was against it.”

  “Yes, of course.” Montclair said humbly, “I am very grateful to you.”

  “Mutual, old boy.” With breezy tactlessness Lyddford added, “Jolly good of you not to have cocked up your toes. We’d have been in a proper treacle pot! Though to say truth it was our own fault for letting you stay. Bad enough we had to put up with you, Montclair, but I’ll not mince words in telling you that you’ve a weasel’s wart for a doctor.”

  Amused, Montclair said, “Sheswell’s been the family physician for years. But—wasn’t there another doctor? A red-headed fellow?”

  “Right. Our Bo’sun is an apothecary of sorts. He’s worked wonders with you.”

  “I must thank him. I’m afraid I have caused Mrs. Henley a great deal of trouble.” His dreams had become so entangled with reality that it was hard to separate them. He half-recalled an odd conversation between Susan Henley and Mrs. Starr, but the memory was so hazy it was likely just another dream. He said haltingly, “I seem to recollect that she was with me often when I woke up. You must all be wishing me … at Jericho.”

  “Oh, my sister’s the salt of the earth and not one to hold a grudge under these circumstances. Besides”—Lyddford’s voice lost its kindliness—“so long as you’re recuperating here, you cannot very well have us kicked out, can you?”

  The smile faded from Montclair’s eyes, and the faintest flush lit his pale face, but he met Lyddford’s suddenly hard stare levelly. “No,” he said. “I certainly cannot.”

  The door opened softly. Montclair couldn’t see who entered, but he heard the rustle of silks and then smelled violets.

  Lyddford said, “He’s awake again, and seems much better this time.”

  Susan Henley came to rest a cool and investigative hand on the patient’s wan cheek. “You’ve tired him,” she scolded.

  “I knew I’d be in the suds! That’s what comes of trying to help a bit!” With an unrepentant grin, Lyddford said, “I’m off!” and departed.

  The widow bathed Montclair’s face, held the glass while he drank some deliciously cool barley water, then instructed him to go back to sleep.

  Drowsily, he watched her cross to the little table, pull the branch of candles closer, and sit down with her workbox. She began to darn a sock. She had a very pretty way of turning her wrist. He glanced up and found her eyes on him. They really were most remarkable eyes, so clear and—The low-arching brows were lifting slightly. He was very tired now, but murmured, “Why did—”

  She shook her head and put one slim finger over her lips. “Hush.”

  “No. Please—I must—”

  “Not more thanks? Heavens, sir, I have been thanked each time you wake up! Have done with your gratitude I beg, and do as your head nurse tells you.”

  Despite the stern words, her mouth curved to a smile, and he persisted doggedly. “You risked your life to come down those steps. I can’t understand why.”

  Her eyes sharpened and her cheeks seemed a little flushed. She stared hard at her sock, and murmured, “Do you say you—watched me coming down to you?”

  “It was the bravest thing I ever saw.” He sighed. “I thought—you were an angel.”

  Her lashes lifted and she looked at him, startled, then said with a smile, “How can you ever have supposed such a thing? I wasn’t wearing white.”

  “No,” he said drowsily, “pink.”

  Susan dropped the sock and when she had retrieved it, her cheeks were very pink indeed. “My habit is pale green, Mr. Montclair.”

  “Oh. I—thought I saw pink.” He sighed again. “Must have dreamed it.”

  “Indeed you must,” she confirmed rather austerely. “Now, go back to sleep.”

  * * *

  With each day that followed, Montclair grew stronger. The petite Mrs. Starr and her faithful helper Martha did most of the nursing; they both were kind and gentle, but although grateful for their efficient care, he missed a pair of serene grey eyes and the smell of violets. He slept many hours away, but Bo’sun Dodman came in to check on him several times each day. From him Montclair learned that Mrs. Henley and her brother had gone into Town. Apparently, Lyddford was striving to obtain a position either on the staff of a Foreign Minister, or at the Navy Board, and hoped to enlist the aid of his uncle, Sir John Lyddford, in these endeavours. In view of the unsavoury reputation of the late Lieutenant Burke Henley, Montclair judged the chances for success to be slight, but he said nothing. His chats with the Bo’sun also provided him with a better understanding of the widow’s struggle to keep the family together after the death of her grandfather. That it had been a desperate struggle became very apparent, but his attempts to discover the extent of their remaining fortune were deftly turned aside, and since good manners forbade that he question the Bo’sun outright, he was thwarted.

  Despite his physical improvement, his spirits were low, a state he fought to conceal. Several bones had been broken in his hand, and the injury caused him constant anxiety. His attempts to move the fingers failed dismally. He knew he should be grateful that it had not been necessary to amputate as he’d at first feared, but he was haunted by the dread that he would no longer be able to play competently. Barbara was another source of worry; and despite their differences, the continued absence of his family troubled him. It was absurd that he should want them to come, but if they had no sufficient interest to do so, they could at least, he thought fretfully, have permitted Babs to pay him a visit.

  Alain Devenish, who had been a frequent visitor at first, had not appeared for several days, and Montclair missed his cheerful presence even while he recognized that his friend had a young ward and great estates of his own to be cared for.

  Priscilla’s short afternoon visits were bright oases through these long days. He looked forward to her coming, and was more and more drawn to the child and charmed by her quaint mixture of solemnity and gaiety. She had a remarkable gift of imagination, and they spent a good deal of their time together in constructing a progressive fairy-tale poem. This fabrication grew more and more complicated, and was a source of much amusement to them both. The child’s words were occasionally somewhat unorthodox, but she had a quick ear for rhythm, and Montclair found his work cut out to keep abreast of her in their poetical ventures.

  He was anticipating the child’s presence on a rainy afternoon a week after Mrs. Henley’s departure, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. His heart gave a leap, but then sank again when Sheswell’s voice boomed out. The physician had not called for eight days. He was less gentle in his movements than was Dodman, and Montclair nerved himself for an unpleasant few minutes.

  The Bo’sun was proud of his patient’s rapid progress, and as the door swung open he was saying eagerly, “… may not be quite as you’d expected, doctor.”

  The floor shook to Sheswell’s heavy tread. “I can but hope you’re wrong, Dod—” The great voice stilled.

  Montclair smiled as the doctor stood perfectly still, staring at him. “Good afternoon, Sheswell.” His voice was firmer today, and he was able to raise his left hand steadily. It fell back, however, as the
doctor did not move but continued to stand as if frozen, his eyes fairly goggling.

  “Thought you’d be surprised, sir,” chuckled the Bo’sun.

  Sheswell gave a start. “Amazed is more like,” he exclaimed, coming to take up Montclair’s hand vigorously. “By all the gods, I cannot believe it!” He peered into the sick man’s eyes, felt the pale forehead, and exclaimed, “You’ve done exceeding well, Dodman. Jove, but you have! Fever down, some colour in the cheeks, eyes clear! How does the head feel, Mr. Montclair? Still have some beastly headaches, I’ll warrant. Have to expect those for a long time to come, and you’ll likely find your reasoning confused. Natural. Quite natural.”

  He proceeded to examine the almost-healed head injury, and the splints on the broken hand and the leg were checked. “Well, well,” the doctor said jovially, “you’ll be up and trotting about in a day or two, eh, sir?”

  “That would be splendid,” said Montclair, rather short of breath. “I’ve been sitting up every afternoon, and I stood yesterday, with the Bo’sun’s help.”

  “I think the doctor’s teasing, sir,” Dodman put in smilingly.

  Sheswell laughed. “Not a bit of it, m’dear fellow. Do him the world of good. I’ll have some crutches sent over this afternoon.”

  “Crutches!” gasped Dodman, startled. “But, sir—how can he manage crutches with only one hand?”

  “Perhaps I can get about with just one,” put in Montclair eagerly. “Eh, Sheswell?”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Montclair. But I think we can contrive to strap the right crutch to your elbow, so you’ll have some control over it. Awkward, but it might serve. Meanwhile, we can shorten the leg splints so you can get about easier. Let’s have these off now…”

  The next half-hour was unpleasant, and by the time the doctor left, Montclair felt worn, and fell asleep before he could see Priscilla.

  In the downstairs hall, Dodman said hesitantly, “A little rough for him, wasn’t it, sir?”