Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  The physician shook his head. “Don’t do to coddle ’em, m’dear chap. Sooner they’re up and about, the better. Especially in a case like this. You’ll be needing some more medicine, I fancy. Wonderful what it can do, ain’t it? Not that Montclair was all that badly off, as I said. Still, I’ll have some sent over with the crutches. Might be an idea to increase the dosage. Just as a precaution, y’know. You’ve been managing to get some food into the poor chap by the look of things, eh? Excellent. You’re a dashed good man, Dodman. Don’t be surprised do I refer some of my less serious cases to you. You ought to get yourself a licence, damme if you oughtn’t!”

  Dodman flushed with pleasure. Almost, he confessed how he and Mrs. Sue had supplemented Dr. Sheswell’s orders, but the physician was so delighted it seemed expedient to leave well enough alone.

  * * *

  That night a keen wind came in from the east, and by morning one might have thought it October rather than early July. The gusts shook the old house and whined in the chimneys, while leaden clouds brought a steady cold rain. The inclement weather did not keep people indoors, apparently. Soon after breakfast Montclair prevailed upon the Bo’sun to shave him, and he was staring somewhat aghast at the reflection of his drawn white face and sunken eyes when he heard a familiar and piercing voice.

  Dodman took the mirror and the shaving impedimenta and all but ran from the room. A twittering Martha Reedham bustled about tidying the bed, plumping Montclair’s pillows, and smoothing the counterpane. In another minute Mrs. Starr, her lips tightly pursed with disapproval, ushered in Sir Selby and Lady Trent.

  Montclair had wanted them to come, but perversely, the recollection of their parting now came so clearly into his mind that he was speechless.

  Lady Trent suffered no such inhibitions. She rushed to the bed, bent over her nephew, and kissed his cheek, marvelling that he yet lived, and mourning that they had been unable to see him before this. “If you knew how frightful it has been! The newspapers, and the Runners, and to add to the rest, we have been plagued by an endless stream of pushing people calling themselves your friends, some you’ve not seen for years, I am very sure! The horrid busybodies! I wonder I have survived it!”

  “Truly frightful,” agreed Sir Selby, clinging to Montclair’s wasted left hand and patting it repeatedly. “You may be assured the criminals will be tracked down and brought to justice! But you look much improved from the last time we saw you. You won’t remember that visit of course, poor fellow.” His pale eyes scanned Montclair’s face narrowly. “Jove, but youth is astonishing! I must admit we were loath to abandon you in this house, dear lad, but you were in no condition to be moved.”

  Lady Trent’s thin lips quivered, and she gave it as her opinion it was a marvel that he still lived. “Heaven knows what these dreadful people might have done,” she observed. “Three times we have come and been turned away on the grounds you was too ill to be disturbed, though I doubt you was even told of it, unhappy boy. When first I heard you had been struck down so savagely, I fainted dead away. Did I not, Trent?” Not waiting for a confirmation, she shrilled on. “The strain was … dreadful! Almost beyond my powers to support.” She vanished into her handkerchief. “We all were worried to death! I vow, I wonder my poor heart did not break!”

  Montclair wondered where her heart had been when she’d offered to give him a “pity party,” but, helpless in the face of feminine tears, he assured her that he was feeling very much better and was much obliged to Lyddford and Mrs. Henley for their excellent care of him.

  “Obliged, is it?” flared my lady, forgetting her grief abruptly. “If my suspicions are correct, Montclair, Dr. Sheswell’s instructions have been poorly kept. Why, he thought you would be better in no time, whereas you almost … And to see you—like this … poor shattered invalid! We ought never to have left you in their hands. But we did what we thought right at the time. Always your best interests have weighed with me. Heaven knows I have tried to make a good home for you, little as you’ve appreciated my poor efforts.”

  Unable to restrain himself, he said coolly, “To the contrary, I am quite aware of your efforts at Longhills, ma’am. Speaking of which—how is my cousin Barbara?”

  Lady Trent’s lips settled into a thin line. “She is happily planning her wedding.”

  “And has been exceeding anxious to see you,” murmured Sir Selby.

  “Did you bring her with you, then?” asked Montclair eagerly.

  “To this house?” shrilled his aunt. “I hope I am a better parent than to allow my daughter to set foot under this roof while That Woman resides here!”

  Trent said, “Babs awaits you at home.”

  “How relieved you will be to be in your own bed at last,” Lady Trent purred. “We have brought your man to help carry you to the carriage. Trent, do you ring the bell and tell them to send Gould up.”

  Her husband moved to the bellpull.

  “I am not ready to come home yet,” said Montclair.

  “Of course you are ready,” his aunt’s voice rose. “Why would you wish to stay in this dreadful place when Longhills awaits you?”

  “The boy is still weak,” soothed Trent. “We must make allowances. But we will keep a very easy pace, dear lad, and you will be carried, so there’s no cause for alarm.” The all too familiar set of his nephew’s pale lips inspired him to add hurriedly, “You really must leave these premises, Valentine. We are far past the date specified for the eviction of the Henley woman and her tribe, and so long as you remain here, we cannot enforce it.”

  “Good God, sir,” exclaimed Montclair, irked. “Do you fancy I shall proceed with an eviction against the lady who saved my life?”

  “Saved your life—my hatpin,” snorted my lady. “She was extreme reluctant to offer you shelter, which anyone with the least compassion would gladly have done! In point of fact, she only agreed to do so after we paid her a pretty penny! Saved your life, indeed! Pish!”

  “Mrs. Henley took some most desperate chances in climbing down into that loathsome pit to help me, ma’am. And—”

  “And was it not remarkable,” she said with her thin smile, “that a newcomer to the district found you in a place none of the rest of us had even considered? Faith, but one marvels at her perspicacity—or … whatever it was…”

  Montclair’s head was aching again, but he met her eyes levelly. “Perhaps you should say straight out what you mean, ma’am.”

  “My dear wife and I have merely wondered,” murmured Sir Selby, “if Mrs. Henley’s so magnificent ‘rescue’ might have been prompted by—er, foreknowledge of the unfortunate event.”

  “You mean that she and her brother had me attacked and thrown into the Folly.”

  “She had motive enough, Lord knows,” said my lady with a shrug. “Had you died, the ownership of this place would have been bound up in legal nonsense for a great while. Meantime, she has possession. She could have lived here rent-free, indefinitely.”

  Montclair’s hand clenched on the coverlet. “Then how very foolish in her to come to my rescue,” he said dryly.

  Trent smiled a patient smile. “Perhaps that was made necessary. “One gathers that her little girl had formed the habit of playing near the Folly—”

  “A clear case of criminal neglect by her misguided parent,” inserted my lady with a smug nod of her head.

  “Had the child heard you in the Folly,” Trent went on, “and confided in some of the local children, or—”

  “Or perchance they had thought you slain,” his wife again interrupted. “But when the child discovered you still lived, that sly widow saw her chance for an even better ploy. She would come gallantly to your rescue, bring you here, nurse you back to health, and so win your gratitude that you would give her the house! A pretty scheme upon my word!”

  “And an exceeding unlikely one, ma’am,” said Montclair frowningly. But Lyddford’s acid words came to plague him … ‘So long as you are recuperating here, you cannot very well have us kicked ou
t, can you?’

  Her ladyship tittered. “Never say you have fallen into the hussy’s toils? No, I’ll not believe you could be so gullible, Montclair!”

  He began to feel tired and dispirited, but persisted, “Say rather, I do not believe her guilty of such a scheme.”

  “Of course you do not,” said Trent. “Who could expect your poor brain to function properly after suffering such a wound?”

  “You shall have to let us do your reasoning for you, dear nephew,” purred my lady. “And I tell you, Montclair, that gratitude is well and good, but one must face reality. Why would a scheming and mercenary adventuress go to so much trouble for a man she thoroughly dislikes?”

  “Unless she hoped to profit by it,” said Sir Selby.

  “Which she has done,” declared my lady. “Handsomely!”

  Montclair wished they would go away.

  11

  Entering the house by the rear door, soaked, and aching with tiredness, Susan was rushed at and embraced by an elated Edwina Starr. “Oh, my love, you are safe home! At last!”

  “Yes, thank goodness!” Susan allowed the little lady to appropriate the worn valise she carried, and began to unbutton her heavy greatcoat.

  Mrs. Starr scolded fondly, “You should have let Deemer bring this heavy bag up for you.”

  “Andy appropriated the poor man the instant he showed his face at the dock. Is all well? Where is Priscilla? How is Montclair?”

  “All is well. Or very nearly,” said Mrs. Starr in a low urgent voice as they walked along the passage together. “Priscilla is outside, and—” They had reached the long windows looking out onto the garden court behind the house, and the light of this dull morning fell fully upon Susan’s face. Shocked, Mrs. Starr exclaimed, “How sunburned you are! My poor child—we must cover your face with cucumber tonight! Oh, you should never have gone! It has been too much for you!”

  “You know it really takes three to manage the barge, Starry, and with Montclair so ill I felt the Bo’sun must stay here.”

  “Well, he is much better, heaven be praised. No—trouble…?”

  “None. Save that we were delayed by a gale and had to ride at anchor off Clovelly for two miserable days.” Starting up the stairs, Susan pulled back her shoulders and said brightly, “But thanks to Monsieur Monteil we’ve a full cargo. The men will be busy.”

  “And what of the monsieur? Did he come smoothing around you, dear ma’am? Oh, how I mistrust that man!”

  “No, but we must be grateful to the gentleman, for he has been more than good.” There came the recollection of Monsieur Monteil’s ardent glances, the touch of that soft white hand on hers as they had stood on the windy Devonshire beach, and Susan struggled to restrain a shiver. “I’ll own he is not exceeding attractive, but—”

  “Attractive! ’Tis not his looks, but his looks I dislike!”

  Susan chuckled. “Oh, Starry, you wretch, you must not speak of him so. Andy thinks the world of him, and likely I have misjudged the gentleman. He was the very soul of courtesy—so kind and all consideration towards me. Besides, only think how these consignments help us. Andy says if it keeps up—”

  A sudden shrill outburst sent both women’s glances to the head of the stairs. Susan gave a gasp of fright. “The Trents? Heavens! Do they visit him often? Have they brought his affianced?”

  “This is the first time they’ve showed their noses since they browbeat you into letting Montclair stay here!”

  “Good gracious!”

  “Just so! And as for Miss Trent,” the little woman sniffed disparagingly, “her ladyship likely judges this an unfit atmosphere for her pure daughter. But I judge it most odd. One would suppose a newly engaged girl should brave any atmosphere to be at the side of her betrothed when he is in such straits.”

  “I think all at Longhills ‘most odd,’” said Susan with a sigh. “Only listen to her. You’d best find the Bo’sun. He must get that horrid woman away before she sends Montclair into a relapse again! I’ll—” A heavy step behind her brought her spinning around with a guilty yelp.

  At the foot of the stairs stood the Bo’sun, wearing a greatcoat and carrying a pair of crutches and a large medicine bottle.

  “Welcome home, ma’am,” he said breathlessly. “All shipshape?”

  “Yes. But it was chancy putting in to our dock, George. It’s not an easy river.”

  “True. But ye’d best stir your stumps, Mrs. Sue. We’ve company.”

  Susan nodded to the upper floor and pulled a wry face. “So I hear.”

  “And more arriving,” he said, running an eye down her. “Let me get your boots, ma’am. You’ll want to change out of those breeches before you see the nobs, I expect.”

  Mrs. Starr hurried off, calling for Martha to help Mrs. Sue.

  Unceremoniously, Susan sat on the stair. The Bo’sun put down his burdens and pulled off her boots, then took up the valise and followed as she scurried up the stairs.

  Two minutes later Martha brought hot water, and with lightning speed Susan washed, Martha brushed out her long hair, a pale lavender gown trimmed with ivory French braid replaced shirt and breeches, and ivory sandals were slipped onto her feet.

  “My cap!” she gasped, sliding a carved Indian ivory bangle onto her wrist.

  “Oh! Your poor nails, missus,” moaned Martha.

  Susan glanced regretfully at her ragged fingernails. “I know, I know. I was hoping to get the tar off, but—yes, that one will do, Martha. Quickly!”

  She all but ran along the hall, hearing London voices downstairs that were drowned, as she went into her bedchamber, by Lady Trent’s shrill voice.

  Sir Selby and his wife sat beside the bed. Susan welcomed them politely, but aside from a vague impression that his coat was grey and that my lady wore an elaborate puce gown that made her look sallow, she scarecly noticed them. Her attention flew to Montclair, and her pulses gave the little leap that was so stupid and that had spurred her decision to accompany her brother on the voyage to Devonshire.

  He was clean-shaven again, and she was shocked to note how the lack of the beard emphasized the gaunt hollows in his cheeks. A sudden eager flush stained those cheeks; the dark eyes lit up, the amber flecks glowing. He said in a firm voice that surprised her, “Here is my intrepid rescuer come back, and—”

  “And Mrs. Henley will be wanting her bedchamber restored to her,” interposed my lady, smiling the smile that seemed as if taken from a box and glued over her sneer.

  Susan’s heart was pounding. They wanted him to go home. Did he want to go? She searched his face and found only that warm smile.

  “I fancy you think it past time we should relieve you of your burden,” said Sir Selby. “I hope you have not been plagued to death, ma’am. We have brought our coach and shall carry my nephew off, so—”

  “Your pardon,” interposed Montclair, watching Susan. “But unless my presence here is a great inconvenience, I would prefer to delay leaving until I feel stronger.”

  “Now, now, dear lad,” purred Trent. “We must consider others. And I think we have imposed upon Mrs. Henley sufficiently.”

  Susan shook her head. “It has been no imposition, sir. And I would be sorry to see Mr. Montclair leave us before he is well enough to stand the journey.”

  “I am very sure you would,” smirked my lady, unable to restrain her waspish tongue.

  Sir Selby frowned, but his attempt to speak was halted as Montclair lifted a thin hand. “Mrs. Henley is not one to hide her teeth,” he drawled. “Did she wish to be rid of me, she would say so.”

  “I am not sure whether that is a compliment or an insult,” said Susan, smiling at him.

  “And it is all of a piece,” snapped my lady. “My poor nephew is in no condition to know what is best for him, and—”

  A loud male voice cut through her words. “Your pardon, ma’am.”

  My lady did not care to be interrupted at the best of times. This was not the best of times. She sprang to her feet and whirl
ed on the intruder in a passion. “How dare you burst into a sickroom and—”

  Her husband’s quick eyes had noted the small staff one of the two newcomers carried. “Are you gentlemen from Bow Street?” he asked, silencing Lady Trent with a gesture.

  A short, sturdy, moon-faced individual with a pugnacious stare and cold dark eyes grunted, “Yussir. Orficers o’ the law. I’m ’Obkins, hand this”—he jerked a thumb at his meek associate—“is Limmer. Both desirious o’ a word or three with Mr. Montclair, we his. Hif you don’t hobject, that his.”

  “But my dear man, of course we do not object,” said my lady, all gracious condescension. “As you may well imagine, our most fervent prayer is that the vicious would-be murderer of our beloved nephew should be seized and hung with the greatest dispatch.”

  The smaller Runner coughed and pointed out with a timid bow that they were unable to guarantee this happy result. “The murderee not having become one, good and proper like, and the law getting so gentle and kindly with evildoers, that the villin might get off with transportation. But apprehend of him we will, m’lady.”

  “To which hend we got some pertinent questions for to hask,” growled his partner.

  “Well, we shall not delay you,” said Trent. “We were in fact just taking our leave.”

  “Uncle,” said Montclair. “I should very much like to see Barbara.”

  “But of course, Valentine,” said my lady soothingly. “Tomorrow, poor dear boy. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Come, my love,” urged her spouse. “We must not impede the progress of justice. Good day to you, nephew. Mrs. Henley.” And with a firm grip on his wife’s elbow and a rather sad smile, he moved smoothly from the room and closed the door.

  Mr. Hobkins stared pointedly at Susan.

  “Mr. Montclair is a long way from being recovered,” she said. “Please do not tire him.”

  This evidently ruffled the Runner’s sensibilities, and he observed that he was very sure that Mr. Montclair was “more hanxious than hanyone to see ’is wicked attacker brought to justice. Heven,” he added with a grim nod, “hif there’s them has haint hanxious! Not by so much has a whisker!”