Sympathy, so generously offered, was a rare commodity in Barbara’s life, and in her present frame of mind, was devastating. The tears overflowed. Susan spread her arms, and with a choking sob Barbara collapsed into them. She wept unrestrainedly; great racking sobs accompanied such floods of tears that Susan’s shoulder was soon drenched. Scarcely the reaction of a girl Angelo had thought would be a reluctant bride. Which was not too surprising—Angelo so often got everything wrong. She held the girl close and spoke softly, and felt wretched, until at last the storm eased.
Barbara reached shamefacedly for her reticule and was surprised to find Welcome in it. That made her smile, and finding a tiny handkerchief she dabbed at her red and swollen eyes while expressing her shaky apologies for such deplorable conduct.
“Never mind about that,” said Susan in her serenely matter-of-fact way. “I will not offer my friendship, for I know that I am not quite respectable, whereas you are very respectable indeed, but—”
“Oh,” gasped Barbara, clinging to her hand and looking up into her face in a pathetic pleading. “How very much I would like to have you for a friend … I have none, you see. I hoped to make some when it was decided I should be sent to a young ladies’ seminary. But Mama investigated, and found that the teachers were of questionable morals and if The Twig is Bent by Faulted Hands, One Grows a Faulted Tree.”
“But—surely you must have some friends. Have you no sisters?”
“No. Only Junius. And he—” She closed her lips and gazed miserably at her sodden handkerchief. “I did have a friend once. Our neighbours in Surrey have three daughters; two are married and much older than me, but the youngest is crippled and the dearest thing, with the sunniest disposition, despite her affliction. We used to meet secretly in the spinney that divides our estates, but Mama’s dresser (a most disagreeable woman!) caught us, and told Mama, and I was not allowed to meet Hannah again. Papa said that if the Lord had seen fit to visit an infirmity upon her there must be evil in the family, and that I was not to associate with such people.”
“Good … heavens…” breathed Susan. “I fancy Sir Selby would judge that my daughter’s poor eyesight is a Divine punishment because of my own sins!”
“Yes, and because of the bad blood she inherited from her father.”
“What?”
Barbara jumped at that ringing exclamation, and quavered a terrified apology.
Susan took a breath. “It is I who should apologize,” she said, her blazing eyes making that statement of questionable veracity. “I found it difficult to believe that anyone could say such things of a sweet innocent. But—I should not speak so of your parents.”
“No. You shouldn’t. Nor should I. But then—I’m doomed to hellfire at all events.” The sensitive lips quivered and another wayward tear crept down the pale cheek.
“Oh my! What horrid sins have you committed?”
Barbara’s eyelashes lowered. She said painfully, “I am f-fat. And—and ugly.”
Stunned, Susan gazed at her. Small wonder she was so crushed and colourless. Indignation deepened the flush in her cheeks. Before she could stop herself, she said tartly, “Dear me. And even if that were true, which I assure you it is not, from whom do you suppose your evil tendencies were inherited?”
Barbara peeped up at her. Slowly, a gleam brightened the reddened eyes. “Ooooh!” she whispered. “I never thought of that!” She giggled, and then they laughed merrily together.
“You will think me evil indeed,” sighed Barbara.
“I think we are both being rather naughty. But it was worth it to see you smile. You seemed so very unhappy at a time in your life when most girls are full of joyous plans.”
All the animation that had so brightened Barbara’s face faded away. “How can I be joyful when I am forced into a marriage I do not want?”
Bewildered, Susan said, “But—I thought you were fond of your betrothed. And he is”—she forced herself to be objective—“wealthy, and—and a fine-looking young man.”
Barbara stared at her curiously. “Do you find him so? Mrs. Henley—could you be joyful were you to marry such a man?”
It was a home question. Susan’s cheeks blazed. “W-well, I— That is—”
“Of course you could not,” said Barbara bitterly. “Not if you know of his reputation! But it is too late now. I am betrothed! And only because I am so weak. Such a spineless creature! But what hope have I? My first and only Season was a disaster. Mama says I am most fortunate that such an eligible young man should offer for me.”
Searching for something diplomatic to say, Susan pointed out, “Your betrothed evidently does not find you plain and fat.”
“Truly, I cannot understand why he wants to marry me.” Barbara heaved a deep sigh. “But Val says he supposes that I will be a conformable wife and not interfere with—with his … little—affaires.”
‘The villain!’ thought Susan, outraged.
Dr. Sheswell came booming along the hall then, and Susan excused herself and went to meet him. He was hugely jovial, and told her that Montclair was making great strides. “A leetle concerned by the colour, y’know. And the pulse. But the silly fellow has likely been overtiring himself with the crutches, and fretting to know who wants to provide him a sod blanket.” He fixed her with a suddenly hard stare. “Sufficient to give any man pause, ma’am, ain’t it?”
Susan managed to hide her vexation. If this pompous bore fancied there was a conspiracy afoot at Highperch Cottage to rid the world of Valentine Montclair, he was welcome to indulge such nonsense. One might have thought the invalid’s improved state of health would have told him otherwise, but Sheswell impressed her as a singularly foolish man who saw no farther than the end of his nose. “Well, Mr. Montclair can rid his mind of such depressing worries for the moment,” she said with a forced smile. “As you see, Miss Trent has arrived. He has been extreme anxious to see her.”
A grunt was his only reaction to that, and he expressed a wish to consult with Mr. Dodman. The Bo’sun was in the stables with Lyddford, and Susan was far from willing to allow the physician to wander unescorted about the grounds. She considered ringing for Deemer or Martha Reedham, but their sometime butler was busied in the cellar, and Mrs. Starr and Martha were hard at work on the week’s washing. She hesitated only momentarily before begging Miss Trent to excuse her for a moment while she showed the doctor the way. The dispassionate lovers had waited this long, another minute or two wouldn’t be disastrous surely.
Left alone in the withdrawing room, Barbara glanced around curiously. Val had only brought her here once, but she remembered how shocked she had been by the dreariness of the old house, and horrified to think he would wish to live in such a dowdy place. Hers was not an imaginative mind, and she had been quite unable to picture Highperch thoroughly cleaned, curtains washed, windows sparkling, the furniture taken out of holland covers and polished until the fine old woods gleamed.
Her attention fixed on the painting that hung above the mantel. Lacking so many of the accomplishments her mama had hoped she would acquire, Barbara had a genuine flair for art. She was very shy about her gift, and kept her sketches hidden, dreading lest they be mocked, but she knew enough of the subject to recognize excellence, and was so impelled by interest as to leave the sofa and wander over to the fireplace.
Gazing up at the painting, she murmured admiringly, “Oh, my goodness.”
“Theses truth mostly,” came a sighful voice behind her. “Goodness. Chess!”
She spun around, and a becoming blush brightened her sad face. “Señor de Ferdinand! How do you do?”
Rushing to take her outstretched hand and hold it with the greatest reverence, he said fiercely, “Miceselves whats you wishes will do. Mostly beautiful lady saying herses-elves ’mire theses. Angelo, he give. Here’s and now!” He reached up and began to struggle to remove the picture from the wall.
“No, no!” cried Barbara. “Oh, pray do not! Truly, you are very good, but it belongs to Mrs. H
enley, and—”
“Chew like. Chew havings!” he declared, by now having succeeded in tipping the picture so that it hung sideways.
“No—really! Oh dear, let me help…”
She hurried to stand beside him, but being not even as tall as he, could reach no higher, and the painting, large, heavy, and now considerably out of balance, defied their efforts. The ormolu clock, jolted by de Ferdinand’s elbow, fell with a crash into the hearth.
With a dismayed cry Barbara stepped back. “Oh, no!” she wailed. “Whatever will they think of me?”
“Of chew?” cried the Spaniard, his dark eyes flashing. “Of chew thinkings they theses lady was beautiful mostly of anys other! Not moment one chew must griefed being! Angelo—mices-elves—he picture buyings!”
That Barbara understood this mangled speech was evident. Her lashes fell, her bosom began to rise and fall in agitation, but the shy smile that curved her mouth so wrought upon the Spaniard that he was emboldened to again seize her hand and press it to his lips.
“Oh, you m-must not,” she said, trying without much force to free herself.
“Chew sayings chew not marryings wish,” persisted de Ferdinand. “Chaw minds changes its elves?”
“No.” She raised suddenly tragic eyes to his ardent ones. “But—it is done now. I am betrothed, do you see?”
He stepped closer. “Lovely lady chew Angelo listen chaw nice ears with! Chew no wish marryings with theses mens, then Angelo—mices-elves—he marryings stopping!”
Awed, she whispered, “You will stop the marriage? Oh, if only you could! But—alas, it is too late.”
Even as he began an impassioned denial, she heard quick light footsteps approaching. At once she ran back to the sofa. De Ferdinand sprinted after her. Barbara halted abruptly as a thought occurred. Swinging around she was startled to find the Spaniard coming at her with all speed. They collided violently and fell onto the sofa. Not normally quick-witted, but inspired by desperation, Barbara hissed into his nose, “Tonight at ten, by the summer house!”
Hurrying into the withdrawing room, the apology on Susan’s lips died. She received the incredible impression that the man her brother sometimes fondly referred to as “the little Spanish gamecock” had attacked Miss Trent, and that the girl she’d thought to be shy had just bitten him on the nostril. Feeling decidedly out of her depth, she blinked from Miss Trent’s pink countenance to de Ferdinand’s now upright and rigidly defiant stance.
“I w-was … faint,” said Barbara. “And—and Señor Angelo, er—helped me.”
“Oh.” Vastly titillated, Susan added an equally nonsensical “I am glad.” Her gaze encompassing the painting, which now appeared to stand on one corner, and the shattered clock on the hearth, she asked an astonished “Whatever happened?”
“Mices-elves wishing to theses buyings for mostly beauti—” began Angelo.
“I-I was admiring the painting,” interjected Barbara desperately. “I fear I must have disturbed the wire. We—er, tried to straighten it again, and the clock fell. Truly, I am very sorry.”
“It was an ugly old clock,” Susan declared with commendable grace. “The painting is rather pretty, isn’t it? Would you wish to come upstairs now, Miss Trent?”
She led Barbara up the stairs, mulling over how becomingly the girl’s cheeks had glowed, and how bright had been the formerly lacklustre blue eyes. And Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand had brought it all about. ‘Well now, Mr. Rake Montclair,’ she thought, ‘you had best look to your laurels, or your betrothed may run away with the ‘little Spanish gamecock’!
* * *
The afternoon breeze was freshening, setting the leaves of the old oak tree to flutter whisperingly, and ruffling Montclair’s dark hair. He moved slightly on the chaise longue they had carried into the back garden, and Susan looked up quickly from her mending to see if he was uncomfortable. Dispensing with protocol in these trying circumstances, he wore only a shirt and pantaloons, the left leg slit to the knee to accommodate the splints. He was still too thin, but the slight pucker between his dark brows that always betrayed one of the violent headaches he still occasionally suffered, was not apparent today. In fact, aside from the arm that was carried in a sling and the splinted leg, he looked almost well again.
A week had passed since Miss Trent’s visit. It had been a productive week. The Dainty Dancer’s cargo was all safely stowed in the cellar, and for two days Andy and the Bo’sun had been busily mending sails. This morning Andy and Señor Angelo had taken the barge to the boatyard near Avonmouth for some much needed work on the tiller.
By mutual if unspoken consent, neither Susan nor Montclair had referred again to the possibility of his returning home. Nor had Dr. Sheswell or the Trents put in another appearance, and although Susan was well aware that this could only be a respite, she was grateful for the present peace.
She became aware that a pair of dark eyes watched her, and averted her own hurriedly.
“Must you always work?” drawled Montclair lazily. “I think I never see you but you are busied at some task. Yet you fly up into the boughs do I dare offer to bring only two of my servants here to help you.”
“I like to be busy, sir,” she argued. “And besides, I expect your maids have too many tasks already.”
He smiled. “More probably it would be the first time they really earned their pay. We have dozens of ’em loitering about Longhills, doing very little.”
“A typical male observation,” she said in amused chiding. “With a house as gigantic as yours, the poor girls likely slave from dawn to dusk, polishing and dusting and mopping and scrubbing, and—”
“And the butler standing over ’em with a heavy whip, no doubt! Is that how you envision a maid’s life at Longhills, ma’am?”
She laughed. “Not quite that grim, but I fancy your aunt knows how to keep your servants well occupied.”
“Well, that’s truth, at all events.” In spite of his light tone the laughter had left his eyes as it always did when his family was mentioned, and there was a hardening to the pleasant line of his mouth. Susan folded the tablecloth she had repaired, lifted a yawning Welcome from her sewing basket, and put the tablecloth in. During these weeks of his illness she had come to know every nuance of Montclair’s voice, every expression of the very expressive countenance, and through these last few summer days they had chatted in an ever deepening rapport and said much more than mere words. She had struggled to convince herself that whatever his peculiar relationship with Miss Trent, it was none of her affair. She enjoyed him for his whimsical sense of humour and his easy way of conversing with her. He never ignored her remarks; he solicited and listened to her opinions—and if he frequently argued with them he did so as one would argue with an equal, not with the amused tolerance toward an inferior intellect that was so often shown females by gentlemen. Indeed, in some ways she felt as comfortable with him as though she’d known him all her life. And in others— She snipped that thread of thought and said quietly, “Mr. Valentine, you do not—that is to say, there does not appear to be a great depth of affection between you and the Trents.”
“Your first impulse was correct, Mrs. Sue. I have no love for them—save for Barbara, of course.”
“Of course.” A spark of resentment lit her eyes, but she went on. “Was your mama excessive fond of them?”
“She scarce knew them. Lady Marcia was sister to my father. He could not abide the lady, and being a very forthright gentleman, told her so to her face during one of their less civilized quarrels. For years afterwards the two families were estranged.”
“How dreadful. Were all communications at an end, then?”
“Yes.” He said dryly, “It was an exceeding peaceful time.” He saw her brows arch, and added, “You are wondering, I think, why my mother appointed Sir Selby as Geoff’s Administrator? Her own brothers both had died young, and my papa’s surviving younger brother suffered a bad accident many years ago, as I told you. Mama was ill, and s
he knew that Geoff—” He checked, frowning, then said with his half smile, “Well, he’s one of those charming men who always manage to, er— He’s a bit of a scamp, and, er—”
‘A family trait,’ she thought, but inserted shrewdly, “And expert at resting all his responsibilities on the shoulders of others.”
Montclair said in a troubled way, “No, really he is the best of men, but—he simply cannot tolerate my uncle. Now that he is of an age to end the Trust and take control, I am sure he will return very soon.”
“But meanwhile,” she pursued, “your uncle, having been made Administrator, is able to follow his own course while your brother keeps out of the country?”
“Not where I can help it,” he said with a sudden fierce scowl. “The deuce of it is, legally he does not really have to heed me. I think the only reason he bothers with me at all is for fear I might appeal to my great-uncle Chauncey. He was my mama’s favourite uncle, and is a grand old fellow. He wields no real authority in this instance, sad to say, and lives mostly retired in Wales now, but he is still a power to be reckoned with, and my uncle Selby treads very softly around him.” He smiled nostalgically. “You may know of him since your family was Navy also. Admiral Lord Sutton-Newark.”
“Yes indeed. I have heard my grandfather mention that name, and with great respect. Did you ever appeal to him?”
“Lord, no,” he answered indignantly. “A fine booberkin he would have thought me! Unable to deal with such a one as Selby Trent!”
“That is nonsensical! Your brother is older than you, and he could not deal with the man! And Sir Selby has all his retainers, his wife, and his son marshalled against you, and opposes your every wish. I should think—”
Curious, he interrupted. “How did you know all that?”
Logic of the Heart Page 23