Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  “It has not failed me yet, Mr. Montclair,” she snapped.

  His eyes drifted to the Swiss who watched them smilingly. “Are you perfectly sure, ma’am?”

  Susan positively ached for the feel of a solid broom in her hand.

  Monteil laughed softly. “Ah, but my Valentine is cross with me,” he said with rueful good humour, and shaking one finger at Montclair, added whimsically, “No, no. I refuse to quarrel with you, mon ami.”

  “Such forbearance can only be admired, monsieur,” said Susan, smiling on him with warm approval.

  Valentine gave a disgusted snort.

  Monteil turned a concerned face to the widow. “My friend is in the right of it, however,” he declared. “These new men of yours are the rough-looking fellows at best, and I will own I have worried for your safety, dear Mrs. Henley. With your brother so often away you are quite unprotected here, and there are too many undesirables prowling the countryside.”

  “I put it to you, Monteil,” said Valentine through his teeth, “that I have a fine duelling pistol in my room and am not incapable of firing it in defence of my hostess, should the need arise. Or in any other emergency.”

  “Good evening, dear Mrs. Sue, and gentlemen,” trilled Mrs. Starr, hurrying into the room with a rustle of silks and a whiff of lavender. “I pray you will forgive my tardiness. No, no, you must not get up, Mr. Valentine. I will sit down. There, now you may be at ease. How splendid that you are able to come down and dine with us at last.” She shot a knowing glance at Susan. “It would seem you’ve all enjoyed a lovely chat whilst I kept you waiting, but— Ah, there is the gong.”

  Rising, Susan could have hugged her. “I expect you gentlemen are famished,” she said. “Let us go in.” And she thought that it would be remarkable were there no pistols fired across the dinner table.

  14

  The house was very quiet when Montclair struggled down the stairs next morning. His descent was something of an acrobatic feat which involved balancing on his right foot while he swung the crutches one step down, then lowering himself to the same stair. Since his right hand was as useless as his left leg, this was a decidedly hazardous business, with each step presenting a new challenge. When he was three steps from the bottom he lost the knack of it, over-balanced, and descended in a wild hopping rush that left him teetering in the hall, fighting to stay upright, and very much out of breath.

  “You are quite mad, sir!”

  Pleased with himself despite this harsh verdict, Montclair turned an unrepentant grin on Susan, who was coming in at the front door carrying a basket of freshly cut flowers. The warm breeze billowed her pale green gown of India muslin, and the sun bathed her with brightness, waking a sheen down one delicately contoured cheek and revealing that her grey eyes were wide with fright.

  Delighting in the knowledge that she had been concerned for his sake, he panted, “And you … look the very spirit of summer, ma’am.”

  “Never mind trying to turn me up sweet, Valentine Montclair!”

  “Oho! Cant on the lips of the lady,” he laughed, hobbling along with her.

  “And never seek to turn the attack to my want of propriety.” Frowning at him in a way he thought adorable, she scolded, “Do you yearn to be laid down upon your bed for another six weeks?”

  “I yearn to be able to get about without being a confounded nuisance to everyone.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” she said, turning down the hall towards the kitchen, her long hair tossing in the way it did when she was vexed with him.

  “And the Lord helps those who help themselves,” he countered.

  She shook her head and went into the kitchen, and Montclair chuckled and turned back, determined to investigate the strong smell of paint emanating from the front of the house. He glanced into the withdrawing room as he passed. The sunlight splashed a bright avenue across the floor and his eyes followed it to Mrs. Henley’s spinet. Until now he had managed to ignore the instrument, but he eyed it wistfully, then made his way to it. Welcome was reluctant to be evicted, but Montclair banished him from the keyboard, and with his left hand began to play the theme of the first movement of his new concerto. A moment later, the paint forgotten, he had laid the crutches beside him and was sitting rather awkwardly on the wide bench. He dropped the melody into the bass clef and played it through. When he finished, he stared blindly at the keys, lifted his right hand, and tried again to move the fingers. Not by the slightest tremor did they respond. His shoulders slumped. Surely by this time some feeling should have returned? Surely he had not permanently lost the use of his hand…?

  A burst of applause brought his head up. Susan, Martha, Mrs. Starr, and Deemer watched him from the doorway. He essayed a slight bow.

  “Oh, that was lovely,” exclaimed Mrs. Starr.

  “Perfectly beautiful,” agreed Susan, her eyes alight. “I think I have never heard it before. What is it called?”

  “I was going to call it ‘Goddess of—the River,’” he said solemnly. “But I may change it to ‘Lament for a Dead Painter.’”

  Mrs. Starr giggled and shepherded Martha and the butler away.

  Susan gasped, “My goodness! Do you say— Did you write that lovely piece?”

  He flushed with pleasure. “I wish I could play it for you properly.”

  “It sounded splendid just with the left hand. Will you play it once more?”

  “If you will sit beside me.”

  She came at once to occupy the end of the bench, and Montclair played for her, interspersing his performance with comments. “Here,” he said eagerly, “is where the orchestra comes in … like so. The solo introduces the second movement … and the orchestra enters pianissimo in a foreign key—thus…”

  He glanced up suddenly. “Good God! How I must be boring you! My apologies, ma’am!”

  “I resent the implication,” she said, indignant. “I find it most fascinating. I wish I could play the right hand for you, but even were you to write out the music for me, I think my talents are too mean to—”

  He interrupted, “You play, Mrs. Sue?”

  “A little.”

  “But this is wonderful! If you’ve music, would you humour me and take the right hand while I play the left…?”

  She would, and did, humour him. They played together for more than half an hour, and she was both touched and amazed to see his often grim expression become so open and boyishly eager. This was a Valentine she’d never beheld—so animated, so happily engrossed by their mutual efforts. Often, she stumbled, and they would laugh and try again; several times he suggested different fingering, pausing so that she could follow his advice, as pleased when she argued as when she acquiesced. How he loved his music. Whoever married this man, she thought pensively, would have to accept a competitor for his time and affection; an inanimate competitor, but a merciless one. She stifled a sigh. A competitor she would so willingly tolerate …

  They finished Mr. Haydn’s piece with a rather ragged chord, and laughed together.

  Montclair turned a glowing face. “Thank you, Mrs. Sue! You play very well.”

  “I had thought I was fair—until I heard you, sir.” She saw his gaze become sombre as it slanted to his injured right hand, and added kindly, “You will regain the use very soon now; don’t worry so.”

  He looked up at her and said gravely, “I would worry less, dear ma’am, if I dared believe myself forgiven.”

  “For what? Tormenting my guest last evening?”

  “Just so.”

  “You should ask his pardon, sir. Not mine. Although,” she added in an afterthought, “you really were very naughty.”

  He bit back the instinctive reaction, and for a moment they sat in complete silence, gazing at each other. Then he asked softly, “Do you care for Monteil, Susan?”

  She had initially thought him a bad man. She realized now that he was also a criminal. It must be little short of a crime to lower his voice to that tender note that was almost a caress; to light up
the amber flecks in his dusky eyes; and to tilt his dark head toward her so that the finely chiselled cheekbones, the straight nose, the sensitive mouth with its lurking half smile must be forever engraved on her memory. And memory was all she would have. He would go back to his great manor house and plunge into his music and forget her. That awareness was so unkind that she was obliged to turn away, her voice failing her.

  “You do not reply.” He took up the end of her sash, and looked down at it absently. “I wish,” he muttered, “that you were not so very beautiful.”

  Even more flustered, she stammered, “Y-you surprise me … Mr. Montclair.”

  “Do I? Why? Certainly you must know you are beautiful.”

  “I—I am flattered. But—”

  “Nonsense! It would be flattery had you a face like a ferret. But you have not.”

  “Oh.” Afraid that others might hear this conversation, Susan stood and helped him buckle on the right crutch, then handed him the other. “And are you displeased because I—er, do not resemble a ferret?”

  He chuckled, and struggled to his feet. “If you did, perhaps Monteil would turn his greasy eyes elsewhere. How long have you known him?”

  “About the same length of time as I have known you, sir.”

  They started towards the front door and he grunted, “Humph. And you store his cargo in my—I mean, in the cellars. Did he tell you why he found such an arrangement desirable?”

  “Certainly he makes no secret of his hopes to purchase this house. If he cannot, he says he will buy property somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

  “One can but hope he will be unsuccessful,” he said dryly.

  “I cannot echo that hope, Mr. Valentine.”

  He frowned at the front steps, then said, “It would be much easier for me if I might have your arm, ma’am.”

  He had not seemed to need a supporting arm when he’d come so precipitately down the stairs, and Susan hesitated.

  “You said I was mad when I descended the last time,” he reminded her demurely.

  “Hmm,” said Susan, but she carried one of his crutches and allowed him to put his arm across her shoulders as he hopped awkwardly down the steps. She could feel the warmth of his lean body, and their closeness was, to say the least, unsettling. Then he appeared to lose his balance, so that she threw her arm around his waist, clinging even more tightly.

  “That’s much better,” he said with a grin.

  She made no response to this impropriety, but pulled away immediately they reached level ground.

  “Alas,” he sighed. “So ends the idyll. But I thank you for it. You are ever gracious, ma’am. Even if you have allowed Monteil to pull the wool over your eyes.”

  “How odd,” said Susan, “that I’d the impression another gentleman was doing precisely that. Or trying to.”

  “Not so,” he said, injured. “I merely strive to warn you. Very bad of me, perhaps, but I mistrust the fellow’s glib tongue. Lord knows he’s rich as Croesus, but—”

  “Fair game for a mercenary widow, eh, Mr. Montclair?”

  He gave her an irritated look, which changed to a glinting amusement, and reaching up, touched the end of her nose lightly. “This charming article is the barometer of your mood, did you know it? When it is…”—he tilted her nose skywards—“elevated, you are very cross with me. When it is—a little uplifted—I have vexed you. When it is … down—like that, you are flustered. And when it is neither up nor down—like this—I can breathe easier.”

  They had stopped walking and stood very close together. His long fingers lingered on her cheek. Susan murmured dreamily, “I must take care never to—to have it cut off, sir. Else—you’d be all at sixes and sevens.”

  Just as dreamily, he said, “And you’d not be able to breathe.”

  Still his fingers touched her cheek. So lightly, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Yearning to lean into that caress, she laughed instead, and forced herself to move back, saying with some embarrassment, “What rubbish we are talking!”

  “Then I shall be very earnest. Susan, if you count Monteil your good friend, may I hope that I can be judged as kindly? I know we did not—ah, see eye to eye at first, but”—he searched her face—“you don’t still believe me your enemy, do you?”

  She met his anxious regard briefly, then, driven by self-preservation, looked away. “No. Of course not.” She thought, ‘Only, there is an unbreachable wall between us.’

  “In that case, I ask that you allow me the right to help you.”

  A little pucker disturbed her smooth forehead. “In what way, Mr. Valentine?”

  “In whatever way I can. If you are in—I mean, if you need—”

  Inwardly cringing, she lifted her eyes to meet his and said candidly, “If I need—money? Is that what you mean?”

  It sounded bald, to say the least of it. He was unskilled in what his brother termed frivolity, flattery, and fal-lals. Uncomfortably aware that he was flushing, he balanced himself on his crutch so as to take up her hand. It was very soft and warm, even if the fingernails were discoloured and too short. “What I am trying to say is that—I want to be—more than just a friend to you, dear ma’am.” Because he was looking down at her hand he did not see her sudden pallor, or the spasm of pain that flickered across her face, and went on, “I know you are faced with financial troubles and that life is difficult for you, and—er…”

  ‘Oh, no!’ thought Susan, anguished. ‘Do not, Valentine! Please do not!’ But she said quietly, “And you want to—smooth my path?”

  He smiled. “That is one way of wording it, certainly.”

  It was a way she had heard before. Wounded to the heart, once more she had to turn from him. “You told Priscilla you were not rich.”

  “One does not discuss such delicate matters with a child. Certainly I can afford to take a—”

  ‘Oh, God!’ thought Susan. ‘Oh, God!’ And desperate to stop him from saying that horrid word, she interpolated, “Do I understand you to say you are … are willing to, as Andy would say, tow us out of the River Tick?”

  He said heatedly, “You see? You should not even know such a term! Lyddford does not protect you properly, Sue! Dash it all, I—”

  “Do wish to … protect me?”

  “Assuredly! And if Imre Monteil has offered to—”

  Very pale, she rounded on him. “Monsieur Monteil has never made me an offer of any kind, sir!”

  “Well, he will, let me tell you, which isn’t surprising!”

  “Indeed?” she said, controlling herself with an effort. “He has been a perfect gentleman, and if—”

  “Perfect gentleman, is it? The way the beastly fellow leers at you makes my skin creep! How you can bear to let him slobber over you I don’t—”

  “Slobber?” she echoed, her voice becoming unwontedly shrill. “Your charm of manner, sir, is exceeded only by your arrogance! Whatever else, he does not—that is, I would not— And—and besides, when I came to your silly Folly, Mr. Valentine Montclair, it was to help a hurt human being. I did not expect to be insulted in return!”

  He stared at her resentfully. “Insulted! However could I have deluded myself into thinking I was being generous?”

  “And however can I withstand such noble condescension?” she said, quivering with wrath. “La, but it passes understanding!”

  “The devil!” Furious, he swung closer to her.

  Susan took a few hurried paces to the rear, but rushed on, “It was not bad enough to insult me, you must say vile things behind his back about a gentleman who has been nothing but kind and—and helpful!”

  “Aye, he’ll be kind, I’ll warrant! And he’ll ‘help’ you straight into the—”

  “Yes, malign him—as you mocked my new workmen and called them ‘disgusting hedgehogs’! They might not be Corinthian dandies—”

  “Dandies! Now if that isn’t—”

  “—but they, at the least, have never spoken one improper word to me, and—”


  “I should think not, by God!” His eyes glittering, he said, “Only tell me who—”

  “—and furthermore, I am perfectly satisfied with their work, so—”

  “Work? What work? Be dashed if I’ve seen them do aught! I vow they’re lazier than my lazy gardener, and if what I suspect is—”

  Suspect? Now came fear to add to her misery. Facing it bravely, she demanded, “Now what do you imply? Of what do you suspect us, sir? Do you think it probable that we have stolen the—the Montclair Mermaid from your fountain, perhaps?”

  “Egad, woman, but you’re high in the instep! And you speak of my pride! All I tried for was—”

  “I am all too aware of what you tried for! But do not feel obliged to limit your reviling of us, sir! I heard there was a plot afoot only a year or so ago to kidnap the Prince Regent. Perhaps you think we have him tucked away in our cellar!”

  She was white with hurt and anger, but Montclair’s wrath was cooling, and he said impatiently, “Don’t sneer at me, blast it! This is all so ridiculous! I don’t—”

  “You do not wish to be bored by someone ridiculous,” she said with superb hauteur. “But of course. I shall send the Bo’sun to help you. Although perhaps you will not feel perfectly safe with him, since you doubtless suspect him as well!”

  “Oh, I do, for he is always slipping away somewhere. I’d fancied he was—”

  “Organizing an uprising of the villagers against you?” she sneered.

  “No, you must do better than that, ma’am. Let us have him rather occupying a sinister hut in the woods, where he breeds—ah, man-eating moles, perhaps.”

  His lips quirked and a dance of laughter came into his eyes. Almost won to an answering smile, Susan remembered his offer, and a fierce pang transfixed her. Suddenly overwhelmed and tearful, she all but ran from him.

  Exasperated, Montclair followed her slowly. The ways of women, he thought, were indeed inexplicable. ‘And despite all the fustian she spoke, she did not answer my question. She did not say whether she really cares for that wart Monteil…’

  At the foot of the steps he paused, glancing up. Two ladders, unoccupied at present, were propped against the east front of the house. Jove, if the beautiful but provoking widow hadn’t made him forget all about the paint! The trim had been partially restored to a soft cream. He smiled faintly. He’d never really believed she would make good her threat to use that garish red or the purple he had substituted. His inspection was interrupted abruptly, and he cried a startled “Hey!” as he was swept up from either side and carried up the steps.