Logic of the Heart

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Logic of the Heart Page 29

by Patricia Veryan


  “Lucky you came out alive,” grunted Lyddford. “Both of you. The fact remains that if that murdering hound has taken to coming into Highperch after Montclair, something must be done. And the easiest solution is for our noble guest to go back to his great Manor. No, Sue, don’t argue. I’ll not have you and Priscilla—or any of us—put at risk here. Montclair can hire an army to defend himself if he chooses. We can’t.”

  Before anyone could respond, Martha came into the room and stood twisting the hem of her apron and looking at Susan in a troubled way.

  “Yes, Martha?” said Susan.

  “I know as you’re all talking, Mrs. Sue,” said the girl hesitantly. “But I thought I better come and tell you, just in case.”

  “Tell us what? Is it about Miss Priscilla?”

  “No, ma’am. But she heard it, too. She’s outside now, playing with Wolfgang, but—”

  “What did she hear?” asked Mrs. Starr patiently.

  “Why—the crash. We was in what used to be the study, only it’s your sewing room now, you know, Mrs. Sue. And that’s right under your bedroom—only it’s Mr. Valentine’s room now, and—”

  Susan tensed. “And you heard a crash, you said?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sue. It sounded like something heavy had been dropped. Or like someone had fallen down, or—”

  Lyddford and Susan were already running.

  * * *

  Montclair slept late, awakening to find Deemer opening the window curtains. He felt bruised from head to toe, and by the time, with the butler’s help, he was shaved and dressed, he had found ample evidence of the power of the intruder. Martha fetched his breakfast tray, and he ate at the small table before the windows. It was a beautiful morning, a slight haze draping an ethereal veil over the river and the distant hills, but he scarcely saw the loved prospect. He could see instead the glow in Susan’s bruised face as she lifted it to his kiss; feel again the softness and warmth of her lovely body pressed against his. Since leaving Cambridge he’d been too occupied with his music and his endless fight to guard Longhills to have much time for women. When Mrs. Susan Henley had come uninvited into his life she had seemed only a further complication to his already difficult existence. Now, not only was he deeply indebted to her, but if he thought of her as a complication, it was as a most delectable one.

  She was very far from being his ideal. That often dreamed-of lady was a soft-voiced, sweetly natured creature with shining golden curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a rosebud mouth. A delicate and gentle lady who never spoke in anger, or argued with him, but would adoringly agree with any opinion he voiced. Certainly she would not dream of striking him with a dustpan brush! Always, she was impeccably and elegantly gowned. And would faint at the very thought of a lady wearing breeches! She moved with grace and propriety. (And the man who lay in helpless agony at the bottom of a Folly waiting for her to find the gumption to climb down and help him, would die alone!) His ideal was, in short, a lovely dimwit without flesh and blood and human failings, who would bore him to death in a week.

  He chuckled, banished his ‘ideal lady’ forever, and put on her vacant pedestal a tall, willowy young woman with candid grey eyes, a resolute mouth, and long, very straight dark hair that gleamed silkily—when it wasn’t tucked under a stocking cap. He smiled again, remembering her face last night, but the smile died abruptly as he recalled the bruise he had put there. It had been unintentional, of course, and she’d understood. Still—it should never have happened. He frowned uneasily. He had criticized Lyddford for exposing his sister to danger, but he himself was no less guilty. If his presence here constituted a menace to Susan and the rest of them, he must leave. The thought of a return to life with the Trents was not enticing, but it was, he knew, past time that he went home. Certainly, little Barbara had stood in need of him, and Lord only knows what Uncle Selby had been about during his absence.

  Sighing, he reached for the last crumpet. His outstretched hand checked, and shock was like a physical blow. He had stretched out his right hand unthinkingly, and his fingers had moved a little! Hope made his pulses race. Perhaps his hand was not permanently damaged after all! Jupiter—he was almost well! He snatched up his crutch, eager to test his leg. He found he was able to lower his left foot to the floor and stand straight without the crutch, and with only a little discomfort. Leaning on the crutch very slightly, he crossed the big room and limped into the dressing room. It was an ungainly hobble, admittedly, but it was a great improvement!

  Elated, he swung around, so eager to find Susan and share his triumph with her, that he forgot the need for caution and the crutch pulled the rug into a fold. Thrown off balance, he staggered, and flung his left arm out instinctively. His fingers closed around the handle of a cupboard which was always kept locked. Unhappily, his weight was too much. The handle broke off; he went down, still clutching it, and the warped cupboard door flew off its rusted hinges and crashed down also. He jerked his head away and threw up his arm to protect himself from several cascading bottles.

  When the shower ceased, he sat there taking stock of things. Luckily, he appeared to have sustained no hurt, and none of the bottles had smashed. He began to gather them up. There were six, uniformly filled with a dark brown liquid that looked vaguely familiar. Idly, he glanced at the label:

  “For Valentine Montclair, Esquire.

  Give one teaspoonful three times per day.

  Dr. K. R. Sheswell.”

  A numbness came over him, and he leaned back against the lower cupboard, staring blankly at the bottle in his hand, and trying to fight away the insidious suspicion that was creeping into his mind. He had improved to the point the medicine was no longer needed, that was all. Only—if it was no longer needed, why had old Sheswell kept sending it? For how long had it been withheld? His glance flashed to the cupboard. Suddenly very cold, he could see that there were more bottles still on the shelf. All apparently untouched.

  His aunt’s voice seemed to scream in his ears: “… If my suspicions are correct, Dr. Sheswell’s instructions have been poorly kept. Why, he thought you would be better in no time…” He had not got better “in no time.” He had come very close to turning up his toes, and it had been a long and slow recovery. But—surely the brave and beautiful Susan had not schemed to— He threw his left hand across his eyes, whispering an agonized, “No! Oh, God! Please—no!”

  But doubt came to whisper slyly that his uncle had said Susan had profited handsomely. Later, when he’d asked her, she’d admitted that the Trents had made financial provision …

  His aunt’s voice again: “… That sly widow saw her chance … She would nurse you back to health and so win your affections that you would give her the house … Never say you have fallen into the hussy’s toils…? I’ll not believe you could be so gullible…”

  He ducked his head and instinctively put both hands over his ears, fighting to shut out that shrill vindictiveness. “I won’t believe it of her! I won’t!”

  In his misery he hadn’t realized he spoke aloud. Nor had he heard the door open, and he was startled when Susan said quietly, “What won’t you believe, sir?”

  His eyes lifted to hers. She stood very straight, very white, looking down at him with cold hauteur.

  It made no sense, he thought in desperation. It could not make sense! And then, with perverse and shattering clarity, memory supplied the scene it had denied him until now. The night he’d lain half asleep during the early part of his recovery, and had heard Susan whispering with Mrs. Starr. Starry had said they should never have done something. Susan, obviously irked, had argued that nothing could be proven. And then Starry had moaned, “… 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—” He had dismissed it as a dream, but with a terrible ache of grief he knew now that it hadn’t been a dream. He could even hear Susan’s final words: “Stop being so melodramatic! And keep y
our voice down, do. He might hear us!”

  It was the withholding of his medicine that had so distressed Starry and made her accuse Susan of ruthlessness. Ruthlessness, indeed! It sounded the death-knell to his hopes, and he was so distraught that for a moment he could neither move nor speak.

  Lyddford ran in. “Gad, what a mess! You all right, Montclair?” He stepped over the debris and assisted Montclair to his feet. “Why the deuce have you been flinging all these bottles about?”

  “Mr. Montclair found it necessary to break open the cupboard,” said Susan, her lip curling contemptuously.

  “Break … open…” gasped Lyddford.

  “I didn’t break it open, Susan,” said Montclair. “I was—”

  “Dear me,” she sneered. “I’d not dreamed there were exploding cupboards in this house. Just what did you expect to find, that you must resort to such methods, sir?”

  Sick at heart, he answered, “Not what I did find, certainly. But I’m sure there is a very logical explanation.” His eyes pleaded. “Isn’t there?”

  “Explanation—for what?” said Lyddford, bewildered. “What the deuce is all this stuff?”

  “Oh, it is no use your taking that tone, Andy,” Susan gave a brittle mirthless little laugh. “Mr. Montclair will never believe you don’t know about it.”

  “By the Lord Harry! Know about—what?”

  “The medicine,” she said, so hurt and angry that she had to fight for self-control. “Mr. Montclair believes we deliberately withheld it so as to delay his recovery.”

  “What?” roared Lyddford, his face reddening.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Montclair. “If you would just—”

  “It was exceeding obvious what you thought,” she flashed.

  “Why—why, you ingrate,” Lyddford howled. “You damned—dog! I—”

  “Be quiet!” snapped Montclair. “Sue—for the love of God! I fell and the cupboard door broke when I grabbed at it to steady—”

  “Like hell!” shouted Lyddford.

  Montclair rounded on him furiously. “Will you be quiet! Susan—please—I know that even now my stupid head is—is confused sometimes. When all the medicine bottles fell out—”

  “You put two and two together, and we came up wanting,” she said. “La, sir, but your feelings change so rapidly! And how exceeding convenient that you—ah—‘fell’ against that particular cupboard!” Her brows drew down. She said with biting scorn, “For shame that you should be so quick to believe the worst!”

  She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist. “No! I don’t believe it! That is—I do, but—but I know you must have had some reason. If you will only tell me—”

  “Not a word, Sue! Not one blasted word to the carrion!” Lyddford sprang to wrench Montclair’s hand away, sending him staggering back to the wall. Through his teeth, he said, “Mrs. H., you will please to leave us. At once! Send Deemer and the Bo’sun up here!”

  Susan hesitated, glancing from his livid face to Montclair’s haggard one. “Andy—you won’t…”

  “If he was a whole man—by God, I think I’d strangle him with my bare hands! But he’ll answer to me, I promise you! Now—go!”

  She turned and went out.

  Montclair watched her in helpless misery. She had offered no excuse. No denial. The cupboard had been locked. His medicine had been withheld. But he wanted so desperately to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes. He said, “Lyddford, you must—”

  Almost incoherent with rage, Lyddford snarled, “I take leave to tell you that you are a damned cad and an ugly-minded— You are no gentleman! When I think—When I— My challenge to you stands, Montclair! As soon as you put off those splints, my seconds will call on you.”

  Montclair sighed drearily, “I cannot fight you.”

  “You will, damn you! As soon as you’re well, I’ll haunt you! I’ll shame you until you’ve no choice! I don’t want to see your face until then—or until we meet in court!”

  Montclair reached for his crutch. “There will be no need for courts. I told your sister I will not contest your claim to Highperch.”

  Lyddford sprang forward and seized him by the neckcloth, thrusting his inflamed countenance forward. “Do not be offering us your damned charity, Mr. High-in-the-Instep aristocrat! If it was only me you insulted, I’d likely simply cut out your liver! But—that you should dare to think evil of my sister—! We will defeat you in the courts, sir! Legally! And then— By God, but I can scarce wait to get you before the sights of my pistol!”

  Montclair knocked his hand away. “Meanwhile, you might try to keep your so beloved sister from getting herself taken up for a smuggler.”

  All the colour left Lyddford’s face. In a controlled voice far more deadly than his loud fury, he said, “Now—if I thought you meant to betray us like the worthless hound you are—I’d make sure you never reached Longhills alive.”

  Valentine’s mouth hardened. He said bitterly, “I wonder why I should only now recall that you once told me that so long as I was recuperating here, I could not very well have you thrown out.”

  Lyddford swore ringingly, and his open hand flew at Montclair’s face.

  It was caught in a grip of steel, the wrist twisted so sharply that he could scarcely keep back a gasp of pain.

  His voice cold, Montclair continued. “Which very likely means that I may be the world’s most stupid slow-top. But I swear on my honour I shall never betray you—any of you.” He flung Lyddford’s hand down, took up his crutch, and hobbled into the bedroom.

  Holding his wrist in a cherishing clasp, Lyddford stared after him for a moment. Then he kicked the nearest bottle savagely across the floor and stamped, swearing, into the hall.

  16

  All through the week gale-force winds had battered the west country, toppling trees, displacing roofing, restricting the movements of shipping. Today, for the first time the winds had eased, but occasional gusts still bowed the trees and whined around Longhills. Sitting in the windowseat in his bedchamber, Montclair watched the drizzling rain and wondered if Lyddford had been able to take The Dainty Dancer out; if Susan had donned her breeches and sailed with him; if little Priscilla was wandering about, missing him, needing him to help finish their long story …

  His hand tightened on the grubby object he held. Eight days since he had seen the little girl or the wicked widow … Eight days. And it seemed more like eight years. He could walk quite comfortably now, so long as he did not walk too far, and his hand was improving rapidly. Sheswell was overjoyed, and declared it was what he had hoped for long since; indeed, he could not comprehend why his medicine, usually so efficacious, had not achieved such results long before this. The thought had caused him to frown and shake his head in mystification. His heart twisting, Valentine had said nothing.

  He should be overjoyed also. It was what he had prayed for—that his hand should regain feeling. He’d even been able to play his beloved harpsichord—not well, but a little, and Sheswell assured him it was just the beginning. Just the beginning. Why then must he feel it was the end? Why must joy be a thing forgotten, and grief a constant ache within him?

  The question was answered almost before it was asked. Until he found Susan he’d not realized how lonely his life had been. Finding her, he had thought to have found a dauntless lady whose heart was kind, whose nature was generous and loyal, whose bright spirit could always put the sunlight back in his sky. They had bickered sometimes, true, but even the bickering had been comfortable, and how joyous had been the moments when they’d laughed together. Life had begun to look bright again, and full of promise. He had begun to weave dreams of the future … glorious dreams. And all the time—

  He flung the dirty mob-cap from him and stared unseeingly across the park. Were his suspicions merely another product of the concussion Sheswell said would bother him for months to come? No matter what his aunt and uncle said, nothing would convince him that the lovely Susan and her brother had plotted the initial murdero
us attack on him. But he could not deny the possibility that Priscilla’s discovery of him in the Folly had enabled them to “rescue” him, and then contrive that he would slowly die under their “care.” He groaned softly. Could someone so lovely, seemingly so kind and compassionate, be so evil … such a clever actress? His heart said no, but the demon called Common Sense whispered that if she was innocent, why had she and Mrs. Starr held that whispered conversation he’d not been meant to hear? Why had she uttered not one word of explanation? It would have been so simple and he’d been so desperately eager to believe whatever she told him. He’d even pleaded with her. And still she had said nothing.

  Tormented by these terrible suspicions, his battle to banish her from his mind was unsuccessful. When he played his music he saw her beside him on the bench of the spinet that beautiful sunny morning, her face aglow as she played the treble and he the bass. The smile in her eyes shone at him from the flickering flames of the candles. Her voice echoed in his ears when he tried to sleep; the tilt of her intrepid chin, the vivid curve of her mouth, the sheen on the thick silken curtain of her hair haunted him day and night. There was no respite, no escape from the yearning for what might have been.

  He scowled and his lips tightened. It was no use mooning like this. The idyll—if such it could be called—was done. He had exchanged the cheerful informality of Highperch for the awesome majesty of Longhills. Dammit—what was he thinking? He loved Longhills! He always had. It was his birthplace. Only … just now it was also a luxurious loneliness not alleviated by his aunt’s barbed remarks, his uncle’s smiling insincerity, the sneering hostility of Junius. Only with Barbara could he feel a mutual fondness, and their meetings were few and far between, her parents patently regarding him as a threat, an evil influence on their timid child.

  He was to meet with her this afternoon, however. Gould had given him a smuggled note requesting that he await her in the cellar at four o’clock. He could well imagine why. The dreaded marriage must be weighing heavily on the poor girl, in spite of his promise that she would never become Lady Pollinger. Gad, if nothing else offered, he’d marry her himself. He thought wryly that it might offer a solution for both of them.

 

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