Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  Despite the rain one of the gardeners was trundling a wheelbarrow across the lawn, leaving a deep rut in the velvet turf. “Stupid clod!” muttered Montclair. At first he thought the offender was the new man, Diccon, but that lazy fellow was not likely to be moving so purposefully, almost as though he was late for something … Curious, he crossed to his chest of drawers and sought about until he found the spyglass he had been used to employ when sailing. Returning to the window, he focused it, then swung it ahead of the gardener’s fast-moving figure. At first, he could detect only the high shrubs that bordered the cutting gardens. Then the wind whipped the branches apart to reveal a man standing very still among the bushes.

  The gardener cast a quick glance behind him, then joined the second man, and the two of them disappeared from view.

  Montclair telescoped the glass, his lips tight and angry. The gardener had indeed been Diccon. And the man he’d met so furtively was one of Mrs. Henley’s vagrants.

  Frowning, he put the glass away. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and his aunt’s strident tones shrilled out. The mob-cap was lying on the windowseat in plain sight. Her quick eyes would spot it at once, and a fine time he’d have explaining it away! He leapt to snatch up the betraying cap and thrust it into the drawer of his bedside table, then turned to the opening door. Perhaps he had moved too suddenly and too fast: his aunt’s magenta-clad figure rippled before his eyes like silk in a gale. The room dipped and swayed. Uncle Selby’s arm was about him. Over the roaring in his ears, he heard the familiar voice, harsh with anger.

  “Poor fellow … Second attack this week—worse than he was before! God only knows what that unprincipled harpy and her cohorts have done to him … Hurry, my love, and send a groom for Sheswell at once…”

  With a great effort, Montclair fought away the sickening giddiness. “No. Better … now. I—don’t want … Sheswell…”

  * * *

  The first cellar was chill and very dark, and stretched off like a vast and deserted warehouse until it was swallowed up by the gloom. Montclair paused to light two candles in a wall sconce. The resultant small circle of brightness pushed back the dark, and neat rows of folding tables that were used for garden parties leapt into view beside him. Most of the articles stored on this level were furnishings and supplies that were periodically put to use. He walked along the clear space between bedsteads, chairs, and chests under holland covers, his mind on the just concluded interview with his aunt and uncle. He had been dismayed by the attack of dizziness, following so soon after the one he’d suffered on Tuesday. For some reason the illness had not struck him since that very bad first week at Highperch, and he’d begun to hope it had run its course. An unwarranted optimism, evidently. However, this particular siege had served a purpose; Sir Selby and Lady Marcia had sought him out so as to discuss the eviction of Mrs. Henley and her family. His flat refusal to instigate such a procedure had infuriated them, but since he was clearly unwell they had been unable to indulge their wrath, and, obviously seething, had left him to Gould’s care.

  The attack had been sharp, but short, and fortunately he’d recovered in time to meet Babs. Still, he was none too steady on his feet, and trod carefully down the worn stone steps leading to the lower cellar. The darkness was deeper, and mustier, and the silence became absolute. He held his candle higher and called, but there was no sign of Barbara. She must be having difficulty slipping away, poor chit. While waiting for her he amused himself by inspecting the accumulation of unwanted articles that had been relegated to this ignominious retirement. There were quite a number of old paintings, some with quite beautiful frames, all covered with a thick layer of dust. Poking through a pile of crockery and bric-a-brac, he came across a blackened statuette that he found to be a splendid reproduction of the Montclair Mermaid fashioned from what he suspected to be sterling silver. Vaguely irritated that it should have been discarded, he carried the mermaid along with him, and had in short order succumbed happily to the disease that seems to afflict all people who search through attics or cellars crammed with long forgotten, and unexpectedly fascinating articles.

  Twenty minutes later he had also rescued a charming inlaid tray, an Etruscan bowl, and a Chinese pottery horse that he thought was very old, possibly of the T’ang Dynasty, in which case it would be quite valuable. Still there was no sign of Barbara, but he was in no hurry, thoroughly enjoying this voyage of exploration.

  Quite suddenly, there was a difference in the quality of the air. The rear door must have been opened. Why on earth would Barbara have come down that way when the approach was from the hillside and rather sheer? It dawned on him then that no one but Yates and himself had a key to that door. He swore softly, blew out his candle, and drew the pistol that nowadays he always carried in his pocket. Grim and ready, he waited. There came the scrape of a tinder box, followed by a glow that grew brighter. A tall press blocked his view, but the light was steadier now; the candle must have been put down. A shadow slanted across the room. Montclair caught a glimpse of riding boots and heard the faint jingle of spurs. Not Barbara, that was certain! He strode forward, pistol levelled. “Stand, or I fire!” he commanded ringingly.

  The intruder swung around.

  “Chew bad being to mices frens,” alleged a familiar and somewhat nasal voice. “But chew goodly kinds to mices lady. Mostly Angelo forgiving chews.”

  Montclair had to fight a ridiculous surge of delight. “What the devil are you doing in my cellar?”

  “Angelo overlookings theses lamps,” said the Spaniard, taking the question literally. “Very old, very finely. Mices elves buyings for loveliest—”

  “Good God! What again? Be damned if you ain’t a merchant by inclination—always trying to buy something!” Montclair strolled nearer, and glanced at the lamp the señor was holding. Despite the dust it was an interesting piece fashioned of heavy crystal, the shade a series of finely etched panels that were each remarkably beautiful. “Besides, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I meant—why are you here?” Hope quickened his heartbeat. “Have you brought a—a message for me, perhaps?”

  “He is here because I asked him to come, Val.” Candlestick in hand, Barbara hurried from the stairs. She gave Montclair a fond smile, but went straight to the Spaniard.

  Angelo put down his lamp and bowed to press his lips to her fingers. “Mices loveliest,” he murmured with ardour.

  “You came,” sighed Barbara redundantly.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ thought Montclair.

  It took a very few minutes to verify his fears. Miss Barbara Trent and Señor Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand were deeply in love. The Spaniard followed Barbara’s revelation by making an extremely lengthy and incoherent offer for his lady’s hand in marriage.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand all that, señor,” said Montclair as soon as he could break into this dramatic oration. “But I gather you wish to marry my cousin, in which case your application must be made to Sir Selby Trent, not to—”

  “No, Val,” said Barbara.

  It occurred to him belatedly that she had changed from the nervous child he knew. There was a new set to her chin, a brighter light in her eyes, and a becoming colour in her formerly pale cheeks. Being of the personal opinion that de Ferdinand was a little mad, Montclair found it incredible that his cousin could really have given her heart to so volatile an individual. The tender expression she turned upon the Spaniard left little doubt but that she loved him, however, and he in turn regarded her with such slavish adoration that Montclair dreaded what the end might be. “You must realize, Babs,” he said gently, “that even if I had a legal right to do so, I could not give you my permission.”

  “I know exactly what Papa would say,” she argued. “And so do you. They all are determined I must marry Sir Dennis Pollinger, and sooner would I be dead.”

  Señor de Ferdinand uttered a shriek and clapped a hand over her lips. “Madre de Dios!” he gasped, forgetting himself in his horror. “Chew deadling be, I
yump in rivers! No, no! Angelo firstly deploying theses mens nasty!”

  “Destroying, my dearest,” corrected Barbara, smiling at him lovingly. She turned to her troubled cousin. “I mean to wed him, Val. Yours is the only consent I care about. I shall elope, if I must.”

  He frowned. “I know you’ve been very unhappy, Babs, and I do indeed understand your situation. But I must consider your welfare. We know nothing of Señor de Ferdinand”—he slanted a faint smile at Angelo’s anxious and intent face—“save that he’s always trying to buy everything in sight.”

  “For mices loveliest. Chess!”

  “I appreciate your motives, certainly. But—señor, this simply will not do. I have no right at all to order Barbara’s future, but she is my cousin and her happiness is most important to me. If her heart is set on this, I promise I’ll do all in my power to help you, but I’ll not see her disgraced by a runaway elopement to Gretna Green.”

  With several vehement nods the Spaniard drew a folded paper from an inner pocket. “Mices elves buyings theses. Other the days.”

  Montclair took the paper and scanned it briefly. “Good Lord! A Special Licence?”

  “Angelo somethings wanting, Angelo gottings.”

  Montclair stared at him. “These aren’t easy to come by. How the deuce did—” He abandoned that pointless line of enquiry and returned the licence. “Very good. But how am I to know that you don’t already have a wife and a well-filled nursery? Or that you—”

  The Spaniard gave a snort of wrath, stamped his foot, and drew himself to his full height. “Señora de Ferdinand they’s not! Nurseries they’s not! Angelo de Ferdinand, mices elves, honour the bull yentleman!”

  “I will accept your word that you are an honourable man,” said Montclair, contriving to maintain an air of gravity. “But I know nothing of your background, save that you appear to make your home with Mr. Lyddford and Mrs. Henley. Which is certainly not an indication that you are able to support my cousin in comfort.”

  “Mices loveliest wishings palace, she havings! Herses elves wanting castles or Prinny’s vermilion at theses Brightons, she havings! Angelo Francisco—”

  “Miss Barbara…?” Winnie’s plump and scared countenance peered at them from the steps. “They’re looking everywhere for you, Miss,” she quavered. “Oh, do come quick! Ever so quick, Miss!”

  “Chess!” said Angelo, seizing his love’s hand. “Comings ourses elves, mices Barbara. Nowly!”

  “No!” said Montclair. “If they catch one whiff of this, señor, your lovely lady will be whisked away and you likely clapped up before you know where you are. Babs is underage and her parents have full legal control over her. You’d best get back to your friends, before you’re caught.”

  “He’s perfectly right,” said Barbara, frantic at the thought of danger to her beloved. “Go now. Val will handle everything, don’t worry.”

  “But, Angelo’s wishes—”

  “Oh, Miss! Do come!” begged the abigail tearfully.

  Reluctantly, Angelo returned his key to Barbara and took his leave.

  Montclair walked across the cellar with his cousin, easing her apprehensions by promising faithfully that was it at all possible, he would see her safely married to her unorthodox suitor.

  “One thing, Babs,” he said, as they climbed the stairs. “Where did you get my key to the back door?”

  “It’s not yours, Val. Winnie persuaded my brother’s man to let her borrow it.” She whispered desperately, “I beg you will not judge Señor Angelo because he—he sometimes brags a little. He is so kind, so gentle with me.”

  He reassured her as best he could, but when she left him and hurried after her abigail his steps slowed, his thoughts turning to his own problems. He now had two more pieces to add to his puzzle: at least one of the vagrants from Highperch was conspiring with his lazy gardener, for there could be no doubt that their meeting had been a secretive one. Also, there was the business of Junius having a key to the cellar entrance. In the year 1645, a troop of Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads had discovered the rear door, entered the Manor, slaughtered twenty-five of its Royalist defenders, and set fire to the building so that much of the East Wing had to be rebuilt. Since then, the two keys to that door had been jealously guarded. His own key (Geoff’s, actually) was locked in his desk. He’d seen Yates’s key this morning when the steward had opened the safe and grumbled good-naturedly that his key ring all but made him lean sideways when he walked. Somehow, Junius must have got his hands on one and had it copied. Perhaps he only wanted it so as to slink into the house after enjoying one of the wild nights his father would frown upon. On the other hand, Junius was very obviously both obedient to and afraid of Monsieur Imre Monteil. And the Swiss gentleman had a very havey-cavey business relationship with Andrew Lyddford.

  He intended to tackle Junius about the key, but the Trents had a dinner engagement that evening, and took Junius and Barbara with them, so he dined alone, plagued by an irritating sense that he had seen something in the cellar that was important, something he should have at once recognized to be of special significance. Whatever it was, it eluded him. He retired to his study, worked hard at his music for several hours, and went up to bed vexed by the knowledge that he had accomplished very little of any worth. Gould interpreted his gloomy expression correctly, and was so quietly diplomatic that at length Montclair’s introspection was pierced. “Am I behaving like a bear?” he asked laughingly. “What a trial I am to cause you to creep about as if on sheer glass.”

  “You are not a trial at all, Mr. Montclair,” said the valet politely, then added with daring, “Only—I wish I might think you happy.”

  His employer’s eyes became veiled. “I have much to be thankful for, Gould. I am alive when by rights I should be thoroughly dead. I live in a beautiful house. I am cared for by patient and faithful retainers. A great deal more than many men can claim, eh?”

  Yet even as he spoke those hollow and empty words came another nudge at memory. What in the world was his brain trying to tell him?

  After Gould left, he lay frowning at the book in his hands. It had been something in the cellar … And it was connected to something he’d said to Gould … What had he said? He’d spoken of the beauty of Longhills … and of his faithful servants … not much else. However he racked his brains the puzzle would not be solved, and at length, frustrated, he slammed the book closed and leaned over to blow out his candle. His outstretched hand checked, and he stared at the water pitcher, his own voice echoing in his ears. “… to creep about as if on sheer glass…” That was it! Glass! Into his mind’s eye came Angelo holding up that crystal lamp. For a long moment he remained stiff and silent. Then, “By God…!” he whispered, and flinging back the bedclothes began to get dressed again.

  Everyone had gone to bed when he made his way down to the second cellar, and the dark stillness seemed to press in about him. He had carried a branch of candles this time, and lit those in the wall sconces as he went along. His searching gaze found the lamp at last, and he went eagerly to inspect it. The Chinese student he’d admired at school had been most interested in the manufacture of glass, and from Li he had learned something of the procedure. The diamond-point engraving on the panels of the shade was exquisitely done, the clarity and the hatching, which was without exception worked in a single direction, marking it beyond doubt as having been fashioned in the Netherlands, some time in the sixteenth century. It was a rare work of art. Montclair’s breath hissed through his teeth and he began to search carefully through the haphazardly piled articles.

  When he climbed the steps half an hour later, his eyes were narrowed, his lips a tight line. The pieces of the puzzle were falling together in a way that could no longer be ignored, and always the evidence pointed in one direction. The hurt and disillusion that had racked him were intensified, but now to those emotions was added rage, deep and searing.

  * * *

  Charlie Purvis handed Allegro’s reins to Montclair and peered u
p into the stormy face anxiously.

  “You sure you won’t let me ride with you, sir? He’s awful frisky, and you’re not—” He broke off, his sleepy eyes widening as Montclair slipped a long-barrelled Boutet pistol into the saddle holster. “Mr. Valentine,” he said in a changed voice, “I don’t know what you’re about, but it’s a wild night and I’m going with—”

  Montclair said curtly, “You’re going back to bed, Charlie. What I’m about is my own affair, and I shall handle it without interference.”

  The big bay cavorted, impatient to be gone, but Purvis’s hand clung to the bridle still. Montclair’s expression lightened. He reached down to grip the Welshman’s shoulder. “You’re a good fellow, and I thank you for your loyalty. Just in case anything should go wrong, I’ve left a letter for Mr. Devenish telling him what I suspect. It might be as well for you to take it down to Devencourt. At once. Gould will give it to you, but say nothing of it to anyone else, understand?”

  “Aye. I’ll be mum as chance, sir.”

  “Good man. Now—stand clear!”

  Allegro reared, snorting, and Purvis jumped away. “Sir,” he called, “you forgot your hat!”

  But Montclair had already been swallowed up by the blustery darkness.

  * * *

  It was utter folly, thought Susan, wandering across the meadow and lifting her face to the night wind, to brood so about the wretched creature. He was unworthy of one second of her consideration. It was all the fault of Fate, really. Fate was such a cruel trickster. She had married Burke Henley willingly, and she’d been fond of him, but she’d never given him her heart. She had saved it—for a man who in return had despised her!

  She was faintly surprised to find that her aimless steps had carried her into the fringes of the woods. She’d come a long way, and she should not really be out here alone, but it was hard to sleep of late, and sometimes she felt a desperate need to escape from her family and the cottage where there were so many reminders of—She frowned.