Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (12 page)

"Bien sur embrasse-moi, mon petit."

Very aware that Junius's pose had slipped and that his cousin
was looking daggers at him, Valentine said gravely, "
Avec le
plus grand plaisir, madame
," and saluted her fingers.

Junius tittered audibly.

Madame la Comtesse put up her lorgnette fan and surveyed him
through a hushed and awful moment from which he was rescued when his
mother rose hurriedly and led the ladies from the room. Demurely in the
rear of the august train, Barbara's face was brightened by silent
laughter.

The gentlemen lingered over their port and nuts, but at last
Montclair was able to conduct the small male group across the great
hall, into the south hall and thence down the steps, through the
conservatory, and into the gallery where the ladies had gathered. This
was not Montclair's favourite room, perhaps because of the
half-a-hundred ancestors who stared down from their ornate frames.
Since impromptu dances were often held in here, a fine piano-forte
stood in the deep alcove midway between the vast central hearth and the
rear wall, and Madame la Comtesse lost no time in observing that she
had agreed to come to Longhills because she had heard that Montclair
played divinely. Fixed with a basilisk stare, my lady Trent swallowed
her fury, and in a voice that shook slightly implored her nephew to
oblige them. "Why don't you play that new little thing you writ,
dearest boy," she said, her lips curling back as though she yearned to
bite him.

'That new little thing'… Gritting his teeth, Montclair made
his way to the piano-forte. The instrument had far more power than the
harpsichord; at least Aunt Marcia would be quite unable to make herself
heard. The Honourable Jemima promptly volunteered to turn the sheets
for "clever Mr. Montclair," but he foiled that ploy by saying with
pseudo-regret that he needed no music, and thus was spared the young
lady's way of pulling her chair very close, edging ever closer and
flirting in the over-coy but determined way that was so appalling.

He launched into his music, losing himself in it until the
roar of applause greeted the final chord. The Honourable Jemima rushed
to take his hand and declare that she was "all admiration." Madame la
Comtesse was ecstatic, his cousin Barbara was reduced to tears, the
other guests, who wouldn't know an Irish jig from an oratorio,
applauded to please the comtesse, while Junius, who admired the
Honourable Jemima, seethed.

Another hour dragged by before Madame la Comtesse decreed that
she had been here long enough, and departed, expressing her thanks with
cold hauteur to Sir Selby and Lady Marcia, but patting Montclair's
cheek, and murmuring, "
Charmant, Maestro! Le plus charmant
!"
The Spindles also left, bearing the Honourable Jemima with them. The
remaining guests, the Trents and their son, were avid gamesters. They
settled down to their cards and since they would likely play until the
wee hours, Barbara was sent off to bed, and Montclair was able to slip
quietly away.

Before going upstairs, he went out onto the terrace for a
breath of air. He was very weary, but the evening had not been a
complete loss. Because the mighty comtesse had apparently taken a
liking to him, his aunt's nose was properly out of joint, and Junius
could cheerfully have rent him limb from limb.

Chuckling to himself, he glanced to the left. Deep in the
shadows at the far end of the terrace, something had moved. One of the
servants, likely. "Hello," he called. "Who's there?"

Save for a cool night wind that whispered among the shrubs,
the silence was absolute. Montclair tensed. His eyes were very keen,
and he was sure he could distinguish a darker shape, standing very
still. "The devil!" he muttered. "Hey! You there!" Grabbing a flower
pot he sprang forward. Perhaps his weariness and then the sudden
movement set it off, and dizziness struck hard, the terrace swinging
under his feet so that he weaved drunkenly. Candlelight glowed at an
open upper window. Barbara's voice called a vaguely anxious, "Val? Is
that you?"

Montclair had managed to reach the deeper darkness under the
beech trees. He was sure that someone stood mute and still, very close
to him. His vision was blurring, and he drew an impatient hand across
his eyes. When he looked up the dark figure was drifting away. "Stand!"
he gasped, waving his flower pot.

An arm was about him. Gould's voice, sharp with concern,
asked, "Are you all right, sir?"

"Somebody… here…" he managed thickly.

Barbara called, "What is it? Is he ill again?"

Gould looked up at her. "A little too much wine I think, Miss
Trent."

"I—tell you," mumbled Montclair, "there was… somebody…"

"Yes, sir," said Gould soothingly. "Let me give you a hand,
Mr. Valentine. Here we go, sir. Have you in bed in two shakes of a
lamb's tail."

On this sunny morning Susan had awoken to the strains of some
Castilian ditty, sung regrettably off-key as usual. When she descended
the stairs forty minutes later, the howls had ceased, and the
perpetrator was standing on the front steps throwing his arms wide and
breathing deeply.

"Good morning, Senor Angelo," called Susan.

He bowed, then announced he was "riding forego!" and marched
off stablewards.

Bo'sun George Dodman came along the corridor, carrying a large
painting. He greeted her in his shy way, the sunlight waking his red
hair to a flame, the usual cheerful grin brightening his square
sun-bronzed face and deepening the laugh lines that edged the green
eyes. "You're up early, ma'am, and looking mighty trim a'low and aloft,
if I may say so."

"Thank you, Bo'sun. What are you going to do with that
monstrosity?"

He turned the painting and viewed it without delight. "Horrid,
isn't it, Mrs. Sue? But"—his voice lowered— "the little widow wants it
cleaned. So—cleaned it must be. I only hope she won't be disappointed
when I've done." Suddenly despondent, he sighed heavily. "I'd like to
please her, ma'am."

Susan smiled. In this house of widows she was invariably
referred to as 'Mrs. Sue,' while Edwina Starr was 'the little widow.'
The painting looked like nothing more than a collection of dark brown
swirls, but as the Bo'sun swung the kitchen door open she said
encouragingly that there might be a pretty picture under all that dirt,
in which case Starry would indeed be pleased.

The kitchen was bright with sunlight and fragrant with the
aromas of bacon, freshly baked scones, and coffee. Priscilla, sampling
a scone, turned from the stove and ran to collect her morning kiss.

"Mama! I'm so glad you waked yourself up at last! Uncle Andy
has almost finished mending my doll house an' it's just 'dorable, an' I
want to paint it. He said I could if I liked, but the Bo'sun won't let
me have any paint. Will you make him get some out of his pot for me,
Mama? Just a teensy scrinch? There must be enough for a
tiny
little house if there's enough for that
hugeous
big boat!" She looked sternly at the miser. "He's just being
uncoproff'tive."

"Now Miss Priscilla, don't bother your poor mama the moment
you see her," scolded Mrs. Starr, studiedly unaware of Dodman's
admiring gaze. "Come and sit here, Mrs. Sue, your breakfast's all
ready. Did you sleep well?Such a chilly night for this time of year.
Never stand there like a lump, Bo'sun. I've cut you a raw potato, it's
in the bowl over there. You'll likely want to take it into the Hall
where you'll have more room to work."

"Yes, ma'am." He collected the potato and proceeded with
lagging steps towards the door that led into the Servants' Hall.

Her eyes very round, Priscilla asked, "Aren't you going to
cook it for him, Starry?"

Susan laughed. "Bo'sun George had his breakfast already,
darling. He is going to clean the picture, and the potato is a—a sort
of paint soap."

"Unless," said Mrs. Starr, who had timed to a nicety the
closing of the door, "the Bo'sun would care to work at the counter by
the sink, and have another cup of coffee."

His eyes lighting up, Dodman fairly shot back into the room.

Susan stirred cream into her cup. "Real coffee, Starry? Can we
afford it?"

Her colour somewhat heightened as she carried a cup over to
the industrious man at the counter, the little woman answered with a
wink. "Depends upon where we buy it, dear ma'am. This pound wasn't
weighted down with government taxes, you may be sure."

Susan's brows lifted. She said innocently, "Free Traders,
Starry? Here? You surprise me."

Dodman joined in the laughter, caught Mrs. Starr's eyes,
reddened, and hurriedly restored his attention to the canvas.

"
I'm
s'prised that with all that paint,
the Bo'sun can't spare a teensy scrinch for my doll house," sighed
Priscilla, standing on tiptoe to watch the results of his efforts. "It
seems very mean an' unkindly to bedredge a little child a drib of paint
when she needs it so drefful bad."

"That should be 'begrudge,'" said Mrs. Starr, buttering
another scone. "Come and sit down at table with your mama, now."

Priscilla clambered onto the chair beside her mother. "Don't
you think the Bo'sun is a greedy great hog, Mama?" she enquired. "He's
got so much paint and all I want—"

"Is a lesson in manners," said Susan. "Little girls do not
call grown-up men greedy great hogs!"

"But, Mama, the Bible says 'Thou shalt not bear false witness'
an' if the Bo'sun reely is a—"

Mrs. Starr turned away, a hand over her smile, then scowled
and removed Welcome from the sink.

"The Bible also says 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as
thyself.' " And seeing that pretty little mouth start quite predictably
to open, Susan added, "Which means friends as well. And also it says,
'Thou shalt not covet.'"

"I don't, Mama! I wouldn't never do that 'cause I don't know
what a covet is."

"It's wishing you had something that belongs to someone else.
And the Bo'sun has very little paint. Oh, I know it seems a lot to you,
dear, but really it may not even be enough for all the work he has to
do on
The Dainty Dancer
, and we can't afford
another big pot. Besides," she spread some raspberry jam on her scone,
"I think, if it was my doll house, I wouldn't want white paint. Have
some jam, my love. Did she eat her egg, Starry?"

"Yes, I eated it all up," said Priscilla, "and Wolfgang eated
his breakfast too, din't he, Starry? An' has we got some other paint,
Mama? I'd 'ticlarly like red, if poss'ble."

"Red!" said Mrs. Starr, with a furtive smile at Susan.
"Whoever heard of a red house?"

"The elfs did," argued Priscilla. "In that book you read me,
Mama. 'Member? The elfs lived in a little shoe house an' it was all
bright and red an' cosy. Red's a cosy colour, don't you 'gree, Bo'sun
George?"

Dodman glanced uneasily at Mrs. Starr's bright eyes, which
were immediately averted. "Can't say that I do, Miss Priscilla. Red's a
colour that doesn't please some folks, who think that red hair, for
instance, stands for bad temper." Mrs. Starr emitting a small snort, he
went on innocently, "Not in my case, of course, for everyone knows that
I'm a very peaceable man and like a quiet life, y'see."

Priscilla squealed delightedly, Susan could not restrain a
laugh, and although Mrs. Starr tried to look indifferent, she was won
to a smile. She often remarked in Dodman's hearing that she could not
abide a man who was forever brawling. It was well known that the Bo'sun
had often resorted to fisticuffs in the taverns near their London home.
And however often Andrew would explain that Dodman was only defending
the honour of the family name, and that someone had ventured a
disparaging remark about Burke Henley's suicide, the 'little widow'
would doggedly hold to her opinion that there was
never
a need for violence.

When Susan finished her breakfast, Mrs. Starr gave her the
list of things to be purchased from Amberly Down. At once, Priscilla
put in her bid for a particularly vital item. Susan explained patiently
why this was not possible; Mrs. Starr tried diversionary tactics; the
Bo'sun smiled and worked busily. And the end of it was that when Susan
walked onto the front steps in her riding habit, a small pot of red
paint (if affordable) had been added to her list.

Outside, Deemer led up Pewter, the silver grey mare snorting
and sidling in her pretty way, eager to be gone on this bright morning.
With a worried look the butler handed Susan a letter. "Came by special
messenger, Mrs. Sue," he said.

Susan said she would read it later and rode away, waving
merrily to Priscilla, who came out onto the steps to watch her leave.
Once out of sight of the cottage she guided Pewter into the shade of
some trees, and broke the seal. Her apprehensions were justified; the
letter was from a solicitor in Gloucester, written in behalf of Lord
Montclair. Brief and to the point, it stated that Mrs. Henley was
trespassing on Longhills property; that Highperch Cottage had been sold
to Mr. Ezra Henley in January 1811, but was bought back by Lady Digby
Montclair in November of that same year, after Mr. Ezra Henley had
repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with the premises. Further, that
all pertinent deeds and documents were in the hands of Messrs. Ferry,
Laidlaw, and Ferry, at the above address. Wherefore, Mrs. Burke Henley
was hereby formally advised that she, her family, friends, servants,
and livestock must remove from the dwelling known as Highperch Cottage,
a part of the Longhills preserves, prior to the 15th inst. In the event
she had not vacated the premises by that date, bailiffs would be sent
to effect the removal, at which time Lord Montclair would institute
legal proceedings against her.

Heartsick, Susan spurred the willing Pewter to a gallop and
tore through the brilliant morning trying to shut out her worries.