Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (30 page)

Barbara stared at her and thought she had never seen a lady
who was more fascinatingly beautiful. And that silvery trill of
laughter… How long had it been since she laughed… ? "It is—is just,"
she stammered, "that I have been so very—distraught of late. And—and so
worried about Valentine. I fear my poor mind…" She lifted a hand to her
brow in distracted fashion.

"No, please," said Susan. "Such candour is refreshing.I assure
you I did not drive my poor husband to his death. At least, I hope I
did not." She busied herself with the teapot and handed her guest a
full cup complete with sugar and milk as requested. "And of course you
have been distracted. I wonder you did not fall into a decline. So
newly betrothed and to have Mr. Montclair almost killed on the selfsame
day!"

"Yes," said Barbara, beginning to forget her nervousness under
the spell of such warm kindliness. "It was frightful. Papa and Mama
have told me he is past the crisis now, of course, but one cannot help
but worry, and—they would not let me come."

'Because of the notorious widow and this house of infamy,'
thought Susan, irritated. "Well, I'm glad you have come now."

"Thank you. My abigail told me Valentine almost died, and—and
that you saved his life. How brave you must be."

"No, no. I was merely the one who chanced to find him."

Barbara said quaveringly, "I believe his head was broken.
Is—is his mind… ?"

"Good gracious—no! He suffered a bad concussion, and when he
was thrown into the Folly his leg and some bones in his right hand were
broken."

"Oh! Poor Val! He must be frantic! He is a musician, you know."

She looked as if she was about to cry, and Susan pointed out
hurriedly that it could have been much worse. "Fortunately he did not
suffer any major injuries or compound fractures. The breaks are clean
and our Bo'sun says will heal nicely. The gentleman has had a very bad
few weeks, I own, and it will likely be a little while yet before he is
well again. But his mind is not affected, I promise you!" She was
astounded that the poor little creature had known none of this, and
impulsively patting her hand, said, "Oh, my dear, how dreadful that you
have worried so!"

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.
"Senor de Ferdinand! How do you do?"

Rushing to take her outstretched hand and hold it with the
greatest reverence, he said fiercely, "Mices-elves 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. Henley, 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 Senor 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'!