Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (34 page)

'Oh, you
idiot
!' thought Susan. '
Why
must you antagonize him?'

"No, no!" The Swiss looked crestfallen, and said sadly,
"Ah—but I have been the great fool to have supposed that as my friend
you would not object. I quite comprehend the imposition. My crates
shall be moved at once. Madame Henley, is it within the realm of
possibility that your new men could tomorrow begin to carry my
belongings down to the dock to await your brother's return? I am
devastated to so inconvenience you, but not for an instant longer must
I impose on poor Valentine's good nature!"

Wishing with all her heart that "poor Valentine" was confined
to his bed (preferably under strong restraint), or that Monsieur
Monteil had gone upon his way, Susan was irked to have been put in so
uncomfortable a position. "There is not the need, monsieur," she said.
"Since the courts have yet to rule on the matter and
we
live here now, my brother's word is all that is required. Besides, my
new men are—"

"Resting, no doubt," interrupted Valentine savagely. "You'll
get little work out of them, I'll go bail, for all your much vaunted
ability to judge men."

"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.

The house was very quiet when Montclair struggled down the
stairs next morning. His descent as 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, overbalanced, 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?"