Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (14 page)

"This will do very nicely." Susan dazzled Mundy with her
smile. "I'll take it with me." She turned her back on Montclair's
scowl, and handed over her small sum so that he might not see how very
little more was in her purse.

He did see the lid of the pot, however, liberally and luridly
splashed with scarlet. "The… deuce!" he gasped. "Do I understand you to
say you mean to paint my house with—
that
?"

"Certainly not," she replied, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
"The house I mean to paint belongs to
me
, sir!"
She saw his jaw drop as she swept out, clutching her purchase, laughter
bubbling inside her.

Seething, Montclair caught up with her and seized her elbow.
"You would not—
dare
," he said between his teeth.

Her eyes very wide and innocent, she blinked up at him. "Sir?
I fail to understand you, but do you think you should embrace me on a
public thoroughfare?"

"
Embrace
you!" He glanced up and
discovered at least twelve people who had not been on the street
before. Releasing her arm as though it burned him, he said grittily,
"Mrs. Henley, you have absolutely
no right
to
interfere with my house. I warn you—if you
dare
apply that hideous paint to—"

"I would think you might be grateful to us for improving the
poor old place," she sighed. "Rather than let it go to rack and ruin—as
you have done. Oh!" She clapped a hand over her nose and added a
muffled, "Pray excuse me, sir. That
dreadful
stench… it is quite suffocating. I vow I am all but overcome and in
another moment must fall down in a swoon.
Whatever
would people think, I wonder… ? Ah, but you would catch me, of course."

Practically incoherent, Montclair snarled, "Do you know what
I
think, madam? It is that you are a—"

"Here I am," called Susan, as young Jack approached, leading
Pewter. "Would you please carry this for me? Goodbye, sir."

"Oh, no, ma'am," said Montclair, clapping his hat on as she
tripped away. "Not goodbye. We shall meet very soon, I assure you!" He
watched her hasten into the grocer's shop, tall and willowy, that long
thick black hair swinging softly. "By God, but we will—you conniving
Cleopatra!" he muttered.

When Sir Selby Trent had moved his family into Longhills he
had declared with commendable humility that he had no wish to intrude
into the private life of the Montclairs. Refusing therefore to occupy
any of the many suites available in the main block, he had taken up his
abode in the south wing. This decision had been viewed without regret
by his two nephews, and lauded by his son. His daughter, however, had
always wished to reside in the main block, for although the south wing
was more modern and extremely luxurious, it was a long walk to and from
the dining room.

On this bright afternoon, Barbara could only be grateful for
the distance. She had emerged from her earlier hiding place in the
gardens, and had been nervously arranging flowers in Valentine's study
when Winnie had brought her father's summons. Now she walked with
trembling knees beside her plump and comely abigail, listening without
conviction to Winnie's whispered but daring observation that "no one
cannot
force
you to marry if you don't choose to,
Miss Barbara."

They crossed the long gallery toward the steps that led down
into the side hall. "Oh yes they can," moaned Barbara miserably. "Are
you sure my cousin is gone out?"

"Rid into the village, miss, so that starched-up Mr. Gould
says. And he should know, being as he's Mr. Valentine's valet, though
one might think from the airs he gives hisself as he was valet to the
Pope o' Rome, at least!"

This criticism went unnoticed by Barbara whose entire unhappy
concentration was on the forthcoming interview with her formidable
parents.

A footman flung open the door that led to the south wing, and
they passed through.

"They likely chose this time, knowing he was gone," Barbara
whimpered. "May God help me! I am quite undone! I can never face them
down alone!"

A lackey froze to attention in the broad panelled hall leading
past the ballroom, and Winnie was discreetly silent until they had
passed another lackey whose mission in life appeared to be to repel the
attempted invasion of a small butterfly. Then she asked softly, "What
could Mr. Valentine do, miss? He can't hardly tell your parents the
marriage is not right for you."

Three steps up and past double doors that stood open,
revealing the sun-splashed magnificence of the Venetian drawing room in
which two maids were polishing busily. Barbara whispered, "I know, but
he doesn't like this any more than I do. He would tell me what to say.
Oh, Winnie! I'm—so
scared
! If
only
Mr. Valentine was back! They will
make
me marry
him! I know it!"

"Just don't promise anything, miss. You
mustn't
!"
Winnie glanced sympathetically at the pallid and drawn young face
beside her. Much chance the poor little thing had with them two! "I
s'pose it could be worse, miss," she pointed out, trying to make the
best of a bad thing. "What if it was that there Mr. Monteil they wanted
you to marry?"

Barbara shuddered.

They started up the main staircase now, the great
stained-glass window on the half landing bathing the beautifully carved
panelling with colour. A slim young footman, carrying a large Chinese
urn down the stairs, stepped aside respectfully as Barbara passed, then
gave Winnie a grin and a wink.

"Owdacious flirt," she muttered, her big brown eyes sparkling.

"Is that you, Barbara?" The high-pitched, rasping voice
heralded the appearance at the top of the stairs of Lady Trent. She
wore a morning dress of apple-green silk with forest-green velvet bands
about the bodice and the short sleeves, and a green velvet fringe above
the hem. Her coiffure was of the latest fashion, but vindictiveness and
suspicion radiated from her; nothing could make her look charming, and
her very presence at the top of that fine old stair seemed to cast a
pall over its beauty.

Certainly she cast a pall over her daughter, who jerked to a
halt, became even paler, and gripped her hands together. "Yes, M-Mama,"
she faltered.

"We have been waiting this age," scolded my lady, fixing
Winnie with a frigid stare. "Well, never stand there as if you'd taken
root, child! Hurry up, do!"

Barbara's imploring glance at her abigail was ignored. Winnie
had encountered my lady's temper before, and she fled.

Quaking, Barbara followed her mother.

The study was large, bright, and airy. The curtains were
thrown back, and warm sunlight slanted into the luxuriously appointed
room, painting a golden bar across the dark wine carpet. Fine paintings
graced the walls, and tall display cases between the windows contained
a prized collection of antique weapons. Sir Selby rose from behind the
graceful Hepplewhite desk and hastened to draw up a chair for his wife,
who at once launched into an irked denunciation of her bold and
disobedient daughter.

"N-no, ma'am, I beg you," said Barbara, perching nervously on
the edge of an adjacent chair. "I came at once when Winnie told me—"

Trent murmured, "I think I did not give you my permission to
be seated."

His daughter fairly sprang to her feet. "Oh! Your pardon,
Papa," she gasped, wringing her hands.

"Accepted."

"You are too lenient, Sir Selby," said my lady with her toothy
smile. "Insolence must be punished or there is no telling where it will
end. Therefore, Miss Trent, that piece of ill manners will cost you
your dinner this evening."

Barbara hung her head and yearned to be peacefully in her
grave.

"You knew perfectly well you should have notified your dear
papa of your acceptance long before today," Lady Trent went on.

Summoning every vestige of her courage, Barbara forced her
stiff lips to obey her. "But—but Mama… Papa," she croaked. "I—I do not…
w-wish to m-marry him."

There was a moment of tingling and terrible silence.

"Do… not…
wish .
. ." gasped Sir Selby,
lifting his quizzing glass and through it scanning his shivering
offspring as though she were some rare and repulsive insect.

My lady sprang to her feet. "How
dare
you flout your parents' authority, wretched child? The boy is well
born, not unattractive, and very rich! Are you gone quite mad to balk
at such a chance?"

"Never upset yourself, my dear." Sir Selby turned to his
daughter, his eyes a little narrowed, his words spaced and distinct and
ineffably menacing. "Barbara will obey us as a well-bred Christian girl
should do. I promised that she would accept this offer, and I never
break a promise. You—
do
understand me, I trust,
miss?"

Pierced by his grim stare, able to feel her mother's anger,
Barbara shook visibly, and tried with dry lips to respond. The words
came in a sudden rush. "I—oh, please, Papa! I cannot care for him in—in
that particular way. I
beg
of you—do not force—"

"Heavens above, has the chit never
looked
at herself?" Her eyes sparking, her voice piercingly shrill, Lady Trent
said, "All your life, Miss Barbara, you have received the very best of
instruction and guidance. Much you chose to benefit from it, never
regarding what a pretty penny you have cost us! Can you suppose you are
a credit to your unfortunate parents, fat and drab and ugly as you are?
That you should receive an offer from
any
eligible gentleman is little short of miraculous, as you would realize
were you blessed with the faintest degree of Godliness and humility!"

Incapable of speech now, Barbara felt physically sick. She was
painfully aware that the door was not quite closed, and had no doubt
but that the lackey outside had heard every word of her chastisement
and that it very soon would be giggled over by every servant at
Longhills. She stood with head bowed, tears of humiliation creeping
silently down her white cheeks.

"Look at your daughter, sir!" cried my lady, exasperated. "She
has received an offer from a well-bred and well-to-do young gentleman,
which is a sight more than I dared to hope for the silly chit, even
though it was likely only made out of pity. She should be down on her
knees giving thanks. And—look at her! Only
look
at her!"

"Alas, my love. How sharp is the lash an ungrateful child
turns upon its parents…"

"No," sobbed poor Barbara. "Truly, I—I
am
g-grateful, sir, but—"

"There are no buts," interpolated Sir Selby in a quiet and
awful voice. "At half past eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, you will
present yourself in the great hall. You will accept with maidenly
modesty and gratitude the honour that has been offered you." He lifted
one hand in a regal gesture, halting his daughter's feeble attempt at
speech. "There is nothing more to be said. You may go and meditate upon
your outrageous behaviour."

Taking her weeping daughter by the arm, Lady Trent pushed her
to the door. "Stop your snivelling, do," she commanded, tightening her
grip cruelly. "And furthermore, my girl, you had best not appear on
Saturday with a face like an expiring bloodhound, else you will be
sorry, I promise you.
Very
sorry!"

The hills were emerald, the sky intensely blue, the breeze
playing like a frolicsome kitten; now quiet and hidden, now darting
from concealment to dance with the treetops and riffle the grasses and
run flirtatious fingers through Susan's long soft hair. The little mare
tossed her pretty head and picked up her hooves as lightly as
thistledown. And Susan rode with anxiety for a companion, and her
thoughts on the letter that now resided in her pocket.

Had the cottage
really
been sold back to
the Montclairs? Was it possible that she really
was
trespassing, and that the young nobleman who had so contemptuously sent
his friends to drive her away had right
and
the
law on his side? She bit her lip, frightened. What court would believe
her if she said that Burke Henley may not even have known about the
cottage, and had certainly never mentioned it to her? Or that, even as
Sir Selby Trent had implied, Mr. Ezra Henley's mind had been clouded
during the final few years of his life and he had kept many things
secret and hoarded his papers, fearful of trickery, so that even Burke
had known few details of his father's affairs?

If they
were
trespassers, it might take
some time to dispossess them. Grandpapa Tate's solicitor had said
something about possession being nine-tenths of the law. If things went
along as they were, within just a little while they would have their
feet on the ground again, but it could not be accomplished within ten
days as demanded by the letter in her pocket. What was needed was
something to delay the evil baron…

Deep in thought, she paid no attention to her route, allowing
the mare to choose her own path. How angry Montclair had been about the
paint. She brightened. He'd been fairly white with rage. As if she
would put a red trim on the dear old cottage! She giggled, picturing
it. The pot of paint, much larger than she'd thought to buy, had proven
too heavy and bulky to be slung from the pommel, especially on such a
warm day, so she'd asked the boy who'd held Pewter to take it back to
the Ironmongery and tell Mr. Mundy she would like it delivered to
Highperch, as he'd kindly offered. Priscilla would be so—

She glanced up and gave a shocked gasp. Pewter had slowed to
little more than a walk. They were following a trail beside a long line
of tall birch trees, and beside her rode the object of her thoughts.
With an involuntary jerk at the reins, she exclaimed, "Oh! Lord
Montclair!" And she thought, 'He thinks I have the paint in my parcels
and has come to try and wrest it from me by force!'