Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (21 page)

Susan hesitated. Valentine Montclair was despicable, and from
what Angelo had said the wretch was determined to force his unhappy
little cousin to the altar. But whatever he was, whatever he had done,
he was a human being, and if there was any chance he had fallen into
this Folly of his, he must be helped. Thus, she said quietly, "I just
want to—to make sure of something. Come along, sweetheart, show me your
Folly. The Fury won't come if I'm with you, I promise. This is a—a
real
adventure, and I need your help. Do you understand?"

"Oooh…" said Priscilla, ecstatic.

Susan took up the train of her habit and trod carefully across
the littered clearing. She had left Priscilla and the horses in the
trees, just in case there might be something the child should not see.
She thought, 'Which is ridiculous, and I'm just being foolish!' But she
went on.

As she drew closer it seemed that the normal sounds of the
woods faded and an unnatural stillness enfolded this macabre clearing.
The weak sun had gone into hiding once more, and the mists were
thickening. There was not a breath of wind, the trees were completely
motionless, and the Folly hove up lonely and forbidding against the
darkening skies.

The place was positively ghoulish! To think of Priscilla
coming here all alone! She found herself holding her breath as she
picked her way among the great mossy slabs and then went with careful
steps inside the broken walls. The pit loomed before her and she gave a
gasp. "Dear God! Small wonder he chased her away!"

It would seem the man had done them a great service. And in
return… Guilt scourged her but she told herself that, basically, he
still was at fault. Such a gruesome hole in the ground should never
have been left open. If he had one single ounce of concern for others,
he'd have had it sealed up long ago! Anyone might fall into the beastly
place! She found herself reluctant to go any nearer, and stood staring
uneasily at those sad and broken ruins. What nonsense! There was
nothing to be afraid of. In a few seconds she would be laughing at
herself because that ancient cellar contained only dampness and—rats?
She pushed her qualms aside, ventured to the brink, and peered down.

Heavens, what a pit! It was too dark to see anything much.
"Hello?" she called, feeling a perfect fool. "Is anybody there?"

Silence.

She gave a sigh of relief, and turned back to where Priscilla
waited.

"Hello… ?" The cry was faint and croaking, but she halted and
stood as if frozen, an icy hand touching between her shoulder blades.
"Oh… my heavens!" she whispered, and flinging around, was at the brink
again in a second.

"Mr. Montclair? Is that you?"

This time the response was almost immediate. "Yes. Please… get
help."

He
was
down there! And he sounded so
weak. She thought, aghast, 'Small wonder! All this time!'

"Are you hurt?" she called.

A pause, then a feeble, "A trifle. Please… water…"

"I'll fetch some! I must send for help, then I'll come, I
promise!"

She ran to where Priscilla waited. The small face was pale,
the eyes behind the spectacles enormous with fright.

"Mama! I been so scared! Did it chase you? You shouldn't of—"

"Darling, listen—there is nothing bad to chase me. But your
friend, Mr. Valentine, is down there, and he's hurt a little bit, I'm
afraid."

It would have been hard to tell whether the mouth or the eyes
were the roundest. "Oh,
poor
Mr. Val'tine! We
better help him, Mama!"

"Yes. We must. Only, we're not strong enough to get him out by
ourselves. I think I should stay with him. Could you ride home and
fetch someone? I know the Bo'sun and Uncle Andy are away, but—tell
Uncle Angelo or Deemer; they'll know what to do."

The child whimpered. She looked so little and frightened on
the back of her pony, and she was only five. She was, she revealed,
afraid to leave her only mama where the gentleman Fury might come back
at any minute and eat her all up.

It was quite understandable. Poor Burke had been all
tenderness with his child, and Priscilla had adored him. She'd been
shattered by his sudden death, and it had left her with the obvious
fear that she might lose the other people she loved. It took a moment,
but when Susan painted a picture of a great heroine riding bravely for
help, the child's active imagination was fired. Beaming, she pushed the
spectacles higher on her little nose, and took up the reins.

"Dearest," said Susan. "Mr. Valentine has had no food or water
for a long time. When you were here before did you see a stream nearby?"

"No, Mama. But—our picnic might still be there. Starry made
one for me and Wolfgang to take in the garden on Wednesday only we
earned here 'stead, so we put it in our larder, but then we met Mr.
Val'tine and I forgot all 'bout it."

Today was Saturday. Still, it might be usable. Susan enquired
as to the location of the "larder," and then sent her daughter off,
urging her to hurry but ride carefully.

The larder was a narrow space between two of the great stone
slabs which had tilted against each other. Gingerly Susan reached
inside and pulled out the small covered basket. Ants had found the cake
and bread and jam, but the bottle of lemonade was corked just tightly
enough to have kept them out. She snatched it up and ran back to the
pit.

Her call brought only a feeble croak in response. Poor Mr.
Montclair must stand in desperate need of water, but if she threw the
bottle down it might break, or he might be too weak to reach it. She
was so near—and she might as well have been a mile away. Fretfully, she
thought, 'Surely I can do
something
?

She began to prowl around the edge. If this horrid pit had
really been a cellar, then there
must
have been
stairs, but she could discern only the sheer wall, and she couldn't
possibly get down that. And then she saw a slight dip in the far edge
that looked too even to have formed by chance. She hurried to it, and
knelt, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to pierce the gloom and
uttering an exclamation of excitement when she discovered the remains
of a flight of steps, the first usable one being about four feet from
the top. It looked horribly narrow and crumbly. She bit her lip but
there came again a faint pleading cry. "Water… please… water…" All
thought of his infamy was gone now, and her kind heart was wrung. She
called, "I'm going to bring it down to you."

"No! Too… dangerous. Just… lower it and…" The weak voice
trailed into silence.

Trembling, Susan sent a swift prayer heavenwards. Then she
tucked the precious bottle into the pocket of her skirt, turned onto
her tummy, and groped downward with her feet. If Mr. Montclair was
conscious, she thought grimly, he would have a most excellent view of
her pink pantalettes. Her right boot touched the step, and she could
feel pieces of debris. The thought of rats recurred. She reached out
and was able to grasp a long fallen branch, then she let herself down,
resting more and more of her weight on the step until she was
reasonably sure it would not crumble under her. She lowered herself
gradually, holding her breath, her heart thundering, trying not to
think of the black void below. The step was wider and deeper than she'd
at first supposed, and she was able to turn sideways. She made her left
hand let go, and gripping her branch, lowered that arm slowly, still
clinging with her right hand to the top of the pit. She pressed
desperately against the wall, grateful that she'd often climbed trees
with Andy in her tom-boyish younger days, and had a good head for
heights.

Using the stick as a probe she found the next step cluttered
with leaves and pieces of rock, and she poked the debris away, hoping
it was not falling on Montclair, but knowing that if she turned her
ankle it must be disastrous. On she went, from step to step, until she
had descended to the point where she must make a great decision. If she
was to lower herself any farther, she would no longer be able to hold
the top of the pit. And suppose there were no more steps? 'Well,' she
thought doggedly, 'then I shall have to sit here like a bird on a twig
and at least let him know someone is near. No one should have to die
all alone in such a place. Even if it is his own silly fault.' She took
the next step, pressing against the wall for support, still not daring
to look down.

Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The rough rock
stairs were built against one wall. She could see the bottom now,
littered with branches and leaves and chunks of rock, and among them,
Montclair, lying sprawled on his back. If he had landed on one of those
chunks of the Folly, he must be gravely injured. Praying he was not
dead, she started to edge down to the next step.

Threads tickled her face. She thought in horror, 'A web!'
Something with many legs scuttled across her cheek. A spider! She let
out a shriek, missed her footing, and was falling.

Montclair awoke to find that he was still lying in the Folly;
still alone. He had dreamed that

'Someone came, and that whoever it was had promised to return
with water. And then he'd sunk back into the dark again. He felt
crushed by disappointment, but made no further attempt to try to get
up. He was too weak now, and that last horrible effort had convinced
him that both his leg and his right hand were broken. He was quite
incapable of climbing out, even if he could stand. He wondered dully if
he ever would be found and given a Christian burial.

His eyes were dim, but something seemed to be moving against
the wall. He blinked, peering, and was able to discern a pale female
form floating down through the darkness. A gasp of shock escaped him.
An angel! So his life really
was
done. It was a
sad realization, but at least it would mean the end of this awful pain
and thirst. He watched the angel, wondering even in his anguish what he
should say when she reached him. She seemed to be rather new at the
business, for she kept dislodging rocks and stones that came clattering
down, several actually striking him. Now she had stopped. Perhaps she
couldn't see where he was.

He tried to call to her, but suddenly a shriek rang out and
she was hurtling down.

Angels didn't shriek. In which case she must be human. And
there was only one lady who would risk her neck to try and help him.
Horror-stricken, he clawed at the slab with his left hand, dragging his
battered body up with a strength born of frenzy.

"Babs! Babs! Oh… hell! Are you—"

Bruised and battered, Susan said breathlessly, "I am not… Miss
Trent, sir." She struggled to her knees and made her weaving and
uncertain way towards him.

"You!" gasped Montclair. "Good God!" He sagged onto his side
and lay crumpled across the slab, panting.

Susan knelt beside him. His beard-stubbled face was liberally
streaked with blood. She peered at his head, and recoiled in horror.

He croaked faintly, "Is… my skull crushed… can you tell?"

"Not crushed, I think, but it's a nasty wound." She did not
dare touch that great gash. "I would bathe it for you, but I could only
bring lemonade."

"Lemonade…" he echoed, stupidly. "Are you… really Mrs. Henley?"

"Yes." Shaken, but trying not to reveal that, she said
briskly, "I don't wonder you are surprised. Alas, I am not a very
efficient rescuer. Neither rope, nor water!" Summoning a smile, she
went on. "Now I think we must declare a truce. If I help to prop you
up, can you drink a little?"

Her arm was around his shoulders. With all his strength, he
tried, but was unable to hold back a groan of agony as his leg twisted…

He roused after a while to the scent of violets. His smashed
head was resting against a soft and kinder pillow. A bottle was being
held to his lips. He managed to drink the stale brackish liquid, sighed
in ecstasy, and croaked out the "thank you" that was so hopelessly
inadequate. "You fell, I think? Are you all… right?"

A pause. He peered upward, trying to see her. Her face was
blurred, but he could see the long grey eyes, full of pity; the vivid
mouth drooping with sympathy. The dark curtain of her hair was brushing
his cheek very softly. And it was so astounding—so past belief that
this of all women had come to help him.

"Yes," Susan answered rather huskily. "A bruise or two,
perhaps. But you do not seem to have got off so lightly, sir. Are you
hurt anywhere else than your head?"

"Leg broken… I think. And—right hand… bit of a—nuisance."

Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she could see that he
looked very bad. She had no knowledge of how to set a broken bone and
judged it best not to try. Angelo or Deemer would probably send word to
Longhills, and they would summon Dr. Sheswell so that the injured man
could have expert treatment as soon as he was carried home. However,
just in case he was dying she should try to find out what had happened.
She said gently, "Help is coming. They should be here very soon.
Sir—did you fall?"

"No." He sighed. "Attacked… Been here… long, long time. Very
good… of you…" The words faded away.

Appalled, Susan bent nearer. "Mr. Montclair—did you see who
did this?"

She had to repeat the question before he answered in a
whisper. "Giant—giant shadow…" And after a pause, "Would you mind…"

"What?" she asked anxiously.

"Could you… hold my hand—just for a minute… ?"

But even as she moved quickly to gratify that request, his
blood-spattered head sagged back loosely, and he was very limp and
heavy in her arms. She thought, 'He has died, then.' He was too young
to die. And especially at the bottom of this horrid Folly. It was his
own Folly, in more ways than one, but a lump came into her throat and
tears stung her eyes.