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.
She found herself dwelling on the memory of a pair of angry dark eyes and two long narrow hands of surprising strength, which had appropriated her (dirty) mob-cap. She had been quite aware that Lord Montclair was unprincipled and ruthless, but only a man of extremely unpleasant character would deliberately frighten a little child. And very soon now this nasty man would face her brother with a loaded pistol in his hand. Andy was an excellent shot, but …
Here was the lane the Bo’sun had said would take her straight to the village. Troubled, Susan turned Pewter onto the rutted surface and rode eastward.
6
It was a glorious day, the kind that comes sometimes in spring and splashes all nature with brilliance so that everything looks new-washed and sparkling. The air was cool and bracing and fragrant with the scents of June; the sky azure, with only a few puffy clouds here and there. Perfect weather for a gallop and Montclair loved to ride, yet today he rode with a frown, heedless of the beauty of colourful flower beds, laburnum trees that were a blaze of gold, the headily fragrant violet of lilacs, or the lush emerald of the park’s ancient turf. Lost in thought, his dark eyes were grim, his lips set in a thin hard line. He leaned forward in the saddle, instinctively steadying Allegro as the big horse thundered towards the brook. It was a tricky jump, but the stallion soared into the air, clearing the far bank with ease and racing on unchecked.
The incident last night, thought Montclair, had been the final confirmation. If Barbara had not opened her window, if Gould had not chanced to come outside, his own tale might have been told. It was not pleasant to know that someone wanted him dead, but it must be faced. He swore angrily. So—what now? He had no proof to carry to Bow Street. Even if they believed what he told them, what could they do, save to assign one of their men to guard him? “Gad,” he muttered with revulsion.
He could hire a guard privately, of course. But the vexation would be the same. And when all was said and done, what use would it be? He knew his temper; sooner or later he would be unable to stand constant surveillance, and would dismiss his protector. If the enemy had been patient, he would strike then. Besides, to a determined assassin, the presence of a guard would likely pose no problem. A pistol or a rifle could be fired from cover and bring down his quarry no matter how many guards had been hired.
He took the far hill in a blur of speed. At the summit, Allegro was beginning to blow, and Montclair reined up and gazed unseeingly on the serene beauty of the ancient village spread below them.
Junius, beyond doubting, harboured a malevolent hatred for him. Lurking under his suave and gentle manner, Uncle Selby’s dislike for all the Montclairs was intense; and Valentine was quite aware that Aunt Marcia detested him as thoroughly. But withal they were of the same family, and blood truly is thicker than water. Besides, it was said that, discounting insanity, there are only four motives for murder: passion, financial gain, self-protection, and power.
He had fancied himself in love several times while he was at University, but since he’d come down he’d had small opportunity to seek the company of women, and those he’d met had done nothing to divert his mind from its preoccupations with Longhills and his music.
Nor did financial gain apply, since he was not a wealthy man. He had a comfortable inheritance that had come to him from his late grandmother, but it was scarcely sufficient to tempt anyone to murder, and besides, if he died the residue was earmarked for grandmama’s favourite charity. Certainly, none of the Trents had anything to gain by his death. Junius was fourth in line of succession to the title and estates, and would become Baron Montclair of Longhills only after Geoffrey, himself, and Uncle Hampton Montclair had left this earthly coil. Furthermore, had his erratic brother taken a wife and set up his nursery during his long absence, Junius’s hopes might have dwindled another step—or even two!
He started Allegro down the hill, still puzzling at it. What next? To the best of his knowledge, he was no threat to another man’s life or fortune; he had witnessed no foul play, he was privy to no guilty secrets.
Lastly—power. He had none. Nor could any be gained by his demise. Except perhaps that Uncle Selby would be free to institute all the stupidly clutch-fisted economies he yearned to practice at Longhills; while the improvements he himself had fought to implement, despite his uncle’s opposition, would be abandoned. It was ludicrous to imagine that Trent would have him murdered because of that opposition, and there was no one else to regard him as a stumbling block to— He frowned suddenly. In a small way, he did constitute a threat to someone: he had the power to evict the Henley virago and her nasty clan from Highperch Cottage!
* * *
True to its name, Amberly Down nestled under a hill, so that when approached from the west there was no sign of it until one had crested the top. The single row of honey-coloured stone cottages curved around a village green, which was very green indeed. Beyond was the larger loom of what seemed to be an inn situated near a pond, and beyond that a dark, forbidding area that Susan thought must be the infamous swamp, and from which came the unpleasantly dank and foetid aroma that assailed her nostrils. The ring of hammer striking iron came from the far end of the street, and a farmhand in smock and gaiters was leading a fine ploughhorse towards the open doors of the smithy.
A boy of about ten began to accompany her, keeping a possessive eye on Pewter. He touched his brow respectfully when Susan wished him good day, and put in his bid to hold her horse did she mean to shop.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do wish to make some purchases,” she said, slowing Pewter to an amble. “What a lovely village this is.”
“Ar,” he agreed. “Better nor some, surely. Hasn’t ye never been here a’fore, milady?”
“No. And I’m not a milady,” she said with a dimple that made his young heart warm to her. “What is that—er, odour?”
He waved towards the bottom of the street. “Swamp, ma’am. Me ma says as it be a blot on the village.”
“Indeed, I agree with her. Why has your squire done nothing about it?”
The boy seized Pewter’s bridle as another lad made towards them. “I’m taking car
e o’ the lady, David. Hop off!” He scowled the competition into deciding against a closer approach, then answered in a carefully low voice, “Lord Montclair don’t do nothing, ma’am. We could rot away, every last one of us, me dad says, for all he’d care. Me dad says as ’twas different in the old lord’s day. Now…” He shrugged. “There’s Miss Plunkett’s millinery in this next house, or the Receiving Office what’s the grocer’s as well, two doors down.”
Susan consulted her list and halted Pewter beside a mounting block. The boy handed her down, his face becoming very pink when his disgruntled competitor hooted loudly from a safe distance.
“Oh, and I am also to take back some paint,” said Susan.
“The ironmonger’s is next to the smithy. I’d best know your name, ma’am. Case the constable thinks I’ve took your mare without leave.”
“Of course. My name is Mrs. Henley.”
From the open door to Miss Plunkett’s Millinery Shop came an audible squeak, and two bonnets shot from view.
The boy’s face was a study. “Oooh…” he whispered. “The widder!”
It was, Susan realized later, a foretaste of her reception at Amberly Down. Miss Plunkett, a shy, faded little lady, was polite, but her eyes were enormous. Her two customers, large and forbiddingly respectable country matrons, stood apart, whispering and staring quite rudely at the notorious stranger. Angered, Susan pointedly ignored them, choosing some ribbons quickly and matching her cotton as closely as was possible from the limited stock.
There were no letters waiting at the Receiving Office, but the sharp-featured middle-aged woman behind the counter was a very different proposition from Miss Plunkett. She smiled tightly at Susan, welcomed her to the village, and said she hoped she would have the business from Highperch. “Fer so long as ye be there, that is,” she added with a bland stare.
Susan said with a spark in her eyes, “Then you may expect our business for a long time to come. Here is my list. If you will be so good as to wrap it all up I’ll come back in a minute or two. Thank you.” And she was gone with a nod and a swirl of her riding habit before the frustrated proprietor could say another word.
Vexed, Susan walked along the short street, passing several cottages at whose windows curtains were hastily straightened, or from which children peeped at her in frank curiosity. The King’s Arms sported a sign whereon was painted a fair replica of Charles I. The door was wide, and from the dim and fragrant interior a woman’s voice exclaimed that it was “… downright shameful a woman of that type would dare show her nose in a decent village.”
Hopelessness descended crushingly on Susan. She should have realized she would still be very much the outsider, but was there no end to it? Was Priscilla to be shunned, even here in this peaceful countryside? Her throat ached and tears stung her eyes. But Andy would be so angry if she let them see she was hurt. ‘Pox on them all,’ she thought fiercely, and jerked her chin up.
* * *
David Brewster made a wild dash for Montclair’s stirrup, a great grin of triumph spreading across his small freckled face. “That’ll show you, cocksure Jack,” he shouted at his competitor. “I’ve got Mr. Valentine’s Allegro!”
The stallion rolled his eyes and danced sideways.
“Have a care, halfling.” Montclair swung from the saddle and with some strict instructions, gave Allegro into the boy’s care. He glanced to young Jack Rogers who was walking a pretty little grey mare he didn’t recognize. The mare carried a side-saddle, and he wondered which of the local damsels had ridden a new mount into Amberly Down.
Last month some unkind hand—he could guess whose—had gouged a long chip from the gilded top of his harpsichord, and Mundy, the ironmonger, had ordered some gold-leaf paint, which should have come by now. Montclair patted Allegro and strode off down the street. The villagers he encountered responded to his greeting politely enough, but with an air of suppressed excitement, or amusement, or both. When he raised his hat to Mrs. French, the old lady bobbed him a curtsy, then giggled audibly as she hurried past.
Puzzled, Montclair stooped to enter Mundy the Ironmonger’s. The shop smelled of paint and putty. It was a dim overcrowded little place with dirty windows, dusty shelves crammed with tools and mysteriously shaped lengths of pipe, and countless bins and boxes full of screws and nails of every shape and size. His eyes momentarily dazzled by the contrast from the brilliant morning outside, Montclair saw that the fat little proprietor was holding a large paint pot and saying persuasively, “… happens as I mixed it fer Mr. Ford’s new barn. It must be just this shade, says his missus. Until they put some on. Then she changed her mind. Could let ye have it cheap, marm. A fine bargain.”
A lady said, “Thank you. I’m sure it is, but you see, I just want a—”
She had a low cultured voice that had a musical ring and sounded vaguely familiar. Montclair’s view was blocked by some piled tubs on the counter, and he shifted so as to see around them.
“Let ye have the whole pot fer sixpence ha’penny,” interrupted Mr. Mundy. “Ye’d spend more nor that on a little’un was I to mix it up again. My boy has to drive the pony and cart to Malvern today, and he could deliver it, if you like.” He caught sight of Montclair then, and his broad, perspiring face was wreathed in a bright grin. “Mornin’, sir. Fine mornin’. Ye’ll be wanting that gold-leaf paint. I’ll go and get it.”
Montclair saw a slender back clad in a well-cut blue-violet riding habit. The pert little hat had some sort of sheer pale violet stuff tied around it that hung down behind, and it was set upon the head of a lady who wore her near-black hair à la ancient Egypt: long and very straight. Stiffening, he thought, ‘It is the wretched widow!’ and he said, “No. Finish with the lady, Jed. I’ll wait.”
The icy drawl brought Susan’s head jerking up. Of all people! He would have to come in here!
“Lady’s buying some house paint, sir,” offered the proprietor amiably.
“Indeed?” Montclair strolled forward and, determined to remain a gentleman however this hussy provoked him, removed his hat. “Do you undertake some renovations, Mrs. Henley? By way of—recompense, perhaps?”
Susan turned and encountered a bleakly contemptuous gaze. Lord, but Andrew had marked him! To say nothing of the dark bruise her dustpan brush had bestowed on his forehead. She stifled an unwarranted pang of guilt. The horrid creature deserved it all! And only look how he was curling his haughty lip at her. She said with a saintly smile, “We do what we can to restore the poor old house. I’m not accustomed to living in a pigsty, you see.”
His dark brows arched. “You surprise me, ma’am.”
The sardonic rejoinder fanned Susan’s wrath so that she could scarcely breathe. ‘You have not begun to be surprised, Baron Beastly!’ she thought.
Mr. Mundy mopped his grimy apron at his heated brow and blinked hopefully from one to the other. The Wicked Widder was a luscious plum if ever he saw one, but it was clear young Mr. Valentine didn’t think so. Looked ready to strangle the gal, he did, and with them devilish eyes of his and his hasty temper, it wouldn’t surprise no one a bit if he was to take her ’crost his knee and whack her bottom for her. Now that would be a tale worth telling at the King’s Arms tonight!
“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.”
Logic of the Heart Page 10
