Mrs. Starr removed Welcome from her shopping basket and adjusted her left mitten. “I shall try if I can borrow Mrs. Edgeworth’s new book so that you can read it to us tonight, Mrs. Sue. I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” she added worriedly. “I don’t like leaving you alone, with poor Mr. Montclair doing so poorly. And—That Woman…!” Her lips tightening, she threw a grim look at the stairs.
There was no love lost between her and their new nurse. It had taken Mrs. Starr less than a day to pronounce that Mrs. Bentley was lazy. The next morning she had complained that not once had she seen the nurse do any more for her patient than to give him the medicine Dr. Sheswell had sent along with her. “There he was at nine o’clock last evening, poor gentleman, tossing and turning and so hot and uncomfortable,” she’d told Susan indignantly. “And her, snoring in the chair! A fine nurse she is! I declare Señor Angelo could do better!”
Harbouring her own doubts, Susan had spoken to Mrs. Bentley, who had at once dissolved into tears. “The poor gent keeps me awake all night, marm,” she whined. “I got to get some sleep some time. I mean, I can’t go on working me fingers to the bone four and twenty hours out of the twenty-four, now can I, marm? Only huming I is. Only huming!”
A trundle bed had been set up in Montclair’s room, and Martha and Mrs. Starr took shifts during the day so that the nurse could rest. Martha was up there now, in fact, sitting beside the sick man.
Susan promised to keep an eye on matters while Mrs. Starr was gone, and watched Pennywise and Pound Foolish trot away down the drivepath. The afternoon was overcast and blustery. She glanced up at the building clouds and wondered how Andy was faring at sea with The Dainty Dancer. She was not worried, however; her brother had been taught seamanship by Grandpapa, and knew his business.
In the kitchen, Priscilla very proudly presented the composition on which she had been working so hard all morning. It was a pleasant little tale about a lonely rabbit who finds a friend in a kindly but rather domineering hen. Susan marvelled at the warmth of the story, but was touched by the rabbit’s loneliness. She praised the work, and Priscilla went off happily with the faithful Wolfgang prancing at her heels. ‘Bless her heart,’ thought Susan fondly. ‘She has a truly remarkable gift with words, but how nice it would be if only she had some little friends to play with.’
A sniff interrupted her fond musing, and Martha wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, carrying a tray of dirty dishes.
“Martha?”
The girl lifted her plain, pale face. There were tears in the brown eyes and her lips trembled.
“My goodness,” exclaimed Susan, alarmed. “Whatever is it?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Sue,” said Martha in a sort of gulp. “Just me. I’m silly about … things.” Her attempt at a smile a disaster, she started past.
Susan put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “You are not silly. You may not be clever with arithmetic or writing, but lots of people aren’t. You are very good with sick people; you’re a hard and steady worker, and you have taught Miss Priscilla how to knit beautifully. Now tell me what has happened.”
It was very easy to crush Martha and her bowed head did not lift despite the kindly words. She said with dreary resignation, “She—she says I’m slow and stupid. And I am, I know. But … I was—just trying for to help the poor gentleman. He was so thirsty and he tried to reach the water glass and hurt hisself. I ran to get it for him, but—I didn’t mean to interfere, honest, Mrs. Sue! She—she was so cross … I do everything wrong. Everything. I d-don’t know why you put up with me.”
Susan was enraged, but rage terrified Martha, so she controlled it and gave the drooping girl a little shake. “What fustian you do talk, indeed. You’re one of us and as for putting up with you—goodness! I don’t know how we could go along without you! Now you just—” She checked, frowning at the piled plates and glasses. “Are all these from my—I mean, Mr. Montclair’s room?”
“Yes, Mrs. Sue. Mrs. Bentley was trying to feed the gentleman, I ’spect.”
Susan nodded, and went upstairs, her eyes sparking. Montclair had taken practically no solid food this past week, little more than the brandy and water Dr. Sheswell prescribed. From the look of the dishes on Martha’s tray, the nurse had not been stinting herself.
She went into the bedchamber without knocking, and halted.
Mrs. Bentley stood by the bed, measuring medicine into a glass. She was humming some unidentifiable air that made up in volume for what it lacked in melody. Smiling at the spoon, she set it aside, and bent over the bed. “Here we goes, poor fella,” she crooned and slid her left hand under Montclair’s shoulders, jerking his head up.
Susan heard his choked gasp, and exclaimed indignantly, “Oh, do be more careful!”
The nurse uttered a small cry and straightened, allowing the sick man’s bandaged head to drop back onto the crumpled pillows. Susan saw Montclair’s mouth twist with pain and the thin left hand clutch convulsively at the coverlet. A soaring wrath possessed her.
“Oh! ’Ow you did s’prise me, M’s Henley,” wailed the nurse, one hand flying to her throat and the other slopping the medicine over Montclair. “Bl-blest if ever’n’m’born-days I was more s’prised! M’poor heart’s beatin’ like—like a kettledrum, M’s Henley, I’m that s’prised.”
“Stand aside,” demanded Susan, and not waiting to be obeyed, pushed the woman from her path and bent over Montclair. The bedclothes were untidy, the pillowslip creased and damp with perspiration, and he looked desperately ill. She felt his forehead and turned, saying angrily, “He is very hot and uncomfortable. Have you bathed him yet?”
Mrs. Bentley drew herself up. “Doct’ Sheswell don’t hold wi’ bathing when there’s fever presh—”
Montclair whispered pleadingly, “If I … might have—water…”
“Of course.”
“That’s f’me t’do, ma’am.” Mrs. Bentley made a belated snatch for the glass Susan had already taken up. “Now y’mustn’t int’fere w’me patient,” she added, attempting to force her way between Susan and the bed.
“Nonsense.” Susan circumvented this manoeuvre with a jab of one elbow. With great care she raised the dark head very slightly and held the glass to Montclair’s cracked dry lips. He took a sip, choked, groaned, and his left hand lifted in a weak gesture of repugnance.
“I’ll take—” began Mrs. Bentley with another abortive grab at the glass.
“I think not!” Susan lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. Her eyes flashing, she stepped closer to Mrs. Bentley’s aggressive but slightly swaying figure. “Be so good as to explain why there is gin in this glass, ma’am.”
“Med’cine,” declared the nurse fiercely, but losing her balance for a second. “Y’got no b’sness, M’s—”
Raging but keeping her voice low, Susan declared, “You—are—intoxicated!”
“Ooooh! Wotta awfu’ thing t’say!” The nurse darted for the glass.
Susan fended her off, marched to the window, and emptied the contents onto the lawn below. She was greatly relieved to see masts bobbing beside their dock, and the Bo’sun carrying a crate up the back steps.
“M’med’cine!” wailed Mrs. Bentley, peering tragically after it. She turned on Susan in a flame. “Oh, you’re a wicked woman, you are! Jesslike they said! I was warned, I was, and—”
“Out!” commanded Susan, flinging one arm majestically in the direction of the door.
Mrs. Bentley stared at her, and began to look frightened. “You can’t do that,” she blustered. “Doc’t Sh-Sheshwell says—”
Susan tugged on the bellpull. “You may inform Dr. Sheswell that you were discharged for laziness, drunkenness, ineptitude—”
“Oooh! Now she’s a’swearin’ ’t me! A good woman I is, not like th’likes of her an’ she swears—”
“And—” Susan finished, wrinkling her nose in distaste, “dirtiness!”
“Well, I never!”
“Your hands are filthy, and your garments little better! As a nurse, madam, you would make a good dustman!”
“If ever I—!” Defiantly at bay the nurse threatened, “I’ll have th’law onya, see if I don’t, fer inf’mation o’character, an’—”
“Ah—Bo’sun,” interrupted Susan loftily. “Mrs. Bentley is leaving us. Be so good as to drive her to Dr. Sheswell’s house in Bredon, and inform him we were obliged to dismiss her.”
Mrs. Bentley folded her arms across her chest, and with narrowed hate-filled eyes and flushed cheeks declared, “Well, I won’ go an’ y’can’t—”
“I can require the Bo’sun to forcibly eject you,” said Susan, paying no heed to Dodman’s horror-stricken and paling countenance. “But I warn you that unless you leave quietly and at once, Mrs. Bentley, I mean to instruct the constable to bring charges against you for impersonating a qualified nurse! I fancy your credentials would bear some investigation!”
For a moment longer Mrs. Bentley glared at the haughty young face and elevated chin of the notorious Widow Henley. Then she suddenly took refuge in noisy weeping, and with a relieved grin Dodman conducted her from the room.
Susan flew to the water pitcher, took up another glass and filled it, then bent again over Montclair. His eyes were full of pain, but there was a gleam of amusement also.
“She is gone,” said Susan, contriving gently to lift his head a little. “From now on, my people will tend to your needs, Mr. Montclair. I am only sorry that you were subjected to such a disgraceful scene.”
He drank gratefully, then whispered, “Wouldn’t … have missed it!”
* * *
Montclair drifted now in a strange trancelike world, sometimes fathoms deep in a blank emptiness, sometimes dreaming distressing and involved dreams that troubled him greatly. After a very long while, one of his dreams was of a forest wherein he sat watching a forester saw down a tree. But although the forester worked hour after hour, he seemed to make no impression on the tree, which stood there as proud and unshaken as ever. Montclair grew tired of waiting to see it fall and he walked away, but the noise of the saw followed.
He could still hear it when he opened his eyes and discovered an indistinct little scene that blurred into a haze around the edges. A blue canopy billowed over him, edged by dainty lace-trimmed ruffles. He frowned at the matching silken bed-curtains. His bed had a plain red velvet tester with a battlement trim, and red-and-gold bed-curtains. No ruffles. No lace. If Uncle Selby had been meddling again…! Irked, he shifted his gaze in search of the noise. It seemed to be coming from his bed. He tried to raise his head, which was a horrible mistake. After a while, the wavering images settled again, and he peered downward and discovered a small, curled-up shape. Wolfgang snored, evidently …
He lay there, staring at the dog, wondering how it came to be at Longhills, and what they’d done to his bed. It was all very perplexing, and the pain in his head prevented him from remembering properly. He’d better get Gould in here. He tried to reach for the bellpull, instinctively using his right hand …
After an unpleasant interval, an authoritative voice came through the mists. “Here. Drink this, my poor fellow.”
He sipped obediently.
Alain Devenish’s face materialized, hovering over him. The usually carefree blue eyes held a rather worried look.
With an amazing effort he was able to say, “Hello—Dev,” and heard a faint croak. Good God! Had that been his own voice? “What’ve they done … to my bed?”
“Ain’t your bed.” Devenish spoke very gently. “Mrs. Henley’s. You’re at Highperch, my tulip. Go back to sleep now.”
He had a very vague and indistinct recollection of the widow helping him—somehow, somewhere. And he seemed to remember her bending over him, and speaking to someone in an imperious way that had made him want to laugh. But why he thought, confused, should Mrs. Henley have helped him? And what was he doing at Highperch? He whispered, “How … long have—”
“About ten days, give or take a day.”
“Ten days!” He started up in dismay.
His head seemed to explode. The room swung and dipped sickeningly. From a great distance, he thought he could hear Dev calling someone …
A slender white hand was pressing a wonderfully cold cloth to his brow; the mellow voice that held such incredible kindliness was with him again, repeating over and over again that it was all right; that he was quite safe now. The shadow was gone. If he would just lie still and stop tossing about, he would be easier … He tried to concentrate on the voice, and gradually he was able to breathe without panting …
His eyelids were very heavy, but he managed to open them. It was night. He knew he’d been dreaming, but he did not want to remember the dream and thrust it away with determined desperation. A candle was flickering somewhere nearby. Closer at hand, two searching grey eyes in a tired but lovely face scanned him with concern.
“Are you feeling a little better now?” Susan asked.
He smiled at her, and wondered if she always smelled of violets. “Yes, thank you—but … I don’t—understand.”
“You had—an accident, and were brought here. You suffered a slight relapse, but you are doing much better now. Is that what you mean?”
“No. I don’t know why—you are so … kind to me…” But he fell asleep before she could answer.
It seemed a very long time before he heard her voice again, and it was difficult to hear because she was speaking very softly, almost in a whisper. Gradually, he realized that she was talking with Mrs. Starr who sounded very agitated and kept moaning that they “should never have done it! Never!” He wondered idly what “it” was, and tried to open his eyes but was too drowsy to accomplish this.
“You know perfectly well why we did it,” said Mrs. Henley with a trace of exasperation.
“Yes. But—but the awful risk, dear Mrs. Sue! If you should be found out! Oh dear, oh dear!”
“What could they prove?”
“You know what they would say! And the Runners can be clever. If they should even suspect— Suppose his family should put two and two together? It is such a dreadful thing to do! I never dreamed you capable of such ruthless—”
Decidedly irked, Mrs. Henley interrupted, “For goodness’ sake, stop being so melodramatic, Starry! And keep your voice down, do. He might hear us!”
The discussion continued, but the voices were now so low that Montclair could no longer discern the words. Vaguely troubled, he sank back to sleep once more.
The next time he awoke something was nagging at the edges of his mind; something he had dreamed perhaps, and that was quite important, but he couldn’t remember what it might be. It was still dark, but he thought it not the same night. For one thing, he felt less discomfort; the aching in his leg and hand was unremitting, but not quite as brutal, and although his head throbbed, it was so bearable by comparison with his earlier awakenings that he could actually think. He lay there quietly, the flickering candlelight and the faint fragrance of violets telling him that he was still in Mrs. Henley’s bed. Questions began to form. So many—so unanswerable. And chief among them the dread puzzle of who wanted him dead. Whom had he so antagonized that they were willing to put their own life at risk so as to end his? Had Junius decided to strike again? No, that terrible shadow in the woods had not been Junius. It had been too enormous … The very thought of it made Montclair break out in a sweat of horror, and he decided that the solving of the puzzle would have to wait until he regained more of his strength. Meanwhile, he had a great deal for which to be thankful. He was warm and safe. He was also very hungry, which likely meant he was starting to mend, and—
Something was moving in the room. Something or—someone. He tensed and lay completely motionless, straining his eyes through the dimness to that vague, oncoming shape. A man. Creeping towards the bed. He watched the crouching figure draw ever nearer, dark and unidentifiable against the candlelight, but ineffably menacing. The lack of sound was remarkable—not so much as one squeak of a floorboard. He was very close now, and Montclair’s heart gave a lurch as the candlelight awoke a glitter on the dagger in the man’s right hand. So the would-be murderer had come right inside Highperch and meant to finish what he’d started! Anger scorched through him. He was weak as a cat, but—dammit, he’d not lie here and be butchered without a fight!
With all his strength, he managed to get an elbow under him and heave himself upward a little. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, “No! Get away, you skulking coward!”
His voice was weak, but the intruder uttered a shrill yelp and jumped into the air. The knife clattered to the floor.
“Hell and damnation!” gasped Andrew Lyddford, straightening and tottering to steady himself against the bedpost. “Don’t—don’t ever do such a frightful thing!”
“I—apologize…” faltered Montclair, sinking back, exhausted by his great effort.
Lyddford mopped a handkerchief at his face. “I should rather think you might,” he said severely. “I wonder I didn’t fall over in a fit!”
“I really am sorry. Only … well, I saw the knife, you see, and—”
“That’s because I was polishing it, but you were so still I got the idea you’d cocked up your toes, so I came creeping to see if you had, and what must you do but let out a yowl like a bloody damned banshee! Jove, if it ain’t enough to put the fear of—” His tone changed abruptly. “What the deuce d’you mean—you ‘saw the knife’? If you’ve the confounded gall to suppose I come slithering over to cut your throat, sir, by George but you’ll answer to me for it!”
“I am already engaged to meet you, Mr. Lyddford. And you were against the light. I could only make out a silhouette, and the knife.”
“Oh.” Some of the resentment went out of the proud young face. Lyddford stooped, retrieved the knife, and went over to lay it on the table. “Yes. I suppose it could have looked like that. Sorry if I gave you a nasty turn, but I’d say we’re even on that score, at all events.” With a grin he came back to bend over Montclair and peer at him critically. “You look somewhat alive. Be damned if I don’t think Susan’s right and you’re going to pull through after all!”
“Your sister has been more than kind, and I’m very sure I’ve been a great deal of trouble. I believe you’ve been burdened with me for ten days already, and—”
“Three weeks.”
Montclair stared at him. “But—Devenish just said—”
Lyddford settled himself on the end of the bed and interrupted, “That was a week and a half ago. And—before you ask me again—no, they didn’t have to amputate your hand.”
Montclair wasn’t quite ready for shocks like that, and he closed his eyes briefly.
“Oh Gad,” groaned Lyddford, jumping up and causing the bed to lurch. “I’m as much a disaster as Devenish! I’ll go!”
“No. Please.” Montclair managed a smile. “I’d be most grateful if you could rather … tell me what’s been happening.”
Lyddford eyed him doubtfully, but the smile was encouraging. He had noted the effect of his earlier sudden movement, and so sat down with care. “You’d not believe the bobbery! When my sister found you, and your cousin hauled you out of there—”
“My—cousin…? Trent?”
“Yes. Don’t wonder you’re surprised. Nasty slug, but strong as an ox.” Lyddford grinned boyishly. “Mixing my metaphors a bit, ain’t I? At all events, there’s been betting in all the inns and alehouses on when you’d snuff it. I wanted to ship you back to Longhills, but you took such a downturn we did not dare move you. You were out of your head for days on end. Raving about music, and birds in harpsichords, and shadows and giants and— Devil take me, I’ve done it again! Are you all right?”
Weakness was causing Montclair to tremble. He fought it, and said rather inaccurately, “I’m quite all right, thank you. Please go on.”
“Well, it’s just that from what you were gabbling at, it—er, seemed you hadn’t fallen into your silly Folly. Not of your own volition, at least.” The long grey eyes (so much like hers) were scanning him curiously. “D’you remember now? What happened, I mean.”
“Not much. Just—that I was … struck down from behind.” His mind was trying to see the shadow. He shut it out. “They believed me, did they?”
“At first they thought you were delirious, and you were, of course. But then you kept on about the East Woods. So a couple of the Runners—”
“Runners?”
Lyddford nodded. A frown darkened his brow and he said rather grimly, “You’re an important man, you know. Heir to a title and a great estate. Jehoshaphat—if you’d seen all the comings and goings! Writers from the newspapers; Bow Street; even a couple of high-ranking officers from the Horse Guards.”
“Good … God!”
“Quite. The upshot was that two of the Runners went to the East Woods and it seems—er, well, they found the place where you’d been hit. Not—much doubt, I gather.”
Montclair’s brows knit. “But—if I was attacked in the East Woods, why go to all the trouble—”
“To haul you to the Folly? Hmmn. That’s what we wondered. I suppose they thought you were finished—Lord knows, you looked it! Horrid sight!—and wanted to tuck you safely away.”
It was a puzzle, but he was too tired to worry at it. He asked wearily, “Does my family know?”
“Yes. Your aunt and uncle came when my sister found you. It was at their wish in fact that you stayed here. I do not scruple to tell you I was against it.”
“Yes, of course.” Montclair said humbly, “I am very grateful to you.”
“Mutual, old boy.” With breezy tactlessness Lyddford added, “Jolly good of you not to have cocked up your toes. We’d have been in a proper treacle pot! Though to say truth it was our own fault for letting you stay. Bad enough we had to put up with you, Montclair, but I’ll not mince words in telling you that you’ve a weasel’s wart for a doctor.”
Amused, Montclair said, “Sheswell’s been the family physician for years. But—wasn’t there another doctor? A red-headed fellow?”
“Right. Our Bo’sun is an apothecary of sorts. He’s worked wonders with you.”
“I must thank him. I’m afraid I have caused Mrs. Henley a great deal of trouble.” His dreams had become so entangled with reality that it was hard to separate them. He half-recalled an odd conversation between Susan Henley and Mrs. Starr, but the memory was so hazy it was likely just another dream. He said haltingly, “I seem to recollect that she was with me often when I woke up. You must all be wishing me … at Jericho.”
“Oh, my sister’s the salt of the earth and not one to hold a grudge under these circumstances. Besides”—Lyddford’s voice lost its kindliness—“so long as you’re recuperating here, you cannot very well have us kicked out, can you?”
The smile faded from Montclair’s eyes, and the faintest flush lit his pale face, but he met Lyddford’s suddenly hard stare levelly. “No,” he said. “I certainly cannot.”
The door opened softly. Montclair couldn’t see who entered, but he heard the rustle of silks and then smelled violets.
Lyddford said, “He’s awake again, and seems much better this time.”
Susan Henley came to rest a cool and investigative hand on the patient’s wan cheek. “You’ve tired him,” she scolded.
“I knew I’d be in the suds! That’s what comes of trying to help a bit!” With an unrepentant grin, Lyddford said, “I’m off!” and departed.
The widow bathed Montclair’s face, held the glass while he drank some deliciously cool barley water, then instructed him to go back to sleep.
Drowsily, he watched her cross to the little table, pull the branch of candles closer, and sit down with her workbox. She began to darn a sock. She had a very pretty way of turning her wrist. He glanced up and found her eyes on him. They really were most remarkable eyes, so clear and—The low-arching brows were lifting slightly. He was very tired now, but murmured, “Why did—”
She shook her head and put one slim finger over her lips. “Hush.”
“No. Please—I must—”
“Not more thanks? Heavens, sir, I have been thanked each time you wake up! Have done with your gratitude I beg, and do as your head nurse tells you.”
Despite the stern words, her mouth curved to a smile, and he persisted doggedly. “You risked your life to come down those steps. I can’t understand why.”
Her eyes sharpened and her cheeks seemed a little flushed. She stared hard at her sock, and murmured, “Do you say you—watched me coming down to you?”
“It was the bravest thing I ever saw.” He sighed. “I thought—you were an angel.”
Her lashes lifted and she looked at him, startled, then said with a smile, “How can you ever have supposed such a thing? I wasn’t wearing white.”
“No,” he said drowsily, “pink.”
Susan dropped the sock and when she had retrieved it, her cheeks were very pink indeed. “My habit is pale green, Mr. Montclair.”
“Oh. I—thought I saw pink.” He sighed again. “Must have dreamed it.”
“Indeed you must,” she confirmed rather austerely. “Now, go back to sleep.”
* * *
With each day that followed, Montclair grew stronger. The petite Mrs. Starr and her faithful helper Martha did most of the nursing; they both were kind and gentle, but although grateful for their efficient care, he missed a pair of serene grey eyes and the smell of violets. He slept many hours away, but Bo’sun Dodman came in to check on him several times each day. From him Montclair learned that Mrs. Henley and her brother had gone into Town. Apparently, Lyddford was striving to obtain a position either on the staff of a Foreign Minister, or at the Navy Board, and hoped to enlist the aid of his uncle, Sir John Lyddford, in these endeavours. In view of the unsavoury reputation of the late Lieutenant Burke Henley, Montclair judged the chances for success to be slight, but he said nothing. His chats with the Bo’sun also provided him with a better understanding of the widow’s struggle to keep the family together after the death of her grandfather. That it had been a desperate struggle became very apparent, but his attempts to discover the extent of their remaining fortune were deftly turned aside, and since good manners forbade that he question the Bo’sun outright, he was thwarted.
Despite his physical improvement, his spirits were low, a state he fought to conceal. Several bones had been broken in his hand, and the injury caused him constant anxiety. His attempts to move the fingers failed dismally. He knew he should be grateful that it had not been necessary to amputate as he’d at first feared, but he was haunted by the dread that he would no longer be able to play competently. Barbara was another source of worry; and despite their differences, the continued absence of his family troubled him. It was absurd that he should want them to come, but if they had no sufficient interest to do so, they could at least, he thought fretfully, have permitted Babs to pay him a visit.
Alain Devenish, who had been a frequent visitor at first, had not appeared for several days, and Montclair missed his cheerful presence even while he recognized that his friend had a young ward and great estates of his own to be cared for.
Priscilla’s short afternoon visits were bright oases through these long days. He looked forward to her coming, and was more and more drawn to the child and charmed by her quaint mixture of solemnity and gaiety. She had a remarkable gift of imagination, and they spent a good deal of their time together in constructing a progressive fairy-tale poem. This fabrication grew more and more complicated, and was a source of much amusement to them both. The child’s words were occasionally somewhat unorthodox, but she had a quick ear for rhythm, and Montclair found his work cut out to keep abreast of her in their poetical ventures.
He was anticipating the child’s presence on a rainy afternoon a week after Mrs. Henley’s departure, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. His heart gave a leap, but then sank again when Sheswell’s voice boomed out. The physician had not called for eight days. He was less gentle in his movements than was Dodman, and Montclair nerved himself for an unpleasant few minutes.
The Bo’sun was proud of his patient’s rapid progress, and as the door swung open he was saying eagerly, “… may not be quite as you’d expected, doctor.”
The floor shook to Sheswell’s heavy tread. “I can but hope you’re wrong, Dod—” The great voice stilled.
Montclair smiled as the doctor stood perfectly still, staring at him. “Good afternoon, Sheswell.” His voice was firmer today, and he was able to raise his left hand steadily. It fell back, however, as the doctor did not move but continued to stand as if frozen, his eyes fairly goggling.
“Thought you’d be surprised, sir,” chuckled the Bo’sun.
Sheswell gave a start. “Amazed is more like,” he exclaimed, coming to take up Montclair’s hand vigorously. “By all the gods, I cannot believe it!” He peered into the sick man’s eyes, felt the pale forehead, and exclaimed, “You’ve done exceeding well, Dodman. Jove, but you have! Fever down, some colour in the cheeks, eyes clear! How does the head feel, Mr. Montclair? Still have some beastly headaches, I’ll warrant. Have to expect those for a long time to come, and you’ll likely find your reasoning confused. Natural. Quite natural.”
He proceeded to examine the almost-healed head injury, and the splints on the broken hand and the leg were checked. “Well, well,” the doctor said jovially, “you’ll be up and trotting about in a day or two, eh, sir?”
“That would be splendid,” said Montclair, rather short of breath. “I’ve been sitting up every afternoon, and I stood yesterday, with the Bo’sun’s help.”
“I think the doctor’s teasing, sir,” Dodman put in smilingly.
Sheswell laughed. “Not a bit of it, m’dear fellow. Do him the world of good. I’ll have some crutches sent over this afternoon.”
“Crutches!” gasped Dodman, startled. “But, sir—how can he manage crutches with only one hand?”
“Perhaps I can get about with just one,” put in Montclair eagerly. “Eh, Sheswell?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Montclair. But I think we can contrive to strap the right crutch to your elbow, so you’ll have some control over it. Awkward, but it might serve. Meanwhile, we can shorten the leg splints so you can get about easier. Let’s have these off now…”
The next half-hour was unpleasant, and by the time the doctor left, Montclair felt worn, and fell asleep before he could see Priscilla.
In the downstairs hall, Dodman said hesitantly, “A little rough for him, wasn’t it, sir?”
The physician shook his head. “Don’t do to coddle ’em, m’dear chap. Sooner they’re up and about, the better. Especially in a case like this. You’ll be needing some more medicine, I fancy. Wonderful what it can do, ain’t it? Not that Montclair was all that badly off, as I said. Still, I’ll have some sent over with the crutches. Might be an idea to increase the dosage. Just as a precaution, y’know. You’ve been managing to get some food into the poor chap by the look of things, eh? Excellent. You’re a dashed good man, Dodman. Don’t be surprised do I refer some of my less serious cases to you. You ought to get yourself a licence, damme if you oughtn’t!”
Dodman flushed with pleasure. Almost, he confessed how he and Mrs. Sue had supplemented Dr. Sheswell’s orders, but the physician was so delighted it seemed expedient to leave well enough alone.
* * *
That night a keen wind came in from the east, and by morning one might have thought it October rather than early July. The gusts shook the old house and whined in the chimneys, while leaden clouds brought a steady cold rain. The inclement weather did not keep people indoors, apparently. Soon after breakfast Montclair prevailed upon the Bo’sun to shave him, and he was staring somewhat aghast at the reflection of his drawn white face and sunken eyes when he heard a familiar and piercing voice.
Dodman took the mirror and the shaving impedimenta and all but ran from the room. A twittering Martha Reedham bustled about tidying the bed, plumping Montclair’s pillows, and smoothing the counterpane. In another minute Mrs. Starr, her lips tightly pursed with disapproval, ushered in Sir Selby and Lady Trent.
Montclair had wanted them to come, but perversely, the recollection of their parting now came so clearly into his mind that he was speechless.
Lady Trent suffered no such inhibitions. She rushed to the bed, bent over her nephew, and kissed his cheek, marvelling that he yet lived, and mourning that they had been unable to see him before this. “If you knew how frightful it has been! The newspapers, and the Runners, and to add to the rest, we have been plagued by an endless stream of pushing people calling themselves your friends, some you’ve not seen for years, I am very sure! The horrid busybodies! I wonder I have survived it!”
“Truly frightful,” agreed Sir Selby, clinging to Montclair’s wasted left hand and patting it repeatedly. “You may be assured the criminals will be tracked down and brought to justice! But you look much improved from the last time we saw you. You won’t remember that visit of course, poor fellow.” His pale eyes scanned Montclair’s face narrowly. “Jove, but youth is astonishing! I must admit we were loath to abandon you in this house, dear lad, but you were in no condition to be moved.”
Lady Trent’s thin lips quivered, and she gave it as her opinion it was a marvel that he still lived. “Heaven knows what these dreadful people might have done,” she observed. “Three times we have come and been turned away on the grounds you was too ill to be disturbed, though I doubt you was even told of it, unhappy boy. When first I heard you had been struck down so savagely, I fainted dead away. Did I not, Trent?” Not waiting for a confirmation, she shrilled on. “The strain was … dreadful! Almost beyond my powers to support.” She vanished into her handkerchief. “We all were worried to death! I vow, I wonder my poor heart did not break!”
Montclair wondered where her heart had been when she’d offered to give him a “pity party,” but, helpless in the face of feminine tears, he assured her that he was feeling very much better and was much obliged to Lyddford and Mrs. Henley for their excellent care of him.
“Obliged, is it?” flared my lady, forgetting her grief abruptly. “If my suspicions are correct, Montclair, Dr. Sheswell’s instructions have been poorly kept. Why, he thought you would be better in no time, whereas you almost … And to see you—like this … poor shattered invalid! We ought never to have left you in their hands. But we did what we thought right at the time. Always your best interests have weighed with me. Heaven knows I have tried to make a good home for you, little as you’ve appreciated my poor efforts.”
Unable to restrain himself, he said coolly, “To the contrary, I am quite aware of your efforts at Longhills, ma’am. Speaking of which—how is my cousin Barbara?”
Lady Trent’s lips settled into a thin line. “She is happily planning her wedding.”
“And has been exceeding anxious to see you,” murmured Sir Selby.
“Did you bring her with you, then?” asked Montclair eagerly.
“To this house?” shrilled his aunt. “I hope I am a better parent than to allow my daughter to set foot under this roof while That Woman resides here!”
Trent said, “Babs awaits you at home.”
“How relieved you will be to be in your own bed at last,” Lady Trent purred. “We have brought your man to help carry you to the carriage. Trent, do you ring the bell and tell them to send Gould up.”
Her husband moved to the bellpull.
“I am not ready to come home yet,” said Montclair.
“Of course you are ready,” his aunt’s voice rose. “Why would you wish to stay in this dreadful place when Longhills awaits you?”
“The boy is still weak,” soothed Trent. “We must make allowances. But we will keep a very easy pace, dear lad, and you will be carried, so there’s no cause for alarm.” The all too familiar set of his nephew’s pale lips inspired him to add hurriedly, “You really must leave these premises, Valentine. We are far past the date specified for the eviction of the Henley woman and her tribe, and so long as you remain here, we cannot enforce it.”
“Good God, sir,” exclaimed Montclair, irked. “Do you fancy I shall proceed with an eviction against the lady who saved my life?”
“Saved your life—my hatpin,” snorted my lady. “She was extreme reluctant to offer you shelter, which anyone with the least compassion would gladly have done! In point of fact, she only agreed to do so after we paid her a pretty penny! Saved your life, indeed! Pish!”
“Mrs. Henley took some most desperate chances in climbing down into that loathsome pit to help me, ma’am. And—”
“And was it not remarkable,” she said with her thin smile, “that a newcomer to the district found you in a place none of the rest of us had even considered? Faith, but one marvels at her perspicacity—or … whatever it was…”
Montclair’s head was aching again, but he met her eyes levelly. “Perhaps you should say straight out what you mean, ma’am.”
“My dear wife and I have merely wondered,” murmured Sir Selby, “if Mrs. Henley’s so magnificent ‘rescue’ might have been prompted by—er, foreknowledge of the unfortunate event.”
“You mean that she and her brother had me attacked and thrown into the Folly.”
“She had motive enough, Lord knows,” said my lady with a shrug. “Had you died, the ownership of this place would have been bound up in legal nonsense for a great while. Meantime, she has possession. She could have lived here rent-free, indefinitely.”
Montclair’s hand clenched on the coverlet. “Then how very foolish in her to come to my rescue,” he said dryly.
Trent smiled a patient smile. “Perhaps that was made necessary. “One gathers that her little girl had formed the habit of playing near the Folly—”
“A clear case of criminal neglect by her misguided parent,” inserted my lady with a smug nod of her head.
“Had the child heard you in the Folly,” Trent went on, “and confided in some of the local children, or—”
“Or perchance they had thought you slain,” his wife again interrupted. “But when the child discovered you still lived, that sly widow saw her chance for an even better ploy. She would come gallantly to your rescue, bring you here, nurse you back to health, and so win your gratitude that you would give her the house! A pretty scheme upon my word!”
“And an exceeding unlikely one, ma’am,” said Montclair frowningly. But Lyddford’s acid words came to plague him … ‘So long as you are recuperating here, you cannot very well have us kicked out, can you?’
Her ladyship tittered. “Never say you have fallen into the hussy’s toils? No, I’ll not believe you could be so gullible, Montclair!”
He began to feel tired and dispirited, but persisted, “Say rather, I do not believe her guilty of such a scheme.”
“Of course you do not,” said Trent. “Who could expect your poor brain to function properly after suffering such a wound?”
“You shall have to let us do your reasoning for you, dear nephew,” purred my lady. “And I tell you, Montclair, that gratitude is well and good, but one must face reality. Why would a scheming and mercenary adventuress go to so much trouble for a man she thoroughly dislikes?”
“Unless she hoped to profit by it,” said Sir Selby.
“Which she has done,” declared my lady. “Handsomely!”
Montclair wished they would go away.