12

With typical inconsistency the weather reversed itself. Sunday morning dawned fair and bright, the sun beaming down upon the drenched meadows, flooding Highperch Cottage with radiance, and turning the river into a diamond highway.

Montclair awoke refreshed from a good night’s sleep, cheered by the feeling of reviving strength, but in a black humour. Deemer came to tend to his needs and shave him. The mild little man was agreeable but, as usual, uncommunicative. Montclair thanked him profusely for his kindness, and Deemer left, murmuring shyly that he was only too glad to help anyone in trouble. “Always provided,” he added with a sudden sharp look, “that they don’t bring trouble down upon those I care about.”

Montclair smiled, and said nothing, but he was irked. He’d gone out of his way to express his gratitude, and the fellow had turned on him. If these people didn’t have enough gall for an army! Here they were living in his house illegally, and they had the confounded brass to set him down when he’d done nothing. Only look at the widow, sulkily avoiding him yesterday and again today, having chosen to behave as if he’d attempted to rape her, rather than simply just holding her for a minute … Her hair had felt like cool silk, now that he came to think of it … And her skin was so clear and fair … And very likely she was Imre Monteil’s fancy piece. He scowled. The sooner he was back at Longhills, the better. At least, he knew where he stood there.

He reached for the crutches. It was difficult to fasten the strap about his right arm, but he struggled stubbornly, and at last was hobbling about. Twice he almost fell, and after half an hour he was not only worn out, but both his head and his leg were aching fiercely. Still, he lowered himself awkwardly onto the chaise longue before the windows with an exclamation of triumph. He had managed alone. He had got himself across the room and back, having had to bother no one!

Exultant, he leaned back, catching his breath. The breeze blew the curtains inwards, and brought with it the fragrance of blossoms. A swift flashed across the open windows and a blackbird was singing a glorious Sunday hymn. Montclair’s ears perked up to those liquid notes. He wondered who played the organ in church on Sundays these days. For the past ten years, since he’d turned seventeen, it had been his pleasure to perform that small duty whenever he was in Gloucestershire. He looked down at the splinted and bandaged right hand, wondering if he would ever again be able to play competently. Once more he tried to move the fingers, but they were stiff and useless. Surely, after all these weeks—

“It’s not p’lite to pay no ’tention to a lady when she comes calling,” announced a prim little voice.

Priscilla stood at the foot of the chaise longue. She had come straight from church and wore her Sunday best. Her dress, of mid-calf length, was a primrose yellow muslin with a yellow satin sash and three frills at the hem, and under it she wore ankle-length cambric pantalettes trimmed with lace. Her poke bonnet was tied under her chin with a broad yellow ribbon, and on her hands were dainty white mittens. At least they had once been white, but were now rather soiled, probably because of the very large bouquet of spring flowers she carried.

“Especially, such a very pretty lady,” said Montclair with a smile.

She looked at him doubtfully. “Am I pretty? Even with my specs?”

“You are indeed pretty. And your dress, Lady Priscilla, is charming.”

“Thank you, Mr. Val’tine. Would you like to know ’bout my dress? Mama made it. An’ she sewed my bonnet, too.” She edged closer and stuck out one leg. “These,” she whispered confidingly, “are called pan’lets!”

“They’re very dainty,” he whispered in turn. “Did you pick the flowers?”

“Yes.” She thrust them at him, then dumped them in his lap. “For you. Mama says you want cheering up ’cause your lady din’t come.” She sat on the edge of the chaise longue, and Montclair thanked her for the flowers and moved aside to allow more room.

“Why din’t she come?” asked Priscilla, watching him gravely. “Doesn’t she love you?”

“Certainly she loves me,” he answered. “All the ladies love me. I am so very dashing you know. Especially just at the moment.”

Priscilla stared at the white, haggard face, then burst into laughter. “You look awful, sir,” she told him, with the unaffected candour of childhood. “But when you’re well, you’re nice to look at. Are you going to pick Miss Trent for your wife?”

He chuckled. “She will be a lovely wife for some lucky gentleman. But I think she doesn’t want me for a husband.”

“Good. Then I’d like to know, please, what your lady likes are.”

“Do you mean,” he asked experimentally, “which ladies I particularly like?”

She pursed her lips. “That might do, but if I don’t know them it won’t help much. I mean—d’you like fair ladies or dark ladies? An’ must they be fat or thin? And are you in a great big hurry to get yourself marriaged, or d’you think you could wait a bit? Like ten years, or ’bout. And—‘sides all that,” she added with sudden anxiety, “if it would fill you up with ’gust to marriage a lady with specs.”

Touched, Montclair took up her hand and kissed the grubby mitten gently. “Do you say you want to marry me, Lady Priscilla?”

She sighed and burst his bubble. “Not really. To marriage is silly and only for old people. But I’ll sac’fice myself for Mama, if it will help her to stop crying in the night.” She added kindly, “But I do like you, Mr. Val’tine, and I speshly like your eyes, and the way your mouth sort of nearly but not quite smiles sometimes.”

“Why don’t you just call me Mr. Val,” he suggested. “And perhaps, if I knew why your Mama was crying, I might be able to help without your having to—er, sacrifice yourself. Is it, do you suppose, something to do with your Uncle Andrew?”

Priscilla shook her head, setting her bonnet sliding. “It’s the same old thing,” she said lugubriously. “Money. You have got lots of money, haven’t you, Mr. Val?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She looked aghast. “But—you live in that great big house! And Uncle Andy says your coat’s from a wizard, and it must cost lots ’n lots to buy a wizard’s coats!”

“Well, you see the house belongs to my brother,” he explained apologetically. “I just live there. Er, how much money do you need?”

“Oh, tubs an’ tubs! A hundred guineas, at least, I ’spect. So Mama can pay the bills and paint the house and have the roof mended. It leaks in Uncle Andy’s bedchamber you know, and makes him shout bad words in the middle of the night.” She added in a reproachful voice, “I never would’ve thought you’d be a big dis’pointment, Mr. Val, but you are. A hugeous one.”

“I’m very sorry, my dear. But—perhaps by the time you’re old enough to get married I might be able to find a hundred guineas. Would that serve?”

The small shoulders shrugged. “No, I’m ’fraid. I need it now. People make promises ’bout marriaging sometimes, years ’fore they really do, and I was hoping you and me could make that kind of thing, and then I could have the money. But—I s’pose I’ll have to find somebody else.”

He gave one glossy curl a gentle tug. “I wish you wouldn’t, Lady Priscilla. Can’t you possibly wait for me?”

She looked glum. “I’ll try, Mr. Val. But Mama said only yestiday that things was getting des’prit, and if it keeps on like that, I’ll just have to sac’fice to somebody else!”

*   *   *

It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Susan shook hands with Miss Barbara Trent at eleven o’clock the next morning, and ushered her into the sunlit withdrawing room. With uncharacteristic malice she had been prepared to dislike the affianced bride and find in her not one single redeeming feature. Confronted by a pale, troubled little creature with a soft, shy voice, and the expression of a frightened doe, Susan experienced a contrary and irritating urge to hug her.

“I know how anxious you must be,” she said kindly. “But pray do not be in a pucker. Mr. Montclair is much better. I wish you could go up at once, but Dr. Sheswell is with him at the moment, so instead I shall offer you a cup of tea.” She glanced in sudden apprehension to the door. “Is your mama come with you, ma’am?”

Lady Trent having announced resoundingly that she would sooner be seen dead in a ditch than to again be under the same roof with “that shameless hussy,” Barbara had escaped that fate. “Mama was unable to come. I brought my personal footman, of course, and your—er, I think it was your housekeeper—took him to the kitchen.”

Susan stifled a sigh of relief. “May I tempt you to a cup of tea, Miss Trent? I realize it must be distasteful to you to be here, but—”

Barbara blinked at her. “Because your husband shot himself?”

Susan’s jaw dropped a little.

“I can see that must have been very sad for you,” said Barbara. “But I do not perceive why you should be held in contempt because of it. Unless you drove him to it. And you do not at all look like a harpy, or—” She stopped, one hand pressed to her mouth, and said in horror, “Oh! I do beg your pardon!

Susan laughed helplessly.

Barbara stared at her and thought she had never seen a lady who was more fascinatingly beautiful. And that silvery trill of laughter … How long had it been since she laughed…? “It is—is just,” she stammered, “that I have been so very—distraught of late. And—and so worried about Valentine. I fear my poor mind…” She lifted a hand to her brow in distracted fashion.

“No, please,” said Susan. “Such candour is refreshing. I assure you I did not drive my poor husband to his death. At least, I hope I did not.” She busied herself with the teapot and handed her guest a full cup complete with sugar and milk as requested. “And of course you have been distracted. I wonder you did not fall into a decline. So newly betrothed and to have Mr. Montclair almost killed on the selfsame day!”

“Yes,” said Barbara, beginning to forget her nervousness under the spell of such warm kindliness. “It was frightful. Papa and Mama have told me he is past the crisis now, of course, but one cannot help but worry, and—they would not let me come.”

‘Because of the notorious widow and this house of infamy,’ thought Susan, irritated. “Well, I’m glad you have come now.”

“Thank you. My abigail told me Valentine almost died, and—and that you saved his life. How brave you must be.”

“No, no. I was merely the one who chanced to find him.”

Barbara said quaveringly, “I believe his head was broken. Is—is his mind…?”

“Good gracious—no! He suffered a bad concussion, and when he was thrown into the Folly his leg and some bones in his right hand were broken.”

“Oh! Poor Val! He must be frantic! He is a musician, you know.”

She looked as if she was about to cry, and Susan pointed out hurriedly that it could have been much worse. “Fortunately he did not suffer any major injuries or compound fractures. The breaks are clean and our Bo’sun says will heal nicely. The gentleman has had a very bad few weeks, I own, and it will likely be a little while yet before he is well again. But his mind is not affected, I promise you!” She was astounded that the poor little creature had known none of this, and impulsively patting her hand, said, “Oh, my dear, how dreadful that you have worried so!”

Sympathy, so generously offered, was a rare commodity in Barbara’s life, and in her present frame of mind, was devastating. The tears overflowed. Susan spread her arms, and with a choking sob Barbara collapsed into them. She wept unrestrainedly; great racking sobs accompanied such floods of tears that Susan’s shoulder was soon drenched. Scarcely the reaction of a girl Angelo had thought would be a reluctant bride. Which was not too surprising—Angelo so often got everything wrong. She held the girl close and spoke softly, and felt wretched, until at last the storm eased.

Barbara reached shamefacedly for her reticule and was surprised to find Welcome in it. That made her smile, and finding a tiny handkerchief she dabbed at her red and swollen eyes while expressing her shaky apologies for such deplorable conduct.

“Never mind about that,” said Susan in her serenely matter-of-fact way. “I will not offer my friendship, for I know that I am not quite respectable, whereas you are very respectable indeed, but—”

“Oh,” gasped Barbara, clinging to her hand and looking up into her face in a pathetic pleading. “How very much I would like to have you for a friend … I have none, you see. I hoped to make some when it was decided I should be sent to a young ladies’ seminary. But Mama investigated, and found that the teachers were of questionable morals and if The Twig is Bent by Faulted Hands, One Grows a Faulted Tree.”

“But—surely you must have some friends. Have you no sisters?”

“No. Only Junius. And he—” She closed her lips and gazed miserably at her sodden handkerchief. “I did have a friend once. Our neighbours in Surrey have three daughters; two are married and much older than me, but the youngest is crippled and the dearest thing, with the sunniest disposition, despite her affliction. We used to meet secretly in the spinney that divides our estates, but Mama’s dresser (a most disagreeable woman!) caught us, and told Mama, and I was not allowed to meet Hannah again. Papa said that if the Lord had seen fit to visit an infirmity upon her there must be evil in the family, and that I was not to associate with such people.”

“Good … heavens…” breathed Susan. “I fancy Sir Selby would judge that my daughter’s poor eyesight is a Divine punishment because of my own sins!”

“Yes, and because of the bad blood she inherited from her father.”

“What?”

Barbara jumped at that ringing exclamation, and quavered a terrified apology.

Susan took a breath. “It is I who should apologize,” she said, her blazing eyes making that statement of questionable veracity. “I found it difficult to believe that anyone could say such things of a sweet innocent. But—I should not speak so of your parents.”

“No. You shouldn’t. Nor should I. But then—I’m doomed to hellfire at all events.” The sensitive lips quivered and another wayward tear crept down the pale cheek.

“Oh my! What horrid sins have you committed?”

Barbara’s eyelashes lowered. She said painfully, “I am f-fat. And—and ugly.”

Stunned, Susan gazed at her. Small wonder she was so crushed and colourless. Indignation deepened the flush in her cheeks. Before she could stop herself, she said tartly, “Dear me. And even if that were true, which I assure you it is not, from whom do you suppose your evil tendencies were inherited?”

Barbara peeped up at her. Slowly, a gleam brightened the reddened eyes. “Ooooh!” she whispered. “I never thought of that!” She giggled, and then they laughed merrily together.

“You will think me evil indeed,” sighed Barbara.

“I think we are both being rather naughty. But it was worth it to see you smile. You seemed so very unhappy at a time in your life when most girls are full of joyous plans.”

All the animation that had so brightened Barbara’s face faded away. “How can I be joyful when I am forced into a marriage I do not want?”

Bewildered, Susan said, “But—I thought you were fond of your betrothed. And he is”—she forced herself to be objective—“wealthy, and—and a fine-looking young man.”

Barbara stared at her curiously. “Do you find him so? Mrs. Henley—could you be joyful were you to marry such a man?”

It was a home question. Susan’s cheeks blazed. “W-well, I— That is—”

“Of course you could not,” said Barbara bitterly. “Not if you know of his reputation! But it is too late now. I am betrothed! And only because I am so weak. Such a spineless creature! But what hope have I? My first and only Season was a disaster. Mama says I am most fortunate that such an eligible young man should offer for me.”

Searching for something diplomatic to say, Susan pointed out, “Your betrothed evidently does not find you plain and fat.”

“Truly, I cannot understand why he wants to marry me.” Barbara heaved a deep sigh. “But Val says he supposes that I will be a conformable wife and not interfere with—with his … little—affaires.”

‘The villain!’ thought Susan, outraged.

Dr. Sheswell came booming along the hall then, and Susan excused herself and went to meet him. He was hugely jovial, and told her that Montclair was making great strides. “A leetle concerned by the colour, y’know. And the pulse. But the silly fellow has likely been overtiring himself with the crutches, and fretting to know who wants to provide him a sod blanket.” He fixed her with a suddenly hard stare. “Sufficient to give any man pause, ma’am, ain’t it?”

Susan managed to hide her vexation. If this pompous bore fancied there was a conspiracy afoot at Highperch Cottage to rid the world of Valentine Montclair, he was welcome to indulge such nonsense. One might have thought the invalid’s improved state of health would have told him otherwise, but Sheswell impressed her as a singularly foolish man who saw no farther than the end of his nose. “Well, Mr. Montclair can rid his mind of such depressing worries for the moment,” she said with a forced smile. “As you see, Miss Trent has arrived. He has been extreme anxious to see her.”

A grunt was his only reaction to that, and he expressed a wish to consult with Mr. Dodman. The Bo’sun was in the stables with Lyddford, and Susan was far from willing to allow the physician to wander unescorted about the grounds. She considered ringing for Deemer or Martha Reedham, but their sometime butler was busied in the cellar, and Mrs. Starr and Martha were hard at work on the week’s washing. She hesitated only momentarily before begging Miss Trent to excuse her for a moment while she showed the doctor the way. The dispassionate lovers had waited this long, another minute or two wouldn’t be disastrous surely.

Left alone in the withdrawing room, Barbara glanced around curiously. Val had only brought her here once, but she remembered how shocked she had been by the dreariness of the old house, and horrified to think he would wish to live in such a dowdy place. Hers was not an imaginative mind, and she had been quite unable to picture Highperch thoroughly cleaned, curtains washed, windows sparkling, the furniture taken out of holland covers and polished until the fine old woods gleamed.

Her attention fixed on the painting that hung above the mantel. Lacking so many of the accomplishments her mama had hoped she would acquire, Barbara had a genuine flair for art. She was very shy about her gift, and kept her sketches hidden, dreading lest they be mocked, but she knew enough of the subject to recognize excellence, and was so impelled by interest as to leave the sofa and wander over to the fireplace.

Gazing up at the painting, she murmured admiringly, “Oh, my goodness.”

“Theses truth mostly,” came a sighful voice behind her. “Goodness. Chess!”

She spun around, and a becoming blush brightened her sad face. “Señor de Ferdinand! How do you do?”

Rushing to take her outstretched hand and hold it with the greatest reverence, he said fiercely, “Miceselves whats you wishes will do. Mostly beautiful lady saying herses-elves ’mire theses. Angelo, he give. Here’s and now!” He reached up and began to struggle to remove the picture from the wall.

“No, no!” cried Barbara. “Oh, pray do not! Truly, you are very good, but it belongs to Mrs. Henley, and—”

“Chew like. Chew havings!” he declared, by now having succeeded in tipping the picture so that it hung sideways.

“No—really! Oh dear, let me help…”

She hurried to stand beside him, but being not even as tall as he, could reach no higher, and the painting, large, heavy, and now considerably out of balance, defied their efforts. The ormolu clock, jolted by de Ferdinand’s elbow, fell with a crash into the hearth.

With a dismayed cry Barbara stepped back. “Oh, no!” she wailed. “Whatever will they think of me?”

“Of chew?” cried the Spaniard, his dark eyes flashing. “Of chew thinkings they theses lady was beautiful mostly of anys other! Not moment one chew must griefed being! Angelo—mices-elves—he picture buyings!”

That Barbara understood this mangled speech was evident. Her lashes fell, her bosom began to rise and fall in agitation, but the shy smile that curved her mouth so wrought upon the Spaniard that he was emboldened to again seize her hand and press it to his lips.

“Oh, you m-must not,” she said, trying without much force to free herself.

“Chew sayings chew not marryings wish,” persisted de Ferdinand. “Chaw minds changes its elves?”

“No.” She raised suddenly tragic eyes to his ardent ones. “But—it is done now. I am betrothed, do you see?”

He stepped closer. “Lovely lady chew Angelo listen chaw nice ears with! Chew no wish marryings with theses mens, then Angelo—mices-elves—he marryings stopping!”

Awed, she whispered, “You will stop the marriage? Oh, if only you could! But—alas, it is too late.”

Even as he began an impassioned denial, she heard quick light footsteps approaching. At once she ran back to the sofa. De Ferdinand sprinted after her. Barbara halted abruptly as a thought occurred. Swinging around she was startled to find the Spaniard coming at her with all speed. They collided violently and fell onto the sofa. Not normally quick-witted, but inspired by desperation, Barbara hissed into his nose, “Tonight at ten, by the summer house!”

Hurrying into the withdrawing room, the apology on Susan’s lips died. She received the incredible impression that the man her brother sometimes fondly referred to as “the little Spanish gamecock” had attacked Miss Trent, and that the girl she’d thought to be shy had just bitten him on the nostril. Feeling decidedly out of her depth, she blinked from Miss Trent’s pink countenance to de Ferdinand’s now upright and rigidly defiant stance.

“I w-was … faint,” said Barbara. “And—and Señor Angelo, er—helped me.”

“Oh.” Vastly titillated, Susan added an equally nonsensical “I am glad.” Her gaze encompassing the painting, which now appeared to stand on one corner, and the shattered clock on the hearth, she asked an astonished “Whatever happened?”

“Mices-elves wishing to theses buyings for mostly beauti—” began Angelo.

“I-I was admiring the painting,” interjected Barbara desperately. “I fear I must have disturbed the wire. We—er, tried to straighten it again, and the clock fell. Truly, I am very sorry.”

“It was an ugly old clock,” Susan declared with commendable grace. “The painting is rather pretty, isn’t it? Would you wish to come upstairs now, Miss Trent?”

She led Barbara up the stairs, mulling over how becomingly the girl’s cheeks had glowed, and how bright had been the formerly lacklustre blue eyes. And Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand had brought it all about. ‘Well now, Mr. Rake Montclair,’ she thought, ‘you had best look to your laurels, or your betrothed may run away with the ‘little Spanish gamecock’!

*   *   *

The afternoon breeze was freshening, setting the leaves of the old oak tree to flutter whisperingly, and ruffling Montclair’s dark hair. He moved slightly on the chaise longue they had carried into the back garden, and Susan looked up quickly from her mending to see if he was uncomfortable. Dispensing with protocol in these trying circumstances, he wore only a shirt and pantaloons, the left leg slit to the knee to accommodate the splints. He was still too thin, but the slight pucker between his dark brows that always betrayed one of the violent headaches he still occasionally suffered, was not apparent today. In fact, aside from the arm that was carried in a sling and the splinted leg, he looked almost well again.

A week had passed since Miss Trent’s visit. It had been a productive week. The Dainty Dancer’s cargo was all safely stowed in the cellar, and for two days Andy and the Bo’sun had been busily mending sails. This morning Andy and Señor Angelo had taken the barge to the boatyard near Avonmouth for some much needed work on the tiller.

By mutual if unspoken consent, neither Susan nor Montclair had referred again to the possibility of his returning home. Nor had Dr. Sheswell or the Trents put in another appearance, and although Susan was well aware that this could only be a respite, she was grateful for the present peace.

She became aware that a pair of dark eyes watched her, and averted her own hurriedly.

“Must you always work?” drawled Montclair lazily. “I think I never see you but you are busied at some task. Yet you fly up into the boughs do I dare offer to bring only two of my servants here to help you.”

“I like to be busy, sir,” she argued. “And besides, I expect your maids have too many tasks already.”

He smiled. “More probably it would be the first time they really earned their pay. We have dozens of ’em loitering about Longhills, doing very little.”

“A typical male observation,” she said in amused chiding. “With a house as gigantic as yours, the poor girls likely slave from dawn to dusk, polishing and dusting and mopping and scrubbing, and—”

“And the butler standing over ’em with a heavy whip, no doubt! Is that how you envision a maid’s life at Longhills, ma’am?”

She laughed. “Not quite that grim, but I fancy your aunt knows how to keep your servants well occupied.”

“Well, that’s truth, at all events.” In spite of his light tone the laughter had left his eyes as it always did when his family was mentioned, and there was a hardening to the pleasant line of his mouth. Susan folded the tablecloth she had repaired, lifted a yawning Welcome from her sewing basket, and put the tablecloth in. During these weeks of his illness she had come to know every nuance of Montclair’s voice, every expression of the very expressive countenance, and through these last few summer days they had chatted in an ever deepening rapport and said much more than mere words. She had struggled to convince herself that whatever his peculiar relationship with Miss Trent, it was none of her affair. She enjoyed him for his whimsical sense of humour and his easy way of conversing with her. He never ignored her remarks; he solicited and listened to her opinions—and if he frequently argued with them he did so as one would argue with an equal, not with the amused tolerance toward an inferior intellect that was so often shown females by gentlemen. Indeed, in some ways she felt as comfortable with him as though she’d known him all her life. And in others— She snipped that thread of thought and said quietly, “Mr. Valentine, you do not—that is to say, there does not appear to be a great depth of affection between you and the Trents.”

“Your first impulse was correct, Mrs. Sue. I have no love for them—save for Barbara, of course.”

“Of course.” A spark of resentment lit her eyes, but she went on. “Was your mama excessive fond of them?”

“She scarce knew them. Lady Marcia was sister to my father. He could not abide the lady, and being a very forthright gentleman, told her so to her face during one of their less civilized quarrels. For years afterwards the two families were estranged.”

“How dreadful. Were all communications at an end, then?”

“Yes.” He said dryly, “It was an exceeding peaceful time.” He saw her brows arch, and added, “You are wondering, I think, why my mother appointed Sir Selby as Geoff’s Administrator? Her own brothers both had died young, and my papa’s surviving younger brother suffered a bad accident many years ago, as I told you. Mama was ill, and she knew that Geoff—” He checked, frowning, then said with his half smile, “Well, he’s one of those charming men who always manage to, er— He’s a bit of a scamp, and, er—”

‘A family trait,’ she thought, but inserted shrewdly, “And expert at resting all his responsibilities on the shoulders of others.”

Montclair said in a troubled way, “No, really he is the best of men, but—he simply cannot tolerate my uncle. Now that he is of an age to end the Trust and take control, I am sure he will return very soon.”

“But meanwhile,” she pursued, “your uncle, having been made Administrator, is able to follow his own course while your brother keeps out of the country?”

“Not where I can help it,” he said with a sudden fierce scowl. “The deuce of it is, legally he does not really have to heed me. I think the only reason he bothers with me at all is for fear I might appeal to my great-uncle Chauncey. He was my mama’s favourite uncle, and is a grand old fellow. He wields no real authority in this instance, sad to say, and lives mostly retired in Wales now, but he is still a power to be reckoned with, and my uncle Selby treads very softly around him.” He smiled nostalgically. “You may know of him since your family was Navy also. Admiral Lord Sutton-Newark.”

“Yes indeed. I have heard my grandfather mention that name, and with great respect. Did you ever appeal to him?”

“Lord, no,” he answered indignantly. “A fine booberkin he would have thought me! Unable to deal with such a one as Selby Trent!”

“That is nonsensical! Your brother is older than you, and he could not deal with the man! And Sir Selby has all his retainers, his wife, and his son marshalled against you, and opposes your every wish. I should think—”

Curious, he interrupted. “How did you know all that?”

She hesitated, then said rather airily, “Oh, Señor Angelo is acquaint with Miss Trent, you know, and she—”

“Has babbled all my secrets, has she? Wretched chit!” He checked, then added with a sober look, “No, I must not say that. She is a darling, and heaven knows has much to distress her. I only pray we may deal well—”

“Mr. Val! Mr. Val!” Priscilla ran from the house, her skirts flying, her little face alight and well sprinkled with flour.

Montclair grinned, and shifted on the chaise, sitting up and reaching his good arm to her. “What makes those lovely eyes sparkle so, Lady Priscilla?”

She giggled ecstatically, and ran to be hugged. “I’m going to Tewkesb’y with Starry an’ the Bo’sun to get my new specs, and Bo’sun George says he might buy me a ice. An’ you know I is not a real lady.”

“Bless my soul!” he said, smiling into the bright little face. “How you have deceived me! Now tell me what you’ve been up to with Starry that smells so delectable.”

“Oh, we’ve been cooking. We din’t have much time, ’cause Bo’sun George is waiting to drive us, so I must go and put on my bonnet and mittens quick. But I cooked you a special biscuit for your dinner, Mr. Val. Wait till you see it! It’s ’normous, and I poked hund’eds an’ thousands of currants into it, ’cause I know you like currants.”

“Indeed I do. I can scarce wait ’til dinner time. Faith, but I’m glad to know you’re such a good cook. If you do decide to wait for me, and accept of my offer, I’ll eat well!”

She squealed with delight, jumped up and down twice, bade them both a hurried farewell, then went racing back inside to get ready for the long-awaited journey to Tewkesbury.

Montclair leaned back, watching the flying little figure. “What a sweet child she is,” he murmured, fondly.

“Yes,” agreed Susan, watching him. “And what is all this about offers, sir?”

He chuckled, and turned his head lazily against the chaise to look at her. “Not quite what you might think, ma’am. I am honoured to inform you that your daughter is prepared to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony, and has selected me as a possible mate.”

“Good—heavens!”

He sighed and said in tragic accents, “You do not approve! Alas. However, there is a stipulation, so do not worry yourself unduly. Mistress Priscilla considers marriage very silly, and only for old people.”

Susan laughed a little uncertainly. “That is not exactly a stipulation, is it?”

“No, but her reluctance to enter such a state is balanced against her need for a rich gentleman, and I had to tell her I have neither title nor a great fortune.” Susan tensed at this, a frown coming into her eyes, but far from being an expert in the ways of women, he did not see this danger signal, and blundered on. “She is very sensible, and says that she cannot marry anyone who has less than a hundred guineas.”

“Oh.” In a clipped voice Susan remarked, “Well, I fancy you told her you are betrothed, which put an end to that nonsense.”

“Certainly not! Why should I? Now tell me, ma’am, seriously. You have instilled the proper values into her, I’ll not deny. But what do you mean to do with her? She is exceptionally bright and should be educated, for—”

“For what?” she snapped, annoyed with him on more than one count. “The Marriage Mart? Hah! With our reputation to aid her, she’d not get one toe across the threshold!”

His smile faded. “I had not meant to imply that.”

“Then what had you meant to imply? You must know that is all women are considered good for in these days. A girl must be educated, certainly. Up to a point. She should speak French and some Latin. She must know her Bible and be able to read the globes. She should sketch nicely, paint, and play the pianoforte tolerably well, and a good singing voice is an asset. And above all, she must be well bred up to know her place in the world, which, as you yourself remarked, is to be a conformable wife and turn a blind eye to her husband’s little affaires de coeur!”

“The deuce!” growled Montclair angrily. “When did I ever make such a gauche remark?”

Barbara had said that of him, and her confidence must, of course, be respected. Susan evaded hurriedly. “I suppose you will deny that what I have said is truth. But the fact remains that Priscilla will have a vastly better chance of making a good match is she kind and stupid, for a clever woman is considered a threat and unfeminine!”

“Indeed?” he drawled with a curl of the lip. “So your plan for her future goes no further than finding her a wealthy husband! There are more important things than money, you know.”

Stung by his scorn, and driven by hurt and the need to strike out at him, she snapped, “Easy said when you have plenty, but odd as it may seem, I’ve no ambition to see her marry into poverty and live in a garret.”

She had stood as she spoke, and taken up her basket.

Struggling to rise also, Montclair reached for his crutch and responded irritably, “Not that, certainly. But this preoccupation with a good marriage—or in other words, a wealthy one—is—”

“Gauche, I suppose,” she interrupted, glaring at him. “Then pray tell sir, what other course suggests itself to you?”

“Lord save us all, ma’am, the child has an excellent mind. Unlike most predatory females she might be content with an average man—even a man with no title and an honest occupation!”

Predatory females! “Oooh!” gasped Susan, infuriated. “Shall I tell you what this predatory female prays for, Mr. Montclair? Shall I?”

He bowed precariously, and said at his most cynical, “I am all ears, ma’am.”

“Which are precious small of comprehension,” she riposted. “I pray, sir, that the day may dawn when the height of a female’s ambition is not merely to find a suitable mate!”

Quite as angry as she, he jeered, “Then what shall be the height of this legendary creature’s ambition, Mrs. Henley? To enter a nunnery perhaps?”

“To have,” she said through her teeth, “some interests of her own! To perhaps be permitted to voice an opinion and not hear it tolerantly sneered at! To be permitted to hold an opinion without being thus judged a bluestocking!”

He said hotly, “If ever I heard such stuff! I’ll have you know, ma’am, that my mama was exceeding well read! Why, she probably read two or three books a—a day! And discussed ’em with my father! And as to females holding opinions—good God! Have you never listened to my aunt? The woman holds sufficient opinions for a regular army of—”

“Mrs. Sue!” called Martha Reedham from the back step. “Company!”

“How very well timed,” said Susan with quelling dignity. “Your pardon, sir.”

“Oh—hell!” Valentine gave her his tentative grin. “Sue—please don’t rush away angry with me. What the deuce are we quarrelling about? You know I want only the best for Priscilla. I’m just clumsy about the way I say it, I collect.”

Her antagonism vanished as swiftly as his mood had changed. She said with a flash of dimples, “Very clumsy. So I shall rush away, and leave you to ponder your misdeeds, Mr.—” She started off, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“Mr.—what?” he demanded.

“Valentine…” she said provocatively, and hurried to the house guiltily aware that she was as naughty a flirt as he; and that he was smiling after her.