“But of course, I instructed Ferry to communicate with the woman at once.” Sir Selby Trent’s eyes were wide and injured as he closed the door of his display case. “I had thought my promptness might have pleased you, dear boy.”
“Pleased me!” Montclair’s hands gripped tightly on his riding crop. “I told you I preferred to handle the matter myself, sir. The Henley woman and her nasty little band have stolen a march on us by taking possession of the cottage. It well may be that there is no reasoning with her, but had you not interfered I might have at least—”
“Hoity-toity! Only listen to the lord of the manor!” Arms folded across his powerful chest, Junius leaned against his father’s desk watching Montclair contemptuously, and managing to look overdressed in a pair of extremely tight cream pantaloons, a blue coat with big silver buttons, and a neckcloth which had taken his man an hour to perfect. “You don’t rule here yet, my poor clod,” he sneered.
Montclair stepped closer to him, chin outthrust. “And you are here only because your father came in an advisory capacity to my brother—a state of affairs which should by rights have ended almost four years ago. You have absolutely no right whatsoever to interfere in the running of this estate. You had no business to call on Mrs. Henley in Geoff’s name, much less to insult and maul her, and break Lyddford’s head. Whatever the provocation, neither my father nor Geoffrey would countenance such crude behaviour. I’ll thank you in future to keep your meddling out of any matter concerning Longhills.”
Junius, whose face had become alarmingly red during this declaration, snarled, “You puny would-be music master! What if I tell you to go to hell?” Standing straight so that he towered over the slighter man, he added, “Or what if I were to very gently break you in half and—”
“Keep in mind that you are at a disadvantage,” said Montclair, throwing down his riding crop. “The only time you’ve ever bested me is when you attacked from behind like the sneaking coward you are!”
Junius swore and whipped back his clenched fist, and Montclair crouched, poised and ready.
Sir Selby sprang between them. “Is this truth, Junius? Did you maul that trollop? I knew you’d struck her brother, but I never dreamed—Did you, sir?”
His voice was a hiss of menace, and the glare in the pale eyes sent an uneasy shiver down Montclair’s spine.
Junius drew back, and licked his lips nervously. “I—er, merely stole a kiss, sir. She’s a buxom wench and—”
“And when her brother sought to defend the chit, you and Pollinger beat him, eh? Do you know how that will sound should this come to a court of law? You damned young fool! Must you lust to bed every woman you meet?” As if goaded beyond endurance, Trent’s arm flew up and he back-handed his son hard across the face. Junius staggered, then stood with head bowed, one hand clutching his cheek. “I vow to God,” panted Sir Selby, “I’d be justified in taking you to a surgeon and having you—” His eyes slid to Valentine’s shocked expression. He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Get out—you imbecilic animal,” he muttered. “And I’d best never again see you dare to attack your cousin in his father’s house! Out!”
Another moment Junius stood there. Then, his taut form relaxed and a sly smile dawned. “My apologies, sir,” he muttered, and with a short bow went out and closed the door quietly behind him.
Trent shook his head, and walked around his desk. “Alas,” he sighed, sinking into the chair and reverting to his usual bland manner, “one has such hopes for one’s children, and then—”
“Uncle,” Montclair intervened curtly. “Spare me the performance, I beg you.”
Sir Selby blinked at him. “Performance…?”
Montclair nodded. “You have outdone yourself; don’t spoil it. I have one question for you, however. How close is the friendship between your good friend Monteil and Mrs. Henley?”
“There is none!” Trent seemed to resent the implication. “They are scarcely acquainted. I think he met her here for the first time on Tuesday.”
“Do you?” Montclair crossed to the door. “Then I think you are the one is mistaken, sir.” He went out.
There was no sign of Junius and the long hall stretched out in serene silence. It was all so peaceful and gentle. It didn’t seem possible that just a few moments ago, unbridled savagery had reared its ugly head in the elegant study. He could well imagine how shamed and infuriated Junius must feel to have been so brutally chastised in front of the man he hated. As for his father—the veneer of civilization was thin indeed.
He muttered, “Phew!” and walked slowly to the stairs, thinking with nostalgic longing of the years before his parents had died. How happy they’d been then. Now Longhills had become a battleground, and he was so confoundedly tired of it all. But there was no use wishing he could escape. There was no escape; not if he was to protect the estate for Geoff.
His troubled look deepened to a frown. The state of the mails was deplorable, but surely Geoff must have received at least one of his letters? It was possible, of course, that he was moving about too rapidly for correspondence to reach him; possible even that he was already en route home. Still, another letter had this morning been despatched to the errant lord of the manor, and if that missive didn’t bring Geoff back, then there would be real cause for alarm. Actually, the footman had gone off with three letters. The one to Geoffrey, plus notes to Jocelyn Vaughan and Alain Devenish, asking if they would consent to act as seconds in the forthcoming duel with Lyddford. Montclair could picture their reactions. It would take a day or two for the request to reach Joss in Sussex, but Dev’s estate was sufficiently nearby that he would likely receive his letter tomorrow. He might very well ride to Longhills at once. Heaven knows how many times the volatile Devenish had been out, but it would be just like him to deliver a stern homily on the evils of duelling before agreeing to act for his friend.
Montclair’s faint grin faded as his thoughts turned to the brazen widow and Imre Monteil. Early yesterday morning, the Swiss had said he was leaving for Brussels. Yet this afternoon he’d been at Highperch Cottage, and to judge by the way he’d been slobbering over the Henley woman’s hand, one might suppose them to be lovers. His lip curled. The jade had a quality that drew men, that was abundantly evident. First Junius, and now Monteil. A pretty pair of admirers for a lady! He thought irritably, ‘And no concern of mine!’ On the other hand, it might concern him. Monteil very obviously coveted Highperch. And he was the kind of man who took what he wanted, one way or another. It was possible that he had made the widow an offer for Highperch on the off chance that she might win her ridiculous lawsuit. Imre Monteil would catch cold at that! Mrs. Henley had not the remotest chance of getting her greedy hands on the dear old cottage!
He ran lightly down the remaining stairs and, proceeding to the main block, went to his bedchamber to wash and change clothes. Gould had a note for him. There was no seal, and the direction was a simple V.A.M. The message was brief, the handwriting so blotched and quavery that it was difficult to read, but he deciphered a plea that he meet Barbara in the summer house. She had crossed out the first time she’d indicated, and replaced it with “six o’clock.” Under her signature, the round innocent hand had added pitifully, “Please—please, Val. We must talk about this before tomorrow! Do not fail me—I beg you.”
He had no intention of failing her, and folding the paper he frowned down at it. The poor chit had been weeping when she wrote this. Such a timid little soul … It was remarkable, really, that she’d found the courage to help him with that demented Spaniard this morning.
He ate luncheon alone in his study, watching the storm that had blown up, but with his thoughts on little Barbara until he turned to his music and all else was forgotten. At half-past four he had an appointment with a tenant farmer. The sturdy man was protesting the fact that his previous complaints had been ignored and debris from the flood still blocked the stream. “It overflows into my barns and the henhouse, Mr. Valentine. Keep it out, I can’t. And clear your stream, Mr. Yates won’t!” It took some time to calm the indignant yeoman, and it was five o’clock before a vexed Montclair left his study. He had instructed Yates to have the stream cleared weeks ago. Clearly, his order had been countermanded. So another battle loomed. He thought, ‘Damn!’ but went in search of his uncle.
There was no sign of Trent in conservatory, gallery, or great hall, but when he went to the south wing and approached the Venetian withdrawing room, he heard his aunt’s shrill voice, followed by Junius’s laugh. Sir Selby was with them, and Montclair’s cool request for a private word with his uncle did not please my lady.
“I see no reason for us to be disturbed,” she said haughtily.
“None, my love,” agreed her spouse. “Come in, Valentine. We may talk in front of our own, I hope.”
“We were discussing the wedding,” said Junius with a sly grin. “I expect you’re fairly panting to hear the details, eh?”
“Not known for your quick wit, are you, coz?” drawled Valentine.
Junius flushed angrily, and Lady Trent snapped, “There is no call for rudeness.”
“Nor for Babs to be rushed into something she does not wish,” Montclair countered.
“My daughter will do as she is told,” put in Sir Selby. “She is obedient to her parents’ wishes, as becomes a properly bred-up girl. Come now, Valentine. You know very well all our plans are made. Cannot be making changes now, dear lad.”
“Much too late,” agreed Junius. “It would be very bad ton.”
“That, at least, you are well qualified to judge,” drawled Montclair. To his dismay the room wavered before his eyes as he spoke. He thought, ‘Oh Lord! Not another attack?’ and said quickly, “I came to talk to you about Ladies Valley Farm, sir. Hatchett was just here. The property is still being flooded. I told Yates to clear the stream some time ago. And I particularly want the cellar of the old Folly boarded up. It appears nothing has been done in either case. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell me why?”
“Valentine, Valentine,” sighed the baronet. “You never will understand that these things take time. And there is the expense to be considered.”
“Expense be hanged! It’s a downright disgrace that we—”
“How dare you, sir?” shouted Lady Trent, jumping up in one of her swift rages. “And who are you, I might add? A snip of a lad who has not yet seen thirty summers! A younger son with no authority, who has travelled little about the world and has accomplished nothing save for a babble of useless music! I am aware you and your brother both were indulged as children and allowed to sauce your parents! Certainly your lack of proper unbringing has never been more apparent than when your spleen is turned on your poor uncle who strives with patience and loyalty to safeguard Geoffrey’s estates from his brother’s hare-brained irresponsible schemes. Apologize at once!”
White with wrath, Montclair attempted a response, but his dizziness had increased to the point that he was instead obliged to clutch at a chair.
“Bravo, Mama,” laughed Junius, applauding. “Only look, you’ve frightened the gudgeon so that he is weak in the knees!”
“You know—damned well—” gasped Montclair furiously.
Quick to seize his advantage, Junius pretended outrage. “Do not swear in front of my mama, you clod,” he cried, leaping at his cousin and giving him a shove that sent the weakened man reeling against a table.
Montclair could see two Junius Trents. He knew he was being baited because Junius fancied him too dizzied to give a good account of himself, but he managed to push himself away from the table and clench his fists. Before he could raise them, Junius struck hard.
Sir Selby leapt to steady Montclair as he staggered back. “Have you forgot what I told you, Junius?” he demanded, barely hiding a grin.
“I was but defending my mama ’gainst his naughty language, sir,” said Junius primly. “You cannot blame me for that, surely?”
Montclair’s head was clearing a little. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his bloodied mouth and said in a steadier voice, “You are a brave man, cousin.”
“Now only look—you have cut him.” Sir Selby clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Could you not see that he was suffering one of his attacks?”
My lady tittered. “Poor Montclair. I vow I must give you a pity party.”
Junius howled with laughter.
Montclair’s breath hissed through his teeth, and the look in his narrowed eyes caused his aunt to draw back in sudden alarm.
“Now, now—do not lose your temper, dear boy. They were just funning,” said Sir Selby.
“We have come to a sorry pass,” said Montclair harshly, “if that is—” But he broke off. He was too angry, and a gentleman did not frighten a lady. Even a Lady Marcia Trent. He turned and stalked out of the room, his cousin’s mocking laughter following him.
* * *
Lord, but she was a merciless harridan! And he was a fool for having allowed the pair of them to make him so angry, for certainly he knew what they were. Striding rapidly across the park towards the summer house, Montclair thought of a hundred ways he might better have handled the matter, a hundred things he might better have said. Still, it was as well he’d left when he had, or he might have said something awful that one does not say to one’s own flesh and blood.
‘I vow I must give you a pity party…’
Her harsh voice echoed in his ears. He scowled and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. If only Geoff would come home. Gad, but he missed the old cawker! They could get rid of the Trents then, and life would be bearable again.
When he entered the little copse of beeches at the top of the rise, the sun was going down, sending an occasional beam through the lowering clouds. Homeward-bound birds swooped and chattered, settling noisily into their own particular trees. The air was beginning to be chill, the eastern horizon already darkening to dusk, and a clammy mist was beginning to writhe up from the wet grass. He thought absently, ‘It will be foggy tomorrow…’ and hurried his stride in case Babs in her distraught state had neglected to bring a shawl.
Lost in troubled thought, he roused to the awareness of a faint rustling behind him, and jerked his head up. A lone ray of sunlight followed him and painted his shadow on the grassy ride, but it painted another shadow: a grotesque figure towering high above him, one mighty arm raising a great cudgel high.
Montclair spun around, throwing up his left arm to protect his head. He was too late. Before he had a chance to see who—or what—menaced him, the shadows, the fading light, the woods, were riven into countless whirling fragments. There was pain, brief and terrible. Then, nothing at all.
* * *
“Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand,” repeated Señor Angelo, and started to rap himself on the chest but thought better of it. “Mices elves.”
The footman deigned to lower his eyes to a point just above the top of the Spaniard’s dark head. ‘No card; talks very odd; no hat; untidy hair; cravat horrid.’ Concluding this regrettable silent inventory he restored his gaze to the cloudy skies once more, and intoned sonorously, “Was Mr. Montclair expecting you this morning … sir?”
The footman tended to run his words together. Señor Angelo, who should not really have ventured forth on this chill foggy day, found the singsong utterance incomprehensible. He also began to feel rather wobbly on his feet. The stableboy was experiencing some difficulty in controlling the visitor’s spirited horse and, amused, the footman turned to watch the contest. Señor Angelo seized his opportunity, ducked past the footman, and occupied the marble bench just inside the front doors. He was a small man and nimble even in adversity, and the footman, tall and secure in his dignified might, did not see the swift manoeuvre and continued to ignore the visitor while enjoying the stableboy’s efforts.
Señor Angelo decided that while he waited for Mr. Montclair, he would inspect the premises. With this in mind, he rose, wandered across the great crescent of the entrance hall, and went up a pair of stairs to the landing, from which point the stairs divided into two flights.
The footman, restoring his view to ground level and finding the caller had vanished, wandered out onto the steps and peered about.
“The señor was also peering about. “Charmed theses,” he beamed, and chose the left flight.
Thus it was that, humming a little despite his smarting side, he wandered along the east corridor and passed the main staircase just as a lady descended from the upper regions. He halted, glancing up smilingly into the saddest little face he had ever seen. His smile died. He abandoned the bow he had been prepared to make even if it caused his side to split like a sausage, and stepped forward with hand outstretched.
“Señorita Trent! Bad somethings was? Tears Angelo de Ferdinand have not can! Must chew splain!”
Despite the garbled English, his eyes held a kindly anxiety that warmed Barbara’s heart. She rested her cold fingers in his hand and blinked mistily. “Oh, Señor,” she gulped, “I don’t want to m-marry him, but—I have no choice! I wish I were dead!”
“Whose marries? What peoples says chew marriage?” Swelling with indignation, he demanded, “Not loving chew theses mens?”
“No, no!” She gripped his hand frantically. “But you see he is very rich, and—” Overcome, she pressed a handkerchief to her lips. “And my cousin—”
“Montclair?” he snarled, bristling. “Chew wanting marriage him, not?”
“No. Val knows how I feel, but he says—”
“Barbara Trent! What on earth are you doing?”
Barbara gave a whimper of terror and whirled around.
Lady Trent, all chin and frown, was coming rapidly along the hall. “Have you quite taken leave of your senses, Miss Care-for-Nobody? We have been waiting this age!”
Angelo inserted, “Madam—mices elves—”
My lady drew herself up and regarded him with disgust. “What in heaven’s name…? Albertson—who is this?”
The footman, breathless and irritated, hastened to them. “Slipped past me at the door, m’lady. I been searching all over! Said he wanted to see Mr. Montclair!”
“Nonsense! Mr. Montclair has no wish to see anyone who cannot speak English! Show the person out.”
“Madam!” said Angelo, indignant. “Angelo Francisco Luis—”
“This way—sir,” growled the footman, taking his arm.
“Hand-un mices elves, oncely at!” cried Angelo, striving rather feebly to escape. “Lagunes de Ferdinand,” he shouted after the ladies, completing his introduction. “Meeces wishing—”
Having reached the door, the footman ejected Señor de Ferdinand. Head first.
* * *
His ship had gone down in a great storm and he was at the bottom of the sea. Far above him, moonlight shone through the green waters, and the seaweed rippled and swung to the pull of the tide, but down here it was dark. The urge to swim up to the surface grew upon Montclair. He tried to move but pain sank its teeth into him so sharply that he lay still again. He couldn’t think very well. Something bad had happened at home … And then for some reason he’d been in the woods … But where he was now, or why, eluded him. He had awoken several times before this, but the pain had been so excruciating he’d felt sick and had drifted into the shadows again. He sighed wearily. If only he had some water …
When he opened his eyes again it was light. A pale murky light. He could smell fog. The birds were singing busily. There must be hundreds of birds. All twittering at once. Such a lot of noise for such tiny creatures … And oh Lord, but his head was hell, and he was so damnably thirsty! His left hand was cold. He moved the fingers. They seemed to touch stone. A stone slab …
He knew then, and he gave a gasp and his eyes opened very wide.
He was in the Folly! With the shock of it came complete recollection. He’d quarreled with the Trents, and then gone to meet Barbara. But he’d been struck down in the woods by a monstrous creature who had evidently thrown him into the Folly and left him to die. And he would die, for no one would think to look for him here. He wondered vaguely who had tried to kill him, but it seemed unimportant. The important thing was that he must get out, or even if his head wasn’t crushed, he’d die of thirst and starvation. He tried to sit up, but there was something horribly wrong with his left leg, and his desperate efforts carried so terrible a price that he was very glad to let himself sink into oblivion.
After a long time he awoke again. He was still in the Folly, and he was much weaker. Unless he was willing to just lie here and politely die he must try once more to get up. He lay still, gathering his strength.
Somewhere, very far away, a dog was barking shrilly …
* * *
Priscilla tiptoed into the clearing. Her fine new friend Mr. Val’tine had told her she must never come here. He’d said it was a bad place and that the lady Fury would boil Wolfgang and eat him all up. She had told Wolfgang about this, but he was in one of his adventuring moods and it was just like him, bold and terrible as he was, to never mind about the Fury. She scanned the drifting mist nervously. If Mama or Uncle Andy caught her she’d really get spanked. Only you didn’t leave your friends just ’cause they was naughty. If she ran off and let Wolfgang get eaten up by that horrid Fury, she’d never forgive herself.
She saw him then and gave a gasp of fright. He was right at the edge, his tail waving furiously, barking down into the pit.
Priscilla gripped her small hands before her mouth and whispered, “Oh dear, oh dearie me! Wolfgang! Come here at once!”
But her whisper went unheard, and the dog barked louder than ever.
She must be brave. Mr. Val’tine wouldn’t leave his dog for a Fury to eat up, she was very sure of that! Trembling, she crept forward, calling to the dog, but ready to run for her life if the Fury’s terrible face should drift out of the pit. And at last, when she was much too close and her knees were shaking so that she didn’t think she could take another step, Wolfgang heard her and ran to prance about her in great excitement, then dart back again.
“No!” she quavered. “Bad dog! Come away from—”
“Priscilla…? Is that … Priscilla?”
Half fainting with terror, Priscilla screamed shrilly and ran as fast as her little legs would carry her. The Fury had heard her! And Mr. Val’tine had been wrong. It was a gentleman Fury, not a lady! And he’d known her name and prob’ly had a cooking pot ready, and a list like Mama and Papa had brought home once from a great dinner they’d gone to, with lots and lots of fancy things to eat writ out on it, all in French. Only the Fury’s list would say Boiled P’scilla and Wolfgang pudding! Wolfgang was coming now. Howling. She gave a sob of gratitude, but daren’t look back lest the gentleman Fury be close behind her with his long terrible teeth and great claws reaching out to take her and pop her into his cooking pot.
She ran almost all the way home.
* * *
“He most certainly is not here!” Standing on the front steps with Deemer on one side of her, and Mrs. Starr on the other, Susan frowned into Junius Trent’s bold grin, and demanded, “Why on earth should you fancy Mr. Montclair would visit us? One might suppose he’d have sufficient sense to know he’d be unwelcome.”
Trent leaned forward in the saddle, taking in the widow from the hem of her pale yellow muslin gown to the shine on her proud dark head. “You’re fair and far out there,” he said. “My cousin ain’t one for sense. Nonsense—yes. Sense—very little, alas.”
Sir Dennis Pollinger uttered a bray of laughter at this witticism, startling the fine grey horse he bestrode so that he was hard put to it to keep his seat. “Gone and got himself lost, silly cawker,” he imparted when he had quieted his mount. “So we’re all out looking for him, d’ye see?”
Mrs. Starr tightened her grip on the rolling pin in her hand. “If a grown man cannot find his way about his own estate, he is either ripe for Bedlam or a slave to Demon Rum,” she observed tartly.
Junius, not one to waste his time with menials, gave her a bored glance. “Your cook has a point,” he said to Susan. “You may take your pick, ma’am.”
“I prefer to take my leave of you, sir,” she said frigidly. “No such individuals have passed this way this afternoon, I promise you. Good day.”
“If you should see him—” began Junius.
Susan curtsied and with one finger under her chin, promised, “I shall spank the wayward boy, and send him home.”
They could still hear Pollinger’s braying laugh after the door had closed.
Deemer said, “What do you suppose it’s all about, Mrs. Sue? Two grooms came looking for Mr. Montclair this morning, whilst you was saying goodbye to Mr. Andrew.”
Mrs. Starr’s eyes widened. “You never think—there’s been murder done?”
“I do not,” said Susan. “The man was probably in his cups and is snoring in a ditch somewhere. Quite typical of his unpleasant self.”
Panting happily, Wolfgang ran in from the back door. Following, also panting, Priscilla saw them, and ran to plead that Mama keep her promise and take her riding this afternoon. “You said we could go ’smorning, but then you talked an’ talked with Uncle Andy, and now the day’s almost gone!”
“But—darling, it’s getting foggy and cold. I think it would be better if we waited ’til tomorrow, and—” The beam vanished from the hopeful eyes and the small face became resigned. Susan relented. “Oh, all right, you rascal. Martha will help you change into your habit. Hurry now.”
* * *
Very much the little lady as she guided her pony across the meadows, Priscilla said happily, “Only look, Mama. The sun’s coming through the clouds. Will we get a rainbow, d’you s’pose? I like rainbows.”
“I don’t think so, darling.” Susan glanced at the trees that loomed ghostlike through the misted air, and wondered if unpleasant Junius Trent had found his cousin.
“Uncle Andy says rainbows are good luck. Why, Mama?”
“I expect because God painted one in the sky after the great Flood we read about at prayers, do you remember? It was His promise to us not to send quite so much rain again.” Priscilla looked solemn, and Susan added on a lighter note, “And there is also a legend that tells of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
The big eyes widened. “Ooh! Then Mr. Val’tine’s found it. The rainbow yesterday had one foot right on his house! Oh, how monst’ous grand! I’ll have a very rich friend!”
“Priscilla,” said Susan thoughtfully, “you haven’t seen your new friend today, have you?”
The brown curls danced under the neat little blue hat as Priscilla shook her head briskly. “I pro’bly won’t never see him again after Uncle Andy was so dreffully savage to him. An’ I was hoping very bad to see him, ’cause I must tell him as he’s mistakened about the Fury.”
“Mistaken, dear.” Susan frowned in irritation. “And—there are not such things as Furies.”
“But, Mama, you told me if I had my teeth filed to points I would look like a Fury, and—”
“Yes, but Furies are only in fairy stories really, darling. We make up stories about them for fun, but there are none in real life.”
“But there are, Mama! There’s one in the Folly! I heard it! Honest and true, I did, Mama!”
The little face was so earnest. Heaven forfend whatever she’d heard should cause her to have nightmares again. That wretched Montclair—to frighten her so! Somehow, thought Susan, she must put a stop to this horrid business. She said, “Well—if you’re sure, perhaps you’d best take me to see this Folly.”
“Oh, no, Mama! I promised Mr. Val’tine I wouldn’t never go there again, and I wouldn’t have, only Wolfgang made me!”
“Pris—cil—la…!”
“He did! He did, Mama! I telled and telled him how we wasn’t to go there no more, but Wolfgang is so foxed in his ways, you know, and—”
Susan repressed a smile. “You mean—fixed in his ways, I think.”
“Do I? Uncle Angelo said ‘foxed.’ Anyway, whatever it is, Wolfgang is it. A very naughty doggie, I told him. Very stern I said it, Mama. Only, I knew Mr. Val’tine wouldn’t leave his best friend in hidjus peril, and Wolfgang was hanging right over the edge and barking and barking.”
“Edge? I thought you said it was a Folly, dear?”
“Yes, Mama. It was. A long long time ago. But it’s all falling down now, and there’s a hugeous hole in the middle what goes right through to China, I ’spect!”
It sounded most unpleasant. “So you had to go and drag that naughty dog away, did you?”
“No. I called him, only he’s so brave he wanted to fight that Fury. But the Fury woke up, and that’s when I found out Mr. Val’tine had made a mistake, ’cause he said it was a lady Fury, Mama, and it isn’t. It’s a gentleman Fury.”
With a fond smile, Susan asked, “Did he come out and chase you?”
Priscilla shivered and turned pale. “I don’t know. When he shouted my name, only soft and creepily you know, I was so frighted! I ran and ran all the way home!”
A dreadful suspicion began to raise gooseflesh on Susan’s skin. She reined up, and the child halted her pony. “Dearest, when did this happen?”
“This morning, Mama. When you was saying goodbye to Uncle Andy.”
“I see.” It was silly, of course, but—“Mama wants you to think very carefully now. Did you really hear a voice? Or was it just a make-believe voice?”
Again the determined shake of the little head. “No, Mama. I din’t make it up. Not this time I din’t. But I’ll never go near there again, I truly won’t.”
Susan hesitated. Valentine Montclair was despicable, and from what Angelo had said the wretch was determined to force his unhappy little cousin to the altar. But whatever he was, whatever he had done, he was a human being, and if there was any chance he had fallen into this Folly of his, he must be helped. Thus, she said quietly, “I just want to—to make sure of something. Come along, sweetheart, show me your Folly. The Fury won’t come if I’m with you, I promise. This is a—a real adventure, and I need your help. Do you understand?”
“Oooh…” said Priscilla, ecstatic.
* * *
Susan took up the train of her habit and trod carefully across the littered clearing. She had left Priscilla and the horses in the trees, just in case there might be something the child should not see. She thought, ‘Which is ridiculous, and I’m just being foolish!’ But she went on.
As she drew closer it seemed that the normal sounds of the woods faded and an unnatural stillness enfolded this macabre clearing. The weak sun had gone into hiding once more, and the mists were thickening. There was not a breath of wind, the trees were completely motionless, and the Folly hove up lonely and forbidding against the darkening skies.
The place was positively ghoulish! To think of Priscilla coming here all alone! She found herself holding her breath as she picked her way among the great mossy slabs and then went with careful steps inside the broken walls. The pit loomed before her and she gave a gasp. “Dear God! Small wonder he chased her away!”
It would seem the man had done them a great service. And in return … Guilt scourged her but she told herself that, basically, he still was at fault. Such a gruesome hole in the ground should never have been left open. If he had one single ounce of concern for others, he’d have had it sealed up long ago! Anyone might fall into the beastly place! She found herself reluctant to go any nearer, and stood staring uneasily at those sad and broken ruins. What nonsense! There was nothing to be afraid of. In a few seconds she would be laughing at herself because that ancient cellar contained only dampness and—rats? She pushed her qualms aside, ventured to the brink, and peered down.
Heavens, what a pit! It was too dark to see anything much. “Hello?” she called, feeling a perfect fool. “Is anybody there?”
Silence.
She gave a sigh of relief, and turned back to where Priscilla waited.
“Hello…?” The cry was faint and croaking, but she halted and stood as if frozen, an icy hand touching between her shoulder blades. “Oh … my heavens!” she whispered, and flinging around, was at the brink again in a second.
“Mr. Montclair? Is that you?”
This time the response was almost immediate. “Yes. Please … get help.”
He was down there! And he sounded so weak. She thought, aghast, ‘Small wonder! All this time!’
“Are you hurt?” she called.
A pause, then a feeble, “A trifle. Please … water…”
“I’ll fetch some! I must send for help, then I’ll come, I promise!”
She ran to where Priscilla waited. The small face was pale, the eyes behind the spectacles enormous with fright.
“Mama! I been so scared! Did it chase you? You shouldn’t of—”
“Darling, listen—there is nothing bad to chase me. But your friend, Mr. Valentine, is down there, and he’s hurt a little bit, I’m afraid.”
It would have been hard to tell whether the mouth or the eyes were the roundest. “Oh, poor Mr. Val’tine! We better help him, Mama!”
“Yes. We must. Only, we’re not strong enough to get him out by ourselves. I think I should stay with him. Could you ride home and fetch someone? I know the Bo’sun and Uncle Andy are away, but—tell Uncle Angelo or Deemer; they’ll know what to do.”
The child whimpered. She looked so little and frightened on the back of her pony, and she was only five. She was, she revealed, afraid to leave her only mama where the gentleman Fury might come back at any minute and eat her all up.
It was quite understandable. Poor Burke had been all tenderness with his child, and Priscilla had adored him. She’d been shattered by his sudden death, and it had left her with the obvious fear that she might lose the other people she loved. It took a moment, but when Susan painted a picture of a great heroine riding bravely for help, the child’s active imagination was fired. Beaming, she pushed the spectacles higher on her little nose, and took up the reins.
“Dearest,” said Susan. “Mr. Valentine has had no food or water for a long time. When you were here before did you see a stream nearby?”
“No, Mama. But—our picnic might still be there. Starry made one for me and Wolfgang to take in the garden on Wednesday only we earned here ’stead, so we put it in our larder, but then we met Mr. Val’tine and I forgot all ’bout it.”
Today was Saturday. Still, it might be usable. Susan enquired as to the location of the “larder,” and then sent her daughter off, urging her to hurry but ride carefully.
The larder was a narrow space between two of the great stone slabs which had tilted against each other. Gingerly Susan reached inside and pulled out the small covered basket. Ants had found the cake and bread and jam, but the bottle of lemonade was corked just tightly enough to have kept them out. She snatched it up and ran back to the pit.
Her call brought only a feeble croak in response. Poor Mr. Montclair must stand in desperate need of water, but if she threw the bottle down it might break, or he might be too weak to reach it. She was so near—and she might as well have been a mile away. Fretfully, she thought, ‘Surely I can do something?’
She began to prowl around the edge. If this horrid pit had really been a cellar, then there must have been stairs, but she could discern only the sheer wall, and she couldn’t possibly get down that. And then she saw a slight dip in the far edge that looked too even to have formed by chance. She hurried to it, and knelt, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to pierce the gloom and uttering an exclamation of excitement when she discovered the remains of a flight of steps, the first usable one being about four feet from the top. It looked horribly narrow and crumbly. She bit her lip but there came again a faint pleading cry. “Water … please … water…” All thought of his infamy was gone now, and her kind heart was wrung.
She called, “I’m going to bring it down to you.”
“No! Too … dangerous. Just … lower it and…” The weak voice trailed into silence.
Trembling, Susan sent a swift prayer heavenwards. Then she tucked the precious bottle into the pocket of her skirt, turned onto her tummy, and groped downward with her feet. If Mr. Montclair was conscious, she thought grimly, he would have a most excellent view of her pink pantalettes. Her right boot touched the step, and she could feel pieces of debris. The thought of rats recurred. She reached out and was able to grasp a long fallen branch, then she let herself down, resting more and more of her weight on the step until she was reasonably sure it would not crumble under her. She lowered herself gradually, holding her breath, her heart thundering, trying not to think of the black void below. The step was wider and deeper than she’d at first supposed, and she was able to turn sideways. She made her left hand let go, and gripping her branch, lowered that arm slowly, still clinging with her right hand to the top of the pit. She pressed desperately against the wall, grateful that she’d often climbed trees with Andy in her tomboyish younger days, and had a good head for heights.
Using the stick as a probe she found the next step cluttered with leaves and pieces of rock, and she poked the debris away, hoping it was not falling on Montclair, but knowing that if she turned her ankle it must be disastrous. On she went, from step to step, until she had descended to the point where she must make a great decision. If she was to lower herself any farther, she would no longer be able to hold the top of the pit. And suppose there were no more steps? ‘Well,’ she thought doggedly, ‘then I shall have to sit here like a bird on a twig and at least let him know someone is near. No one should have to die all alone in such a place. Even if it is his own silly fault.’ She took the next step, pressing against the wall for support, still not daring to look down.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The rough rock stairs were built against one wall. She could see the bottom now, littered with branches and leaves and chunks of rock, and among them, Montclair, lying sprawled on his back. If he had landed on one of those chunks of the Folly, he must be gravely injured. Praying he was not dead, she started to edge down to the next step.
Threads tickled her face. She thought in horror, ‘A web!’ Something with many legs scuttled across her cheek. A spider! She let out a shriek, missed her footing, and was falling.