Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (9 page)

"I
is
really hurt," she declared
indignantly. "You stamped all over me with your grown-up feet. Did you
fall down too?"

She was looking at his knuckles, which had become skinned when
they'd connected with his cousin's jaw during their battle yesterday.

"Something like that." He straightened out the toe of her
shoe. "May I replace your dainty slipper, madamoiselle?"

She looked at him wistfully. "When you hurt someone you're
s'posed to kiss it better."

He at once obliged. She sighed rapturously, and gave him
permission to replace her shoe, and after he had been instructed not to
buckle the strap so tightly that her poor foot couldn't "breathe," she
allowed him to help her stand up and to brush the twigs and dirt from
her dainty frock.

"Thank you," she said politely, and tucked her hand trustingly
into his. "You can come and see my special place if you like." She
turned back to the bleak tower. Montclair frowned and hesitated. She
tugged impatiently, then pushed up the spectacles which had slipped
down her infinitesimal nose, and peered up into his face. "I'll help
it," she said. And before he realized what she was about, she'd pressed
a kiss on his damaged hand.

He stared at her, touched.

"Don't be sad," she said kindly. "You'll be all better, quick
as a bird. Only look at me!" She stuck out her foot and wriggled it so
vigorously that she lost her balance and Montclair, laughing, had to
restore her.

"I like your face," she told him with the open candour of
childhood. "You're not so han'some as my Uncle Andy is, and I really
p'fer my gentlemen to have golden hair. But yours curls a bit, and
you've got d'licious eyes when you laugh only they're a bit lonely
inside when you don't."

Montclair gave her a rather startled glance, but she was
prattling on artlessly.

"Mama says eyes are 'portant, you know, and that I must choose
my friends by their eyes, so I'll have you for a friend, if you like,
and then you c'n be happy." Her lips drooped. Suddenly, she was
incredibly forlorn. "I'm lonely too. I hasn't got any little friends."

"Well, you have a new grown-up friend," he said, bowing low.

She gave a delighted laugh and clapped her hands joyously.

With an answering grin he asked, "Why have you no little
friends?"

"When we lived in London, the children next door laughed at me
'cause I'm—read-ishy, or something."

"Bookish, perhaps?"

"Yes. That. It's 'cause I wear specs, the Bo'sun says. So I
throwed 'em away. But Uncle Andy found them."

"And did he beat you with that great club again? He must be a
wicked man."

"No he's not! He's the bestest uncle what I ever had!" She
scowled at him fiercely, saw the twinkle in his eyes and giggled, her
small face becoming pink. "Oh, you're teasing. Did you know I made that
up a teensy bit? He din't really beat me. But he
did
spank me. Not 'cause I hid my specs, though. He said he quite und'stood
'bout that, and that the other children were jealous, that's all.
But"—she sighed, despondent again—"they're not really."

"But you can wear your—er, specs now that you've moved away,
is that it?"

"No. I weared them there, too. I can't see to read 'thout 'em."

She seemed awfully young to be able to read. He stared down at
her sad but resigned little face, intrigued by its mixture of solemnity
and childishness. "How old are you?"

"Oooh! That's rude," she said, cheered by this evidence of
faulting in the man she thought rather scarily splendid. "I asked the
Countess Lieven how old she was once, and Mama made me beg pardon."

'The Countess Lieven.' Then her family must be of the Quality.
He could well imagine the formidable countess's reaction to such a
question, and his lips twitched. "Your mama was quite right. And I beg
your pardon."

She beamed at him and imparted, "I'm six in December." She
again tugged at his hand. "Come on."

Resisting, he said, "Now that we're friends, I must warn you.
You shouldn't come to the Folly. It's a bad place."

"No it isn't! It's a nice place. And it's not folly!"

"That's what it's called, Mistress—er… I think we haven't been
properly introduced, have we? May I present myself? My name is
Valentine."

She swept into a rather wobbly curtsy. "How de do? That's what
my Bo'sun says." She lowered her voice to a 'manly' growl, repeated,
"How de do?" then laughed merrily. "Just like that."

"Is your Bo'sun a sailor?"

"Yes. Well, he was a long time ago. He sailed with my
gran'papa for hund'eds of years, but now my gran'papa's moved up to
heaven so the Bo'sun lives with us an' keeps asking Starry to be his
missus but she won't. I'm P'scilla. I c'n say my name now, 'cause my
tooth growed back. Last month I couldn't say it right, and everybody
laughed when I tried. D'you want to see? It's bright and new!" She
halted, holding up her face and opening her mouth wide.

He admired the small, pearly new tooth and told her that they
all looked very nice. "I expect you clean them every day."

"Yes." She sighed. "But they don't grow much. I wish they were
bigger. Like Wolfgang's. His are pointed. I asked my Uncle Andy to file
mine into points, and he said he would, but Mama wouldn't let him. An'
Starry— she lives with us—Starry said everyone would think I was a
Fury. And Furies are drefful bad creatures, you know. 'Sides, Mama said
I wouldn't be able to chew jam tarts if my teeth was all made into
sharp points, and I saved a
special
place in my
tummy for jam tarts. So I 'spect I better not have pointy teeth."

"I agree," said Montclair, and reserving his musician's
curiosity as to the naming of Wolfgang, took up his branch once more
and asked, "Where do you live, Mistress Priscilla?"

"In London."

"Do you stay with relations, then?"

"Oh yes. But we won't be here long."

"Don't you like the country?"

She considered this, then said judiciously, "I been looking it
over. It's pretty, but there's a awful lot of it."

"Very true. But you shouldn't go looking it over all alone,
child."

"I don't. Wolfgang was with me, else Mama wouldn't let me go
out. He's my 'fierce an' 'vincible guard dog,' Uncle Andy says.
Wolfgang the Terrible he calls him 'cause Wolfgang 'tacks anyone who
comes near me."

"He sounds terrible indeed." Montclair glanced about,
wondering with a touch of unease if Wolfgang was as antisocial as
Soldier, or whether he was another figment of this extremely bright
little girl's obviously fertile imagination. "Where is he?"

She glanced around, then called shrilly, "Wolf… gang… !"

Almost at once there was a rustling in the undergrowth. "Here
he comes," said Priscilla fondly.

Wolfgang plunged into the clearing, then paused, scanning
Montclair with ears alert and eyes unblinking. "Stand very still, Mr.
Val'tine," whispered the child. "An' p'raps he won't bite you very bad!"

Montclair, who had instinctively tightened his grip on the
branch, regarded 'Wolfgang the Terrible' in silence. The dog was white
with liver markings. His eyes and ears were large, he was about seven
inches tall at the shoulders, and he probably weighed in the
neighbourhood of ten pounds. He advanced on Montclair without marked
hostility although the ratty tail did not wave a greeting. Montclair
saw the somewhat protruding dark eyes fixed on the stick he held. He
tossed it aside, and Wolfgang took three quick leaps to the rear.
Dropping to one knee, Montclair called, "Here, Wolfgang. Come, old
fellow."

Wriggling, the dog inched forward. His ears flattened
themselves against his head, and his tail was wagging so fast that it
was almost invisible. He licked Montclair's outstretched hand, then
flung himself down and presented his stomach for inspection. 'A fine
guard dog you are, sir,' thought Montclair, troubled, as he caressed
the small head.

Priscilla, however, who had watched this meeting with her
hands tightly clasped and an anxious look on her face, gave a sigh of
relief. "Thank goodness he likes you," she whispered. "He can be
dreffully awful!"

"I'm sure he can." Montclair stood up, took her hand tightly
in his, and led her among the decaying slabs to the very edge of the
pit. "Do you see her?" he whispered.

Her eyes very wide, for she had not dared venture this close,
Priscilla adjusted her spectacles, peered downward, and whispered back,
"No. Who?"

"The Fury. She lives down there, only she comes out if she
hears little girls. Especially little girls who sing. She likes the
taste of them."

He felt the small hand tremble, and she shrank closer against
his leg.

"A real—
Fury
?' she whispered. "Is she bad
and wicked and ugly?"

"Very bad. And very ugly. She does cruel and awful things to
children who come here alone."

A pause. Then she quavered, "Wolfgang wouldn't let her. He
takes care of me. He's braver than anything!" She thought, then added
reinforcingly, "He could bite the King, I 'spect."

"Perhaps he could. But the King is only a man. The Fury is a
witch. A wicked witch with no heart and a big hairy wart on the end of
her nose. So I want you to promise me you will never come here again,
Priscilla. As one friend promises another."

She looked up at him, her eyes very big behind the spectacles
that made her face seem even smaller. The sunbonnet slipped down to
cover her left ear. She asked, still in that hushed whisper, "Isn't you
'fraid of the Fury?"

"Yes, I am. She must be asleep or she'd have heard us and
pulled us both in there. That's where her cooking pot is. Down at the
bottom." The child was beginning to look quite pale with fright and he
thought he'd made his point, so drew her back. It was more important
that she get safely to her family than that he see the Henley woman
today. He sat on the blocks again and discovered that a sharp stone had
worked its way into the boot sole under the ball of his foot. "I'll
just get this out," he said, pulling off the boot. "Then, I'll take—"

A sudden gust of wind sent a branch tumbling into the pit.
Priscilla heard the scraping rattle and jerked around, pale with
fright. "She's
coming
!" she screeched, and was
off, her frock flapping. Wolfgang the Terrible scampered after her,
uttering the high-pitched howls Montclair had heard when the child was
singing.

He sprang up, started to run after her, but trod on a rock and
swore. Hopping, he turned back for his boot. "Wait! I'll take you
home!" he shouted, but she had already vanished into the trees.

Undoubtedly Mistress Priscilla had known the benefits of
upbringing and a rather surprising amount of education. Pulling his
boot back on, he racked his brain trying to think whom the child and
her mama visited, and decided her 'Uncle Andy' must be Major Anderson,
whose fine big farm was located about a mile east of the Longhills
boundary. He began to run in that direction, calling her. It was too
far for her to walk alone, even with the protection of the fierce and
invincible guard dog.

"It is quite the most wicked thing I ever heard of," declared
Mrs. Edwina Starr, extracting Welcome from the blankets and slipping a
hand mirror between the sheets.

Susan had just piled those sheets onto the now immaculate
shelf in the linen room, and she watched her diminutive
companion/cook/housekeeper uneasily. "I think he is a very young cat,
Starry. He'll learn in time."

"Time is what he may not have, does he persist in forever
being where he shouldn't." Mrs. Starr looked grimly at the little tabby
who had walked in with them when first they arrived at Highperch
Cottage and had since shown no inclination to leave. "But I was not
referring to that particular creature, Mrs. Sue." She took a blanket
from the chair beside her with marked suspicion in her bright hazel
eyes. "No Christian landlord should permit such a creeping, oozing,
smelly bog to lurk about the village where little ones play. And him
the Squire and a Justice of the Peace besides! A fine justice
he
dispenses! This blanket needs to be patched. He should have drained
that bog long ago! He must be a bad man! A very bad man!"

"He most certainly is. I think I may have seen him whilst I
was at Longhills—or at least, the back of him. From what I could tell,
he was berating Miss Trent because she does not wish to wed him."

"Hah! Who would, I should like to know?" Mrs. Starr shook out
another blanket and sniffed it, her dainty little nostrils twitching so
that she looked like a busy rabbit. "I only wish I had been here when
his wicked friends or servants or whatever they were dared lay their
hands on you and break dear Master Andy's head!" She paused, her brow
wrinkling with renewed indignation at the very thought of such
dastardly behaviour. In her mind's eye she still saw Andrew as a pale,
silent eleven-year-old, crushed by the death of his father and
bewildered by the impending loss of his mama. When Captain Tate had
asked her to care for his daughter's orphans she had agreed eagerly,
and had lavished upon them all the love she would have given the
children denied her when her young husband was killed in the same great
sea battle which had ended the life of Lieutenant Hartley Lyddford.
Andrew had been sickly as a child, and her tendency to fuss over him
had not diminished when he grew into a robust and well-built young male
animal full of pride and energy.

"Only to think of it fairly makes my blood boil!" she went on.
"And all that wicked violence over a house which his evil lordship
obviously never sets foot in, else it would not have come to such a
sorry pass! Which reminds me, Master Andy found a dreadful dark
painting he thinks might be better than that one hanging in the
withdrawing room. The frame is quite nice and if you don't object, it
might do was it cleaned. I shall set that lazy George Dodman to it so
soon as he comes home."