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FOR CAROL
“Mingle some brief folly with your wisdom. To forget it in due place is sweet.”
HORACE
ONE
OBEDIENT to her aunt’s suggestion, Miss Euphemia Buchanan patted an errant curl into place, yet paid little more heed as her worthy companion prattled comfortably on about the delights of the evening ahead. The large carriage slowed as it edged into the long line of vehicles wending their way along Hill Street. Flambeaux blazed through the cold night air, hooves clattered, and wheels rumbled, but Miss Buchanan neither saw the one nor heard the others. Her fine, delicately arched, and only slightly darkened eyebrows were drawn into a faintly worried frown, her gloved fingers rearranged the rich folds of her fur pelisse nervously, and her thoughts—instead of being fixed with anticipation on the Hilby ball—wandered to the Peninsula. And how nonsensical, to worry so! She was a soldier’s daughter, more—a soldier’s daughter who had campaigned with her Papa and should therefore know better than to be blue as a megrim and indulging fears that were doubtless as deplorable as they were unwarranted. Simon was a splendid officer; he was probably sitting down merrily to dinner with his friends at this very moment, with not a thought in his head for either the dangers of the war or the sister who fretted for him in far-away London.
Miss Buchanan tossed her glowing head and, impatient with her dismals, entered belatedly into her aunt’s rather one-sided conversation.
In its appointed time, the carriage arrived at the red carpet beside which an excited crowd waited. The steps were let down, Miss Buchanan and her aunt were handed reverently to the flagway and, having given the onlookers cause for another burst of envious admiration, passed inside.
The Hilby mansion, if not the largest house on Hill Street, was certainly the most luxurious. Old Zebediah Hilby had amassed a fortune during the perilous days of Cromwell and had been shrewd enough to hang onto it. His descendants had combined his flair for finance with an appreciation of the good things of life. Not all their excesses had been able to put a dint in the fortune, however. As it was handed down from generation to generation, it grew rather than dwindled, and with increased wealth came an increased ability to enjoy it. For decades, therefore, the Hilby parties had been happily attended by all those of the top ten thousand fortunate enough to be invited, and this particular occasion proved no exception. The marble and jade ballroom was so crowded that by eleven o’clock the ball had already been proclaimed “a squeeze” by a smugly triumphant major domo. The musicians strove mightily but could barely be heard above the chatter. Silken gowns were crushed, shirt points wilted, and the plumes of turbans became entangled. Having observed one such imbroglio with wicked amusement, the Duke of Vaille bowed his head and murmured an enquiry into the shell-like ear of his charming partner.
“Doing, your grace?” echoed Miss Buchanan, opening her deep-blue eyes at him. “Why, we are waltzing, of course.”
“Are you perfectly sure, my dear?” the Duke asked plaintively, his lean cheek tickled by the silk of her coppery tresses. “I’d be willing to wager my feet have not touched the floor anytime these five minutes. Of course, at my time of life, it is fortunate that I need exert no effort in order to remain upright. Still…”
A silvery gurgle of laughter greeted this mournful utterance. Vaille was a man upon whom the years rested lightly. He was as slender and upright at six and forty as he had been when, as a boy of nineteen, he had run off with London’s leading Toast. His light brown hair might be touched with silver, but he was judged most handsome, and not a lady present would have been anything but proud to be selected his partner. “You are a naughty rascal, sir,” scolded Miss Buchanan, with the familiarity of long friendship. “But since we have no need to concentrate upon our steps, at least we may enjoy a comfortable cose. Did I hear you say that you had visited poor Harry Redmond? How does he go on?”
Vaille’s eyes clouded. “His father and brother despair of his recovery, I do believe, but will say only that he is doing splendidly.” His mouth tightened and, saddened by the remembrance of that fine young man’s valiant efforts to conceal his suffering, he added, “I only pray they may prove right. It has been a long hard pull since they brought him home from Ciudad Rodrigo.”
“Yet Harry has so much inner strength, do you not agree, sir?” Troubled despite her optimistic words, Euphemia murmured a tentative, “I suppose … he did not chance to mention Simon?”
The Duke said quietly, “He was able to say very little.”
“And that was a very foolish question. Forgive me it, I beg you.”
Pressing her gloved hand, he teased, “Dismals? An old campaigner like you, my dear?” Her answering smile was wan, and, having developed a healthy respect for women’s intuition, especially when tied to so close a relationship as that enjoyed by Euphemia and her older brother, a wary look came into his eyes. “So you are worrying, little girl…” The immediate reawakening of her mischievous twinkle made him chuckle. “Young lady, then,” he amended, acknowledging the reminder that she stood a willowy five feet and six inches in her stockings. “You heard from Simon after the Grand Rhune, did you not? I understood he came through that encounter without a scratch.”
“Yes, he did. But…” Compelled to raise her voice, she admitted, “I do feel uneasy, your grace. As if … something…” And unwilling to put that chilling premonition into words, she sighed, “Perhaps it is because the fighting seems very furious now, and so many of our friends have fallen.”
“Speaking of which,” said Vaille, hoping to cheer her, “Sally Jersey tells me she went to see young Bolster last week, and he is much—” He checked abruptly, his narrowed gaze fixed upon the doors leading to the side hall.
Others had also turned, and the dancing was, in fact, coming to a complete halt. The music died away, then a stirring military march thundered out. Shouts of excitement rose, and every head turned, necks craning, to see the cause. Euphemia whirled around. A late-comer was entering the room, to be at once surrounded by eager friends and admirers. Very tall and well built, Colonel The Honourable Tristram Leith was magnificent in his full-dress hussars uniform, silver lace gleaming against the scarlet jacket, breeches impeccable, and a fur trimmed pelisse slung carelessly across one broad shoulder.
“Leith is come home!” “Were you hit, Leith?” “What news from Spain?” “Oh, Lord! Have we lost then?” These shouts, mingling with more optimistic outcries, rang in Euphemia’s ears. Whitening, she shrank against Vaille, and he slipped an arm about her waist. She looked up at him in mute appeal. He smiled encouragement, and his rank enabled him to make his way through the crush and guide her to the side.
Leith was quite engulfed now, and although she stood on tiptoe peering desperately over the excited throng, she could no longer discern him. Vaille’s strong hands gripped her waist, and she was lifted to share the pedestal occupied by a large marble statue of Diana. At once she saw Le
ith’s handsome head, his dark eyes full of laughter as he strove to answer the questions fired at him from every side. Snatches of that hectic interchange came to her, many followed by outbursts of cheers. “Yes, indeed! Wellington is most pleased … Chased them all up and down the hills south of the Nivelle … Grand fight! Broke through his lines … Soult’s men ran like jackrabbits … Yes, it was most certainly a fine victory! We’re across the Pyrenees, by God!”
In the ensuing pandemonium, Leith glanced up and saw her. His expression changed subtly. Terror lanced through her as she searched that suddenly grave face. Not Simon…? Dear God! Not Simon! Vaille was shouting something, but she was conscious only of the fact that Leith was attempting to disengage himself. Such was the excitement of the crowd surrounding him, however, that he could not at once break free, and waiting, trembling, Euphemia began to feel sick lest her haunting sense of something amiss had been too well justified.
Miss Charlotte Hilby, the lovely and much admired hostess of this elegant ball, was deeply fond of Euphemia Buchanan. She plunged into the crowd and, struggling to reach her friend, encountered her dashing young brother. “Galen!” she gasped, her famous green eyes filled with anxiety. “I must get to poor Mia!”
“Did you hear? Leith says Old Hookey’s done it again! By Jove! The man’s a wizard, is what!” He joined enthusiastically in a new outbreak of cheers then went on, “We broke through Soult’s lines and—” Following his sister’s gaze, he ejaculated, “What the deuce? Euphemia shouldn’t be cavorting about up there! Ain’t seemly! Victory, Pyrenees, or no!”
This proprietary criticism was based on affection, since he had for several months been one of the many among London’s eligible bachelors who worshipped at Miss Buchanan’s shrine. His infatuation had at first astonished his doting sister, for in the past Galen had invariably given his susceptible heart to the more spectacular beauties among the ton. No less baffled were many hopeful parents possessing daughters whose looks were widely acknowledged to be superior, yet whose popularity could not hold a candle to that of The Unattainable, as Miss Buchanan had come to be known. Euphemia was not a beauty. Her eyes admittedly were unusually fine, and of a rare deep-blue lit by the sparkle of a resolute and somewhat mischievous disposition. But her hair, although silky and luxuriant, was of an unfortunate hue; a trifle more gold, and she would have numbered another asset, but the gold was too touched with titian, and in the sunlight her head glowed, as one matron had sniffed, “like a copper kettle!” She was, besides being much too tall, further cursed by high cheekbones, a firm chin, and a generous mouth that robbed her face of the soft and helpless look so much admired in young females. As though this were not bad enough, she had a disconcerting tendency to fix one with a level and interested gaze, rather than employing the fluttering lashes and shy upward glances that were The Thing. A sense of humour she was not always able to control, coupled with her occasional outspokenness, had oft times plunged her into disgrace. Always, she made a recover from such lapses and, oddly enough, emerged more popular than ever. A great favourite with the embassy set and the military men, she had rejected many offers for her hand. But since she refused her suitors with unfailing charm, managing to free them from any sense of embarrassment, they remained her staunch friends, and new offers continued to come her way, despite the fact that she had now reached the perilous age of two and twenty.
“For heaven’s sake!” cried the exasperated Miss Hilby, tugging at her brother’s sleeve. “The poor girl is beside herself with fear. Do you not see how pale she is?”
“Does look a trifle hagged,” observed Galen judicially. “Though why Leith’s news should—” He stopped. The Colonel’s dark head was lowered to murmur something to those about him. At once many concerned faces turned to Euphemia, and a path was opened through the quieting crowd. “Oh … gad!” groaned Hilby. “You don’t suppose poor old Buchanan has stuck his spoon in the wall?” He locked horrified glances with his sister, then began his own struggle to reach Miss Buchanan.
The object of his concern, reaching downward as Leith limped towards her, was speedily restored to the floor. He took both her hands and held them firmly, saying in his gentlest voice, “How fortunate that I found you here, lovely one. May I steal you away somewhere, so that we can talk for a moment?”
I must not faint, thought Euphemia numbly. I am a soldier’s daughter. If the news is very bad, I must be brave. She heard herself asking if Leith’s wound was of a serious nature, and his light response that it was “just a shell splinter, but they want a man here to look at it.” She was deeply fond of him and knew a sense of relief for his sake, but she could say no more and seemed quite incapable of movement. A stillness had fallen over the ballroom, and it seemed that all eyes were upon her. Gripping his hands very tightly, she cried, “Oh, Tristram, tell me, I beg you! Is … is my brother—”
A smile curved his mouth, and his gaze slipped past her. Suddenly, a hand came from behind to cover her eyes. She jumped, her heart leaping into her throat, as she removed that concealing clasp and turned around.
A lieutenant stood there. His curling sandy hair seemed almost dark now by reason of his pallor. His beautifully shaped lips smiled, although the blue eyes were strained, the young face drawn and haggard. He also wore full regimentals embellished by the buff collar and silver lace of the fighting 52nd. But if some among the crowd thought that Sir Simon Buchanan (despite the fact that his right arm reposed interestingly in a sling) was quite cast into the shade by the dashing Colonel beside him, Euphemia saw only her brother’s loved face, and her heart was so full, she could not completely muffle the sob that broke from her as her arms went out to him. Buchanan, his own emotions weakened by illness, turned a little to protect his wounded shoulder, and gathered her close in his left arm, bowing his face against her fragrant hair.
The silence deepened, and many the lady who had to press lacy handkerchief to tearful eyes, many the gentleman who blinked and uttered a concealing cough.
Galen Hilby, making his apologetic way through the quiet gathering, came up beside Euphemia, shook Leith’s hand briefly, and gripping Buchanan’s left shoulder said kindly, “Come, my dear fellow. I fancy you and Mia would welcome a few moments alone.”
Euphemia stepped back, dashed her tears away, sniffed audibly, and proclaimed in a shaken voice, “I am not crying. Really, I am not. But…” Still holding her brother’s hand, she looked up into his tired eyes and said, “Oh, my dear, how glad I am to see you. And, how very, very proud.” And as she spoke, her other hand went out to be met and held by Leith’s.
They presented a dramatic tableau, had any of them but been aware of it, the two fine young soldiers, the tall, vibrant girl, and the emotions of the crowd broke loose. Vaille, springing to the statue, waved one arm and shouted, “Hip … hip…”
The “hurrah” rocked the rafters—or would have, had there been any.
* * *
“SO, HERE I am,” smiled Buchanan, comfortably relaxed on the sofa in the luxurious anteroom, “alive and well. Though how you could have known I had been brought down is more than I can guess.”
“Of course, it is,” nodded his sister, refilling his glass and carrying it to him. “For you are, after all, a mere man.” She allowed her fingers to rest for the briefest moment on his hair, then crossed to sit in the armchair, where she might more easily watch him as he sprawled there, long legs stretched out before him. He looked very ill, she thought, wherefore, of course, she assured him he looked splendid and said another silent prayer of gratitude because he was alive. And longing to hurry him home and settle him into bed, she knew she must not, that he was a fighting man, accustomed to hardship, and would think her wits to let did she too obviously coddle him. Thus, for a respectable interval, she allowed him to talk proudly of their fine victory, of the wonder of being at last over the Pyrenees, of the invincibility of the mighty Wellington, and of the fact that he had been personally visited by that great man as he lay in the farmhouse th
ey had appropriated for the wounded.
Euphemia had toiled in, and wept many nights away over, some of those farmhouses and fought to keep her voice steady as she expressed the hope that Wellington had escaped unscathed. “Yes, thank God!” answered Buchanan fervently. “For lord knows, Mia, what we would do without him!”
“We shall not have to do so. The ‘Finger of Providence’ rests upon him, so he once told me. He believes that, with all his heart.”
“Then I pray he is right. Oh, incidentally, he sent his regards to you.”
“Incidentally! He never did! Simon, you are hoaxing me!”
“Devil a bit of it. Told me you was a most striking young lady, and he hopes when I come back, I’ll bring you with me.”
A coldness touched her at the words, “… when I come back…”
“Amusing, ain’t it?” he said quietly. “He never said, ‘Bring your lovely wife, Buchanan.’ Only, ‘bring your striking sister.’” He had been twirling his glass, looking down into the amber liquid. Now he raised his head and with a wry smile met her eyes, toasted her silently, and drank.
Euphemia bit her lip, and a knife turned in her heart. Simon, the dearest, kindest, most valiant of men, should have gone straight to the arms of a loving wife. Instead of which—
“Why do you stay at the New House?” he asked lightly. “I’d fancied you ensconced in Grosvenor Square. Ernestine said she had invited you.”
It had always been thus. The great house on Hill Street was the New House because the foundations had been laid in 1740, whereas the central block of Buchanan Court, their country seat in Bedfordshire, dated to 1495. Buchanan Court suited Lady Simon. The New House did not, and the spoiled beauty had pouted, stormed at, and teased her doting bridegroom until two years ago he had purchased a fashionable, enormous, and enormously costly mansion on Grosvenor Square. Euphemia had received no invitation to share her sister-in-law’s “loneliness”—nor would she have accepted had such a courtesy been extended. Therefore, she kept her lashes down, for once avoiding Buchanan’s searching gaze, as she folded a careful pleat in the cream satin ball gown that draped gracefully about her. “Oh,” she shrugged, “Grosvenor Square is too grand for me.”
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