Hawkhurst snorted and said drily, “I’ll lay odds he would!”
“He’s really a very good fellow, y’know. He don’t—er—hold it ’gainst you … I mean—’cause of Max’s face.”
“Then he’s a gutless fribble!” Hawkhurst exploded. “43rd, or no! What’s his line of reasoning? All’s fair in love and acid? God! You may tell your silly sainted Light Bob that, were my bays twenty years old, sway-backed, half blind, and went with a shuffle, I’d not sell ’em to him for thirty thousand! Furthermore, I’ve seen him drive, and he’s damnably cow-handed!”
“Cow-handed! Why, of all the—”
Hawkhurst shook one finger under his cousin’s nose. “And you may further advise your good friends at Chant House that, do I find that flea-ridden hound of theirs in my drawing room again, I’ll send home his head à la John the Baptist!”
“Hawk! You never would! Sampson’s a good old boy! Hawk…” Bryce reached forth one appealing hand, but his cousin was stalking off. The hand lowered. Once more Hawkhurst’s name was spoken in a wistful half-whisper. Then Bryce turned also, put both hands into his pockets and, with shoulders slumped, made his unsteady way in the opposite direction until he vanished into the shadows at the incurving end of the great house that was called the North Wing.
Euphemia became aware that she was shivering and flew back to snuggle under the blankets. She frowned into the darkness, thinking over what she had heard. There were, she thought, faults on both sides. Hawkhurst’s, for attempting to force the boy into a career he did not wish—not every man was suited for military life. On the other hand, Bryce had been very drunk, and she could well imagine Simon’s reaction if Gerald had commandeered his horses without a by-your-leave. She decided, however, that the balance of guilt lay with Hawkhurst. It was obvious that Bryce admired him. Even in the dark she had seen that the careless and oddly attractive style Hawkhurst’s man achieved with his thick locks had been copied by his cousin. A little understanding, a grain of tact, and the boy would be butter in his hands.
She closed her eyes. The man was arrogant and autocratic. Worse, although he had rendered them a service for which she must always be grateful, to the list of his crimes, had been added another. He was cruel to animals, and that he would make good his threat against the unfortunate Sampson she had not the slightest doubt. Not that it was any of her affair. Resolutely, she put Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst out of her mind.
And fell asleep, wondering why he had been “leering” up at her window …
FIVE
THE FOLLOWING morning dawned bitterly cold, but the skies were clear, and pale winter sunshine flooded into Euphemia’s bedchamber. Never a late sleeper, she had been abed for almost twelve hours. Upon awakening, she rang for an abigail, then arose and made her somewhat stiff way to the windows. By daylight, the grounds of Dominer were even more impressive, so that she gave a soft cry of admiration and stood there, just drinking it all in.
Ellie arrived with a tray of hot chocolate and much concern for her charge. Sir Simon, she imparted, had already gone downstairs. The family would take breakfast at ten o’clock, but there was no one expecting Miss to go down, and she would fetch up a tray. Euphemia refused this kindness, but accepted the abigail’s assistance with her toilette and found her very obliging and with a real skill at hair arrangement. Half an hour later, hurrying into the hall in her new cream muslin, with a yellow shawl draped about her shoulders, she slowed her steps involuntarily. Last evening she had been too tired to notice very much, but this morning she could not but be charmed both by the beautiful plan of the great house and the exquisite taste of the appointments. Her feet sank into thick Aubusson carpets laid upon floors that gleamed richly. Here and there, splendid porcelain and crystal were displayed on old chests or tables that were, of themselves, so beautifully wrought she could not refrain from inspecting them more closely. The walls were hung with magnificent oils, mostly landscapes or still lifes, but with an occasional family portrait amongst them, and several proud suits of armour, in excellent states of preservation, stood about impressively. So much beauty, she thought. If only Simon and Kent had not been subjected to such danger, she must be glad she had been able to see it all.
Proceeding to her destination, she found Kent’s bedchamber and slipped inside. A comely young maid was seated beside the window, mending tablecloths. She stood and bobbed a curtsey as Euphemia entered. The little boy was still sleeping, she said. Mrs. Graham had gone to bed at six o’clock, but Mrs. Henderson, the housekeeper, would come up shortly, being that she was a fine nurse.
Euphemia thanked her and trod softly over to the bed. The child was deep in slumber, his thin cheeks flushed. His forehead felt hot and dry, and, recalling what Hawkhurst had said, she left strict instructions that she was to be called at once if Kent awoke. Returning to the hall, she tried to convince herself that she was worrying needlessly. He was probably simply recovering from exhaustion, on top of which he may very well have caught a cold.
She closed the door gently and stood for a moment, her hand still upon the latch, staring blindly at a splash of sunlight on the carept.
“Do not grieve, dear ma’am. He will soon be well again. Dr. Archer is really superb, you know.”
The gentle voice caused her to look up at once, and, like her brother before her, she thought, What very kind eyes. Miss Stephanie Hawkhurst was wearing a shapeless beige wool gown this morning, and a shawl, beautifully embroidered in shades of cream, gold, and rust, was fastened to her bodice with a handsome antique brooch. Smiling, Euphemia put out her hand. “You must be Miss Hawkhurst. I am very beholden to you for your care of my brother. He has had an unpleasant time of it since he was wounded.”
“How do you do?” A soft hand clasped her own briefly, and an unexpected twinkle danced into the hazel eyes, as Miss Hawkhurst murmured, “Army Buck’s daughter. Will you accompany me downstairs? I had thought to have breakfast served to you in your room, for I am sure you must be very tired still.”
“Not at all. I slept like a log, in fact. And I see Mrs. Graham has been telling you of my dear Papa.”
Dismayed, Miss Hawkhurst said, “Oh, nothing to his discredit, I do assure you!”
“Too late, my dear!” Euphemia slipped a hand in her arm and said in her friendly way, “Your aunt already told me a tale about my father, some of which I’d suspected, and all of which I found delightful!”
Miss Hawkhurst breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you are not stuffy! I was afraid from what Hawk said—” She felt her companion stiffen and added hurriedly, “Oh, dear! Only that you was a fine figure of a girl, able to snare any—er—that is … Well, you know,” she floundered, “I am not clever, or in the least fashionable, and I do not know how to … to—”
“Go about catching a husband?” asked Euphemia, smiling, but with a glitter in her fine eyes that would have at once alerted her friends. “Well, if your brother told you I am still able to snare offers, even at my age…”
“Oh, he did!” said Miss Hawkhurst, disastrously eager to make amends.
“Ah. Why then he was right.” Euphemia’s teeth were a trifle more noticeable than usual as she uttered that confirmation. “Did he also tell you, perhaps, that I followed the drum with my father and have a wide acquaintanceship among the military set?”
“Oh, is that what he meant by ‘military rattles’? I thought— Is something wrong?”
“By … no means.” Euphemia’s titter was uncharacteristically shrill. “Only, I trust he does not think me too set up in my own conceit.”
“I am sure he does not. In fact, he admires you, for I heard him tell Dr. Archer you did not want for sense and were probably waiting until you found one who had come…” Her innocent brow puckered. “Something about socks.”
“Hose?” gasped Euphemia. “Hosed … and shod?”
“That’s it! Someone who has come hosed and shod into the world. Does that mean a soldier, Miss Buchanan?”
Fortunatel
y, they had by now come to the head of the stairs, and Euphemia’s dazed expression and sudden clutch at the magnificently carven railing were easily explained away. “Not … exactly…” she uttered. So he took her for a fortune-hunter, the abominable wretch! “My, but your lovely home quite … overwhelms me.” And, by the time they had reached the ground floor, she had regained her aplomb, outwardly, at least.
Miss Hawkhurst led her across the splendour of the Great Hall and into a cheery breakfast parlour, where were gathered Dr. Archer, Buchanan, Lady Bryce, and a young exquisite who could only be Lord Coleridge Bryce. Euphemia, who had gained no very clear picture of him by moonlight, was astonished to find, instead of the sulky boy she had expected, an open-faced youth with fair skin and hair, a chin faintly reminiscent of his cousin’s, and a wide, shyly smiling mouth. The gentlemen stood as they entered. Dr. Archer drew out a chair for Euphemia, Bryce performed that office for Miss Hawkhurst, and Buchanan told his sister she looked a bit more “The Thing” this morning.
“Dear Miss Buchanan,” gushed Lady Bryce, “you have not met my son.”
Lord Coleridge’s rather jerky bow and bashful response warmed Euphemia towards him, though it also brought the fear he would cut his cheek on his extremely high shirt points. However bosky he may have been the previous evening, he gave little sign of it now, only a slight puffiness under the eyes betraying him. He bore little resemblance to his mother, and not until her gaze rested on Miss Hawkhurst, did Euphemia see the family likeness. He had the same hazel eyes as the girl and the same rather thin face and long, beautiful hands. Lady Bryce watched him with the clear hope he would say something clever. He slid one finger under the fearsome convolutions of his neckcloth, fumbled with one of the several fobs and seals at his waist, and observed that the heavy rains of last month must have caused the landslide.
“That’s what Garret said,” Miss Hawkhurst agreed in her gentle voice. “He went up there again this morning, with Manners and two of the grooms.”
Lady Bryce arched her brows. “Did he now? I am amazed the poor fellow could manage it. He had such a time with his guests last night. He don’t like it when they over-indulge, Miss Buchanan. I’d not have you think he condones such behaviour, for he always tells me afterwards that he is sorry they are so—er—rowdy.”
Bryce, staring fixedly at his napkin, said, “I did not hear any rowdiness last night, Mama.”
“But how should you, dear boy? You were long abed. But I was disturbed. Not that it matters about me, of course, and I am accustomed to it … But, to think of Miss Buchanan and Sir Simon, and that poor, poor child! It was unforgivable, and so I told your cousin this morning. They were shouting under my windows at two of the clock, and, had I not feared I might take a cold—you know how prone I am to germs, dear Doctor Archer—I should have got up from my bed and opened the window to quiet them.”
Euphemia accepted a crumpet from the tray the butler offered, and he poured her coffee. Inwardly amazed that such a conversation should take place before the servants, she watched Bryce from under her lashes. He had aspirations to dandyism, all right; those shirt points and the grotesquely padded shoulders of his jacket attested to that. His head sank a little lower, but he said nothing. Hawkhurst very obviously had not betrayed him, and she could guess how that knowledge must mortify the boy.
She found Dr. Archer observing her, a speculative expression in his deep eyes. “You are early abroad, sir,” she smiled.
“Stayed the night. My people know where to find me should the need arise. I’d have to check your brother’s shoulder this morning at all events, and I want to look in on the boy. He’s a frail little fellow.”
She had encountered his type before, and the very quietness of his manner alarmed her. “Yes. I thought him a trifle feverish just now.”
No die-away airs here, he thought. And, gad, what a fine lass! Far above mere prettiness! If he were only ten years younger … or twenty … Those great blue eyes were questioning him. And she was the type to want it straight out. “Inflammation of the lungs,” he said bluntly.
Miss Hawkhurst gave a little cry of dismay. Euphemia paled, for, although she had guessed Kent was sick, she’d not expected this. She reached out her hand instinctively, and Buchanan leaned to take it firmly and ask a quiet, “Serious?”
“Of course, it is serious!” cried Lady Bryce. “It carried off my poor sister in only six days, and—”
“Well, it will not carry off the boy,” Archer interpolated, his gaze still on Euphemia. “He became thoroughly chilled hanging onto that branch, I don’t doubt, but Hawk had the good sense to get him into a hot tub at once, and I think we’ve caught it quickly enough.” Curiosity touched his eyes. “Fond of your little page, ain’t you, Miss Buchanan? Well, he’ll get good care here, I do assure you. But you’ll not be able to move him for a week or two.”
Euphemia exchanged a troubled glance with her brother.
“You must stay here,” said Lady Bryce, her mind planning busily. “The boy would pine away without you!”
Buchanan thought that very likely, and his heart sank at the prospect of being compelled to remain in this house of infamy. He was too well bred, however, not to be shamed at once by such a graceless reaction. Not only had Hawkhurst saved his life, it also was beyond doubting that every hospitality would be extended to them. Irked with himself, he smiled ruefully at Miss Hawkhurst. “I fear that would be a dreadful imposition.”
“No, but it would be our very great pleasure, Sir Simon.” The girl blushed as she spoke, and, thanking her, Euphemia thought abstractedly that Stephanie Hawkhurst was more taking than she had at first realized. That braided hair, however, which would be charming on a vibrant beauty like Deirdre Breckenridge, was too severe for so pale a countenance, and her lashes were a light gold that became invisible save when the light chanced to touch them, giving her eyes a naked look. A softer coiffure, a little subtle use of cosmetics might—
“I will send Neeley to Meadow Abbey,” said Buchanan. “Would you wish me to write Great Aunt Lucasta a note, Mia?”
Euphemia said she would write directly after breakfast, since she did not want Simon to use his right arm. She wondered what Hawkhurst would think of this new development. Last evening he had said, “I wish you may leave…” Well, if he became obnoxious, they would simply have to leave.
“Oh! What a lovely change it will be for us to have house guests!” exclaimed Lady Bryce, clasping her hands theatrically. “However reluctant they may be! Only think, Miss Buchanan! You will very likely be here for my Musicale! It is only ten days distant. And meanwhile, we shall do all we can to make your stay here, if not exciting, at least not … unpleasant. I do trust my Fifi pleased you? I can tell she arranged your hair, for it looks very well today.”
From the corner of her eye, Euphemia saw a quirk tug at the corners of Simon’s lips. And she says it all with such an innocent smile, she marvelled. “You are too kind, ma’am. I had expert assistance indeed, but the abigail who waited on me is called Ellie.”
“Ellie?” Lady Bryce turned a shocked gaze upon her niece. “Oh, Stephie! How could you have blundered so? I distinctly told you to send Fifi to Miss Buchanan, for our simple country girls would never do for a lady who has travelled so much about the world! Really, I cannot think what dear Miss Buchanan must think of us!”
Blushing fierily, Miss Hawkhurst looked with dismay from her aunt to their guest, and Euphemia interjected lightly, “No, no, please! I cannot imagine anyone having been more perfect, for I ached so, and she applied a lotion to my poor bruises that has made me feel like new.”
“Only listen, Stephanie,” purred my lady, patting her niece’s hand. “For your sake, Miss Buchanan is so good as to overcome her natural reluctance to speak of so personal a matter. How much it will help you to be exposed to such sophistication.” She turned to Euphemia, who was beginning to think herself quite a scarlet woman, and lamented in a lower but all too audible voice, “Poor child, shut away here�
��what chance has she to learn how to go on? I have so pleaded with Hawkhurst to give her a London season, but he will not hear of it! No, do not defend him, Stephanie! It is very naughty of him, for the years pass by so quickly, and, before we know it, all your brilliant potential will be suffocated until you become just another drab little country dowd!”
“Good God, Mama!” Bryce protested unhappily. “You embarrass poor Stephie to death! Let be!”
“Silly boy!” His parent slapped his wrist playfully. “My dearest niece knows very well I have only her best interests at heart!”
Her “dearest niece” was all too crushingly aware of her total lack of any “brilliant potential” and, knowing that she was already “a drab little country dowd,” kept her tearful eyes downcast, praying the earth might open and swallow her, her heated cheeks adding to her despair.
Euphemia could have positively scratched the odious woman. Long ago, Tristram Leith had once laughed that his adored Mia could charm even gruff old General Picton into languishing at her feet, and now, revealing nothing of her vexation, she murmured a thoughtful, “Do you know, ma’am, I believe you have the right of it. Miss Hawkhurst has been hiding her light under a bushel. But with very little effort I think she might surprise us all.” She leaned forward and, placing her hand over the fingers clenched so tightly upon an inoffensive teaspoon, smiled, “My dear, will you do as your clever aunt suggests and have a cose with me this afternoon? I am sure we will find much to chatter about, though I do not promise to reveal all the witchcraft by which large and ordinary girls such as I wring offers from helpless gentlemen!”
Buchanan laughed, and young Bryce threw her a look of warm gratitude, while Archer grunted and regarded Lady Bryce with sardonic triumph.
Miss Hawkhurst, striving to speak, could not, but her eyes conveyed her thanks so humbly that Euphemia knew she could easily learn to love this gentle girl.
Some Brief Folly Page 8
