* * *
WHATEVER plans Euphemia cherished for the beautification of Miss Stephanie Hawkhurst were destined to be postponed. Even as Lord Coleridge prepared to conduct them on a tour of the great house, a lackey came running to say that the little page was most distressed, and could Dr. Archer please come at once. Hastening upstairs after him, Euphemia found Kent tossing frenziedly, his blurred gaze turning to her with pathetic relief. The doctor’s manner became so kindly that terror struck into her heart. He left, promising to send medicines, warning her the boy must get worse before he got better, and arming her with instructions on how to cope with possible emergencies. He had no sooner departed than the housekeeper bustled into the room. The neat, plump little Scotswoman proved a far cry from the disinterested individual Lady Bryce’s casual remarks had implied. Nell Henderson was a pillar of strength, possessed of a kindly disposition, a merry good humour, and a knowledge of nursing that proved invaluable. She popped into the room regularly throughout that long morning, and at half past one, when the ailing child at last fell asleep, Euphemia yielded to her persuasions, returned to her bedchamber, and, having washed and changed clothes, went down to luncheon.
Only Mrs. Graham and her stifling “perfume” awaited her in the smaller dining room. Mr. Hawkhurst, it developed, seldom ate lunch. In preparation for the Musicale, Lady Bryce had gone shopping in Bath, and Miss Hawkhurst had gone into Bristol on a long-planned visit to her old governess. Sir Simon, said Mrs. Graham, surreptitiously retrieving a scallop she had contrived to send darting into her saucer, had handed my lady a letter addressed to his great aunt, and, while she shopped, Lady Bryce’s coachman would deliver it to that renowned grande dame. Euphemia said worriedly that she trusted Simon had not irritated his shoulder, but Mrs. Graham refuted this. “My sister took with her a groom and footman, her abigail, a coachman and two outriders, but Colley decided to ride part of the way beside her carriage, and your brother felt well enough to accompany him, my dear.”
“What?” exclaimed Euphemia, thunderstruck. “He never did!”
“But, yes. They took the curricle. I saw them leave.”
“If that is not the outside of enough! Simon had no business riding out in this weather, and with his wound so troublesome!”
“As I tried to warn him. But did you ever know the man who would admit himself not quite up to par when another fellow was inviting him to go somewhere?” She sighed and added, “‘For his friend he toiled and tried. For his friend he fought and died…’” Euphemia blinked at her incredulously, and Mrs. Graham tilted her untidy head and mused, “Oh, my, that doesn’t sound very encouraging, does it?”
“Who wrote it?”
“Why, I haven’t the vaguest idea. But never mind about that. Eat up, dear Miss Buchanan. May I call you Euphemia? I did know your Papa so well. And you must call me ‘Dora.’ No, I insist! Drat these scallops! How elusive they are! There goes another!”
It was an erratic meal at best, but after a while one grew accustomed to the heavy aroma, and Dora’s conversation was so merrily idiotic that Euphemia found it difficult to be downhearted. It was as well she was enabled to forget her worries, for, when she went back upstairs, Kent was awake, coughing incessantly and in much discomfort. All she and Mrs. Henderson could do was to bathe that hot little body and see to it that the medicines were administered as the doctor had prescribed. Soon, Dora came up to “take a turn with the poor fellow” and succeeded in so fascinating him with her tale of a frog who developed an insatiable craving for bon bons that he was quiet for some time. As the afternoon waned, however, he became more and more distressed, and it was not until he dropped into an exhausted slumber just before six o’clock that Euphemia again felt able to leave him.
She went downstairs in time to see Bryce and her brother come in from the rear of the house. Simon was laughing, but he looked tired and very cold, and she could have shaken him.
Wearing a superb frieze riding coat, Hawkhurst strode through the front doors. He pulled off his gloves and, handing them to the footman, frowned and told Bryce with a flashing look of irritation that he should have had more sense than to take Sir Simon out driving on such a bitter day.
Bryce ventured an anxious enquiry, to which Buchanan responded that he had thoroughly enjoyed it, adding a diversionary, “How’s your page, Mia?”
“Not at all improved, I fear. Dr. Archer is coming this evening, thank heaven.”
At this point two lackeys carried in some battered but recognizable pieces of luggage. Hawkhurst apologized that, although he and his men had spent most of the day at or near the scene of the accident, this was all they had been able to retrieve. One of the portmanteaux had split open, but the losses appeared negligible, and fortunately, Euphemia’s jewel case proved to be intact.
Climbing the stairs again, her relief at the recovery of her jewels was marred by the fact that Simon sneezed twice. This so wrenched his shoulder that, when she remonstrated with him, he requested irritably that she kindly not maudle over him, and that he felt splendid. Knowing him and his rare ill-humours, she restrained a cutting comment and feared the worst.
By morning, having spent a frightening night with Kent, her fears were realized. Simon remained in bed, stricken with a very bad cold. With typical male perversity, having allowed not a whimper to escape him when a heavy lead musket ball had smashed his shoulder, nor once complained through the agonizing weeks that had followed, he was now the complete invalid, sneezing, snuffling, groaning, and calling down maledictions upon a malignant Fate, while never once admitting that his own folly had brought about his condition. Much as she loved her brother, Euphemia found herself quite out of charity with him and informed him roundly that he should be spanked for such irresponsible behaviour.
Hawkhurst was no less incensed with Bryce, and that young man, having received a royal set-down at his guardian’s hands, hurriedly took himself off and remained least in sight for the next several days.
Those days were trying indeed for Euphemia. Simon was genuinely ill, and, despite her irritation with him, she was obliged to divide her time between the sickrooms, dreading lest his cold worsen into pneumonia or his wound become inflamed by reason of his violent sneezes. Kent, meanwhile, grew worse, the harsh, racking cough convulsing his small body, and his fever mounting. Mrs. Graham, Ellie, and the invincible housekeeper were reinforced by an endless succession of maids in caring for the two invalids, but, despite their devotion, Euphemia was the only one who could calm the child, and as time wore on she scarcely dared relinquish his burning little hand, but what the hollowed eyes would fly open in a terrified seeking for her.
Shortly after two o’clock on the third night, he became so weak that she was sure the end was near. Thoroughly frightened, she roused Ellie, who was dozing in the chair, then ran downstairs in search of Hawkhurst. Candles still burned in the library, but the pleasant room was empty. She was about to pull the bellrope and despatch a servant to wake him when she heard voices outside. Drawing her shawl closer about her, she stepped onto the terrace. A chaise with the door wide stood upon the front drive. Two young gentlemen, decidedly inebriated, clung to each other as they viewed Hawkhurst’s laughing and clumsy attempts to lift a reluctant beauty into the vehicle. He placed her upon the step, but was staggered as she launched herself into his arms again with a shriek of hilarity. “Not so loud!” he urged. “We’ve a sick child in the house!”
His inamorata fairly squeaked her astonishment, and one of the gentlemen hiccoughed, “Ch-child? You? Wha’ th’ deuce? Did y’lovely Blanche bring y’brat back t’haunt you, Gary?” It was an ill judged remark, and the effect on Hawkhurst was startling. He abandoned the lady and turned on his foxed friend like a fury, one fist whipping back.
At any other time, Euphemia would have immediately retreated. Now, illogically angered that he should be thus occupied when she so needed him, she ran forward, calling his name. That lethal fist dropped, and he spun around, an expression of dismay crossin
g his flushed face as he beheld her. Striding forward then, he took the hands she stretched out and searched her pale, tired face. The moment she felt that strong clasp, she felt comforted, a sensation that deepened when he said with quiet authority, “Go back inside at once. I’ll bring Hal.”
His voice was only slightly slurred, and she thought thankfully that he was not so drunk as to be stupid. His friends were, however, and stared in total, befuddled silence as she ran, shivering, back into the house. Climbing the stairs, she wished Hawkhurst had sent a groom to Down Buttery. He would likely have difficulty retaining his seat, much less be able to ride faster than a walk. Moments later, she heard a thunder of hooves upon the drive, and was contrarily appalled by such headlong speed. The moon was dim tonight, and to ride so fast was to invite disaster. She sat bathing Kent’s burning face, counting the minutes, and praying that Hawkhurst’s recklessness might not result in his being carried home a corpse.
She had supposed the journey to Down Buttery and back would take the better part of an hour, but he must have ridden like the wind indeed, for within thirty minutes she heard the rumble of wheels outside. Soon, quick footsteps sounded in the hall, and Dr. Archer hurrried into the room, followed by Hawkhurst, who moved to wait silently in a distant corner. The doctor nodded to the worried Ellie, threw Euphemia a smile, and questioned her softly as he made his examination. When he finished, he turned on her in mock outrage and grumbled that the boy had taken a decided turn for the better. Euphemia was both overjoyed and mortified, but Archer stilled her rather shaken apologies by saying she had done splendidly and that now she could safely rest, having given him the opportunity to enjoy some of Hawk’s excellent brandy.
Thus reminded of her host’s efforts, Euphemia turned to thank him. She was too late, however. Hawkhurst had quietly slipped away.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING morning, Buchanan felt much improved. Not only was his cold relieved; his shoulder was easier than it had been since he was hit. A few more days like this, he thought with elation, and he would be able to rejoin his regiment. He breakfasted in bed and allowed Bailey, Hawkhurst’s imperturbable valet, to shave him and assist with his toilet. Then, in high spirits, save for the unwelcome notion that he had been a nuisance at a most trying time, he went off in search of some way to make amends. A shy maid advised him that Mrs. Graham was still sleeping, that Miss Euphemia, poor dear soul, had taken to her bed at dawn, that Miss Stephanie was come home again and somewhere about, and that my Lady Bryce and Mr. Hawkhurst’s secretary were in the small gold salon upstairs, planning the Musicale.
Feeling decidedly de trop, Buchanan proceeded down the stairs. Lord Bryce, clad in an enormously caped riding coat, with hat, whip, and gloves in one hand, was crossing the hall. At Buchanan’s hail, he halted and beamed upward. He went considerably in awe of the Lieutenant’s military prowess, but despite this and the difference in their ages, a deep liking had sprung up between them. He told Buchanan he looked “in jolly good point” today, and that they would have to throw some dice later on. Guessing that Bryce meant to ride over to Chant House to visit Chilton Gains, Buchanan hopefully offered to bear him company. Bryce turned quite pale and began to stammer his way through an involved morass of excuses. Hawkhurst had very obviously put the fear of God into him, and, having no wish to cause him further embarrassment, Buchanan politely remembered that he really must write some letters and watched rather wistfully as Bryce all but heaved a sigh of relief and fled the premises.
Hawkhurst was Sir Simon’s next quarry and was run to earth in the library, half-sitting against the reference table, one booted leg swinging and a grim expression on his face as he stared down at a letter he held. He wore riding dress and was as usual quietly elegant. Surveying the cut of the bottle green jacket, the fit of the buckskins, the impeccably tied neckcloth, and the absence of any jewelry save for his large signet ring, Buchanan wondered that Colley, so obviously admiring his cousin, did not look and learn.
Hawkhurst’s head lifted at his approach. For an instant he stared unseeingly. Then, recovering himself, he came to his feet and offered his felicitations upon his guest’s improved state of health.
“Yes, well, that’s why I came. To thank you, sir. You’ve been dashed decent about it all, and I’m truly sorry, for we’ve been a confounded pest, I’ve no doubt!”
“I am quite sure of it,” murmured Hawkhurst and, noting the immediate upward toss of that sandy head, chuckled, “I meant—that I’m sure you are sorry, and with no cause, for it has been our pleasure. Egad, Buchanan, do you go through life so curst hot at hand, I wonder you’ve survived this long!”
“Well, you damned well deliberately provoke me!”
“I apologize. I prefer your rage to such abject gratitude, I admit.”
The twinkle in the grey eyes was irresistible. Buchanan grinned and was at once invited to play a game of billiards. How could one hold a grudge under these circumstances? He decided one could not, accepted with delight, and they spent a pleasant hour together, at the end of which time he had lost approximately seventy-eight thousand pounds (fortunately all represented by buttons!). Hawkhurst played a skilful game, his movements carelessly graceful, yet containing the odd suggestion of leashed power that epitomized him. He was every inch the aristocrat and unfailingly the courteous host, and, scanning him surreptitiously from time to time, Simon knew a touch of uncertainty. Did rumour speak truly? Was this man who had so courageously rescued Kent also capable of having murdered his wife and their child? The lined face, the heavy brows and jut of the chin, the firm mouth, all bespoke an individual one would not lightly cross; certainly, a potential for ruthlessness hovered in the cold grey eyes. The trouble was that they were not always cold, nor was the mouth consistently set into that thin, uncompromising line. When Hawkhurst laughed, as he did occasionally during their game, the ice vanished, the eyes sparkled, and the harsh face underwent such a transformation that Buchanan was shocked into remembering that years ago he had from a distance actually admired the fellow—and even more shocking, that Hawkhurst was only four years older than himself!
Their game was interrupted when a large, neatly clad, and shrewd-eyed individual appeared in the doorway, made his bow, and announced, “The horses is ready, sir.” Hawkhurst sighed and put down his cue. “What a merciless tyrant you are, Paul.”
The large man grinned and said he would wait in the kitchen. Hawkhurst turned to Buchanan and offered his apologies, saying wryly that his bailiff was extremely demanding. He begged that Sir Simon proceed exactly as though he were in his own home, then started for the door but, with his hand on the latch, turned about to ask interestedly, “And what is your verdict, Buchanan?”
Buchanan stared at him.
Hawkhurst put up his brows. “What, no conclusion? And after all those sidelong glances … all that frowning deliberation! My poor fellow, how very vexing for you! Allow me to be of assistance. I am innocent! Pure as the driven snow! There, now you may be at ease for the remainder of your stay.”
And, with a cynical grin, an infuriatingly mocking bow, he was gone.
SIX
WHEN Buchanan recovered sufficiently that he was able to restrain the impulse to stalk the nearest footman and strangle him, he decided that he might as well get to his letters. He caught a glimpse of Miss Hawkhurst in the hall and brightened, but she ran quickly up the stairs, almost as though seeking to avoid him. He went into the library, where he spent a great deal of time sharpening a pen, while thinking of a dozen people he should, but did not care to, write to. He was reprieved when Lady Bryce buttonholed him and desired he take luncheon with her and her niece. Like any basically healthy young man, he was always ready to enjoy a meal, and he was also eager to hear of Miss Hawkhurst’s journey and what news she had of the war. Therefore, he willingly took his place beside Lady Bryce in the small dining room and thanked her for having taken the trouble to deliver his letter to his great aunt personally. She at once launched into a rapturous
account of what a delightful cose she had enjoyed with her “dear friend” Lucasta. Murmuring a polite response, Buchanan was reminded of the extremely irate letter he had yesterday received from the hand of her “dear friend’s” groom. “You wretched boy!” Great Aunt Lucasta had commenced, not mincing her words. “How could you have allowed that odious Carlotta Bryce to come to my house? I have been obliged to invent an involved tale to explain her presence, for, allow the gabblemongers to know where you are now domiciled, I will not! And does she spread the tale (ingratiating hornet that she is!), I shall deny it!” The missive had gone on at great length, bemoaning the fate that had flung them in the way of the evil Garret Hawkhurst, and concluding with the warning that, page or no page, did Simon not remove his sister from “that den of infamy” within another week at the latest, his poor aunt would have to set aside her preparations for the holidays, in order to come for them! Even Hawkhurst’s suave hauteur, thought Buchanan, must crumble before the full flood of Lady Lucasta’s famous tongue. Which, under the circumstances, would not do! No, he simply must ensure that they arrive at Meadow Abbey well before his aunt’s patience expired. And certainly before the much vaunted Musicale—a sure fate worse than death!
He was diverted from his thoughts by the advent of a maid, who conveyed Miss Hawkhurst’s regrets, but she was fatigued of her long drive and begged they would excuse her. Buchanan was disappointed, and his feeling that the girl was seeking to avoid him deepened.
* * *
AT HALF past two o’clock, Buchanan’s elbow slipped off the arm of the chair in the library and woke him. He had settled down to think about the next letter he would write and must have dozed off. He stretched, took up his solitary effort, and wandered into the hall to deposit it in the jade salver for delivery to the post office. Yawning, his idle gaze encountered the stern stare of a splendid gentleman in periwig and laces. The portrait was beautifully preserved, and the frame a work of art in itself and, reminded he had not yet visited the gallery, he made his way up the spiral staircase and thence to the sweep of stairs that led to the top floor. To his left lay the game room and servants’ quarters. He turned right, past more guest rooms and salons, until the corridor curved into the South Wing and approached the gallery. The floors here were especially fine, the rich parquetry embellished with many cabinets and screens, all in the oriental motif. The gallery doors stood open, and beside them an exquisite chinoiserie clock occupied a corner that echoed the chinoiserie design, even the flooring having been inlaid so as to continue those elegant lines. Impressed, Buchanan wandered into a long, wide room, graced here and there by thick rugs and brightened by recessed bays through which pale sunlight traced the latticework of dormer windows onto the boards. Richly carved credenzas and chests held bouquets of chrysanthemum and fern. And along the walls an impressive array of Thorndykes and Hawkhursts looked down upon the visitor with varying degrees of calm, amusement, or condescension.
Some Brief Folly Page 9
