Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  Buchanan wandered among this august assemblage with mild interest until he came to the portrait of a dark young man with high-peaked brows and a lean face mainly remarkable for a pair of speaking grey eyes and a wide and whimsical mouth, both of which features put him in remind of their host. Thick hair tied in at the nape of the neck and foaming Brussels lace at throat and wrists proclaimed an age of elegance now, alas, lost to the world. Buchanan leaned closer and read on the gold plaque, “Christopher Valentine Thorndyke—Fourth Earl of Aynsworth.”

  Staring upwards, conscious of an odd feeling of liking for the man, he was startled by a small clatter. He turned about and saw a spool rolling towards him from one of the bays, the thread jerking as though desperate hands strove to retrieve it. Buchanan swept it up and, winding it carefully, walked after that leaping strand. He suspected the identity of the lady he would find in the bay and was not disappointed. Miss Hawkhurst, clad in a plain green gown and with a shawl about her shoulders, was sitting in the window seat. She all but shrank as he strolled towards her, still rewinding the thread. He offered his spool in silence, and she stood to accept it, a swift flood of colour coming painfully into her cheeks and sending her pale lashes fluttering downward.

  “Why,” he asked gently, “do I frighten you so?”

  Her colour fled, and, dropping the spool into her workbasket, she said, “Oh, no. You do not. At all. But I like to work up here, for the light is good, and I—I like to be alone.”

  It was cold in the room, for the fires were not lit, and her fingers had been like ice. Undeceived, he touched her elbow. “Please do not be afraid of me. Can you believe I mean harm to someone as good—as gentle, as you?”

  The downbent head flew up, the big eyes wide with earnestness. “No! Never! It is only that … that Aunt says—” She bit her lip and was silent.

  “Your Aunt Carlotta?” He might have known! “What does the lady say? That I am of shocking repute, and you must not—”

  She smiled wanly. “She thinks you splendid, of course. But your sister offered to … that is … she wants to … to teach me how to … to…”

  “To make yourself into the beauty no man in his right mind could resist,” he finished kindly.

  “She is so good,” she gulped. “To be willing to help me try to be … a little less plain and—and dowdy, than I am.”

  “Oh, what fustian!” He took her hand in his friendly way and said an encouraging, “My sister is a very sweet soul, Miss Hawkhurst, but the world’s busiest arranger. I vow she arranged the lives of so many people in Spain that her victims are known as ‘Mia’s Mandates’!” A twinkle crept into her shy eyes, and he nodded, “Truly. You may ask anyone! Untold couples who live blissfully in the delusion they found one another of their own ingenuity are wed only by reason of her cunning machinations!” A rich little gurgle of merriment resulting, he squeezed her hand slightly and, releasing it, persisted, “Now to what, precisely, does Aunty object?”

  The flush on her cheeks heightened, which made her look unsuspectedly attractive, he thought. But not looking away now, she said quietly, “She says, do I try to be—er, to put on—airs, you must believe I am … I…” But she was too well bred to bring herself to say it, and her gaze flickered and fell again.

  “What?” gasped Buchanan. And with a peal of laughter, said, “Setting your cap—for me? Throwing out lures? Oh, that’s rich!”

  She flinched and stepped away, head bowed. And cursing his clumsiness, he moved closer behind her and said, “But, dear lady, how could this be? I am safely wed. And with three hopeful children.”

  A small gasp broke the silence that followed. For an instant Miss Hawkhurst was rigidly still. Then she turned a rather pale face to him and said gaily, “You … are?”

  He nodded. “So your aunt cannot accuse you of such naughty mischief.”

  “She … she most assuredly cannot.”

  “I think we must confound her, you and I. You may let Mia play her little games, if that is your wish, for you are safe with me, and, if you wait until some eligible young gentleman is here, Aunty may then really contrive to throw a rub in your way. When she is convinced you have totally ensnared me, we shall tell her all her suspicions are for nought, and by that time you will be the rage of four counties, at the very least!”

  Her laugh was sweetly musical, if somewhat breathless. “Oh, thank you, sir! You and your dear sister are just … too kind.”

  “I cannot deny it. Wherefore, I am lonely and neglected, and your sewing can wait, can it not? Come now, and tell me who was this very fine young gentleman.”

  He led her to the portrait, and, looking up, her eyes softened. “Lord Christopher. Is he not handsome? He was the first Thorndyke to own Dominer, and my great grandfather on Mama’s side. And here,…” she moved to the portrait beside that of Lord Aynsworth, “is his lady wife.”

  Following, Buchanan viewed a lovely young woman with coppery golden ringlets and eyes of a rich green, long and wide, and filled with an inner happiness that the artist had in some magical fashion captured on the canvas. “Leonie, Countess of Aynsworth,” he read, and murmured, “She looks as though she were thinking of something very beloved.”

  “Probably her husband. My Grandpapa says they were the happiest couple he ever knew. In love all their lives.”

  A wistful smile touched her eyes, and, watching her, he said, “I expect, someday, you will find such a love.”

  “I pray so, but to how many is given such a very great gift?”

  The smile died from Buchanan’s eyes. For one brief year he had thought to have possessed such a gift and dreamed it would last forever. But the bubble had burst, leaving nothing but this painful yearning for the might-have-been. He looked up and, finding her concerned gaze upon him, asked brightly, “Should you care to go for a ride? Oh, do say you will. Would Hawkhurst object, do you think?”

  “Most decidedly. As would I. Dominer has harmed you enough, Sir Simon. I will not be a party to your being made ill again.”

  She spoke in her usual soft fashion, but there was a firm set to her chin, and he realized in some surprise that beneath her shyness dwelt a resolute spirit. “If you would care for it,” she suggested, “I should instead be most pleased to show you over the house and the conservatory.”

  He agreed only after extracting a promise that, if he was obedient today, she would ride with him tomorrow. Then, he proffered his left arm, Stephanie smiled and lightly rested her hand upon it, and they commenced the tour.

  * * *

  BY THE END of the week Kent was beginning to exhaust his nurses with his reviving energy. Always sweet-natured and easy to manage, he nonetheless contrived to be up and walking did they for an instant relax their vigilance and was frequently discovered kneeling among the cushions of the window bay, gazing out across the frosty gardens.

  Returning to the sickroom after luncheon one cold, grey afternoon, Euphemia was astounded to find Hawkhurst sprawled in an armchair, long booted legs outthrust and crossed at the ankles, chin resting upon interlaced fingers as he frowned at the small patient. Kent, absorbed by something, was sitting up in bed. He threw her a quick, loving smile, then bent to his task once more. Intrigued, Euphemia trod closer. “What is it?”

  Hawkhurst pulled his lean form erect and shrugged a bored, “Crayons, and a picture to copy. Come.”

  She glanced at him interrogatively.

  “You are pale and hagged,” he imparted with cool candour. “And I wish to speak with you. I shall take you for a drive in the curricle.”

  “Thank you. But—no.” How swift the narrowing of the eyes, the upward toss of the head, the haughty droop of the eyelids. Her confrontations with him had been few these past eight days, for she had usually been too busy with the child to go downstairs to dine, and when she had put in an appearance, Hawkhurst had been off somewhere, consorting with his ragtag friends, she supposed. But whatever he was, he had saved their lives and offered a most generous hospitality. “If I m
ay,” she said, “I would prefer to ride. Have you a suitable mount for a lady, sir?”

  “By the time you are changed, your steed will await you. And,” he added dryly, “probably be exhausted by the wait!”

  She responded to that challenge, of course, and with Ellie’s assistance changed into her habit and in a very short time took up her fur-lined pelisse and gloves and hurried to the stairs. Halfway down she paused as a roar of rage sounded from the music room. To her astonishment, a very large and ugly dog, somewhere between a bloodhound and a wolf, shot into the hall, sent rugs flying as it scrabbled wildly on the polished floors, and floundered with total ungainliness into the dining room. Hawkhurst, face flushed, raced into view. “Where in the devil did that miserable brute go?” he snarled.

  “Brute…?” echoed Euphemia innocently, pulling on one of her gloves.

  “The Gains mongrel!” He marched to the library and flung the door wide. “I’ll have its ears, by God!”

  “It must be very well trained.”

  He darted a black scowl at her.

  “To be able to unlatch a closed door,” she smiled.

  “That worthless flea-carrier, madam,” he observed acidly, “has, for some ridiculous reason, a predilection for lumbering five miles across my preserves and creating havoc wherever it lays its clumsy feet. It tears down young trees, uproots plants and shrubs, jumps into the ornamental water and devours all the confounded goldfish! And having performed these acts of vandalism, it adds insult to injury by trailing its mud, slime, and vermin across my rugs! I warned Gains! And by heaven, I shall—”

  A loud crash sounded from the dining room. With a triumphant cry, he sprinted across the hall. Her heart in her mouth, Euphemia followed. A shout, a thud, and she jumped aside in the nick of time, as The Flea-Carrier, tongue lolling, ears back, tail high, panted past and gamboled disastrously towards the kitchen. A muffled groan made Euphemia’s nerves jump. She hurried into the dining room. Hawkhurst lay sprawled on his back on the floor. With a little gasp of fear, she sped to kneel beside him. He looked dazed and oddly youthful and tried to raise his head, but it fell back, and he gasped out, “Damnable … brute. Ran between my … legs.”

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, battling the urge to laugh.

  “‘How…’” he quoted faintly, “‘are the mighty … fallen … in the midst of—’”

  It was too much. She broke into a peal of laughter. Lying there, the breath knocked out of him, Hawkhurst wheezed along with her. He came to one elbow, grinning up into her merry face, until he saw beyond her a small crowd of servants with an awed disbelief on every countenance. “Are you all blind as well as deaf?” he demanded, well knowing what had brought about those amazed expressions. “That blasted hound of the Gains has been at its depredations again! Get it the devil off our grounds!”

  The doorway cleared in a flash. Hawkhurst clambered to his feet and, taking Euphemia’s elbow, assisted her to rise. Her eyes slipped past him. The exquisite Han Dynasty vase from the corner display cabinet lay in fragments on the floor. Following her horrified gaze, Hawkhurst groaned and muttered something under his breath. The oath was not quite inaudible, but she could scarcely blame him.

  * * *

  “MY GOODNESS!” Euphemia patted the glossy neck of the big black horse admiringly. “He is magnificent! Wherever did you get him?”

  “Gift from a friend,” said Hawkhurst. “He’s called Sarabande, and you’d do well not to stroke him when Manners ain’t holding his head. A bit inclined to be playful.”

  “So I see.” She stepped back as the black danced, his eyes rolling to her. “My, but he’s full of spirit. How I should love to try him.”

  “He’s not broke to side saddle, ma’am. Nor ever likely to be, for I need no more lives on my conscience!” His eyes were grim suddenly. “Now, may I throw you up?”

  She rested her booted foot in his cupped hands, and he tossed her easily into the saddle, then mounted Sarabande and led the way from the yard at a sedate trot. Once in the open the black strained and fidgeted, fighting his iron hand. Hawkhurst’s jaw set, and Euphemia smothered a smile and murmured, “My, how invigorating this is.”

  He slanted a suspicious glance at her, saw the dimple beside her mouth, and chuckled. “If you will pardon me a moment, I’ll take some of the edges off…”

  He was away, leaning forward in the saddle, the great horse stretching out in a thundering gallop. Euphemia looked after him appreciatively. He had a splendid seat. She suspected, however, that it would take more than a moment to cool the fire in that spirited animal, and it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed a gallop. She kicked her heels home, and the mare’s ears pricked up eagerly.

  Thus it was that Garret Hawkhurst, setting Sarabande at a low wall which concealed the stream beyond it, landed neatly on the far side, allowed the black to gallop a short distance, and, swinging back, was in time to witness Miss Buchanan soar over wall and stream and canter towards him. “Oh, well done!” he exclaimed impulsively, but as she came up with him, frowned, “And very foolish!”

  “Yes,” admitted Euphemia, flushed and breathless. “I’d no idea the stream was beyond. Fortunately the mare did. How is she called?”

  “Fiddle,” he said rudely and, seeing her brows arch, explained mischievously, “Because after a while she tends to become diverted by such mundane items as grass and shrubs.”

  She laughed and drew her hood a little closer. Heavy clouds were gathering, and there was the smell of snow in the air. She wondered suddenly if they would reach Meadow Abbey in time for Christmas—exactly two weeks away.

  “Too cold for you, ma’am?” asked Hawkhurst.

  “Not as cold as I would have been in your curricle, thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, I’d have bundled you up. And I begin to think you’d have been safer.”

  “Indeed?” she said indignantly. “I’ll have you know that—” But she saw his lips twitch and finished in a milder tone. “I collect you would have driven at a snail’s pace.”

  “But, of course.”

  “From what I have heard, Mr. Hawkhurst—”

  “I make no doubt of what you have heard!” His eyes pure ice now, he went on, “If you will turn about, ma’am—”

  “I shall not,” she intervened coolly. “And, as I was about to say, I have heard you—ride, Mr. Hawkhurst. On the night you went for Dr. Archer, I was quite sure you would be borne home, slain.”

  A slow flush darkened his cheeks as he met her level gaze. “My apologies. I thought you referred to another matter. However, I was three parts drunk that night and probably rode with very little of common sense.”

  “And I suppose you will say you were three parts drunk when you came to our rescue.” His gloved hand made a short gesture of dismissal, but she went on, “It is quite useless, dear sir. I have every intention to thank you for all you have done. And—”

  “Your brother has thanked me. It only half killed him, I gather. And now, if you will kindly turn about, Miss Buchanan…”

  He had spoken roughly. She sensed that he was trying to put her off-stride and, wondering why, protested, “But we only just came out!”

  Hawkhurst’s movement was very fast. Before she had a chance to resist, he gripped the bridle, and her mare was turned. Unaccustomed to such high-handed methods, her eyes flashed fire.

  He shrugged. “You have been here nigh two weeks and not yet properly seen the exterior of my home.”

  She looked up eagerly and was speechless. They had been riding steadily uphill and, from the elevation whereon they now sat their horses, were able to view Dominer, spread magnificently on its own hill below them. The red brick mansion, a uniform three storeys, was built in a wide semicircle, the north and south wings reaching backward, and the ground floor widening at the centre of the house, front and rear, to accommodate the full circle of the Great Hall. The white columns of a portico dignified this central curve, and the enormous double doors and all the wood trim were a
lso white. The terrace was edged by a low balustrade, opening to steps that led up to the entrance. Extensive pleasure gardens were threaded by paved walks, dotted with benches and statuary, and shaded by tastefully placed trees and shrubs. The flowerbeds were bare now, the ornamental water, both front and rear, edged with ice, and the fountains not in operation, but Euphemia could picture it all in the springtime, and murmured softly, “I had heard how very lovely it was.”

  He made no answer, and, glancing up, she found him watching her. She was seldom discomfited, but something about that piercing scrutiny set her pulse to fluttering. The frozen breath of the wind ruffled the fur that edged her hood, but her shiver was not for that chill touch.

  “Thank you,” he said, slightly frowning.

  She was flustered and, attempting to conceal it, looked about her and remarked, “Oh, what a very pretty bridge that is! May we ride that way?”

  “We may not. The bridge is being rebuilt and is unsafe.” He saw her brows lift a little at his gruff tone and went on, “Come now, it’s too cold to sit here and since you enjoy a gallop…”