Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “Set Miss Stephanie’s chocolate there, if you please,” requested Euphemia, flashing her friendly smile at the apprehensive maid, “and brush out her hair whilst I sharpen my scissors.”

  Kathy touched the long, rippling silk of Stephanie’s thick tresses and uttered a little cry. “Oh, Miss! You never mean to cut it short? Mr. Garret will be that vexed!”

  Eyeing the shining blades with equal unease, Stephanie demurred, “Mia, perhaps … we should not.”

  Euphemia sighed, “It is a pity, I grant you, but—yes. I am sure! Be brave, love. You may always purchase a wig!”

  Kathy squealed in horror and turned away, only to be commanded to stop being such a featherwit, and heat the curling tongs at once.

  * * *

  FEELING very pleased with herself, Euphemia hummed cheerfully as she made her way along the corridor. She started down the stairs, then checked. The fireboy had told her that Blanche Hawkhurst’s portrait was to be hung today, as it always was, in case the Admiral should chance to honour Dominer with a visit at this festive season. Curious, she turned back and climbed the second flight of stairs.

  The doors to the gallery were wide, and two lackeys, directed by the butler, were positioning a very large portrait in the centre of the long room. Euphemia glanced about her admiringly. What a splendid old place it was, and fortunate, indeed, the lady who would occupy it as Mrs. Garret Hawkhurst … She was at once shocked by this trend of thought. Poor Blanche Hawkhurst had been far from fortunate!

  The lackeys marched dignifiedly past, and the butler stopped beside her, his pudgy hands clasped as he asked in his formal manner if he might be of any service. “I came to see Mrs. Hawkhurst,” she confided frankly. “Do you really think Lord Wetherby will come, Parsley?”

  Accompanying her back along the gallery, the butler replied that he doubted it. “The Admiral has only been here three times since Mrs. Hawkhurst died, Miss. He never has got over the shock, you see.” The interest in her eyes, which he thought among the most handsome he had ever seen, led him on. Mr. Garret would not like it, he knew. Nonetheless … “She was the apple of the old gentleman’s eye. But—perhaps I should tell you that…”

  Euphemia, who had been gazing up at a most formidable looking old lady, turned to him enquiringly, “Yes, Parsley?”

  “Well, er—” He paused and, losing his nerve, gulped, “My name, Miss, is Ponsonby.”

  It was not what he had intended to say, Euphemia was sure of it. Drat the man! Still, she was sufficiently shocked to exclaim, “Oh, my goodness! How very rag-mannered you must think me!”

  “Not at all,” he reassured hurriedly. “It is a childish nickname, and sometimes Mr. Garret forgets.”

  “Well, I think it insupportable! You have every right to insist…” His affectionate smile and slow shake of the head stopped her. “But you are too fond of him for that, I see,” she nodded.

  “I have known him since he was a sad little boy in short coats,” replied Ponsonby, who had not failed to note the new light in his master’s eyes of late. “And, if I may say so, Mr. Garret grew into the most high-couraged youth, the most loyal and—and truly gallant young man it has ever been my privilege to serve!”

  Having made such an emotional declaration, he looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but his sincerity was beyond doubting, and, impressed, Euphemia said slowly, “I see that I understated the case. You are more than fond of him.”

  “A great deal more, Miss,” he mumbled, very red in the face. He gestured upwards. “This is Mrs. Hawkhurst. And little Avery, rest his soul.”

  Euphemia tore her gaze from his honest features, looked up, and stood transfixed. Simon’s description of Blanche Hawkhurst had been, if anything, inadequate. A vision looked down from the canvas, a young woman, seated in a rose arbour, a small boy clutching at her skirts. Her hair was a cloud of gold, with two sleek ringlets drooping onto one snowy shoulder. Pale green eyes, long and well open, were fringed by thick, dark lashes; a perfect little mouth pouted slightly in an expression that was reminiscent of Simon’s wife; and the dimpled chin was uptilted in a faintly challenging fashion. Yet, all in all, the perfect oval of the face was exquisitely lovely, the flawless complexion and delicate nose enhancing a beauty that certainly must have had all London at her feet. Euphemia let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding in check and glanced to the child. He looked to be about three years old, an adorable little boy, as fair as his lovely mother, but with a twinkle in the grey eyes and a suspicion of stubbornness about the chin that, even at that early age, spoke of his sire. “Oh…” she murmured regretfully, “how very sad.”

  “Sad indeed,” agreed a gruff voice at her elbow.

  It was Archer’s voice, and, glancing around, she discovered that Ponsonby had gone and the doctor now stood beside her. “You knew her, sir?” she asked.

  “I did.” She scanned his strong face curiously, and he went on, still gazing at that angelic face. “She was the loveliest woman I ever saw.”

  “Very lovely. No wonder Hawkhurst pursued her so desperately.”

  He uttered a loud and mocking snort of laughter, saw Euphemia’s mouth droop a little with surprise, and thought it a most pretty sight. “Hawk pursued his son, ma’am!” he explained. “And has been like a soul lost in some bleak wilderness ever since his death. The boy had given back to him all the joy Blanche destroyed. He was Hawk’s world, his life, his every hope for the future. When I hear fools whisper that Avery died by his father’s plotting— By heaven! I could throttle ’em with my bare hands!”

  Euphemia’s heart had, for some reason, commenced to beat very rapidly during this little speech. “But … but,” she stammered, “why has he refused to tell what happened?”

  “Pride, partly. He’s a surfeit of that, I’ll admit. Anger, too, that any dared so accuse him. But I’ll tell you this, Miss Euphemia, had Garret Hawkhurst to have chosen between his own death by the slowest, most hideous means the mind of man can devise, or that child’s life—he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed himself! I don’t blame him for turning his back on the Society that named him murderer! The haut ton, ma’am? I’ve a better name for ’em, but cannot use it before such as yourself! And worse than any of ’em is the man who brought it all about!” He turned, hands gripped behind him, and, stalking to a portrait on the opposite wall, nodded at it vengefully. “Here’s your culprit! Here’s the blind, proud, unrelenting, maggot-witted bacon brain who caused it!”

  Euphemia’s eyes were already scanning that other portrait: a naval officer in full-dress uniform, cockaded hat under one arm, the other hand resting upon the stone parapet of a balcony, with far beyond him the shadowed outlines of a harbour and many great ships. A tall, sparse gentleman, with thick black hair tied in at the nape of the neck, a high forehead, a beak of a nose, fierce dark eyes, a thin mouth and proud chin. The face of an eagle, she thought. One who would demand instant obedience and unwavering loyalty.

  “Impressive, ain’t he?” sneered Archer, his eyes on the girl’s awed face.

  “Very. They say he may come here.”

  “Well, I hope to God he don’t! He only comes to turn the knife in Hawk. And succeeds, damn him!”

  She turned at that and said in her forthright way, “You should not talk to me like this, you know.” He scowled, but said nothing, and she smiled. “But I hope you will not let that weigh with you.”

  He chuckled and, encouraged by the twinkle in her eyes, extended his arm. Euphemia took it, and he escorted her slowly along the gallery, much as if they were out for a morning stroll.

  “We owe Mr. Hawkhurst a great deal,” she pointed out. “Perhaps, did I know his story, I might repay him somewhat by—”

  “By countering some of the gossip?” Archer shook his head. “Cannot. I’ve tried. People believe what they wish to believe and would liefer hear bad of a man than good. Besides, all Hawk will say is he had no hand in killing them. Ain’t enough, don’t y’see. As to how it all started…” H
e sighed, brow furrowed and eyes reminiscent. “Well, it was a race. The most stupid, murderous steeplechase, and all London agog and betting crazy. Hawk was near seven years old when his Papa rode and led all the way—to the last water jump. They carried him home on a hurdle. Back broke. He died the next day. It was all so blasted nonsensical! So wags the world and its follies … His wife Cordelia had been a great beauty in her day, but she was a frail woman. She adored her husband and, when he was killed, her heart went with him. She lacked the strength to go on living for the sake of her children and quite literally grieved herself into her grave.”

  “Oh, the poor soul,” Euphemia murmured, her warm heart touched.

  Archer grunted unsympathetically. “Oh, the poor children! The two older girls were placed in a seminary. Stephanie was a babe in arms and went to her Aunt Dora, but the Admiral held Dora incapable of rearing a boy and acceded to his daughter-in-law’s wish that her cousin take him. Her admired Wilberforce.” He swore under his breath. “Vanity, thy name is Wilberforce!”

  “He was a dandy?”

  “He was—what you would call today, a ‘Top o’ the Trees’! All coats and cravats and every sporting venture, every bit o’muslin, every gaming table in Town! That selfish young blade had no time for a heartbroken little boy. He put Garret in the care of a tutor, pocketed the funds the Admiral supplied, and promptly forgot the boy. And the tutor! Now, there was a rare individual! Or at least,” a fiercer look glittered in his eyes, “I pray they’re rare! The slimy type who bow and smile and simper to the Quality—and hate their—er, insides! Such was the man friend Wilberforce selected, wherefore young Garret endured over a year of pure hell at his hands. A housemaid saved him. Garret had tried to run away, and the tutor’s revenge was more than she could abide. She risked her entire future, went to the Admiral’s lodgings and told his man all about it. Wetherby was expected home the following day, and he moved fast, I’ll say that much. Hawk was out of the house within an hour of his return, and the housemaid (now our Nell Henderson, by the way) with him. I heard that when Wetherby first laid eyes on the boy he was so enraged, he knocked Wilberforce right off his feet. I hope it’s truth! At all events, from a nightmare of inhumanity, Garret found himself in a dream world where he was not only once again decently treated, but affection was lavished on him. You can guess the rest; he idolized the man who’d rescued him. From that day to this, did Wetherby ask for his heart on a plate, he would have it!”

  Archer paused and, while Euphemia waited quietly, stared out of one of the recessed bays. “All went well for a few years. Until ‘friendship’ entered the picture. Our Admiral wasn’t much given to making ’em. Friends, I mean—not pictures! But he had one, a fine young fellow he’d met at Harrow. They went all through their school and university days together, he and Spaulding, and finally, both fell in love with the same girl. Spaulding won and wed the lady. I don’t think Wetherby ever got over that first love, but he eventually married, and I gather it was a moderately happy match. Anyway, the two families remained close friends. The Wetherbys had a son, Garret’s Papa, and two daughters of whom our Mrs. Graham is the only one now living. The Spauldings had only one son, who later fathered Blanche. And Blanche grew to be the image of Wetherby’s great love, by now gone to her reward. The Admiral doted on the girl. Her Papa was killed at Assaye, and, when her grandpapa died, she and her mother lived very frugally until Wetherby stepped in and moved them into a charming house he owns just off Grosvenor Square. Blanche soon became the Rage—a great Toast. I needn’t tell you that it was Wetherby’s dream his grandson should wed her. Garret resisted at first, for he had no tendre for her. I think he suspected that there was little of character behind that beautiful face. To the old man, however, Blanche was the embodiment of everything he had loved and lost. She wasn’t. She was weak and foolish and insanely in love with a fellow named Robert Mount. A handsome young devil, but not a feather to fly with!”

  “Good heavens! Did Hawkhurst know she loved another man?”

  “Not then, more’s the pity. And to have seen her with the Admiral you’d have thought her downright saintly, she was so loving and devoted.”

  “So … he married her,” murmured Euphemia, “only to please his benefactor.”

  Archer nodded dourly. “And thereby destroyed her, himself, and their child! Fool that he was! But I still hold that the man responsible was— Why, you young rascal! What the deuce d’ye mean by cavorting about when I said you must lie on the sofa and be quiet?”

  A small hand was tugging urgently at Euphemia’s skirt. She looked down into Kent’s face, aglow with excitement as he pointed towards the hall. He was dressed and looked much better at last, but the doctor was perfectly right, for the air in this room was much too cold for him.

  “I rather gather,” she said with a merry twinkle, “that I am summoned.” She put out her hand. “Thank you, doctor. For our … discussion.”

  He took her hand, patted it gently, and grinned, “Call it—an investment, dear lady.”

  * * *

  WALKING towards the stairs with the excited boy hopping along beside her, Euphemia pondered Archer’s last remark. “… an investment…”? Did he mean because of her promised effort to refute the gossip about Hawkhurst? He had opened her eyes to a good deal, and she had no least doubt but that he had spoken truthfully. Still, there was the matter of Gains. No one would ever forgive Hawk for so savagely disfiguring his neighbour, even if—

  She was surprised at this point to discover that she was being urged not down the second flight of stairs to the ground floor, but along the landing towards the rooms occupied by the family. She looked at Kent wonderingly, but he nodded his fair head, beaming up at her and continuing to pull at her hand.

  At the far end of the corridor, two maids were peering through a half-open door. They turned at Euphemia’s approach and, the elder of the pair proving to be Ellie, hurried to her. “Oh, Miss! I know Master Kent didn’t mean to be naughty but—if Mr. Garret comes there will be such a bobbery! Me and Cissy’s scared to go in, and don’t dare to call one of the footmen, for then Mr. Garret would be sure to hear of it!”

  Really alarmed now, Euphemia swept past the maids and pushed the door wide.

  The luxurious bedchamber was graced by three tall windows with plumply cushioned windowseats. Large, deep chairs, and a sturdy leathern sofa flanked a great fireplace, and to one side was a fine old desk of glowing cherrywood with a tapestry-covered chair before it. Against one wall stood a well-stocked gun cabinet, and there were several bookcases crammed with volumes. Yet all of these things registered only dimly in her mind, for to the far right of the room stood an enormous canopied bed, the red brocade curtains tied back to reveal a decidedly uninvited occupant who sprawled comfortably upon the eiderdown, his unlovely head resting on the pillow as though it had been placed there especially in his behalf.

  “Sampson!” gasped Euphemia.

  “And—Lord Gains be such a nice gentleman!” whimpered Cissy.

  Kent ran to stroke that massive head fondly and grin back at Euphemia.

  “The dog was waiting outside the kitchen door,” Ellie supplied. “And when the little fellow see him, I ’spect he thought he lived here, so he let him in. They runned all over! Me and Cissy’s been straightening up the rugs and the stuff they knocked over. But Master Kent can’t make him get off! Mr. Garret’s out with Sir Simon, but they’ll be back any minute, and the master’s…” She glanced at Kent’s now uneasy countenance and finished carefully, “He’s not in a very happy frame o’mind, Miss.”

  The recollection of Hawkhurst’s black rage at the breakfast table sent Euphemia’s eyes flashing to the gun cabinet. “Kent! Get him down from there!”

  Obediently, the child seized the hound by the throat and pulled manfully. Sampson opened one eye, licked his hand, then went back to sleep.

  Euphemia nerved herself, stepped inside, her heart racing at such flagrant impropriety, and entered the fray. She cajoled, sco
lded, and threatened—in vain. The two maids began to moan and wring their hands. “Quiet!” she hissed. “We mustn’t attract attention! Sampson, you stupid great elephant, do you wish to be shot? Come down this instant, sir!”

  Sampson regarded her with tolerant amusement, lolled his tongue, turned onto his back and stretched, then allowed his legs to droop in a most impolite abandonment. Euphemia’s frustrated moan faded into a gasp as she heard Hawkhurst’s distinctive voice raised in a shout for “Parsley!”

  “Oh, my God!” she ejaculated. “Come and help me, quickly!” The maids, however, craven in the face of peril, had deserted. Her knees turned to water. How ghastly if she was found in here! But she could not allow the foolish animal to be slain. “Kent, run and find something he might like to play with!”

  The child ran to the dressing table and returned bearing a riding crop with an intricately carven grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He gave the insouciant hound a prod in the ribs with this. Sampson half opened one eye and was transformed into a maelstrom of energy; legs writhed, back twisted, ears flapped, and tail wagged furiously. He stood on the bed, then launched himself for the “stick,” landing with a crash against a chest of drawers, thus sending two candelabra and a clock toppling.

  “Good! Now, hurry!” cried Euphemia, running for the door.

  It was too late. Hawkhurst’s voice, raised in irritation, was already in the hall. With a stifled sob, Euphemia drew back. Heavy brocade curtains, matching those of the bed hangings, closed off what appeared to be a dressing room. Pushing Kent before her, and with Sampson bouncing along, flourishing the crop that now resided between his jaws, she made a dart for it, swung the draperies closed behind her and, finding a heavy door also, pushed it to, praying it might not squeak. It did not, but before she could latch it, the hall door burst open and she shrank back.

  “… damned well ruined is what drives me into the boughs!” Hawkhurst was exclaiming. “If a man cannot shoot straight with a Manton, he’s no business owning one!”