“If you’re quick, Miss.” He shot a conspiratorial smile at her and murmured, “The old gentleman’s very angry, I’m afraid. Good thing I opened the door for him instead of that young fool, Strapp. But, he’s a stickler for manners, and I thought … this dress might be—er, better.”
She glanced around. There was no obliging screen in this room.
Manners laid the gown across a blue velvet chair. “I’ll leave you and stand guard outside, in case—”
“No! I’ve no time for modesty now. Turn your back—and for heaven’s sake don’t let anyone in!” She struggled with buttons and fasteners as he returned to the door and faced it obediently. “The Admiral’s preferences, Manners!”
“He likes Spanish cigarillos, Miss. There’s a special box in the dining room. I’ll get them directly I leave you.”
“What about wine?”
“Port. Mr. Hawkhurst keeps a supply of ’seventy-three in the cellars. I know, because Mr. Ponsonby let me try a glass once. I’ll basket some. It will be cold enough and should be welcomed, I would think.”
“Excellent,” gasped Euphemia, muffled under the brocade. Surfacing breathlessly, she asked, “Can Mrs. Henderson muster a decent meal, d’you think? I know men. My Papa was never so vexed as to come from a day on the march and find a poor table.”
“Nell says she’s some cold chicken and a pig’s cheek. There’s no time to make a pie, but there’s a dish she knows with potatoes and curried meat she says will serve. Miss, can I go? Mr. Hawkhurst—”
Struggling vainly, Euphemia moaned, “Manners, are you wed?”
“Yes, Miss.” He grinned at the door panel. “Buttons?”
“Yes. You’re a gem! Come, do—and strive never to remember this, or I shall be as disgraced as your master!”
He spun around quickly and, searching her face, saw the mischievous smile as he started forward, his eyes admiring. Her hair was rumpled and coming down, but the pale gown accentuated the rich colour of it, and the pearls made her fair skin seem almost luminous. She might not be a beauty in the strictest sense of the word, thought Mr. Manners, but by heaven she was a fine-looking girl!
Euphemia stood before the mirror unabashedly as he fumbled with the four-and-twenty small buttons at the back of her gown. Plying the hairbrush, she said, “Tell Mrs. Henderson to be sure to make as many sweets as possible. If she has none, a trifle—well soaked with wine—should serve. How does your master go on?”
“When I left just now, he was … ah, a trifle indisposed, Miss.”
“The lemons!” exclaimed Euphemia around a mouthful of hairpins. Manners chuckled, and she said, “Poor soul! Well, he’ll feel better for it. Now, tell me. Has Admiral Wetherby any pet subjects?”
“I’ve heard he was devoted to Nelson. And he’s an admirer of a new artist called Constable. One of the few, I think.”
“Thank you.” She coaxed a ringlet over her shoulder. “Now, have you told the old gentleman to come in here?”
“I tried, but … it’s hard to tell him much. I wasn’t able to explain—”
Whatever had not been explained to the Admiral, Euphemia was not then destined to discover, for a querulous voice was raised in the hall, demanding, “Where in the deuce is everyone? Lottie…? Dora…?”
“Doesn’t he know they’re at the rectory?” whispered Euphemia, whipping her hair into place. Manners, wrestling perspiringly with the last two buttons, groaned, “I had no chance to tell him, Miss. He was full of complaints from the moment he alighted from his coach. His man looked— Oh my! He’s coming!”
“Here!” Euphemia swept up her discarded habit and thrust it at him. In desperate haste she flung some perfume behind her ears, slipped the bottle into a pot of ferns, and hissed, “Out the terrace door! Quickly!”
He raced for the curtains, turned back suddenly, drew a fan from his coat pocket, and tossed it to her. Euphemia caught it and, collapsing into the nearest chair, gave a gasp of relief that just as suddenly became a whimper of dismay. She still wore her riding boots!
The hall door swung open. She whipped her feet back and stood, as Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby strolled into the drawing room. He was indeed “a stickler for manners,” for he wore knee breeches and a black jacket. This much she saw before she sank into her curtsey. Straightening, she smiled into eyes as dark and cold as a midwinter night and with a quickening of her pulse knew she faced a formidable adversary. The features of this erect old gentleman were little changed from those in the portrait, only a few lines and the white hair betraying the years that had passed since it was painted. She stood slim and tall before him, unaware that her head was slightly thrown back, as his quizzing glass was lifted and he scanned her with slow deliberation from head to hem. She said nothing, wondering if he suspected her knees were a trifle bent, so as to prevent her confounded boots from showing.
The Admiral was, in fact, thinking that this girl was a cut above Hawk’s usual run of doxies. “How very remiss of my grandson,” he murmured, “to leave so charming a … lady alone.”
“Yes,” she smiled, having noted the deliberate pause. “Is it not? But I shall not rail at him since he has sent so delightful a … gentleman in his stead.”
The quizzing glass, which had begun to lower, checked just a trifle, and the dark eyes sharpened. “Since we are faced with the embarrassment of no host, or hostess, to perform introductions, allow me to—”
“But it is not necessary, my lord.” Seating herself, feet carefully tucked back, Euphemia added, “I know who you are, you see. And I do believe I shall make you guess my identity.”
“Indeed…?” His tone held the barest hint of boredom, but his interest had flared nonetheless. She was a graceful chit, with the poise of a Duchess. Hawk’s taste was most decidedly improved. He took the chair she waved him towards—for all the world as though she presided over this house, the brazen jade!—and his eyes lingered with sardonic amusement on the fan she wielded.
Glancing down, Euphemia saw, too late, that Manners had taken up the ruby-encrusted fan that Papa’s officers had presented to her last year. Her abigail had packed it by mistake, since it was by far too ornate for a country house. She bit her lip in momentary vexation, then continued to fan herself gently.
“I could scarcely have a notion of your identity, ma’am,” he shrugged quellingly. “And that such as yourself could derive any pleasure from chatting to a crusty old sea-dog, I find … questionable.”
“No, but it will be such a change, for you see I am accustomed to chatting with crusty old military men.” Her smile was as sweet, her eyes as level as ever, but amused now, Wetherby suppressed a grin with difficulty. “Military…” he said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You have a father, a brother, on the Peninsula, perhaps?”
“Only a brother now, sir.” Briefly, sorrow touched her eyes, and she stifled a sigh as she thought of her beloved father and a smile at the knowledge of how this interview must have infuriated him.
Manners entered to place the cigarillos and a tinder box at the Admiral’s elbow. “Mr. Hawkhurst had bespoken some wine for Lord Wetherby,” Euphemia lied softly. “You will not forget, Manners?”
“Your pardon, Miss. I will bring it at once.”
“New man, I see,” murmured the Admiral, his longing gaze on the cigar box.
Wondering what he would say if he knew he had just been waited on by the head groom, she evaded, “He is very good, but since your grandson is short-handed tonight, sir, I shall have to ask that you prepare your own cigarillo.”
He glanced up eagerly. “You do not object, ma’am?”
She gave a little trill of laughter. “Lud, no. In Spain, I—” She stopped and bit her lip, as though she’d let the clue slip unintentionally.
“Aha!” he ejaculated in triumph, opening the beautifully inlaid box. “You betrayed yourself, ma’am! You accompanied your Papa, did you? He was an officer, then!”
“Alas, you are too clever for me, my lord.”
He chuckled
and, applying flame to tobacco, puffed contentedly, then, leaning back in his chair, asked, “Are you an … old friend of my grandson?”
“We have been at Dominer not quite two weeks, sir. In point of fact, we were on our way to Bath for the holidays when our carriage overturned, and Mr. Hawkhurst was so kind as to bring us here.”
“How unfortunate. No one injured, I trust?”
“My brother again, a little, poor dear,” she said with total innocence. “And my page became very ill un—”
“And now I have you, ma’am!” Wetherby sprang up with a surprisingly quick, lithe movement. “You are Armstrong Buchanan’s girl! I heard his daughter had titian hair, and that her brother was come home with a ball through his shoulder. I trust Buchanan sustained no severe set-back?” He was bearing down on her even as he spoke, and she lifted her hand saying a rueful, “Oh, my! How very quick you are!” He laughed delightedly and bowed over her fingers. “Forgive me, my dear. I was disgruntled, and supposed you to be—someone else.”
Knowing perfectly well what he had supposed, she smiled, “Of course. I thought perhaps you were a trifle into the hips after a tiresome journey. And my brother is mending so nicely I fear he will be returning to his regiment very soon. For which I have your grandson’s magnificent friend, Dr. Archer, to thank.” The instant the remark passed her lips, she saw his own tighten and, recalling Archer’s hostility, knew it was shared and that she had committed a faux pas. Wetherby said nothing, however, and returned to his chair.
Manners slipped back in with a tray of decanters and glasses. The Admiral glanced at Euphemia, and she shook her head. He sniffed of the bouquet when Manners handed him the glass, sipped, and sighed ecstatically. “Hawkhurst keeps a fine cellar. I give him credit for that, at least.”
“He has been a splendid host, my lord. Indeed, we are most deeply in his debt.”
The old gentleman scanned her thoughtfully. This nice child should not be here. Perhaps she did not know what she risked. “I take it,” he said with slow reluctance, “that you are aware of my grandson’s regrettable reputation, Miss Buchanan?”
“I am, sir. And find it far more regrettable that such wicked slander should be permitted to flourish against so very gallant a gentleman.”
The Admiral all but dropped his cigarillo and practically goggled at her. “Your pardon, ma’am? I had thought we were discussing my grandson—Garret Hawkhurst?”
“Indeed we were. How proud you must be. I am sure my brother will wish to convey his thanks to you also, for, were it not for your grandson, Sir Simon, myself, and my page would all be in our graves today.”
Lord Wetherby, recovering himself with a visible effort, leaned forward. “Dear lady, I see you have much to tell me. Would you be so good as to begin?”
* * *
“I QUITE FAIL to see,” said Amelia Broadbent, with a wrinkle of her pert little nose, “what is so very remarkable about the fact that Stephanie Hawkhurst has had all her pretty hair cut off and has taken to using cosmetics in the most vulgar fashion!” Raising her own carefully darkened brows, she added, “One might suppose the gentlemen to be a bunch of witless schoolboys, the way they scurry around her!”
“And one more remark like that, child,” said her fond parent, smiling upon her fair loveliness with a terrifying expanse of bared teeth, “and you shall be taken home and made to lie down upon your bed with a dose of the elixir prescribed by dear Dr. Beddoes!”
This dire threat sufficed to have Miss Broadbent turn pale and subside behind her fan, albeit sending many a jealous glance at the small crowd gathered around Stephanie in the far corner of the gaily decorated Church Hall.
All evening it had been thus. Upon the arrival of the Hawkhurst party Stephanie had created a near sensation, both ladies and gentlemen pressing in to admire the shy but well-liked girl. There had been a small tussle between Ivor St. Alaban and John Stiles as to which should escort her in to supper. A pointless tussle, since the handsome guest of the Hawkhursts, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan, had claimed that honour. Still, he could not be said to have monopolized his fair prize at the table, and in fact they scarcely exchanged words, each attending politely to the remarks of those about them and paying little heed to one another.
The music struck up, and the young ladies were again overjoyed to note that Sir Simon made no attempt to vie for the pleasure of leading Stephanie through the country dance. Their delight was tempered, however, when the gallant young soldier did not seek any other lady for a partner, instead charming the dowagers and gratifying the gentlemen who sought him out for news of the war. The more mature ladies smiled upon him and extolled his pretty manners. The younger damsels, deciding that he must still be too weakened to dance, thus found him more romantic than ever and sighfully watched him over their fluttering fans.
Stephanie, meanwhile, was torn between triumph and tears. To meet with outright admiration was something entirely new in her experience and could only send her spirits soaring. Yet to be so near the man she loved but not dare to look at him for fear of betraying herself, to long to dance with him and know he would not seek her out, to tremble with the consuming terror that tomorrow, or the next day, he would go away, leaving her life a howling desolation, was to suffer the depths of despair.
Her cousin, leading her from the floor after a country dance, told her with boyish delight that she was become a Toast. “You’re the belle of the evening,” he imparted generously. “Dashed if I ain’t proud of you! Jolly glad Miss Buchanan didn’t come, or you’d have been quite cast into the shade, but you’re made, Stephie. No doubt of it. You can wed whomsoever you choose now, and must be in—” His glowing laudation faded into silence as, with a murmurous apology, Stephanie fled, leaving him staring after her in utter bafflement for an entire five seconds before the coy glance of Miss Broadbent ensnared him.
Snatching up her pelisse, Stephanie hurried outside through a rear door and wandered towards the rectory. The night air was bracing, and in a minute or two she dried her tears, told herself sternly that she simply could not go through life in such sodden fashion, and trod down the narrow side steps into the vicar’s pleasant garden. A dog barked hysterically somewhere close by, and she was startled when a small shape whisked through a cluster of poles from which untrimmed chrysanthemums still drooped, crashed into the glass frame of a potting shed, and lay in a still and shapeless huddle.
With a cry of sympathy, she ran to kneel beside the little creature, heedless of the dirt that soiled her new dress, or the icy hardness of the ground against her knees. The rabbit was inanimate to her touch, and she gathered it up and held it tenderly, murmuring her distress.
Lord Coleridge had not been the only person to note Stephanie’s abrupt departure from the Hall. Young Ivor St. Alaban’s eyes lit up as he watched her slip away, and, running a hand through his curly locks and straightening his garishly striped waistcoat, he followed. He had known Stephie Hawkhurst all his life and thought of her as a jolly good girl, shy and quiet, but always willing to make up a group if the numbers were not just right and never one to pout was she left out. Not until tonight, however, had he thought of her as a dashed pretty creature. All the other fellows had noticed her too, more was the pity, but they’d not been as alert as he, fortunately. He had to delay a moment while he sought out his frieze greatcoat, for he was susceptible to the cold and had no wish for his teeth to chatter while he flirted with the girl. At last, however, he stood on the rear terrace, peering about. Stephie was heiress to a considerable fortune, and did he play his cards right—
“St. Alaban, isn’t it?”
The cool words brought him spinning around, his youthful face reddening. There could be no mistaking that erect form, nor the proud tilt of the sandy head. “Y-Yes, sir,” he stammered. Buchanan had not stayed for a coat. Was he guarding the chit for her brother? Good God! In his enthusiasm he had completely overlooked the hovering menace constituted by so notorious a duellist, a man said to be equally deadly with
sword or pistol! He’d best tread softly, for Hawkhurst would kill the man who interfered with his sister as soon as look at him!
“Come out for a breath of air?” asked Buchanan mildly.
“That’s r-right. Beastly hot inside, y’know.”
“You do look rather flushed. That’s the trouble with these gatherings. One tends to become easily … overheated.”
Wishing the ground might open and swallow him, St. Alaban nodded, gulped something incoherent, and beat a hasty retreat into the house, watched by a pair of amused blue eyes.
The boy, thought Buchanan, had pursued his quarry with all the grace of a wild boar. Harmless, probably, but there might be others. He began to wander across the lawn. Stephanie was so innocent and had no knowledge of her charm, which was perhaps her greatest charm. It simply would not occur to her that any man might desire her. He smiled wryly—least of all, a married man with three hopeful children! How shocked that pure-souled girl would be did she guess how he had come to regard her. He’d not realized himself at first what was happening. He’d thought her very kind and gentle, and somehow, so easily, he’d begun to add to her merits: her soft, sweet voice, her lilting little laugh and merry humour, her devotion to her family, her unceasing willingness to help Kent with his drawing, or point out birds and plants to him in the gardens. Never a sign of temper or impatience. He sighed. How blessed the man who would win her. And how different his own life might have been, had he found her first. But there was no use repining. He had ruined his life and found his true love too late. He had these few days, at least. He could store up some precious moments against the dark emptiness of the years to come …
He had reached the steps leading down into the rectory garden and at first thought Stephanie must have gone into the house. And then he saw her. She had fallen! His heart leapt into his throat, and, frantic, he ran to her.
“Stephie! My God! Are you hurt?”
The familiar voice sent arrows through Stephanie’s heart. The terror in that same voice made her tremble with foolish hope. She looked up into the so-loved face bent anxiously above her and said with more pathos than she knew, “Poor little bunny. A dog was chasing it, I think, and I fear it has killed itself. See…” She held the little shape up, sadly. “Is it not the dearest thing?”
Some Brief Folly Page 18
