Once in the hall, the child asked, “Do you like all that din, sir?” Hawkhurst beckoned to a hovering lackey and evaded this rudeness by pointing out that many people were fond of singing. “Well, I’m not!” his charge said bluntly. “I think it awful stuff. I did not want to come here, and I don’t like it. I want something to eat. Do they not got food in this fudsy old place?”
Hawkhurst surveyed the little darling without rapture and instructed the lackey to “Take this upstairs, and thence to the kitchen where it may vex Mrs. Henderson. And convey to her my apologies—and thanks.”
Not unaware he had been dealt with in a disparaging fashion, Master Frittenden opened his mouth to retort, encountered a minatory stare, and thought better of it. The lackey bowed, pierced Master Frittenden with a revolted eye, and ushered him towards the stairs.
Hawkhurst turned to find Ponsonby at his elbow, enquiring if everything was proceeding satisfactorily. “Unfortunately,” sighed the master of the house. “I wonder how the deuce my aunt got so many of ’em to brave my lair.”
“Perhaps Lord Wetherby took a hand, sir,” said the butler woodenly. “He appears eager for the local people to meet the … er, Buchanans.”
Hawkhurst bent a thoughtful gaze on his devoted retainer, had the satisfaction of seeing the butler’s cheeks redden, and advised him that he might be about his business. Somewhat flustered, Ponsonby bowed and departed.
Hawkhurst was about to return to the apparently expiring Miss Broadbent when he discerned a movement amongst the dimness that screened Adonis. A faint quirk tugged at his lips. “Kent?” The movement ceased. “Kent!” he repeated. The boy crawled from his place of concealment and came forward, head down and steps dragging, and, having stopped before the tall man, waited. “Do you like music?” asked Hawkhurst. The small fair head nodded, the eyes flashed up shyly, then were lowered again. Hawkhurst extended an inviting hand. Kent looked from it to the smiling face above him, then drew back. “I am telling you that it is permitted,” said Hawkhurst quietly, “if you behave.” Kent looked up again and, mindful of the gentle cautioning of his goddess against pushing himself, backed away and shook his head. Hawkhurst frowned, and at once a scared expression crept into the thin face, the right arm began to lift protectively. “Do … not … dare…” breathed Hawkhurst. The arm was lowered. A whimsical grin suddenly illumined Kent’s features, and he ran to clutch the man’s hand with both his own, head thrown back, and that soundless laugh as clear as though it echoed through the hall. Hawkhurst chuckled and rumpled the thick, straight hair, then took the boy quietly into the music room and installed him in a vacant chair, half hidden under a potted palm near the door.
After an excruciating interval, a hearty burst of applause heralded the termination of Amelia’s offerings. Carlotta stood to announce that, “We simply must call dear Miss Broadbent back again later. And now, Miss Buchanan has agreed to sing some songs for us that she learned whilst on the Peninsula with her late Papa, Colonel Sir Armstrong Buchanan.”
A pleased murmur rippled from the captives. Hawkhurst’s brows shot up, and he darted an incredulous glance to his grandfather. The Admiral, eyes a’dance, winked. Buchanan escorted his sister to the pianoforte. She seated herself, and her smile flickered around the hopeful audience and lingered for an extra few seconds on Hawkhurst before she began to play. Watching her, he was enchanted, yet could not but be conscious of the stifling heat. Several of the ladies were fanning themselves, and he saw the Reverend Dunning furtively raise a handkerchief to his sweating brow. Euphemia sang three short songs and concluded her performance to the accompaniment of a veritable roar of applause. This time Hawkhurst was at her side before his aunt’s rather tardy approach and bent to murmur, “I was disappointed. I thought it would be the ditty you performed for us last evening.”
“Odious man,” she murmured with her sweetest smile. “I shall save that for the second half of our programme.”
“There’s more?” He groaned through his own smile as he led her towards the advance of her admirers, and, when the crowd closed about her, he went on to open one of the terrace doors slightly.
* * *
“CONSIDERING your brother is so universally despised…” murmured Euphemia, watching the guests mingle amiably about the buffet table in the drawing room.
“Not by his own people,” said Stephanie. “They have known him all their lives. And they knew Blanche. Still, had this party been in Town, I doubt one of them would have come.”
Euphemia’s eyes had turned again to Hawkhurst’s dark head, clearly visible above the throng, and, watching her, Stephanie saw the softness come into her face and touched her elbow timidly. “Mia, you rather like Gary, don’t you.”
It was a statement rather than a question. Euphemia met that anxious regard and said in her forthright way, “If I should be so fortunate as to win an offer, should you object, my dear?”
The big eyes blurred with tears. For a moment an embrace appeared imminent, then Stephanie said a choked, “You cannot know how this … eases my mind. If I can think he has found his own happiness, I—it would not be—”
A crash followed by a small scream terminated her incoherence. Hawkhurst exchanged an alarmed glance with Coleridge, and both men ran to the music room.
Mrs. Hughes-Dering, seated amid a circle of sycophants while awaiting suitable refreshments to be carried to her, was stroking the head of a large and unlovely late-comer. Coleridge uttered a yelp. Hawkhurst swore under his breath. “Such a dear doggy!” gushed the grande dame. “He did not mean to knock over the silly table, did you, precious? Hawkhurst, I’d no idea you were a dog man.”
“Logical enough, ma’am,” he gritted. “Since I am not. Not with respect to that filthy mongrel, at all events.” He advanced threateningly.
Assured that powerful forces were backing him, Sampson lolled his tongue and laughed confidently.
“What are you going to do?” demanded the dowager in shrill indignation.
“Put him out. At the very least!”
“Do not dare hurt the poor puppy!” Mrs. Hughes-Dering bowed forward, flung out her arms, and crushed the head of the “filthy mongrel” to her vast bosom.
“Er, Hawk…” Coleridge tugged uneasily at his cousin’s sleeve.
Hawkhurst looked up. He was encircled by outraged faunophiles. Fuming, he rasped, “I warn you, ma’am, does that brute stay in here—”
“If he goes,” said Mrs. Hughes-Dering regally, “then I go, sir!”
A glint of unholy joy lit Hawkhurst’s eyes. But at the side of the room, his Aunt Carlotta, pale and horrified, was tearing her handkerchief to shreds. He sighed, bowed, and checked as his nostrils were assailed by a fragrance very different from the ghastly concoction Dora affected, but in its way as offensive since it was all but overpowering in its intensity. Master Frittenden stood beside him, the picture of cherubic innocence. And reeking.
“Good gracious!” gasped Mrs. Hughes-Dering, clapping handkerchief to nostrils. “What is it?”
“Some scent I found,” said the boy. “They keep it in the plants in this funny old place. Would you like some, ma’am?” His hand shot out, replete with unstoppered bottle. Eau de Desiree splashed. In the nick of time, Hawkhurst intervened, and the bottle was diverted from its dastardly path. “I would suggest to you, my lad,” he murmured, soft but grim, “that you go and wash yourself.”
“Well, I will not!” glowered Master Frittenden. “And that was mine! Finders keepers!”
Hawkhurst, his palms itching, glanced to the boy’s Grandmama and wondered how close a friend she was to Carlotta.
“Eustace!” cooed the lady. “Come. We will go home, for you are tired, sweet angel.”
The “sweet angel” turned and, beholding Sampson’s tail, moved his shoe purposefully. A strong hand clamped upon his shoulder. “Not in this house,” warned Hawkhurst, very low.
“You do not like dogs,” hissed the boy indignantly. “I heard you say—”
&nb
sp; “He is not a dog, he is a pest. I remove pests, but I do not suffer them to be trampled. Even by so charming a lad as yourself.” And Eustace was firmly propelled to his grandmother.
“Horrid little savage!” observed Mrs. Hughes-Dering in a stage whisper.
“Why should I have to go?” shrieked Eustace, reversing his stand. “They let a servant boy come in here with the Quality! Why should I be made to leave?”
Hawkhurst scowled his irritation, but Kent slipped from his chair to back against the wall, his scared gaze whipping around the circle of surprised eyes.
“He ain’t a servant!” flashed Bryce indignantly.
“Don’t dignify it by arguing with the brat!” muttered Hawkhurst, irked.
“He’s the red-haired lady’s page,” yowled Eustace, one ear now firmly in his Grandmama’s grip. “I know! The lackey told me! It’s not fair!”
“I’d fair the little monster!” rumbled the Admiral.
Hawkhurst stepped over the sprawled mound of Sampson and went towards Kent. He all but collided with Mrs. Frittenden, who stopped abruptly as she dragged her recalcitrant grandson from the room. For an instant she stared down at the cringing page, then she marched onward, Eustace’s howls fading as the door was closed behind her.
People began to settle into their seats, and some inspired soul was pounding out a rousing military march. Hawkhurst occupied the chair Kent had vacated, pulled another beside him, pointed the boy into it with the jab of one not-to-be-argued-with finger, and prepared to endure the balance of the Musicale. It was destined to be a far shorter balance than he anticipated.
Euphemia was the saviour at the pianoforte and, their spirits lightened by enjoyment of the preceding little fiasco, the stirring music, the bountiful buffet, and the festive bowls, the guests were now in a very jolly mood. Regrettably, the uninvited guest caught the spirit of the occasion. He heaved himself to his feet and, impervious to the suspicious scrutiny of his reluctant host, began to lump around the room, bestowing his head upon various knees and waiting patiently for it to be caressed. Euphemia, finishing her piece, gave way to Miss Broadbent. Hawkhurst nerved himself.
Whether the lady’s first piercing note offended Sampson, or whether he also decided to make a contribution, who shall say? Certainly he jumped when the first high C was so nearly missed. Wandering back to his protectress, he began to sniff interestedly about her voluminous skirts. Hawkhurst, whose gaze had followed Euphemia, saw shock in her eyes as they flashed him a warning. It was too late. By the time he turned his head, Mrs. Hughes-Dering was vying with Miss Broadbent. The twin shrieks were warning enough for Sampson. He ceased his depredations, shot across the room, and left through the same slightly open terrace door by which he had effected his entrance.
* * *
IT WAS CLOSE to two o’clock. The last of the guests had long since gone, family and friends had retired, and the lackeys were moving softly about the great house, extinguishing candles. Hawkhurst, standing on the terrace, gazed unseeingly at the drifting wreaths of fog that were gradually obscuring the moon, and sighed deeply.
“I wonder,” snorted the Admiral from behind him, “you can stand here blithely relaxing, after so infamous an affair!”
Turning to him, a smile lighting his eyes, Hawkhurst said, “A harsh judgment, sir, after Colley and Buck and I chased the misbegotten hound half-way back to Chant House.”
“Yes, and whooping with mirth every step,” grinned the Admiral. “You made your escape and left me the most unenviable task!”
They both burst into laughter. How long it had been, thought Hawkhurst gratefully, since they had enjoyed such a rapport. “My poor Aunt Carlotta! I only pray she will not remember her fall from grace, in the morning! When we returned, and I heard her recounting that barracks-room story of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the opera dancer, I vow I could scarce believe my ears!”
“It’s … it’s a damned good thing…” the Admiral gasped, wiping his eyes, “you come when you did and intervened before the end of that story! I confess I was quite paralyzed!”
“No more than poor Carlotta,” chuckled Hawkhurst. “And I thought Dora would faint! I’ve not yet been able to come at how it happened, sir. Did old Parsley accidentally give Dora’s Madeira to Aunt Carlotta?”
“No, no. Everyone was fussing around Monica Hughes-Dering, and poor Lottie was so shattered, she snatched up the nearest glass and gulped down the contents!” He lapsed into another shout of laughter and went on breathlessly, “The blasted glass was … full! Blister me, if I ever saw a woman change so! One thing, the Hughes-Dering woman was so diverted she … she quite forgot her own … disaster. Lord! What a night! Haven’t laughed so much in years, nor was I the only one! Your aunt’s Musicale will go down in history, my boy!” Hawkhurst groaned, and the Admiral added, “Never did dream when I left Town I should so enjoy myself. Between my little Stephanie blossoming so, and this infamous party, and that purely delicious Buchanan girl.” His eyes very keen, he said, “Speaking of whom, what d’ye intend to do?”
How like the old gentleman to attack when he was completely off guard! Gathering his forces, Hawkhurst put up his brows and said mildly, “Sir…?”
“Don’t fence with me, boy! You know what I mean. She’s one in a million. Not many men get such a second chance. Though she’s totally different to—to Blanche.”
Hawkhurst turned his face a little away. “Yes. She most assuredly is.”
“Have you approached her brother?”
“No, sir.”
“If you do not, you’re a damned fool! And do not tell me she’s averse to you. Last evening she charmed me into telling her of my friendship with Nelson, and chattered so knowledgeably of Constable’s genius I nigh forgot how curst furious I was with my clod of a grandson. By heaven! Were I only thirty years younger, I’d give you a run for your money, and so I tell you!”
Her cloak gathered about her, Euphemia paused in the doorway and drew back into the darkened library. She had hoped for a moment alone with Hawkhurst, but the Admiral’s words had reached her ears, and she waited, listening hopefully.
“I … think not, sir,” smiled Hawkhurst. “And it is very cold. Perhaps—”
“What in the name of thunder d’you mean?” demanded Wetherby, with a swift resurgence of the anger that had been banished by the day’s events. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I was not shunned by the fair sex in m’youth! I may not have won myself the notoriety you’ve managed to achieve but, if you fancy yourself able to have outshone me in my prime, I’ll be—”
“I had no such thought, sir,” Hawkhurst put in quietly. “I merely meant that I would not have vied with you for the lady. I have no wish to remarry. Now—or ever.”
Euphemia experienced a sudden chill that came from neither frost nor fog but did not retreat.
The Admiral barked, “Why?”
“Once was enough.”
“What nonsense talk is that? You’ve an obligation to your name and to all who have carried the names of Thorndyke and Hawkhurst before you! You must have an heir!”
“Coleridge is my heir, sir.”
“That popinjay? Good God! Did you see those damnable shirt points? And the way he was mooning over the Broadbent girl this afternoon? And her fairly slathering for young Buchanan, the hussy!”
“Sir,” said Hawkhurst patiently, “Colley is—”
“Oh, the devil fly away with Colley!” The old gentleman took another pace towards his grandson and, with hands tight-clasped behind him, growled, “On the day you wed Euphemia Buchanan, I will abandon my plans to have the management of your estates taken from you.”
In the shadows, Euphemia gave a little gasp.
Hawkhurst said slowly, “That day will never dawn, sir.”
“I may be growing old,” rasped the Admiral. “But I am not quite blind as yet. I saw the way you looked at her on the stairs this morning. Aye, and at that fiasco this afternoon. You’re fairly crazy for the girl!”
/> Hawkhurst was very still through a short pause. Then, “Very well, sir,” he drawled. “Since you force the issue, I find the lady most attractive. But not as my wife.”
“What? Now damn your eyes! Have you the unmitigated gall to expect that poised, charming, delightful lady of quality will become another of your harem of lightskirts?”
“Not if she don’t want to, of course. But you’ll certainly not blame me for asking—”
“B-b-blame … you?” sputtered Wetherby. “Blame you, sir? Were I her brother and you dared to speak to her in such dastardly fashion— I’d not blame you! By God, I’d have your miserable heart out! You are a rogue is what you are! An unmitigated rogue! A womanizing gamester, sir! Well, I’m done with you! I leave here first thing in the morning!” He started away, then swung back, so suddenly that he almost surprised the wistfulness in his grandson’s eyes. “And, furthermore,” he raged, shaking his fist under Hawkhurst’s firm chin, “when Sir Simon calls you out—as I hope to heaven he does!—I’ll be more than half minded to act as his second! Goodnight, sir! And do you have the dreams you deserve, you’ll not sleep an instant!” He stamped into the house, fairly snorting his wrath. And left behind him a man who smiled sadly at the last rather jumbled denunciation, then stood with head bowed, heedless of the cold and the mists that drifted in ever deepening clouds about him.
It was several minutes before Hawkhurst detected something sweeter than the clammy scent of the fog, so that the hand which rested upon the balustrade tightened spasmodically. “You are up late, ma’am,” he observed, not turning towards her.
Euphemia stepped a little closer. “The terrace doors were open.” She saw him tense and went on, “I overheard your conversation with Lord Wetherby.”
Hawkhurst was silent.
“Well,” she said. “I am waiting.”
He glanced at her. The hood of her pelisse framed her face with the richness of ermine. Even in the darkness he could see the wide fearless eyes, the intrepid tilt of the chin, and he echoed blankly, “Waiting…?”
Some Brief Folly Page 23
