Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “What did this ‘extreme handsome fellow’ look like?” he hissed, taking her wrist in an iron grip. “Had he dark, curling—” His gaze shifted past her. He pulled himself together, released his hold, and snapped out an irked, “Well?”

  With a murmur of apology, Bailey proffered a letter. “I’d not have brought it down, sir, only I chanced to discover it in the pocket of your green jacket and thought it might be important.”

  Hawkhurst took it, frowned at the superscription, and muttered, “Oh, yes. Ponsonby gave it me last evening. I’d forgot it, I’m afraid.”

  “It does say ‘Urgent,’” the valet murmured. “Rather blurred, but see there, sir.”

  Hawkhurst peered. “Is that what that is … Oh, well. Thank you, Bailey.”

  The valet bowed and trod his stately way from the premises, gesturing sharply so that Manners and the groom at once followed.

  Hawkhurst broke the seal of his letter and, returning his gaze to Euphemia, said grimly, “You were telling me of this weapon, Mia.”

  Dare she tell him? Should she tell him? It would most assuredly precipitate a duel, and she knew wretchedly that she not only feared for her love but dreaded the thought of Max Gains lying dead at his feet. Her intuitive belief that Gains had not pulled the trigger persisted, but she knew that intuition is not infallible. She would discuss it with Simon; he would know what to do. She put a hand to her temple and murmured, “I wish I could be of more help, but I cannot quite recall.”

  He frowned, but murmured, “By your leave, ma’am,” and began to read his letter. The result was electrifying: his face convulsed as though he had been stabbed. “No!” he groaned. “Oh, God! No!” And he bowed forward, shoulders hunched, and clenched fists beating in maddened frustration at the workbench.

  Heart in her throat, Euphemia cried frantically, “Whatever is it?”

  He pulled away from the hand she placed upon his sleeve, cast her a look of wild-eyed despair, and, with a sound between groan and sob, ran past her and into the rolling fog.

  Distraught, she stared after him. A scrap of paper must have been torn from the letter by his violence and lay at her feet. She snatched it up and read the words that had been penned in so neat a hand:

  Euphemia moaned in fear and bewilderment. However confusing the fragment, one thing was clear. Hawk had gone to meet someone, someone who had the power to command his instant obedience. A creditor perhaps…? Then, with sinking heart, she remembered that Lord Gains’ first name was Maximilian. And Gains’ rifle had been used against Hawk only three days ago! If her judgment had been wrong and Gains had sent the letter, then Hawk may have gone to meet a man who wanted him dead! And he had gone unarmed! Terror stricken, she started for the house. But the letter had stressed “come alone…” She paused, torn by indecision. Whatever the threat that was held over him, it must be frightful indeed to so torment that strong man as to bring tears to his eyes.

  Even so, no matter what the note had said, he must not walk to his death alone! She picked up the Manton and ran wildly in the direction Hawkhurst had taken.

  * * *

  HALF AN HOUR later, chilled to the bone, feet in their thin-soled velvet half-boots bruised and aching, hair straggling down her forehead in wet strands, nose and ears blue with cold, Euphemia had failed to find Hawkhurst, and knew herself hopelessly lost. At first she had thought to hear him ahead of her, but each time, however recklessly she ran, she had met only the ghostly trees, their mournful dripping the one small sound to disturb the smothering silence. Now, once again she heard a sudden crackling, as of someone striding through bracken. It might be an animal, of course, but she dared not call, for God forbid she should alert his enemy. She pressed on in the direction of that brief sound, her eyes peering through the white clouds, her ears straining. If only it were not so cold. Shivering, she went on, until she seemed to have been walking for hours, and for all she could tell might have turned completely around!

  But, no! Someone was close now … A sudden heavy breathing to her right … The fog eddied, and a dark shape loomed up, dim and monstrous. She stood there, shaking with terror. A deep, bellowing “mooo-ooo…” rang out, and she could distinguish great gentle eyes and short horns. Her laugh was slightly hysterical, and her knees were shaking so that she could scarce continue. What in the world was a cow doing so far from the Home Farm? Or was she on the Home Farm? She started off again, her eyes becoming round with excitement. When Leith had taken her to the hilltop ruins, he’d said they were part of Hawk’s Home Farm, and that they’d often come here as boys. The ruins, then, might well be the “favourite retreat” mentioned in the letter! And Gains would certainly be aware of it! She tightened her grip on the gun and hastened on.

  A wild shout came from somewhere ahead—a shocked, jerking cry, smothering to a groan, and silence. Euphemia halted, her thundering heart choking her. Then she began to run, calling, “Hawk? Where are you? Hawk?”

  But there was no further sound, and in the reckless speed of her going she stumbled, fell, and rolled helplessly down a slope, to fetch up at the foot with a thump that knocked the breath from her. Gasping, she lay there for a moment or two, but then struggled to her knees and groped about for the gun. It was a miracle it had not discharged when she fell. And only then did she think, If it is loaded! “Idiot!” she raged, “stupid imbecile!” But she sought for it, clambering about on her hands and knees until at last she found it.

  Sighing with relief, she stood and looked around her. The fog was even thicker in this hollow, pressing in so that she seemed swallowed up in a white and soundless sea. And she had lost her sense of direction entirely! She had no slightest notion of whence had come that despairing cry! Hawk could be lying somewhere—dying! And to attempt to find him might be to in fact walk away! She would fire the gun! She stopped long enough to assure herself that the Manton was indeed loaded, but again was daunted by the realization that, if a would-be murderer was nearby, she might need the shot.

  “Hawk!” she cried desperately. And then, in a near scream, “Where are you?”

  “Here! Up here.”

  The voice sounded breathless and was muffled with distance, but she could have wept for joy. He was alive! And she knew now which way to go.

  She struggled on and, coming to a hill, clambered upward, heedless of cold, or aching feet, or her ripped, muddy gown, or anything but her need to reach him. At last a glooming bulk rose before her. It was the ancient wall on which dear Tristram had spread his handkerchief for her and dimly, beyond it, soared the great moss-and-ivy-covered tower. She put one hand on the wall and leaned there briefly, her eyes straining to pierce the mists, while she fought to catch her breath. Her call went unanswered, and she began to search the outer ruins, but there was no sign of him. He must be here! He must! But he was not, and reluctantly, she lifted her eyes to the last hope, the place Leith had said he always retreated to when he craved solitude. There would be no superb view today. Surely he would not have gone up there? “Hawk…?” she cried tremulously. “Are you up on the tower?”

  For a moment there was no sound, then the answer came, faint and uneven—and from high above her. “Is that you … Mia?”

  He was on the top! Good God! she thought, I cannot climb up there! But she called, “Yes. Darling, are you all right? Can you come down?”

  “I fear not. Don’t try to come up here. Please. Go and … get help.”

  His voice sounded weak. Her heart twisting, she fairly flew to the tower. It looked dark and crawly inside, but through the gap in the thick rock walls she could dimly discern rough steps leading upward. She clambered through, trying not to think of spiders and bats and other terrifying beasts. The rock stairs were narrow and very deep and wound precariously around the walls to the roof, far above. There was no railing, and at her very first step she almost fell, for the surface was slippery and treacherous from the dampness. Hawkhurst must have heard her frightened gasp, for his voice came at once, sharp with anxiety. “Mia! Do
not … come! For God’s sake! It’s too dangerous! Mia … don’t!”

  The words were choked off. She thought she heard a smothered moan and, forgetting all about spiders or bats, fought only not to slip. Soon she was at least thirty feet from the littered floor. Her knees shaking, she concentrated fixedly on just the step ahead, not daring to look down, knowing that to fall onto that pile of rock and rubble would be sure death.

  She could see daylight above her now and fog writhing down through a crumbling aperture. At first she thought the distance between the final step and the roof would prove insurmountable, but there was a hole in the wall, and, by reaching up and pushing the gun onto the flat roof, she was enabled to grip the edge, put one foot in the hole, and pull herself to the opening. Her wriggling clamber through was not the most graceful act she had ever accomplished, and her skirt, being narrow in the prevailing slim style, promptly ripped, but at last, somehow, she was up and sitting on the edge.

  She was on a wide, platform-like structure that in centuries past had certainly been a lookout. The tower, perched as it was at the brink of the hill, must be very high. There were mounds here and there around the edge that might once have been battlements, but, as to a view, she could discern only a billowing sea of fog and still no sign of Hawk’s tall figure.

  And then she saw him, and her blood seemed turned to ice. He lay sprawled on his side at the very edge of the roof, one arm clinging to the battered remnants of a turret, the other propping himself amongst the ivy. His white face was turned towards her, and she saw a frantic anxiety in his eyes as she started for him.

  “Careful!” he called hoarsely. “There are unsafe places. No, no! To the right! Wretched girl, I … I told you not to come up!”

  “Foolish man!” Her eyes alternately seeking safe footing and flashing to him, she asked, “Did you fall, love?” She trod carefully around a hole and was beside him at last, her eyes scanning him for some sign of a wound.

  “I’m afraid,” he said with a wry smile, “I rather … put my foot in it.”

  Euphemia followed the direction of his nod and gave a sob of horror.

  His right leg was caught between knee and ankle by a device half concealed in the ivy—an animal trap, the twin rows of steel teeth deeply sunk into the leather of his top boot, the jaws extending some six inches to either side.

  “My dear God!” she gasped, sinking to her knees beside him. “What is it?”

  His voice thready, he answered, “I think it’s known as a ‘bear tamer.’ I’ll admit, it has … tamed me!”

  She touched the heavy steel, saw blood seeping through those wicked teeth, and fought panic. “Is your leg broken, do you think?”

  “If it is not, it sure as the devil … feels like it. Can you get the damnable thing open? I’ve tried, but … cannot quite manage it.”

  Exploring desperately, she said, “There doesn’t seem to be any kind of lever.”

  “How clever of him. See if you can force it. Have you a knife? Lord! What a stupid question! Perhaps … did you hit the spring there, with a rock.”

  “Oh, Hawk!” She scanned his sweating face in anguish. “It would kill you!”

  “Devil, it would!” Incredibly, he managed a strained grin. “But … it isn’t all that comfortable, so … try, if you please.”

  She must try! Heaven knows she’d seen wounds on the battlefield—terrible wounds. But they’d not been on the man she loved. She nerved herself and gripped the steel jaws, wrenching at them with all her might, but to no avail. Her hands came away wet with blood, and, blinking through tears, she saw that Hawkhurst’s head was turned away, his fists tight-clenched on the ivy.

  “No … use,” he said unsteadily. “Help me to sit up, can you, Mia?”

  She put her arms about him, not daring to look at the dizzying drop that was scant inches away. A shudder went through him, and she heard a choking gasp, but at last he was half-sitting, half-lying against her and muttering, “Good girl. Now, let’s have a look … here.”

  She took out her handkerchief and wiped his wet face, and he kissed her hand gratefully. “What a rare creature you are. Please do not be too frightened. I’m not likely to die from … this nonsense, you know.” He bent forward, peering at his leg. “Egad! Bled all over the place. What a nuisance. I wonder you didn’t faint. Ladies … always…” He had seized the spring as he spoke and, with a mighty effort, heaved at it. Mia, her lips trembling, gripped it also, but their combined strength could not prevail against that heavy coil of steel, and she grabbed for Hawkhurst frantically as he sagged.

  He lay lax against her, and she pulled him back from the edge, his total helplessness terrifying her. In only seconds, his long lashes fluttered, comprehension returned to his eyes, and he said ruefully, “Well, that was stupid. Poor girl, I’m a fine hero!”

  She pressed a kiss upon his pale brow. “You are splendid, Gary. But I must go and get help.”

  “Doubt you could find your way … in this murk. Come now, we’re two sensible people. Mustn’t let a stupid piece of steel … beat us. If only we’d something to use as a lever.”

  “The gun! I brought Max Gains’ Manton. I can—”

  His hand clamped over her wrist as she started up, and despite his hurt his grip was still strong. “Whose Manton?”

  Her heart jumped. How could she have been so thoughtless? “Never mind! There’s no time for that now!”

  He released her and watched narrowly, instructing her as she picked her cautious way over the ancient roof to where she had laid the gun. Returning, she asked eagerly, “Can I shoot it open? I’m a good shot. I had to be, in Spain! Just tell me where to aim, and—”

  “There is an old Chinese saying,” he said, smiling, but gripping his leg painfully. “Dora says it … all the time. ‘She who shoot gun at steel trap … liable to find bullet twixt teeth!’”

  “Ricochet.” Her shoulders slumped. “Of course. I should have known. Garret, you’re bleeding quite dreadfully. Shall I try a tourniquet?”

  “Yes. But, please, let’s first have another try at my blasted … fetter. If you can slip the barrel of the Manton through the jaws and pull down, I can kick at the other side. If we can get the jaws just a little apart, they might spring open. See if it will go through.” Obeying, Euphemia strove cautiously and at last succeeded in forcing the steel barrel through the slightly parted teeth beside his leg.

  Hawkhurst gave a breathless exclamation of triumph. “Now…” He put his left boot heel against the far teeth. “On the count of three, I’ll push this side as hard as I can, whilst you pull down with the Manton. Only, you must pull very hard, my sweet. No matter how I swear.”

  She trembled, but nodded, and gripped the gun butt.

  “One … two … three!”

  With all her might, she pulled, trying not to think of those teeth deep-sunk into his flesh. It wasn’t giving. It wasn’t moving by a fraction of an inch. And … how could the brave soul endure it?

  A sudden ringing clang. A deep groan from Hawkhurst, and he was rolling to the side, to lie face down and limp, but his leg was clear at last of those murderous jaws.

  Euphemia dropped the rifle and knelt beside him, stroking his tumbled hair, her tears overflowing. For a few seconds he kept his face hidden, but at last one shaking hand reached up feebly to seize her caressing fingers and draw them to his lips.

  “My brave love,” she gulped. “I must bind your leg. Can you turn?”

  He struggled up almost immediately. He was panting, his face drawn, his eyes full of pain, but he asked irrepressibly, “Shall I be … allowed to watch you … tear your petticoat?”

  Euphemia wiped away her tears and sniffed, “You’ve earned it, dear one.” Her petticoat was already torn, and with ruthless hands she was able to rip the flounce away. She handed him the strip, then gingerly explored the crushed boot, cringing as she found that the leather had been driven deep into the wounds. She glanced up at him, and he smiled encouragement. Not a whimper esc
aped him as she gently pulled the torn boot away, and rolled back the saturated edges of his breeches. The cuts were deep and ugly, the shin bone laid bare, and the calf pulsing blood. Struggling against a sick weakness, she said, “Will you try to move your foot, dearest?”

  “Fiend…!” he gasped but set his jaw, and she saw his foot move slightly.

  “Then the bone is not broken! The boot must come off, though. I shall have to pull it, I’m afraid, Gary.”

  “Do so,” he warned between gritted teeth, “and I shall very likely strangle you! Just—just tie it up, if you … please, Mia.”

  “Very well.” She took up the flounce and tore it in two. “Have you a pencil?”

  He groped in his pocket and essayed a twitching grin. “Do you intend to draw up a plan?”

  “My plans,” she said gently, “are already made, sir, and so I warn you.”

  His strained smile faded, and he handed her a pencil. She put it behind her ear, and bandaged the wounds tightly, but crimson began to seep through at once. She tied the remaining strip of her petticoat a little below his knee, fashioned a loose knot, and thrust the pencil through it, as the surgeons had taught her in Spain. She was striving desperately to be cool and efficient, as she had been in the old days, but this was her love, and, glancing up at him, she was almost undone. His eyes were blank, but he looked exhausted, his face streaked with perspiration and a bluish tinge about his mouth that she had seen often among the wounded.

  “I’m … prepared,” he nodded. “Do your worst, madam.”

  Still she hesitated, dreading to hurt him again. Once more that quirkish grin gleamed valiantly, while his voice came like a steadying support through her fears. “You are very brave, if I have neglected to say so.”