Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  The Constable’s enlightenment was delayed, however. Lady Bryce attempted to lift her glass and let out a cry of vexation when she was unable to do so. There was, it appeared, a crack in Dora’s pot of glue. Considerable consternation ensued. Ponsonby and two maids were summoned to rectify the situation, not benefitting from the acid suggestions of Lord Wetherby and Colley’s barely contained hilarity.

  At length, however, the glass was pried from the table and the gluepot set onto an old chipped saucer. Scarlet with mortification, Dora crept to the rear of the room, and Coleridge sauntered over to help with the paper chain while engaging her in a whispered conversation.

  Constable Littlejohn, who had watched the upheaval with a reinforcing of his convictions that most of the Quality were short of a sheet, resumed his questioning. Hawkhurst’s lazy drawl was non-commital. He told Littlejohn that he had walked to the tower because “it was too foggy to ride,” which infuriated his grandparent as much as it satisfied the good Constable. The rest of his answers were as asinine, but Littlejohn took them all down as though they were pearls of wisdom. Aware that the Admiral was becoming apoplectic, Coleridge concealed his own mirth sufficiently to enquire if the minion of the law would care to see the bear tamer. It transpired that Littlejohn would very much like to see both the “murder wepping” and the glass of home-brewed that was cunningly offered. Bryce led him off and, with a conspiratorial grin at his cousin, closed the door.

  “And now,” gritted the Admiral, stalking over to frown down at his grandson, “before that cloth-headed gapeseed comes back, let us have some plain speaking, sir! I’ve been chatting with your grooms, and I hear this is not the first time an attempt has been made on your life. Why was I not told? It was not Gains! For all his justification he’d not resort to such loathly means and is no coward, so do not hand me that farradiddle! I put it to you, Hawkhurst, that I mean to track down this villain, if I must call in Bow Street to do it! In fact, I think I shall send a man off to Town in the morning for that—”

  “No, sir!” Hawkhurst sat up very fast, winced sharply, clutched his knee, and subsided, as Kent ran to pat his shoulder comfortingly.

  “By Jupiter!” ejaculated Buchanan, wandering in and staring at Hawkhurst in stunned shock. “You’re up?”

  “Garret!” barked the Admiral testily. “I want some answers, if you please!”

  “Well, I do not please!” Hal Archer surged into the room. “Pon … son … by!” His howl rattled the glasses. Dora, who had been blowing back a lock of hair that persisted in falling into her eyes, was so startled that she forgot she still held the glue-brush and pushed the curl back with it.

  “Archer,” fumed the Admiral. “Will you be so kind as to—”

  “Your lordship, I will not!” the doctor retaliated, not waiting to learn what the opposition had to say. “In this instance, I am at the helm! And I shall do as I dashed well please! Oh, there you are, Ponsonby. Help Mr. Hawkhurst to his room. At once! The sooner he is out of this bedlam, the better!”

  The Admiral was so incensed by both interruption and delineation that he found it necessary to follow doctor, butler, and patient up the stairs, vociferously expressing his resentment each step of the way. Kent, slipping in beside his hero, found Ponsonby supporting him on one side and a cane employed on the other. Undaunted, he gripped a corner of Hawkhurst’s jacket and thus became a part of the small procession.

  Euphemia, meanwhile, moved to the aid of the hapless Dora, and Carlotta proceeded to offer some barbed advice as to the best method by which the glue-brush might be extricated from her relative’s locks.

  Unnoticed in the confusion, Buchanan and Stephanie drifted quietly away.

  * * *

  ARCHER’S MOOD had mellowed considerably when he left his patient half an hour later. Encountering two worried young ladies in the hall, he told them that, if Hawk could be chained to his bed so that the stiches might have a chance to hold, the leg would doubtless heal in due course. Euphemia’s fears were considerably eased by this news, but to her surprise the usually calm Stephanie questioned the surgeon so exhaustively that he at length advised her not to be a silly goose, for she knew her brother was forged of Toledo steel.

  Downstairs, meanwhile, Coleridge and Mrs. Graham were in spirits because the fog had lifted, thus enabling them to drive into Down Buttery for the Broadbents’ annual Christmas party, and when Stephanie and Euphemia joined them, Colley urged that they go along. Lady Bryce entered a caveat, saying it must surely be improper to attend a celebration after their dear Garret had been so murderously set upon. Dora’s face fell. “I am sure you are right, Lottie,” she said wistfully. “We had best not go.” Colley looked downcast, but to Euphemia’s delight the Admiral intervened. Hawk, he said, would be the last to wish anyone to miss some merry-making on his account, and he urged that they all go. In the event, only Carlotta, Dora, and Coleridge took his advice. Euphemia pleaded weariness, but actually had no wish to leave Hawkhurst on what would be her last evening in the great house. Buchanan said he had some letters that simply must be attended to, and Stephanie declined on the grounds she wished to spend some time with her dear Euphemia. At the last moment, Colley asked if he might take Kent along. “It will be a little late for him, because there will be dancing half the night after the children’s party is over, but it’s a grand affair, Mia. All the village children are invited, and he would likely have a fine time. And never worry, they’ve a large house, and there is sure to be a spot where he can curl up until we leave.” Euphemia accepted gratefully. Kent was summoned and, thrown into a fever of excitement, went racing joyously off in search of his coat and hat.

  The house was quiet when at last they were gone, and Euphemia was very glad when dinner came to an end. Not only was she extremely conscious of the lack of Hawkhurst’s vital presence at the table, but the knowledge she was to leave tomorrow, coupled with the fear that she might never see her love again, weighed heavily upon her spirits. Fortunately, the Admiral was in a high good humour, and his amusing reminiscences of a Christmas he had passed in Bombay brightened the meal until he directed a casual enquiry to Ponsonby as to Hawkhurst’s disposition. The butler replied gravely that Constable Littlejohn had been with the master for the last hour and more, whereupon Wetherby rose up like an erupting volcano. “I vow that maggot-wit has settled in like a bulldog,” he snorted. “Pray excuse me, for I must kick him downstairs before he wears poor Hawk to a shade!” Saying which, he sailed out with all storm signals flying.

  Euphemia and Stephanie left Buchanan to his port, but he joined them very shortly, and a few moments later the Admiral returned. The Constable thought the village blacksmith might be able to shed some light upon the possible owner of the bear tamer. Would they forgive so flagrant a breach of good manners did he accompany Littlejohn into Down Buttery? Implored not to stand on ceremony at such a time, he kissed his granddaughter and told her not to wait up for him, adjured Buchanan not to go rushing off in the morning without allowing him time to say his farewells, and winked mischievously at Euphemia. “As for you, dear lady, I’ve no doubt we shall see you often enough after the holidays!”

  Watching him stride briskly from the room, Euphemia longed to share his confidence. She stifled a sigh and glanced around to find Stephanie watching her. The girl said earnestly, “He is quite right, Mia. We will be seeing you. Very often. No matter … what happens.”

  Despite the words, it sounded like an ending. Her voice was uncertain, and tears glittered on her lashes. Not until that moment had Euphemia realized how deeply fond she had become of this gentle girl; nor that her affection was as fully returned. They hugged one another tearfully, then Stephanie mumbled that she simply must go and see Garret and left brother and sister alone.

  “Well,” said Buchanan brightly. “Ready to be off, love? Great Aunt Lucasta must be in a rare taking. Save for the fog, I’ve no doubt she would have come with a blaze of trumpets to rescue us from this house of infamy!”

  Eup
hemia responded just as light-heartedly, but the deception was pierced, and she was suddenly swept into a fierce and rare hug. Reciprocating, she then leaned back in her brother’s arms, looking up at him wonderingly.

  He let her go and said with a rather strained laugh, “Sorry, but I just cannot endure to see you so determined to be brave. He will come after you, Mia. You are not losing him forever, you know.”

  Long after Ellie had closed the bed-curtains and left her, those words haunted Euphemia. Would Hawk come after her? Or, as soon as she was gone, would he limp into his curricle and drive to some remote spot where she might never find him? Worse, would he join up once more? Wellington stood in urgent need of experienced cavalry officers, and he would certainly be welcomed. The thought so terrified her that she sat bolt upright in bed, staring with wide and fearful eyes at the bedpost.

  It was no use—she was far too distraught to sleep. She swept back the curtains and lit the candle. Half past twelve … She took up the book she had selected from the library and wasted an hour reading words that barely broke into the anxieties that crowded her mind. She closed the book at last and set it aside. Perhaps if she had some warm milk she would be able to go to sleep. But to wake Ellie at half past one o’clock seemed unkind. She stepped into her slippers, donned her warm dressing gown, and, having ensured that her cap was neatly disposed over her curls, took up her candle and went downstairs.

  A lamp, turned down low, still burned beside the massive front doors, but that flickering glow was the only sign of life. She trod softly along the Great Hall, admiring the sweep of the plastered ceiling and the perfect lines of this dear old house that the inspired architect had managed to make both palatial and welcoming. Crossing the central hall, her slipper caught on a fold of the rug, and the heel curled under her foot. She crossed to the long teakwood chest near the front doors, to right matters. A letter lay in the jade salver. Glancing at it as she set down the candle, she saw the superscription: “To Miss Euphemia Buchanan.” The printing looked familiar, but why would Simon be so formal, or leave a letter here for her? Curious, she took up the folded paper. Foolish boy, he should have known it would not be given to her until morning, when she would see him anyway. She broke the seal, and read:

  My Dearest Mia:

  Do you remember our little chat before the Musicale? I told you then that I am a very ordinary fellow, and that someday you would have to admit I’ve more than my share of failings. Best of all sisters, I fear that day has come, for I am seizing my chance for happiness and thereby abandoning you to a most difficult situation.

  Perhaps you have already guessed that Stephanie and I are desperately in love.

  Euphemia clutched at the table, her heart seeming to stop beating. Blinking dazedly, she read on,

  Please believe that I have not lied to her. I am not quite that base. She knows Tina will never give me a divorce, but has consented to elope with me regardless.

  “Oh … my … God!” moaned Euphemia, pressing a hand to her temple. He could not! Not Simon? Through a haze of tears, she was able to make out,

  I may be kicked out of the 52nd. I don’t know. With the help of Leith, and the support (I pray) of John Colborne, I hope to retain some rank. I am not pressed for funds, at least, and Stephie will never have to know want. I have attempted to explain to her what she will have to face, but her regard for me is such that she refuses to be intimidated by that prospect.

  Please believe that I deeply regret having to resort to this reprehensible flight. I would by far prefer to meet Hawkhurst on the field of honour, which he would, of course, demand. But I have come to the conclusion that a duel could only make a difficult situation worse. Were either of us killed, all four lives must be wrecked, and what would that serve?

  I abandon you, my loved sister. I run like a craven when my benefactor is crippled and ill. For this, I feel total shame. But no shame can compare to the joy of having found the lady I can truly love with all my heart, and who loves me in return.

  I am comforted by the knowledge that love has come to you also, and that with so fine a gentleman as Hawkhurst to care for and protect you, someday you may perhaps forgive,

  Your unforgivable,

  Simon.

  How could she have been so blind? Euphemia choked on a sob and let the tears flow unchecked. How could she have been so foolish as to suppose Simon was beind “kind” in escorting Stephanie? Or think the girl’s new radiance was purely the result of her changed appearance? Poor Hawk, so cruelly bedevilled by Fate, must know more sorrow! And whatever could she find to say to—

  “So you could not sleep either, my Unattainable lady.”

  The deep voice behind her sent her eyes flying open. She clutched the letter to her bosom, her heart thundering with fear. If he discovered this, he would go after them, hurt or no! Nothing, no one on God’s earth would stop him! He would catch them, she had no doubt of it. And Simon would die!

  Hawkhurst had seen her start and gently begged pardon for having alarmed her. Her throat was dry, her lips stiff, but she must answer! Furtively, she dashed the tears away, swung around, and, fighting to sound lightly scolding, said, “Garret! Whatever are we to do with—”

  He was leaning on the cane, his face tired and wan. But hobbling closer he demanded, “What is it? You are white as death.”

  The telltale letter concealed beneath a fold in her dressing gown, she replied, “How should I be otherwise, love? For we leave here tomorrow.”

  “I know it,” he sighed. “And I wish, with all my heart…” He stopped, his narrowed gaze searching her face in the dimness. Perhaps only the eyes of love would have detected the gleam on her lashes, but Hawkhurst loved greatly. “You have been weeping!” His hand shot out to grip hers. “And why do you tremble so? Here’s more than grief! You are petrified! Did you think I would not know? What is it? What have you there? Another letter? Gad! It is a deluge! Stop seeking to protect me, for the love of heaven! Give it me!”

  “No!” she gasped, stumbling backward. “It is not—”

  But as she twisted away, he groaned, swayed, and grabbed for the table. At once her arms were about him. And as swiftly, he had the letter.

  “No!” she sobbed, snatching at it. “Hawk, that was despicable! You tricked me!”

  “Of course,” he said, straightening and leaning against the table as he held her away with one hand. “I will not have you upset by—” His words trailed off as he saw the superscription, and he started to return the letter, but it unfolded, and, even as she again reached out eagerly, his attention was caught by his sister’s name. He frowned, pulled his hand back, and his eyes flashed down the page. “Now, damn his rotten soul!” he gasped. “That dirty … worthless … bastard!” He crumpled the letter, flung it to the floor, and wheeled about.

  Galvanized into action, Euphemia sprang after him and caught at his arm. “Hawk! If you love me, I beg of you—”

  With a savage wrench he sent her staggering. “Save your breath! Do you think that sweet sister of mine has the slightest idea of what it is like to be really scorned? Well, I do, by God! And she’ll not live that hell whilst I can prevent it! Stay back, Mia!”

  But she would not and, sobbing, pleading, clinging to him, contrived at last to grip his cane and, leaping away, sent it spinning across the hall, then sobbed her anguish as he sank, flinching, to one knee.

  “Hawk, oh, my darling, I beg … I implore you! Do not try to get up! Hawk, you will break the stitches! I love you! Hawk, I love you! Please, please, give them their chance!”

  His face convulsed, he came somehow to his feet, reeled to the wall, and tugged the bellrope. “He is not … worth … your tears,” he said breathlessly. “If I have to crawl, I’ll not see him drag her down … with him. He’ll rot in hell first!”

  A sleepy footman yawned into the hall, checked, then ran forward.

  Euphemia fled. Five minutes later, clad in her warmest habit, her fur-lined pelisse flying out behind her, she ran to the ba
ck stairs.

  Lights gleamed in the stables. The grooms, half clad, were harnessing a magnificent pair of matched greys to a racing curricle. In dressing gown and nightcap, Manners was shouting, “When you’re done, turn ’em to the side road!”

  One of the grooms checked, staring at him in dismay. “But it ain’t repaired, Mr. Manners. The bridge ain’t safe! Mr. Garret wouldn’t—

  “Oh, yes, he would! Do as I say, and be ready for the master. I’m going to get dressed. Don’t let him leave without me!”

  Euphemia ran to intercept him. “Manners! Do you love him?” He halted, staring his incredulity, and she seized his arm, shaking it in her frenzy. “If you would not see him complete the ruin of his life this night, help me in!”

  “In … the curricle … Miss?” he faltered.

  “Yes! Oh, Manners, I know you love him. Help me! I beg of you!”

  The grooms were hanging desperately to the heads of the greys who, because of the fog, had been stabled for many days with little exercise. Euphemia ran to the side of the vehicle, and, handing her up, his face pale with anxiety, Manners groaned, “He’ll have my hide for this!”

  “In here now! Beside me!” she said tersely. “Quickly! Lean forward, so he does not see me!”

  Moaning, he did as she commanded. “Miss, are you sure…?”

  “I love him too. Do you think I would do this, else?”

  Manners snatched off his nightcap with a trembling hand as Hawkhurst limped from the house, pulling on his gloves and leaning on the arm of a befuddled Bailey, who wore a startling red dressing gown over his nightshirt.

  “Put the Mantons under the front seat!” rasped Hawkhurst, and, as the valet obeyed, then attempted to fasten the top button of his master’s many-caped driving coat, he cried, “Have done! Manners, your hand!” He clambered up, gasped out a pained oath, then ejaculated, “Dammit! Why in the devil are you not dressed? Get down, man! I’ll not have pneumonia on my conscience in addition to—” And he checked in sheer, stunned shock as Manners jumped out, thus revealing the white-faced girl who sat there.