Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  Hawkhurst was so horrified he could not move and stared at her for what seemed an eternity while doubt and fear and imagination had their way with him. He had been drawn to the boy from the first … That piquant, thin little face; those clear eyes and tender mouth. Such a change from the rosy-cheeked, plump little fellow he had lost. Yet, the eyes and the colouring were the same. There was the same sweetness of disposition, the same warm affection. He clenched his fists, fighting hope. He must not, dare not, dream it to be true. Yet already his heart was hammering uncontrollably. “That Frittenden woman,” he muttered running a hand distractedly through his hair. “I remember now, at the Musicale, she stopped in front of Kent.”

  “Yes. I saw her. She stared and stared, and then rushed out.”

  Hawkhurst bowed his head and gripped his throbbing temples. Had she recognized the boy? She might have seen him recently enough to know him.

  Echoing his thoughts, Euphemia said tenderly, “Darling, don’t you see? If she identified him and told Mount, he would know his game was almost done. I believe that is why he tried to kill you on the tower. He dared not risk your learning the truth. He had to settle for whatever he might be able to pry from your Grandpapa—after you were dead.”

  Hawkhurst sat up straight. His mouth was dry, his mind spinning. It made sense now. It all made sense! And the boy did seem to like him and had settled into Dominer almost as if— A recollection sprang to mind that was like a blow to the heart. He was visibly jolted, and Euphemia demanded frantically, “What? What have you thought of?”

  “His … bear…” he half whispered. “Dear heaven! Why did I not think…? Mia! His bear!”

  “You saw it? But— oh, did you give it to him? Poor shabby little bear. He loves it so, I think he has hidden it away somewhere for fear it might be taken—”

  Hawkhurst gasped and grabbed at the side of the curricle. For a moment Euphemia feared he would collapse. Then, looking up at her, he said in a thread of a voice, “What … what kind of … bear? A … little carven … wooden bear?”

  “No, but— How odd, I had forgot the wooden bear he carved. And now that you mention it, that little bear had only one ear as—”

  A wild cry escaped Hawkhurst. He all but sprang to clutch her arms and shout, “What kind of bear?”

  “Wh-why, a stuffed bear. Very old and worn. It had been white once, I think, and with one—”

  “One ear gone! And … did anything … conceal … the torn place?”

  “Yes. A blue patch.”

  “A … blue … patch…” he whispered. “A blue patch!” He pulled her close, crushing her against him, kissing her jubilantly, half laughing, half weeping. “My beautiful … priceless woman! A blue patch! It is true! It is, by God! Only one person in this entire world knew where that bear was hidden, Mia. Jerry Bolster gave it to Avery on his second birthday, and he scarcely let it out of his sight afterwards. When the ear came off, Nell Henderson sewed a ‘bandage’ on for him. Each night, before he went to bed, he would hide his bear in a ‘secret cave.’ When Avery was lost to me, I tore the house apart, but I could not find the bear! Oh, Mia! He is! Kent is my son!”

  EIGHTEEN

  “ALMOST DAWN…” Wetherby turned from the window and, letting the heavy curtains fall back once more, stamped across the gold salon to glare at Lady Bryce, who huddled in an armchair, clad in dressing gown and cap, with a sodden handkerchief pressed to her mouth. “Almost dawn!” he repeated grimly. “Four hours since I came home to find this house turned topsy turvy and that groom of Hawk’s strove to fob me off with one Banbury story after another! Four hours since I had the truth from the caper-wit! And Hawkhurst ain’t back yet! What the devil’s the boy about? If he don’t drag home that sly, wanton little granddaughter of mine, I’ll … I’ll have done with him! Once and for all!”

  “My … sweet Stephanie…!” wailed her ladyship hoarsely. “Oh, how could that wretched boy do such a thing? And him … wed … and a parent! I never trusted his sister, and so I told you, sir! But … Buchanan! A war hero!”

  “War, pudding!” snarled Wetherby. “These sprigs today don’t know what war’s all about! Now, when I served with Nelson, there was action for you! Seventy-four guns had my Sweet Avenger, and when we was engaged … Ah, but enough of that. Where is your nephew, madam? That’s what I want to know!”

  “Hawkhurst is hurt, my lord,” fluttered Carlotta. “You take no consideration of the fact the poor fellow can scarce walk. Not that I have any least expectation he will fail, for he’s a savage man when roused. A most dreadful disposition! Heaven help that poor Buchanan boy! He’s doubtless lying dead this—”

  “I hope he is!” bristled the Admiral. “Conniving libertine! If ’twere me, I’d—” He tensed as a clatter of hooves could be heard on the drive. “They’re back! By God! Now we’ll see some fireworks!” He ran into the hall, Carlotta tottering after him.

  A lackey swung the doors open, and Euphemia hurried inside, cloak flying, hair disarrayed, and eyes filled with anxiety. She stopped at the sight of Admiral Wetherby’s grim scowl and Carlotta’s tears and said a pleading, “My lord, I know—”

  “You have my deepest sympathy, ma’am,” snapped Wetherby, “and my admiration that you’ve the courage to come back here when—” His eyes flashed to Hawkhurst, who limped in, leaning heavily on Ponsonby’s arm. Scanning that haggard countenance, relief swept the old gentleman, but he said nothing until the doors had closed out the interested servants. “Well?” he barked, then. “Did you kill the slippery lecher?”

  “No, sir. I did not. Where is Kent?”

  “Kent?” thundered Wetherby. “Where should he be at this hour? A sight more to the point, where is my granddaughter? You cannot tell me you failed to call the rogue out! He caught your head, by the look of it! Downed, is he? Dying, is that it? Should’ve stayed until the world was free of him, Hawk. Your pardon, Miss Buchanan! But you young folks today do not—”

  “Sir,” Hawkhurst intervened impatiently, “Buchanan is neither dead nor dying. He grazed me, and I could not bring myself to kill the man my sister loves. I—”

  “You … could … not…” Wetherby’s mouth fell open, and he took an uncertain step backward. “Do … do you seriously tell me, sir—” His voice rose to an enraged bellow. “Do you dare to stand there and tell me you’d a pistol in your fist and lacked the gumption to blow that bigamous damned scoundrel into the hell he warrants?”

  Beyond words tired, beyond belief eager, Hawkhurst said, “Sir, I am sorry. I have failed you again. Aunt, is Kent abed?”

  “By God, I begin to believe you’re a changeling!” opined the Admiral and, ignoring Carlotta’s shocked cry, spluttered, “You are the head of your house, and you stand there and mew like a kitten about your sorrow and ask after a page boy? If you did not kill the rapscallion, sir, then what in the hell did you do? Kneel to him and offer your sister on a silver platter, with an olive branch clutched between your craven teeth?”

  Hawkhurst sighed and drew himself up. “My lord,” he said in a voice Wetherby had never before heard, “I have loved and honoured you all my life. The time is long past when you should have been told the truth about my marriage and … my son. In a few moments I shall explain everything. But—” One hand was raised in an authoritative gesture that froze the interruption boiling in Wetherby’s throat. “For the time being, I must respectfully ask that you be silent.” He turned again to his aunt. “Ma’am, will you please go and bring Kent here at once?”

  Lady Bryce glanced from her enraged elder relative to her nephew. Hawkhurst looked ready to collapse, yet in his eyes shone a light she’d not seen in years. She felt a tingle of excitement and said, “I cannot, Garret. The St. Alabans brought me home, but Coleridge and Dora elected to stay, despite the advanced hour, and have not yet returned.”

  Hawkhurst’s eyes flashed to the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands indicated a quarter past four o’clock, and anxiety deepened the clefts between his brows.


  “Colley said there would be dancing, and they’d likely be late,” Euphemia put in. “Don’t worry, Hawk. He will take care of the boy. And now—”

  “And now,” the Admiral interposed grimly, “perhaps you will be so very good, Mr. Hawkhurst, as to explain what in the name of heaven is going on in this madhouse!”

  Euphemia slipped quietly away.

  * * *

  AT NINE O’CLOCK that morning, Euphemia entered the gold salon to find a fire blazing on the hearth but the drapes still closed. Hawkhurst was asleep on a sofa, and the Admiral sat in an armchair, head sunk on his chest, snoring loudly. Ponsonby, in the act of straightening a blanket over his employer, glanced up, and crossed to her side. The gentlemen, he whispered, had been asleep for a few hours. Lord Coleridge had not yet returned, and he had sent Manners into Down Buttery to find him.

  Despite their lowered voices, Hawkhurst moved lazily, then his head turned towards them. Euphemia requested that a light breakfast be served in half an hour and, hurrying to the sofa, sank to her knees beside it.

  Hawkhurst started up and asked anxiously, “Is Colley come home yet? Have—”

  She placed her hand over his lips. “Hush, love. Lord Wetherby is still sleeping. Ponsonby has sent your head groom to the Broadbents, to find Colley.” Hawkhurst had lowered his feet to the floor as she spoke, and, noticing how cautiously he moved, she said, “We must have the dressings changed at once, Garret. How does it feel?”

  “Much better, thank you,” he lied cheerfully and, running a hand over the stubble on his chin, added, “I must look a sight! Your pardon, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “I have seen—”

  “I know. You and your bivouacs.” He caressed her cheek and, as she snuggled against his hand, murmured, “My blessed candle, how may I ever thank you for all you have done?”

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully, sitting back on her heels and joying in the tenderness so clear in his eyes, “since Kent belongs to me, and I’ve no slightest intention of giving him up, you might—”

  “Nothing has changed, Mia,” he interposed. “My reputation is no whit less shocking today than before.”

  “No, but mine is very shocking,” she pointed out. “I fear the name Buchanan will soon be vilified throughout the length and breadth of England.”

  An arrested expression came into his eyes, but before he could respond the Admiral spluttered and started to waken.

  “Did you tell him?” whispered Euphemia.

  “Yes, he was becoming so apoplectic I thought it the lesser of two evils. He took it very well, thank God, but is so damnably humble I can scarce endure it.”

  Wetherby’s first enquiry was, of course, for Kent, but having been informed on that score, he proceeded to call down blessings on Euphemia’s head, extolling her rare humanity in having rescued the boy in the first place, her saintly compassion in caring for and protecting him, and her perspicacity in having finally identified him, until she begged for mercy. “For truly, my lord,” she smiled, “my part in this was small indeed. Who would not have helped the child in his sorry condition? The one who has borne the heaviest burden has been your grandson.”

  This well-intentioned remark unleashed a veritable flood of self-recrimination. She could not but assume Wetherby to be a tyrannical monster, a blind, foolish old curmudgeon. And she was right, for he deserved to be flogged and keel-hauled at the very least. He was unworthy of his grandson’s regard, let alone his affection. Hawk, on the other hand, was the finest, the bravest, the most exemplary and gallant individual who had ever drawn breath! Having said all of which, the old gentleman stood and began to move towards the door in an attitude of utter dejection.

  Flashing a grim look at Euphemia, Hawkhurst limped over to put an arm about Wetherby’s bowed shoulders and assure him that nothing could ever mar the regard in which he held him. “Please let us speak no more of the past, but—” His eager glance flashed to the side as the door opened. “Manners! Did you find the boy? Have you brought him back?”

  “I found him, sir,” the groom imparted breathlessly. “But the children all stayed up very late, watching the dancing. The nursemaid said they are still fast asleep, and to wake Kent would be to wake the others in the room, so she asked that we let him stay a little longer. I hope that was all right, sir? Lord Coleridge has taken Miss Broadbent for an early drive, but Mr. Broadbent’s man said his lordship means to go back for Master Kent and will bring him home.”

  Hawkhurst breathed a sign of relief and assured the groom he had acted very properly, but the Admiral glowered, “Up all night, dancing! Then goes for an early ride!” He grinned suddenly. “Oh, to be young again!”

  In great good humour the two men repaired to their chambers to bathe, shave, and change clothes. Lady Bryce, exhausted by the night’s events, was still sleeping, but within half an hour Euphemia, Wetherby, and Hawkhurst sat down to breakfast. It was not an easy meal: The conversation turned mostly upon the joyous recovery of the boy and the chain of events that had led up to this moment, but, despite Hawkhurst’s attempts to steer away from the subject, they all thought often of the runaways, and twice the Admiral so far forgot his deep obligation to Euphemia that he launched into a denunciation of her absent brother that made her blush with shame.

  They had repaired to the drawing room, and Hawkhurst was telling the Admiral of Kent’s wood-carving when Dora trotted into the room, still wearing her cloak and with her bonnet all askew. She took her nephew’s outstretched hand and panted, “Say it is not true! Our little Stephanie, gone from us? Nell Henderson just told me. Oh, my poor dear boy! How sorry I am, though I could see it from the start, of course.” She accepted the glove Euphemia picked up and restored to her, but dropped it again as she clasped her hands and observed dreamily, “So romantic … ‘no sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but—’”

  “Good God, Dora! What in the deuce are you jabbering at?” rasped the Admiral. “Is Kent come home with you?”

  His daughter blushed furiously and stammered something utterly unintelligible.

  Bryce strolled in from the stables, still clad in his party finery, and halted to stare around uneasily. “You’re a glum-looking lot, I must say!” His eyes narrowed, and with a total change of manner he asked perceptively, “What’s wrong?”

  Hawkhurst hobbled eagerly toward him. “Where is Kent?”

  “Kent? What, ain’t he here yet? Lord, but he had such a jolly—”

  A cold premonition seized Euphemia, and she came to her feet, the breath fluttering in her throat.

  Whitening, Hawkhurst snapped, “How could he be here? What d’you mean?”

  “Manners said you was bringing the boy home,” said the Admiral hoarsely. “Where in God’s name is he?”

  Looking from one to the other uneasily, Bryce said, “I cannot guess, but it is nothing to go into the boughs about, I do—”

  “Damn you!” grated Hawkhurst, advancing on him threateningly. “Tell me! Where is Kent?”

  Dismayed, Coleridge stammered, “Wh-why, some of us went for a drive after the party, for it was a brilliant morning. When we came back, Mrs. Broadbent said the others had decided to start home and would bring Kent, for the boys had struck up quite a friendship. I do not see what—”

  “You young block!” roared the Admiral. “What others? The Dunnings?”

  “N-No, sir. It was an unexpected guest, I gathered. She chanced to drop in and stayed, of course. I am not personally acquainted with the lady, but Mama must be, for she came to her Musicale. Name of Frittenden. You— Oh, gad!” And with a gasp he leapt forward to steady his swaying cousin.

  Wetherby, whose face had begun to take on a livid hue, rallied amazingly. Throwing an arm about Hawkhurst, he cried, “The boy’s ill! Dora, send one of the grooms for That Quack. Miss Buchanan, some cognac if you please. Sit him down here, Colley. It’s all right, Garret. Just rest, dear lad. You’re weak as a cat, and s
mall wonder, cavorting about the countryside half the night with that leg not so much as begun to heal! Never you worry, my poor fellow. Colley and I will ride out after that harridan at once. We’ll have Avery back here in a pig’s whisper!”

  * * *

  HAWKHURST propped himself on one elbow and peered down at his injured leg. “Not that bad, is it, Nell?”

  “I only wish as Dr. Archer would come,” gulped the housekeeper, leaning over the bed as she gently spread salve on the wounds. “Look how it’s swole! And black from ankle to knee! You shouldn’t never be up and about, Master Garret, and you knows it! Yet, however can I blame you, when that sweet child…” Her words scratched into sobs. Hawkhurst felt tears splattering onto his ankle and, managing to regain the breath her ministrations had snatched away, gasped, “Courage, my Nell. We’ve weathered it this far. We’ll get him back.” He patted her shoulder and watched Bailey usher her from the room, wishing he could believe his own words.

  The valet closed the door and returned to his side. “You will be wanting riding clothes, sir? I doubt we can get a top boot over those bandages.”

  “Then I’ll wear shoes and drive the curricle. Now hurry, man!”

  Despite his resolve not to vex his master, by the time the change of raiment had been completed, Bailey was shaken out of his imperturbability and pleaded, “Sir, you cannot! We’ve already sent every available man out on the search. Can you not rest? You will lose that leg if you go on like this!”