Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “Sooner my leg,” said Hawkhurst quietly, “than my son.”

  Downstairs he found Euphemia presiding over the tea tray in the drawing room, while acquainting his aunts with details of which they had been unaware. Dora and Carlotta, sitting very close together on the sofa, both stood as he limped over to kiss and comfort them. He turned to Euphemia, and her hand went out to him. Taking it, he said apologetically, “I fear I have allowed myself to behave very badly. I cannot quite recall what happened. Bailey tells me my grandfather and Colley went after … Avery?”

  Dora and Carlotta exchanged stricken glances. Euphemia also had seen the faint quiver of Hawkhurst’s lips as he spoke his son’s name and, knowing he had been pushed to the breaking point, said in her calm fashion, “Yes. Colley drove the curricle like a Roman gladiator. I only hope they may be able to stop in Down Buttery! And,” she tightened her clasp on his hand, “as for your behaviour, Hawk, you have been splendid throughout, but—”

  The doors were flung open, and Coleridge entered. Carlotta and Dora clung to one another, trembling. Hawkhurst blenched and stood very straight, like a man braced to receive sentencing. But there was no need for words; the youth’s strained expression spoke for him. Hawkhurst turned away, his head bowed. Carlotta uttered a wail and sank into Dora’s arms in a flood of tears. Sick at heart, Euphemia slipped her hand through Hawkhurst’s arm. He patted her wrist automatically, his fingers like ice, and, without turning, asked in a remote voice, “How much head start … has she?”

  “A good two hours, I’m afraid,” Coleridge said miserably. “No one even noticed which way she went. Oh, Hawk, I am so sorry. I’d give my life not to—”

  “I know. It wasn’t your fault. Do not blame yourself.” Hawkhurst sat down wearily, and Bryce stood before him, wringing and wringing at the hat in his hand and longing to be able to help.

  Carlotta’s weeping was becoming hysterical. Euphemia summoned Mrs. Henderson, and Dora helped convey her sister-in-law upstairs.

  When they were gone, Bryce said frantically, “Hawk, there must be some damned thing we can do!”

  Hawkhurst leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes for a second, then looked up and asked, “Is my grandfather all right?”

  “Yes, and I’d have gone with him and Hal had I thought—”

  “Archer?” Euphemia interposed. “Lord Wetherby went somewhere with Dr. Archer?”

  He nodded. “We met him in Down Buttery. The Admiral apologized to him so humbly I think the poor man was more appalled than by all the ranting and raving. When he learned the whole, nothing would do but that they both go rushing off in Archer’s gig, for the old gentleman is convinced Mrs. Frittenden will take the London Road.”

  “I doubt it. The roads will be clogged with holiday traffic.” Hawkhurst stared blindly at the fireplace. Two hours … He gave a little gesture of hopelessness and muttered, “She might have gone to the West coast or to Scotland, or Wales. Or she might be safely hidden away. I’ll warrant they’ll have vanished into thin air, as they did before. And she ran while I sat here … like a total clod … and ate breakfast!”

  Euphemia and Bryce exchanged glances of helpless frustration, but neither spoke.

  “She will take my little son back to that merciless hound,” Hawkhurst said dully. “And if they sell him … to a sweep again…” He shrank and bowed his head into hands that shook.

  Bryce swung abruptly away and paced to stand staring out at the morning that was again becoming bleak and grey, the brief sunshine hidden by heavy overcast. Euphemia put one hand on her love’s shoulder, struggled to muffle her sobs, and strove vainly to come up with some helpful suggestion.

  “Hound!” Coleridge exploded. He spun around. “You have it, by Jupiter!”

  Euphemia watched him with a rebirth of hope. Hawkhurst raised tormented eyes and waited.

  Coleridge strode to drop to one knee and grip Hawkhurst’s clenched fist. “Sampson!” he beamed. “Your ‘filthy mongrel’ has the best nose in all Christendom! If anyone can smell out our Kent—or Avery, I should say—it is old Sampson!”

  For a breathless moment, Hawkhurst stared at him. Then, taking his hand between his trembling ones, he half whispered, “Sampson…? Colley, do you really think…”

  “Yes, by Jove! I saw him at work once when Chil was training him to retrieve. He hid a riding crop—miles from the main house! Old Sampson went straight to it! The brute thought it great fun, but I was never more impressed!”

  Hawkhurst drew a deep shuddering breath. “It’s a slim hope. But, by God, it’s better than no hope at all!” He stood, Coleridge eagerly helping him up. “Colley,” he said, his voice crisp and sure once more, “tell the grooms I want the chestnuts and the blue curricle. And send Bailey here, if you will.”

  With a whoop, Coleridge sprinted from the room.

  Hawkhurst took Euphemia by the hands and looked down into her eyes.

  She thought with a pang, Oh, he looks so ill! But she was truly a soldier’s daughter and said only, “May I come?”

  “No, my dear. Not this time.”

  Bailey, who must have been waiting close by, hovered in the doorway and coughed discreetly. Hawkhurst looked over his shoulder. “My coat, hat, and a brace of loaded pistols, Ralph. And Master Kent’s nightshirt. Hurry, please!”

  Marvelling that he was still able to rally against so desperate a challenge, Euphemia said, “Darling, surely Gains will not refuse?”

  “It don’t signify, for I mean to have his flea-carrier. But, more than that, I mean to find Mount.” His jaw set, and into his narrowed eyes came a gleam that appalled her. “And when I do,” he said very softly, “I shall kill him, Mia.”

  She was silent, fearing for his life if he should face his enemy in this weakened state, and for his sanity if he did not.

  Hawkhurst’s expression changed then. He tilted her face, his eyes becoming very tender. “I am a man of no reputation,” he murmured, “a rake and womanizer, my Unattainable one. But, I fear I have an even worse flaw, for … I am becoming selfish.”

  Hurrying in with two holstered pistols in one hand and a drab driving coat slung over his arm, Bailey heard the last few words, and his face lit up. Coleridge followed, buckling a sword belt about his slim waist.

  Shrugging into the coat, Hawkhurst glanced at his cousin. “This will be a fight, Colley. I can feel it in my bones. I’d not have you hurt, boy.”

  “And I am not a boy.” The hazel eyes were steady and aglow with excitement, the gentle mouth set into a stern line. “I go with you, Hawk. Or behind you. Either way.”

  Hawkhurst grinned. “Good man. Come then, we shall go and beg, borrow, or steal Max Gains’ flea-carrier!”

  * * *

  “Who DID YOU SAY?” Lord Maximilian Gains looked up incredulously from the Spanish doubloon he had been inspecting, while his brother, who had been reading before the fire, sprang to his feet, the book tumbling.

  Before the footman could repeat his extraordinary announcement, there was a scuffling in the hall, an outraged shout of, “You cannot go in there, sir! My lord! Have a care!” and the door to the study was flung wide, the lackey staggering as he was shoved aside.

  Gains dropped his magnifying glass, whipped open a drawer in the desk, and snatched up a fine silver-mounted pistol. “What the devil do you mean by this, sir?” he demanded, aiming the weapon unerringly.

  “Max, I need your help,” said Hawkhurst, his right hand lifting slightly to the menace of that long barrel. “Please, if you—”

  “My … help…? Why, damn your impertinence! If that ain’t the—”

  “Sir,” Coleridge interjected, “it is a matter of life and death!”

  “You’re right there, by George! And if you do not get your philandering kinsman off my property, it will be his death we—”

  “Max, I beg of you!” Hawkhurst pleaded. “I will meet you whenever and wherever you choose. But this is for my son. If you would but listen, I—”


  “You treacherous, lying dog! Avery has been dead these four years! And you’ve no other son—unless it’s one of the many you have sired on the wrong side of the blanket!”

  Chilton Gains, a tall thin young man with brown hair, gentle eyes, and a face worn by extended illness, had been watching Hawkhurst intently, and now remarked, “Perhaps we should listen to what he has to say, Max.”

  Again, the door burst open. The butler and two footmen, armed to the teeth, stood with weapons levelled at the intruders, their grim expressions bespeaking their willingness to fire if need be.

  “Remove Mr. Hawkhurst from the premises,” grated his lordship unrelentingly.

  His men moved forward.

  “I will go,” said Hawkhurst. “But not without Sampson. I’ll fight you now, Max, to the death, if I must. But I want that mongrel!”

  “You … want … what?” Gains flung up a detaining hand, and his men halted, looking equally astonished. “But you loathe my—Aha! You plan to shoot him, eh? What’s he done this time? Bitten you, I trust!”

  “Sir,” said Coleridge earnestly. “Robert Mount has stolen Hawk’s son. We had only just found the boy!”

  Gains had never known Coleridge to be anything but the soul of honour. Taken aback, he stared his bewilderment. His pale face intrigued, Chilton said, “Mr. Hawkhurst, will you not sit down and tell us how we may be of service?”

  “Service!” howled Gains, making a recover. “Are you short of a sheet? Haven’t you seen how he served me?”

  “Yes,” nodded his brother, quite unintimidated. “And wondered often why you never called him out for it. Now we shall perhaps hear the truth of the matter. A bargain, Mr. Hawkhurst?”

  Chafing at the delay, Hawkhurst frowned, but agreed, “A bargain.”

  “Very well.” Lord Gains dismissed his men, waved his visitors to chairs, and sat behind his desk, a glint of excitement lighting his brown eyes. “I hope I am a fair-minded man. Let us hear your lies.”

  Hawkhurst remained standing, leaning on his cane and fixing him with a steady gaze. “Did you arrange that landslide, or fire at me from ambush?”

  “What?” His lordship flushed darkly and grabbed for the pistol he had just laid down on the desk. In a wild spring, Chilton was first, however, and snatched the weapon away. “Villain!” Gains raged, jumping to his feet and shaking his fist at Hawkhurst. “I’ve no need to plot and lurk about! Had I wished you dead, I’d have called you out four miserable years since!”

  “But did not. Why? Because you loved my wife? Because you and she had a more than passing fancy?”

  Gains was stunned into silence. The choleric hue faded from his face. He drew back and turned away and, after a tense pause, ejaculated in a stifled voice, “Damn you! So, you knew.”

  “Of course. Blanche told me.”

  Gains flung around, staring his incredulity, and Hawkhurst added dryly, “My apologies, Max. But, it was all part of the scheme, you see. Mount hoped I would call you out.”

  “You … lie! He worshipped her! And I—”

  “Loved her?” Hawkhurst’s cynical gaze held very steady, and before it Gains’ shocked eyes fell. “I rather thought you did,” Hawkhurst said in a kinder voice. “I knew it must have been a consuming passion for you to, as you thought, betray me.”

  Gains winced, walked over to the fire and, staring down at the blazing logs, muttered, “I thought she was … a saint. She seemed to love me. I swear I … I never meant to—” He turned suddenly and faced Hawkhurst fully. “I have never felt so utterly worthless. You were my closest friend. Later, I could not entirely blame you … for what you did. I fancied I had deserved it.”

  “Probably you did,” nodded Hawkhurst. “But did you also fancy it my habit to fritter away my spare time by standing about clutching a glass of vitriol?”

  “Why, I supposed you had been intending to clean something, or—”

  “I had, to the contrary, been intending to drink it!”

  Bryce’s gasp joined two others. Hawkhurst went on, “I believed it to be water, you see.” He sat down and added wryly, “Blanche arranged it for me.”

  Gains paled. Chilton swore under his breath. Coleridge’s jaw dropped, and he stared in total horror.

  “You had best,” sighed Hawkhurst, “hear the rest of it…”

  Five minutes later, he finished and stared fixedly at his outstretched legs. Gains, perched on the edge of the desk, watched him, aghast, and the two younger men exchanged shocked glances.

  “I suppose I always knew it was something like that,” Gains muttered at last. “But I couldn’t bear to admit I’d just been a tool. Nor did I dream Avery was alive. Of all the foul, murderous ploys!” He sprang up. “Chilton, the bell! Hawk, can you forgive me?”

  Hawkhurst struggled to his feet, hand outthrust and eyes eager. Gains moved forward but did not take his hand, saying instead, “I’ll not let you borrow my hound, though.” Hawkhurst’s arm dropped, and Gains went on, “Unless you allow me to come with you.”

  Hawkhurst grinned. They gripped hands in a firm, lingering clasp that wiped away four years of bitterness, then, together, moved to the door. Chilton winked at Bryce, and they followed.

  “Brownlee!” shouted his lordship in the hall. “Where’s that confounded dog of mine?”

  “The last time I saw him, m’lud,” returned the butler, aware to the last syllable of what had transpired in the study, “he was asleep on your lordship’s bed.”

  * * *

  CHILTON GAINS rode back to the curricle through the thickening murk of the fog, and Hawkhurst leaned forward to ask, “Where in the devil are we?”

  “Approaching the southwest side of Bristol, I believe, sir. My brother’s having the deuce of a time to hold Sampson now. Can you credit the good old hound dragging us all this way?”

  Gripping his knee painfully, Hawkhurst admitted, “I bless his every flea if he has brought us to my son. But how do you go on, Chilton? I hear you’ve brought a musket ball home with you.”

  The young man gave a deprecating shrug. “A confounded nuisance that ties me here when I should be with my Regiment. Not that it causes me much bother, you know.”

  Scanning the pale face and strained blue eyes, Hawkhurst nodded gravely. “I’m glad to hear it. You might tell your brother to have a care. I’d not wish his ravening brute to warn Mount of our arrival.”

  Chilton nodded and rode ahead again, his upright figure blurring as the mists closed about him. Hawkhurst turned to Colley. “He should not have come. That side is troublesome.” His cousin merely surveying him with a judicially elevated eyebrow, he smiled faintly. “I don’t like this. Bristol—ships, Colley. If Sampson has led us truly, I fear Avery may be destined for a cabin boy this time.”

  They had been driving for hours, Sampson’s eager progress delayed by side excursions into various thickets and riverbanks which seemingly held Avery behind every bush and tree, each one of which required the dog’s personal attention. Twice, they had been diverted into chases after rabbits, and the third detour, which proved to have been inspired by the prowls of an indignant black cat, had provoked Hawkhurst to growl that he could not conceive how Sampson had “gone straight to” a concealed riding crop, over more than a mile of land presumably similarly infested with delicious distractions.

  The light was almost gone now, and as they entered the suburbs, flambeaux began to glow through the misty gloom. Chilton once again waved Avery’s nightshirt under Sampson’s nose, and the dog pranced off untiringly, threading his way through ever-deteriorating neighbourhoods until they were among noisome slums clustered about great warehouses. It was bitterly cold, and there were few people about, but occasionally they passed some hurrying individual, head tucked down into collar or scarf, hands deep thrust into pockets in an effort to keep warm. Once they were all but halted by a raucous group of seafaring men with flashily dressed, bold-eyed women hanging on their arms. The luxurious curricle and the two mounted men, one holding a leash at the
end of which strained the great dog, attracted immediate attention. The women screeched mockingly, and the men shouted crude comments at the “nobs wot’s come among us.” Surreptitiously, Hawkhurst checked his pistols and saw his cousin’s slim hand drop to his sword hilt when an arrogant lout lurched towards Sampson, only to leap back as the dog sprang eagerly to meet him. Gains spurred to a canter, Coleridge whipped up the team, and the unlovely crew jumped for safety, their profane resentment soon swallowed up by the fog.

  Sampson’s excitement was growing, his nose busier than ever as they turned down a narrow, furtive alley. A place of slimy cobblestones this, with refuse odorous in the kennels and rundown, old half-timbered buildings leaning over the narrow thoroughfare, their dirty windows draped with sacking or stained and ragged curtains, close drawn as though to shield whatever went on in those rank interiors. Soon the lane curved, the buildings to the left ceased, and in their stead a railing guarded the edge of a steep bank. Below the bank, another road surface paralleled the street they travelled and, beyond it, loomed the dim outline of the docks.

  Sniffing about frantically, Sampson raced ahead, paused, retraced his steps, turned back yet again, and stopped, baying madly at a tavern, the most decrepit, villainous old place Hawkhurst had ever laid eyes on. The multiple peaks of the roof sagged crookedly; chimneys leaned at precarious angles; the weathered siding was warped and stained with age; the windows were boarded; and a heavy chain secured the scarred front door. The sinister structure was a perfect setting for an individual having so unsavoury a reputation as Mr. Robert Mount, and Hawkhurst breathed an impassioned but silent prayer that Sampson had not failed them, that somewhere inside, little Avery was captive—but alive.

  Peering at the faded sign that hung listlessly from a rusted iron bracket, Gains muttered, “‘The White Rose.’ Huh! ‘The Weed Patch,’ more like!”

  “What a gruesome hole,” Coleridge agreed, but with his artist’s eyes noting every detail of the old building. “Can you imagine the wicked history of it?”