Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  She smiled in earnest at these kind but clumsy efforts and lied, "It was my—brother."

  Buchanan was surprised. It had seemed to him that Hawk fairly doted on the chit.

  "He wants to give me a… a proper come-out. And I…" She gestured helplessly.

  A come-out? The man must be all about in his attic! Her name would close every door, and as for vouchers to Almacks—never! He would have to have a careful word or two with Garret Hawkhurst. "I can readily see why," he lied kindly. "But—do you not wish it?"

  "No, oh, no!" She turned away again and said brokenly, "How should I know how to go on… with all those—those beauties, and debutantes? I would look a… perfect fool."

  She'd look a damn sight more desirable than the rest of 'em put together! he thought staunchly. She'd make some lucky man a gentle, devoted, loving wife, and she'd a sight more sense than most. She'd be dashed good with children too, for he had seen her several times with Kent, always so tender and sweetly patient. Her head was bending lower, and, comprehending that despite his busy thoughts he had said nothing, he responded impulsively. "You'd be splendid, and the man who looked twice at anyone else must be a regular chawbacon—Er, well, what I mean is—"

  She faced him, laughing shakily. "How very kind you are, Sir Simon."

  Buchanan again dried her tears with care, and told her she was not to worry. "Mia will manage everything."

  Stephanie nodded, but her teeth bit hard at her underlip. This, she thought miserably, was one thing even Mia could not manage!

  Chapter 8

  Hawkhurst did not put in an appearance at the breakfast table, and Euphemia found herself with only Coleridge Bryce for company. The boy looked glum, and her efforts to cheer him met with brief smiles, followed by a clouding of his hazel eyes and a stifled sigh. Euphemia left him to his thoughts for a while, then said casually, "Oh, I must tell you, I met your friend Gains while I was riding yesterday, my lord, and—"

  "I wish you will call me Colley, ma'am. All my friends do. But I'd not thought Chilton would ride in this weather. He's been a trifle down pin."

  She expressed her regrets and explained it was Maximilian Gains she had encountered. "He seemed a most pleasant gentleman."

  "That's like Max." Genuine regret was in his pleasant face. "He is the very best of fellows. He and Hawk was inseparable as boys, you know, and I think Max might… If only… But, Hawk cannot—" He ceased this disjointed utterance and said apologetically, "You will be thinking me a fine idiot for spilling the wine in that foolish way last evening. But, Jove! you surprised me, ma'am!"

  "I suspect I surprised everyone," she smiled. "And I wish you will call me Euphemia, or Mia. Indeed, I feel almost like one of the family."

  "How I wish you were! Hawk is like another man since you came. And as for Stephie! Why, only last night Hawk marvelled at the change you have wrought in her. She is becoming positively pretty!" He reddened, and gasped, "Oh! Not that she was plain before! I did not mean—"

  "Of course, you did not." He looked horrified, and, liking him the more for it, she thought, How little he resembles his Mama. "To tell you the truth, Colley, I have not yet discussed fashions and such with Stephanie. You are very fond of her, are you not?"

  "Oh, well, she's a jolly good sport. None of your missish airs and vapours, you know. Two years ago I was tossed heels over head near the old ruins and fractured my leg. Awful mess, but Stephie stopped the bleeding, covered me with her own cloak, for it was coming on to rain, and rode for help—just like any fellow!"

  Stifling a smile at this boyish endorsement, Euphemia admitted she was not surprised. "She is the dearest girl. The kind who would always be ready with sympathy and understanding."

  "Yes." He sighed and said wistfully, "If only Hawk would be—" Again biting back his unguarded words, he took another muffin, only to become even redder in the face as he encountered the half-eaten one already on his plate. His embarrassed glance at Euphemia met with such a merry chuckle that he could only shrug and say a rueful, "Lord, what a clodpole I am!"

  "No, no. Merely troubled. And if I dare presume to guess— you do not wish a pair of colours, is that it?"

  "Hawk thinks I am afraid, but I'm not! Indeed, I would love to go, for I think it would be grand to fight with such fine fellows as Richard Saxon and Leith and Colborne. You know them all, I fancy?"

  "Very well. And a young man could find no finer inspiration than to look to any one of them. But, if you do not wish a military career, surely your cousin would agree to another? A diplomatist perhaps? Or—have you given any thought to the law?"

  "Oh, yes. Hawk would be delighted did I choose such a course," he nodded bitterly. " 'Tis only my own choice disgusts him. He says it is unmanly nonsense, that I claim an interest merely to keep from being packed off to Spain. But do not, I beg of you, speak for me, for it would but serve to make him despise me even more!"

  He looked so dejected that she leaned closer and said earnestly, "Surely your cousin would not be so unkind as to—" She broke off as Colley's horrified gaze lifted and, turning, was dismayed to see Hawkhurst standing in the open doorway.

  He had obviously come in from riding, for his hair was windblown and his whip still under his arm. His face was a mask of rage, his eyes murderous slits.

  Strolling to the table, he drawled, "Inciting the troops to riot again, Miss Buchanan… ?"

  A hump under the bedclothes, Stephanie yawned, "Nine o'clock? Is something wrong?"

  "Wake up, you lazy girl!" laughed Euphemia, ruthlessly pulling back the comforter. "This is my day to incite the troops, so you may as well be next!" She paused, and for an instant her brow puckered, as she recalled poor Colley's frantic attempts to explain the situation and Hawkhurst's white-lipped fury. Odd, but she was perfectly sure that rage was directed neither at her nor his cousin, and had in fact been provoked by something that had occurred earlier, something a great deal more serious. She became aware that Stephanie had slipped back into slumber and, tugging at the blankets, cried, "I vow you are just like Simon, half asleep until after breakfast! Do hurry, Stephie! I can spare you only an hour or so, for Dr. Archer will be here at eleven. Your room is warm as toast, and here is your faithful Kathy with all the fal-lals I asked her to fetch. Up, you lazy girl! Up!"

  Thus it was that the befuddled Stephanie was whisked through the business of bathing, helped into her underclothes and petticoat, a kimona wrapped about her, a sheet bound tightly about her throat, and herself seated at her dressing table—all before she had time to draw a breath, or so it seemed.

  "Set Miss Stephanie's chocolate there, if you please," requested Euphemia, flashing her friendly smile at the apprehensive maid, "and brush out her hair whilst I sharpen my scissors."

  Kathy touched the long, rippling silk of Stephanie's thick tresses and uttered a little cry. "Oh, Miss! You never mean to cut it short? Mr. Garret will be that vexed!"

  Eyeing the shining blades with equal unease, Stephanie demurred, "Mia, perhaps… we should not."

  Euphemia sighed, "It is a pity, I grant you, but—yes. I am sure! Be brave, love. You may always purchase a wig!"

  Kathy squealed in horror and turned away, only to be commanded to stop being such a featherwit, and heat the curling tongs at once.

  Feeling very pleased with herself, Euphemia hummed cheerfully as she made her way along the corridor. She started down the stairs, then checked. The fireboy had told her that Blanche Hawkhurst's portrait was to be hung today, as it always was, in case the Admiral should chance to honour Dominer with a visit at this festive season. Curious, she turned back and climbed the second flight of stairs.

  The doors to the gallery were wide, and two lackeys, directed by the butler, were positioning a very large portrait in the centre of the long room. Euphemia glanced about her admiringly. What a splendid old place it was, and fortunate, indeed, the lady who would occupy it as Mrs. Garret Hawkhurst… She was at once shocked by this trend of thought. Poor Blanche Hawkhurst had been far
from fortunate!

  The lackeys marched dignifiedly past, and the butler stopped beside her, his pudgy hands clasped as he asked in his formal manner if he might be of any service. "I came to see Mrs. Hawkhurst," she confided frankly. "Do you really think Lord Wetherby will come, Parsley?"

  Accompanying her back along the gallery, the butler replied that he doubted it. "The Admiral has only been here three times since Mrs. Hawkhurst died, Miss. He never has got over the shock, you see." The interest in her eyes, which he thought among the most handsome he had ever seen, led him on. Mr. Garret would not like it, he knew. Nonetheless… "She was the apple of the old gentleman's eye. But—perhaps I should tell you that…"

  Euphemia, who had been gazing up at a most formidable looking old lady, turned to him enquiringly, "Yes, Parsley?"

  "Well, er—" He paused and, losing his nerve, gulped, "My name, Miss, is Ponsonby."

  It was not what he had intended to say, Euphemia was sure of it. Drat the man! Still, she was sufficiently shocked to exclaim, "Oh, my goodness! How very rag-mannered you must think me!"

  "Not at all," he reassured hurriedly. "It is a childish nickname, and sometimes Mr. Garret forgets."

  "Well, I think it insupportable! You have every right to insist…" His affectionate smile and slow shake of the head stopped her. "But you are too fond of him for that, I see," she nodded.

  "I have known him since he was a sad little boy in short coats," replied Ponsonby, who had not failed to note the new light in his master's eyes of late. "And, if I may say so, Mr. Garret grew into the most high-couraged youth, the most loyal and—and truly gallant young man it has ever been my privilege to serve!"

  Having made such an emotional declaration, he looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but his sincerity was beyond doubting, and, impressed, Euphemia said slowly, "I see that I understated the case. You are more than fond of him."

  "A great deal more, Miss," he mumbled, very red in the face. He gestured upwards. "This is Mrs. Hawkhurst. And little Avery, rest his soul."

  Euphemia tore her gaze from his honest features, looked up, and stood transfixed. Simon's description of Blanche Hawkhurst had been, if anything, inadequate. A vision looked down from the canvas, a young woman, seated in a rose arbour, a small boy clutching at her skirts. Her hair was a cloud of gold, with two sleek ringlets dropping onto one snowy shoulder. Pale green eyes, long and well open, were fringed by thick, dark lashes; a perfect little mouth pouted slightly in an expression that was reminiscent of Simon's wife; and the dimpled chin was uptilted in a faintly challenging fashion. Yet, all in all, the perfect oval of the face was exquisitely lovely, the flawless complexion and delicate nose enhancing a beauty that certainly must have had all London at her feet. Euphemia let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding in check and glanced to the child. He looked to be about three years old, an adorable little boy, as fair as his lovely mother, but with a twinkle in the grey eyes and a suspicion of stubbornness about the chin that, even at that early age, spoke of his sire. "Oh…" she murmured regretfully, "how very sad."

  "Sad indeed," agreed a gruff voice at her elbow.

  It was Archer's voice, and, glancing around, she discovered that Ponsonby had gone and the doctor now stood beside her. "You knew her, sir?" she asked.

  "I did." She scanned his strong face curiously, and he went on, still gazing at that angelic face. "She was the loveliest woman I ever saw."

  "Very lovely. No wonder Hawkhurst pursued her so desperately."

  He uttered a loud and mocking snort of laughter, saw Euphemia's mouth droop a little with surprise, and thought it a most pretty sight "Hawk pursued his son, ma'am!" he explained. "And has been like a soul lost in some bleak wilderness ever since his death. The boy had given back to him all the joy Blanche destroyed. He was Hawk's world, his life, his every hope for the future. When I hear fools whisper that Avery died by his father's plotting—By heaven! I could throttle 'em with my bare hands!"

  Euphemia's heart had, for some reason, commenced to beat very rapidly during this little speech. "But… but," she stammered, "why has he refused to tell what happened?"

  "Pride, partly. He's a surfeit of that, I'll admit. Anger, too, that any dared so accuse him. But I'll tell you this, Miss Euphemia, had Garret Hawkhurst to have chosen between his own death by the slowest, most hideous means the mind of a man can devise, or that child's life—he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed himself! I don't blame him for turning his back on the Society that named him murderer! The haut ton, ma'am? I've a better name for 'em, but cannot use it before such as yourself! And worse than any of 'em is the man who brought it all about!" He turned, hands gripped behind him, and, stalking to a portrait on the opposite wall, nodded at it vengefully. "Here's your culprit! Here's the blind, proud, unrelenting, maggot-witted bacon brain who caused it!"

  Euphemia's eyes were already scanning that other portrait: a naval officer in full-dress uniform, cockaded hat under one arm, the other hand resting upon the stone parapet of a balcony, with far beyond him the shadowed outlines of a harbour and many great ships. A tall, sparse gentleman, with thick hair tied in at the nape of the neck, a high forehead, a beak of a nose, fierce dark eyes, a thin mouth and proud chin. The face of an eagle, she thought. One who would demand instant obedience and unwavering loyalty.

  "Impressive, ain't he?" sneered Archer, his eyes on the girl's awed face.

  "Very. They say he may come here."

  "Well, I hope to God he don't! He only comes to turn the knife in Hawk. And succeeds, damn him!"

  She turned at that and said in her forthright way, "You should not talk to me like this, you know." He scowled, but said nothing, and she smiled. "But I hope you will not let that weigh with you."

  He chuckled and, encouraged by the twinkle in her eyes, extended his arm. Euphemia took it, and he escorted her slowly along the gallery, much as if they were out for a morning stroll.

  "We owe Mr. Hawkhurst a great deal," she pointed out. "Perhaps, did I know his story, I might repay him somewhat by—"

  "By countering some of the gossip?" Archer shook his head. "Cannot. I've tried. People believe what they wish to believe and would liefer hear bad of a man than good. Besides, all Hawk will say is he had no hand in killing them. Ain't enough, don't y'see. As to how it all started…" He sighed, brow furrowed and eyes reminiscent. "Well, it was a race. The most stupid, murderous steeplechase, and all London agog and betting crazy. Hawk was near seven years old when his Papa rode and led all the way—to the last water jump. They carried him home on a hurdle. Back broke. He died the next day. It was all so blasted nonsensical! So wags the world and its follies… His wife Cordelia had been a great beauty in her day, but she was a frail woman. She adored her husband and, when he was killed, her heart went with him. She lacked the strength to go on living for the sake of her children and quite literally grieved herself into her grave."

  "Oh, the poor soul," Euphemia murmured, her warm heart touched.

  Archer grunted unsympathetically. "Oh, the poor children! The two older girls were placed in a seminary. Stephanie was a babe in arms and went to her Aunt Dora, but the Admiral held Dora incapable of rearing a boy and acceded to his daughter-in-law's wish that her cousin take him. Her admired Wilberforce." He swore under his breath. "Vanity, thy name is Wilberforce!"

  "He was a dandy?"

  "He was—what you would call today, a 'Top o' the Trees'! All coats and cravats and every sporting venture, every bit o'muslin, every gaming table in Town! That selfish young blade had no time for a heartbroken little boy. He put Garret in the care of a tutor, pocketed the funds the Admiral supplied, and promptly forgot the boy. And the tutor! Now, there was a rare individual! Or at least," a fiercer look glittered in his eyes, "I pray they're rare! The slimy type who bow and smile and simper to the Quality—and hate their—er, insides! Such was the man friend Wilberforce selected, wherefore young Garret endured over a year of pure hell at his hands. A housemaid saved him. Garret had tried to
run away, and the tutor's revenge was more than she could abide. She risked her entire future, went to the Admiral's lodgings and told his man all about it. Wetherby was expected home the following day, and he moved fast, I'll say that much. Hawk was out of the house within an hour of his return, and the housemaid (now our Nell Henderson, by the way) with him. I heard that when Wetherby first laid eyes on the boy he was so enraged, he knocked Wilberforce right off his feet. I hope it's truth! At all events, from a nightmare of inhumanity, Garret found himself in a dream world where he was not only once again decently treated, but affection was lavished on him. You can guess the rest; he idolized the man who'd rescued him. From that day to this, did Wetherby ask for his heart on a plate, he would have it!"

  Archer paused and, while Euphemia waited quietly, stared out of one of the recessed bays. "All went well for a few years. Until 'friendship' entered the picture. Our Admiral wasn't much given to making 'em. Friends, I mean—not pictures! But he had one, a fine young fellow he'd met at Harrow.

  They went all through their school and university days together, he and Spaulding, and finally, both fell in love with the same girl. Spaulding won and wed the lady. I don't think Wetherby ever got over that first love, but he eventually married, and I gather it was a moderately happy match. Anyway, the two families remained close friends. The Wetherbys had a son, Garret's Papa, and two daughters of whom our Mrs. Graham is the only one now living. The Spauldings had only one son, who later fathered Blanche. And Blanche grew to be the image of Wetherby's great love, by now gone to her reward. The Admiral doted on the girl. Her Papa was killed at Assaye, and, when her grandpapa died, she and her mother lived very frugally until Wetherby stepped in and moved them into a charming house he owns just off Grosvenor Square. Blanche soon became the Rage—a great Toast. I needn't tell you that it was Wetherby's dream his grandson should wed her. Garret resisted at first, for he had no tendre for her. I think he suspected that there was little of character behind that beautiful face. To the old man, however, Blanche was the embodiment of everything he had loved and lost. She wasn't. She was weak and foolish and insanely in love with a fellow named Robert Mount. A handsome young devil, but not a feather to fly with!"