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

by Patricia Veryan

  "My dear God," she whispered. "Someone means to kill him!"

  "Yes, Miss," mourned Ellie, wiping her eyes with her apron. "This morning the ball went right through his new hat. Manners said, instead of seeking cover, Mr. Garret rode straight at the place where the shot had come from, but the man was too far ahead. He dropped his gun, but Mr. Manners says they don't know whose it is. Hogwaddle, Miss! We all of us knows! It be Lord Gains! Small wonder that his lordship should hold a grudge, I suppose, but he should call Mr. Garret out, like a gentleman. Not keep at him like this."

  Very pale, Euphemia asked in a far-away voice, "What else has happened?"

  "Year before last, he was set on by Mohocks. He was with Colonel Leith, thank goodness, and they give a good account of theirselves. But I heard the Colonel talking to Dr. Archer after they come home, and he said it was no more Mohocks than his sainted Grandmama! 'They was after Gary!' he says. Six months later, the master was sailing, and a leak come in his boat. It was a new boat, Miss, and there must've been a lot of leaks, 'cause it went down like a stone, and if he wasn't a strong swimmer, he'd surely have drowned. That was when we all began to start putting two and two together! When he was in London in the summer, a coping stone fell—missed him by a hair, his aunty said. He pretends it's all just 'accidents,' but he ain't fooling none of us!"

  Euphemia felt sick and was silent until, realizing Ellie was speaking again, she said, "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

  "I said it's wicked to torment a man so, just now and then, so he never knows what's coming. Fair wicked!"

  Euphemia walked slowly along the corridor, drawing on her gloves, her riding crop under her arm and her brow furrowed with worry. The shock of learning that Hawkhurst's life was threatened, and with such fiendish persistence, had driven all other considerations from her mind. It could not be Gains! It just could not be! Seldom had she been more instantly drawn to a man, and seldom did her judgments prove wrong. Her first impression of Hawk, in fact—She checked, startled to realize that she was beginning to think of him by his nickname and, also, that her cheeks were very warm. Seized by a sudden need to once more view the incredible beauty of Blanche Hawkhurst, she ran up the stairs to the top floor.

  She hurried into the gallery, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, and stopped abruptly. Hawkhurst sat on the bench before the central portrait. His head was down-bent, elbows on his knees, and hands loosely clasped between them. No one seeing him thus would have dreamed he did not mourn his wife, for he looked every inch a man crushed by grief. Even as she watched, his shoulders drooped lower, and one hand was drawn across his eyes in a weary gesture. Then, as if impatient with himself, his head came up; his shoulders squared; he stood and, never glancing in her direction, wandered to the far window and leant against the panelled wall, staring out into the gardens.

  Euphemia's heart was wrung. He looked so very alone that she had to fight an all but overmastering urge to run and cheer him somehow. But he was a strong man, and her witnessing of his sorrow would merely exacerbate his feelings. Reluctantly, therefore, she turned and walked slowly to the doors. Perhaps Dr. Archer had been mistaken, after all. Perhaps Hawk really had loved Blanche, if only for her beauty. She felt again the unfamiliar urge to weep and wondered if she was turning into a watering pot.

  Someone stood before her, and, looking up, she beheld Tristram Leith, a romantic figure in his staff officer's uniform, his eyes very grave as he watched her. She forced a smile and held a finger to her lips. He stepped aside at once and walked beside her to the stairs.

  "Whatever must you think of me?" she apologized. "I am truly sorry. Shall we still have time to ride?"

  He teased her gently about her tardiness and assured her there was time for a short ride. Leaving the house, however, was like entering the polar regions. Euphemia gave an involuntary gasp, ducking her head against Leith's cloak, and at once he took her arm and said solicitously, "No, it's too cold for you. We'll talk inside."

  "Never!" she laughed. "I need this, Tristram. To blow the cobwebs away."

  "The cobweb ain't spun that would dare mar you, lovely one. Come then, let's make a dash for it before we freeze solid."

  Hand in hand, they ran to the stables and rode out seconds later at a canter that swiftly became a gallop, down the slope and up the far hill.

  From the end dormer window of the gallery, two grey eyes watched broodingly until the riders were lost from sight.

  "Oh, Leith!" gasped Euphemia, cheeks a'tingle and eyes sparkling. "That was superb! Thank you!" She looked around curiously at the mouldering arches and walls that had been erected long and long ago on this lonely hilltop, and among which Leith had halted to lift her from the saddle. "What is this place?"

  "Nobody really knows. It's part of Dominer's Home Farm now, but scholars say it was a temple once and that Druids may have worshipped here. We often came here when we were boys. We used to climb to the top of the tower. It was Hawk's favorite place whenever he craved solitude."

  She looked at the great ivy-clad tower that soared at the very brink of the hill. "My heavens! How dreadfully dangerous! Had you fallen—"

  "Then I'd not be here to pester you today," he grinned. "But I wish you might see the view from up there. It's superb."

  She advised him firmly that she was perfectly satisfied with the view from their present vantage point and seated herself on the handkerchief he spread atop the lower outer wall.

  Leith stood beside her, tall and straight, everything a girl could hope for. And watching him, wishing with all her heart that she loved him, she knew she did not, nor ever would, save as a cherished friend.

  A dog barked somewhere, deep and baying, and she said anxiously, "Goodness! I do hope that's not Sampson!"

  "So you've met that hound, have you? Trust Max to acquire a mongrel who's a natural born clergyman."

  She gave a ripple of laughter. "Clergyman? You mean he saves souls?"

  "Devil a bit of it. He visits. The sick. And the indigent. And the rich, the poor, the hale, the hearty—and especially, he visits Gary. It's a delight to both of 'em, you know. Don't think they could get along without one another."

  Incredulous, she stammered, "But… Hawkhurst tried to… to kill him! He said he'd send him back to Gains a la John the Baptist!"

  He gave a shout of laughter. "And probably grabbed a pistol and tore after him howling bloody murder, eh? Lay you odds the gun wasn't loaded. Or if it was, he'd have been unable to get 'the blasted trigger' to work or some such fustian."

  "Oh!" she gasped indignantly. "And I swallowed the whole!"

  Leith put one booted foot on the wall and, leaning forward, took up her whip and toyed with it absently. "Hawk saved your life, so I hear. And young Kent's, which must have been a shade trying for him, poor old fellow."

  "Yes." Her indignation faded. "I had heard he does not care to have children around him. I can understand why."

  "It has done him good. I could see it the instant I arrived." Her vivid face was raised in an immediate and eager questioning, and, his heart sinking, Leith said quietly, "Hawk's been like a man frozen these last four years, Mia, a man afraid to live—not daring to love, and so grasping at every straw in a sort of defiant seeking for the happiness he cannot have."

  "But, why not? Lives can be rebuilt. Happiness can come again. Even if he loved her so—"

  "Loved her? Good God! I wonder he didn't strangle her! Oh, I know I should not speak ill of the dead—and Blanche was not an evil lady, do not mistake. In a way, Hawk was better served than poor Simon, for Blanche was not, so far as I am aware, er…"

  "Generous—with her affections?" Euphemia supplied dryly.

  "Right you are. She was just possessed, heart and soul, by another fellow. And she was so besotted she would do whatever he bade her. Blast him!"

  "Mount," Euphemia nodded. "Did you know him, Tris?"

  "Regrettably. And for a while I hoped she would settle for him. They were much alike, their total selfishness d
isguised by beauty. But I think Mount really loved Blanche insofar as he was capable of it, and I know she was mad for him. Only…" He hesitated as though fearful of betraying a confidence and shrugged, "Well, they would have been penniless. So she married Hawk."

  "I heard some of it. But, Leith, you are Hawk's friend, and you have always been as loyal as you could stare. Is there nothing can be done? His Grandpapa surely, could—"

  "The Admiral worshipped Blanche," Leith interposed softly. "He holds Garret solely to blame for her death."

  Stunned, Euphemia stared at him. So that was what Archer had meant when he'd said Wetherby came to "turn the knife" in Hawk. She'd somehow imagined it was the child the old man reproached him for. "But—but that is so wrong! Was he blind? Could he not see what manner of woman…" Leith's raised brows brought a hot surge of colour to her cheeks. "I know it is none of my affair," she said hastily. "Indeed, we'll be gone in a day or two, and I doubt shall ever see him again. I came here believing Hawkhurst to be some kind of—of Bluebeard. But he's not, Leith! I have seen him be incredibly brave, and kind, and… and gentle. It seems so wrong for those wicked rumours to—"

  "Wicked?" he exclaimed, as if surprised. "You do not believe them?"

  "Of course not! Good heavens, it must be very obvious that Hawkhurst is not the type to hurt a woman, let alone the child he loved so deeply!"

  Leith merely shrugged once more, and, searching his features, she cried anxiously, "Tris? You are not beginning to doubt? You will not turn against him, too? Oh, my dear friend, do not, I implore you. He needs you. He is so terribly alone. I feel sometimes that he is like a prisoner here, trapped by a reputation he does not warrant, but will not deny, and—" Leith was regarding her with a sad, sweet smile, and, rather aghast, she stopped.

  "My lovely lady," he murmured, taking one soft ringlet and twining it about his finger. "My pure girl; my brave, warmhearted, dream wife…"

  A lump rose in Euphemia's throat. He was going to offer again. Why must Fate be so difficult? Why could she not be in love with this fine young man?

  "Do not look so grieved," he said. "I am not going to offer—ever again, love. You are free of me, at long last."

  "Oh, Leith. Do not… do not… Or… I shall surely cry."

  "Never do that. The last thing I would bring you is tears. You should instead give me credit, my dear, for knowing when I am beaten."

  She met his eyes then, although her own were a'swim. And seeing the puzzlement in them, he said wistfully, "Poor little girl, you do not know it yourself, do you? Mia, oh, my sweet Mia… The blasted rogue don't deserve you, but you love him, you henwit."

  Euphemia stared at him blankly. And, cursing himself for a fool, he walked away, ostensibly to secure one of the horses which was pulling free of the shrub to which he had tied it.

  Poor Leith, she thought numbly. He was quite mistaken. She did not love at all. She could not. For she had always been perfectly sure that she would know her love at first sight. That she would only have to set eyes on him, and she would know. But—Why was her heart hammering so? Why did her breath flutter in such agitation? Unable to remain still, she rose and walked to the archway, where she stood staring out across the wintry landscape, the pale hills, the bare trees swaying in the wind, the heavy, gathering clouds. And saw instead eyes as grey as those clouds, a face lined by care, hair prematurely touched with frost, and a well-shaped mouth that could be so fierce and harsh, yet curve unexpectedly to laughter or to a tenderness incredible in its sweetness.

  And, like a great light, the truth burst upon her, burning away the heavy-heartedness that had so oppressed her these past few days and that she now knew had been occasioned by her struggle against this same truth. She could have spread her arms and danced and shouted with the wonder of it. She did love! For all time, for all her days, Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst was her love! Whether discredited and disgraced, whether held in contempt by all the haut ton, or by all the world—she loved him! Radiant, she spun about.

  Watching her, grieving, Leith was touched by awe. Never for him had that light shone in her glorious eyes; never had he seen that deep, transforming glow. He walked towards her and put out his arms, and she ran into them, lifting her face. He kissed her on her smooth brow, gently, lovingly. And in farewell.

  "You know," he said huskily, "had I ever dreamed he would steal my lady, I'd never have given him that blasted horse. I think I'll just take him back!"

  Blinking rather rapidly, Euphemia said. "Home… ?"

  "Sarabande. I gave him to Hawk when he was foaled. Didn't you know? I always told him it was only a loan, because he was too fine to take to the Peninsula, and if I left him at Cloudhills my Papa would likely bestow him on one of his… ah…"

  "Barques of frailty?" said Euphemia, well acquainted with Leith's irrepressible father.

  "Precisely… That treacherous rogue! By God, I shall take him back!"

  Chapter 10

  Long after Sarabande was out of sight and Leith's groom had entered the chaise and followed his master into the fading afternoon, Euphemia remained by the gatehouse, needing to be alone for a little while, to savour her new-found joy. Darkness fell, and there was no moon, but the bitter cold seemed to sharpen the air, and the stars hung like great jewels, suspended above her. She felt at one with the universe tonight, for the first time in her life, a being complete. And humbled by the wonder of it, she looked up and whispered, "I love, Papa. At last I have found my mate. Do you like him, dearest one? Do you approve? Of course, you do, for he is a man. And I dare believe, a gentleman. You would have asked no finer for me."

  She wheeled her mount then and rode slowly back towards the house.

  Not until she realized how few of the rooms were lighted did she recall the party at the rectory. With a shocked gasp, she spurred down the slope and into the stable-yard. A slender shape came to meet her. A quiet voice enquired, "Are you all right, Miss? We were worried."

  As always, Manners spoke like the well-bred man he was, but there was a trace of censure in the tone. Her chin lifting, Euphemia said, "Then I must at once go and make my apologies for such thoughtlessness. Take her for me, would you, please?"

  He obeyed, and she slipped from the saddle and walked away in silence. But suddenly she remembered him at the scene of the accident. He loved Hawk, and therefore she could not be angry with him. He was standing watching her when she turned back. She said softly, "The Colonel returns to France tomorrow, Manners."

  "Yes, Miss. He is a splendid gentleman. The master thinks very highly of him. And…" A small hesitation, then a rather breathless, "Perhaps, since I know him so well, it would not have been impertinent for me to have offered my congratulations."

  So that was why she had been scolded. Stifling a smile, she walked back a few paces. "Not impertinent, perhaps. But most inappropriate."

  "Inappropriate, Miss?"

  He sounded brighter, and she asked, "Did you tell Mr. Hawkhurst that the Colonel took Sarabande?"

  "Not yet, Miss. He'll likely send him back by easy stages tomorrow."

  "I doubt it." She heard the startled gasp and went on, "Colonel Leith seemed to feel Mr. Hawkhurst owed him something."

  "He… he did, Miss?"

  No mistaking the joyous note in the voice now, and bless the man for all that was implied by his delight. Euphemia again started towards the great sprawl of this beautiful house she had come to love, but a hand was on her arm, and Manners said, "Miss, they've all gone to the rectory."

  "Mr. Hawkhurst as well?"

  "No, but if I dare be so bold—that is, you must be tired. There's Mrs. Henderson, and one footman. May I ask for dinner to be sent to your room?"

  She could not see his face in the darkness, but something was amiss. She murmured her thanks, but refused and hurried to the side door.

  The footman who bowed to her in the Great Hall was very young and, in response to her question, allowed that he had, "No h-idea as to where the master might be found."

>   Euphemia put back her hood, unbuttoned the throat of the pelisse, and handed the garment to him. Taking up the skirt of her habit, she hurried along the hall. How quiet the house was… She glanced into drawing room, lounges, salons, library, music room, and the small dining room, all without success. His study, perhaps. She all but ran to that small room, where she knew he retreated when Carlotta sniped at him or Coleridge vexed him.

  The door was closed, but she could smell the fragrance of wood burning and, daringly, lifted the latch and entered. Hawkhurst was sprawled in the wing chair by the fire, one booted leg slung carelessly over the arm, the other stretched out before him. A bottle lay on the rug, and his glass, half-full, sagged in his hand. He peered around the side of the chair, his face flushed and aggressive, then came to his feet to stand weaving unsteadily. He had not dressed for dinner and had discarded his jacket; with his dark hair tousled and his cravat loosened, he looked amazingly younger and much less formidable. "Well, well," he said jeeringly, the words only faintly slurred. "Thought you was gone, ma'am. Wall thought you was gone. Others went to th' party without you. Sorry. But… they thought—"

  "I was gone," she finished gravely. "But I am here, you see, Hawk."

  He flinched almost imperceptibly at her use of his nickname, then reached out to grasp the chair with one hand, holding himself steadier. "Yes. Well, you should not be. Private…'s-study. Don't allow ladies in here. An' 'sides, Leith wouldn't like it."

  She longed to kiss the bitterness from his eyes, but said gently, "I can understand your concern. He is your very good friend."

  He stiffened and turned slightly from her. "My… friend," he muttered to the carpet. "Yes. He is." He swung back and said in a less hostile fashion, "And he does 'deed have my… congratulations. He's truly splendid fellow, ma'am. I w-wish you happy."

  "Do you?" She moved past him to warm her hands at the fire. "Yet you are frowning again."