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

by Patricia Veryan

  "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.

  "Hell and damnation!" roared Hawkhurst, recovering. "Get down, madam!"

  "I will not!" she flashed defiantly.

  "Then, by God, I'll put you out!"

  He bent towards her. "Stand away!" cried Euphemia and swung the whip she held in a wild, snaking crack over the heads of the horses.

  The greys reared, screamed, and plunged. The grooms jumped for their lives. Hawkhurst, caught off balance, grabbed the reins with one hand and the side with the other, and somehow managed to avoid being thrown out. But there was no stopping the team. They bolted, wild with nerves, excitement, and high-bred nonsensicality.

  Clinging to the side in heart-stopping terror, for several minutes Euphemia was sure they must both die. But, sobbing for the breath that was swept from her by the rush of air, she realized at last that the grim-faced man beside her, far from attempting to slow them, was urging them on, his keen eyes fixed upon the road ahead, his hands sure and firm on the reins.

  The quaint old bridge she had once admired was directly ahead: the bridge that was not yet properly repaired! "Hawk!" she screamed. "Stop! You'll kill us!"

  "You should've thought of that before!"

  She shot a terrified look at him. He had lost his hat when he almost fell at the start. The wind had whipped his hair into a tumbled untidy darkness about his pale face, and he looked wild and unyielding. The bridge shot towards them, the curricle looking twice as wide as that narrow span. "Do you feel the need," he shouted, "pray!"

  She prayed. A deeper rumble of wheels, a wild jolting, and they were across. Prom somewhere behind them, she thought to hear a startled yell, fading swiftly into the night.

  It was a race against time now. A mad, plunging, reckless nightmare of speed. A scattering of cottages appeared distantly, flew towards them, and were gone. Euphemia's eyelashes were blown back into her eyes, and her hair was whipped about until it all came down and screamed out behind her. Her hands clutched at the side until they were numb. Her feet were braced against the front panel, and she wondered how Hawk could brace himself with that injured leg. The curricle rocked around curves and flashed between hedgerows at what seemed impossible speed, but always Hawkhurst's sure hands guided the thundering greys with hair's-breadth precision. And gradually Euphemia's terror gave way to exhilaration. Lips parted, eyes shining, she leaned forward, gazing into the night, watching trees and barns and hayricks loom out of the darkness, shoot at them, and whip past.

  They had long since left the Dominer preserves, and now turned onto a main road. A sleepy village hurtled by, and scant moments later another loomed up and was gone. Bishops Cannings, she thought. Hawkhurst left the road and headed across the country. He must be mad! Surely he'd never dare go through the forest at night? Instead, they bumped onto a road again, and soon a mail coach approached, challenging them for more than its share of the narrow surface. Euphemia shrank, but Hawkhurst, his jaw set, held the greys relentlessly straight. A horn blared stridently, a howl and a stream of curses, wheels that came so close they shaved the hubs of the curricle's wheels. Screams and yells, and the six-in-hand broke into wild, rearing confusion. A harsh laugh from Hawkhurst, and they were clear. Weak in the knees, Euphemia sat and shook. No more traffic now, only the jolt and ramble and pound of their own flight. On and on, until her eyes smarted from the buffeting of the icy wind, and she closed them briefly.

  "Hells fire!" shouted Hawkhurst. "Hang on, Mia!"

  Startled, she looked up and uttered a choked gasp. To the left was a stand of trees, and on the right, a rockstrewn slope descended to a rushing stream. A tree was down across the road ahead, and beyond it were two mounted men, masked and grim, with pistols levelled.

  "Stand!" they bellowed jointly.

  "You had to come, woman," Hawkhurst roared. "They must have missed the Night Mail! Get down!"

  She stared at him in bewilderment and, torn between pride and horror, knew that he did not mean to stop. His arm shot out. She was seized and flung forward, her nose jamming against her knees, and then every bone in her body was being jolted to pieces; her teeth snapped together; the air was beaten from her lungs as the curricle turned right and headed sharply downward, bouncing and swaying over ruts and rocks. One stumble of the greys, she thought, and they would overturn! A shot rang out, deafening in the quiet night, and then another. Angry shouts blasted her ears with swiftly fading profanity. The jouncing eased, and the wheels were on a level road surface once more.

  Euphemia sat up straight, scanning Hawkhurst for any sign of a wound. The moon was brighter now, painting the countryside with its faerie light, and he looked unhurt. She touched her nose, and her suspicions were confirmed.

  "Confound you, sir!" she cried furiously. "Now see what you have done!"

  He shot an admiring glance at her, then looked again, anxiety stark upon his face. "Oh, egad! Are you all right?"

  She leaned against him weakly. "Oh, Garret… I am so… faint."

  Frantic, he pulled back, slowing the team. Then he grunted, 'The deuce you are!" and dropped his hands. "Giddap!"

  "Hawk, listen] Please, at least listen!"

  He ignored her, leaning into the wind, holding the reins with one hand while shoving a handkerchief at her with the other. She took it and mopped at her nose. "Lean your head back!" he shouted.

  She did and after a minute or two looked up. The horses were not racing as fast now, and she asked, "Where do you suppose they have gone?"

  "To Town. Your precious philanderer will need his uniform, his bank, and the Horse Guards."

  He was right, of course, and Euphemia's heart sank. It was near inconceivable that her dear brother, so brave and upright, was prepared to subject that sweet girl to the humiliation and degradation that must be her lot wherever they went. But, glancing at the man beside her, she knew she had been willing to risk such disgrace, had even been so bold as to suggest it. Only Hawk, with his iron control, his rigid adherence to the very code that had rained him, had rejected her.

  They were coming into a hamlet, quiet and peaceful in the moonlight. The wheels rattled over the cobbled streets, and Hawkhurst pulled into the yard of The Fox and Hounds and tossed the reins to a sleepy ostler who came stumbling to them. He clambered out painfully, steadied himself, then reached up to her. He looked white and strained, and she refused his aid, jumping lightly down on the other side with a flash of neat ankles. He turned to the ostler. "My blacks. Five guineas if you break your record!"

  The ostler's chin sagged. Then he whistled shrilly, and another man ran from the stables, tucking his shirt into his breeches.

  Rubbing drowsy eyes, the proprietor stepped out of the inn and was galvanized into action. "Mr. Hawkhurst! This way. What, are you hurt, sir? I'll get my cane for you. Take my arm. This way, ma'am."

  The parlour was low-roofed, quaint, and warm. Hawkhurst perched wearily on the edge of a chest, and the proprietor hurried away to call his wife.

  "Do you try to abandon me, Garret," warned Euphemia softly, "I shall scream bloody murder and vow you're carrying me off!"

  He was staring sombrely at
the dying fire and for a moment appeared not to have heard her, but glanced up suddenly and said, "They should not believe you. I am well known here."

  "Then they would most assuredly believe me," she countered. Appreciation brightened his eyes, and his stern mouth quivered for a brief second.

  "I should like to tidy my hair and wash," she said.

  "You have precisely ten minutes, ma'am."

  She knew better. A plump country woman wrapped in a voluminous flannel dressing gown showed her to a pleasant little upstairs bedchamber. She splashed a wet rag over her face, bound up her flying hair so that it looked halfway presentable, and returned in less than five minutes to find Hawkhurst seated on the outside bench, tankard in hand, watching as the ostlers harnessed a fine team of blacks to the curricle. He was slumped against the wall, and she had a fleeting impression of total despair and hopelessness, but he glanced up, saw her coming towards him, and scowled with chagrin. The proprietor followed to hand her a sandwich and a tankard into which she peered uneasily. "What is it?"

  "Hemlock!" ground out Hawkhurst.

  "Hot toddy, ma'am," the proprietor chuckled and went to his grooms.

  "You'd best drink up," said Hawkhurst. "If you insist upon going to an execution, you will need it."

  Tears stung Euphemia's eyes, and a pang went through her, but she would not weep. She must be strong if she was somehow to prevail. She took a sip of the toddy and coughed, but it was hot and invigorating. She was mildly surprised that at so terrible a moment she could be ravenously hungry and took several bites of the sandwich before pleading, "Does it mean nothing to you that I love him? Dearest, only think what an impenetrable barrier you will build between us if you persist."

  "Your loyalty is commendable. Your judgment questionable. And the barriers between us are already impenetrable, Mia."

  "You were not so harsh in the ruins," she said, shamelessly reminding him of his obligation.

  He looked at her steadily, but said nothing.

  "Oh, Garret, have you no compassion? Simon is—"

  "A black-hearted rogue! He was willing enough to accept my hospitality, even though he despised me! And he repaid me by weaseling himself into the affections of a pure and innocent girl! Oh, I've a couple of cousins, ma'am, I'd give him gladly enough, I assure you! But, Stephanie? No, by God! I'll see the slimy scoundrel dead at my feet, rather!" Her muffled sob tore his heart despite his fierce utterance, but he said with grim implacability, "Were you and I happily wed, Mia—which can never be—I would not be turned aside from this." And he stood, took up the cane the landlord had brought him, and began to hobble towards the curricle.

  Euphemia ran to stand before him and reached up to tug at the cape of his coat in desperation. "Garret, please! I love him, just as you love her! You cannot imagine what his life has been with that awful wife of—"

  "Oh, can I not!" He flashed bitterly, striving to pull her hands away.

  She clung to him tenaciously, gazing into the steely grey eyes with tearful entreaty, having no idea of how bewitching she looked with the moonlight gilding the drops that clung to her lashes. "Garret, my dearest one, do you not yet know what it really means to love? To long to be with someone so that each moment apart is an eternity? Every beat of your heart an ache of longing?"

  At this the hardness faded from his eyes, to be replaced by a yearning sadness. He threw the cane into the curricle and reached to take her hands and press them to his lips, murmuring, "Yes, God help me, now… I know."

  "And I also. Darling, think of what you throw away. Think of what our future might be."

  He leaned to her. "I adore you," he breathed. "Even with mustard on the end of your pretty nose!" And before she could move, shoved her brutally away.

  Euphemia fell, sprawling. Dragging himself painfully into the curricle, Hawkhurst snatched up the reins. But she was nothing if not true to her word. Her voice teacher might have despaired of her singing, but he had at least taught her lung control. Abandoning every instinct of propriety, even as she went down she let out a shriek that brought light flaring into several windows of the old hostelry, while half-clad ostlers and stablehands ran into the yard. She continued in full cry, and her piercing screams, which merely startled the human beings, wrought havoc with the thoroughbreds. For several minutes it was all Hawkhurst could do just to keep the panicked blacks from climbing into the curricle with him.

  When at length he swung the whip and sent them streaming out of the yard and onto the road, Euphemia was at his side.

  Chapter 17

  They were rumbling over a hump-backed bridge across the Kennet when Hawkhurst saw the chaise ahead. He grinned savagely and sent the whip hissing out, and the blacks, who had been nursed along for the last two miles, sprang into their harness and were off at a headlong gallop.

  "I am amazed," shouted Hawkhurst sardonically. "He took Stephanie's new chaise. I thought he'd help himself to my other racing curricle, at the very least! D'you suppose your noble brother fancied me too knocked up to follow, ma'am?"

  Euphemia winced, but said nothing, hanging on for dear life, perceived that Simon must have seen them, because the chaise ahead lurched suddenly and was away at top speed.

  Never afterwards would she forget that frenzied race through the night, the total disregard for the irregularities of the road, for common sense or human life. She could well imagine the despair in Simon's heart and the terror that must possess poor Stephanie. As for herself, if Hawk shot her brother, her own life would be finished, for to lose them both must either rob her of all reason or plunge her into a grey world in which there would be nothing left but loneliness. She glanced down, wondering if she could possibly reach the flat and deadly box Bailey had thrust under the seat. But at this speed it must be a hopeless attempt. They were creeping up relentlessly. Poor dear souls, they had no least chance!

  And then the chaise slowed and pulled to a stop, and Buchanan jumped down.

  Hawkhurst swore under his breath as the curricle went shooting past at such a rate that it was necessary for him to make a wide swinging turn and send the team cantering back.

  Tensely, Euphemia waited her chance. When he started out, she would push him and seize the Mantons. It would break her heart to hurt him again, but better that than tragedy for them all.

  Hawkhurst reined the team to a halt, turned to her with a weary smile, and suddenly caught her in a merciless grip. She squealed as she was whirled across him and over the side, to be dumped unceremoniously onto the grass at the side of the road. With a reckless leap, he sprang from the curricle, gasped, and clung to the wheel, head down. Strengthened by fury, he stood straight almost immediately, hauled out his Mantons, and with the box under his arm hobbled towards Buchanan, who stood beside the chaise still, Stephanie held close against his heart.

  The girl broke free and ran to face her brother. "Gary," she sobbed, wringing her hands in despair. "Simon did not want this. The fault was mine… only mine!"

  "Fustian! Stand aside!"

  Instead, she reached out to him imploringly. "I told him I would… enter a convent. I meant it! Gary, dear one… I beg of you—"

  "I should rather by far see you take the vows than embark on the pretty life he plans for you! I gave you credit for more integrity than this, ma'am!"

  Buchanan strode to take Stephanie by the shoulders. He was very pale, but his voice was steady. "I told you this would happen, love. And I cannot say I'm sorry. Allow me now to handle it with some shred of honour." He set her aside and faced Hawkhurst. "I am at your disposal, sir."

  "Oh, no… no!" sobbed Stephanie.

  Euphemia took the distraught girl in her arms, experiencing a feeling of total helplessness. She had done all that it was humanly possible to do. Her brother looked at her with a fond, sad smile, and, despite her love for him, she knew in her heart that Hawk was all too well justified, even as she knew that Stephanie, fighting for her happiness, must have driven Simon to this decision. What a hopeless mess!


  Hawkhurst regarded his weeping sister for a moment and, his eyes a glare in his drawn face, grated, "One chance,

  Stephanie. Swear you will never see him again, and I'll let the cheating cur live."

  Buchanan's head flung upward. "I think," he said angrily, "we have come too far for that, sir!"

  "You… think?" Hawkhurst swung to him fiercely. "I would be well justified in shooting you out of hand! Think on that!"

  "Yes, in your place I would feel the same, no doubt. But I shall not give her up, so do not bother to ask."

  Hawkhurst nodded. "It will not be necessary for me to slap you, I trust? I despise histronics." He opened the pistol box and offered it, the moonlight gleaming on those beautifully wrought messengers of death. Buchanan selected one, tested the balance and gave a wry smile of appreciation. "Where?"

  Hawkhurst glanced around and nodded towards a level patch of turf between two clumps of trees a short distance off the road. Courteously, he enquired if Sir Simon had any objections, to which, just as courteously, Buchanan replied that he had none, and they started off, the girls, arms entwined, following helplessly.

  Hawkhurst was paying a bitter price for all this activity and was obliged to slow on the last few yards, which were up a slight rise. As Buchanan passed, he said unevenly, "You had best… say your last words to… my sister."

  "Thank you, but they were all said whilst you were racing your team half a mile down the road and back."

  Hawkhurst nodded, tossed a curt command to the girls that they remain here, and accompanied Buchanan onto the turf. Stephanie wept softly. Euphemia was pale and silent, unable to tear her eyes from the two young men who, in time-honoured fashion, now stood back to back.

  Slanting a glance to the side, Hawkhurst saw her agonized gaze and thought, This must be goodbye, my dearest love. Either way. And he said softly, "Last chance, Buchanan. Give her up."