Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (17 page)

He commandeered a wastebasket and began to brush the wood
shavings across the coverlet. Kent snuggled down obediently and grinned
as, after the fashion of such perverse objects, the shavings bounced
more back than forwards, only a few falling into the basket. Hawkhurst
grunted, seized the coverlet, and attempted to shake off the debris.
Wood chips flew in all directions. Small, mirthful gasps were coming
from the invalid. Flashing him a frustrated glance, Hawkhurst strove
once more.

"Here!" Soft but capable hands removed his grip. He knew at
once who it was, and his heart quickened to find that vivid face so
close to his own. "Hello," he drawled. "Still 'luring,' ma'am?"

"Hold the basket," said Euphemia coolly, "and stop."

He watched her flip the remnants deftly into the basket he
held and said with fine boredom, "Stop… what?"

"You know very well." She straightened, in her eyes a warmth
that devastated him. "Now, if you will be so kind as to restore this to
the corner. And you, young man," she bent fondly over the merry-eyed
child, "should be asleep. Where is the abigail?"

Hawkhurst, replacing the wastebasket, offered over his
shoulder, "Gone to fetch some hot milk."

"So you had to come in and thoroughly wake him," she scolded
gently.

"Wherefore I shall now depart, very properly set-down." He
bowed, strode to the door, and turned back to wink at the boy.
"Becoming accustomed to it," he said wryly.

The gallery was icy cold and very dark but held no terrors for
Stephanie, who enjoyed robust good health despite her slender frame and
pale complexion. She walked to the south window and gazed unseeingly
over the wintry scene lit by a new moon. The snow had been very light,
and was already vanishing, but she could not remember it ever having
been quite this cold in December.

He was married. "Safely wed and with three hopeful children."
And, from a small remark Euphemia had dropped in the bedchamber this
evening, his wife was very beautiful. She would be, of course. While
she herself… how had Aunt Carlotta phrased it? "Another drab little
country dowd…" The moon swam suddenly, and she closed her eyes, feeling
the tears slip down her cheeks and knowing herself a hopeless fool, and
hopelessly lost.

"Thought I'd find you up here!"

She gave a gasp, and one hand flew to wipe frantically at
those betraying streaks.

"It's much too cold for you to—Hey! What's all this about?"

He stood before her, his angelic blue eyes peering at her
anxiously. He was everything she had ever hoped to find in a
gentleman—kind, gallant, sensitive, and—oh, so very good-looking. She
tried not to imagine him in all the glory of his regimentals and, more
devastatingly, recalled him sprawled on that sofa, Dr. Archer working
over his poor shoulder, and never a sound from his lips until his dear
head had sagged back, the eyes closing, and his face so deathly white.
And because such thoughts made her heartache unbearable and the tears
beyond controlling, she swung away and pressed both hands to her mouth,
fighting desperately to hold back the sobs.

"Now this will never do," said Buchanan, quite forgetting that
weeping women horrified him. "Has that ca—er, has your aunt been
railing at you again?"

Stephanie could not speak, but her shoulders shook, and
stepping closer, Buchanan drew out his large handkerchief. That
wretched woman had done this, and just when the poor little chit was
commencing to look so happy—she'd been positively aglow this evening.
How anyone could distress so sweetly-natured a girl was beyond
understanding. If it was up to him, that sharp-tongued harpy would be
given a scold she'd recall for many a year to come! He dabbed gently at
the wet cheeks, murmuring consolingly, "Never let her wound you, Miss
Stephie. She probably don't mean it, y'know. Cannot help but feel sorry
for poor old Bryce, must have led a dog's life." He checked as her
tragic eyes blinked at him, and a smile flickered valiantly through the
tears. Poor little thing! He knew a strong compulsion to take her in
his arms and comfort her but, deciding in the nick of time that this
might be constituted improper, said instead, "Now, what did she say?
I'll lay you odds—I mean, I don't suppose it was near as bad as you
think."

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!

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."