Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (18 page)

"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!"

"Good heavens! Did Hawkhurst know she loved another man?"

"Not then, more's the pity. And to have seen her with the
Admiral you'd have thought her downright saintly, she was so loving and
devoted."

"So… he married her," murmured Euphemia, "only to please his
benefactor."

Archer nodded dourly. "And thereby destroyed her, himself, and
their child! Fool that he was! But I still hold that the man
responsible was—Why, you young rascal! What the deuce d'ye mean by
cavorting about when I said you must lie on the sofa and be quiet?"

A small hand was tugging urgently at Euphemia's skirt. She
looked down into Kent's face, aglow with excitement as he pointed
towards the hall. He was dressed and looked much better at last, but
the doctor was perfectly right, for the air in this room was much too
cold for him.

"I rather gather," she said with a merry twinkle, "that I am
summoned." She put out her hand. "Thank you, doctor. For our…
discussion."

He took her hand, patted it gently, and grinned, "Call it—an
investment, dear lady."

Walking towards the stairs with the excited boy hopping along
beside her, Euphemia pondered Archer's last remark. "… an investment…"?
Did he mean because of her promised effort to refute the gossip about
Hawkhurst? He had opened her eyes to a good deal, and she had no least
doubt but that he had spoken truthfully. Still, there was the matter of
Gains. No one would ever forgive Hawk for so savagely disfiguring his
neighbour, even if—

She was surprised at this point to discover that she was being
urged not down the second flight of stairs to the ground floor, but
along the landing towards the rooms occupied by the family. She looked
at Kent wonderingly, but he nodded his fair head, beaming up at her and
continuing to pull at her hand.

At the far end of the corridor, two maids were peering through
a half-open door. They turned at Euphemia's approach and, the elder of
their pair proving to be Ellie, hurried to her. "Oh, Miss! I know
Master Kent didn't mean to be naughty but—if Mr. Garret comes there
will be
such
a bobbery! Me and Cissy's scared to
go in, and don't dare to call one of the footmen, for then Mr. Garret
would be sure to hear of it!"

Really alarmed now, Euphemia swept past the maids and pushed
the door wide.

The luxurious bedchamber was graced by three tall windows with
plumply cushioned windowseats. Large, deep chairs, and a sturdy
leathern sofa flanked a great fireplace, and to one side was a fine old
desk of glowing cherrywood with a tapestry-covered chair before it.
Against one wall stood a well-stocked gun cabinet, and there were
several bookcases crammed with volumes. Yet all of these things
registered only dimly in her mind, for to the far right of the room
stood an enormous canopied bed, the red brocade curtains tied back to
reveal a decidedly uninvited occupant who sprawled comfortably upon the
eiderdown, his unlovely head resting on the pillow as though it had
been placed there especially in his behalf.

"
Sampson
!" gasped Euphemia.

"And—Lord Gains be such a
nice
gentleman!" whimpered Cissy.

Kent ran to stroke that massive head fondly and grinned back
at Euphemia.

"The dog was waiting outside the kitchen door," Ellie
supplied. "And when the little fellow see him, I 'spect he thought he
lived here, so he let him in. They runned all over! Me and Cissy's been
straightening up the rugs and the stuff they knocked over. But Master
Kent can't make him get off! Mr. Garret's out with Sir Simon, but
they'll be back any minute, and the master's…" She glanced at Kent's
now uneasy countenance and finished carefully, "He's not in a very
happy frame o'mind, Miss."

The recollection of Hawkhurst's black rage at the breakfast
table sent Euphemia's eyes flashing to the gun cabinet. "Kent! Get him
down from there!"

Obediently, the child seized the hound by the throat and
pulled manfully. Sampson opened one eye, licked his hand, then went
back to sleep.

Euphemia nerved herself, stepped inside, her heart racing at
such flagrant impropriety, and entered the fray. She cajoled, scolded,
and threatened—in vain. The two maids began to moan and wring their
hands. "Quiet!" she hissed. "We mustn't attract attention! Sampson, you
stupid great elephant, do you
wish
to be shot?
Come down this instant, sir!"