Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (22 page)

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!"

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."

He gave a foolish laugh. "Well, that's 'cause… I'm li'l bit
foxed, y' see." Euphemia turned to regard him in her candid way, and as
if in defiance he lifted his glass and drank, blinked very rapidly, and
said in a wheezing rasp, "Not… not bosky 'zackly, but—"

"You, sir," Euphemia contradicted, "are what my brother would
term 'very well to live.' "

"No, no! Ain't. Not really. Shouldn't argue with lady, but…
but y' shouldn't be here 'lone w'me. Not… proper. An'… no jacket.
Where… the devil's m'jacket?"

A faint smile touching her lips, Euphemia rescued that article
from the log basket. "A trifle rumpled, I fear. And will not make you
less foxed, Hawk."

Again, a tremor ran through him. He turned away, mumbling a
low-voiced, "Y'bes' go. I must… fairly reek of cognac."

"Yes. You do. And I have bivouacked with an army."

He drew a deep breath and, his head coming up, said, "Well,
you'll not bivouac with me, madam."

A gasp escaped Euphemia. The hauteur was back in his reddened
eyes, with a vengeance. How dare he say such a thing? And with such
total contempt! And yet, what more natural, poor soul? He believed her
promised to Tristram Leith, and the moment his friend's back was turned
she had come in here to invade his sanctum sanctorum. Only this
morning, though it seemed a century ago, he had found her in his
bedchamber. She suppressed the furious retort that had sprung to her
lips, therefore, and instead said softly, "That remark was unworthy of
you, sir. And of me. And I am not—"

The denial of her betrothal to Leith died on her lips as the
door burst open unceremoniously to admit Mrs. Henderson. "By George!"
Hawkhurst growled. "This is my p-private study, Nell! Y'know perfectly
well I don't 'low ladies—"

Her kindly face pale and her voice cracking with terror, the
housekeeper interrupted, "He's
here
, sir! Oh, Mr.
Garrett! He's
cornel
The
Admiral
!"

Hawkhurst positively reeled and reached out to grab the chair
back again, while the high colour drained from his face to leave it
very white.

"Manners has taken him to his room," Mrs. Henderson went on,
wringing her hands distractedly. "He told him you was meeting with your
steward, but would be with him directly. Sir,
whatever
shall we do? The house is bare of servants! I've made no special
preparations for dinner. And—"

"And I," he said faintly, "am most… thoroughly… jug bit, Nell.
My God! Here's… fine pickle!"

"I'll—I'll tell him you had to go out," said Mrs. Henderson
bravely, though her voice still shook. "I'll say—"

"Can't do that. Though I thank you for t-trying. He'd leave,
don't y'see. And I've not seen him… for so—" He put a hand across his
eyes, as though striving to force the mists from them and, shaking his
head, muttered, " 'F'all th' beastly luck. I shall have to… to jus'
admit I'm—"

"Mrs. Henderson," Euphemia interjected crisply, "Coffee! Black
and strong, and plenty of it! Hawkhurst, go with her to the kitchen;
your Grandpapa will not seek you there. A footman of sorts is lurking
about. He will help you. You must bathe and change—and drink coffee all
the time."

"But, Miss," mourned the housekeeper, turning hopefully to the
girl's restoring calm. "There's no water heated for a bath!"

"Cold will be better. Oh, and squeeze some lemons, and make
Mr. Hawkhurst drink the juice. Rinse your mouth well, Hawk, and—"

"I'll b-be sick!" he protested. "Cannot stand lemon juice and—"

"Excellent!" Implacably, she urged the woman towards the door.
"Hurry, now—and we shall bring the master through this, somehow."

"Oh, bless you, Miss!" gulped the housekeeper, and ran.

"Mia," said Hawkhurst, forgetting protocol in the urgency of
the moment, "I'm more grateful than c'n say… But I can't leave
m'grandfather un-unwelcomed. He'll—"

"
I
shall welcome him. He'll just have to
forgive my doing so in this habit instead of a proper gown. Go!"