Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (28 page)

"You d-did?" faltered Dora. "Er, what was it?"

"A closed chaise, driven straight across the lawn at dead of
night! Never, ma'am, have I seen so furtive a pair! They pulled up by
the North Wing and dragged forth… a body!"

"Oh, no, no! Indeed, it was not! I—" Dora squeaked with
fright, clapped a hand over her lips, sent a cushion and two
periodicals tumbling, and was still.

"You?" cried Euphemia, quite cast down by the success of her
small trap. "Oh, Dora! Do you dislike Hawk, too?"

"Dislike Hawk? Why, he was the sweetest child, and—Oh dear!
Colley will be so cross. I have let the cat out of the bag with a
vengeance! Dear girl, will you
promise
to keep
our secret?"

Euphemia blinked. It did not sound like a murder plot.
"Secret?"

"Come, I will show you. And now I am getting quite excited,
for no one has ever caught us before!" She jumped to her feet and,
grasping Euphemia by the hand, trotted merrily off, whispering to
herself, with her shawl gradually sliding, until Euphemia caught and
replaced it.

Along to the end of the corridor they went, up two pairs of
stairs, a half-turn to the right and along another hall, colder, but
just as impressively furnished as that of the main house. They were in
the North Wing now, and suddenly Dora threw a door open. A great dining
room stretched before them. Three chandeliers hung in their covers like
giant inverted mushrooms from a splendidly carven ceiling; the table,
flanked by innumerable chairs, was at least thirty feet long, and
enormous mirrors in gilded frames hung between each of the six long
windows and above the fireplace. Dora beckoned eagerly and tripped
across the slightly dusty parquet floors. A door far at the left side
was closed, and she knocked: three spaced hard knocks, and three swift
light ones. Fumbling movements could be heard inside, then the door
opened to reveal Lord Coleridge clad in a very dirty smock over
corduroy breeches. "Wherever have you been?" he grumbled. "I thought—"
And he stopped, his face comical in its dismay as he saw Euphemia.

"You were perfectly right," trilled his Aunt merrily. "Miss
Buchanan caught us last night. We must throw ourselves on her mercy,
for she believes us to have been carrying bodies into the house,
Colley, my love!"

She was drawing the girl inside as she spoke, and, with
Bryce's shocked "
Bodies
?" ringing in her ears,
Euphemia looked around her. She stood in a large anteroom. Sheer
curtains at the windows provided privacy, yet allowed the light to pour
in. There was very little furniture, only two small armchairs and a
table littered with bottles, cans, pots, knives, brushes, and rags. To
one side a long bench held a partially painted and ferocious clay
dragon, and all about it were many figures and carvings in wood, stone,
and clay. On the other side of the room stood several easels, and many
canvases were propped against the walls. Between clay and oils, the air
positively reeked, and at last Euphemia understood why Dora affected
such very strong perfume. "My goodness!" she cried, vastly relieved.
"Why, how very clever you both are!"

The conspirators promptly embraced one another. "Me first!"
cried Dora like an eager child. "Please may I, Colley?"

He bowed gallantly, and Euphemia was led through the weirdest
display she had ever beheld. Dora's art came in all sizes and in every
shape imaginable. Exclaiming dutifully over a squidgy blob with two
apparent brooms protruding from its middle, Euphemia did not dare
attempt to identify it, but her careful remarks were evidently
satisfactory, for Dora clasped her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "And
which one," she asked breathlessly, "… do you like best?"

Euphemia scanned the contorted collection and fixed upon the
one object she felt safe with. "The—" she began, nodding to the dragon,
but, chancing to catch a glimpse of Colley over his Aunt's shoulder,
was saved in the nick of time by his frantic gestures, and corrected
hurriedly, "Oh, dear, how difficult it is, for they are all so very
interesting. Won't you tell me about… this one?"

"Sampson?" laughed Dora, placing a fond hand upon her maligned
creation. "So you recognized him, did you! Naughty doggie! On one of
his raids, of course!"

"You've certainly caught the spirit of the beast," Euphemia
admitted, biting her lips to restrain a grin. "How Lord Gains would
like to have this."

"Oh, no! For no one else has ever seen any of it! Save for the
one piece I bribed Parsley to pop into the music room."

Euphemia's mind's eye at once engaged in a fast review of the
adornments of that charming room. Her uncertainty becoming apparent,
Bryce said, "The gentleman who so shocked my mother."

"
Adonis
… ?" Euphemia gasped. "But… but
he's not at all like…" She gestured feebly at the grotesques.

"Well, he was one of my earliest efforts," Dora apologized,
fortunately misunderstanding the flabbergasted look on the visitor's
features. "I do think I've come quite a way since then, if I say so
myself. Which I shouldn't, of course. But I can tell you now that what
you saw Colley and me hauling up here so 'furtively' in the dead of
night was a piece of stone for my new project. Not," her eyes sparkled
mischievously, "a body, my love! Did you see this one?" She indicated
an apparent banana pierced with many toothpicks. "I was shaping the
clay when I sneezed and most of my hairpins fairly whizzed into it, but
I do think it adds to the effect, don't you? I simply covered them with
clay, you see…" Euphemia's eyes were rather misted, and she dared not
look at Colley, the mischief in the boy's face having already almost
proved her undoing. She was spared commenting on the "effect" as Dora
added blithely, "Enough of me! Now, Colley will show you which of us is
the
real
artist!"

The youth staunchly denied this, but his aunt had spoken
truthfully. In only a moment Euphemia apprehended that here was a great
talent. The first work Coleridge shyly presented for inspection was
dark: country folk beginning to drift homeward from a fair, the moon
high in the sky, and flares being lit in the booths behind them. At
first, the people seemed to be indistinguishable from the background,
but they gradually materialized to such incredible reality that she
could all but reach out and touch them. The next painting was of a
storm and a lonely sheepdog herding his flock, with wind blowing the
snow into a great vortex about them, the cold seeming to creep from the
canvas, and the dog's devotion vividly apparent. Many paintings
followed, each seemingly better than the last, until, flushed with
pleasure, Coleridge led her to the easel at which he had been working
when she arrived. It was a nearly completed portrait of Hawkhurst. The
boy had painted it with love, capturing the strength of the man, yet
managing also to show the humorous quirk to the shapely lips and the
smile in the grey eyes. He had chosen to portray Hawkhurst in his
uniform, a Light Dragoon. Euphemia stood entranced, staring and
staring, until her eyes grew blurred and the lump in her throat choked
her. She did not hear Colley leave, but when she looked up, blinking
away her tears, he was gone, and Dora's pudgy little hands were
clasped, her face ecstatic. "Oh, my dear," she said tremulously. "You
do
love him! I was sure you did!"

Euphemia tried to speak, but could not, so instead walked into
those outreaching arms, and when she had been kissed and urged to the
nearest chair, she dried her tears and asked the reason for all the
secrecy. "For you both have such really astonishing gifts! Hawkhurst
would be so proud!"

"Alas," Dora said ruefully, "I fear he would instead be
furious! He never has had anything but scorn for poor Colley's
ambitions. And, if he knew I had encouraged him, and spent such a great
deal of money upon our hobbies… Oh, my!"

"But he could not know how much talent you both possess! If he
saw—"

"Oh! I would not dare! Although we do plan to surprise him.
Someday. When we are ready."

"You are ready
now
! Oh, Dora, would you
have your showing before we leave? I should so love to see Hawk's face!
And the Admiral! They will be totally astounded!"

Having said which, she must again be hugged and thanked for
her dear kindness and asked suddenly, "Does he know you care for him?"

Euphemia blushed and looked down with a strange new shyness.
"I think… he does."

"And are you willing to forgive his dark past? His terrible
sins, his women, his reputation?"

"I do not believe Hawk has ever—
could
ever—hurt anyone so savagely," she answered defensively. "And as to his
women, why, he was cast out by society. Lonely… striking back, perhaps."

"Perhaps. For if ever there was a man meant to love and be
loved, and instead…" Dora heaved a regretful sigh.

"But, if you all knew about her and Mount, why did no one tell
the Admiral?"

"We did not know, until it was too late. But when I learned of
it, I tried to summon the courage to tell Papa. After the tragedy, he
was so heartbroken and so enraged with poor Garret that I actually did
manage to write a letter."

"You did? But how splendid! Whatever did Lord Wetherby say?"

Dora gave a helpless little moue. "I never sent it. The old
gentleman suffered a seizure, and the physician who attended him
obviously held Hawkhurst to blame. The rumours—oh! they were thick and
terrible then, I do assure you, and the doctor believed them all. He
warned Garret that any more grief, any slightest shock, could prove
fatal." She shrugged. "I did not dare post my letter. Hal Archer says
Papa is healthy as a horse, and it was likely simple dyspepsia, but
Garret idolizes his grandfather and has flatly forbidden any of us to
speak of it."

Euphemia said tenderly, "How very typical of him. But what a
frightful nightmare it must have been. Was that when his hair began to
grey?"

"Yes. And I wonder it is not white as snow! The wicked
newspaper articles and insinuations! The way he received the cut direct
wherever he went. And all the while he was nigh distracted with grief
for dear little Avery. I was quite sure he would wind up in Bedlam,
poor soul, and, even though he did not, it has changed him—beyond
belief." She paused and went on with slow reluctance, "I… must be
honest with you, sweet child. I cannot think of any lady better suited
to be Garret's bride, and I wish—oh, with all my heart—that you might
lead him back to life, and love. But…" She shook her head doubtfully.

Catching a flying hairpin, Euphemia stared down at it for a
moment, then asked, "You think I have no chance at all? You think he
has forgotten how to live, and love?"

"Oh, pray do not mistake. Gary is too much of a man to, er,
have given up, er—"

"The companionship of ladies?" prompted Euphemia gravely.

"Exactly so. But he chooses the type of… ah… lady, who will be
easy to discard. I hear he is generous, very generous, to his
chères
amies
. But to love again would be to make himself
vulnerable, don't you see? So I think he has locked his heart away,
poor dear, as if in some impregnable fortress. That he will never again
give anyone the chance to hurt him so terribly."

Her heart aching for him, Euphemia was silent but could not
suppose it to be truth. Dora, with her highly romantic nature, saw only
the carefree youth, his reputation blackened, his life blasted. And, to
her gentle soul, the inevitable result must be a shrinking withdrawal
from any possible repetition of such heartbreak. Euphemia, more worldly
wise, clung to her faith in Hawk's strength. He was not the man to
allow one buffet from Fate to shatter him so. However Blanche may have
enraged and humiliated him, the only way she had been able to really
wound him must have been through his little son. Beyond doubting, that
loss must have been searing, but many people had suffered such tragedy,
and it had not destroyed them. Perhaps Hawkhurst
was
reluctant to love again, but, if so, it was for some reason other than
fear of being hurt.

"Lord Wetherby encourages the little fellow, Simon," Euphemia
pointed out as she seated herself in the parlour adjoining her
bedchamber. "But as for his own sake, I simply cannot allow Kent to
behave as though he were part of the family. Poor little fellow, he is
very good and does not mean to overstep the bounds. He is so sensitive
and was quite shattered when I spoke to him. Such a problem, is it not?"

"I'm sure you are right," murmured Buchanan absently.

Euphemia glanced at him. He stood with his back towards her,
gazing out of the window towards the east and distant London. "Evil
creature," she teased. "You've heard not one word of it all. Own up!"

He at once whirled around and begged her pardon. "I fear my
thoughts were elsewhere. Please tell me what you said, and I shall be
all ears."

"No, no. It was of little import." He was rarely so
distracted, however, and with a twinge of guilt she said repentantly,
"How thoughtless I am. You were violently opposed to our coming here
and yet have not once either given me the scold I warrant or raised the
least complaint through all these many delays. You are too good, Simon.
But I promise you we shall leave the day after tomorrow." And she had
to force a smile to hide the terrible sinking of her spirits.

He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the window
once more and muttered, "I wish you would not place me on so high a
pedestal, Mia. Someday you will be forced to admit that I am a most
ordinary fellow, with perhaps more than my share of failings."

"Ten times more, in fact! For, although you are occasionally a
fairly satisfactory brother, I consider your taste in horses— and
women—thoroughly execrable." She had spoken with a laugh in her voice
and was dismayed to see his head lower a trifle, while, instead of an
indignant response, there was silence. "I shall miss our new friends,"
she went on hurriedly. "Even Carlotta. And as for Stephanie—Oh, Simon,
I am so very grateful to you for squiring her about as you have done. I
know it must have been a bother, and—"