Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (7 page)

It would have been so simple to explain that he was one of
those unfortunates totally unable to tolerate the drug, but by this
time Buchanan was too enraged to be logical. He ground his teeth and
said an icy, "Thank you. No!"

"Good God! A Spartan!" Archer gave a snort of ridicule and set
the glass aside as Miss Hawkhurst returned, carrying a steaming bowl
and with a sheet over her arm. With unexpected gentleness the physician
assisted Buchanan to raise himself so that the sheet might be slipped
under him. "I shall have to sit down to work," he grumbled. "Not a
customary position. I will try not to allow my hand to slip very far, I
promise you."

"Doctor Hal!" The girl's words held a gentle reproach.

Buchanan found her concerned gaze full on him. She had, he
noted then, the kindest eyes he'd ever seen. His shoulder was pure
torment, but he felt comforted and managed a smile. "It was my fault,
ma'am. I was rude."

"I'll own I've little patience with stupidity," rumbled the
doctor.

Miss Hawkhurst shook her head at him and said with a
reassuring, "No matter what he
says
, Sir Simon,
you are in the best possible hands."

Archer grinned and took up his glittering little blade. The
faint colour receded from Buchanan's face. Suddenly, he looked very
young and helpless, and, knowing he was suffering miserably, the
doctor's mood softened. "You've seen one of these before, I collect.
Miss Hawkhurst will endeavour to hold you, but if you'd a single grain
of sense you'd take the laudanum."

"It will not be necessary to hold me. I shall manage,"
Buchanan asserted, his muscles cramping into knots as the blade came
closer.

Archer shrugged and bent forward. "For about two seconds," he
estimated cynically.

He had reckoned without the dogged courage of his patient.

Buchanan lasted for ten.

The fire was sending out a pleasant warmth now, and seated in
the deep chair beside it, Euphemia listened drowsily to Kent's deep,
steady breathing. He was asleep at last, poor child. Winding the sash
tassels of her borrowed dressing gown into a braid, she glanced around
the bedchamber which had been assigned to him. The small room was lit
only by the flickering flames of the fire and one candle, placed on a
table far from the bed, but even by this dim light, luxury was
manifested in thick carpets, tasteful furnishings, and rich
appointments. Such a very lovely house, even as Simon had told her.

Thought of her brother brought a pang of guilt. She could only
hope he would give her the most severe setdown of her life, as she so
richly deserved. Had it not been for her insistence that they see
Dominer, none of this would have happened, and he would not at this
very moment be enduring heaven knows what misery at the doctor's hands.
She consoled herself with the recollection that Hawkhurst had said
Archer was "splendid." He had certainly seemed gentle and efficient
when examining Kent, although his manner towards her had been rather
dour. He'd told her the lump on her head was not serious, but that she
should at once go to bed and get a good long sleep. He had started, in
fact, to summon a maid to watch the child. Perhaps it was her refusal
to leave Kent which had prompted that swift look of anger—perhaps he
thought her afraid to go to her bedchamber. She had certainly not
intended to imply a mistrust of the man who had rescued them, but on
the other hand, Dr. Archer must be aware that she had cause for unease.
She was an unwed lady, and should word ever leak out that she had spent
the night here—even with Simon in the adjoining bedchamber—her
reputation must be sadly tarnished.

Her mouth tightened a little as she recalled what Simon had
told her of Blanche Hawkhurst. She would wedge a chair under the latch
of the door to the corridor, that was certain! At once she was ashamed
of the thought. Why must everything be so illogical? That their gallant
rescuer should also prove to be a savage murderer was scarcely to be
believed. In her mind's eye she could see him on that sheer cliff face,
whipped by the wind, handing Kent up to her, his only apparent concern
being that the child might be saved before the rope broke. Her every
instinct had told her that here was a most gallant gentleman,
unhesitatingly risking the ultimate penalty for his valour. When he had
later swept her into his arms, she had experienced the oddest sense of…
what? Trust? She sighed. Misplaced, evidently, for Simon was not the
man to exaggerate. There was only one answer: her usually unerring
judgment had failed for once. The decision depressed her, and she was
almost relieved when a threshing movement from the bed sent her
springing up, only to gasp to the protest of sore muscles and move less
precipitately to the boy.

Kent's small fair head tossed against the pillows, and his
thin hands tore at the eiderdown. She leaned to take them in her own
firm clasp, and the big eyes opened, frantic with fear. He flung
himself into her arms and clung to her, panting and shuddering, and she
hugged him close, murmuring that he was safe now, that everything was
all right, until at last he quieted, and she was able to lay him back
down. Poor little boy, she thought, stroking his hair fondly. The fear
began to fade from his eyes. He smiled his blinding smile of gratitude
and, when she urged him to go to sleep, closed his eyes obediently. She
began to move back, but at once his hand tightened around her wrist,
and he started up in new panic. "I shall not leave you," she promised
gently.

Nonetheless, he watched anxiously as she returned to the
chair, and for the next quarter hour would open his eyes from time to
time, to assure himself that she was there.

A few moments after his deep and regular breathing told her he
slept again, the door was cautiously opened to admit Lady Bryce, who
came with swift and silent tread into the room. Euphemia stood to greet
her and ask anxiously for word of her brother. "Dr. Archer is with him
now, my dear," said her ladyship. She went over to feel Kent's
forehead, then pursed her lips and shook her head worriedly. Returning
to Euphemia, she said. "How very sad. But we will not despair. He may
recover. And you must get to your bed at once. Why ever was a maid not
sent to stay with him?" She made her graceful way towards the bellrope,
but Euphemia placed a detaining hand upon her arm. "You are too kind,
ma'am," she smiled. "But I have promised to stay."

"Pho! What silliness! We all have obligations to our servants,
but you must not let him get the upper hand. And children
will
try us, you know."

This seemed to be rather in conflict with her earlier
disquieting remark, but Euphemia merely answered, "Yes, I agree. But he
has had a terrible shock and is an excessively nervous child, so I must
keep my word."

"Nervous? At
his
age?" Lady Bryce gave a
little titter. "Lud! It is easy to see how simply it would be to take
advantage of so kind a mistress. But you must be kind to me also, Miss
Buchanan. Do you come downstairs tomorrow morning looking even a trifle
hagged, my nephew will be angry, and—Oh, dear. Now you will think him
vicious, which he is not, I promise you, whatever you may have heard to
the contrary. Hawkhurst does have a trace, the
teensiest
trifle of a temper, I grant you. And when he is angered, alas, I always
am the one who—Well, what I mean to say is, he will not listen, however
I may assure him I begged you to rest."

"Then I shall rest now and hope you will bear me company for a
while," Euphemia smiled in her pleasant way and settled herself into
the chair again. "Your nephew saved us, ma'am, did you know it? It was
most gallant, and I am deeply indebted to him."

"Good gracious me! Never tell our Hawkhurst you feel
indebted!" That thin little laugh rang out, and one delicate hand
patted her wrist. "The naughty fellow would assuredly contrive to
collect that debt. And it would be dreadful to upset your poor brother
at such a time." Her ladyship bestowed herself in the larger armchair
and went on in her soft, well modulated voice, "You cannot guess how
very pleased we are—my sister-in-law and I, at least—to have visitors.
I am perfectly sure you cannot like to be here, and who could blame
you! Nor would we have wished you should suffer so horrible an
experience, but…" With a wistful smile she sighed, "We do get so
lonely, and—I will not dissemble—no one comes here any more. Not from
London, at all events."

Her kind heart touched, Euphemia said, "What a great pity,
ma'am. I will admit I have heard rumours, but it has been my experience
that rumours tend to grow out of all proportion to actual fact."

"
Dear
Miss Buchanan! You express my own
feelings exactly, for had I believed all that was said,
nothing
would have induced me to bring my own dear son to dwell under this
roof. But, alas, I was ever of a trusting and gullible nature." She
shook her head regretfully.

Euphemia blinked and, suspecting she was being drawn into very
murky waters, attempted a change of subject. "I heard Mr. Hawkhurst
mention someone named—Colley, is it, ma'am?"

"My only son." The dark eyes were lit with pride. "Coleridge
is near twenty, though it don't seem possible. And the dearest, most
handsome, and obliging-natured youth one would ever wish to meet." She
gave an apologetic little laugh. "How naughty in me to puff off my own
son, but he will be here soon, and you may judge for yourself. At
least, I
pray
it will be soon." Her expression
grew troubled, and the fine hands wrung nervously. "Hawk becomes
so
enraged if he is a little late."

"I see. Something of a martinet, is he, ma'am?" Euphemia
smiled at her. "My Papa used to be the same, and demanded my brothers
toe the line. How they smarted under it—yet loved him dearly."

"Why, there you have it exactly, Miss Buchanan. Colley admires
his cousin so, I vow it is pathetic! And
strives
to please him. And he should, of course, for he is Hawkhurst's heir now
that his own sweet son is gone. But alas, he can do nothing right, poor
boy! Oh, enough! I must not burden you with our troubles. Tell me the
latest
on dits
of Town, I do implore you, for I
positively hunger for news of the
ton
!"

It was a request Euphemia would have hoped could be delayed
until the next day, but, stifling her weariness, she obliged, passing
along tidbits she sensed would gratify the lady and being rewarded by
such eager questions and comments, such delighted little spurts of
laughter, the she was again conscious of pity and asked, "Do you always
stay at Dominer, ma'am? Or have you perhaps a house in Town?"

"Oh, if I only had! Life is strange, is it not? When I was…
much younger than you, my dear, my parents rejected the suitor I hoped
to wed, for they judged him possessed of inadequate fortune and his
prospects poor. So they married me to Bryce instead. And now, the man
I
had chosen is an ambassador and leads so gay and carefree a life, while
my poor Bryce gamed away his fortune within five years of our marriage
and had drunk himself into the grave within another five, leaving me to
fend for my children as best I might." She dabbed at her eyes with a
lacy handkerchief and finished brokenly. "And none—to lend a helping…
hand!"

"How dreadful! Were you sister to Mr. Hawkhurst's Papa, ma'am?"

"No. To his mother. I am a Thorndyke, Miss Buchanan, which is
why my son was named Hawkhurst's heir. Dominer, you see, has belonged
to the Thorndykes since 1760, and I, need not tell you…"

She need not, for Euphemia was well acquainted with the
romantic story of how Dominer had come into possession of the
Thorndykes. Nonetheless, for the next half hour she did little more
than listen politely and insert an occasional suitable comment, while
Lady Bryce chattered on. She was apprised of Dominer's past glories, of
the Public Days, the crowds and the excitement that had been terribly
annoying, yet so jolly. And no longer allowed by the present master of
the house, alas. Not that anyone would come, save for lovers of the
macabre— which would be ghastly! Even her own married daughter dared
not come here, for Bertha had married a Kingsdale, "and they are
so
high in the instep! I'll say this, her husband don't harp on our…
disgrace. But—his Mama!" As to young Lord Coleridge Bryce, he was up at
Oxford, but had been rusticated (through no fault of his own!). This
circumstance was a terrible worry to his obviously doting parent, since
Hawkhurst was "forever hammering at the boy to buy a pair of colours.
Not." she sighed, "that I have anything against the Army. A splendid
career. For some. Your own Papa was military, was he not? And—dead,
poor man…"

And so it went, until at length her ladyship scolded gently
that Miss Buchanan looked very, very tired and simply must not chatter
any longer. She would, she announced, go and supervise the placing of a
warming pan between her sheets, since the housekeeper, although
efficient enough, was a trifle lax when it came to such little acts of
consideration.

In the silence that followed the closing of the door, Euphemia
gazed thoughtfully into the fire. She had been not a little shocked by
so frank and unrestrained a flood of confidences, especially upon such
short acquaintance. But perhaps this was unkind, for the poor woman was
certainly very lonely and just as certainly delighted by the advent of
visitors. On the other hand, although she felt a very real sympathy,
Euphemia was not without common sense. Despite Lady Bryce's assertion
that none had lent her a helping hand, she was obviously dwelling on
Hawkhurst's charity. Someone must be paying her son's expenses at
Oxford, expenses Euphemia knew from experience could be very high, even
if the young man was quiet and studiously inclined. Furthermore, one
might suppose a lady in desperate financial straits would find it
necessary to sew her own garments or even sell her jewels, yet Lady
Bryce had worn a gown of costly fabric, and, unless she was a most
skilled needlewoman, it had been created for her by an expert
couturier. A very fine diamond had glittered upon one hand and a ruby
on the other, while the double rope of pearls about her throat had been
real, to judge from the gems that had gleamed in the clasp. It would
appear that she had much for which to thank her nephew. And yet…
Euphemia frowned. Was it merely that she as so bone weary she was not
thinking clearly, or had she been painted a picture of cruel tyranny?
Not once had Lady Bryce spoken of Hawkhurst disparagingly—not openly,
at least. Yet, by means of half-finished sentences or hastily amended
remarks, she had implied an existence riddled with fear, not for
herself, but for her son. Young Lord Coleridge, it would seem, did not
suit his cousin's notion of an heir; in fact, his gentle manners,
sensitivity, and unwillingness to embrace a military career were all an
affront to Mr. Garret Hawkhurst. The fact that his cousin should wish
him to enter the military began, thought Euphemia uneasily, to take on
an ominous significance.