Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “This is no time to essay a quadrille, ma’am.”

  Her heart jumped despite that calm and lazy drawl. A man was looking down at her through the left-hand window that now was so crazily situated in the air. An arresting face, lean, and with deep clefts between the brows and beside the thin nostrils. He was very dark, the loosely curling hair touched at the temples with grey, and Euphemia had a brief impression of kind eyes, a high-bridged nose, a well-shaped mouth just now curving to a smile, and a strong chin.

  “If you will stay quiet for a minute or two, we shall have you clear,” he said, and vanished. She heard his deep voice issuing crisp orders.

  Then another man called, “The horses must’ve broke loose and bolted, sir. No sign of ’em. Will I unhitch one of the greys?”

  “No, you fool. How would you get him over that damned great mess? Run to the house and bring men. And send a groom for Dr. Archer. I said—run! Manners! Get over here and help me set some boulders on these wheels—and fast, before the wind beats us!”

  Kent! thought Euphemia, and started up only to shrink back as the carriage heaved terrifyingly.

  “Madam!” He was at the window again, a glitter in the eyes that she now saw were a remarkably fine, clear grey. The drawl was gone as he said sternly, “If you will refrain from hopping about in there, we may yet—”

  “But … the boy—” she began.

  His keen gaze flashed to Buchanan. “—will stand a better chance of recovering do you not dance the pair of you down the cliff!” he interposed curtly and was gone.

  “Wait!”

  But he did not wait, and a faint moan escaped her brother just then, as he stirred, provoking an exasperated, “Oh, damn the woman!” from outside.

  “Lie still, dearest,” said Euphemia urgently. “Simon, are you much hurt?”

  His eyes opened dazedly. He raised his head, and she could have wept her relief because, although his cheek and forehead were cut, his eye was unhurt. “What…?” he muttered. And then, in a clearer voice, “Mia! My God! Are you—” Frantic, he got an elbow beneath him and started up, but at once his face twisted with pain, a choked gasp cut off his words, and he slumped down again. Euphemia’s half-screamed, “Simon!” returned their rescuer’s face to the window.

  “All right, ma’am. Let us have you out. Are you injured?”

  He was wrestling with the door, and when she had replied that she was not at all hurt, he grumbled an impatient, “Manners? Where in the deuce are you?” The door swung suddenly upward, then fell open with a crash. Euphemia’s heart leapt into her throat, but this time there was no resultant rocking from the carriage.

  “Everything’s right and tight,” said the stranger, giving her an engaging grin as he reached for her hands. “Can you manage? Lots of room for dancing out here. I’m sure you shall like it … better. Up you come!”

  His grip was very strong, and she was hoisted to sit on the side of the carriage while he jumped down. He reached up, smiling that warm quirkish smile, and she leaned to him and was lifted to the ground.

  “My brother!” she gasped. “He’s newly home from the Nivelle, and—”

  “Is he, by God!” He swung back onto the carriage side once more. “Wounded…? Where?”

  “His right shoulder. And I fear he has hurt it again.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.” He disappeared into the interior, his voice coming muffled to her. “You sit down, ma’am, and we—”

  “And there is a boy!” she called.

  His head reappeared, and he scanned her tautly. “Not on the box, was he?”

  “Yes.” She glanced around a scene of chaotic devastation. Great heaps of rocks, dirt, and smashed shrubbery spoke of the fury of the landslide. A liveried groom was bent above a sprawled shape, and she said anxiously, “Neeley! Is he…?”

  “Lucky to be alive, ma’am. Minor damage.” He climbed out and with a supple leap was beside her. “Your brother don’t seem too bad. But—I fear the boy may have gone over the side.”

  Euphemia followed his frowning gaze and swayed, a sickness sweeping over her. The carriage lay at the very brink of the road, the boot hanging out over the drop. Only a small tree, now horizontally leaning in space, had saved them from going straight down, but they undoubtedly would have been at the foot of the cliff by now, but for the heavy boulders that were piled on the right wheels. She started for the edge, and at once a firm hand was upon her arm. She flashed an irritated look at her rescuer, mildly surprised to find that she had to look up at him, although he was not so tall as Leith. He accompanied her without comment, however, only tightening his hold when she stood at the brink. Instead of the gradual slope she had so hoped to find, she looked down a perpendicular wall to treetops far below. There was no sign of Kent …

  “Steady,” said that deep voice. “Perhaps he … was…” She heard the hiss of indrawn breath and, glancing up, saw his narrowed eyes fixed to the right. Looking there also, she threw a hand to her mouth, at once relieved and terrified. The sheer wall bowed outward at that point, and from beneath the outcropping could be glimpsed what appeared to be the roots of a bush. And clinging to those roots, two small, white hands! She sobbed, “Oh … my dear God!”

  “Why in the devil didn’t he shout?” the man grumbled, already shrugging out of his many-caped driving coat and a peerlessly cut jacket. “Is he mute?”

  “Yes.”

  He shot an astonished glance at her, then shouted, “Manners!” and, as the groom sped towards them, drawled, “I dare not fancy myself so blessed that you’ve a rope in your carriage, ma’am?”

  She confirmed this pessimism, and Manners, a dark, impassive-featured, slender man, came up and said coolly, “Sir?”

  “Cut the reins from the greys. Fast.”

  Manners was gone.

  Looking down at the small, desperately gripping hands and the petrifying drop below them, Euphemia opened her mouth to call encouragement.

  Strong fingers clamped ruthlessly over her lips. “No sympathy, for Lord’s sake! If the boy loves you, that very love may weaken him.” He withdrew his hand. “What’s his name?”

  However irked she might be by such arrogance, she could not but accept the wisdom of his words, and replied, “Kent.”

  “Hey, there! Kent!” he shouted, tossing his jacket aside. “I’m coming down after you. If you let go before I get there—I’ll blister your rump!” He slanted a faint grin at Euphemia. “Your pardon, ma’am. Oh, good man! And already tied.” He tugged at the thin leathers Manners handed him and nodded his approval, then came to the edge and played the impromptu rope downward. “Not long enough. Dammit! Ma’am, I’ll essay that climb, but a fly I am not. Your pelisse, by your leave.” It was off in a flash, and Euphemia fighting against shivering from both cold and apprehension, as he used his pocket knife to slash it into four strips. He tied knots dextrously and tested them hard but, still not satisfied, proceeded to rend his coat in like fashion. When the last strip was tied, he muttered, “That should suffice.” He secured one end of the rope about his lean middle, his eyes searching about. His horses would have been invaluable, but the great mound of earth and rubble completely blocked the road. Close at hand, a downed tree offered an upthrusting splintered, but solid-looking, branch. “Manners.” He pointed. “Use that.” He thrust the rope at his groom and strode towards the rim.

  Euphemia’s heart was thundering. The leather looked so thin, and her pelisse and his coat bulky and unreliable. Two lives would depend upon that clumsy line. Manners, echoing her thoughts, said a worried, “Mr. Garret, I—”

  His employer was already sitting with booted legs over the edge. “Blast your eyes, hasten!” he commanded, but his brilliant grin flashed an appreciation of the solicitude. The groom shook his head, took up the slack, and looped the rope about the branch, holding the free end firmly. “Play it out evenly, now,” cautioned Mr. Garret. He swung around, gripped the edge with both hands for a second, then lowered himself.

 
Euphemia’s breathing seemed to stop. The dark head swung perilously beneath her, but she saw that he was leaning against the rope, bracing himself with his feet as he backed down. He seemed, she thought gratefully, to know what he was about. The wind was blowing the fine cambric of the white shirt, and she noted absently the breadth of the shoulders and the ripple of the muscles. He must be half frozen, but he was a splendid athlete, no doubt of that. He was also solidly powerful; Manners, more slenderly built, would never be able to haul him up! She turned back, intending to offer her help, and was greatly relieved to see Neeley, battered and bloody, but assisting in the playing out of the rope. Peering anxiously over the edge, she could still see Kent’s hands, and then Garret, far down on the outcropping, roared, “More, for God’s sake! About six feet! Hurry!”

  She relayed the information to the men at the tree and saw the rope slacken. Too fast! she thought and, sure enough, heard a blistering outburst of cursing from beneath the outcropping.

  “Hold up now!” shouted Mr. Garret, and she waved an imperative summons to Manners. She could not see either man or child, and there was no sound for a few seconds. Then she heard the rumble of Garret’s voice, followed by a sudden sharp crack, a shout, and the rope became taut. She whispered, “My God … My God!”

  A considerably breathless voice restored her heartbeat. “Haul … away!”

  The men hauled obediently, and the leather became appallingly taut. It must not snap … it must not! Shaking with cold and anxiety, her head splitting, Euphemia peered downward. Mr. Garret’s wind-tossed hair came first into view, and she saw that he was trying to ease the pressure on the rope by again half-walking. She saw also, with a great surge of thankfulness, that he held Kent, not on his back, as she would have supposed, but clinging around his neck, so that the man’s arms were an added protection about him.

  Her relief was short-lived. The rope seemed to slip backward a little, and she saw Garret flash a tense glance upward. One of the seams in the coat was unravelling! Before her horrified eyes, the garment, still several feet below the edge, began to pull apart. Momentarily frozen with terror, she heard Mr. Garret’s harsh, “Take him! Quick!” He was holding the boy upright, the small feet on his chest, the hands reaching to her. Without an instant’s hesitation she flung herself flat and stretched down her arms. She could just barely feel Kent’s fingertips. Garret managed another step. She heard a ripping sound, but she had those frail hands fast gripped now. A startled cry rang out, and the boy was a dead weight. She thought anguishedly, It broke! That brave man is dead! But then, beyond Kent’s white, terror-stricken face, she saw that by some mighty effort Mr. Garret, freed of the encumbrance of the boy, had managed to grab the parting rope just above the ripped fabric and clung, with both hands, to the leather strap.

  Kent was astoundingly heavy, and for once she was glad to be tall and strong. She pulled with all her might but with little success, until strong hands came to aid her, and Neeley was dragging Kent over the rim. She saw Mr. Garret, climbing hand over hand up the rope. Sitting up, she took the shuddering child into her arms, and he clung to her, sobbing in silent hysteria.

  Neeley was reaching down again. “Jolly well done, sir!” he cried, and Mr. Garret hove into view and seconds later was sitting close by, head down, panting heavily.

  Only then did Euphemia recall that her brother still lay hurt and alone. Gently, she put Kent aside, clambered to her feet, and tottered towards the carriage. Vaguely, she knew that Manners was bending over his employer, and that Neeley was comforting the boy. She was weeping now, feeling sick from the reaction, and her head hurt so. The landscape began to blur and waver before her eyes. I cannot faint yet, she thought doggedly. A strong arm was supporting her, and she leaned gratefully against a white shirt, saw it spotted with crimson and glanced up to discover Mr. Garret beside her, an ugly laceration above his right eye. He had, she thought numbly, very fine eyes, the grey emphasized by a dark band around the outer rim of the iris …

  Her last sensation was of being swept up and held like a child in his arms. She had not been lifted so in years … he must be very strong. She felt perfectly safe …

  THREE

  “OF COURSE I intend to lay her upon a bed! Had you the ornamental water in mind?”

  The words were uttered in a low but irked tone, and interrupted Euphemia’s comfortable doze. She did not quite hear the words the woman spoke but was amused by the snorted vehemence of the male voice. “D’ye take me for a gapeseed? Be assured I know it. But her brother’s with her and—”

  Simon! Euphemia’s eyes shot open. She was not in the rocking coach as she’d drowsily supposed. Instead, she was being carried through a room redolent with the smell of burning logs and lit by a warm, glowing light. Above her was a high and splendidly plastered ceiling. She realized that her head had fallen back, and raising it a little saw a very long and wide hall, charmingly furnished, and decorated throughout in shades of blue, gold, and cream.

  “So you are awake,” said Mr. Garret in a gentler fashion. “Parsley!”

  That commanding shout sent Euphemia’s hand to her aching brow.

  “You’ve a fine lump,” he nodded. “My apologies!” And in a fierce whisper, “Aunt Carlotta, where is that blasted idiot of a butler?”

  “He is attending to the bedrooms. Now pray do not be provoked. You yourself told the maids they might go to help decorate the Church Hall.”

  Mr. Garret now turned into a huge circular central area, this floored with exquisite parquetry and decorated in a continuation of the main theme. Brocaded blue and cream draperies, tied back by gold-tasselled cords, hung at the many windows; giant double doors at the left apparently constituted the main entrance, and from the centre of the room a graceful staircase spiralled upwards.

  Awed, Euphemia murmured, “I would like to be put down, if you please.”

  “So you shall,” he whispered, his eyes glinting at her. “Upon a bed. And why in the devil couldn’t Mrs. Henderson attend to the bedrooms?”

  Still a little muddled, Euphemia was about to tell him she was not acquainted with a Mrs. Henderson when the woman answered, “Because she is preparing bandages and medical supplies and heating water.”

  “Good God! One might suppose I have not a maid or lackey left!”

  “They are—”

  “Never mind.” He started up the stairs, paused, and, half-turning, drawled, “Is Colley here yet?”

  For the first time, Euphemia had a clear view of the lady who followed them. Of middle age and with black, neatly banded hair under a beautiful lace cap, she wore a mulberry wool gown trimmed with black velvet. She was excessively thin, the skin of the fine-boned face having an almost stretched look. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, but just now filled with resentment, as she looked at the man above her and said with a defiant lift of her chin, “He is expected.”

  “So is the Messiah,” he snorted and continued on his way.

  Euphemia fixed him with her most daunting frown. “I do not wish to be laid down upon a bed. I wish to see my brother and Kent. Are they all right?”

  “Your brother is being carried here.” Mr. Garret paused again on the curve of the stairs and leaned against the railing for an instant. “Gad, you are no lightweight, ma’am!”

  Ignoring this unkind observation, she gasped, “Carried? He is not—”

  “Knocked out of time. Nothing worse than that shoulder, I think, so do not fret. But he insisted upon remaining staunchly beside you until he folded up like a dropped marionette.” The grim smile he flashed at her held none of the warmth or kindness she had found in it at the landslide and, with a sudden chill of apprehension, she said, “I have not … introduced myself. I am—”

  “I know who you are. And now you’ve exactly the same look as your bacon-brained brother.”

  “My brother, sir,” frowned Euphemia, as he again strode upward, “is—”

  “Is quite convinced I have carried you here so as to lock you in the neares
t bedchamber and rape you.”

  She gave a gasp and, hearing a shocked cry ring out from below, knew at last who carried her. “You…” she stammered, filled with an illogical sense of crushing disappointment, “you are—”

  “Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst,” he announced, his chin lifting and the thin nostrils flaring a little. He glanced down when she made no comment, his heavy lids drooping over the grey eyes in an expression of mocking hauteur she was soon to identify with him. “What—ain’t you going to swoon?”

  “Miss Buchanan,” intervened the lady he had referred to as “Aunt Carlotta,” “I most humbly apologize for my nephew’s unforgivable language. His sense of humour is atrocious!”

  He uttered a subdued grunt, and at that moment they reached the first floor. A door flew open, and a man called, “In here, sir. We have all in readiness.”

  Hawkhurst strode into a magnificent bedchamber, boasting a great luxurious bed with the silken sheets turned down and rich curtains tied back at the posts. He bent to set his burden very gently on the bed, but for an instant seemed to lose his balance, and braced himself with one hand on the velvet coverlet.