Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  Euphemia realized belatedly that he looked pale and, glancing from that scratched hand to the bloodied forehead, said, “I fear you were hurt when the rope dropped so fast.”

  He made no response, still leaning over her, his eyes fixed on her face in a searching intensity. She thought, This man murdered his wife and child and threw acid in the face of his friend … And instinctively, recoiled. At once his expression changed, his lip curled, and the scorn returned to his eyes, full measure.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Garret?” An impressive gentleman with thinning brown hair and a thickening waistline, presumably the butler, took Hawkhurst’s arm and peered at him anxiously.

  “Of course, I am all right.” He straightened. “Have they brought Buchanan in yet? Or the child?”

  His aunt, who was instructing one maid to pour hot water into the bathtub before the fire, and another to “bring the posset now,” spun around and stared in horror. “A child? In this house?”

  The faintest flush appeared on Hawkhurst’s cheeks. “Unfortunately. But we’ll see our guests on their way at first light.” A gleam lit his eyes, and he added, “Sooner, does Buchanan have his way.”

  “They are both here, sir,” the butler murmured. “Mrs. Henderson is with the little boy.”

  Euphemia restrained the comely maid who bent to speak to her, and asked anxiously, “Is my brother badly hurt?”

  The butler darted a look at his master. “My staff have their limitations, ma’am,” drawled that gentleman. “Among ’em, my butler is not a physician. But we’ve a splendid fellow in Down Buttery. He will be far better equipped to answer your questions.” He lifted one autocratic hand as her lips parted, and went on, his boredom very apparent, “Meanwhile, whatever else I may be, I have not lately murdered the child of a guest. So by all means set your mind at rest and allow my servants to restore you.” He bowed, started away, then turned back again, frowning, “Devil take me, I’ve lived in this wilderness too long! My aunt, Lady Carlotta Bryce, Miss Euphemia Buchanan.” And he added with an amused grin, “Colonel Sir Army Buck’s daughter.”

  Surprised both by his knowledge of Armstrong Buchanan’s nickname and by Lady Bryce’s obvious astonishment, Euphemia shook the dainty hand that was extended and, as Hawkhurst prepared to leave, called, “One moment, if you please, sir.”

  He swung back, one dark brow lifting in haughty condescension.

  “Whatever else I may be,” she said gravely, “I’ve not lately neglected to thank a very brave gentleman who saved my life, and nigh lost his own, rescuing my page.”

  She saw surprise come into his eyes and knew he had assumed Kent to be a relation. Then he grinned and bowed theatrically.

  “Mia! Are you all right?” Buchanan stood clinging to the door-jamb, a dramatic figure with his white, bloodstreaked face and eyes desperate with fear as they flashed from Euphemia to their reluctant host.

  “’Course she ain’t,” mocked Hawkhurst rudely. “In my lair? Come now, Buchanan, you know better than that!”

  * * *

  “MOST ridiculous damned nonsense I ever heard of!” The stocky, grey-haired physician who had been peremptorily summoned from Down Buttery glared at Sir Simon, sprawled on a blue and white striped sofa in this elegant small salon, and demanded, “Why in the devil could you not be laid down upon a bed like any normal, rational gentleman?”

  It was the last straw. Frustrated because he had been forced to permit Mia being carried into this evil house, fretted by the knowledge that his hurt was exacerbated and his recovery thereby further delayed, humiliated by the awareness that he was under considerable obligation to a man he despised, and in a good deal of pain, Buchanan was in a foul temper and answered with a rudeness normally foreign to him. “Because no ‘normal, rational gentleman’ would be seen dead in this house, Dr. Archer! Besides which, my unwed sister is in my charge, and were I to lie down upon a bed, I might be so ill-advised as to fall asleep and thus leave her defenceless!”

  Archer stiffened. His bushy eyebrows drew together, and the deep-set brown eyes below them fairly shot sparks. He hauled over a small table and slammed his leather bag onto it. “Positively overset with gratitude, ain’t you?”

  Buchanan reddened and, wishing he might retract his remarks, said wearily, “I intend to properly thank Mr. Hawkhurst. I am aware I stand indebted to the man.”

  “Charmingly said. Your manners, I presume, grow on one.” Archer flung open his bag.

  “Pray do not put yourself to any great effort in my behalf,” said Buchanan. “I mean to leave here just as soon as my sister is recovered.”

  The shirt beneath the injured man’s cravat was wet and crimson and, unbuttoning it, the doctor smiled grimly. “Do you? I wish I may see it.”

  “And I wish I may see the last of you, sir!” Buchanan wrenched himself upward, sank his teeth into his underlip, and sagged back again.

  Archer heard the faint gasp and saw sweat start on the pallid brow. The boy was in no state to be rational, and, irritated for having allowed himself to become so angry, he at once became angrier, and roared, “Hawk! Parsley! Mrs. Hen … derson…!” No response being forthcoming, he returned his attention to his unhappy patient and growled, “So you intend to repay your rescuer by forcing me to work on you in here, and likely ruin his pretty sofa.”

  “To the … contrary, sir. I have not the least desire to … impose upon your time,” quoth Buchanan, indomitable but very white of lip. “All I ask is that you … tie it up and let me reimburse you … and be on my way.”

  Archer ignored him and cut away the sodden dressing, and after a brief but unpleasant interval announced that a bone chip was coming out. “Just as well. Ain’t healing properly. What you get when you consult those puffed-up fools in London. Sooner go to a native witchdoctor! Have to open it.”

  Buchanan’s feeble protestations were brushed aside. Another series of roars for assistance made him jump, and the physician marched to tug fruitlessly on the bellrope, then return, muttering, “Whole blasted army of servants hovering about ’til you need one! Weather’s awful. You want to go by yourself, that’s your bread and butter. But the child certainly cannot travel.”

  “Kent? Was he hurt then? I had thought—”

  “That he would be dead were it not for your despised host? Had you? Hmnnn. I’d not have guessed it.” Archer met the blaze of those blue eyes levelly, then rummaged in his bag and brought forth a small but vicious-looking knife and several bottles.

  Incensed beyond endurance, Buchanan hauled himself upward. Archer pushed him back and observed with a marked lack of sympathy that he’d thought, “our gallant military heroes feared nothing.”

  “Not an ill-mannered … country doctor at all … events!” flared Buchanan.

  “I am most dreadfully sorry, Dr. Hal,” called a soft voice from the doorway. “But I fear we are rather short of maids this afternoon. They are gone to help decorate the Church, you see, and the two we have left are preparing guest rooms and assisting Mrs. Henderson. Hawk has taken most of the men to help with his team and see if they can clear the road.”

  “Stephanie? Come in, my dear.” The doctor’s gruff bark was suddenly gentled, and he bent lower to hiss at the still fuming Buchanan, “Hawkhurst’s sister, and she loves him, so I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head!” He ignored the spluttering wrath this adjuration provoked, laid a pad over the wound, and turned to smile at the girl who moved towards them. “Will you be so kind, Stephie, as to give me your assistance here? Oh, for God’s sake, man! Miss Hawkhurst’s seen a male chest before! She’s a splendid nurse. Helped me at the village last winter when the wind took the roof off the Parish Hall and two of the walls collapsed. I’ll need a glass of water too, m’dear. A fine set-to that was, with better than thirty men, women, and children hurt, ladies fainting in all directions, and our brave girl here, working like a da—er, like a ministering angel. Some hot water now, if you please. Oh, by the bye, Miss Hawkhurst, this gallant is Lie
utenant Sir Simon Buchanan, come home with a mangled shoulder from that fool Wellington’s caperings. Well, do not gobble, sir! You have just been introduced to a lady!”

  His ferocious glare challenged the seething Buchanan, who somehow overcame his fury at this maligning of the superb Wellington and uttered a polite, if uneven, response. Beyond his first horrified glance, he had tried not to look at the female who quietly assisted the volatile doctor in laying out the horrendous articles of torture with which he was all too well acquainted. During Archer’s monologue, however, he had slanted a shy glance at her and discovered a slight young woman of average height, with light-brown hair fashioned into fat braided coils behind her ears. Her fair complexion was just now rather pink, doubtless from maidenly embarrassment, but he thought clinically that she had little to recommend her in the way of looks, seeming utterly colourless in her plain, dove-grey gown. Her hands, however, were slender and beautifully shaped, with long tapering fingers, and she moved them with smooth grace as she pursued her tasks. He was watching them when she glanced up. Her hazel eyes were large and well-opened, holding a calm, gentle expression, but encountering his, the pale lashes fluttered down at once, and the colour in her cheeks deepened.

  Archer, meanwhile, had finished his preparations and was stripping off his jacket. “You’d best find an old sheet, Stephie,” he said. “Hawk will take a dim view of my spoiling his sofa, and Sir Lancelot here refuses a bed in this nefarious pile.”

  Miss Hawkhurst slanted a faintly reproachful glance at Buchanan’s scarlet countenance, and left them, walking with smooth, unaffected gait, to the door.

  “B-by God!” Buchanan burst out when she was gone. “Had you to say that?”

  Measuring pale liquid into a glass, Archer muttered, “She is a gracious girl, and I sought to spare her the mortification of having an offer of hospitality flung back in her teeth.”

  “Flung … back— Now, damn your eyes, sir! What d’ye take me for?”

  Archer thrust the glass at him. “I take you, sir, for a self-righteous, stubborn young ass. But—I could be wrong. Drink it all down.”

  Buchanan forgot his rage as he peered uneasily into the glass. “What is it—laudanum?”

  “Would you believe me did I tell you it was?” Archer’s lip curled. He bent closer and hissed dramatically, “It is really oil of vitriol! We also arrange landslides every Tuesday morning and have a secret and well-filled cemetery in the basement!”

  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 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 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 swi
ft 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 simple 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.”