Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  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 could 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 was 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. As 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, that 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 was 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 all were 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.

  FOUR

  LIEUTENANT Sir Simon Buchanan sighed and, opening his eyes, saw beyond the hand that waved hartshorn under his nose a plain but worried face and a pair of speaking hazel eyes. “Poor young man,” said this disembodied apparition gently. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “If he ain’t,” growled Archer, “he damned well should be!”

  “I am indeed,” Buchanan affirmed faintly. And with a twinge of unease added, “I trust I was not a nuisance.”

  “You were very brave,” said Miss Hawkhurst, in her shy fashion.

  “Brave enough to warrant something more heartening than that lavender water you slopped over him, Stephie!” The doctor grinned and thrust a full wineglass into his patient’s rather shaky hand.

  “Stephanie!” The shriek made Buchanan’s hand shake even more violently, causing him to choke and splash some excellent cognac onto the fresh bandages Dr. Archer had just secured across his chest.

  A plump, untidy figure rushed into the room, a lady with a wealth of rather doubtful red hair that seemed determined to escape both cap and hairpins, giving her a decidedly wild appearance. She wore a very large robe of dark blue velvet, the hem of which looked as though it had been stitched in place by several seamstresses, each having a different eye for length. From the basket in her hand, silks, a pair of scissors, a thimble, and a paper pattern tumbled, one after another, for as she came, she constantly tripped over her uneven hem with a resultant hop, skip, and stagger that caused Buchanan to view her with considerable astonishment.

  “You are in here!” gasped the newcomer redundantly, her pale blue eyes starting out in alarm. “With a strange gentleman who is—” She tripped, dropped the basket altogether, clutched for a chair which toppled into an occasional table, sending a bowl of mint confections hurtling across the car
pet and, righting herself, finished, “Whoops! Unclad!”

  “Oh, my God!” moaned Archer, sotto voce.

  “Aunt Dora,” smiled Stephanie fondly.

  Scrambling to his feet, Buchanan swayed and uttered a horror-stricken, “I r-really … am not…”

  “Good heavens! Do not stand! Poor, poor soul! I heard a gallant soldier-man had come amongst us!” The lady rushed to his side imploring, “Sit down, I do entreat! Stephanie! Do not look, dear child! Avert your eyes!” And flinging up one arm dramatically, she sent two hairpins flying, one of which splashed into Buchanan’s wine. “‘Sometimes,’” she intoned, “‘too hot the eye of heaven shines!’”

  Archer turned away with a muffled snort, and “Aunt Dora” lowered her arm and said a dubious, “Hmmmm … That may not quite fit the situation, do you think, Stephie?” Her cheeks very pink, Miss Hawkhurst murmured that the quotation was “very nice.” “All right,” said the newcomer, seemingly cheered. “Now off with you!” and fairly swept her niece from the room, closing the door after her and leaning back against it, quite out of breath from her efforts.

  “My boy,” breathed the doctor, whose opinion of his patient had escalated considerably during his surgery, “you are about to meet a rara avis. Gird up thy loins—else you’ll not survive the encounter!”

  “There!” gasped the rara avis, with pleased satisfaction. “Well, now…” And forward she came again, with that eager gait that was somewhere between hare and hounds, and, having all but toppled into the scared Buchanan’s arms, beamed down at him. “How may we help? What needs to be done, Harold? Name it! I am here!”

  She was very much here, as a consequence of which, Buchanan drew as few breaths as possible, yet felt half-strangled, so pervadingly acrid was the lady’s perfume. His expression brought an appreciative gleam to the physician’s eyes. “Allow me,” Archer volunteered. “Mrs. Dora Graham, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan. No, begad! Sit still, sir!”

  “Please do! Oh, please do!” said Mrs. Graham, her plump hands fluttering as she lurched over a curtsey. “Are you Army Buck’s boy? Ah, I see you are. Where’s his shirt, Harold? Oh dear … cannot wear that! Send for a maid. Oh, never mind! You are slow, Harold. Slow! One might suppose you were growing old!” Trotting sideways towards the bellrope, she half turned to flash the doctor a saucy smile, tripped over a footstool and fell with a squeal onto an occasional chair.

  Beginning to grin, Buchanan again started up and was again pushed back as Archer strode past, to restore the lady to her feet, and sigh, “Dora, how you have possibly managed to survive is a source of constant amazement to me. I vow you will rush and tear and fall and crash through life—and outlive the rest of us by fifty years!”

  “Oh, I do hope you are mistaken,” she said cheerfully, striving to restore order to her flying hair and leaving it wilder than ever. “I should purely despise to be left all alone with no friends around me. Did you know your Papa proposed to me? No—not your Papa, Harold! Good gracious, I should only have been … What are you saying? I’m not that old! Now where was I? Oh—the bell, of course.” She trotted towards the pull, gave it a solid tug and let go so abruptly that it rebounded into the air, the tasselled end becoming entangled in a wall sconce. She frowned at it. “Foolish thing. I cannot get you down, you know.”

  Archer turned away, his eyes rolling ceiling-ward.

  “You were acquainted with my father, ma’am?” asked Buchanan eagerly.

  “Indeed, I was.” She came hurrying back, just barely missing the footstool the doctor whipped from her erratic path. “What a devil he was, to be sure! Did he ever tell you about the time in Paris when my chair broke and he and the toothpick designer fell into the Seine? No, of course, he would not, for that was when he had that delicious opera dancer under his protection, and—”

  “Dora!” the doctor admonished, although his eyes danced with mirth.

  She giggled. “Oh, I always forget that we ladies are not supposed to know about such things. But, in truth I— Oh, my dear young man, you look so pale. Drink up! Drink up!”

  “Yes, do drink up,” urged Archer fiendishly.

  Buchanan raised his glass, encountered the hairpin, and froze for only an instant before nobly sipping his wine.

  “A true hero,” murmured the doctor, pulling up a chair for Mrs. Graham.

  She sank into it. “We must get you to your bed at once. That is very good cognac, you know. Does it not suit your taste? Poor fellow. I should enjoy a teensy sip, Harold dear.”

  Archer crossed to pour her a glass even while teasing that her sister Bryce would not like to see her take brandy.

  Mrs. Graham slanted a guilty glance towards the door. “No, but she is not here, is she? So I may be as naughty as I wish.” She gave a merry little laugh. “Oh dear! I should not have said that. Ah, thank you, Harold. Wherever is the maid, I wonder. Poor Sir Simon, you must be freezing. Put his jacket around him, Harold. No, I shall do it. Oh my, now I’ve spilled wine on you. Never mind, we can clean you up in no—”

  “Whatever are you doing, Dora?”

  In the act of putting down her depleted glass, Mrs. Graham gave a small gasp and swung around. “I—er—only came to help, Carlotta,” she stammered guiltily.

  Lady Bryce paused on the threshold and, surveying the havoc, pressed a hand to her cheek. “Alas! So I see. Which is precisely why I requested you should not do so.” Her gaze came to rest on her sister-in-law’s wineglass and lingered pointedly. “What a pity … Poor dear, I do not doubt you meant well.”

  Mrs. Graham blushed and moved back. Buchanan met her eyes and smiled warmly, and she gave him a look of such pathetic gratitude that he was reminded of the devoted but disastrous spaniel puppy he had once owned.

  My lady had been followed by two maids to whom she turned and said sweetly, “Please try to set some of this frightful chaos to rights. It is so upsetting for an invalid.”

  Buchanan was far more upset by the curious and sympathetic stares of the maids and pulled his jacket tighter, as Dr. Archer, his face completely wooden, performed brisk introductions. Lady Bryce extended her hand. “Poor Sir Simon. I do apologize for all this. How very foolish you must fancy us.”

  He fancied a good deal, but was feeling a little steadier now and, having already come to his feet once more, negotiated a clumsy left-handed handshake and assured her he was most grateful.

  “Despite what you might be pardoned for imagining,” she said with a deprecating little laugh, “this is not quite a madhouse. So soon as you are able, you shall be assisted to your room, which—as I know you would wish—adjoins that of your sister.” The doctor tossed her an irritated frown, and serenely unabashed she observed that, “One must be truthful, you know, my dear Hal.”

  One of the maids was sent running in search of a suitable dressing gown, and, when this was brought, my lady personally assisted Buchanan to don the garment, constantly admonishing him to have a care, yet her movements so brisk that the doctor intervened to demand his patient be allowed to get to his bed before he was again reduced to a state of total collapse.

  Supported by Dr. Archer, Sir Simon was conveyed into the magnificence of the Great Hall. As the door closed behind them, he heard Lady Bryce say in her gentle fashion, “My dear foolish Dora, whatever are we to do about your hair? And—that perfectly frightful scent…?”

  * * *

  A SOFT scratching at the door awoke Euphemia. Kent was fast asleep, and the clock on the mantle indicated that only an hour had passed since Lady Bryce had left. She limped stiffly over to the door and discovered her brother, clad in a long, quilted, black dressing gown that brought an appreciative sparkle to her eyes.

  “Let me in quickly!” he urged. “That molten physician believes me tucked into my bed!”

  “As you should be, Machiavelli!” she said softly, drawing him into the room nonetheless. “Are you—” And she stopped. He had been silhouetted against the lighted hallway, and she’d not seen the sling that again supported h
is arm. She led him to the chair she had just vacated and, occupying the other one, searched his face. His grin was bright as ever, but the weary look about the eyes confirmed her fears, and she asked a compassionate, “Was it very bad, dearest?”

  “Lord, no. But a fine bumble broth we’ve dropped into, eh?”

  It was typical that he should not reproach her now that they really were involved, and, just as typically, she admitted, “All my fault. I am sorry!”

  “Stuff! Who could have guessed the whole blasted hillside would choose just that moment to give way? I cannot like it though, Mia. When we get back to civilization you’re not to breathe a word to anyone that we came here. Wouldn’t do your reputation any good, y’know, however we explained it away.”

  “I might not have a reputation to be concerned about, had it not been for our Bluebeard,” she pointed out, a pucker disturbing her smooth brow. “What do you make of him, love?”

  “Make of him? Gad! All I want is to make away from him! I’ll admit we stand indebted to the man, but did you mark his face? Even harder than I recollect. And that chin! I’ll go bail he’d balk at nothing!”

  “He certainly did not balk at risking his life for Kent,” she said quietly. “Though why he should take so desperate a chance to help someone he’d never seen and yet savagely murder his own son…” She gave a shrug of bafflement. “Simon, are you sure? Was it ever really proven?”

  Buchanan frowned a little. “Do not be blinded to what he is, Mia. I recall he was used to have a way about him that charmed the ladies—God knows why. What’s all this about Kent?” He glanced to the bed anxiously. “Not in very bad case, is he?”