Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “Did this?” He gestured toward his eye. “Yes. But it was—” He rephrased, with a small shrug. “Some of the things I said to him were quite unforgivable.”

  “Then one would think a gentleman should have called you out. Or perhaps— Oh dear! There I go again! And the subject must be painful to you.”

  “Not now. Nor have we faced one another in a pearly dawn at twenty yards, if that is what you mean.” His light manner evaporated and he said with a touch of grimness, “Though it is, I fear, only a matter of time. And does he continue to abuse my dog, that time may be extremely brief.”

  It seemed to Euphemia that the time for their confrontation had been four years back—and over a matter of far greater moment than Hawkhurst’s threats against a canine interloper. But she could imagine Simon’s horror were she to comment to that effect and therefore said with a smile, “I shall have to bear witness, sir, to the fact that today Sampson struck the first blow.”

  They had come out onto a high, rolling heath, with a spectacular view of the countryside beyond, and Gains halted, facing her in dismay. “What? That stupid animal never trotted all the way over there again?”

  “I fear he did. And raced jubilantly through the house, scattering rugs, breaking Han vases, and leaving the master flat on his back.”

  “Good … God! Not that superb vase in the dining room? The Admiral gave it to him. Oh, but this is frightful.”

  Euphemia eyed him curiously. “You know a good deal about your mortal enemy, sir. May I ask who is ‘the Admiral’?”

  “Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby—Hawkhurst’s grandfather and a fierce, magnificent old warrior who remains, thank heaven, very much my friend. Hawk idolizes him, with good reason. But Wetherby’s seldom at Dominer since … er … these days, so may not notice the absence of the vase does he come this year. As for my knowledge of the family, Hawk and I grew up together, a long time ago, as it seems now.” He looked sad all at once, then brightened. “If you will look down the slope to your left, Miss Buchanan, you’ll see my home. Small, compared to Dominer, but my brother and I would be overjoyed to welcome you. Will you come and take a dish of tea with us? I’ve a splendid housekeeper who would not leave your side for an instant, did you consent.”

  Euphemia admired Chant House, a sprawling Tudor edifice set in a spacious park dotted with great old oak trees. She thanked Lord Gains for his invitation and liked him the more for the fact that he made no attempt to argue with her refusal. His offer had been a mere courtesy, of course, for they both knew her unchaperoned presence in the home of two young bachelors would be unthinkable, and that this very conversation was, in fact, quite improper. Therefore, having also refused his offer to get a mount and escort her, she listened carefully to his directions, promised to ride this way again with her brother at the earliest opportunity, and sent Fiddle picking her dainty way down the slope towards the east and Dominer.

  The clouds were darker than ever now, and the air so cold her breath hung upon it like little clouds, while Fiddle blew white smoke as she cantered along. Euphemia was only vaguely aware of cold, clouds, or Fiddle, however, for her thoughts were on Maximilian Gains, his gentle courtesy, and the gallantry that enabled him to speak of his enemy with comparative objectivity. He was, she decided, a most remarkable young man, and she at once popped him into the small group of her favourites, which included such gallants as Jeremy Bolster, John Colborne, Harry Redmond, and Tristram Leith. It would be a great pity, she thought, if Gains and Hawkhurst were to meet on the field of honour, for, although they looked to be much the same age and each in splendid physical condition, she could not but think that Gains would have little chance against Hawkhurst’s cold ferocity. It was remarkable, really, that they had not fought, for surely—

  She had been riding along in the lee of a hill and, having come to the end of its sheltering bulk, rode out into the wind at the same instant as a horseman galloped around the curve. Fiddle let out a terrified whinny and shied. For the second time that day, Euphemia had to call up all her skill to quiet the chestnut. When at last she succeeded, she found the new arrival sitting his horse while staring at her with unblinking stillness. An extremely well-favoured gentleman, this. Slim and tall, he was richly clad in a brown greatcoat that must have all of ten capes, the furred collar buttoned high about his finely moulded chin, and a furred beaver clapped at a jaunty angle over curls that shone like gold even under the threatening winter skies. He was mounted on a showy hack, very long of tail and rolling of eye, whose bay coat shone almost as brightly as did his owner’s hair. But Euphemia, wise in the ways of men and horses, found the gentleman’s brown eyes rather too large, his mouth, although perfectly curved, too full and sensuous, and his horse entirely too quivery of nerves and a shade too short in the back for all his show and bluster.

  Thus, for an instant, each took stock of the other, and the man’s recondite look gave way to admiration, as his dark eyes flickered from Euphemia’s hood to the shapely boot that peeped from beneath her habit. Off came his beaver with a flourish, down went the golden head, in a bow remarkable for its grace, in view of the cavorting bundle of nerves he bestrode. “Well met, Madam Juno,” he said in a pleasant, well-modulated voice. “Are you just arrived? I pray so, for our dull evenings will be brightened if that is the case.”

  “You are newly come to Dominer, sir?” she countered smoothly, conscious of a fervent hope this was not so.

  “Dominer? No, by Jove! Ah, but you jest, ma’am, for no lady such as yourself would sojourn at so wicked a spot! Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Knowles-Shefford, of Shefford’s Den in Yorkshire.” Again his bow was profound, but his questioningly upraised brows won only a cool smile and the response that, did he journey to “the wicked spot,” her identity would be made known to him.

  Briefly, he looked genuinely taken aback, and she realized that he was older than the five and twenty she had at first guessed, perhaps by as much as a decade. He recovered himself and began to pour out apologies, ending his humble pleas for her forgiveness with, “Ah, fair Juno, must you abandon me in this wilderness?”

  Impatient with his verbosity, yet amused nonetheless, she teased, “You are scarce two miles from Chant House, sir. I would suppose your chances of reaching it safely to be excellent.”

  His eyes swung in the direction she indicated. “Yes, but Max is a dull dog, and it is lonely there. What, will you be away then? Your name, lovely one, I beg you! At least give me leave to call upon you in Town— But, no, alas! You mean to leave me, disconsolate and drear.”

  “Drear?” she laughed. “But, really, sir!” She bade him good day, not unkindly, and with a kick of her heels sent Fiddle off towards Dominer once more.

  The man she had left sat unmoving for a few minutes, watching her ride from sight. And as he watched, the foolish smile vanished from his face, leaving it with another expression—an expression that would have caused Euphemia much disquiet.

  * * *

  DAYLIGHT had faded now, and, while one of the lackeys lighted the candles, another moved about the pleasant salon, shutting out the cold dusk by drawing the thick, red-velvet draperies. With his frowning gaze upon this innocent individual, Hawkhurst twirled the wine in his glass impatiently and said a curt, “Of course, I am not angered!” He glanced to Buchanan, standing beside him, saw the laughter that danced in the blue eyes, and grumbled, “But, by God! I scoured that freezing damned wood for better than an hour with my grooms, and—” He checked as his guest strove not too successfully to look contrite and finished with a wry grin, “Is your sister always so headstrong and impetuous, sir?”

  “Usually,” murmured Buchanan, “only when extreme vexed.”

  “Indeed?” The dark head immediately jerked higher. “Well, she’d absolutely no reason to—” But Hawkhurst paused, flushed, and looked away. “Oh,” he grunted, then took a sip of cognac and asked, “How does the boy go on?”

  “So far as I am aware, nothing has befallen him in the last
half-hour.”

  In a total departure from his usual assured manner, Hawkhurst looked even more discomfited, and faltered, “I … I only dropped in for a minute or two, and—”

  “And left him smothered with books, pictures, magazines, and that knife of yours that must drive the maids insane,” grinned Buchanan.

  “No, but I showed him how to use it. He’ll not hurt himself, I do assure you. He has quite a knack for—”

  A crash in the hall was followed by a moan, a ripple of feminine amusement, and a deeper male laugh. The door opened to admit Dora Graham, her plump face apprehensive, followed by a smiling Stephanie, and Coleridge Bryce. At the sight of that gentleman, the enquiry on Hawkhurst’s lips died, and Buchanan had to stifle a chuckle. Bryce was awesome in a maroon-velvet coat, the shoulders of which were padded to the point of being absurd. His shirt points were so high that, were he to turn his head unguardedly, he must risk impaling an eyeball, and wide-legged grey trousers, caught in at the ankles, did nothing to mitigate the outlandishness of his appearance. After one scorching scan, Hawkhurst ignored him and escorted his aunt to a chair. He held his breath for a moment against her perfume, but then said nobly, “How dashing you look, dear lady.”

  “I dashed a vase, love,” she confessed remorsefully and, slanting a hopeful look at him, added, “but it really did not have the best of lines, Garret. Quite dull, actually.”

  He smiled into her anxious eyes. “Then I thank you for ridding me of it.”

  Mrs. Graham heaved a sigh of relief and told him he was the dearest boy. She really did look well this evening, in a gown of grey velvet trimmed with blue beads and with her hair quite neatly arranged. Stephanie’s attempt to look her best had been less successful. The pale blue linen made her look washed out; the high, round neck and large bishop sleeves were too matronly for a young girl, and the beautiful shawl she carried loosely across her elbows, being mainly embroidered in shades of pink, white and red, quarreled with her gown. Buchanan, who had looked up eagerly at the sound of her voice, noticed neither unbecoming shades nor ugly sleeves, however, but, as he drew a chair closer to the fire for her, thought only what a very pleasant person she was.

  The butler filled Mrs. Graham’s glass from an elaborately hand-painted Oriental decanter. She sipped appreciatively, sighed that she was so relieved to hear Miss Buchanan had at last come safely home, and, sublimely unaware of the sharp glance that flashed between her nephew and Buchanan, imparted, “The countryside hereabouts can be quite dangerous, dear Sir Simon, if one is unfamiliar with it.”

  “Mia is a magnificent rider, ma’am. Lord Wellington once remarked she is the only lady he knows who might be able to handle Copenhagen.”

  “Did he so?” All interest, she leaned forward, at once dislodging a comb from her hair. She made a clutch for it, and the fringes of her shawl floated into her wine. “Alas!” she mourned whimsically, “Why must I be such a clumsy creature?” Buchanan at once retrieving the comb, she reached out to take it. “Thank you, dear boy! Whoops! There goes my hankie!”

  The “dear boy” again came to the rescue, bowed, but dared not take another breath. Whoever concocted that cloying perfume of hers should be shot! He moved back, managing not to betray his aversion, but then found Stephanie’s eyes upon him, so alight with mischievous understanding that he was almost undone.

  Hawkhurst, meanwhile, had wandered over to where Bryce stood a short distance from the fire. “And a poppy-flowered waistcoat!” he murmured ironically. “The icing on the cake! Tell me, Colley, does our redoubtable Miss Buchanan mean to make a beauty out of you, also?”

  “I knew you would laugh!” Coleridge reddened. “If you must know, Hawk, these trousers are all the crack up at Oxford. Brought ’em down with me!”

  “So that is why you were rusticated! Egad! Cannot say I blame the Dean!”

  His lordship’s rustication had stemmed from quite another cause, and one he had no intention of divulging. His jaw setting stubbornly, he retaliated, “Were it a scarlet jacket you would approve! But because I’ve a flair for art, you mock and sneer and—”

  “Flair for dandyism, more like! Now hear me well, my lad. I shall not embarrass you by demanding that you immediately go and remove that ridiculous collection of horrors with which you have chosen to deface yourself. But do you ever come down to dinner wearing it again, I shall personally eject you!”

  Coleridge felt impaled by that grey stare. Hawk meant it, all right. And seeking vainly for some devastatingly sophisticated retort, he was obliged to fall back upon the ages-old response of oppressed youth, “Why must you persist in treating me as though I were still a child in leading strings?”

  “The answer to that,” said Hawkhurst acidly, “is too obvious to require utterance.” And he strolled to his aunt’s side, leaving Bryce trembling with passion.

  Since all of this had been conducted in very low tones, and since Dora had chattered merrily throughout, several times bringing Buchanan and her niece to laughter, it appeared to have escaped notice. Buchanan, however, could guess what had transpired and, eyeing Hawkhurst admiringly, wondered who was the genius who tailored him. The dark-brown jacket was very plain, save for brown-velvet rolled revers, but fit like a second skin. His cream-brocade waistcoat and fawn pantaloons were impeccable, and his only affectations were his signet ring and a fine topaz in his cravat. Beside his quiet elegance, Bryce with his fobs and seals, and rings, a snuffbox held in one hand and his handkerchief in the other, looked a total buffoon.

  Pondering thus, Buchanan became aware that Miss Hawkhurst watched him. They had spent much time together during the past few days and had become so comfortably at ease that formalities had been abandoned, and they were more like lifelong friends than comparative strangers. He drew his chair a little closer and pointed out in a low voice, “Colley has good stuff in him, Miss Stephie. He’ll likely develop into a splendid fellow.”

  “I am sure of it. I do hope your own brothers appreciate having so understanding a gentleman as the head of the family.”

  He grinned. “Doubt they ever give me a thought, save when they are in need of the ready! Gerald—he’s at Cambridge, you know—has his head full of schemes to right the world’s wrongs, while Robert, the young demon, yearns to turn back the clock to the naughty and infinitely more appealing days of our grandfathers.”

  She gave an appreciative little laugh. “And you are so kind and doubtless indulge them terribly. Tell me, does Gerald affect the fashions my cousin Bryce admires?”

  The very thought of his brother making such a cake of himself was sufficient to arouse Buchanan’s ire. “He most certainly does not! Why, if I ever caught him so much … as…” He broke off. Stephanie’s head had tilted, and her eyes were bright with mirth. He glanced to Hawkhurst and smiled ruefully. “You wretch! You trapped me neatly! And how did you know I was entertaining such critical thoughts of your brother, pray?”

  She lowered her lashes and, her smile fading, murmured, “You have … very expressive eyes, and—”

  “Oh, my! Am I so late, then? I do apologize. The cook was apoplectic when I was obliged to tell him to set dinner back an hour!” Lady Bryce swept into the room, impressive in a purple lace robe over a pale lavender slip. Tall plumes swayed in her velvet turban, and a fine amethyst-and-pearl necklace was spread across her bosom. “I have kept everyone waiting, I perceive,” she sighed, as she surveyed the ladies and the three young men who had stood at her coming. “How very, very bad mannered in me!”

  Feeling about an inch tall, Buchanan stammered, “I am afraid my sister is not here yet, ma’am.”

  “The prerogative of a guest,” said Hawkhurst. He motioned to the butler to leave and, pulling a chair closer to the fire, urged, “Do sit here, Aunt Carlotta. You are all gooseflesh.”

  She cast him a resentful glance, but seated herself. Her son, dutifully bringing her some lemonade, filled her vision for the first time. She gave a small shriek and almost dropped her glass. “Good heavens
! What on earth are you wear—”

  “Impressive, is it not?” Hawkhurst interposed, occupying a chair between her and Dora. “I have told Colley that I do not feel his shoulders require so exaggerated a style, but these new fashions are all the rage at the University, and the young Bucks must try ’em.”

  The awkward moment passed. Coleridge breathed a sigh of relief and shot a grateful glance at his cousin. Lady Bryce was very willing to drop so embarrassing a subject and launched into an animadversion upon how furious the cook had been, and the general impertinence of servants these days, only to stop in mid-sentence, her mouth widening into an expression of mingled awe and incredulity.

  Buchanan followed her gaze and was as one turned to stone. Hawkhurst, equally astounded, sprang to his feet, while Bryce, in the act of refilling his aunt’s glass, glanced up and froze.

  Euphemia’s arrival having been every bit as spectacular as she had hoped, she paused in the doorway, one hand upon the frame, surveying the silenced gathering with an arch smile. “Am I…” she enquired throatily, “… late?”

  A total stillness answered her. She moved with a decidedly sinuous glide across the floor.

  “Good … God!” breathed Buchanan, tottering to his feet.

  “Good … evening, ma’am,” said Hawkhurst in a strangled voice and advanced to greet her.

  She extended her hand. It was not easy, but she managed it. She was fairly covered with jewels. In addition to the diamond choker clasped about her throat, she wore a triple strand of large pearls and an opal pendant. A great ruby brooch was pinned to one shoulder of her décolleté, pale-orange, silk gown, and on the other a fine emerald pin clashed wickedly. The tiara in her hair, of diamonds and sapphires, was “complimented” by shoulder-length pearl and ruby earrings that sparkled and flashed as she turned her head provocatively. Every one of her fingers was beringed, sapphires vying with amethysts, diamonds, opals, and emeralds. From wrist to elbow, both arms were weighted down. There were bracelets of gold, jade, and silver; cunningly wrought gold filigree encrusted with glittering gems; loops of pearls, and, next to a splendid ruby bangle, one of garnets. The over-all effect was as blinding as it was vulgar.