Stephanie’s dismayed glance at her new friend discovered such an amused look that she relaxed again and laughed down at Leith who had fallen to one knee to clasp her hand and kiss it. “Behold me at your feet, you vision,” he grinned and, standing, added, “Egad, Stephie, the last time I came you were a shy schoolroom miss. Now, look at you! A Beauty, no less!”
“Faithless wretch!” scolded Euphemia.
“He’s right, though, dashed if he ain’t!” Coleridge Bryce crossed to give his cousin an impulsive and rare hug. “You look much better, Stephie. Don’t she, Mama?”
“Very pretty,” Lady Bryce acknowledged. “Indeed, how even our clever Miss Buchanan could achieve such miraculous—”
“Absolutely beautiful!” interposed her sister-in-law quickly. “I shall embroider you a new shawl, Stephanie. I’ve a piece of silk very close to that shade of amber. It will look delightfully.”
Leith’s eyes had returned to Euphemia, only to find her watching Hawkhurst, a faintly challenging smile on her lips, but her eyes anxious. And, noting how studiously that individual avoided her gaze, his unease was heightened.
Stephanie, meanwhile, having thanked her aunt for the kind offer and, being a little flustered by reason of all this attention, turned to her brother. “Gary…? You are not vexed?”
“I bow to our so adept modiste,” he said, throwing Euphemia a slight bow, though his glance barely flickered in her direction. “And also, I claim the right to lead our Beauty in to luncheon.”
Although he was longing to claim Euphemia, Leith’s manners would not allow it, and he escorted Lady Bryce. Buchanan was not loath to escort Dora, whose gaiety and good nature he felt compensated for her unfortunate taste in scent, and Coleridge offered Euphemia his arm with so gallant a flourish that she was able to laugh despite a heavy-heartedness that was as unusual as it was confusing.
When they were all seated around the table, Leith was at last badgered into informing them that Wellington had scored again. Another splendid victory, the Battle of St. Pierre had been won against apparently hopeless odds. Cheers rang out at this, and everyone sprang up, while Hawkhurst, his face flushed and boyish, proposed a toast: “To Lord Wellington, and our magnificent fighting men who will soon drive Boney back where he belongs!”
“Do tell us of it, Leith,” Buchanan urged as they resumed their places. “Has the rain stopped over there?”
“It rains like the Flood still. And old Soult caught us fairly at the Nive, which was so blasted overflowing the Beau had to split us into two sections. But he felt we would prevail, and we did, by God!”
When the servants had withdrawn, Hawkhurst murmured, “Casualties…? Or can you speak of it?”
“Unbelievable.” Leith’s face darkened. “Worst I ever saw. ‘Auld Grog Willie’ had every member of his staff downed, one way or another. Never fear, Hawk, Colborne’s unhurt, and looks quite himself again, though he carries that shoulder a trifle crooked these days.” He turned rather reluctantly to Euphemia, who was striving not to look astonished yet again. “I’m sorry, lovely one, but … your admirer, Ian McTavish of the 92nd. And Johnny Wentby of the Gloucesters—you’ll recall old John, Hawk? Bob Grimsby, who wrote that ode about your eyes, Mia, and—”
She said on a choked sob, “Dead…? All—dead?”
“McTavish, I’m afraid. And right gallantly. Wentby also. Grimsby lost his leg, but might pull through. And indeed, war is no game for children. You of all people know that, m’dear.”
“But you play at it as though it were!” sniffed Lady Bryce, who had also been fond of the dauntless Major McTavish. “All your riding and hunting and careering about over there … as though you’d not a … care in the world!” She wiped at her eyes, quite forgetting to be dainty about it.
Euphemia was so shattered she was finding it difficult to maintain her composure. Leith went on talking easily, turning the conversation to lighter aspects of Wellington’s brilliant advance and, as he did so, unobtrusively placed one hand over Euphemia’s small fist, tight clenched on the tablecloth. Hawkhurst noted that kindly gesture, the easy assurance with which it was accomplished, and the grateful, if quivering, smile that was bestowed upon Leith in return. For a moment he stared rather blankly at his good friend. Then he concentrated on his plate and for the balance of the meal said very little.
The contribution he might have made to the conversation was not missed. Leith, a superb raconteur, soon had them all in whoops with his tales. Carlotta, who very obviously doted on him, was happier than Euphemia had ever seen her, and Dora, her rich sense of humour easily aroused, laughed until the tears slipped down her round cheeks.
Through it all, not once did Stephanie appear to glance in the direction of Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan. And, through it all, the troubled eyes of that young gentleman rarely left her face.
* * *
“SO HERE you are! What luck! I feared I’d not find you alone.” Leith strode across the music room to join Euphemia, who was leafing through a pile of music.
“I have promised to sing at the rectory party tonight,” she smiled as he pulled a chair close beside her. “You come with us, I hope?”
“I wish I might, but I must be at the Horse Guards first thing in the morning, and the weather looks a bit grim. Mia, I simply must talk with you. Can I persuade you to join me for a gallop before I leave?”
She would not have refused him under any circumstances, for always the dread that she might never see him again haunted her. But the thought of a ride today was doubly welcome, and she stood eagerly. “Lovely! I will go and change. I promise to be very quick.”
“Oh, I know that,” he said cheerfully, accompanying her into the hall. “You are famous for not keeping a gentleman waiting above three hours whilst you change your bonnet.”
“Wretch!” she laughed. “Own up, Leith. That very quality is what won your heart, is it not?”
“But, of course. Above all else I demand promptitude in my wife!” The words were as light as ever, but there was a wistful quality to his smile, and Euphemia’s eyes wavered. “You run along,” he urged, “and I’ll ask Hawk for the loan of a couple of hacks. I wonder where he’s disappeared to. He was with the boy after luncheon, but— Oh, there they are.”
Curious, Euphemia followed him into the library where Hawkhurst and Kent had their heads together over a fine old book of wild animal engravings. Kent’s small face was aglow with happiness. He threw her a beaming smile and pointed to the book. She admired it dutifully, her heart warming towards the man for this kindness. Leith meantime had begged the loan of two horses, and Hawkhurst was already crossing to the bellrope. “Had you to ask, bacon brain? I’ll tell the grooms to saddle them for you immediately. But you’ll not ride Sarabande, and so I warn you.”
“Graceless villain,” Leith chuckled.
“Dare I beg, sir,” Euphemia asked teasingly, “for a mount with a little more spirit than the gentle mare you allotted to me the last time I rode?”
She had turned her most winning smile upon their host, in the hope that this might constitute a start toward repairing the gulf between them. Her effort was lost.
Two eyes of solid ice regarded her as from a great height. “I fear, Miss Buchanan,” he drawled, “that you shall have to let me be the best judge of my undoubtedly poor selection of cattle.”
Leith threw him an astonished look. Euphemia, feeling as though she had been struck, dropped a curtsey and, her cheeks flaming, murmured, “I am most truly set down, Mr. Hawkhurst.”
Ignoring her, he fixed the Colonel with a stern stare. “I may, I am assured, rely upon your discretion, Leith?”
Euphemia could not hold back her gasp of indignation and was reminded of his own total lack of discretion, not only with regard to his innumerable birds of paradise, but in his attempt to force his attentions on her that very morning! Leith, who had never so much as hugged her, seemed momentarily struck to silence by the implication. Then he murmured a wooden, “You may,” and,
with a somewhat stiff smile, ushered her from the room.
Seething, Euphemia walked beside him to the stairs, mounted the first step, then whirled to look down at him. The handsome face was raised to her, the dark brows lifted enquiringly. How dared such as Garret Hawkhurst cast an aspersion upon the character of this thoroughly honourable young man! Furious, she exclaimed, “Tristram, I am sorry! He is … he is absolutely impossible! How dare he speak to you so!”
He blinked a little in the face of such vehemence, then, a wistful grin curving his fine mouth, said, “No, but Hawk is within his rights, Mia. He is responsible for your safety while you are here, you know.”
“The deuce he is!” she flared hotly. “Oh, I know I should not use such terms, but, really, that man is—is the outside of enough!”
And turning, she ran lightly up the stairs, leaving Leith to gaze after her, his dark eyes unwontedly sombre.
* * *
EUPHEMIA seated herself at the dressing table and took up her hairbrush, wondering vaguely why Ellie should have looked so worried because she had said she was going riding. She began to brush her hair, her thoughts refusing to leave Hawkhurst. She found it difficult to hold her anger and sighed, recalling what Ponsonby had said of him: “… the most high-couraged youth, the most loyal and truly gallant young man…” A frown puckered her smooth brow, and she thought with a surge of irritation, The most vexing collection of contradictions! Ponsonby was prejudiced, of course. Only this morning Lady Bryce had complained that Hawk allowed the servants to take advantage of him, and not only overpaid them outrageously but was forever coddling them, heedless of how this might inconvenience the family. For example, this evening they were all to be allowed to go to the Christmas party at the rectory. Euphemia sighed and wished that, now dear Leith was come, she would feel a little less miserable.
“… with him, Miss?”
She glanced up, realized that she must seem a total featherwit and, feeling her face burn, enquired, “Your pardon, Ellie? I fear I was wool-gathering.”
“I said, you ain’t never going riding … with…” The abigail faltered into silence before the sudden chill in the usually kind blue eyes.
“Mr. Hawkhurst,” Euphemia said levelly, “is having the horses saddled at this moment, I believe.”
Ellie gave a muffled groan and, tearing nervously at her frilled apron, persisted, “Oh, Miss, you been so … so good to me. I know I shouldn’t say nothing, but— Oh, Miss! He didn’t ought to let you ride with him!”
Anger brought the glitter of ice into Euphemia’s eyes. She had become fond of Ellie, but the woman was not a lifelong servant, and for a relative stranger to be so presumptive was unpardonable. “You have some objection to Colonel Leith?” she said frigidly.
To her surprise relief flooded the abigail’s broad features. “Oh, thank goodness! I thought as ye was going with Mr. Garret, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” The rage that swept Euphemia now made her previous vexation seem trite. She stood and, with chin high and manner regal, said, “You will, I feel sure, explain that disloyal remark.”
Ellie shrank away a pace, then bowed her head into her hands and burst into tears. “I shoulda knowed,” she wept. “Mr. Garret … bean’t the type to … to put a lady’s life in danger. I shoulda knowed. It was disloyal!”
Euphemia’s knees turned to melted butter. She was vaguely aware of sinking onto the bench and of feeling terribly cold. Like the pieces of a nightmare jigsaw puzzle, she saw again Hawkhurst clinging to the end of that makeshift rope on the cliffside; herself and Kent, hiding in the dressing room and Hawk grumbling, “… if a man cannot shoot straight with a Manton…” to which Mr. Bailey had said anxiously that the Constable should have been summoned; and finally, Leith, as she had first heard him today, “… I tell you, Buck, it was a deliberate attempt at murder…!”
“My dear God,” she whispered. “Someone means to kill him!”
“Yes, Miss,” mourned Ellie, wiping her eyes with her apron. “This morning the ball went right through his new hat. Manners said, instead of seeking cover, Mr. Garret rode straight at the place where the shot had come from, but the man was too far ahead. He dropped his gun, but Mr. Manners says they don’t know whose it is. Hogwaddle, Miss! We all on us knows! It be Lord Gains! Small wonder that his lordship should hold a grudge, I suppose, but he should call Mr. Garret out, like a gentleman. Not keep at him like this.”
Very pale, Euphemia asked in a far-away voice, “What else has happened?”
“Year before last, he was set on by Mohocks. He was with Colonel Leith, thank goodness, and they give a good account of theirselves. But I heard the Colonel talking to Dr. Archer after they come home, and he said it was no more Mohocks than his sainted Grandmama! ‘They was after Gary!’ he says. Six months later, the master was sailing, and a leak come in his boat. It was a new boat, Miss, and there must’ve been a lot of leaks, ’cause it went down like a stone, and if he wasn’t a strong swimmer, he’d surely have drowned. That was when we all began to start putting two and two together! When he was in London in the summer, a coping stone fell—missed him by a hair, his aunty said. He pretends it’s all just ‘accidents,’ but he ain’t fooling none of us!”
Euphemia felt sick and was silent until, realizing Ellie was speaking again, she said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said it’s wicked to torment a man so, just now and then, so he never knows what’s coming. Fair wicked!”
* * *
EUPHEMIA walked slowly along the corridor, drawing on her gloves, her riding crop under her arm and her brow furrowed with worry. The shock of learning that Hawkhurst’s life was threatened, and with such fiendish persistence, had driven all other considerations from her mind. It could not be Gains! It just could not be! Seldom had she been more instantly drawn to a man, and seldom did her judgments prove wrong. Her first impression of Hawk, in fact— She checked, startled to realize that she was beginning to think of him by his nickname and, also, that her cheeks were very warm. Seized by a sudden need to once more view the incredible beauty of Blanche Hawkhurst, she ran up the stairs to the top floor.
She hurried into the gallery, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, and stopped abruptly. Hawkhurst sat on the bench before the central portrait. His head was down-bent, elbows on his knees, and hands loosely clasped between them. No one seeing him thus would have dreamed he did not mourn his wife, for he looked every inch a man crushed by grief. Even as she watched, his shoulders drooped lower, and one hand was drawn across his eyes in a weary gesture. Then, as if impatient with himself, his head came up; his shoulders squared; he stood and, never glancing in her direction, wandered to the far window and leant against the panelled wall, staring out into the gardens.
Euphemia’s heart was wrung. He looked so very alone that she had to fight an all but overmastering urge to run and cheer him somehow. But he was a strong man, and her witnessing of his sorrow would merely exacerbate his feelings. Reluctantly, therefore, she turned and walked slowly to the doors. Perhaps Dr. Archer had been mistaken, after all. Perhaps Hawk really had loved Blanche, if only for her beauty. She felt again the unfamiliar urge to weep and wondered if she was turning into a watering pot.
Someone stood before her, and, looking up, she beheld Tristram Leith, a romantic figure in his staff officer’s uniform, his eyes very grave as he watched her. She forced a smile and held a finger to her lips. He stepped aside at once and walked beside her to the stairs.
“Whatever must you think of me?” she apologized. “I am truly sorry. Shall we still have time to ride?”
He teased her gently about her tardiness and assured her there was time for a short ride. Leaving the house, however, was like entering the polar regions. Euphemia gave an involuntary gasp, ducking her head against Leith’s cloak, and at once he took her arm and said solicitously, “No, it’s too cold for you. We’ll talk inside.”
“Never!” she laughed. “I need this, Tristram. To blow the cobwebs
away.”
“The cobweb ain’t spun that would dare mar you, lovely one. Come then, let’s make a dash for it before we freeze solid.”
Hand in hand, they ran to the stables and rode out seconds later at a canter that swiftly became a gallop, down the slope and up the far hill.
From the end dormer window of the gallery, two grey eyes watched broodingly until the riders were lost from sight.
* * *
“OH, LEITH!” gasped Euphemia, cheeks a’tingle and eyes sparkling. “That was superb! Thank you!” She looked around curiously at the mouldering arches and walls that had been erected long and long ago on this lonely hilltop, and among which Leith had halted to lift her from the saddle. “What is this place?”
“Nobody really knows. It’s part of Dominer’s Home Farm now, but scholars say it was a temple once and that Druids may have worshipped here. We often came here when we were boys. We used to climb to the top of the tower. It was Hawk’s favorite place whenever he craved solitude.”
She looked at the great ivy-clad tower that soared at the very brink of the hill. “My heavens! How dreadfully dangerous! Had you fallen—”
“Then I’d not be here to pester you today,” he grinned. “But I wish you might see the view from up there. It’s superb.”
She advised him firmly that she was perfectly satisfied with the view from their present vantage point and seated herself on the handkerchief he spread atop the low outer wall.
Leith stood beside her, tall and straight, everything a girl could hope for. And watching him, wishing with all her heart that she loved him, she knew she did not, nor ever would, save as a cherished friend.
A dog barked somewhere, deep and baying, and she said anxiously, “Goodness! I do hope that’s not Sampson!”
“So you’ve met that hound, have you? Trust Max to acquire a mongrel who’s a natural born clergyman.”
She gave a ripple of laughter. “Clergyman? You mean he saves souls?”
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