Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “Devil a bit of it. He visits. The sick. And the indigent. And the rich, the poor, the hale, the hearty—and especially, he visits Gary. It’s a delight to both of ’em, you know. Don’t think they could get along without one another.”

  Incredulous, she stammered, “But … Hawkhurst tried to … to kill him! He said he’d send him back to Gains à la John the Baptist!”

  He gave a shout of laughter. “And probably grabbed a pistol and tore after him howling bloody murder, eh? Lay you odds the gun wasn’t loaded. Or if it was, he’d have been unable to get ‘the blasted trigger’ to work or some such fustian.”

  “Oh!” she gasped indignantly. “And I swallowed the whole!”

  Leith put one booted foot on the wall and, leaning forward, took up her whip and toyed with it absently. “Hawk saved your life, so I hear. And young Kent’s, which must have been a shade trying for him, poor old fellow.”

  “Yes.” Her indignation faded. “I had heard he does not care to have children around him. I can understand why.”

  “It has done him good. I could see it the instant I arrived.” Her vivid face was raised in an immediate and eager questioning, and, his heart sinking, Leith said quietly, “Hawk’s been like a man frozen these last four years, Mia, a man afraid to live—not daring to love, and so grasping at every straw in a sort of defiant seeking for the happiness he cannot have.”

  “But, why not? Lives can be rebuilt. Happiness can come again. Even if he loved her so—”

  “Loved her? Good God! I wonder he didn’t strangle her! Oh, I know I should not speak ill of the dead—and Blanche was not an evil lady, do not mistake. In a way, Hawk was better served than poor Simon, for Blanche was not, so far as I am aware, er…”

  “Generous—with her affections?” Euphemia supplied dryly.

  “Right you are. She was just possessed, heart and soul, by another fellow. And she was so besotted she would do whatever he bade her. Blast him!”

  “Mount,” Euphemia nodded. “Did you know him, Tris?”

  “Regrettably. And for a while I hoped she would settle for him. They were much alike, their total selfishness disguised by beauty. But I think Mount really loved Blanche insofar as he was capable of it, and I know she was mad for him. Only…” He hesitated as though fearful of betraying a confidence and shrugged, “Well, they would have been penniless. So she married Hawk.”

  “I heard some of it. But, Leith, you are Hawk’s friend, and you have always been as loyal as you could stare. Is there nothing can be done? His Grandpapa surely, could—”

  “The Admiral worshipped Blanche,” Leith interposed softly. “He holds Garret solely to blame for her death.”

  Stunned, Euphemia stared at him. So that was what Archer had meant when he’d said Wetherby came to “turn the knife” in Hawk. She’d somehow imagined it was the child the old man reproached him for. “But—but that is so wrong! Was he blind? Could he not see what manner of woman…” Leith’s raised brows brought a hot surge of colour to her cheeks. “I know it is none of my affair,” she said hastily. “Indeed, we’ll be gone in a day or two, and I doubt shall ever see him again. I came here believing Hawkhurst to be some kind of—of Bluebeard. But he’s not, Leith! I have seen him be incredibly brave, and kind, and … and gentle. It seems so wrong for those wicked rumours to—”

  “Wicked?” he exclaimed, as if surprised. “You do not believe them?”

  “Of course not! Good heavens, it must be very obvious that Hawkhurst is not the type to hurt a woman, let alone the child he loved so deeply!”

  Leith merely shrugged once more, and, searching his features, she cried anxiously, “Tris? You are not beginning to doubt? You will not turn against him, too? Oh, my dear friend, do not, I implore you. He needs you. He is so terribly alone. I feel sometimes that he is like a prisoner here, trapped by a reputation he does not warrant, but will not deny, and—” Leith was regarding her with a sad, sweet smile, and, rather aghast, she stopped.

  “My lovely lady,” he murmured, taking one soft ringlet and twining it about his finger. “My pure girl; my brave, warmhearted, dream wife…”

  A lump rose in Euphemia’s throat. He was going to offer again. Why must Fate be so difficult? Why could she not be in love with this fine young man?

  “Do not look so grieved,” he said. “I am not going to offer—ever again, love. You are free of me, at long last.”

  “Oh, Leith. Do not … do not … Or … I shall surely cry.”

  “Never do that. The last thing I would bring you is tears. You should instead give me credit, my dear, for knowing when I am beaten.”

  She met his eyes then, although her own were a’swim. And seeing the puzzlement in them, he said wistfully, “Poor little girl, you do not know it yourself, do you? Mia, oh, my sweet Mia … The blasted rogue don’t deserve you, but you love him, you henwit.”

  Euphemia stared at him blankly. And, cursing himself for a fool, he walked away, ostensibly to secure one of the horses which was pulling free of the shrub to which he had tied it.

  Poor Leith, she thought numbly. He was quite mistaken. She did not love at all. She could not. For she had always been perfectly sure that she would know her love at first sight. That she would only have to set eyes on him, and she would know. But—Why was her heart hammering so? Why did her breath flutter in such agitation? Unable to remain still, she rose and walked to the archway, where she stood staring out across the wintry landscape, the pale hills, the bare trees swaying in the wind, the heavy, gathering clouds. And saw instead eyes as grey as those clouds, a face lined by care, hair prematurely touched with frost, and a well-shaped mouth that could be so fierce and harsh, yet curve unexpectedly to laughter or to a tenderness incredible in its sweetness.

  And, like a great light, the truth burst upon her, burning away the heavy-heartedness that had so oppressed her these past few days and that she now knew had been occasioned by her struggle against this same truth. She could have spread her arms and danced and shouted with the wonder of it. She did love! For all time, for all her days, Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst was her love! Whether discredited and disgraced, whether held in contempt by all the haut ton, or by all the world—she loved him! Radiant, she spun about.

  Watching her, grieving, Leith was touched by awe. Never for him had that light shone in her glorious eyes; never had he seen that deep, transforming glow. He walked towards her and put out his arms, and she ran into them, lifting her face. He kissed her on her smooth brow, gently, lovingly. And in farewell.

  “You know,” he said huskily, “had I ever dreamed he would steal my lady, I’d never have given him that blasted horse. I think I’ll just take him back!”

  Blinking rather rapidly, Euphemia said, “Horse…?”

  “Sarabande. I gave him to Hawk when he was foaled. Didn’t you know? I always told him it was only a loan, because he was too fine to take to the Peninsula, and if I left him at Cloudhills my Papa would likely bestow him on one of his … ah…”

  “Barques of frailty?” said Euphemia, well acquainted with Leith’s irrepressible father.

  “Precisely … That treacherous rogue! By God, I shall take him back!”

  TEN

  LONG AFTER Sarabande was out of sight and Leith’s groom had entered the chaise and followed his master into the fading afternoon, Euphemia remained by the gatehouse, needing to be alone for a little while, to savour her new-found joy. Darkness fell, and there was no moon, but the bitter cold seemed to sharpen the air, and the stars hung like great jewels, suspended above her. She felt at one with the universe tonight, for the first time in her life, a being complete. And humbled by the wonder of it, she looked up and whispered, “I love, Papa. At last I have found my mate. Do you like him, dearest one? Do you approve? Of course, you do, for he is a man. And I dare believe, a gentleman. You would have asked no finer for me.”

  She wheeled her mount then and rode slowly back towards the house.

  Not until she realized how few of the ro
oms were lighted did she recall the party at the rectory. With a shocked gasp, she spurred down the slope and into the stable-yard. A slender shape came to meet her. A quiet voice enquired, “Are you all right, Miss? We were worried.”

  As always, Manners spoke like the well-bred man he was, but there was a trace of censure in the tone. Her chin lifting, Euphemia said, “Then I must at once go and make my apologies for such thoughtlessness. Take her for me, would you, please?”

  He obeyed, and she slipped from the saddle and walked away in silence. But suddenly she remembered him at the scene of the accident. He loved Hawk, and therefore she could not be angry with him. He was standing watching her when she turned back. She said softly, “The Colonel returns to France tomorrow, Manners.”

  “Yes, Miss. He is a splendid gentleman. The master thinks very highly of him. And…” A small hesitation, then a rather breathless, “Perhaps, since I know him so well, it would not have been impertinent for me to have offered my congratulations.”

  So that was why she had been scolded. Stifling a smile, she walked back a few paces. “Not impertinent, perhaps. But most inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate, Miss?”

  He sounded brighter, and she asked, “Did you tell Mr. Hawkhurst that the Colonel took Sarabande?”

  “Not yet, Miss. He’ll likely send him back by easy stages tomorrow.”

  “I doubt it.” She heard the startled gasp and went on, “Colonel Leith seemed to feel Mr. Hawkhurst owed him something.”

  “He … he did, Miss?”

  No mistaking the joyous note in the voice now, and bless the man for all that was implied by his delight. Euphemia again started towards the great sprawl of this beautiful house she had come to love, but a hand was on her arm, and Manners said, “Miss, they’ve all gone to the rectory.”

  “Mr. Hawkhurst as well?”

  “No, but if I dare be so bold—that is, you must be tired. There’s Mrs. Henderson, and one footman. May I ask for dinner to be sent to your room?”

  She could not see his face in the darkness, but something was amiss. She murmured her thanks, but refused and hurried to the side door.

  The footman who bowed to her in the Great Hall was very young and, in response to her question, allowed that he had, “No h-idea as to where the master might be found.”

  Euphemia put back her hood, unbuttoned the throat of the pelisse, and handed the garment to him. Taking up the skirt of her habit, she hurried along the hall. How quiet the house was … She glanced into drawing room, lounges, salons, library, music room, and the small dining room, all without success. His study, perhaps. She all but ran to that small room, where she knew he retreated when Carlotta sniped at him or Coleridge vexed him.

  The door was closed, but she could smell the fragrance of wood burning and, daringly, lifted the latch and entered. Hawkhurst was sprawled in the wing chair by the fire, one booted leg slung carelessly over the arm, the other stretched out before him. A bottle lay on the rug, and his glass, half-full, sagged in his hand. He peered around the side of the chair, his face flushed and aggressive, then came to his feet to stand weaving unsteadily. He had not dressed for dinner and had discarded his jacket; with his dark hair tousled and his cravat loosened, he looked amazingly younger and much less formidable. “Well, well,” he said jeeringly, the words only faintly slurred. “Thought you was gone, ma’am. W’all thought you was gone. Others went to th’ party without you. Sorry. But … they thought—”

  “I was gone,” she finished gravely. “But I am here, you see, Hawk.”

  He flinched almost imperceptibly at her use of his nickname, then reached out to grasp the chair with one hand, holding himself steadier. “Yes. Well, you should not be. Private … s-study. Don’t allow ladies in here. An’ ’sides, Leith wouldn’t like it.”

  She longed to kiss the bitterness from his eyes, but said quietly, “I can understand your concern. He is your very good friend.”

  He stiffened and turned slightly from her. “My … friend,” he muttered to the carpet. “Yes. He is.” He swung back and said in a less hostile fashion, “And he does ’deed have my … congratulations. He’s truly splendid fellow, ma’am. I w-wish you happy.”

  “Do you?” She moved past him to warm her hands at the fire. “Yet you are frowning again.”

  He gave a foolish laugh. “Well, that’s ’cause … I’m li’l bit foxed, y’ see.” Euphemia turned to regard him in her candid way, and as if in defiance he lifted his glass and drank, blinked very rapidly, and said in a wheezing rasp, “Not … not bosky ’zackly, but—”

  “You, sir,” Euphemia contradicted, “are what my brother would term ‘very well to live.’”

  “No, no! Ain’t. Not really. Shouldn’t argue with lady, but … but y’ shouldn’t be here ’lone w’me. Not … proper. An’… no jacket. Where … the devil’s m’jacket?”

  A faint smile touching her lips, Euphemia rescued that article from the log basket. “A trifle rumpled, I fear. And will not make you less foxed, Hawk.”

  Again, a tremor ran through him. He turned away, mumbling a low-voiced, “Y’ bes’ go. I must … fairly reek of cognac.”

  “Yes. You do. And I have bivouacked with an army.”

  He drew a deep breath and, his head coming up, said, “Well, you’ll not bivouac with me, madam.”

  A gasp escaped Euphemia. The hauteur was back in his reddened eyes, with a vengeance. How dare he say such a thing? And with such total contempt! And yet, what more natural, poor soul? He believed her promised to Tristram Leith, and the moment his friend’s back was turned she had come in here to invade his sanctum sanctorum. Only this morning, though it seemed a century ago, he had found her in his bedchamber. She suppressed the furious retort that had sprung to her lips, therefore, and instead said softly, “That remark was unworthy of you, sir. And of me. And I am not—”

  The denial of her betrothal to Leith died on her lips as the door burst open unceremoniously to admit Mrs. Henderson. “By George!” Hawkhurst growled. “This is my p-private study, Nell! Y’know perfectly well I don’t ’low ladies—”

  Her kindly face pale and her voice cracking with terror, the housekeeper interrupted, “He’s here, sir! Oh, Mr. Garret! He’s come! The Admiral!”

  Hawkhurst positively reeled and reached out to grab the chair back again, while the high colour drained from his face to leave it very white.

  “Manners has taken him to his room,” Mrs. Henderson went on, wringing her hands distractedly. “He told him you was meeting with your steward, but would be with him directly. Sir, whatever shall we do? The house is bare of servants! I’ve made no special preparations for dinner. And—”

  “And I,” he said faintly, “am most … thoroughly … jug bit, Nell. My God! Here’s … fine pickle!”

  “I’ll—I’ll tell him you had to go out,” said Mrs. Henderson bravely, though her voice still shook. “I’ll say—”

  “Can’t do that. Though I thank you for t-trying. He’d leave, don’t y’see. And I’ve not seen him … for so—” He put a hand across his eyes, as though striving to force the mists from them and, shaking his head, muttered, “‘F’all th’ beastly luck. I shall have to … to jus’ admit I’m—”

  “Mrs. Henderson,” Euphemia interjected crisply, “Coffee! Black and strong, and plenty of it! Hawkhurst, go with her to the kitchen; your Grandpapa will not seek you there. A footman of sorts is lurking about. He will help you. You must bathe and change—and drink coffee all the time.”

  “But, Miss,” mourned the housekeeper, turning hopefully to the girl’s restoring calm. “There’s no water heated for a bath!”

  “Cold will be better. Oh, and squeeze some lemons, and make Mr. Hawkhurst drink the juice. Rinse your mouth well, Hawk, and—”

  “I’ll b-be sick!” he protested. “Cannot stand lemon juice, and—”

  “Excellent!” Implacably, she urged the woman towards the door. “Hurry, now—and we shall bring the master through this, someh
ow.”

  “Oh, bless you, Miss!” gulped the housekeeper, and ran.

  “Mia,” said Hawkhurst, forgetting protocol in the urgency of the moment, “I’m more grateful than c’n say … But I can’t leave m’grandfather un-unwelcomed. He’ll—”

  “I shall welcome him. He’ll just have to forgive my doing so in this habit instead of a proper gown. Go!”

  He wavered towards the door but on the threshold turned back to look at her for a long moment. “Leith,” he mumbled, “Leith’s the … luckiest man I know.”

  “Yes, for he has purloined your black Arabian, sir!” she flashed, and had the satisfaction of seeing shock appear in his eyes. “Will you go? And—trust me! I’ll handle him.”

  The shadow of a smile playing about his lips, he said, “I believe you may, at that.”

  He left her then, and, watching his reeling stagger along the hall, she shuddered, then called a desperate, “Send Manners to me. I shall be in the drawing room.”

  He waved a response, almost fell, then stumbled on again.

  The fire was still smouldering in the drawing room, and with a sigh of relief Euphemia piled two more logs on the dying blaze, poked at it cautiously, and was rewarded by a sudden flicker of flames. Lighting candles with frantic haste, she thought that the room was a little chill, but having come from a long and undoubtedly cold ride, the Admiral would probably find it warm enough. A beautiful old mirror hung above the credenza on the right wall, and she flew to it, uttering a moan of apprehension as she viewed her wind-blown hair. And she had no comb, for she’d left her reticule in—

  She spun around, horror-stricken, as the door opened, then felt limp with relief. “Manners! Thank heaven it’s—” She paused. Across his arm the groom carried the new cream brocade gown she had intended to wear on Christmas Day at Aunt Lucasta’s. From one hand her best pearls dangled, and comb, hairbrush, and perfume bottle were clutched in the other. “Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “But, is there time?”