“Do not,” he begged, his voice low with misery. “You will marry.”
“No. Not now. Which is sad, because I think I might have made quite a good mother.”
Her calmness was beginning to frighten him, and, searching her face, he demanded, “What do you mean? Tell me!”
“There is only one answer, for I couldn’t endure to grow old and—”
“My dear God! Stephie! What are you saying? You do not … you cannot mean you … you would—”
“Kill myself? No, foolish boy.” She reached up to lovingly caress his cheek and murmur, “I shall enter a convent, where I can be of some use, but shall not have to watch other ladies and … their children … around me.”
His face drawn and frantic, he grasped her by the arms. “No! You must not! There are those for whom it is the perfect answer. But, not you! You were made for loving and cherishing, for motherhood! Stephanie! Promise me, I beg of you. Promise me that you will not.”
“On the day you leave,” she said, in a remote but resolute voice, “I leave also. I could not bear to live on at Dominer. To see the rooms where you once were, the paths we have walked and ridden together.” Her voice cracked a little, but she finished, “Never grieve so, my darling. At least my life will not have been lived to no purpose.”
He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then bowed his head into his hands and, wracked with anguish and guilt, knowing there was no way out, no possible solution for them, groaned, “My God! What have I done?”
Stephanie touched his curling hair, love rendering all other considerations of little moment. “You have shown me how beautiful life could be…” She paused a second, then, playing her last card, breathed, “… how beautiful it still might be, if only … Simon, beloved … Take me with you!”
“What?” His head flung upward and looking at her in stark disbelief, he gasped, “No! And … no! Never! What manner of crudity do you fancy me?”
Her lips a kiss away, her eyes pools of yearning, she murmured, “I know only what I am. If Ernestine loved you, or if you loved her, I would let you go, and if I must die of grief—so be it. But she does not love you and has given you only sorrow. Simon, my own, take me with you.”
White-faced, appalled, he drew away from her. “You do not know what you ask of me! You cannot realize what our life would be like!”
“Paget did it! He ran off with Wellington’s own sister-in-law, when she already had four children! Yet you still respect him!”
“Yes, I do. But was there ever such a scandal! The dreadful things that were said of the poor lady in the newspapers! And Hookey for years deprived of one of his finest cavalry officers.”
“Yet they survived it! People forgave them—even Wellington. Oh, my love, it is our only hope. Unless—” She scanned him in new anxiety. “Would your career be ruined? Totally?”
“I don’t think so. I doubt he’d boot me out, not now. He needs trained officers too badly. And Colborne would stand by me, I know— Devil take it! What am I saying? No, Stephie, I cannot! I love you too much to— Oh, sweetheart, don’t you see? Even if I agreed to disgrace you so shamefully, Hawk saved my life! It would be utterly reprehensible!”
“If you really loved me…” she faltered, her lips quivering pathetically.
“How can you say that?” He drew her to him and, resting his cheek against her fragrant hair, groaned, “I adore you, heaven help me. And you know it.”
“And yet,” Tears began to creep down her cheeks. “… care more about your pride, than whether I must dwell in a convent for the rest of my … days.”
Tormented, Buchanan’s lips silenced those heartbroken words. And when their bittersweet embrace ended, she whispered, “My darling, say you will at least think about it. Promise me!”
He shook his head desperately. Approaching hoofbeats announced the return of Bryce. With a gasp of relief, Buchanan moved back, but Stephanie clung to him, weeping, “Simon, promise! Oh, beloved, do not break my poor heart … like this.”
Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan ignored the dictates of his own heart and strove valiantly.
It was a doomed effort.
* * *
AT ABOUT the same moment that Stephanie was working her feminine wiles against the hapless Buchanan, Lady Bryce sang to herself and bustled down the hall for one last check of the music room. Not that she expected to find it one whit changed from the calm tranquillity it had radiated an hour since, but merely to gaze fondly around the gracious chamber, imagining it crowded with her proud and influential guests. The mellow notes of the grandfather clock were striking twelve as she flung open the door, only to check with a strangled squawk and stand as one paralyzed. A veritable sea of greenery met her eyes: potted palms, fern, and juniper were everywhere, and through a screen of fronds, servants moved busily about. A familiar aroma assailing her nostrils, she found her voice to shriek, “Dora! Whatever are you about?”
Hawkhurst, attracted by his aunt’s pained yowl, wandered up to grin appreciatively at the verdant panorama. Mrs. Graham hove nervously into view from having placed a large aspidistra plant on a stand beside the harp. Her sudden movement sent the plant toppling, and, wringing her hands as she eyed the debris, she stammered, “I—I was only—”
“Good God! The room looks like a jungle! And … what in the name of— An unclad male! In my Musicale? Have you entirely lost your wits?”
“It … it’s only Adonis. I thought, perhaps—”
“And near lifesize! Oh, I shall suffer a spasm! I know it!”
“Come now, ma’am,” said Hawkhurst, turning from his amused contemplation of the luxuriant indoor garden. “I’m sure that at her time of life Mrs. Hughes-Dering has seen an unclad—”
“Hawk … hurst…!” cried his Aunt Carlotta awfully.
He chuckled, motioned to a lackey, and together they took up the shameless Greek and bore him into the hall, Dora trotting anxiously after them.
“What the devil have you there?” the Admiral enquired, wandering down the stairs, quizzing glass levelled.
“Adonis,” grinned Hawkhurst. “Sans bienséance!”
“Of course. So…?”
“Aunt Carlotta feels that clothes make the man, sir.”
“Do you suppose,” began Dora hopefully.
“No, I do not!” Hawkhurst laughed. “My clothes would not suit. And I’ll not insult him by swathing him in a sheet!”
“Oh, pray do put him down, Garret!” she pleaded, tripping over his foot in her agitation and almost bringing them down, all three.
“Fine-looking chap,” said the Admiral, viewing the statue critically. “Where’d you come by him?”
“Lord knows. Miss Buchanan! Hide your eyes, ma’am! This is no fit sight for a single lady!”
Euphemia, wearing a pale-green, long-sleeved gown and with a jade band holding back her ringlets, was such a sight as to bring a softness to his own eyes, however, wherefore he turned his attention to the relocation of Adonis beside a tall display cabinet.
“After the Battle of Fuentes de Oñoro, Mr. Hawkhurst,” imparted Euphemia serenely, “I saw—”
“Spare my blushes,” he smiled, unable to resist another swift glance at her vivacious countenance.
“By George! Were you at Fuentes, m’dear?” the Admiral asked, advancing upon her eagerly.
“Will someone please send some footmen to remove all these plants?” wailed Carlotta from the music room. “I vow our guests shall not be able to see one another in this rain forest!”
“Oh, dear,” mourned Dora. “I had thought it looked quite nice.”
“So did I, love,” Hawkhurst soothed, sending the imperturbable lackey to aid Carlotta. “And besides, no one would have noticed if I fell asleep.”
She giggled. “You would not dare! Scoundrel! I must go and help!” She drew back her shoulders and quoted in a voice of martyrdom, “‘Here am I who did the deed. Turn your sword on me.’”
Wetherby rolled exasperated eyes at the ce
iling. Hawkhurst shot a meaningful glance at Euphemia, and she immediately slipped her hand in Mrs. Graham’s arm and, all but recoiling from the overpowering stench of her ‘perfume,’ said, “Dear ma’am, I would like so much to have a small cose with you. Can you spare me a moment or two?”
“Sweet child, I could spare you a month!”
“Does Miss Buchanan intend to stay at Dominer for that length of time,” said Wetherby, “nothing will drag me away!”
Euphemia stayed to drop him a curtsey. “You are too kind, sir. But we are promised to my aunt in Bath. And Dr. Archer informs me that Kent may travel on Friday.”
The ladies walked away, arms entwined, and the Admiral muttered, “Then I shall plan on leaving also. Ain’t often—” The cutting words ceased. His grandson, he perceived, had quite obviously forgotten his existence and was watching the ladies climb the stairs, an unguarded expression on his face that struck the old gentleman mute. He followed that gaze thoughtfully and, after a moment, observed, “She has brought the laughter back into this house.” He turned his shrewd eyes back to Hawkhurst. “She is herself like a bright sunbeam. Do you not agree?”
“Sunbeam…?” murmured Hawkhurst, half to himself. “I think of her more as the light from a candle.” His voice lowered so that the Admiral had to lean closer to discern the words. “One … small candle.”
Wetherby purely disliked quotations, if only because his daughter’s habit so irritated him, but, searching his memory for the rest of that wise old Chinese maxim, felt a stirring of unease. Did the boy really fancy himself to be “walking forever in darkness”? Hawkhurst flashed a guilty look at him and, realizing he had spoken an inner thought aloud, hurried away, his face reddening.
For a moment the Admiral frowned rather blankly at the stairs. Then, more troubled than he would have cared to admit, he wandered off in search of Miss Buchanan’s page.
* * *
“INDEED NOT.” Mrs. Graham’s voice was muffled behind the great pile of papers, periodicals, fashion pages, odds and ends of fabric of all shades and sizes, and innumerable lengths of embroidery silk which she had cleared from a chair in her large bedchamber, in order to enable Euphemia to sit down. “Colley is the dearest boy, but— Oh, drat the stuff!” And, having stooped three times to recover one wisp of yarn, she abandoned the entire attempt, allowed the rest of her collection to follow it to the floor, and, dusting off her hands triumphantly, said, “Well, that’s all shipshape! Now—” She stepped over the debris, “do sit down, my dear.” She wriggled her way into the approximately eight inches of free space on the littered sofa and beamed at her amused guest. “Whatever were we talking about?”
“Colley. He shows a deal of promise, I think, and will doubtless acquit himself well when he inherits Dominer.”
“Much he cares for that! The boy would far rather see Hawk happily wed and with sons of his own to inherit the title and estates. All he wants for himself—” Dora bit her lip and said quickly, “How sorry he will be to see you leave, for he has taken quite a fancy to your brother.”
“I suspected as much. But to be truthful I would leave with an easier mind did I know who was behind these murderous attacks upon your nephew. I am—we all are—deeply in his debt, ma’am, and for Mr. Hawkhurst to stand in such danger causes me great anxiety. Only last night I thought to see something I could not but think most suspicious.” She noted her companion’s guilty start, and her heart sank.
“You d-did?” faltered Dora. “Er, what was it?”
“A closed chaise, driven straight across the lawn at dead of night! Never, ma’am, have I seen so furtive a pair! They pulled up by the North Wing and dragged forth … a body!”
“Oh, no, no! Indeed, it was not! I—” Dora squeaked with fright, clapped a hand over her lips, sent a cushion and two periodicals tumbling, and was still.
“You?” cried Euphemia, quite cast down by the success of her small trap. “Oh, Dora! Do you dislike Hawk, too?”
“Dislike Hawk? Why, he was the sweetest child, and— Oh dear! Colley will be so cross. I have let the cat out of the bag with a vengeance! Dear girl, will you promise to keep our secret?”
Euphemia blinked. It did not sound like a murder plot. “Secret?”
“Come, I will show you. And now I am getting quite excited, for no one has ever caught us before!” She jumped to her feet and, grasping Euphemia by the hand, trotted merrily off, whispering to herself, with her shawl gradually sliding, until Euphemia caught and replaced it.
Along to the end of the corridor they went, up two pairs of stairs, a half-turn to the right and along another hall, colder, but just as impressively furnished as that of the main house. They were in the North Wing now, and suddenly Dora threw a door open. A great dining room stretched before them. Three chandeliers hung in their covers like giant inverted mushrooms from a splendidly carven ceiling; the table, flanked by innumerable chairs, was at least thirty feet long, and enormous mirrors in gilded frames hung between each of the six long windows and above the fireplace. Dora beckoned eagerly and tripped across the slightly dusty parquet floors. A door far at the left side was closed, and she knocked: three spaced hard knocks, and three swift light ones. Fumbling movements could be heard inside, then the door opened to reveal Lord Coleridge clad in a very dirty smock over corduroy breeches. “Wherever have you been?” he grumbled. “I thought—” And he stopped, his face comical in its dismay as he saw Euphemia.
“You were perfectly right,” trilled his Aunt merrily. “Miss Buchanan caught us last night. We must throw ourselves on her mercy, for she believes us to have been carrying bodies into the house, Colley, my love!”
She was drawing the girl inside as she spoke, and, with Bryce’s shocked “Bodies?” ringing in her ears, Euphemia looked around her. She stood in a large anteroom. Sheer curtains at the windows provided privacy, yet allowed the light to pour in. There was very little furniture, only two small armchairs and a table littered with bottles, cans, pots, knives, brushes, and rags. To one side a long bench held a partially painted and ferocious clay dragon, and all about it were many figures and carvings in wood, stone, and clay. On the other side of the room stood several easels, and many canvases were propped against the walls. Between clay and oils, the air positively reeked, and at last Euphemia understood why Dora affected such very strong perfume. “My goodness!” she cried, vastly relieved. “Why, how very clever you both are!”
The conspirators promptly embraced one another. “Me first!” cried Dora like an eager child. “Please may I, Colley?”
He bowed gallantly, and Euphemia was led through the weirdest display she had ever beheld. Dora’s art came in all sizes and in every shape imaginable. Exclaiming dutifully over a squidgy blob with two apparent brooms protruding from its middle, Euphemia did not dare attempt to identify it, but her careful remarks were evidently satisfactory, for Dora clasped her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “And which one,” she asked breathlessly, “… do you like best?”
Euphemia scanned the contorted collection and fixed upon the one object she felt safe with. “The—” she began, nodding to the dragon, but, chancing to catch a glimpse of Colley over his Aunt’s shoulder, was saved in the nick of time by his frantic gestures, and corrected hurriedly, “Oh, dear, how difficult it is, for they are all so very interesting. Won’t you tell me about … this one?”
“Sampson?” laughed Dora, placing a fond hand upon her maligned creation. “So you recognized him, did you? Naughty doggie! On one of his raids, of course!”
“You’ve certainly caught the spirit of the beast,” Euphemia admitted, biting her lips to restrain a grin. “How Lord Gains would like to have this.”
“Oh, no! For no one else has ever seen any of it! Save for the one piece I bribed Parsley to pop into the music room.”
Euphemia’s mind’s eye at once engaged in a fast review of the adornments of that charming room. Her uncertainty becoming apparent, Bryce said, “The gentleman who so shocked my mother.”
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br /> “Adonis…?” Euphemia gasped. “But … but he’s not at all like…” She gestured feebly at the grotesques.
“Well, he was one of my earliest efforts,” Dora apologized, fortunately misunderstanding the flabbergasted look on the visitor’s features. “I do think I’ve come quite a way since then, if I say so myself. Which I shouldn’t, of course. But I can tell you now that what you saw Colley and me hauling up here so ‘furtively’ in the dead of night was a piece of stone for my new project. Not,” her eyes sparkled mischievously, “a body, my love! Did you see this one?” She indicated an apparent banana pierced with many toothpicks. “I was shaping the clay when I sneezed and most of my hairpins fairly whizzed into it, but I do think it adds to the effect, don’t you? I simply covered them with clay, you see…” Euphemia’s eyes were rather misted, and she dared not look at Colley, the mischief in the boy’s face having already almost proved her undoing. She was spared commenting on the “effect” as Dora added blithely, “Enough of me! Now, Colley will show you which of us is the real artist!”
The youth staunchly denied this, but his aunt had spoken truthfully. In only a moment Euphemia apprehended that here was a great talent. The first work Coleridge shyly presented for inspection was dark: country folk beginning to drift homeward from a fair, the moon high in the sky, and flares being lit in the booths behind them. At first, the people seemed to be indistinguishable from the background, but they gradually materialized to such incredible reality that she could all but reach out and touch them. The next painting was of a storm and a lonely sheepdog herding his flock, with wind blowing the snow into a great vortex about them, the cold seeming to creep from the canvas, and the dog’s devotion vividly apparent. Many paintings followed, each seemingly better than the last, until, flushed with pleasure, Coleridge led her to the easel at which he had been working when she arrived. It was a nearly completed portrait of Hawkhurst. The boy had painted it with love, capturing the strength of the man, yet managing also to show the humorous quirk to the shapely lips and the smile in the grey eyes. He had chosen to portray Hawkhurst in his uniform, a Light Dragoon. Euphemia stood entranced, staring and staring, until her eyes grew blurred and the lump in her throat choked her. She did not hear Colley leave, but when she looked up, blinking away her tears, he was gone, and Dora’s pudgy little hands were clasped, her face ecstatic. “Oh, my dear,” she said tremulously, “You do love him! I was sure you did!”
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