And then, that fateful, heart-stopping word: “Ten!”
They turned simultaneously, only Hawkhurst staggered very slightly, then staggered again as the deafening blast of Buchanan’s pistol rent the silence.
Euphemia felt frozen, her breath held in check. Beside her, Stephanie gave a small moan and sank to her knees whispering, “My God … my God!”
Smoke curled slowly from Buchanan’s weapon. Blood was slipping down Hawkhurst’s forehead, and he could scarcely see, but his arm held steady, the long wicked barrel of the Manton aimed unerringly at Buchanan’s chest. “Give me your word … damn you! Don’t make me kill you!”
The pistol fell from Buchanan’s hand. His head went up a little. He was very white, but he stood in silence, unwavering.
Stephanie was also silent, still upon her knees, watching in horrified fascination. Beside her, Euphemia felt as though they were all suspended like the figures in a cameo on this clear, cold winter’s night. The serene moonlight made the scene even more incongruous—Hawk, with his arm so rigidly outstretched, the pistol gleaming in his hand, Simon, bravely waiting for death. She thought a numbed and trite, and only eleven days before Christmas …
Hawkhurst’s head was less punishing now; he could feel blood cold on his cheek, but the ball had come short of stunning him, and he could see more clearly. He sighted with care. He’d given the sneaking cur every chance, God knows. Euphemia’s voice, shaken with grief, echoed devastatingly in his ears: “Do you not yet know what it really means to love?” His hand trembled, but it was his duty to protect the ladies of his house. “I told him I would enter a convent … Gary, dear one … I beg of you.” Dammit, he must not fail! Nor must he torture Buchanan, who stood there so staunchly, blast him! He’d chosen his route, hadn’t he? He gritted his teeth and fired, the sharp retort shattering the peaceful country quiet. Through the billow of smoke, he saw Buchanan crumple and go down. Stephanie screamed thinly. He lowered his arm and walked away as both girls rushed to that still figure.
Stephanie reached her lover first and dropped to her knees, sobbing out his name.
Kneeling at his other side, Euphemia saw her brother’s eyes flicker open. “Good … God!” he breathed, incredulous. “Am I not dead?”
Stephanie gave a choked cry and bent to kiss him. Euphemia’s eyes dimmed with grateful tears, but ever practical she asked, “Where are you hit, Simon?”
He blinked at her, then sat up, holding his left forearm.
Euphemia drew a great sobbing breath, sent a silent prayer winging to heaven, and managed to request with relative calm that Stephanie run to the chaise and fetch her reticule.
Five minutes later, the flesh wound in his arm bound, and his coat slung about his shoulders, Buchanan walked to the man who leaned against the curricle in a silent waiting. “Did I hurt you badly, sir?”
“Did you try?” Hawkhurst countered in a tone of blasting contempt.
Buchanan bit his lip. “Had you remained still, I’d have missed you entirely.”
“My apologies.”
Euphemia went to Hawkhurst and with her handkerchief gently wiped the blood from his face. “Thank you!” she whispered. “Oh, Hawk, thank you! I know how easily you might have killed him.”
He grunted and said a grim, “Do not expect my blessings, Stephie.”
Her lips quivered. “You have … mine,” she said on a sob.
Gripping his wounded arm, Buchanan said, “Thank you for this, Hawkhurst. I don’t feel quite so worthless.”
Hawkhurst gave a cynical snort. “Do you not?”
* * *
FOR A LONG while there had been silence between them. Hawkhurst, apparently busied with his driving, had said not a word in response to Euphemia’s two attempts at conversation. Not daring to disturb that frowning concentration again, she occupied herself with her own thoughts. Simon had kissed her lovingly, begging her forgiveness and asking that she journey with them back to London. She had forgiven him, of course, but had refused to go with him, not only because she must await Kent’s return but also from a reluctance to leave Hawk so abruptly. Whatever Simon may have thought, he had said only that he would write to her and that he wished her every happiness. Stephanie’s parting with her brother had been poignant. Hawkhurst had growled that he prayed she would not come to regret this decision bitterly and turned from her pleading eyes with cold disdain, only to swing around at the last moment, sweep her into a fierce embrace and whisper that she could return at any time, knowing she would be greeted with love. She had clung to him, weeping but overjoyed. Simon had started to put out his hand, then lowered it, a gesture Hawkhurst had apparently been quite unable to see. Watching Simon’s painful flush and Hawk’s implacable stare, Euphemia had known sorrow for each of them, but since her brother might very well have been lying lifeless on that cold little patch of turf, her overwhelming emotion had been one of thankfulness.
Now she glanced up at the stern features of the man she loved and tried once more. “He will be good to her, dearest,” she said softly. “Try not to hate him.”
He turned his head and for a moment stared at her blankly. Then, as if comprehension suddenly dawned, ejaculated, “My God! You should not be here!”
“I know,” she smiled. “I am properly compromised now.” But, despite her outward calm, she was frightened. Several times, on that wild journey here, his demeanour had puzzled her. He had voiced no protest when she had refused to accompany Simon and Stephanie to London, which had surprised her. Instead, he had struggled into the curricle, said not a word when she climbed up beside him, and, until just this moment, behaved as though totally unaware of her presence. He was gripping his knee, and she leaned forward to appropriate the reins. “Foolish boy,” she scolded with tender solicitude, “you should have let me drive as I asked. Your leg is paining you.”
He drew a bewildered hand across his eyes. “I must be unusually stupid tonight. I cannot seem to think. Give me the reins, Mia.”
Unease tightened its hold on her. Rage, scorn, bitter disappointment, she had been prepared for. But this withdrawn confusion was terrifying. He had done his best, he must know that. However much he loved Stephie, he was too strong an individual to be crushed by the knowledge he was beaten—or by fear of his grandfather’s inevitable fury. Perhaps … Her heart fluttering, she asked, “Have you lost your love for me because of Simon?”
“Yes. Now give me the reins, if you please.”
“No! And you tell the most dreadful whiskers, Garret Hawkhurst!”
Instead of simply possessing himself of the ribbons, as he would normally have done, he leaned back without further argument. “No one need ever know…” he muttered, half to himself. “Colley can escort you and the boy to Bath, first thing in the morning.”
She did not comment, and he sighed and lapsed into morose silence. The curricle moved smoothly along the silver ribbon of the road, while the moon sank lower in the sky, and only the hoofbeats and the distant voice of an owl disturbed the stillness. Euphemia thought Hawkhurst was sleeping but, slanting a glance at him, discovered that although he was slumped against the squabs, his brow was deeply furrowed as he stared ahead. Common sense argued that this was not surprising behaviour. He had been weakened and brutally hurt by that trap. Instead of remaining in his bed as Dr. Archer had demanded, he had suffered a night that would have taxed a well man. He must be in much pain, on top of which he was tormented by the loss of his beloved sister. But intuition would have none of common sense. She had come to think of him as unquenchably indomitable, a man who might reel under Fate’s buffets but would always come up fighting. Now he seemed utterly crushed. She drove on, worrying at it, and as the miles passed was plagued by the certainty that something else had happened, something to eclipse even the shock and grief of Stephanie’s elopement. Was that what had brought him downstairs at half past one tonight? Or could he, perhaps, have suspected that Stephie and Simon loved one another? Have he been prepared to start after them? Bu
t she rejected the notion at once, for his reaction had been one of total shock. Recalling that terrible moment, she shivered and then tensed. When he had snatched Simon’s farewell message from her, he had said, “Another letter? Gad! It is a deluge!” A deluge? She had the answer now and pulled the team to a standstill. “My darling! You have heard from Mount again!”
He stared at her in amazement, and, seizing his hand and clasping it between both her own, she went on, “What did he say? Is it … very bad news?”
“How—” he gasped, thunderstruck, “how could you possibly know?”
“I love you! Have you forgot? Tell me!”
His hand lax in hers, he hesitated, then said dully, “I have been permitted to … to see my son, Mia.”
“What?” She searched his face for the elation she should have found there, but he merely looked haggard and very tired, the deep graze left by Simon’s bullet a dark bar vanishing into the hairline above his temple. “But when?” she demanded. “You have had no visitors at Dominer since the Musicale, and—” His faint, bitter smile alerting her, she stopped, a cold fist closing about her heart, and faltered, “No! Oh, no! Eustace?”
“Eustace. Clever, was it not? Mrs. Frittenden—that’s not her name, of course—is Mount’s aunt, so he says. When he learned of the Musicale, he sent her to Dominer with the boy.”
“But, how? Had he an invitation?”
“Didn’t need one. Their carriage ‘broke down’ on the way, and the Paragoys were so kind as to take them up, naturally supposing them to be invited guests. When they arrived,” he shrugged, “my aunt assumed they were with the Paragoys.” Speechless, Euphemia stared at him, and after a small pause he went on in a low, stricken voice, “I underestimated my enemy. He has chosen a revenge far more deadly and destructive than the beatings and starvation he was used to taunt me with. He has taken that—that splendid child and made of him a greedy, spoiled, selfish little … crudity.” He wrenched his head away and groaned, “Can you imagine the … the man Mount will make of him? My … lord!” He fought for control, regained it, and, glancing at the silent girl, encountered such a wealth of love and sympathy shining through her glistening tears that the ache in his heart was eased. He pulled his shoulders back and, wiping away those tears, kissed her on the brow. “What a night you have had. And how wretched of me to burden you with—”
“With such awful … stuff!” she gulped fiercely. She saw his brows go up and, taking his handkerchief, blew her nose, dashed away the remnants of her tears, and averred, “I never heard such dreadful nonsense! That little brat is not your son!” A rueful smile touched his eyes, and, desperate to spare him this last bitter blow, she went on recklessly, “How do you know it for truth? Did you recognize him? In the slightest? He was practically a babe when you lost him. Can Mount prove that Eustace is your son?”
Hawkhurst took back the reins and started the tired blacks. “I am not a complete flat, you know. When I received the first demand for money, I refused to pay a groat until I had a report from a reputable physician as to Avery’s health. The boy was injured in the accident, as you are aware. The attending physician sent me a report—from Rome. It was very explicit and included a complete description of Avery.” He saw Euphemia’s mouth open and threw up a detaining hand. “Yes, I sent agents to verify the physician’s authenticity. Mount and my son had gone, of course, but there is no doubt. It was Avery.”
“But how can you be so sure? Is there any distinguishing mark? A birthmark, or something of the sort?”
To her dismay, he nodded. “When Avery was two, he knocked over a glass. Before his nurse could reach him, he had trod on a fragment and the sole of his foot was badly cut. It became infected and left an odd scar. Our physician, Sir Alec MacKenzie, told me Avery would carry it to his death. In his latest letter, Mount enclosed a doctor’s report on Avery’s present health. It was from Sir Alec. He is retired now and half crippled by rheumatism. He lives in Wales, but Mount had persuaded the old fellow to examine Avery, explaining he was the boy’s ‘tutor’ and that I had been out of the country for a long time. He knew that nothing would induce Mac to betray me, and that I was aware of that.” He smiled at her wanly. “Thorough, eh?”
She blinked, but said with dauntless persistence, “Yes. And clever enough to have copied the scar. Oh, I know that would be cruel, but he is a vengeful and cruel man, love. And you are dealing with a great fortune, and a title. Gary, there are all too many people merciless enough to go to such lengths.”
“Yes. But why should he? He has my son, why—”
“Well … well, suppose he has not? Suppose—forgive me, dearest, but—suppose Avery had … died in that accident? Mount would have been left with nothing! But if he found a similarly featured, grey-eyed child, and had the scar copied—Hawk, it could be done! And don’t forget, four years had passed since your Dr. MacKenzie had seen Avery. A little boy changes a lot between three and seven … and…” The words died on her lips; her heartbeat seemed suddenly to suffocate her, and she sat in frozen silence, stunned by the absurd notion that had crept into her mind.
Hawkhurst was silent also, thinking regretfully that she had tried so valiantly to ease his grief, and must now realize how useless it was.
He was mistaken, for Euphemia was in fact shivering with excitement. Dreading lest she be mistaken, she tried to speak calmly, asking, “Why would Mount try to kill you, then? He has blackmailed you very successfully these past four years. One would think he has many profitable years ahead.”
It was a point that has puzzled him to no small extent. He said frowningly, “Hatred, perhaps. A madness that could no longer be contained. Perhaps he imagines that, with me out of the way, he can produce Avery, invent some tale to explain it all, and get his hands on the estate. He would have several doctors to back his story, and he took care to see I would not dare confide in anyone.” He paused, then went on thoughtfully, “The only thing is, it is such a stupid risk. However plausible his tale, Avery would inherit. Mount’s share would, at the most, be a reward, and gratitude. Unless he supposes that he would have the boy under his thumb, and through him would get the fortune somehow.” He smiled grimly, “In which case, he don’t know my Grandpapa very well!”
“Just so!” cried Euphemia, gripping his arm with an excited little pounce. “Hawk, it does not make sense! That fierce old gentleman would see through Mr. Mount’s Canterbury tricks before the cat could lick her ear! And even if he did not, by making his move now, Avery would be removed from Mount’s influence, for your Grandpapa would certainly send the boy away to school! No! It must be the height of folly for him to act now, when by waiting he could blackmail you for years, until Lord Wetherby is … gone, perhaps. Avery would be a young man by then and completely under his control. Oh, darling, do you not see? If Mount is mad, he would want to prolong your suffering, not shorten it. Unless, he was forced to act now … Unless…” And she stopped her impassioned speech, aware that he was watching her narrowly, and terror stricken lest she build his hopes to no purpose.
Hawkhurst stopped the team. He took up her hand and kissed it. “Go on, my brave girl. Unless—what? Do you think— Dear heaven! Do you think Mount is become so unstable he means to kill my grandfather too?”
With a stifled sob, she threw herself into his arms. “Garret, I love you so. When I think what you must have felt tonight. To have read that wicked letter from Mount, and only moments later discover that—that Stephie and Simon had eloped. My poor darling! I dare not risk hurting you any more.”
Hawkhurst took her shoulders and held her away from him. And, shaking her gently, he said, “You must give me credit for more backbone than that, dear girl. I own I was rather down-pin. And my confounded leg is a bit of a nuisance. But, whatever I may have to face, I’ve come this far. I’ll survive.” Wordless, Euphemia put one hand to caress his cheek, and he smiled, “You have restored me, as you seem so able to do, so tell me what you suspect if you please, ma’am. And I shall promise in
return never again to throw you out of my curricle.”
Her answering smile was tremulous. “Very well. But, first—The landslide that brought me into your life, was it an accident? Leith said—”
“Leith! He is on the Peninsula, surrounded by shot and shell, and at the mercy of those two juggernauts who strive against one another. And he worries. About me! No, it was an accident, but I’ll never convince Tris of that.”
“And the Mohocks in Town? Ellie said they near killed you.”
“They could have finished the job easily enough, but did not. And no matter what Tristram said, it may have been sheer coincidence.”
“What of the shot that went through your hat? And the falling coping stone? And your new boat? All coincidences?”
Puzzled by all this and rather irked that she had been worried by it, he said a rather brusque, “Probably. Who knows?”
Euphemia’s heart was beating very fast. She moved back from him and, clasping her hands nervously, said, “Then it is very possible that Mount had no intention of killing you. Not until … after the Musicale.”
He watched her. Waiting.
“Hawk,” she quavered, “I once told you why Simon and I first came onto your lands. Do you remember?”
“Why, I believe you said you wanted to have a look at Dominer.”
“I did. But—but it was more than that, dearest. I really came because … I had become so very fond of … of Kent, you see.”
Hawkhurst stiffened, and the faint colour that had come back into his cheeks fled, leaving him whiter than before.
“I told you how I found him,” Euphemia rushed on, gripping her hands ever more tightly. “That sweet child, half-starved, beaten, abused. And … the soles of his feet, so badly burned.” She saw his eyes widen at that and went on, “When he started to recover, I surrounded him with books. Yet, so often, I would find him gazing at one picture … Dominer. I began to be curious and to want to see the estate myself. But—” She bit her lip, then burst out, “Oh, dearest, if Eustace really is your child, does it not seem odd to you that Mount would indulge and pamper the son of the man he so hates? Such deliberate destruction of moral integrity would be fiendish, I grant you, but surely too subtle, too lengthy, to afford immediate pleasure to a warped mind? On the other hand, Kent was … was sold to gypsies. And later, after God knows what misery, sold again, for a climbing boy! A nightmarish slow death for that intelligent, sensitive child! An experience so terrible that he lost all power to speak. And I believe was near death when I found him.”
Some Brief Folly Page 30