Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  TWENTY

  IT WAS SNOWING steadily by the time the yule-log was borne in by Max Gains, Coleridge (albeit he tugged at it with one hand since the other was still carried in a sling), a radiant Avery, and the Admiral, behaving as though he were seventeen rather than seventy. They were escorted, of course, and Sampson chose to regard the log as a thing alive and entertained himself by making short little rushes at it, barking hysterically, and then galloping three times around the bearers.

  The drawing room, decorated with holly and golden bells, was warm of air and warmer with happiness when they gathered there in late afternoon. Lady Carlotta played for them, and Euphemia sang, and then they all sang together, Avery, resplendent in his best suit of brown velvet, waving his arms happily in time with their music. Hal Archer and his sister arrived, eyes bright, and cheeks rosy with cold, and shortly thereafter Ponsonby carried in the wassail-bowl and all the servants joined in the traditional toasting of the head of the house, his son, grandfather, and company. The Christmas boxes were handed out, and the golden moments slipped past, the great room ringing with talk and laughter until day melted into early evening and gradually the servants went their ways, some few remaining to close the curtains.

  Euphemia was happy, her happiness shadowed only when she thought of Simon and Stephanie. How they must be longing for home and families, and how very much they were missed.

  Dinner was served at six o’clock, a noble feast laid upon a table bright with garlands. The first course was dealt with lightly, and, when the remove was carried in, Hawkhurst carved roast suckling pig, roast beef, and venison, then deferred the honour to his grandfather, while he sat looking joyously around at the faces of his love, his newly found son, family and friends, keeping his eyes resolutely from the two chairs at the end of the table that were empty tonight.

  The second remove had been brought in when Sampson, who had been lying in the Great Hall thoughtfully contemplating the legs of Adonis, suddenly hove himself up and burst into full-throated warning. Euphemia laid down her knife and fork and felt an odd shiver chase down her spine. Ponsonby slipped quietly from the room, to return a moment later, obviously agitated, and hasten to murmur in Hawkhurst’s ear. Euphemia saw the loved face pale, the smile vanish from the grey eyes, the brows draw into a thunderous scowl. And she trembled.

  “Who the devil is it?” demanded the Admiral testily. “Tell ’em we’re eating our Christmas dinner, for lord’s sake!”

  Hawkhurst, however, had already put down his napkin and reached for his cane. A lackey sprang to pull back his chair, and he stood. “If you will all please excuse—” he began.

  Euphemia gave a gasp. In the open doorway, tall and very dashing in his regimentals, but with his wistful gaze fixed upon her, stood her brother.

  “By … God!” exploded Wetherby, his chair going over with a crash as he leapt to his feet. “Of all the unmitigated gall!”

  Euphemia ran to throw her arms around Simon. He stooped to kiss her, then set her aside and faced Hawkhurst’s flint-eyed fury. “Sir,” he said timidly, “I do most humbly beg your pardon for having come. But, your sister—”

  “Is Stephanie ill?”

  “She grieves for you all,” said Buchanan and added in hesitant fashion, “I would not have come. But … it is Christmas, and … I hoped—”

  “A trifle late to remember that!” barked the Admiral.

  “I regret, Sir Simon,” said Hawkhurst, his eyelids at their haughtiest, “that I must ask you to leave. Indeed, your effrontery in coming here passes all understanding.”

  Dora pressed her handkerchief to suddenly swimming eyes, and Carlotta seized Colley’s hand, her lips quivering.

  “I am very aware of that,” Buchanan admitted. “But I had to tell you, Hawkhurst. And—” his gaze flashed around that hitherto merry table, “and the rest of those she loves, and the one I love.” He smiled down at Euphemia, but with sorrow lurking at the back of his blue eyes. “The newspapers, as you know, had quite a field day with the news of my elopement.”

  “And did that make you proud, sir?” snarled the Admiral.

  “It did not make my wife proud, my lord. She was, in fact, outraged. It would, it appears, have been perfectly convenable for her to have acted in such a way. But for me to have done so, caused her great embarrassment.”

  “Simon!” Euphemia exclaimed, holding his hand very tightly. “Ernestine has agreed to give you a divorce!”

  “Yes! She has, by Jove! And, what is more, says she will wed Admiral Sir Hugh Larchdale!”

  “What?” Wetherby was practically apoplectic. “Hugh must be all about in his upper works! Splendid fellow! But must be old enough to be her—” He paused and added thoughtfully, “Devilish plump in the pockets, come to think on it.”

  “Wherefore,” said Buchanan, “I humbly beg permission, Mr. Hawkhurst, for the honour of your sister’s hand in marriage.”

  “Beg … permission? Why damme! You put the cart before the horse, you curst young reprobate!” Striding around the table, the Admiral’s eyes alighted on his stern-faced grandson, and he checked and waited in silence.

  “Lord Wetherby is perfectly correct,” said Hawkhurst woodenly. “Your request is considerably belated, Buchanan.”

  Sir Simon reddened, but persisted earnestly, “Yet your approval— er, I mean, your permission, and forgiveness, would make me the happiest man alive, sir.”

  “And me … the very happiest girl,” quoth a small and shaking voice from the hall.

  Hawkhurst whirled around. Sobs and muffled exclamations were torn from his aunts.

  Stephanie peeped around the door jamb, wearing cloak and mittens, and with her hood fallen back from her fair curls. She looked rather astoundingly lovely, her hazel eyes poignant with pleading.

  Hawkhurst said nothing, regarding her with unyielding disapproval.

  “I know I had no right come,” she said bravely, “but— Oh! My heavens! Gary! Dear one, you are ill! And … Colley! Whatever—”

  She started to run to him, her own hopes forgotten in her anxiety, then remembered her disgrace and shrank back.

  That gesture was too much for Hawkhurst. He tossed his cane aside and held out his arms. “Come here, you … wicked wench,” he choked.

  With a stifled sob, she sped to him. Everyone was standing then, hurrying to embrace and welcome the miscreants, every heart full.

  Hugging his sister close, blinking rapidly, Hawkhurst reached around her and thrust out his hand. His own eyes suspiciously bright, Buchanan gripped it hard, and the happy crowd closed in about them.

  * * *

  THE GOTHIC letters of the sign were large, colourful, and impeccably executed and read: “Please Follow the Guide.” The first footman bore it as though it had been a royal banner and led the little procession along the hall. Candle sconces and lamps lit their way, but the air was chill in the North Wing, and Wetherby grumbled that he was dashed if he could see why they’d had to leave the warm drawing room and traipse half a mile to be blasted well frozen!

  Leaning to Euphemia’s ear, Hawkhurst murmured, “What do you know of this, my Unattainable Plotter?”

  “I know how to ‘follow the guide,’” she answered evasively and was relieved to see Coleridge appear in the ballroom doorway, wearing his paint-spattered smock over his evening dress. Hawkhurst’s brow darkened at the sight of such a garment, however, and the Admiral’s whiskers bristled alarmingly.

  Well aware of these reactions, Coleridge was pale and nervous but bowed to his guests, assuring them the fires were lit and that it was warmer inside.

  “And smellier!” Wetherby gave a snort and wrinkled his nose. “Gad! What is that awful aroma? Smells like Dora’s ‘perfume’! Now, what the deuce? Are we to see an entertainment, then?”

  A long line was stretched across the centre of the brightly lit room. Hung with sheets, it formed an impromptu curtain, held up at intervals by lackeys, two of whom, having dipped liberally into the wassail-bowl, looked as
though they needed to be held up themselves.

  Colley had slipped away and now fumbled through the curtains to stand flushed and laughing before his small audience. “Mrs. Dora Graham and Lord Coleridge Bryce,” he announced bravely, then bit his lip in a new flood of nervousness and, his colour fading, gulped, “are p-proud to welcome you to … to their first … showing.”

  The lackeys allowed the curtain to drop to the floor, then whisked it away.

  Hawkhurst stood in stunned silence, gripping his cane very tightly as he stared at the objets d’art so carefully arranged for their inspection, and the only sound in the room was Wetherby’s awed, “By … thunder!”

  Unable to endure the suspense, Coleridge moved to slip a hand onto his cousin’s shoulder. “Hawk, please do not be angry.”

  “Angry…!” breathed Hawkhurst, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the various canvases. And, putting up his own hand to cover those talented fingers, he said a gruff, “I will very likely murder you! How dared you allow me to believe you a mere dabbler?”

  Dora tottered dangerously amongst the exhibits and stammered, “I-I do so wish someone would … c-come and look.”

  With cries of delight, they did so. One large canvas in the very centre of the display was covered, but each of the other items received their full share of admiring attention, so that the two artists revelled in the compliments lavished upon them.

  Slightly apprehensive, Euphemia watched the Admiral, who was curiously examining the “banana” into which Dora had sneezed her hairpins. “Half Moon Island…” he breathed in awe. “And all the dead palm trees…! By Jove, Dora! I never thought you was attending when I told you of the place! What talent! Bless me if you ain’t such a total feather-wit, after all!” And he reduced his daughter to tears by taking her hand and kissing it proudly.

  “And only look!” cried Carlotta, taking up the “squidge” with the two brooms, “It is that ridiculous bonnet Mrs. Hughes-Dering wore to Lucinda Carden’s garden party last summer! Dora! What a quiz you are to be sure!”

  Dora laughed happily, but concerned, Euphemia drew her aside and whispered, “Dora, I hope you don’t mind … I mean—”

  “Sweet child, never worry!” the little woman rhapsodized. “Only think, anyone can create an Adonis, but I fashion nice friendly shapes, and each person can see something different in them! Oh, is it not delicious?”

  Euphemia agreed that it was and hugged her. For the next half-hour and more the two artists happily accepted the unfeigned admiration of their guests. Hawkhurst, demanding the right to kiss his clever aunt, and braving a veritable storm of teardrops to do so, then turned to Coleridge. The youth watched him tautly, and for an instant they stood thus, eye to eye, then Hawkhurst said a low voiced, “Colley, did you think I would mock … this?”

  Bryce’s flush darkened, and his lashes lowered.

  “Of course, he did not,” said Lady Bryce. “Although you have made fun of his aspirations this year and more, you must own it, Garret.” Hawkhurst flinched, and Carlotta added an injured, “Colley, my love, you might at least have told your Mama!”

  “Clever young scoundrel,” said the Admiral, his eyes glowing with pride. “What’s under the sheet?”

  “His very finest work!” Dora proclaimed. “Show them, dear boy, and I think you should sit down again, Garret.”

  Hawkhurst seated himself obediently. Coleridge fumbled with the sheet that covered his canvas and, worried by the inscrutable look on his cousin’s face, said with blushingly painful shyness, “This … is a gift for someone I have ever honoured. And … loved.”

  He removed the covering with one swift movement. Amid the shouts of admiration, Euphemia heard Hawkhurst’s hissing intake of breath. The portrait was even more magnificent now that it was completed, and, gazing at it, she rejoiced with pride in both the man so sensitively captured on the canvas and Colley’s great talent.

  “Devil take it!” gasped the Admiral. “The lad’s a master!”

  Quite unable to speak, Hawkhurst stretched out one hand. Coleridge came to grip it strongly and reiterate his plea that Hawk not be angry. “I wanted only to be sure I had something worth showing you. If you still wish me to go to Spain, I—”

  “Wretched … cub,” Hawkhurst muttered unevenly. “You shall go, well enough! You shall go with me to see Joseph Turner. We’ll take this to him and ask what he thinks you should do.”

  White as death, Coleridge gasped, “T-Turner…? Do you … know … Turner?”

  “Well, if he don’t, I do!” The Admiral marched up to clap him on the back. “Burn me if I didn’t take you for a mutton-headed cawker! I’ve never been more pleased to admit my error! By Jove! What a Christmas this has been!” He glanced to the side, and his bright eyes softened. “Come along in, you rascal! What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Avery, clad in nightshirt and dressing gown and holding the battered old bear in his arms, came timidly around the door. His questioning eyes met his father’s, a great beaming smile spread across the small face, and he ran to lay his bear upon Hawkhurst’s knees and slip his hand into Euphemia’s ready clasp.

  “What were you about?” Hawkhurst forced his gaze from the boy and took up the bear. “Tucking him into his secret place for the night?”

  Avery nodded.

  “Poor old bear. I cannot recall his name. It was an odd kind of name. Avery called him after someone we know, Miss Buchanan. Now, whoever was it?” He pondered thoughtfully, while his son watched him with eyes brimful of love and laughter. “Something like … cushion … or quilt, but that cannot be right. Bolster…? I think it was Bolster?”

  Avery giggled hugely. “Feather, Papa!” he corrected joyfully. “Feather!”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Euphemia closed the drawing room doors quietly upon the rapturous occupants and wandered thoughtfully along the hall. Surely there had never been so happy a group as shared Dominer this Christmas night. Surely, never had there been such an outpouring of joy as had greeted little Avery’s spoken words. When the tears and laughter and embraces were done, the Admiral had asked that Hawkhurst lead them in prayers of thanksgiving. Garret’s dear voice had been hoarse with emotion, his fervent words near drowned by Dora’s sobs.

  Avery, too overwrought for many questions, was now fast asleep. Hawkhurst had slipped away, partly, she thought, because he was exhausted, and partly, she suspected, to reassure himself that the son he had been parted from for so long was truly safe in his own bed.

  Euphemia sighed a little and, coming to the stairs, encountered Ponsonby, who bowed and (being nobody’s fool) enquired whether he should serve tea at ten as usual, adding, “The fog seems to be coming up again, Miss.”

  “Then perhaps you should ask Mrs. Henderson to have rooms prepared for the Archers. Set tea back until half-past ten, if you will. Oh, and Ponsonby, have you seen Mr. Hawkhurst?”

  His eyes benevolent, he murmured, “In the gallery, Miss.”

  “Thank you. And, a very merry Christmas, Ponsonby.”

  “Thank you, Miss. It has, indeed, been a very merry Christmas.”

  Euphemia smiled at him and hurried up the stairs. A candle flickered at the centre of the gallery, and she realized with a pang that Hawkhurst sat on the bench before Blanche’s portrait. She hesitated a second but, upon moving quietly towards him, saw that the large canvas had been taken down. He started up, reaching for his cane, but she slipped swiftly onto the bench beside him, and he sat back again.

  “Are you quite done up?” she asked anxiously. “It must have been thoroughly exhausting for you.”

  He smiled faintly. “Can one be done up by happiness, I wonder?” Euphemia made no answer, and he said, “I feel rather awed, in fact. So much has been given me. I’ve a whole new life, Miss Buchanan. And I’m not at all sure I’ve a right to it.”

  How formal he sounded. A small pang touched Euphemia. He had indeed a whole new life. One in which, perhaps, there would be no room for her … She fol
ded her hands meekly in her lap and was silent.

  After a moment, he muttered thoughtfully, “I think I shall hang my new portrait here. What do you say, Miss Buchanan?”

  She shot an oblique glance at him. “I have no right to venture an opinion, Mr. Hawkhurst. But, if I had, would say a most definite no!”

  He turned his head to her with that familiar lazy smile that made her yearn to be enfolded in his arms. “It is rather flattering, of course, but—”

  “Very,” she agreed mischievously. “Still, were the choice mine, I would say it must go downstairs. In the Great Hall, near the front doors.”

  “Good God! Would you frighten away all my newly discovered friends?”

  “Perhaps it would be a bit daunting, at that, but— Oh, Hawk, is it not splendid? How very proud you must be.”

  The smile in his eyes faded, and his head lowered. “To the contrary. I was never in my life so ashamed. How savage I must have been to them, that they should hide such incredible talents … for fear I would … laugh.”

  So that was why he had come here alone. She said, a little crease between her brows, “Fustian! Those were Carlotta’s words. Hawk, she doesn’t mean it. She cannot help it, I think. Why, the very reason they worked so hard was in the hope they might please you.”

  “And have, God bless ’em! When I think of all the secrecy … how they must have had to connive and smuggle their supplies into the house.”

  “At dead of night,” she nodded.

  Startled, he gasped, “Never say so!”

  “I saw them.” She gave her musical ripple of laughter. “I thought they had murdered you and were hiding your corpse!”

  “And you supposed I had warranted such a fate, no?”

  “Oh, assurément!”

  “Wretched girl!” To emphasize this denunciation, he caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Foolish boy.” She touched his crisp hair tenderly. “Instead of grieving because you were, perhaps, a tiny bit impatient with Colley, think rather of the love that went into that exquisite portrait. For he captured more of the splendid man that you are than any stranger could have done.”